Pharaoh (47 page)

Now she had an answer to the question he had asked: What kind of general sends away his greatest ally?

A general who determines that his ally is no longer an asset. The conundrum was, was Antony that kind of a general?

T
hey slip quietly into the streets hand in hand like a pair of young lovers. They have hooded themselves in drab cloaks against
the winter winds, with only two men carrying the secret of their identity along with brightly burning torches. They have not
done this for many years. But her hand feels as it has always felt in his-small, soft, protected. They have had wine together
and the taste of it lingers on her tongue. She pulls him to her and kisses him. She is so happy to taste those lips again.
They meet hers almost hungrily, and she feels a long-absent thrill shake the deepest part of her.

It is the twenty fourth of December, a special night of celebration to greet the Sun Child, whose birth brings the winter
solstice, the lengthening of days, the welcoming again of the light. On the eve of this great night, the goddess has gfted
her with a dream, a dream of him when he was young. It is so lovely to visit the warmth of his love again that when she wakes
she sees that he is not beside her and she weeps. She cries through much of the day, and only at the end of her festival of
tears does she realize that through every ordeal, she has refrained from weeping She has stored a year of tears, and now she
lets them flow until the last drop falls.

She puts on a simple dress, not something magnificent to make him feel small, but a plain linen shift. She leaves most of
her hair down, only pinning back the side with tiny silver combs. She puts a hint of red on her lips and cheeks to make him
remember the flush of her younger days before anxiety made her wan. She is
as thin as a girl again because she can no longer eat. When she looks into the mirror, she sees the self of many years ago.
She wonders what it is that had brought back the visage of her youth and she realizes that the ingredient is hope.

She goes alone to him without a plan of anything to say. No speeches, no recriminations, no threats, no gifts, no whores.
And she finds him alone, too, and sober, looking at the giant red ball of the sun as it sinks into the sea. She stands behind
him, laying her head on his back, not speaking a word, staying very still and quiet, just resting against him, pretending
that nothing of the last six months has passed. Pretending they have never left Alexandria, never raised an army or gone to
war, never had an ambition beyond feeling one another, skin against skin. She does not want the moment to end so she says
nothing but hopes that she is back in her dream; hopes in fact that she is already dead and this is the afterlife where they
may be together for all time with no wars to fight and no kingdoms to govern.

It is almost dark before he speaks. I have let you down, he says in the last violet haze of twilight, his words going straight
out to the sea. You and many others. I wont do it again. He turns around and without looking at her envelops her in his arms,
squeezing her so tightly that she has to hold her breath. She gasps a little and he loosens his arms, but she does not want
to move. Is she dreaming? She has kept hope at bay for so long that she wonders if the day she has just lived is merely part
of her reverie. Wonders if she will have to wake once more and realize that the bed is empty, the war is lost, and their plans
are in ruin. She will have to wake up all over again and cry more streams of sadness. But she does not think she can do that
because her body has wrung itself of tears and left her drained, as if someone has punctured a hole in her gut and let out
all the wrenching anxiety. In its place, though, an odd peace has settled over her.

Finally he takes her small face in his hard hands and looks at her. Like a ghost, he has come back from the dead. Grief has
marked his face, but it seems that the anger and humiliation have left and he, too, shares her strangely peaceful state. Without
leaving that place of calm, they make love. There is nothing of the desperate passion of the past. They are driven neither
by lust nor by ambition nor by the thrilling, encroaching drumbeat of war, but by some odd bliss. Without force or struggle,
without drowning in pleasure or desperately grasping for satisfaction, they simply couple like two innocents who come to the
act in a state of wonder, learning its mysteries step by step.

She has no idea how long they make love, nor how long they stay in each other’s arms. Time has stopped, and there is no talk.
It is very dark, and no one dares

enter the chamber to light the lamps. Moonlight slips gently through the window, turning their warm skin a cold white. She
clings to him for warmth, throwing her leg over his belly while he holds her to his chest. She twirls his chest hairs around
her finger like a child plays with her curls. She does not want to cover the nakedness. She has missed the sight of them together
like this for so long.

It must be just before midnight because they hear singing in the streets. The worshippers are leaving the temples and are
pouring into the avenues crying, “The Virgin has given birth! The light has come!” In their voices ring gladness and joy,
and it rouses her and makes her want to be a part of the celebration of her people.

Come into the streets with me, she says. It has been too long.

She puts on her simple dress and he a plain Greek chiton and they cover themselves with cloaks. The Feast of the Nativity
of the Sun is a quaint ceremony, and they do not wish to interrupt it with the regal formality of their presence. Besides,
they have not run about the streets at night since the burden of war has taken them prisoners. Two guards follow them with
torches. Light dances under their footsteps, and they try to step into it as it moves forward, laughing like children at their
game, catching up to the Procession of the Sun Child, the infant chosen to represent the son of the great goddess Astarte,
worshipped in the far-off eastern lands. The little babe chosen this year has a wizened face. He does not cry as they usually
do, but sits wide-eyed and in good humor upon his tiny litter like an infant king as he is paraded through the streets, lit
by the flambeaux of the worshippers. She thinks: How beautiful my city is at night. How white the columns and walls and houses
against the black midnight sky. She thinks for a moment that she catches the little baby’s eye, and she is reminded of her
first look at each of her own children, and of the visions she had at their births for their futures and the parts each would
play in the future of the nation.

All around them people’s faces are full of joy. She does not know if she and her husband have been resurrected on this holy
day as a gift from the gods, or if their reborn love is so great that it has spread its joy to the people. She thinks that
such events are orchestrated by the mysterious wills of the gods, and, if the astrologers are to be believed, by the arrangement
of the stars. She does not know what will happen tomorrow, but tonight their desires are in alignment with the heavens, and
it seems enough.

The Procession ends at the temple of Serapis, the god of east and west created by her ancestor Ptolemy the Savior. Serapis
was Ptolemy’s gift to the people. He discovered the worship of such a god in both Delos and Egypt, saw that Serapis
was loved by both peoples, and appreciated the opportunity for unity. The people saw it, too; they made Serapis the consort
of the Lady Isis-mother goddess of healing and creation, warrior, Lady of Compassion. The union was a happy one. Ptolemy the
Savior united people everywhere through his understanding of the power of the Divine. No temples were destroyed, no worshippers
persecuted when the successor of Alexander was made king of Egypt.

Unity. The dream of Alexander, of Ptolemy the Savior, of Kleopatra and Caesar, and of Kleopatra and Antony. Honor all the
gods of the world and unite the people under their worship. That vision has been handed down to her through so many generations,
and despite everything she has suffered, she realizes that the dream of unity is still alive.

She thinks of her discussions with the philosophers who suggest a theology in which all gods, including the singular, fierce
one worshipped by the Semites, are but one Divine being, and she wonders if her ancestors did not invent this concept. Her
father, though a devotee of Dionysus, leaned toward this theology. She remembers when as a child of nine her father took her
to the temple of Serapis and had the priests demonstrate for her the science behind the magic of the temple. She was shown
how magnets and wires moved the god into the arms of the goddess, how siphons were used to make water appear to turn into
wine, and how the great blaze at the altar was created by fire machines. All these spectacles were recorded by Polybius in
his histories, who had been appalled at the way the priests used magic to frighten the native population into fearing the
gods. But Kleopatra thinks it is not a way of creating fear but a form of appeasement, a physical confirmation of all the
magic of the gods that the people feel in their hearts and know to be true.

“The god has no power to perform miracles?” she remembers asking her father, grim-faced and indignant. Auletes said, “The
people call it a miracle; the scientists call it invention. But invention is miraculous, is it not? You must never deprive
the people of their belief in the power of the gods, and you must never deprive yourself of it either”

Kleopatra holds Antony’s hand as she meets the gaze of the little child in the Procession. His eyes are two black bowls of
wisdom. Looking into them, she is neither queen nor goddess but a mother praying for safe and secure futures for her children.
A humble worshipper inspired with an awe that she does not understand but accepts.

T
hough Antony had forbidden her to do so, Kleopatra walked among the dying men, talking to them in their native tongues, assuring
them that she would see that they were cared for, or in the worst cases, promising that their mothers would be informed of
the day of their deaths and the details of their funerals. Antony was furious with her for risking her health, but she never
contracted a disease. Besides, she thought she actually detected looks of admiration on the faces of the Romans for her willingness
to give sympathy to the sick. She was more courageous than they were; no healthy soldiers of any rank dared come near the
diseased.

They had been blockaded into the Gulf of Ambracia for nearly four months. Death by dysentery was protracted and grotesque,
and when combined with the fevers of malaria, it was doubly long and horrible. It had hit their rowers two months ago, the
third in a series of abrupt and unanticipated disasters that had toppled them into despair. Kleopatra held a scarf over her
nose and mouth to protect herself from the stench of death. The hospital camp was overcrowded, and the blockade had made it
impossible to call in more doctors or to receive the necessary medical supplies. She walked among them now, if only to witness
the extent of the damage. They had lost half their oarsmen; others who might be lucky enough to survive would never again
be strong enough to row. The result was inevitable: They would have to either burn half
their fleet or leave it for Octavian to add to his navy. So they remained encamped in the marsh.

“How is it, after all our planning and all our advantages, that we are now the ones who are planning a retreat?” she asked
Antony. She knew as well as anyone what had happened, but she believed that if they went over the details again and again,
some previously unseen solution would manifest.

“I have tried to engage him in a land war. He would not be budged.”

It was true. Antony had crossed the gulf twice in the last two months, once to bait Octavian into battle, the other to cut
off his water supplies. Both efforts failed. Octavian and his legions sat upon high ground and would not come down from their
camps.

“There are those who whisper that the gods have left me,” Antony said in a low voice. He mocked the idea with his tone, but
Kleopatra thought that deep in his private thoughts he believed it.

Kleopatra hoped that Caesar had not willed Octavian the thing he considered his most priceless asset: the patronage of Fortune.
But she feared that when Caesar died, Fortune had frantically looked about for someone to whom she might attach herself, and
she had found Octavian. Perhaps Fortune believed that the boy, so seemingly devoid of natural assets, required her attention
far more than someone like Antony, who already had so much on his side-age, experience, renowned bravery and courage, statesmanship,
craftiness, articulateness, and beauty. Perhaps Fortune considered Antony, but decided that he had been blessed enough. So
she turned her favor on the unimpressive boy whom Caesar had elevated by the terms of his will. Fortune had been so devoted
to Caesar until that moment when she stepped aside and let his enemies stick their daggers into his flesh. She must have been
a little lost without his demands, like a mother whose only son is sent away for schooling, and finds herself with nowhere
to place her great love.

Even if Octavian did not have Caesar’s direct relationship with Fortune, it was clear that she had sent him Marcus Agrippa.
Agrippa had Caesar’s strategic genius, coupled with his willingness to take sweeping risks. No one liked him, but it did not
seem to matter. He was austere and by all accounts without charm. He was the antithesis of Antony, who veritably commanded
by charm.

“I don’t know if it was luck or wisdom, but Agrippa’s strategy was brilliant,” Antony said. “Attack Methone in the south so
that our naval forces will have to leave the northern base of Corcyra to help, freeing the sea for Octavian’s voyage. He cut
off our supplies and landed his own forces all in one swoop. Did he know our minds? Then we rush to the Gulf of Ambracia to
meet Octavian, and Agrippa takes Patrae in our wake! I do not believe it was planned. Octavian cannot be so clever. I believe
the gods favor him.”

Agrippa had taken a circuitous sea route with a small navy and surprised King Bogud, who commanded Antony’s forces at Methone.
Bogud was ambushed and killed; once their king was dead, the men were thrown into confusion and hastily surrendered to Agrippa.
It was only one victory, but Agrippa had risked all to capture the base that was the gateway to Egypt, Antony’s source of
money, food, and supplies. For months now, food had had to be carried over steep, narrow paths on the backs of local Greeks
whom Kleopatra heard that the soldiers lashed with whips to keep them at their labor. She was not surprised. Hungry men are
not known for their patience or their kindness. The swampy land where they were encamped was infested with insects. The men
were weak from lack of nourishing foods and easily fell prey to the diseases that incubated in the marsh.

“Well then, we must act swiftly to get the favor of the gods back,” she said impatiently. She did not want to discuss the
will of the gods- it was disheartening enough to entertain her own private thoughts on the matter-but the will of her general.
“We should have attacked earlier, before we gave them the chance to attack us!”

“You are very good at saying what we should have done after you’ve seen the results of what we have already done. You would
have had us give credence to Octavian’s claims that you would not rest until you were standing on the Capitol like some kind
of mad goddess of war? Is that what you wanted, Kleopatra? Has that been your secret mission all along? To march into Rome
with an army behind you and bring it to its knees? Do you think the Roman soldiers would have followed you into their own
country?” He was very harsh with her at times now. The anxiety that accompanies setbacks had erased many of the niceties between
them.

“Then you should have left me behind and attacked on your own.”

“Don’t think that wasn’t discussed,” he said. “But it was not practical. You have the treasure and the fleet.”

“Thank the gods that I still have some worth.”

He must have seen the pained look on her face because he softened his tone. “Kleopatra, we both know that these men would
not have willingly attacked Italy, at least not the Roman legions, and without the Roman legions we do not have a full army.”

“It appears we have caught ourselves in an untenable position. You cannot win this war with me, and you cannot win it without
me,” she said bitterly, knowing that she had just spoken the truth.

“That is not quite correct. There are other factors. You see how the men are since Octavian’s army has arrived. They had much
too long to think about fighting. That much I concede. I did not think of it in advance. But for months, they sat in their
camps and thought about the fighting to come, and of the cousins, brothers, and friends whose faces they would inevitably
encounter on the battlefield. It weakens a man’s heart for fighting.”

“We have sat here the winter and watched their will for confrontation dwindle along with the food source,” Kleopatra said
bitterly. “Did you hear Dellius last night at dinner, complaining over the quality of the wine? ’Why must we drink this sour
stuff, Your Majesty, when even the pages who wait upon Octavian have in their cups the finest Italian vintages?’ He will be
the first Roman in history to change his allegiance for a better quality of wine.”

They were in their private quarters, he on one side of the room and she on the other, squared off as if it were the two of
them who were at war. Kleopatra knew that they must unite themselves again before they faced anyone else.

“But he will not be the first to change his allegiance, now will he?”

Nothing depressed Antony like loss of loyalty. He lived for his men’s adoration, and when they took it away, he became like
a dejected child deprived of the attentions of his playmates. In fact, nothing at all soured Antony’s spirits but this. And
this was the one thing over which Kleopatra had no control.

“My husband, are you still smarting over the desertion of that fat Greek peasant?”

Antony had sent Dellius in co-command with Amyntas, whom he
had not so long ago elevated to landed nobility with large tracts of farmland in Pontus, to Macedonia to raise more troops.
Their covert mission, however, had been to distract Octavian’s army so that Gaius Sosius could break Antony’s navy through
Agrippa’s blockade and out of the Gulf of Ambracia. Amyntas had two thousand horsemen under his personal command, but the
mission was soon aborted. Dellius returned to Antony with the story of how he and his men watched as Amyntas declined to take
the road to Macedonia, instead leading his men straight to Octavian’s camp. An incredulous Dellius looked on as Amyntas shouted,
“Come, Dellius, let us go with the winners.”

“I had thought that my generosity would not have been so soon forgotten,” Antony said.

“Then we must remember not to give such generous donations to men of low character,” she answered. “We must now forget about
Amyntas, and we must rouse ourselves. Whatever action we take, even if it is wrong, will be better than continuing to allow
ourselves to be blockaded in this bog watching our men die of malaria. Even the officers are taking ill. Have you seen Ahenobarbus
as of late? He hides the day long in his tent, but I have seen him sneaking to the latrines. He is as green as the gulf. And
he weighs nothing.”

“I thought you did not like him,” Antony said. “Perhaps I should take ill. Then your sympathies for me might be aroused again,
too.”

Kleopatra lost all patience. “Why are you turning against me, who am your friend, your ally, your wife? Why do you not turn
your hostilities north toward your enemy? Isn’t that where they might do us some good?”

Antony froze. She hated these moments when his flow of emotions was stopped. It was only in these times that she feared him.
He was so like her father, who was never frightening when he was screaming and flailing, but who made his coldest decisions
when he was silent and calm. She thought Antony might lunge at her as he had lunged at the messenger Germinius. But he did
not move. She had insulted his manhood, she knew, and she wished she could take it all back. Without meaning to, she had accused
him of attacking a woman because he had not been able to attack a man. She would pay for this, either in a loss of his affection,
or in the damage done by her words. She decided to refrain from apologizing, but to turn to him for wisdom.

“Antony, what shall we do?” It was a simple and sincere question. She
realized
that she was not used to asking questions of others without already having arrived at the appropriate answer herself.

“We shall call a War Council. And we shall all have our say. I want to listen to everyone. I do not want to risk more desertions.
Then we will decide what to do.”

She did not like this. She believed that the two of them must always present a united front; that without making a show of
their unbending unity her position with the others would be weakened considerably. She knew this was true, but she also knew
by the look on his face and by the chill that seemed to emanate from his usually warm body that he would not change his mind.

Kleopatra listened to the reports of the generals in the War Tent, each summary of hardship and defeat taking away a chunk
of her flesh. But no matter. As for herself, she knew that she would survive any amount of bad news and rally. She was unsure
about her husband, though he coolly listened to each report.

“The legions stationed at Crete have defected to the enemy, sir.”

Antony did not reply to this. “Has anyone a report from Cyrene?” he asked. “Did the legions there follow their neighbors into
Octavian’s camp?”

“They have remained loyal, thanks to the leadership of Lucius Scarpus,” Canidius replied.

Antony looked about the room. “Where is Ahenobarbus? Is he too ill to attend a War Council?”

Canidius and Sosius exchanged a quick furtive glance that did not go unnoticed by Kleopatra. Sosius spoke. “Sir, this morning,
Ahenobarbus stole a small boat and rowed himself over to Octavian’s camp.”

“He was very ill, sir,” Canidius added. “I believe the fevers got to his mind.”

“The last time I saw him he was too weak to salute. Now you say he has rowed himself across the gulf?” Antony seemed more
incredulous than angry.

“That is correct, sir.”

“Well then, good riddance to him. We don’t need another sick man to care for. Send a skiff after him with his baggage, with
a message that it comes with my compliments.”

“Is that necessary?” Kleopatra asked.

“I do not want him to think he is missed,” Antony snapped at her. “Do as I say,” he commanded to one of his secretaries. “See
that it is done and done now.”

Antony looked around the room, including Kleopatra in the faces that he met. “Now, does anyone else wish to join our colleagues
across the bay before we discuss strategy?”

No one moved, but Antony’s question left a palpable degree of discomfort in the air. “Quintus Dellius, is the quality of the
wine sufficient to keep you here, or will your lust for fine vintages hurl you into the arms of our enemies?”

“Better sour wine than sour grapes, Imperator,” Dellius replied, smiling, trying to make a joke of his cryptic retort.

Antony made no reaction but let the comment stand.

“That was tactless, Dellius,” Kleopatra said.

“It was a joke, Your Majesty,” he replied coldly.

Clearing his throat, Antony called the meeting back to order. “It is obvious that we cannot remain encamped here in this bug-infested
hellhole. We must break out, even if it means great sacrifices.”

“Imperator, I have been studying the maps, and making a count of our forces,” Canidius began. “Why do we not abandon the fleet
in the gulf, and engage Octavian on land? We are evenly matched in foot soldiers, and there is no man who is a greater commander
of cavalry and infantry than yourself. Octavians legions have been fighting at sea for eight years against the pirate Sextus.
His rowers are healthy and his men disciplined. We will not win a sea battle. But on land, he will never defeat you. He is
neither experienced nor wily enough.”