The Memoirs of Cleopatra (126 page)

Not enough wind yet, nor had it swung around to the best direction for us. There would have to be more waiting. The rowers slowed, but continued moving the ships out. Our own squadron, far to the rear, now passed out of the gulf, past the hateful promontory of Actium, which I cast off like a bad dream. All these months spent there, in misery—let me never behold it again! Just beyond the two points were sandy shallows that we had to steer around.

In my last backward glance, I saw the huge armies on both sides, passive onlookers to the action. They were drawn up and waiting, but did nothing. Then we were out of sight.

Farther and farther out the ships ventured, and all the while the breeze was increasing, turning into a wind. At first it had blown from the southwest, but then it began to shift, as it always did, turning in a circle and originating from the northwest—what we needed to fill our sails and carry us south.

I breathed it in. This wind, blowing from the direction of Rome, should be foul and deceitful, like everything else from there. Instead it was clean and strong, our salvation. Perhaps Caesar, the one good thing from Rome, was embodied in it. Perhaps it blew from his tomb to help his living heirs, his son.

How far was Agrippa going to allow us to advance? The farther, the better. Could he possibly have no idea of our plan? That would seem too good to be believed.

And it was. Finally he stopped backing up and his ships held their line, halting our progress. He refused to cooperate. Battle must be joined.

A hail of missiles—stones, spears, and fire—were launched on one another, a deadly arc between the two lines. Then the air was blackened by the rush of arrows and lead pellets shot from the slingers and archers in the towers guarding the larger warships; noise rose, and the ships began to fall on one another.

Agrippa, determined to keep us from breaking through, doubled his lines, and set his numerous smaller ships to harry us, surrounding the Antonian warships like so many besieged castles. Agrippa’s little ships would dart in, trying to ram a hole in a big ship and escape before the besieged could dump stones and hurl javelins down on them. They attacked the lower parts of the ships, crushing the oars, shattering their blades, snapping off the rudders, while trying to clamber on board. On our side, we pushed them off with boathooks, cut them down with stones, and crushed them with heavy missiles.

The fighting turned into confusion, ship against ship, sometimes two or three smaller ships tearing at the larger ones, like dogs in a pack attacking elephants. The first ship sank: one of ours, a smaller one. Then screams reached my ears from across the water as one entire shipload of Octavian’s was sunk by a well-aimed catapult stone, all hands aboard. Then all the fighting, all the screams, blended together and became indistinguishable. Ours or theirs? In death agonies, everyone has the same voice.

The lines were dissolving into a melee. I could no longer even see Antony’s flagship, it was so engulfed by the swirling fight. Smoke was rising. Some ships were afire, and now grapnels and boarding-bridges were put into play, the armed soldiers swarming onto enemy decks, swords drawn.

The waters were churned by more than the rising wind, they were whipped up by falling timbers and flailing men; the salt spray that blew into my face was blood-tinged, flecked with red foam.

The groans of the disintegrating ships as their timbers tore apart were so mixed with human screams that they made one long animal howl, punctuated by the thuds as ships were rammed or collided. I could see tiny figures turning, rolling, falling from decks into the water, hitting oars and breaking them off with a sharp crack.

The rising wind created whitecaps that flashed red with blood and the reflection of flames from burning ships, rising from stricken decks like flapping curtains. Burning oil from the fire-missiles spilled off the decks and into the sea, spreading out into a carpet of flames. Smoke, harsh and black, billowed from the thick of the fighting, obscuring the ships themselves.

Then I saw a gap appear in the center. The left and right wings had succeeded in pulling the fabric open so we could sail through the rent, if we moved quickly. And we were far out enough to do it; we could catch the wind properly.

“Sails! Hoist the sails!” the captain commanded, and the purple linen sails were unfurled and spread. Like a fist hitting a palm, the wind smacked them, stretching them taut. On all sides, at the sight of the royal sails aloft, the rest of the squadron followed suit. The oarsmen kept at their task, and the power of wind and oar together made us fly through the center, past the grisly sight of hundreds of floating men—the dead ones bobbing, the live ones screaming and waving—and out into the open sea. Huge spars from ripped ships spun and turned on the water like spokes.

The sails creaked as the wind strained them, and the acrid smoke made me choke as we passed through the clouds of it, where I could see nothing, could not discern Antony’s ship. On all sides, like falling stars, the fiery missiles continued to rain down, and one or two landed on our deck, where they were quickly smothered by wet hides.

Then we were out in the open sea, the ship flying southward, the mountains of Leucas off to our left. Good-bye to Actium—I could see the last of it far over my shoulder. In our wake the other ships were following, as our purple sails had signaled them to do. The fighting was still fierce along the engaged lines, and I prayed they would not close up before the last of our squadron had sailed through. Plumes of smoke rose in columns, marking the line of conflict.

Now, if only the rest of the force could disengage and follow!

We flew down the coast, past Leucas, past the open channel (now guarded by Agrippa’s forces) of Cephallenia, past all the places now lost to us, but rejoicing in our freedom nonetheless. The wind rose higher, and behind us the sky was now as black as the smoke; a squall was coming.

Welcome! The harder the winds blew, the better for us, speeding us on our way.

Oh, let the others follow! Let the others break away! It was a desperate plea, for I had seen how closely grappled all the ships were.

Far, far to our rear I thought I saw some warships; they must have come from the extreme left wing under Sosius, which I thought had evaded the general fighting. And behind them, what?

I clung to the rail, bouncing with each slap as the ship hit the troughs between waves. The wind was tearing at my cloak, but I felt that if I just stayed there, staring, I could will Antony’s ship to appear.

Eventually I did see a quinquereme approaching, its lightness and speed catching it up to us. It gained steadily. But I did not recognize it. Could it be the enemy’s?

It drew alongside us, and then I saw him: I saw Antony standing on the deck, smoke-begrimed, his arms bloody. But he was signaling, and seemed unhurt.

He was safe. He was here. I shouted for the men to lower a rope ladder and take him on board, and the rails were lined with our senators and soldiers, cheering. Antony climbed up and mounted wearily over the rail, his face strangely blank.

To the cries and welcome of the people on board, he had no response other than a halfhearted wave of the hand. I pushed my way through and embraced him. He brought up one arm and held me to him. The other hung limp at his side.

“My eternal thanks to all the gods,” I whispered in his ear. “We are safe.”

Still he did not respond, as if he were stunned. “Not all,” he said. “Not all.”

“How many followed you? And”—I suddenly thought of this—“where is your flagship?”

“I could not break free, so I had to abandon it. The plan has gone awry. We were so closely grappled and surrounded that most of the ships could not follow. The entire center and left wing were held in place. Only the right wing—where, ironically, Agrippa faced us—had any ships able to escape. They are following. I am not sure how many.”

All around us people were pressing, waiting for him to address them.

“Antony, you must speak to them,” I urged him, as I had once before.

But his self-command had deserted him. He shook his head, taking off his helmet and holding it like an empty bucket. “No. I cannot,” he mumbled, and bolted away to the prow of the ship.

I made excuses for him, but now I had to speak in his stead and invent something.

Fast Liburnians appeared, giving chase. Agrippa had sent them after us, and Antony, seeing them, seemed to rally and commanded his other ships—for some had now followed and caught up with us—to turn and face the galleys. One was manned by Eurycles of Sparta, who bore a vicious personal grudge against Antony. They challenged each other to fight, then Eurycles turned and managed to ram and capture a sizable ship of Antony’s, as well as one of mine, which unfortunately was carrying some valuable royal stores. Satisfied, he turned back and we sailed on.

For the few moments of the fight, Antony seemed charged with high spirits, but as soon as it was over, he fell back into silence and stood watching the setting sun, refusing to move even after darkness fell.

“It doesn’t matter about the stores,” I assured him. My words were snatched up by the wind.

He turned his head to me. “Do you think that is my concern?” he asked. “I thought I was prepared to lose ships in the escape. But actually seeing it…that proved quite different. I feel wounded, although I am not.” He paused. “I fear I can lead no more.”

What nonsense was this? He had expected to lose ships.

“But we have managed to escape with our treasure, ourselves, and a third of our ships,” I told him. “Will not Octavian curse when he realizes it? Think of what you have snatched away right under his nose. You were blockaded, and you slipped away with the prize.”

“My reputation…” His voice trailed off. “My reputation is gone. My credibility as a leader of Romans has collapsed.”

“This is absurd!” I said. “You have cheated Octavian of the very prey in his nets.”

“I can’t expect you to understand!” he snapped. “What I mean is—it is your nature to always see victory in the face of defeat. I don’t think you even know what defeat is. But is that bravery or naiveté?” He turned away and disappeared in the darkness, leaving me alone at the rail.

Far to the north, a tiny glow marking the site of the battle was still visible.

The wind and sea bore us onward, past the luxuriant island of Zacynthus, where of late Sosius had had his command; the dawn showed the peaks of her mountains a tender pink.

Antony had not come to my quarters, which were close to the size of regular land rooms—a “ten” is a very large ship indeed. Where had he passed the night? I was almost afraid to find out. Then word was brought to me that he was sitting, like a statue, at the forefront of the ship. He had spent the hours of darkness there, and showed no inclination to move, nor to eat or drink anything.

“You must go to him,” Charmian urged me. “Bring him back here, let him lie down and restore himself.”

I knew that would not do. Antony, that most public of men, had chosen to be alone, and I must not trespass on it. But I did steal to the bow of the ship, where I saw him sitting cross-legged, his hands on his knees, his head lifted and staring out to sea. In his solitude, he looked stony and bereaved. It was all I could do not to rush over to him, bend down, beg him to let me comfort him.

There had been a serving-woman in the palace once whose son was killed by crocodiles when bathing in the Nile, and she had worn a mantle of sorrow ever after, her face so changed that even when she smiled, it was no smile. Now Antony had that look.

But he had known the probable outcome before we even embarked! He had spoken of it most logically, arguing that we would salvage what we could from a near-hopeless situation. The truth was that Actium was lost when Agrippa took Methone—four months ago.

All this was no reflection on Antony or his generalship. How could it be, when no battle was fought on land? He had suffered defeats and reversals before. Who had not, save Alexander? The important thing was not the defeat, but what he did afterward.

You’ve only seen him win. You don’t know a man until you see him lose
. He must not take this as final. There was still Canidius with his army, there was still Egypt, there was still…

I watched as a big wave sent cold salt spray into his face and he sat, unflinching, almost as if he were being flogged and relished it.

I could not stop myself. I ran over to him. “Antony, Antony,” I said, wiping off his chilled face. “Stand up, and be a man!” My words sounded harsher than I meant. But he must, or lose everything, including himself. Especially himself.

“I can no longer be called a man,” he said. “I have dishonored the name.”

“What are you, then? A boy? A eunuch? Are only generals men? No, a man is anyone who bears on his shoulders whatever fate is pleased to lay there, and holds his head up all the while.”

“A lot of pretty words from someone who has never tasted defeat,” he said. Still he refused to get up.

“When I was exiled from my throne, that was no defeat?” I answered. How easy it is to forget the tribulations others have endured! We always think we are the only ones. “When Caesar was murdered, and his son unprovided for, and Octavian named his heir, that was no defeat? When
you
married Octavia, branding our children bastards, that was no defeat? The entire world mocked me.”

“You never lost hundreds—no,
thousands—
of men, dead, dead for nothing…no, not nothing, dead because they trusted you, followed you, and paid everything for it, and there was no way you could ever undo it!” he yelled. “Dead, dead, all dead, at the bottom of the sea, and rotting in Parthia, and—”

“So now it’s all of them rolled up into one? Parthia was five years ago, and a different war. War kills people. If you didn’t want to take responsibility for that, then you shouldn’t have become a soldier!” I shouted over the wind, right into his ear. His face was still turned resolutely away.

“They’re all dead!” he cried. “Dead, dead, lost…” Now he put his hands up to his face and wept.

What if someone saw him? What a disgrace!

“Hush, stop it!” I said, shaking his shoulders to jolt him out of it. He should at least wait until he was shut away in privacy. At this very instant, deckhands could see him.

But he wouldn’t stop, and instead sat hunched over and weeping loudly. Like a child! “I…have…lost…everything…lost…my way….” He forced the words out between sobs.

“You have lost nothing that you cannot recover,” I told him stoutly.

“My reputation…my faith…I cannot recover. Others must grant the first, I must grant myself the second, and I…I cannot.”

“Yes, you will,” I assured him. “In time—”

“No, never. It is gone forever. Lost in the water. I am unarmed—no longer a leader, a general, even a soldier.”

The buoyant Antony, his quick glad spirits drained away…forever? Why is it that one thing will destroy us when other—and equally hard—blows do not? Perhaps we can only absorb so many, and Parthia had been his limit. My dream of his death might have been true in a way I had not known.

“No,” I said, cradling his head, for the first time afraid that he was speaking the truth. “No, you must go on. You must shoulder this; you are strong enough. Else Hercules was not truly your ancestor!” I tried to appeal to his old self; he had always prided himself on his descent from Hercules. It had carried him through many another discouraging moment.

“Hercules would disown me,” he said. “Hercules would be ashamed.”

The ship dipped and sent another stinging arc of sea spray onto us. It dripped off Antony’s hair but did nothing to interrupt his weeping.

“He would not be ashamed of you for losing Actium, but for what you are doing afterward.” Surely he could understand that?

You don’t know a man until you see him lose
.

“I should have died; I should have gone down with my ship. At least then my men would not feel their commander deserted them.” I could barely make out his words.

“You didn’t desert them,” I said. “Is surviving a battle desertion? Some will walk off a battlefield and others won’t. That is not the same as desertion, unless you think it’s everyone’s obligation to die.
That
would please the enemy.”

Now he threw his head back and cried out mockingly, “ ‘And this shall be for your glory! That you can tell your sons you were with Antony at Actium.’ Oh, the shame of it! The shame!”

“Antony—” He was torturing himself more cruelly than any flogger could.

“Go away!” he said, shoving me so hard I stumbled against the coiled ropes on deck. “Leave me!”

I did so, but not before assigning someone to watch him carefully from behind, and stop him if he tried to leap overboard or stab himself in his despair.

I was shocked; I could not believe he had come to this.

It took three days to sail around the Peloponnese and reach Cape Taenarum, where there was a small harbor and roadstead. The entire time Antony remained where he was, brooding, weeping, making atonement to his lost men, his lost dreams. He was shattered, as a man and as a general, overwhelmed by his losses. But when we sailed into the harbor, he left his post, went below and cleaned himself up. His first wild grief had subsided, and now it was time for the funeral. He must attend the obsequies, and comport himself bravely.

Once anchored, we awaited the arrival of whatever stragglers might have managed to break away and follow us, as well as the heavier transports and the ships from the few ports we still held, while we counted the accompanying vessels and refitted them for the long voyage back to Egypt. Some hundred ships, all told, had escaped. The senators were all safe, and poured off the ships onto the docks; about sixty-five hundred legionaries survived and were with us. Mithridates of Commagene and Archelaus of Cappadocia were still loyal and with us, and King Polemo of Pontus was still ours. Antony forced himself to greet them heartily and thank them for their steadfastness. I watched him, and only I could see the despair that lay behind the good manners. Good manners are the last thing to desert us, so it seems. They remain behind to mock us with their hollow sound when all else has fled.

On the sixth day, in a hastily erected banqueting pavilion on shore, Antony gave a farewell feast for his friends. First we had tramped up to the acropolis to stand at the temple of Poseidon and give thanks to him for our miraculous escape. (At least that was what the official prayers said.) Standing looking out over the wide expanse of water below us, I felt an acute longing to be on the shores that awaited us far to the south: Egypt.

I was ready to return to Egypt, be restored by Egypt, have solutions to our dilemma whispered to me by the sands of Egypt. Egypt would not fail me. And I would not fail it.

At this very tip of land, which protruded like a finger from the mountainous spine of Greece, I felt all of Europe at my back. It was time to leave, to go home.

We trailed down the steep slope and then into the makeshift banqueting hall. But Antony had provided well, and Poseidon had yielded up a bountiful catch for us, along with wild goat meat from the mountains.

Antony had still not confided in me, and so I was as much a guest as anyone else. I had no idea what he had planned. After everyone had eaten (I noted that he himself ate little), he rose and addressed them. After thanking them for their loyalty, he then announced that he was releasing them from their pledges.

“We have fought a good fight, my friends,” he said, lifting his cup to them. “But where I go, you cannot follow.”

Did he mean…? Oh, surely not! But it was the Roman way. Commanders in his position often…and before a public audience, too.

The thought must have occurred to the others, too, for they rose in protest. “Good Imperator, no!” they cried.

Now Antony looked close to tears, as he was touched by their horror at the threat of his loss. “No, no, good friends,” he assured them. “I withdraw to Egypt. You cannot accompany me; there is no purpose in it. You must make your peace with Octavian.”

Again a cry of protest.

Antony held up his hands. “Hear me. It is not necessary to follow me further. It will only be to your harm. You must accept what has happened, and see to your own safety. I can offer you a safe conduct to Corinth, and protection and hiding with my steward Theophilus until you can make arrangements with Octavian.”

The buzz in the tent grew louder.

“Do not fear. Caesar made clemency fashionable,” he said with a disarming smile. “I am sure Octavian will follow his example.” He looked around. “He will reserve his wrath for the Queen and me, no others.”

In his present mood, he would probably welcome that wrath, as some sort of deserved punishment.

“And now”—he gestured toward two of his attendants, who dragged a chest across the ground and flung open the lid—“I have raided one of our treasure ships to provide for you. Take the money, take the gold and silver, as payment for your services and as protection for your future.”

He had helped himself to the treasure ship? Without consulting me? I stared at him.

The men were shaking their heads, refusing the gift. Antony kept urging them, and they finally filed up—does any sane man refuse gold for long? Some of them were weeping, and for that I did not begrudge them the money. Surely Antony would be touched by seeing that in the eyes of others he still held his honor.

That night he finally came to my—our—chamber. He had discharged his duty, had said honorable good-byes, and must now strip himself of all that remained, and prepare for the long journey ahead.

He had laid aside his mask when the guests departed, and now was solemn and subdued. “I am a man in exile,” he said. “I have no place to go, except to hide in my wife’s country, and beg for shelter.” He sank down on the edge of our bed, and it creaked under his weight. “I am a Roman driven from Roman shores.”

I was weary of this; I had no more words to dissuade him. “Come to bed,” was all I said.

“I am no longer a leader of Romans; now I have truly become what they called me: an easterner, a foreigner. Rome has cast me out.” As he spoke he untied his sandals, bending over so low I could hardly hear him. Slowly he removed his formal clothes by himself; since his defeat he had not even allowed Eros in his presence. Then he lay down and stared up at the ceiling.

I rose to the bait. “Aren’t you forgetting Canidius and his fifty thousand men?” It was reported that, as arranged, Canidius had begun withdrawing the army to make the trek into Asia. “And the five legions in Cyrenaica, and the three in Syria? You are hardly a Roman without followers.”

“Ahhh.” His voice was a long sigh.

He was clearly exhausted, for he fell deeply asleep in an instant. I was relieved; it was the first time I could relax my vigil over him. I was still worried that he might try to emulate Cato, or Brutus, or Cassius. His polite performance tonight had not fooled me.

It would have been good if he could have been allowed to sleep, to repair his torn spirits. It would have been kind of the gods to grant us that. But in the darkest hour of night, we were awakened by a messenger with urgent news.

Canidius was here.

“Send him in.” I pulled on a decent covering gown and helped Antony to throw on a robe. The news must be terrible. Canidius was supposed to be far away with the army.

Well, let us hear it. Let all the blows rain down on us. Let every disaster empty itself on our heads.

Antony had pulled himself to his feet, leaning on a tent pole. He was groggy after being fetched from the depths of sleep so soon.

Canidius came in, holding a lantern. His hair was wild, his face sweaty, his garments stained. “Forgive me, Imperator,” he said, kneeling.

Antony touched the top of his head. “Yes. I do. Whatever it is. It doesn’t matter.” He reached out his hand and made Canidius rise.

“The army has surrendered to Octavian,” he said. “I fled for my life.”

“Many deaths?” asked Antony, as if he wanted there to be: more men to heap on his pile of remorse for his failures.

Canidius shook his head. “None.”

Now Antony was brought up short. “What?”

“No deaths. There was no fighting. We had marched a little way toward Thrace when Octavian sent a column to negotiate a surrender. The men—the centurions—knew they could hold out for good terms, that Octavian would be anxious to avoid fighting. And so they bargained, with a skill that would make a rug merchant proud. In the end the centurions were able to extract a promise from Octavian to preserve the six historic legions, like the Fifth, the
Alaudae
, and the Sixth,
Ferrata
, the Ironclad, and—”