The Memoirs of Cleopatra (82 page)

Herod stayed in Alexandria for twenty days, fending off Epaphroditus’s attempts to force him to take a stand one way or another—to declare himself a true Jew or not. I sensed in him the conflict between a person who is born, or called to, a particular allegiance, only to find it blocking his ambition. There is nothing more wrenching. Only a very few find glory in being martyrs—Cato for the Republic, Spartacus for slaves, the Israelite prophets for their god. All others long to fulfill their talents, their destinies; they do not easily sacrifice them on an altar, slaying them like a placid white bull. In that, Herod was only human.

In the end, he sailed away in a ship I provided, tracking westward into the setting sun, seeking Italy. What he would find there we could not guess. And I was back to waiting, waiting, waiting, for the outcome, which affected me as much as Herod.

“I don’t want to be cruel, but you are simply
enormous!
” Olympos blurted out when he came to see me about a month after Herod’s departure. His face, usually so guarded, registered dismay and bafflement.

“Dear old Olympos,” I said. “Always so tactful! So diplomatic! So thoughtful!” His words were wounding. I
knew
I was big. The gowns, and even the brocade coat, no longer served.

“Are you absolutely sure about the—the timing?” he asked cautiously.

“Well, I know a date it could not be before,” I said. “And that is the one I chose.”

He shook his head. “Please—may I?” He reached out his hand toward my belly.

“Oh, go ahead,” I said. “And you might as well feel it directly. Be my physician today instead of my companion.”

He poked and jabbed with both hands, right on my bare flesh, after discreetly unfastening the front panel—lately added—of my gown. He frowned as he did so, until gradually enlightenment came to him.

“Ah,” he said, finally. He took his hands away.

“Well, what?” I demanded.

“Medically this is a relief,” he began. “But—”

“Just tell me!” I barked.

“I think there are two of them in there,” he said.

“What?”

“Twins,” he said. “Two. You know, like Apollo and Artemis.”

“I know who Apollo and Artemis are, you fool!”

He grinned. “Yes, of course. But are you prepared to be Latona?”

“To wander about, forsaken and persecuted?”

“You won’t have to wander, and you won’t be persecuted, but forsaken—I must reserve judgment on that.”

“Sometimes I hate you!” I said.

“Yes, when I say things you don’t want to hear,” he said lightly. “I’d be thinking about two names, if I were you.” He got up, his eyes dancing. “Ah, what a man is Marc Antony!”

“Go away!” I hurled a pot of ointment at him.

He dodged it and ran out, laughing.

After he left, I put my hands carefully on the great bulge in my front. There did seem to be an inordinate amount of movement in there—more likely from eight hands and feet than only four.

Two. The names were the least of my problems.

“Marc Antony is married,” said the sailor, who had been hustled into the palace by Mardian. He stood before me smiling, his cap in hand.

“Yes, I know he is married,” I said patiently. What was this? “What news is this? I want true news—of the war.”

The man kept smiling. “Then, what I meant is—forgive me, Majesty—he is remarried. And there is no war.”

“What are you talking about?” Why could he not speak clearly? Mardian was leaning up against the wall, his arms crossed, frowning.

“I mean to say that the Triumvir was briefly a widower. Fulvia died, and then—”

Fulvia. Died? He had been freed from her?

“—he has married Octavia. In Rome.”

“What?”

“The Triumvir Octavian’s sister. They have married. There was much rejoicing, as war was averted. Vergil has written a masterful poem celebrating it—saluting a new golden age of peace. Would you like to hear it?” he asked brightly. He started digging in his purse for a copy of it.

“He has married Octavia? He was free to marry, and he chose her?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” He quit looking for the poem.

“When did Fulvia die?” I asked stupidly. It seemed very important to establish that fact.

“After he left her behind in Greece.”

“I see.” The room seemed to spin, to change into something else, but still I stood there staring at him. Then I asked, but more to fill up the space than anything else, for I knew I would not remember, but have to be told again later, “Why no war?”

“The truth is, the veterans would not allow it. The two armies had fought side by side at Philippi only eighteen months ago, and had no wish to be enemies. They are weary of war—the whole world is weary of war. That is why Vergil wrote about the golden age. All Rome has gone mad with the celebrations! Our ship could barely sail, we had so much trouble moving the cargo to the docks through all the crowds. The agreement was sealed by the marriage, so that now Antony and Octavian are brothers!”

“When did you leave Rome?” I asked. Again, it seemed very important to establish this.

“Less than half a month ago. We had very favorable winds. All of nature is basking in the accord.”

Doubtless, I thought. All of nature—all the spheres of heaven—must celebrate this union. “Here,” I said, nodding to Mardian. “He will give you something to help you join this jubilation. Oh, and leave the poem here. We would like to read it at our leisure.”

The man succeeded in finding it, crumpled and stained, and handed it to Mardian, who escorted him out.

Where could I go, to be alone? Everywhere I looked, there was someone who loved me and knew too much. And as Queen, I could not lose myself in nameless crowds. I was trapped where my grief and humiliation must be seen by others.

Mardian reentered the room, and found me still standing, staring almost sightlessly out toward the harbor. There was no place to hide from the scrutiny of his eyes and his unspoken dismay and pity.

“I am sorry,” he said quietly. “When I heard a ship had arrived from Rome, I thought only that you would wish to be informed about the war. I did not know.”

“Oh, Mardian.” I closed my eyes and rested my head on his shoulder. “Why does it hurt so much?” I asked, stupidly puzzled. I thought I was past ever being able to be wounded deeply again, down to my very core. I thought the funeral pyre in the Forum had burned away all of that in me, leaving me protected from such sudden turns of fate.

He was wise enough not to answer, just to embrace me.

He sent away all the attendants and let me be alone in my chambers. I lay down for a long time, just staring blindly, my thoughts mercifully paralyzed. Far below I could hear the sound of the waves, beating rhythmically against the seawalls. Back and forth, back and forth…

Then, little by little, the thoughts crept back in, gathering speed, starting to race to catch up with the turbulent feelings.

There was no war. They had laid down their arms and reconciled, and Octavian had presented his sister Octavia as a peace bond.

He likes to cement treaties by personal ties. He asked to marry into my family, when we became Triumvirs together
.

And Octavian, having just married himself off elsewhere, was no longer available. Therefore it had to be Antony.

And here’s my sister, in good faith
, he probably said.

And why, Antony, did you not say no? What matter what Octavian had said, as long as you had the word
no
at your command?

He was free, unmarried, and he chose to marry Octavia
.

What did she even look like? I tried to recall, from my few meetings with her in Rome. She was older than Octavian, but not by much. I thought she was married. What had happened to her husband? Not that that was much of a problem in Rome. She had probably obediently divorced him in order to please Octavian. As Antony might well have done to Fulvia, to please Octavian—rather than to please me. How convenient that she had died instead.

What was Octavia like? My memories of her were hazy. Ironically, she could not have been as fair of face as her brother, or I would remember. What had she said, how had she behaved at the dinners? I had been so preoccupied with Caesar and the other strong presences there, like Brutus and even Calpurnia, that I had paid her scant attention. Had she been unpleasant or ugly, I would have remembered that, too. I had to conclude that she was in between, neither memorable nor outstanding.

And now she was to be his wife…. No, she
was
his wife!

Mardian had left the poem lying on a table. I forced myself to read it. Evidently copies of it had been circulated around Rome and this sailor had pocketed one. Oh yes, it was to be a public rejoicing!

I felt strong, refreshing anger start to pour through me. A stupid prophesy!

What an insipid bunch of tripe! What about the
real
prophesy, the one about the Widow and Rome? That one had some bite in it! What was this imitation thing that Vergil had made up?

Well, I knew all about ten lunar months of discomfort! To hell with Vergil and his prophesy! I cursed it. It would never come true, never! Let her be barren, or bring forth only girls! Isis was stronger than Vergil.

But that night, as I slept, the most horrible image came to me, so real that I felt I had flown to Rome and beheld it myself.

There was a cavernous room—no, it was a temple of some sort, all the walls and floors of black polished marble. Two bronze lamp stands flanked an altar that was elevated on a podium of some five or six steps. The altar was black marble, too, and on it lay—Octavia.

Now I could see her clearly, all the features that had eluded me earlier coming into sharp focus. She had rich brown hair, luminous dark eyes, a pleasing but bland face. The flickering of the two tall lamps lit her nose, her cheeks, the long hair, the white gown, and reflected off all the polished stone.

She was waiting there, still, barely breathing, her bare feet exposed, her ankles tied.

Then I saw Antony, but only from the back. He was ascending the steps of the altar, slowly and ritualistically, like a priest, wearing some sort of religious tunic, carrying a knife.

He reached down and cut the bindings of her ankles, freeing her legs, and then I saw that her wrists had been bound also, and he cut those ties as well.

Then he was standing over the altar, bending over it, then—again in a slow, ritualistic way—he climbed on it, climbed on top of her. I could see her pale limbs raised on each side of him, see his shoulders straining….

And thus they became man and wife.

A new begetting now descends from heaven’s height
.

I woke up drenched in sweat, my heart pounding. I felt sick at my stomach. It was only a dream, only a dream…. Over and over I repeated that, until the ghastly details began to fade a little. It wasn’t like that at all. It couldn’t have been.

Well, what do you think it was like, then? I couldn’t keep the thought away. I remembered so well what he was like. Now she would have all those things—his kisses, his hands on her face, even the heavy weight of him upon her.

Oh, let me forget! Why did I have to picture things so vividly? It was a curse, to have such an imagination. Let it die, along with my love for him.

My worse-than-sleepless night left me shaken and exhausted, the worst possible combination with which to face what now rushed upon me. Without the restoration of a normal night’s rest, by late the next night I was in full, hard labor.

It had no gentle onset, but hit me as unexpectedly as the sailor’s news. The servants rushed about to prepare the birth room and fetch the midwives, but everyone was darting about in confusion.

The pain was crippling. I could barely stand up to be guided into the room where the birth was to take place. I remember leaning on two midwives and almost dragging them down. My legs would not obey, and each movement of them sent spirals of pain shooting down to my feet. They put me on the special stool that was used only for this purpose, with a sturdy back and very low legs; the entire thing was draped in sheets. I reclined on it, gripping the sides, almost blinded by the pains that kept coming at such a fast rate they were all blurring into one.

In times like that, each instant seems like forever, and hours can be condensed into minutes. I have no idea how long I remained like that, but I heard one of the midwives saying, “Her color is bad, and besides—”

Someone else said something I could not hear, and then, “Send for Olympos! Now!”

The room seemed to grow dark, and I heard Olympos’s voice saying, “Has she taken anything?” and then, “If not—”

I was being lifted, transferred to someplace hard where I lay flat on my back. They brought my arms out to my sides and held them firmly. I felt hands pressing on my abdomen, pushing down on it, and heard someone cry, “Blood! Blood!” with panic in her voice.

“Pull!” someone said.

“I can’t.” Another voice. “It is turned the wrong way.”

“Then twist it around!” That was Olympos. “Twist it!”

Now I could feel something warm and sticky spreading out underneath me, under my back. Blood. I turned my head to see it dripping off the table and forming a pool underneath. It looked very thick and very red. It smelled metallic and ugly.

The room was turning very slowly, revolving around some axis. I could feel the black edges of unconsciousness lapping around me.

“O ye gods!” There was a horrifying wrench, and I felt as if my insides were being dragged out. “There it is!”

There was a thin, coughing cry, and I heard someone say, “A girl.”

The pain did not cease then, but intensified. More gushes of the hot, sticky blood, soaking even the back of my head now. And shrieks from the attendants, wails.

“It’s stuck. The second one, it’s stuck.”

“In the name of the gods, do something!”

“I can’t—”

There was a flutter of voices, faces hovering over me. But I could hardly see. The blackness was growing.

Yanks and pulls, and frantic beating on my belly, which shook my grip on consciousness still further.

“We’re losing her!” I heard the words, faintly, and looked up to see Olympos watching me, his face twisted, openly weeping.

“Stop the bleeding! Stop it, in the name of all the gods!” someone cried.

“I can’t!” Another voice, a woman’s.

“Then pull it hard, now!” Olympos shouted. “Or, here—”

“But how—” a faint voice at my feet asked.

I pulled in one ragged breath after another, gasping.

“Grab it! Turn it!” Olympos said savagely. “Like this!” There was a ripping, and torrents of blood gushed out, surging like a sea wave, engulfing me, even wetting my ears where I lay on my back.

“Got him.” Those were the last words I heard.

When I awoke, I was so bandaged and aching I could not move. Every muscle, every sliver of me, was bruised and torn—or so it felt.

The sunlight was pouring in. Obviously it was the next day. Or the next. Or maybe even the next. I felt the throbbing in my breasts; they were all swollen with milk. It must have been two or three days, then.

For a few moments I kept my eyes half shut, watching to see who was there. Two midwives were sitting by a table, and one of them was holding a baby. I felt a cold jolt of fear. Where was the other one?

“She’s awake!” One of the women noticed me and was instantly at my side.

I attempted to smile. “And alive, too,” I said. My voice sounded very weak and small.

“Here’s your daughter.” The other attendant brought the baby over to me, placed her in my arms. It hurt to hold her.

Her little face slept serenely. Clearly the experience had not disturbed her much.

“And the other?” I asked.

“We’ll bring him,” she said. “Tell them the Queen is awake.”

In only a moment someone appeared, bearing a second bundle, and placed him in my other arm. That hurt, too.