Hand of Isis (44 page)

“I know,” Cleopatra said, “and that is why the punishment is no worse. A Pharaoh must come to know his subjects, but a boy his age must not find it easy. If there is no challenge, there can be no triumph.”

“Better that than breaking his neck horse racing,” I said. Antyllus was by far the better rider, possibly because he listened to the horses instead of talking incessantly. They were well suited as friends. Cae-sarion was never quiet, and Antyllus never spoke, stepping neatly into the position of Companion. I wondered if that would please or displease Antonius when he returned.

If he returned.

Amenti

“Was all already lost then?” I asked. “Was it already too late?”

“It was a sacred marriage that Marcus Antonius made in Tarsus, Isis and Dionysos. You know what it means to become the avatar of a god. Perhaps Antonius understood what he did; perhaps not. It doesn’t matter. For years he had been Neos Dionysos, who comes to the East bringing joy instead of swords. He had worn the god’s clothes and invoked His name. It was too late to say that he had not consented to the sacrifice,” Serapis said, and His eyes were grave.

Of course I knew the stories, how the Titans had ripped Dionysos apart, eating His flesh and pouring out His blood in libation on the earth. It is an old story, as old perhaps as a time when those rites were carried out literally rather than in symbol, when each year the Lord of Vines must die.

“He made the sacred marriage and wore the god’s face,” Isis said, as though She had read my thoughts. “No longer must a priest die each year, or a young man loving and brave, but in time of need the sacrifice must be made. And the sacrifice must be willing, for I tell you that there is nothing more blessed than to lay down one’s life for others. He must have consented to the sacrifice, as Caesar did when he went down into the West.”

I took a deep breath. “Did Antonius refuse the sacrifice?”

Isis nodded. “Yes. He was meant to die in Parthia. He went into the East, where his blood should have been spilled out, god to you and hero to Rome. He refused the sacrifice. When at last the time came, he was not willing. Marcus Antonius wanted to live.”

“And that would have saved us?” I asked. “What of Octavian?”

“Should he dare touch the memory of brave Marcus Antonius, who died for Rome, hero of the Roman people?” Isis raised an eyebrow.

Mikhael shifted, the feathers of His white wings making a sound like soft wind.

“That would not have stopped him forever, of course. But it would have made things more difficult. It would have cost him time. Time was what Octavian could not afford. There is a vast difference to Romans between defeating Cleopatra, the Wicked Queen of the East who has ensnared a helpless man and turned him from his duty, and raising an army against Caesar’s son. There is a vast difference between fighting a boy of seventeen and a man of twenty-seven, with children of his own and skill in arms.”

I felt my eyes fill. “Ten years for Caesarion to grow up, to become Pharaoh in truth.”

Isis nodded, and I saw the tears in Her eyes as well. She was His mother too, as much as I. “Ten years,” She said, and Her voice was choked. “Marcus Antonius’ sacrifice might have bought ten years.”

“It is my fault,” I said, and the tears spilled over my eyes. I thought the grief would rend me in two. “If I had somehow held Agrippa, if I had brought him to our side. I could have done it, when he was young.” I clenched my hands, remembering. “Cleopatra asked me if I wanted her to write to Caesar, when I was first pregnant with Demetria. She asked if I wanted Agrippa sent back to Egypt, to a staff position. Caesar would have done it. It was little enough to ask. Agrippa was only a junior tribune then, and not yet a friend to Octavian. Caesar would have sent him back to Egypt when Caesarion was born and tactfully told him that he was sending him to guard his son, rather than because Cleopatra willed it.” I tilted back my head. It was all clear, the pattern of what might have been. “He was so serious. So determined. He would have sworn his life to Caesarion, pledged Caesar that he would let nothing ill happen to his son, and having promised Caesar should have kept it all his life. He would not even have been on campaign with Octavian—they should not have been friends, had Marcus Agrippa been in Egypt instead, rather than thrown with Octavian in Hispania. I should have asked her to write to Caesar. It is my fault.” I ground my teeth against the pain.

“And why did you not ask her?” Serapis asked in His patient judge’s voice.

I could not see through my tears. “Because he did not want me! He didn’t write. He didn’t want to. I was too proud to beg for Cleopatra to send for a man who had deserted me.”

Serapis’ voice did not change. “Is it true that he did not want you?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “He said later, in Rome, that he had thought of nothing but me. But if so, why did he not write? He said he loved me, that he had been planning our marriage for years. But he did not send me a single letter! How should I know if he remembered me or not, when he did not speak?”

“And that is a question we shall put to Marcus Agrippa, when he stands here,” Serapis said, glancing at Anubis as counsel will when they consult together. “But he does not stand here, and his race has many miles yet to run.”

Mikhael stirred again. “And perhaps there was more to it yet—that you would not stoop to manipulating a man that you cared for to get what should be freely given, or not had at all. If you had begged Cleopatra to have him returned to Egypt, perhaps he should have resented you even as he swore himself to Caesarion.” He spread His hands, His handsome face grave. “Who is to say what the results of that should have been? He is not a simple man, and it is true that at the time he did not want to come to Egypt.”

Whatever he had said later, I had always thought that was true. “He wanted to stay with Caesar.”

Mikhael gave me a quick nod. “Companions’ oaths.”

“I respect that,” I said. “I never once asked Emrys for anything he could not in conscience give. Unlike . . .” I stopped. I would not voice the thought that came next.

“Unlike Cleopatra?” Isis looked rueful. “She loved Antonius, and did not want him to die.”

“As Caesar had,” I said. “Having seen that bereavement once, I could not wish it on her again.”

“Not even for the sake of all you fought for?” Serapis asked sharply. “That is the way of it. Isis is the Grain Mother. Her consorts go down into the West. That is the way of it. When Marcus Antonius refused, there were consequences.”

“In the end . . . ,” I said.

Isis’ face was compassionate. “In the end, it was too late.”

T
he Queen still had three months to go before the child was due when I had another letter.

Hail Charmian,

I write to you in haste, for the dispatch rider is going, and if I wish to send something I must do it now. We are besieging Praaspa. It is not going well. We have lost our baggage train to an ambush, along with hundreds of men who guarded it, and the siege equipment that we now miss sorely. The king of Armenia has pronounced the campaign hopeless and he has gone home with his horsemen. But Romans do not quit, so we go on.

We have now seen that thing I never saw before, a decimation of the troops who failed to guard the camp against a sortie. One man in ten must be executed for the failure of all, so they draw straws in each file, nine long straws and one short. The man who gets the short straw must be beaten to death by his fellows.

It was not my ala. For us it is the ceaseless work of patrol while everyone is besieged, as we are almost the only horsemen left, and there are not but three hundred of us now. I am the senior officer of them all. There are a few heavy cavalry left too, but we have no horse archers since the Armenians went.

And now winter comes, blowing cold and early off the steppes of the north.

I love you. I love Dion. I hope that I will see you again.

Emrys Aurelianus, Praefectus

After that, there were no more letters. No more dispatches came to Alexandria, weeks late and brief. A silence fell that was worse than anything else.

S
IX WEEKS BEFORE THE END
of the year, the Queen gave birth to a son. After all my worry, this labor was both fast and normal. Amonis said that was to be expected from a fourth child who was properly positioned, and indeed it was only seven hours from the time she was brought to bed before Ptolemy Philadelphos made his appearance, as healthy a child as was ever born, on the date of the coronation of his namesake, that son of the first Ptolemy. It had been that Philadelphos who built the lighthouse, Pharos, and who decreed that our Library should collect every work ever written by man, so it seemed a good omen to name the child for him. He was, I thought, a remarkably pretty baby.

Antonius, of course, was not there. We had no word from him in weeks, nor any word at all from his expedition. In Alexandria, the days were warm and the fields green with grain. Away in the north of Parthia it was winter, and the winds scoured the uplands coming straight off the plains of Sogdiana.

Philadelphos was two weeks old when Antonius’ letter came. Wordlessly, the Queen handed it to Iras, and I read it over her shoulder.

“Oh sweet Isis,” I whispered. “-Thirty-two thousand men.” Mar-cus Antonius had lost thirty-two thousand men out of the sixty-six thousand who had marched against Parthia with him. “-Thirty--two thousand men.” The entire population of a middle-size city. “Four thousand cavalry.” He had begun with less than five thousand, not counting the Armenian allies. “Oh sweet Isis.”

I gulped for air, suddenly unable to breathe.

It was Cleopatra who put a chair behind me and helped me sit, handed me a cup of wine.

I blinked at her, ready to protest.

My sister gave me a tight smile. “I already know Antonius is alive. It is his signature on the letter.”

Iras was frowning over the letter still. “He says he is retiring upon Berytus on the coast, and that you must hasten there with supplies, that his men are near starvation and he will have to loot the countryside of his lands or yours.”

The Queen swore.

My hands shook on the cup. So few survivors from the cavalry. What were the odds that Emrys should be among them? “Sweet Isis, Epona, Mother of Horses . . .”

“If he loots my lands I’ll . . . No, I won’t. Because I am going to Berytus with supplies. We can assemble something in a week, surely.”

“You are two weeks out of childbed!” Iras exploded. “You can’t go dashing off to Berytus! And what about Philadelphos?”

“I have to, don’t I?” Cleopatra snapped. “Philadelphos comes too. The twins and Caesarion stay here with you, Iras. Charmian, you’re coming with me.”

I looked up at her, surprised. It would make more sense for me to stay with the twins and Iras to go.

“You have to know,” she said.

F
LEETS DO NOT SAIL
on a moment’s notice. It took closer to two weeks than one before we put to sea, twenty ships filled with grain, melons, live goats and chickens, wine and oil. Philadelphos was not quite four weeks old when we sailed out of the harbor, leaving Pharos behind us, our prows pointed northward. The weather was poor, and we held our course only by dint of the strength of our five banks of oars.

My prayers were nothing but repetition, holding Philadelphos in my arms while the Queen talked with her captain. Please let him be alive, please let him be alive, please let him be alive.

I
SLEPT
, and in my dreams there were raging seas. A black ship struggled up and down each wave, tossed by the storm. I dreamed a gale at sea, and Dion as he had been as a youth standing by the rail, serene and clear-eyed, while a wave gathered at his back, green and crested with white foam.

I screamed aloud to him, but the wind carried away my voice, whipping my black veil around me while the wave crashed over him and took him.

I should have been swept away myself, but Marcus Agrippa steadied me against the sea, his arms around me. “The wind is fair for Egypt,” he said.

“No!” I shouted, not certain what I denied. I turned in his arms, and there he stood, sure and unharmed by the tempest, older than I had last seen him. “You did not come to Egypt.”

Like visions in glass, everything dissolved around us, leaving instead stones, and the courtyard of a palace with high roofs, each one painted a different bright color. “You ended here.” There was the distant sound of cheers, as though somewhere nearby games were in progress. Above us, the blue sky of Persia arched, and we breathed the cool, fresh air of the mountains.

He held my forearms. His eyes were sad. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to leave so much undone. I won’t, this time.”

“How can you serve Octavian?” I asked. “Marcus, you are better than this.”

“I am a sword,” he said, “as I was born to be. Do you ask the sword who it serves?”

“You are a man,” I said, “and you may choose.”

“Octavian and I, we will make Rome great,” he said. “We will dress her in marble and bring her all of the marvels of the world.”

“At what cost?”

He let go of me then, walked a few steps away and turned, looking up at the pitched roofs, the mountains behind. His brow furrowed, as though he half-recognized it. “What is this place?”

“A reflection,” I said sadly. “Ecbatana as it was when you died there three hundred years ago. A memory. A scar in the memory of the world. We all remember, we Companions. It waits for all of us, as does Babylon.”

“Can you name me, then?”

I nodded, my eyes filling. “Hephaistion.” Alexander’s beloved general.

Marcus threw back his head, his face solemn, as though drinking in the air. The light gilded his face, his closed eyelids.

“Octavian is not your Alexander,” I said, and knew in that moment what it was that held him. And how should it not? The dream of a life completed was a powerful thing, that he might finish what he had begun at Alexander’s right hand, a life too soon cut short.

“I know,” he said, and gave me a rueful smile. “Caesar passed out of the world before I was hardly in it, with too much age between us for him to give me a second glance, Antonius at his right hand instead of me. I was born too late, my friend. And I shall walk through this world all of my life knowing that I have missed the mark.”

“And so instead you will have a Triumph on my bones,” I said bitterly. “I was never very much to you, a beautiful face that caught your desire once.”

He laid his hand along the side of my face. “Always more than that. You are always temptation, a beautiful thing unknowable and within reach, seeming simple and yet labyrinthine enough to lose myself in forever. Will I ever know you? I wonder.”

“If you walk the labyrinth with me,” I said, and blinked back tears. “You did once, long ago. Set things right, Marcus. You still can. It is within your power. Not Octavian, but Caesarion. Walk the labyrinth beneath Mount Vesuvius with Caesar’s son as his faithful Companion, and come forth by day to a world made new, Egypt and Rome joined in alliance, joined in his person in sacred marriage. The power is yours to bring that future into being!”

Marcus shook his head. “You know I can’t,” he said.

“I know you won’t.”

He let go of me, stepped back as solemnly as a boy in a choir. “Will I see you again?’

“In Babylon,” I said, and the word was ashes in my mouth.

W
E MADE
B
ERYTUS
in bad weather, not long after the turning of the year. The Queen went ashore immediately, to the citadel where Antonius had made his headquarters, a black cloak pulled tight against the rain.

Antonius’ chamber was dark. The curtains were drawn because of the wet, and there were too few lamps. When the guard announced Queen Cleopatra he stood up, swaying, like a man who has seen a spirit. Indeed, she must have seemed like one, with raindrops caught in her hair like jewels, and her face pale and white, the shadows around her eyes dark.

“Cleopatra,” he said, and caught at the edge of the table to steady himself. His handsome face was worn and unshaven, and he looked ten years older, not a vigorous forty-eight, but closer to sixty.

Whatever she had meant to say died on her lips, and instead she ran to him and fell upon him, her cloak spreading like the wings of night around them. He bent his head to hers, and I saw him shake as she gathered his hands in hers.

“You may go,” she said to me and the guard, and Antonius said nothing at all.

The guard shrugged at me, and we withdrew, him taking up his station by the door. My hands were shaking too.

“Do you know a praefectus of cavalry?” I asked him. “A man called Aurelianus? He was with Antonius in Parthia.”

The guard shook his head slowly, and I could read the stark sympathy in his face. “I don’t know anyone named that,” he said. “But, Domina, you should know that almost none of the cavalry came back.”

I nodded, biting my lip so that the tears would not come. “Do you know a man named Sigismund? One of the Imperator’s bodyguards. He’s a good friend of Aurelianus, and if anyone would know, it’s him.”

The guard broke into a smile, which I noticed was now missing all of his front teeth. “I do know him! He’s in the hospital, two floors down on the ground floor behind the kitchens. We wouldn’t be on guard duty if all the bodyguards weren’t dead or in the hospital.”

“I see,” I said. “Down?”

“The stairs are at the end,” he said, pointing.

I ran.

S
IGISMUND WAS PROPPED UP
on a cot at the far end, leaning over a dice game on a little table someone had pulled up. I saw him cast and for a moment wondered what seemed so different. Then I realized he was casting left-handed. His right arm ended above the elbow.

I must have made some sound, because the entire room turned and stared at me, some fifty men. At least, every man who was capable of turning and staring.

I’m not sure how I crossed the room to Sigismund, but somehow I was sitting on the end of his bed, clasping his good hand between mine while all his fellows looked on, whistling and laughing.

“What happened to him, Sigismund?” I begged. “Where is Emrys?”

“On duty down by the picket lines,” Sigismund said confusedly, and I started crying.

S
IGISMUND HAD BEEN ONE OF THE LAST
wounded, he said, when the heavy Parthian cataphracts had pinned them against the river and punched through the tortoise of the Third Gallica Legion. He’d gone down fighting beside Antonius, who fought like a man possessed.

“A berserker in his rage,” Sigismund said with satisfaction in his voice. “He’d made a mess and he was going to get us out of it or die trying. Covered me with his own shield, for all I’m his bodyguard. We’d have been dead if the light cavalry hadn’t charged in among the cataphracts, stinging like bees, all three or four hundred of them we had left. They held them off until we could cross the river. And the cataphracts didn’t come after us. Didn’t fancy a river crossing with horses in full armor, with infantry on the other side waiting.” I had brought him some beer, and he drank slowly, his left hand steady as always. “You should have seen Emrys, Charmian. He’s so mild and calm that you don’t expect it, when he gets that gray look of passion in his face, utterly beyond fear. Valkyries must have those eyes. As though they’ve seen a thousand fields.”