Antony and Cleopatra (73 page)

Her vengefulness and arrogance had made intractable enemies out of the two men on her Syrian border, Herod and Malchus, and Cornelius Gallus had blocked Egypt’s west. Therefore she had to look further afield for allies. An embassage set out for the King of the Parthians, bearing many gifts and a promise of assistance when the Parthians next invaded Syria. But what could she do for Median Artavasdes? He was steadily growing in power as he inched into Parthian Media by exploiting the feuds in the Parthian court. Armenian Artavasdes, who had been brought to Alexandria to walk in Antony’s triumphal parade, was still held captive. Cleopatra executed him and sent his head to Media with ambassadors under instructions to assure the King that his little daughter, Iotape, would remain betrothed to Alexander Helios, and that Egypt relied on Media to keep the Romans at bay along the Armenian borders; to help defray the costs of this policy, she sent gold.

As time drew on and reports came in that Octavian was still coming, Cleopatra was spurred to invent wilder and wilder schemes. In April she portaged a small fleet of speedy warships across the sands from Pelusium to Heroönopolis at the head of the Sinus Arabicus. What consumed her most now was Caesarion’s safety, and she could see no possibility of that unless she sent him to the Malabar coast of India, or to the big pear-shaped island below it, Taprobane. Whatever happened, Caesarion must be sent somewhere to finish his growing; only as a fully mature man could he come back to conquer Octavian. But no sooner was the fleet anchored in Heroönopolis than Malchus of Nabataea descended and burned every galley to the waterline. Undeterred, she portaged another fleet to the Sinus Arabicus, but sent the ships to Berenice, far out of reach of Malchus. With them went fifty of her most trusted servants, under orders to wait in Berenice until Pharaoh Caesar arrived. Then they were to sail for India.

Since it was impossible to revive the Society of Inimitable Livers, Cleopatra hit upon the idea of founding the Society of Companions in Death. The object was much the same: to revel, drink, eat—but also to forget for a few hours at a time the fate that was rapidly descending. Though Companions in Death, reflecting its name, was never the riotous, feckless succession of celebrations Inimitable Livers had been. Hollow, forced, frenetic.

Antony was sober despite his intake of wine, moderate at most, for he preferred to spend his days with his legions, training them to peak performance. Caesarion, Curio, and Antyllus were always with him when he was in military mode, though not so keen to be Companions in Death. At their age, they refused to believe that death was possible; anybody else could die, they could not.

At the beginning of May came news from Syria that devastated Antony. On his way to Athens he had found a hundred genuine Roman gladiators stranded on Samos, and hired them to fight in the victory games he intended to celebrate after he defeated Octavian. He paid them and gave them the use of two ships, but Actium ruined his plans. On hearing of Antony’s defeat, the gladiators resolved to go to Egypt and fight for him there, soldiers of the sawdust no longer, but
real
soldiers. They got as far as Antioch, where Titus Didius, Octavian’s new governor, detained them. Then Messala Corvinus arrived with the first of Octavian’s legions, and ordered them crucified. A cruel and lingering death reserved for slaves and pirates, no others. It was Corvinus’s way of saying that any gladiators who fought for Mark Antony were slaves, not free men, though they were free men.

For some reason beyond Cleopatra’s ability to unravel, this sad little story affected Antony as neither Actium nor Paraetonium had seemed to. He wept inconsolably for several days, and when at last the paroxysm of grief was over, he seemed to have lost his interest, energy, spirit. A melancholy descended, but masked under a huge enthusiasm for the Society of Companions in Death, whose revels he now entered into feverishly, drinking himself senseless. The legions were neglected, the Egyptian army forgotten, and when Caesarion constantly reminded him that he had to buckle down and keep both armies on their toes, Antony ignored him.

At precisely this moment the priests and nomarchs of Nilus from Elephantine to Memphis—a thousand miles—came to Pharaoh Cleopatra and offered to fight to the death of every last Egyptian. Let all of Nilotic Egypt rise up in Pharaoh’s defense! they cried, on their knees with faces pressed to the golden floor of her audience chamber.

Adamant, unbendable, she kept refusing until they went home in despair, convinced that Roman rule would be the end of Egypt. But they didn’t go before they had seen her tears. No! she wept, she would not let Egypt become a bloodbath for the sake of two pharaohs who had hardly any Egyptian blood in their veins.

“A senseless sacrifice I cannot accept,” she said, weeping.

“Mama, you had no right to refuse their offer without me,” Caesarion said when he found out. “My answer would have been the same, but in not requiring my presence you stripped me of my entitlements. Why do you think your behavior spares me pain? It doesn’t. How can I rule with my proper godhead if you persist in shielding me? My shoulders are broader than yours.”

In between trying to jolly Antony out of his gloom and keeping an eye on the three young men Caesarion, Curio, and Antyllus, Cleopatra was very busy completing her tomb, which she had started when she ascended the throne at seventeen, as was custom and tradition. It was inside the Sema, a large compound within the Royal Enclosure where all the Ptolemies were buried, and where Alexander the Great lay encased in a transparent crystal sarcophagus. One of her two brother-husbands was there (she had murdered him to elevate Caesarion to the throne); the other, drowned, was under the waters of Pelusiac Nilus. Each Ptolemy had his own tomb, as did the various Berenices, Arsinoës, and Cleopatras who had reigned. None was a gigantic edifice, though pharaonic in form: an innermost chamber for the sarcophagus, canopic jars, and guardian statues, plus three little outer chambers filled with food, drink, furniture, and an exquisite reed boat for sailing the River of Night.

Since Cleopatra’s tomb was to hold Antony as well, it was twice the size of the others. Her own side was finished; it was Antony’s side the craftsmen labored over frantically. Made of somber red Nubian granite, it was polished like a mirror, and rectangular in shape, its outside walls unadorned save for her and Antony’s cartouches. Two massive bronze doors worked with sacred symbols closed both its sets of chambers, opening into an anteroom that led through two doors into the sides. A speaking tube penetrated the five-foot-thick masonry adjacent to the left leaf of the outer doors.

Until she and Antony lay fully embalmed within it, an aperture would remain high on the door wall, reached by scaffolding made from withies; a winch and a long roomy basket enabled persons and items to be conveyed in and out of the interior. The embalmment process took ninety days, so it would be fully three months between death and the sealing up of the opening high on the door wall; embalmer priests would shuttle to and fro with their instruments and natron, the sour, acrid salts they obtained from Lake Tritonis on the margin of the Roman African province. Even that was ready, the priests housed in a special building together with their gear.

Antony’s inner chamber was connected to hers through a door, and both were beautiful, emblazoned with murals, gold, gems, every solace Pharaoh and her consort might wish for in the Realm of the Dead. Books for them to read, scenes of their lives to smile at, every last Egyptian god, a wonderful mural of Nilus. The food, furniture, drink, and boat were already installed; it would not be long now, Cleopatra knew.

In the rooms reserved for Antony stood his desk and his ivory curule chair, his best suits of armor, an array of togas and tunics, citrus-wood tables on pedestals of ivory inlaid with gold. His miniature temples that held the wax images of all his ancestors who had reached the office of praetor were there, and a bust of himself on a hermed pillar that he particularly liked; the Greek sculptor had sheathed his head in the jaws of a lion skin, its paws knotted over the top of his chest and two red eyes glaring above his skull. The only things missing from his section were a workmanlike suit of armor and one purple-bordered toga, all he would need now before the end.

Of course Caesarion knew what she was doing, had to realize that it meant she thought she and Antony would soon be dead, but he said nothing, nor tried to dissuade her. Only the most foolish pharaoh would not take death into account; it didn’t mean that his mother and stepfather were contemplating suicide, only that they would be ready to step into the Realm of the Dead properly accoutered and equipped, whether their deaths came as the result of Octavian’s invasion, or didn’t occur for another forty years. His own tomb was abuilding, as was fit and proper; his mother had put it next to Alexander the Great, but he had relocated it in a small, unobtrusive corner.

One part of him was thrilled at the prospect of battle, but another fretted and chewed over the fate of his people if they were to be left without Pharaoh. Old enough to remember the famine and pestilence of those years between his father’s death and the birth of the twins, he had an enormous sense of responsibility, and knew that he must live no matter what happened to his mother, her consort. He was sure that he would be permitted to live if he went about the negotiations skillfully, and was prepared to give Octavian whatever amount of treasure he demanded. Living Pharaoh was more important by far to Egypt than tunnels choked with mere stuff. His ideas and opinions about Octavian were private, never transmitted to Cleopatra, who would not agree with them nor think well of him for them. For he understood Octavian’s dilemma, and could not blame him for his actions. Oh, Mama, Mama! So much hubris, so much ambition! Because she had dared the might of Rome, Rome was coming. A new era was about to begin for Egypt, an era that he had to control. Nothing in Octavian’s conduct said he was a tyrant; he was, Caesarion divined, a man with a mission, to secure Rome from her enemies and provide her people with safety and prosperity. With those goals in mind, he would do whatever he must, but no more. A reasonable man, a man who could be talked to and made to see the good sense of a stable Egypt under a stable ruler who would never be a danger. Egypt, Friend and Ally of the Roman People, Rome’s most loyal client-kingdom.

Caesarion turned seventeen on the twenty-third day of June. Cleopatra wanted to give him a big party, but he refused to hear of it.

“Just something small, Mama. The family, Apollodorus, Cha’em, Sosigenes,” he said firmly. “No Companions in Death, please! Try to talk Antonius out of that.”

Not as difficult a task as she had expected; Mark Antony was wearing out, running down.

“If that’s the kind of celebration the boy wants, he shall have it.” The red-brown eyes produced a rare twinkle. “Truth to tell, my dearest wife, I’m more Death than Companion these days.” He sighed. “It won’t be long now that Octavianus has reached Pelusium. Another month, perhaps a little more.”

“My army wouldn’t stand,” she said through her teeth.

“Oh, come, Cleopatra, why should it? Landless peasants, a few grizzled, knotted old Roman centurions who date back to Aulus Gabinius—I wouldn’t ask them to give up their lives any more than Octavianus wishes that. No indeed, I’m glad they didn’t fight.” He looked wry. “And gladder still that Octavianus simply sent them home. He’s acting more like a tourist than a conqueror.”

“What’s to stop him?” she asked bitterly.

“Nothing, and that’s an irrefutable fact. I think we should send an ambassador to him immediately and ask for terms.”

Even a day earlier she would have flown at him, but that was yesterday. One look at her son’s birthday face had told her that Caesarion didn’t want the soil of his country soaked in the blood of his subjects; he would consent to a last-ditch stand by the Roman legions in camp at the hippodrome, but only because those troops hungered for a battle. They had been denied it at Actium, so they wanted it here. Victory or defeat didn’t matter, just the chance to fight.

Yes, what it boiled down to was what Caesarion wanted, and that was peace at any price. So be it. Peace at any price.

“Who will Octavianus see?” she asked.

“I thought, Antyllus,” Antony said.

“
Antyllus?
He’s a child!”

“Exactly. What’s more, Octavianus knows him well. I can’t think of a better ambassador.”

“No, nor can I,” she said after thinking it over. “However, it means you’ll have to write a letter. Antyllus isn’t bright enough to negotiate.”

“I know. And yes, I’ll write the letter.” He stretched his legs, ran a hand through his hair, whiter now than grey. “Oh, my dearest girl, I’m so tired! I just want it to be over.”

This lump in her throat was on the inside; she swallowed. “And I, my love, my life. I am so sorry for the torment I inflicted on you, but I didn’t understand—no, no, I must stop trying to make excuses! I must take the blame squarely, without flinching, without excuses. If I had stayed in Egypt, things might have gone very differently.” She pressed her forehead against his, too close to see his eyes. “I didn’t love you enough, so now I suffer—oh, terribly! I love you, Marcus Antonius. I love you more than life, I won’t live if you don’t. All I want is to wander the Realm of the Dead with you forever. We will be together in death as we never have been in life, because there is peace, contentment, a most wonderful ease.” She lifted her head. “You do believe that?”

“I do.” His little white teeth flashed. “That’s why it’s better to be an Egyptian than a Roman. Romans don’t believe in a life after death, which is why they don’t fear death. It’s just an eternal sleep, that’s how Caesar looked at it. And Cato, and Pompeius Magnus, and the rest. Well, while they sleep, I’ll be walking the Realm of the Dead with you. Forever.”

 

Octavianus,

I am sure you don’t want more Roman deaths, and from the way you treated my wife’s army, you don’t want enemy deaths either.

I suppose by the time my eldest son reaches you, you will be in Memphis. He bears this letter because I know it will arrive on your desk rather than some legate’s. The boy is eager to do me this service, and I am happy to let him.

Octavianus, let us not continue this farce. I admit freely that I was the aggressor in our war, if war it can be called. Marcus Antonius has not shone too brightly, so much is sure, and now he wishes an end.

If you permit Queen Cleopatra to rule her kingdom as Pharaoh and Queen, I will undertake to fall on my sword. A good end to a pathetic struggle. Send your answer back with my boy. I will wait three
nundinae
for it. If by then I have received no answer, I will know you refuse me.