The Memoirs of Cleopatra (95 page)

“Yes,” Antony agreed. “And—”

“He must pay the price of his perfidy!” I insisted. “You must punish him! I suppose he pretended to be innocent?”

“Oh yes.” Antony smiled a ghost of his old merry smile. “And I pretended to believe him. After all, by the time we finally reached Armenia, we could not have fought an army composed of stray cats and geese. But neither could we linger in his realm. So I pushed for us to return to Roman territory, even though the snows were deep in the mountains.”

“You must return and take revenge,” I urged him.

“All things in time,” he said.

When someone says that, you know nothing will happen. I remembered once telling my old tutor, “We must wait and see what happens,” and he had replied, “Princess, things do not happen, we must make them happen.”

I let it go. He must grieve before he could move forward. “You have heard the news of Octavian’s victory—or more correctly, Agrippa’s?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yes. So the last of the Republicans is snuffed out—or rather, the last of the
sons
of the Republic. Sextus did not stand for anything besides himself.”

“And what do you stand for? What does Octavian stand for?” The question must be asked. “Now you have no cause to pursue together. The assassins are killed, Sextus eliminated. What is your mission now?” He would have to decide, or have nothing with which to rally others under his banner.

“I do not know,” he said, and it was clear that at that moment he did not care.

“Octavian will find one,” I warned him. “He will reinvent himself to keep gathering followers.” But Antony was not interested in Octavian just now.

“Oh, perhaps he’ll die,” he said lightly. “His health is still wretched. He’ll cough his way into Caesar’s divine company.”

There was a knocking on the door, and Eros stuck his head in. “Good sir—I see I am come too late.”

“No, you are just in time. Bring us something to break our fast; then we will visit the men and distribute the clothing.” He turned to me. “When will the grain arrive?”

“The transport ships were following our galley, but we outdistanced them,” I said. “Nonetheless, they should be docking within three or four days.”

“Alert the millers, so we can get the grain ground quickly,” Antony told Eros. “Bread! We need bread, a mountain of loaves!”

Rows and rows of sick men lay on the ground or on threadbare blankets in the fields behind the town—wilting like plants after a long drought. Some of them were so gray and shriveled it was hard to recognize them as men in the prime of life, and again I was haunted by my dream of the dried, blackened figures.

They stirred as we approached—Antony in his purple cloak, so they could know him from a distance—and called feebly. I saw them struggling painfully to sit up. Awnings had been stretched over the sickest to keep the worst of the weather off them, but the rest had to make do with the open air.

“Imperator,” they were whispering, or crying out. “Imperator!”

Antony stopped at the side of one man wearing a ragged bandage on his head that covered one eye. He stooped down to speak to him.

“Where did you receive this wound?” he asked.

“With Gallus,” he said. “I was beside him when the full hail of arrows hit us.”

“Poor, unfortunate Gallus!” said Antony.

“He got hit four times, and I only once.” The man seemed determined to keep defending his fallen commander. “It was worse for him.”

“Yes, and later he died,” said Antony. “But tell me—where are you from? How long have you served?”

The man—with a surprising show of strength—raised himself up to a sitting position. “I am from Campania—not far from Rome.”

“Ah. The best soldiers come from the homeland,” said Antony. “Their loss hits the hardest of all.”

The man looked pleased, but went on to answer plainly, “I have served ten years—two under Caesar himself. I have another ten before retirement—and, Imperator, I want my piece of land in Italy. The traditional place, not those new colonies in Africa or Greece. No, Italy is my home. I didn’t serve this long to be exiled in my old age!”

“There will be a place for you where you wish,” Antony assured him. But I knew it was not that easy. Italians were weary of being deprived of their land to make room for army veterans.
Settle them abroad
was the sentiment.

When Antony knelt beside another man whose leg—purple, swollen, and torn—was propped up on a rock, the man grabbed his forearm and almost jerked him onto the mat. “Noble Antonius!” the man said. “I was there! I was there!”

Antony attempted to pull his hand away. “And where was that, good soldier?”

“When you spoke to rally the army on the retreat! Ah, how you stirred us! And then you addressed the gods themselves! Yes, lady, he did!” He turned his fierce eyes on me. “He lifted up his hands to heaven and prayed that if the gods were now minded to exchange his former victories with bitter adversity, to let it fall on him alone, sparing his men.”

It was obvious the gods had denied his petition.

“They did not spare you, my friend,” Antony said. “Would that I could change places with you.”

No. No. Let them deny that as well
.

“No, Imperator,” said the soldier. “This is better.”

“The Queen has brought clothing and cover,” said Antony, handing him a blanket. “Food is coming.”

Up and down we went, Antony speaking personally to many of the soldiers, bending down, listening patiently, his attention riveted on each man. They were in a pitiful state, and I wondered how many could survive. There were many arrow wounds—some still with the arrowheads in them—as well as cuts, broken limbs, punctured eyes, torn hands. But most were suffering the ravages of exposure, starvation, and dysentery rather than Parthian arrows.

“And here,” said Antony, “are the survivors of the poison root—if you can call them survivors.” He led me to one of the shelters, where some dozen forms were stretched out.

Lean, with vague eyes, they looked at us with mild interest as we approached.

“Poison root?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

Antony felt in his pouch and withdrew a dessicated, twisted piece of vegetation. “This is what I mean,” he said. “This evil plant!” He turned it around so I could see its stringy roots. “I told you how near we were to starvation, and had to forage, eat bark, and dig roots. We knew not what half the things were, and this one was poison. But a most peculiar poison—before it killed, it made men lose their wits, and become obsessed with moving rocks.” When he saw my expression, he laughed bitterly. “Yes, what a sight it was! The camp was filled with men moving rocks! Then they would suddenly vomit, and die. Only these survived. That is, their bodies survived—their minds perished.”

Several men were moving scrabbling fingers over the dirt, as if they were still searching for the rocks. They were dribbling spittle from their mouths.

“Was there no help?”

“Only wine,” said Antony. “If they drank large draughts of wine, it cured them. O happy cure! But we had little wine; our stores had been left behind when we had to abandon our food so we could carry injured men on the mules. And so the men perished—for want of wine.”

“My physician studies poisons,” I said. “I would like him to examine this root. Perhaps he knows what it is, and of a cure besides wine.”

Antony had stooped down and was attempting to soothe the agitated men. But it was no use.

That night we dined with the other commanders. Unlike Antony, they seemed their usual boisterous, bluff selves. Plancus, who talked while he chewed and looked like a camel, was pleased to be appointed governor of Syria. He would depart for Antioch shortly to take up residence.

Dellius, his pitted face now craggier than ever, asked me politely if I had read his account of the war, which he had presented to Antony.

“It’s this long”—Antony stretched out his arms—“and then some. I promise to read it first. I trust you have told the
whole
truth—of the bravery of the men as well as the losses.”

He smiled, but I always thought his smile was closer to a smirk. “I tried, Imperator.”

Young Titius, his long, dark face only slightly thinner than it was before, leaned across his couch and said, “Sextus has sent more offers. We must decide.”

Sextus. “Where is Sextus, and what decision must be made?” I asked.

“Sextus has raised three legions since landing on our shores, and he has fallen so low that he is now offering them—and himself—as mercenaries to the highest bidder. He has even trafficked with the Parthians,” Titius said.

“Then he can no longer call himself a Roman,” said Antony. But his voice was sad rather than angry, as if he was saying,
There is no trust, no faith anywhere. That the son of Pompey would ally himself with the Parthians…
He shook his head, slowly.

Antony was being worn away by the perfidy around him; in his old-fashioned loyalty he was continually shocked to discover its absence in others. The murder of Caesar was not a single event, but a reflection of the loss of honesty repeated in lesser betrayals: Octavian’s deceptions, Lepidus’s attempted coup, Labienus’s defections, and now Sextus’s cynical prostitution of himself.

“So we are to refuse his offer?” asked Titius.

Antony looked surprised that he would even ask. “Yes. It is over for Sextus.” He paused so long I thought he had finished speaking. “And he cannot be allowed to go to the Parthians.”

Titius nodded gravely. “No, he must not.”

Ahenobarbus waved his hand, showing a coin between his thumb and forefinger. “This has already come into my hands!” he said angrily. “The captured treasure from our wagons—the Parthians are striking over your image, Imperator, and replacing it with their own.” He passed the coin to Antony, who examined it carefully. Not only was the outline of his own face flattened out and overlaid with that of the Parthian king, but mine—shown on the reverse side, in tribute to our marriage—had been restamped with the image of a Parthian horse with a quiver slung from the saddle!

“This must not be borne!” said Ahenobarbus.

“No, nor will it be,” said Antony. But his voice lacked fervor.

As for myself, seeing my portrait effaced made me feel violated. But sometimes one must let an insult go, if it is in one’s interest to do so. That is why politicians are different creatures from heroes. A ruler cannot always afford to be a hero, if the needs of his countrymen cry out for a politician instead.

Eros had worked hard to make Antony’s quarters more comfortable while we were out. He had procured carpets, more lamp stands, and even a caged raven that he claimed could talk. But the cage was covered, and we would have to wait until morning to hear him.

“It is just as well,” said Antony. “I am weary of talk. Well, you heard them—the officers. They seem undaunted by the defeat.”

“So did you, in public.” I began to unwind my hair; my neck was aching from the weight of the gold pins used to fasten it, plus the jeweled diadem. I placed the gold circlet carelessly on his folding camp chest, where it gleamed dully. I reached back to unclasp the heavy gold necklace, but Antony stood behind me and undid it. He was very possessive of the necklace, proud of it.

With all that gold removed, I felt younger and lighter. Gold has its own command over the spirit.

I had felt disheartened and too weary for further discussion, but suddenly I knew I must not let it drop. “Antony,” I said, “I have now seen the extent of the loss—from the festering wounds of the soldiers to the insult of the coins. But it is over now. What will we do?”

He sank onto the bed and half lay on it, one leg dangling over the side. “I do not know,” he finally said. “I do not know which way to move.”

“We have suffered a military defeat, but we are no worse off in terms of territory than we ever were. The only battle it is crucial not to lose is a defensive one, when your home territory is attacked. So we have lost Parthia? We never had it. Is it worth expending more money and men to ‘revenge’ ourselves? Let us think carefully.”

I was finished with Parthia. At least Antony was alive, and his commanders intact. A new army could be raised, and directed elsewhere, to where the
real
enemy was.

“Artavasdes must be punished,” he said.

“Agreed, but after that?”

“What will they say in Rome about my defeat?” He threw his head back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling moodily.

“Don’t tell them it was a defeat,” I said. “Announce your victory.”

He sat up. “Lie?”

“It’s done all the time—or haven’t you noticed? Octavian ‘put an end to the civil wars.’ Even Caesar claimed to have conquered Britain, when all he did was explore it, and lose two fleets in doing so. Say you have won a victory in Parthia. You weren’t annihilated—that’s a victory in itself.”

“But—no cities were captured, no standards or prisoners were returned. In fact, more standards and prisoners were taken!”

“What good does it do you in Rome to announce this?” I said. “All it does is weaken your position. Wait until you have won another war, then you can announce it. But by then people won’t care, because they care only about the latest war. Parthia is so far away from Rome, they have no way of knowing what really happened.”

“Even you! Even you!” He sounded stunned. “You are like all the rest.”

“No,” I said. “But I understand them. I can play their game better than they themselves.” I came over and sat beside him, and took the sleeves of his garment in my hands. “If I could not, where would I be now? Who was I? A girl who was driven from her throne by third-rate counselors—”

“Who managed to kill Pompey nonetheless,” said Antony.

“—with no army, no resources, no allies, nothing but my own brain. In order to get what you want, you must think like your enemies. Stop being Antony and start being Octavian—when you make your plans, that is. No other time.” I twisted my fingers in the sleeves, and leaned forward and kissed him. “I would not want Octavian in my bed.”

I felt his arm tighten around my back. “Nor would I,” he said.