Cleopatra by Natasha Solomons

In Cleopatra, Natasha Solomons delivers an ambitious and lyrical reclamation of one of history’s most mythologised women. Long distorted by the pens of her enemies (Roman historians and playwrights seemed to be born with a vested interest to vilify powerful women) Cleopatra has traditionally been reduced to caricature: the seductress queen draped in jewels, luring great men to their ruin. Solomons, however, strips away centuries of distortion to offer something both more intimate and more profound: a deeply human portrait of a woman forged in the crucible of empire, expectation, and betrayal.

Told primarily through Cleopatra’s first-person voice, with interludes from Caesar’s Roman mistress, Servilia, the novel reads like a reflective soliloquy. The prose is rich and often poetic, yet remarkably accessible. This Cleopatra is not simply regal; she is brilliant, calculating, at times ruthless, but always portrayed with a kind of quiet defiance. “I hope that you see me instead in the library,” she muses, not upon a throne or in an opulent bath, but reading, learning, wielding intellect like a sceptre. It is a quietly revolutionary image, and one that reorients the reader’s expectations.

The novel opens with a child, Cleopatra, mischievous and sharp, aware that destiny will either fall into her lap or be taken by force. Her ascent is shaped by the deaths of loved ones, the treacheries of siblings, and the perpetual shadow of Rome. Her co-rule with her brother-husband Ptolemy is a particularly well-handled strand of the narrative, capturing both the surreal grotesquery of dynastic Egypt and the ever-present danger of a throne shared with an arrogant, manipulative boy propped up by dangerous advisors.

Solomons handles Cleopatra’s relationship with Julius Caesar with restraint and political awareness. There is no over-romanticisation, no breathless seduction. Instead, Cleopatra weighs the costs of intimacy and influence in a world where alliances are more valuable than affections. Their conversations flicker with dry wit, strategic calculation, and moments of genuine - if fleeting - connection.

The dual narrative from Servilia adds texture and a kind of theatrical cadence to the novel, eventually transforming from background commentary into a complex counterpoint. Yet, while Cleopatra and Servilia’s voices are clear and distinct, other characters such as Arsinoe and Mark Antony feel underdeveloped or peripheral, their arcs more suggestive than fully realised.

Structurally, the novel favours mood and reflection over strict historical chronology. There are few dates, little technical exposition, and some events are altered for dramatic or emotional effect. While purists may find this wanting, the intent is clear: this is not a textbook, but an elegy. Cleopatra’s story is not simply retold, it is reclaimed.

If the novel stumbles, it is in moments where the pacing slackens or where the modern vernacular momentarily jars the ancient setting. However, these are minor flaws in a work that is, overall, richly immersive.

Ultimately, Cleopatra is not just historical fiction; it is a reckoning. Solomons breathes new life into a woman whose story has been told about her, but rarely by her. This novel is both a reclamation and a resurrection—one that reminds us that Cleopatra’s greatest power was not her beauty, but her mind. Highly recommended.

Reviewer: Chris Reed

Allen & Unwin