Antony and Cleopatra (56 page)

“That’s postponement as well as a lie.”

“Believe me, Marcus Antonius, it’s the only way. Once you reach Alexandria, there are a dozen reasons why you might not be able to celebrate your triumph in Rome—illness, military crises.”

“
Why
did I vow it?” Antony cried, fists clenched.

“Because Cleopatra asked it of you, and you were in no fit state to deny her.” There! thought Dellius, I can at least pay you back that much, you Egyptian harpy.

Antony sighed, slapped his hands on his knees. “Well, if I am to go to Alexandria, I had best leave before Plancus comes back. He’d question me more closely than juniors like Cinna and Scaurus.”

“Overland?”

“With all that plunder? I have no choice. The Jerusalem legion can meet me and act as my escort.” Antony grinned savagely. “I can call on Herod and find out exactly what’s going on.”

Ten miles a day in September, with no relief from the Syrian sun until the end of October, perhaps later still; the miles-long train of wagons lumbered south from Antioch and, at the river Eleutherus, passed into territory now owned by Cleopatra. It was an eight-hundred-mile journey that took two and a half months, Antony doggedly riding or walking at the train’s pace, but not in complete idleness; he made excursions to see all the potentates, including the Alexandrian officials Cleopatra had put in charge of her territories. In that way he made it seem to those who followed his odyssey in some puzzlement that he was using this journey as an excuse to check up on southern Syria. The ethnarchs of Sidon and Tyre aired their grievances now that they were fully surrounded by Egyptian possessions; Cleopatra had put toll gates on all the roads leading from these two great emporiums and taxed any goods going out of them by land.

King Malchus of Nabataea came all the way to Accho Ptolemais to complain bitterly about Cleopatra’s enforcement of the bitumen fisheries Antony had awarded her.

“I don’t care if the woman is your wife, Marcus Antonius,” said a seething Malchus, “she is despicable! Having discovered for herself that the overheads make bitumen only slightly profitable, she has had the temerity to sell me back my fisheries for the sum of two hundred talents a year! Which
Herod
is deputed to collect! Oh, not for himself—on her behalf. Wicked, wicked!”

“What do you expect me to do about it?” Antony asked, aware that he could do nothing and loathing the fact.

“You’re her husband—and Rome’s Triumvir! Command her to give me back my fisheries free and clear! They have belonged to Nabataea for time immemorial.”

“Sorry, I can’t help you,” said Antony. “Rome is no longer sovereign over your bitumen fisheries.”

The other half of this situation, Herod, was summoned to see him in Joppa. The same fate had befallen Herod; he could have his balsam gardens back—for two hundred talents a year—but only if he also collected two hundred talents a year from King Malchus.

“It’s disgusting!” he cried to Antony. “Disgusting! The woman ought to be flogged! You’re her husband—flog her!”

“Were you her husband, Herod, she’d certainly be flogged,” Antony said, consumed with admiration for Cleopatra’s cunning in keeping enmity between Herod and Malchus on the boil. “Romans do not flog their wives, I’m afraid. Nor can you complain to me. I ceded the balsam gardens of Jericho to Queen Cleopatra, so it’s to her you have to apply, not me.”

“Women!” was Herod’s infuriated response to that.

“Which leads me to things other than balsam,” said Antony in the voice of a Roman governor, “though they do concern women. I understand that you appointed a Zadokite named Ananeel as the High Priest of the Jews as soon as you took the throne. But your mother-in-law, Queen Alexandra, wanted the position for her son, Aristobulus, aged sixteen. Not so?”

“Yes!” Herod hissed, at his most malignant. “And just who happens to be Alexandra’s dearest friend? Why, Cleopatra! The pair of them conspired against me, knowing that I am too new to my throne to do what I would love to do—murder that interfering old sow, Alexandra! Oh, she was very quick to suck up to Cleopatra! A guarantee of continued life! But I ask you, a sixteen-year-old High Priest? Ludicrous! Besides, he’s Hasmonaean, not Zadokite. It was Alexandra’s first move in her crafty game to take my throne back for Aristobulus.” Herod stretched out his hands. “I mean, Marcus Antonius, I’ve bent over backwards to conciliate my wife’s relatives!”

“But you did bow to your mother-in-law’s wishes, as I heard.”

“Yes, yes, last year I made Aristobulus the High Priest! Not that it did him or his mother any good.” Herod assumed the mien of an unjustly condemned prisoner. “Alexandra and Cleopatra hatched a plot to make it seem as if Aristobulus was in danger of his life—what rubbish! He was to flee Jerusalem and Judaea for refuge in Egypt. Then, after a short stay there, he was to return with an army and usurp my throne—the throne
you
gave me!”

“I have heard something of it,” said Antony carefully.

“Well, so far be it from the truth, that young Aristobulus happily accepted my invitation to go on a picnic.” Herod sighed, looked sorrowful. “The whole family came along, including Alexandra, her daughter my wife, our four little sons, my own beloved mother—a merry group, I assure you. We chose a beautiful spot where the river widens into a big pool, very deep in places but not perilous unless a bather is too adventurous. Aristobulus was too adventurous—he went swimming without being able to swim.” The beefy shoulders rose and fell. “Need I say more? He must have stumbled into a hole, because all of a sudden only his head was above water and he was screaming for help. Several of the guards swam to his rescue, but it was too late. He had drowned.”

Antony considered the story, knowing he would be interrogated when he reached Cleopatra. Of course he knew very well that Herod had contrived the “accidental” death, but there was absolutely no proof of it, thank all the gods. Women, indeed! This journey south was revealing more and more facets of Cleopatra, not as a person but as a monarch. Greedy for expansion, greedy for dominion, crafty in sowing enmity between her enemies, not above befriending a widowed queen whose husband and sons had warred against Rome. And how cleverly she had worked on him, Antony, to achieve her ends.

“I fail to see how an accidental drowning could be your doing, Herod, especially if, as you say, it occurred under the eyes of the lad’s mother as well as the whole family.”

“Cleopatra wanted me tried and executed, didn’t she?”

“She was displeased, that’s true. As well that you and I—er—missed each other in Laodiceia. Had we met then, I might have reacted differently. As it is, I’ve found no evidence to suggest that any of this was your doing, Herod. Furthermore, the position of High Priest is in your gift. You may appoint whomsoever you want. But may I ask that you don’t make it a lifetime job?”

“Splendid!” said Herod, beaming. “In fact, I’ll go even further than that. I’ll keep the sacred regalia in my possession, and
lend
them to the High Priest whenever Mosaic law requires him to wear them. They are said to be magic, therefore I don’t want him able to go among the people all dressed up and stir trouble for me. I swear to you, Antonius, that I will
not
yield my throne! When you see Cleopatra, tell her that.”

“You may take it from me that Rome will not approve of any Hasmonaean resurgence in Judaea,” Antony said. “The Hasmonaean royal house has spelled nothing but trouble, ask anyone from the late Aulus Gabinius on down.”

The wagon train continued on its way, especially wearying for Antony after Gaza fell behind; from this point the road branched inland across sere country that made watering many hundreds of oxen a hideous business. That it could not stick to the coast was because of the Nilus Delta, a hundred-and-fifty-mile-wide fan of unnegotiable swamps and waterways no road traversed. The only land route to Alexandria was south to Memphis at the Delta’s apex, then north along the Canopic branch of Nilus.

At the end of November the journey was finally over; Antony entered the world’s biggest city through the Sun Gate at the eastern terminus of Canopic Avenue, where a horde of twittering officials took charge of the wagons and led them off to paddocks by Lake Mareotis. Antony himself rode into the Royal Enclosure. The Jerusalem legion had already begun its march back to Judaea; Antony had to trust that fear of Cleopatra would keep stickied fingers out of the treasures every wagon contained.

She hadn’t come to greet him at the Sun Gate, a fact that no doubt meant she was annoyed. The only person who had more agents than Octavian was Cleopatra, Antony reflected as he reached the main palace. Clearly she knew about everything he had done.

“Apollodorus, you nutless old darling,” he said as the lord high chamberlain appeared. “Where is Her cranky Majesty?”

“In her sitting room, Marcus Antonius. How good to see you!”

Antony tossed his cloak on the floor with a grin and went to beard the lioness in her den.

“What do you mean by subjecting my satraps to quizzes and dictates about their conduct in territories that are no longer of any interest to Rome?” she demanded.

“What a welcome,” he said, flinging himself into a chair. “I obey my orders—I uphold my vow—by bringing my booty to you in Alexandria, and all I get for my pains is a nasty question. I warn you, Cleopatra, that you can go too far. For eight hundred miles I’ve had to witness your machinations, your domination of peoples who are not Egyptian—you execute, you imprison, you put up toll gates to collect taxes to which you are not entitled, you set kings against each other, you sow discord—isn’t it time you remembered that you need me more than I need you?”

Her face froze, a flash of terror streaked through her eyes; for a long moment she said nothing while she battled to put some expression on her face that would conciliate him.

“I’m sober,” he said before she could find speech, “and Marcus Antonius fit and well is not the cringing minion he becomes when the wine has conquered his ability to think. No wine has passed my lips since I last saw you. I have waged a successful war against a cunning foe. I have regained my confidence in myself. And I have found many reasons why, as Triumvir of the East and Rome’s highest representative in the East, I must deplore Egypt’s actions in the East. You have interfered in the activities of Roman possessions, of client-kings in Rome’s service. Swaggering like a miniature Zeus, parading your might as if you had an army of a quarter of a million men and the genius of Gaius Julius Caesar at his peak.” He drew a breath, eyes gleaming red and angry. “Whereas the truth is that without me, you are nothing. You have no army. You are not a genius. In fact, I can see very little difference between you and Herod of Judaea. Both of you are feral, greedy, and rat-cunning. But right at this moment, Cleopatra, I have more liking and respect for Herod than I do for you. At least Herod is an unashamed savage who wears no fancy disguises. While you trick yourself out as a seductress one day, as a goddess of succor the next day, as a tyrant, as a glutton, as a thief, and then—lo!—you revert to some softer guise. It stops here and it stops
now
—do you hear me?”

She had found the right expression: woe. Silent tears rolled down her face, her beautiful little hands wrenched at each other.

He laughed; it sounded genuine. “Oh, really, Cleopatra! Can you do no better than tears? I’ve had four wives before you, so I’m no stranger to tears. A woman’s most effective weapon, she’s brought up to believe. Well, on a sober Marcus Antonius they have no more power than water dripping on granite—any impression they make takes thousands of years, and that’s more time than even goddesses on earth are given. I am serving you notice that you will return the balsam gardens to Herod free and clear, and the bitumen to Malchus free and clear. You will shut up your toll gates outside Tyre and Sidon, and your administrators in the territories I
sold
you will cease enforcing Egyptian law. They have been told that they have no right to execute or imprison unless a Roman prefect adjudicates. Like all the other client-kings, you will pay Rome tribute, and you will confine your future activities to Egypt proper. Is that understood, madam?”

She had ceased weeping, was angry now. Yet she couldn’t show that anger to this Mark Antony.

“What, trying to work out how you can persuade me to have a beaker of wine?” he mocked, feeling as if he could conquer the world now that he had found the courage to stand up to Cleopatra. “Persuade all you like, my dear. You won’t succeed. Like the crew of Ulysses, I have stoppered up my ears so I can’t hear your siren song. Nor, if you fancy the role of Circe, will you turn me once again into a pig swilling in the liquid sty of your making.”

“I am glad to see you,” she whispered, rage evaporated. “I love you, Antonius. I love you very much. And you’re right, I have exceeded my mandate. It shall all be done as you wish, I solemnly vow it.”

“By Tellus, Sol Indiges, and Liber Pater?”

“No, by Isis mourning for her dead Osiris.”

He held out his arms. “Then come kiss me.”

She did rise to obey, but before she could reach Antony’s chair, Caesarion erupted through the door.

“Marcus Antonius!” the lad cried, going to embrace him as he got up. “Oh, Marcus Antonius, this is terrific! No one told me you’d come until I met Apollodorus in the hall.”

Antony held Caesarion off and stared, astonished. “Jupiter, you could be Caesar!” he said, kissing both Caesarion’s cheeks. “You’ve turned into a man.”

“I’m glad
someone
can see that. My mother refuses to.”

“Well, mothers hate to see their sons grow up. You just have to forgive them, Caesarion. You’re well, I can see that. Ruling more these days?”

“A little more, yes. I’m working on the logistics of a free grain dole for Alexandria’s poor. After that, one subsidized monthly
medimnus.”