The Memoirs of Cleopatra (127 page)

At the sound of the precious names, Antony gave a piercing cry like a wounded animal. “No! No!”

“The rest will be absorbed into other legions in the usual way,” Canidius finished. “And they will get their settlement, and their land in Italy—”

Antony turned to me, ignoring Canidius. “Yes, that’s what they want,” he said. “Remember the old soldier, the one after Parthia, the one who said, when we visited him, that he wanted his plot of land in Italy, not a foreign place? The old veteran—O gods, did he die at Actium? I shouldn’t have taken him on board the ship! If he’d remained, he’d be going back to Italy!” With that, he threw himself on the bed and beat his chest.

Canidius looked at me, his eyes wide.

“He has been this way since the battle,” I said. “Do not be alarmed.”

But Canidius was. “Madam,” he said, “this is the saddest spectacle I have witnessed in all the war.”

Finally Antony sat up, brushing the tears from his eyes. “Forgive me,” he said. “But the old man—” He shook his head.

“I had to flee,” said Canidius. “I could not expect Octavian to show mercy to
me
.” He paused. “But you should know the truth. I stayed with them until the terms were complete. Octavian’s version, which is part of his agreement to flatter the troops, is that they went on bravely fighting until they were deserted by their cowardly commander.”

That was a bad choice of words—but how was he to know?

Antony gave a sigh, but said nothing.

“But there was no fighting. And the troops made peace only because they knew there was now no way for you to pay them. They were forced into it.”

“Because I had deserted them, you mean?” Antony yelled. “Run off with the treasury?”

“I didn’t say that. It was just a fact. Their paymaster was gone. Octavian was near.”

Now Antony glared at me. “What was that you said, about Canidius and his troops? You’ll have to change that.” He shrugged. “It’s all over. It’s all over. Come, my last companions, we have a sea voyage to make tomorrow.”

After Canidius had been shown out, Antony flung himself facedown on the bed and did not stir, lying like a dead man.

It took nine days to sail from Taenarum to the shores of North Africa. We had to give a wide birth to Crete because it now belonged to Octavian, and we could not put in there. Canidius went with us, as did several of Antony’s die-hard friends (he still had them, in spite of his contentions), including one who had once served Brutus, offering to die in his stead, and then clinging loyally to Antony after being spared. I hoped he did not mention Brutus and his “noble” end, which might spur Antony on to imitate it.

Antony had quelled his outbursts and now entered into a phase that was even more disturbing: a stony, stoic, disinterested manner. He was alert, pleasant, attentive, but all with a deadly detachment that was chilling. Halfway into the voyage he had suddenly demanded to be taken to Paraetonium, at the westernmost edge of Egypt, where there was a small military outpost. He claimed he needed to “inspect” it—but what was there to inspect? It was nothing but a cluster of mud buildings, a small landing, and a lot of sand, heat, and scorpions. In nearby Cyrenaica, we still had five legions. I knew he wished to hide there, out of sight of mankind, and lick his wounds. Or inflict the wound that would end all wounds.

But what could I do? Forbid him? Had I not been the one reminding him he was still a general who commanded legions? Now he claimed he wished to visit a military post. Stay with him, guard him? It was demeaning for both of us, and it was crucial for me to return to Alexandria before the dreadful news of Actium had reached it. I dared not delay.

We made landfall just a short way from Paraetonium; the blinding white rocks and sand seemed to radiate heat. Baking in the sun were the low, brown buildings, with a drooping palm or two providing no shade at all at noon. Motley, shedding camels dozed around what passed for a well.

Antony silently gathered up his belongings and put on his uniform, as if he were going to a grand ceremony. Attired thus, he looked like his old self—if you did not look into his eyes. And the beak on his helmet prevented it.

Alone in the cabin, we faced one another.

“Antony, inspect your post here, then come back aboard,” I said. “We will wait.” It would hardly take very long for him to see what there was to see.

“No,” he said. “I need to stay. I will follow. I promise.”

“When?”

“That I cannot say.”

“Please don’t delay! You are needed in Alexandria. The children—”

“Give them this.” He stripped off his silver military awards carelessly and dropped them into my hand. “Tell them what they were for.” He paused. “Now I must go.”

“No good-bye?” I could not believe we could part like this, stiff strangers.

“It is only for a little while,” he said cryptically. Then he bent and kissed me, a formal kiss that turned into a real one.

As he and his two friends descended onto the shore, I saw that he still had his sword, as well as his dagger. He had not given those to me for the children’s remembrance. Obviously he thought he still had need of them.

We were two days’ sail west of Alexandria, and I needed that time to decide what to do. With Antony gone, my anxious watching could stop, and I felt an immense, sad relief as we sailed away from Paraetonium. I stood watching it recede, although the dazzling light made my eyes ache and finally the site vanished in a blaze of white. I knew he would be wrestling with his own fate in that lonely outpost, but he would have to do it alone, as ultimately we all do. Others become superfluous annoyances when our supreme hour of decision comes.

From the time I was very young, I felt I had a sort of power to predict things. Often I would get a nudging feeling that
this
would happen rather than
that
, and when it turned out that way, I would tell myself that the gods had granted me the power of prophesy. But now I knew that what I possessed instead was an acute ability to weigh factors and make informed guesses—perhaps a more valuable trait for a ruler. At this moment, however, I did not know, I could not guess, which way Antony would go. All the factors seemed to weigh evenly, would tear and pull at him equally on both sides. Selfishly, I wished that he would ignore the beguiling sword and the Roman way, and decide to live, taking his stand with me. But not if it would utterly destroy him as a man.

And so I gave him to the gods; I mourned him in my heart as if he had already taken the Roman course. He must be dead to me now if I was to do what I must.

I knew with a certainty (not prophesy, but shrewd guess) that Octavian had sympathizers even in Alexandria. There always are people who wish for change, who are dissatisfied with the king. I had once been told a very hard truth: There is no one whose death is not a relief to
someone
. That is triply so for a monarch. Well, I must strike at them before they struck at me, which they would feel free to do as soon as the news of Actium reached them. I still had a little time.

I must sail into Alexandria alone; the rest of the bedraggled ships should lag behind, lest their condition shout the truth. And I would sail into the harbor with the ship garlanded as if we had been victorious. Yes! I would not betray, by so much as a flicker, what had really happened. Then I would speed into the palace and have my enemies—who had doubtless gained strength in my absence—rounded up and dispatched.

And Artavasdes, our enemy. Even before his capture, he had been in league with Octavian. His master would doubtless restore him to his throne in Armenia, and thus our clemency in sparing him would be thrown back into our faces.

Well, I could prevent that. He would never live to laugh as he ascended the steps of his throne again, as he had smirked in ascending the steps to us at the triumph. It was good Antony was not here to stop me.

HERE ENDS THE EIGHTH SCROLL
.

The
Antonia
, her gilded stern scrubbed to shining once more, her purple sails brushed free of salt, her bow garlanded, sailed triumphantly into the harbor of Alexandria. I had stationed my attendants on deck in colorful attire, and threatened them with dire punishment if they did not wave and sing joyfully. For myself, I put on my royal robes and headdress, and stood under the mast where I could be seen by all.

Never has the sight of the white, pure Lighthouse been more beautiful to me, calling me home after what had been a very long and perilous journey. My limbs ached with the weariness of it, but I must appear fresh. And the tall serenity of the Lighthouse, unmoving in spite of the waves dashing across its base, gave me strength.

The shores were lined with crowds, cheering wildly and throwing flowers that floated out on the water, little dots of red, yellow, purple, blue. The palace, on its grassy peninsula, beckoned coolly. Behind the shore rose the cubes of the buildings, as white as salt. I closed my eyes and made a vow.

I must keep it, must keep Egypt; the Ptolemies could not forfeit it as punishment for Roman failures in the field. I must do whatever it took to keep it for my children: humble myself to Octavian, abdicate in favor of my son, make other alliances that would keep Rome from swallowing us, kill my enemies. I must even, if necessary, kill myself.
Anything
. No price was too high. I could not let nine generations of Ptolemies end with me, let the last of Alexander’s heirs be vanquished and vanish from living history.
Anything
. And I must not flinch.

We docked at the royal landing stage; I sent messengers out immediately to post proclamations of the victory (which I had hurriedly composed in my cabin) all over the city. After waving, greeting the crowd, we were whisked into the palace and out of sight.

Now the real work could begin.

I climbed the wide steps up to the inner hall of the palace, where Mardian, Olympos, and the children were lined up waiting. I threw protocol aside just as Antony had stripped off his medals and threw my arms around them, seized with joy at seeing them. Getting my arms all the way around Mardian was proving more and more difficult; in his excitement, Olympos forgot to be unemotional, and even kissed me; Alexander almost knocked me down in his effusiveness. Little Philadelphos clung to my legs, and Antyllus bowed smartly.

Standing a little aloof was Selene, who gave a shy smile. And behind her—my heart stopped when I saw Caesarion.

While I was gone, he had turned into a man. Somewhere between being fourteen and now months past sixteen, he had passed into adulthood.

Now—and even his movements were different—he came toward me. I had to look up at him. He took my hand in his, and it was a big hand, which utterly covered mine.

“Welcome, Mother,” he said. His voice had changed, too.

Now I knew it more than ever. I must do anything to preserve his rights, his throne. Literally anything. My son, Egypt’s new king.

“Why, Caesarion!” I said, so stunned by this new self I was at a loss for words. “I—have missed you,” I finally said. I would never stoop to saying,
My, how you have grown
.

“And I, you. I am so happy it is over, and you are back. Tell us, what happened? The victory—how grand was it? How many ships sunk? Where is Octavian? Is he dead? I hope so!” He grinned.

“Don’t tire your mother with all these questions,” Olympos said sharply. I knew then that he had guessed. Well, soon he would know.

“That’s all right,” I assured Caesarion. “Let us retire into our private quarters, and there I will tell you all. All…”

Safely inside our most private withdrawing rooms, the doors bolted, all attendants dismissed, I told them the dreadful truth. They took it silently and unresisting. Only Caesarion looked dismayed, and kept asking for diagrams to illustrate what had happened, which squadron went where, which legion was deployed where….

Finally Mardian asked, “Where is Antony?” From the way he asked it, I knew he thought Antony was dead. But surely he did not think I was so self-controlled I could have concealed it this long!

“He is…” How to describe it without adding to his dishonor? “…at Paraetonium. He wishes to inspect the legions to the west at Cyrenaica.”

“Oh no!” said Mardian.

“What is it?”

“The legions deserted to Octavian. Right out from under their commander! Poor Scarpus had to leave; he is probably sheltering at Paraetonium. We had heard that Octavian had appointed Cornelius Gallus to take over the legions, and he was on his way.”

“The poem-writing soldier?” I asked. Now he could sit on the sandy coast and compose poems about his glorious master and the fall of Antony.

“The same,” said Mardian. “So Scarpus and Antony must be together.”

Just what Antony needed. Two deserted generals together, sharing wine and misery in a mud hovel. Now my fear leapt back upon me. I remembered King Juba and Petreius, in their lurid double suicide—and in the same setting, too.

“He will be in Alexandria shortly,” I said, with conviction. My anguish about him must be kept for myself alone. “But before the news leaks out, there are things we must do. The legions stationed here are still loyal?”

“Yes,” said Mardian.

“Then…”

My commands were carried out. The “Octavians” had been conveniently vocal in their cheers for him and their mutterings against us; it made it easy to identify and arrest them. We discovered quite a storehouse of weapons and piles of incriminating correspondence. The leaders were executed, their properties seized. There had been a sizable number of Octavians, and it disturbed me more than I liked to admit. In my very own city…I knew everyone had enemies, but still…The ingrates!

I ordered the remaining warships to sail to the spot where the neck of land separating the Mediterranean from the Red Sea is at its narrowest, some twenty miles. There, after devices were built for hoisting them from the water, they were to be hauled across the sands on frames mounted on log-rollers, to be relaunched in the Red Sea. There my fleet would be safe from Octavian, and I could have it ready for eastern voyages. I was thinking more and more that the safety of my children could only be guaranteed in the east, somewhere beyond Rome’s reach.

At the same time I ordered more ships to be built to replace the ones lost at Actium. When Octavian arrived, we would fight again, and this time my fleet would not have been held captive in a hellhole first.

It was one thing to be busy all day, attending to these vital matters. It was another at night, alone in my chamber. Then the dark would close over me like a fist, shutting out all hope and comfort. Antony’s quarters stood empty, awaiting a master I feared would never return. Sometimes I would go there, lie down on his bed, as if by so doing I could will him back. How forlorn are rooms forsaken—spurned, as it were. I was sure he gave no thought to them anymore. Instead he paced out his time in exile at Paraetonium. Was it a struggle for him to live through each day? When the sun came up, did he steel himself to make it his last sunrise? And at sunset, the same? What is it about one particular day that whispers persuasively,
Today is the day you seek?
Every morning I awoke in dread that it was his last, and that a black-sailed ship would soon land in Alexandria, carrying a mournful cargo.

And then what would I do? It would be like Caesar’s funeral, only worse, because there would be no Antony to speak this time. That voice would be stilled.

Should I send a ship and soldiers to bring him back? No. Of all the indignities he had suffered, this would be one of the worst: to be fetched home under armed guard, protected from himself like a lunatic who might inadvertently come to harm. It would mean I felt he did not know himself, did not know what was best for himself, was not in his right mind. How could I inflict that on him?

I must see to it that another tomb vault was constructed next to mine in the mausoleum. Now there was only one; strange that when I was very young I had first set about fashioning my tomb, when I had thought I had no need of it. Then it had been almost a game. But I had thought no more about it as I acquired a family: my four children and my husband.

Antony would lie in Alexandria after all. The request in the will that had caused him such problems in Rome would now be fulfilled, partly because of the very animosity it had aroused. Well, then. It must be worthy of the sacrifice he had made to achieve it.

These horrible thoughts kept me awake night after night. During the day I was exhausted, my head spinning, and each day I would think,
Tonight I will sleep soundly
, only to be cheated again.

The days belonged to my duties as a queen, the nights to my loss as a woman. The hardest truth for me was that Antony’s and my destinies now had split. He had come to the end of his, whereas I still had mine to traverse.

He had been called to a high place—to be Caesar’s successor, to rule Rome—had pursued it to the best of his ability, and had failed. He was right. It was over. I had been called to preserve and protect Egypt. That, too, I had done my utmost to achieve. But it was not finished yet. There was still a chance to fulfill my mission. Not a big chance, but a chance nonetheless. And that was all I asked: just the tiniest chance.

So much depended on Octavian now. What would he do? Would he pursue me to the gates of Egypt? Or would he turn back, like a dog that gives up chasing a cart? He had much to do in Rome; and what would he do with Egypt if he took it? A wise Roman had once noted that Egypt would be “a loss if destroyed, a problem to govern, a risk to annex.” All this had given Rome pause before. Perhaps it would again.

And if Octavian arrived, would the Roman legions stationed here obey me, with Antony dead? Or would they go and surrender straightway? I could count on my fleet, and on my Egyptian soldiers, but perhaps on no one else.

There was a garrison at Pelusium guarding the eastern approach, just as Paraetonium guarded the west. But enemies would approach on three sides, from the sea and from both directions on land. All would converge on me here at Alexandria. I would have to meet them alone. No Caesar, no Antony. My male protectors, once so mighty with their Roman power, had fallen, leaving me standing on the battlefield by myself, as I had begun, almost twenty years ago. Then it had been Pothinus and the Regency Council I faced. Now it was the entire Roman army, of some…how many legions? With Antony’s added to Octavian’s, some thirty-five or so.

I almost laughed to imagine thirty-five legions bearing down on me, a hundred fifty thousand men with javelins and swords, come out to take one woman…. It was a compliment. I hoped they would not be disappointed when they finally confronted their quarry in person. Even standing as tall as possible, I was not very big.

And then what would they do? Take me back to Rome, to march in Octavian’s Triumph, as Caesar had taken Arsinoe? To wear silver chains and trudge behind the chariot, to be spat on, then taken to the underground prison, strangled, and thrown into the sewer? No, I knew I would never allow that. And that lay in my hands to prevent. It must be prevented, not only for my own pride as a queen, but out of respect for Caesar. Never should his chosen love, and the mother of his son, meet such a fate. It was not a fitting end for the mate of a god. There would be those in the crowd who would remember when I walked beside him, honored and sharing in his glories.

No, Rome, I will never see you with these eyes again, I vowed.

For several weeks there was no news at all. Mardian dutifully kept me informed of every scrap of gossip, every whisper on the wind. My head aching, I would sit with him at the work table in my quarters, hearing reports about our crops, our tax-collecting, the progress of the ships…until at last one day there was something.

“Octavian is in Athens,” he said, reading the letter. “All of Greece has pledged allegiance to him, except for Corinth.” He laughed. “He has been inducted into the Eleusinian mysteries.”

That made me laugh, too. I could not imagine Octavian believing in it; it was far too emotional and otherworldly for his like. But I supposed he did it to seem properly Grecian.

“He has disbanded large numbers of the soldiers and sent them back to Italy,” Mardian read on.

So now there might be only seventy-five thousand men after me. What a comfort!

“How he will pay them…now there’s the problem,” Mardian mused.

“He’ll pay them by taking Egypt,” I said. And suddenly I knew that was true. It was essential that he get his hands on my treasury, against which all the problems of governing or annexing Egypt were nothing. He had financed his entire career on promises; now he would have to render payment. And it must come from me.

I must pay for my own defeat!

No, I would never let him have it! I would destroy it first!

How quickly all the issues were resolving themselves, I thought. The choices grew fewer and fewer.

Ten days later Mardian was reading another dispatch. Now Octavian had removed himself to Samos and was establishing winter quarters there.

“That means he plans to march on us in the spring,” I said. “Unless he makes it sooner.” So little time! So little time left!

“Hmmm—” Mardian looked pained, and kept fidgeting with the brooch fastening his cloak. “Hmmm—”

“If it’s too painful for you to read, let me have it!” I said.

“Very well.” He handed it to me.

Octavian had been receiving the client kings and reordering the appointments. The ones who convinced him their conversion was genuine were allowed to stay on. Thus Amyntas of Galatia was confirmed, as were the newly loyal Polemo of Pontus and Archelaus of Cappadocia. I could not blame them; Antony had disappeared. What else could they do?

It had not been the sea battle of Actium that was decisive, but the surrender of the land army. It had stripped Antony of his position as leader of a Roman party, as he had realized.

And then I read about Armenia. Although I had taken care of Artavasdes—he was executed—his son Artaxes had seized the throne the moment Actium was over, and gleefully massacred all the Romans in the area. The Roman province of Armenia was no longer Roman. Antony’s gift to Rome, the trophy of his wars, had been snatched back.