It is said that when Cleopatra sailed to meet Antony, the scent of jasmine reached the shore before she did.

Imagine the Roman soldiers waiting on that Egyptian dock. They're expecting fanfare, perhaps, or banners. Instead, the wind carries something else entirely. Sweet. Intoxicating. By the time they see her golden barge, they're already under her spell.

This was no accident. This was Cleopatra.

Jasmine had travelled trade routes for a thousand years before it reached her gardens — from ancient Persia across the Red Sea, carrying stories between civilisations. But in Egypt, it found its perfect patron. The queen who understood that power isn't just what you wield — it's what precedes you into the room and speaks before you have opened your mouth.

Cleopatra’s private chambers were notorious for their atmosphere. Jasmine oil in carved vessels. Petals scattered across warm stone. Garlands woven into the very walls. Visitors would arrive already intoxicated, negotiations half-won before a word was spoken. The air itself had become her weapon.

She wasn't the first to recognise jasmine's influence. Persian poets called it yasmin — "gift from God" — and wrote of love that endured empires. Indian temples burned it for Ayurvedic healing, understanding what modern science now confirms: jasmine soothes restlessness, returns the body to its centre. Chinese tea masters steeped it into green leaves, creating ceremonies around tranquillity and grace.

But Cleopatra made it political. Every evening, she would immerse herself in oils of milk and flower, her skin becoming a walking announcement of power. When she finally appeared at court — late, always late — the scent had already done its work.

At 39 BC, we honour jasmine not just as fragrance, but as legacy. In SILK VEIL, it merges with neroli, tuberose, and amber — creamy yet luminous, the heart of an evening ritual that conquered Rome two thousand years ago.

Some strategies never go out of style.