The Memoirs of Cleopatra Part 76

"How easily you seem to have forgotten," I said. "We are already in an alliance. We are Friend and Ally of the Roman People."

He shrugged, as if it were of no moment.

"I keep my word," I said. "If it is to be broken, it must be broken by the other side." It was a point of honor with me--quaint, perhaps foolish, but it was my own personal code. Why, then, did I deride Antony for his loyalty to the Triumvirate?

Because, I answered myself, you cannot keep faith with a faithless person, and Octavian is faithless. Except to his own ambition.

When Octavian had first returned to Rome, he had declared his intentions openly: "May I succeed in attaining the honors and position of my father, to which I am ent.i.tled." People laughed, or ignored it. How blind!

Yes, I would keep my alliance with Rome, but with both eyes open. And it was really an alliance with Caesar and with Antony with which I kept faith.

"Tell your tale." Mardian prodded the men forward. He had brought them into my audience hall, where they cowered in a group. Hesitantly they inched toward me.

"Come, come, closer. Do not be afraid," Mardian urged them.

"Now, what is it you wish to tell me?" I asked.

"We--your dockmaster said you would wish to be informed personally," one man said.

"About what?"

"I am--I was--captain of one of the grain transports. We carry a thousand tons of wheat to Rome this time of year. We were attacked just outside Sicily--despoiled of not only our cargo, but our s.h.i.+p as well! I must tell you, such an act of piracy, upon such a huge s.h.i.+p, is unprecedented! s.e.xtus rules the sea. Nothing is safe between here and Rome."

"Your s.h.i.+p is gone?"

"Yes, taken from me. There was nothing I could do to prevent it."

"Did you not have soldiers aboard?"

"Yes, a few, but grain transports cannot provide quarters for many men." He sighed. "All that investment--my family's entire estate--gone."

"I will repay you," I a.s.sured him. "But give me more information. From what you say, Rome will be starved out."

"It looks likely. When s.e.xtus--for I beheld him face-to-face--let me free, he told me that Octavian had sent for help from Antony. 'But there's no help against me. I smashed him once and I'll smash him again, no matter how many s.h.i.+ps he gets from Antony. The noose will tighten around his neck until he'll beg for mercy.' That's what he said, Your Majesty. The very words."

"He has sent for help to Antony?"

"So s.e.xtus said. He laughed about it, saying that it would harm both of them. Antony would have to postpone his attack on Parthia, and Octavian would only reveal his weakness, making the Romans more discontented with him."

"It is hard to see what s.e.xtus wants--other than to spoil the fortunes of others." He seemed to have no greater goal or calling. What a sad destiny for the last son of Pompey the Great.

"We were able to beg transport home on another merchant vessel, in exchange for seamen's duties," said another man. "And the captain of this s.h.i.+p told us that Agrippa has taken charge of the war against s.e.xtus, and is engaged in secret preparations. He did not know anything about them, beyond the fact that they involved some vast engineering feat."

Agrippa--Octavian's boyhood friend, now his favorite general. I wondered what "secret" measures he could be invoking against s.e.xtus.

"Well," I finally said, "I grieve with you for your losses, and will try to make them good. We are not at war, and there is no reason why you should suffer the pains of war."

After they left, I could not keep a small smile off my face. Octavian was floundering; he had been forced to call upon Antony for help.

It took several months for all the pieces of the mosaic to fall into place. Here I arrange them to form the picture of what happened next. A short sketch will suffice.

Antony, obedient to the call, set out for Tarentum, whence Octavian had summoned him in a panic. He brought three hundred s.h.i.+ps. To his surprise, Octavian did not meet him. It seems the would-be Caesar had had second thoughts, echoing the first ones of s.e.xtus: namely, that to call for outside help revealed his own weakness. He preferred to bank on Agrippa and his secret plans; he did not wish to share any glory with Antony.

Antony, furious with Octavian, was ready to break with him at last, but in the end Octavia acted as a mediator between them. She wept and cajoled, saying she would be the most miserable of women, should there be a falling-out between the two people dearest to her: her brother and her husband. The two men met reluctantly, and yet another treaty was forged: the Treaty of Tarentum. It renewed the Triumvirate--which had technically expired--for another five years. Antony was to yield two squadrons--one hundred twenty s.h.i.+ps--for the war against s.e.xtus. At some vague later date, Octavian would repay him with twenty thousand men for the war against the Parthians. Antony sailed away, leaving the s.h.i.+ps behind, but with no promised soldiers. The rendezvous with Octavian had eaten up the better part of the summer, costing him another year's setback in launching the Parthian attack. Thus this treaty, like all the others with Octavian, lessened Antony's power. He took his leave, fuming.

It was very late. I was reading well past my usual time to sleep. I lay on my couch, a bolster under my head, my feet covered with a light blanket. The lamps guttered in the breeze coming through the window, beginning to gather force for the coming autumn. It was a night for ghosts, a night when the sea below seemed to moan and whisper.

At first I was not sure I heard a knock. It was too late for a knock. But it sounded again. I rose and said, "Enter."

Mardian stepped in, his bulk draped in a shawl. "Forgive me," he said. "But I thought you would want to hear this news immediately. Antony has sent Octavia back to Rome. On his voyage back east, he got as far as the island of Corcyra, when he suddenly said she belonged back in Rome. And he sent her packing on the next s.h.i.+p."

"He must have had some colorable reason," I said.

"Well, she is pregnant," said Mardian. "But he knew that before he set sail with her. He could have left her in Italy to begin with. Evidently he changed his mind on the voyage." He stood there looking at me for what seemed a very long time, his eyes holding mine. "You know he will send for you. What will you do?"

Had I been less than honest to myself and to Mardian, I would have given a proud, noncommittal answer. Instead I just told the truth. "I don't know."

lhad no illusions about what would happen if I saw him. I did not even bother to deny it to myself. I was very weak where he was concerned--weak as regards my person, not my country's interests.

Still, Mardian did not turn his gaze away.

I asked, "Do you hate him, as Olympos does?"

"Not if you love him. Do you?"

I--I did did love him. But much has happened to us since those days. I fear neither of us is what we were then--we are scarred, both of us, and older. He has made decisions that I deplore; doubtless I have done likewise. What changes people, changes love." love him. But much has happened to us since those days. I fear neither of us is what we were then--we are scarred, both of us, and older. He has made decisions that I deplore; doubtless I have done likewise. What changes people, changes love."

Mardian rocked on his heels a bit. "A properly Alexandrian answer-- convoluted, artificial, clever."

"I am afraid to say either yes or no, for either of them would be unwelcome to me," I said.

"Then I leave you, dearest Queen, to your own thoughts for the rest of the night." Bowing, he opened the doors and glided away, moving very gracefully.

My thoughts for the rest of the night! I did not look forward to having hours alone to dwell on Mardian's news. I knew that any hope of sleep was gone, yet I really did not wish to subst.i.tute soul-searching for it.

I made ready for bed, as if I expected it to be a normal night, hoping to trick Morpheus, the G.o.d of sleep, luring him to my bed. I would attire myself in the sheerest night dress, rub my temples with oil of lily, which had both a beguiling and soporific odor--beguiling for Morpheus, soporific for me. I brushed my hair, pretending that I was Iras--whom I would not call, as I did not wish to talk--feeling it and touching it as a foreign thing. I made sure that fresh air was blowing into the chamber, and kept one oil lamp burning. Then I lay down, and waited.

I stretched my feet out, covering my legs with a light blanket, forbidding myself to think on any one thing in particular. I would force myself to picture the harbor, count the masts of the s.h.i.+ps tied up there. That was usually effective.

But tonight, of course, the thought of s.h.i.+ps made me think of Antony sending Octavia back on a s.h.i.+p. She must even now be only halfway back to Rome; I knew of her dismissal before Octavian would. But what did it mean, really? If Antony was preparing for his Parthian war, perhaps he reasoned that since he would be away for months, it was best for her to return to Rome to be with their pa.s.sel of children and stepchildren--Antony's three and Octavia's three, plus their own. In fact, she might well have been the one to say she preferred to return to their children, even if he asked her to wait in Athens.

I sighed and turned over. My feet tangled in the blanket and I threw it off. What was it that Mardian had said? He suddenly said she belonged back in Rome. And he sent her packing on the next s.h.i.+p. He suddenly said she belonged back in Rome. And he sent her packing on the next s.h.i.+p. But doubtless that was his interpretation. There could be perfectly respectable reasons why Octavia had left his side. Although she never had in the three years they had been together. . . . Antony had got away--why did I insist on using that term?-- only once, when he besieged Samasota with Ba.s.sus. The rest of the time they had been tethered to each other's company. But doubtless that was his interpretation. There could be perfectly respectable reasons why Octavia had left his side. Although she never had in the three years they had been together. . . . Antony had got away--why did I insist on using that term?-- only once, when he besieged Samasota with Ba.s.sus. The rest of the time they had been tethered to each other's company.

Now my side was uncomfortable and I twisted onto my stomach. Oh, let me sleep! It was I who was tethered--to the bed, shackled, unable to find a position that suited me, unable to sleep, unable to get up and do anything else--unable, above all, to stop thinking.

The cool air flowed over my back, which was sweaty. I had worked myself up into a state of agitation. The truth was I did not want my world disturbed, dry and ordered as it was. I ran it well, and it repaid me handsomely. Nights like tonight--restive, hungry, questioning--came to me only rarely, and were a small price to pay for my lack of an intimate companion. Nights could be like this, but the days were mine entirely. I deferred to no one, never had to compromise my plans or accommodate anyone's quirks or demands. I had quite got used to it, and would be loath to give it up.

I turned over again. Was there no way to find rest? The bed, and the bedding, felt like an instrument of torture. I had wrinkled and twisted the covers as badly as a spinning crocodile caught in them.

You know he will send for you. What will you do?

HERE ENDS THE FIFTH SCROLL.

Chapter 54.

THE SIXTH SCROLL.

I stood on the very edge of the shaded terrace of my quarters in the palace at Antioch, looking out over the river Orontes, which flowed directly beneath. Before me stretched a wide, flat, fertile plain to the distant seash.o.r.e. The capital of the Seleucid dynasty, the once-great rival of the Ptolemies: It was not so fine as Alexandria, but then nothing was.

The Seleucids had gone now, vanquished by the Romans, their land turned into a province by Pompey--an object lesson for me. But they had never had my opportunities to hand: no Roman leaders with amorous proclivities pa.s.sing through, no queens of the right age and temperament. We use what we have, and I had been blessed indeed by what fate had sent my way.

We Ptolemies had held this city briefly; my ancestor Ptolemy III had conquered this territory, all the way up to the Euphrates, and almost to India. Now I might be able to regain by personal influence what they had failed to keep by war.

A cool breeze from the sea was sweeping across the plain; Antioch was renowned for its pleasant setting. On the other side of the city glowered the tall peak of Mount Silpius, and in early morning its ragged shadow lay across the streets. I could see the villas of the wealthy built into the side of the mountain, spots of white against the deep green of the forested slopes. Yes, a supremely agreeable spot.

I was in the old palace of the Seleucids--a huge building on an island in the fast-running Orontes. I had demanded, and received, my own quarters here.

For Antony had indeed "sent for me," but unlike his earlier summons, this one was couched entirely in personal terms.

"Come to me. I do not order you as an ally, I beg as one who wants you. Bring our children--I pray you, let me see them," he wrote.

This letter had come in short order after Octavia had left--indeed, she might well have still been traveling when Antony wrote it. He had betaken himself to Antioch and settled in to prepare for the Parthian venture; he would winter there and in the spring set out with his legions.

I would go to Antioch, but this time not in costume. I would go with a long list of demands, which he would agree to, or lose any hope of having Egypt for an ally. I knew he would not want to turn his attention to actual military action to secure us; that would further delay his main venture, not to mention wasting precious time and money. He needed us, and he needed us to be quiet; he could not afford to turn his back on a potential enemy while fighting a real one.

I did not bring the children. If he wanted to see them, there was only one way: he would marry me. And publicly, not like Caesar in a secret rite at Philae. He would take me as his wife, in the east--who cared about Rome?-- and acknowledge our children as legitimate. There would be no more nonsense about whether it was legal in Rome. I had heard enough of that excuse from both Caesar and Antony.

And he would cede lost ancestral territories to Egypt--yes, he would bestow Roman holdings on me as a wedding gift. I had no need of jewelry or such as a token; territory would do nicely.

And if he did not agree to all all these demands, then I would leave forthwith, without spending any time alone with him. Thus I had decreed to myself, which made it acceptable for me to go to him. these demands, then I would leave forthwith, without spending any time alone with him. Thus I had decreed to myself, which made it acceptable for me to go to him.

As for my own feelings--I prayed morning and evening to Isis to give me the strength not to let them sway me. When I see him again When I see him again, I asked, let me not disgrace myself. Let me see him only as someone with whom I must deal politically. Let me not give way to any emotion unless he agrees to my demands. let me not disgrace myself. Let me see him only as someone with whom I must deal politically. Let me not give way to any emotion unless he agrees to my demands.

I had not yet met him. I had been at the palace for two days, while each of us waited for the other's summons. I had no intention of calling for him, even if I had to spend a month there without seeing him. In fact, tomorrow I would go sightseeing by myself in this famous city; it was high time.

The shadows were lengthening, reaching to the palace gates. Beyond the horizon, the sunset stained the sky red; birds winged their way home.

I was about to withdraw into my apartments when a servant approached, handing me a note. At last. I unfolded it and read it in the fast-falling light.

"I would be honored if you would dine with me in my apartments tonight," was all it said.

The boy was waiting, his head c.o.c.ked.

"You may tell Lord Antony that the Queen accepts," I said.

Now I stood still for just an instant before the tall cedar and bronze-studded doors to Antony's chamber. The Seleucids had certainly liked ostentatious decoration, I thought--not that we Ptolemies should talk. But we had better taste. It was hard to a.s.sociate Antony with a door like that one, but perhaps it was best that I meet him again in a place that held no memories. It would help to keep me firmly in the present, help me to remember what I must do.

The door swung open, revealing a huge chamber, its ceiling so high it was lost in gloom. Gigantic beams of ornamented wood, gleaming with the same decorative bronze studs as the door, held up the ceiling. Far at one end, on a carved chair, sat a figure who, large as he was, was dwarfed by the monumental size of his surroundings.

It had been almost four years since I had seen him--the same amount of time that had pa.s.sed after Caesar's death before I went to Tarsus. What if I had suddenly seen Caesar again at that time? The impact, a meeting after long parting, was much more overwhelming than I had expected. And at the same time it was much less, for it was just a man, after all, sitting in a chair.

He rose. His cloak fell in graceful folds behind him. He extended his arm in welcome. "Greetings, my most beloved Queen," he said in the voice that swept all else away for me.

"Greetings, most n.o.ble Triumvir Antonius," I replied. I stepped forward and let him take my hand. He kissed it, but awkwardly. There were too few people for this vast chamber, and yet there were still too many.

"Go now." He waved the few attendants away. "I will call when we are ready to dine."

As they padded away, I knew that only made it worse. We were two tiny figures in this empty s.p.a.ce that seemed designed to hold an army--an army mounted on elephants. It magnified everything; I fancied that our voices echoed.

Part of me looked at him as if at a stranger, while the other part found him so familiar that it was pretentious to behave formally to him. It was so odd I found myself at a loss as to what to say.

"Here. Sit," he said roughly, shoving a chair toward me. He must be feeling exactly the same. He settled himself back into his chair, then put his hands on his knees and stared at me.

He looked older. In the first few minutes that we see someone after a long absence, we can detect all the changes in their faces; after that it fades, blending into our memories of how they did did look. His hair was not as dark; it showed streaks of gray in spots, although it was still thick. His face was not smooth as before, but had added lines at the corners of the eyes and along the cheeks. The changes did not detract from his appearance, but made him look more of a commander. look. His hair was not as dark; it showed streaks of gray in spots, although it was still thick. His face was not smooth as before, but had added lines at the corners of the eyes and along the cheeks. The changes did not detract from his appearance, but made him look more of a commander.

"You are more beautiful than ever," he finally said, and I almost laughed. He must have been going through the same recital of my changes in his mind, and to negate them had blurted out the opposite.

"You must have forgotten how I looked before," I said.

"No. Never!" He looked so earnest as he said it that this time I did laugh. "I swear--"

"No need for that," I said quickly. "Never swear to something you cannot prove." I knew I must look different, too, but my mirror a.s.sured me the long slide had not yet begun. "You sent for me. I am here," I said, s.h.i.+fting back to the formal. I must not forget my purpose in coming, get caught up in a reunion.

"And the children? When may I see them?" He was diffident, polite.

"I did not bring them." I watched the disappointment cross his face. "Perhaps you can see them in Alexandria. And how are your other children? Am I to see them?"

"No, I--no, they are in Rome."

"Even the one not yet born?"

"On its way to Rome." He could not keep from smiling, and then broke into a laugh.

I tried not to join him, but couldn't help it, and started laughing myself. "Is it--and its mother--to stay in Rome?" I finally asked.

"Yes. Forever," he said.