The Memoirs of Cleopatra (65 page)

I approached the shrine of Isis daily, pouring her sacred water before her as an offering, and begged for the life of Antony with a passion I thought I had lost. I had not thought consciously about him until Cassius’s envoy had delivered that devastating message about his fate. His absence from the world would diminish it in a way I was hard put to explain to myself. Only it seemed that with Antony’s disappearance, the sun would slip below the horizon for good and true night come, never to depart. Was it only because he shone with the reflected light of Caesar? Was it because all the other Romans were so despicable? As I said, I could not explain it, I only knew that I beseeched Isis to help him, ready to promise her anything in return for his life.

And once again, as she had done so long ago, she hearkened to me. Word came that he had survived the ordeal of the retreat across the Alps, and had emerged a hero.

The report came from a letter intercepted on its way to Brutus in Greece, copied secretly, resealed, and then the copy sent on to me.

I had retired into my most private chamber to read it. The words leapt out at me, written as they were for someone else’s eyes.

Yes, that was true. But enough of the lecture. What had
happened?

A flash of excitement and admiration went through me. Yes, I could picture the struggling troops, and Antony willingly abasing himself to survive and fight again….

It was the very spirit of Caesar, such as I had not thought to see again. I was much moved.

The rest of the letter described his pact with Lepidus. Together they now had seventeen legions and a magnificent cavalry of ten thousand horse, and were marching on Rome. They were on their way to a pact with Octavian, to join forces and pursue the assassins.

They would pursue them from the west, and if fate granted me the opportunity, I would slay them from the east, I still meant to stab Cassius by any means possible. Nothing less would satisfy me than turning the dagger upon him with my own hand.

Where it had hung unmoving before, time now seemed to speed up. The year rushed forward. The plague abated, the granaries kept starvation at bay, and Egypt survived.

On the first day of the Roman New Year, the Senate formally declared Caesar a god. So those who would not have him as their leader would now have him for their god! The irony could not fail to amuse Caesar as he looked down upon all this. But events at Rome were even more surprising. Having used Cicero’s sponsorship and prestige to the utmost to build himself up to Antony’s height, Octavian—or
divi filius
, son of the god, as he now called himself—coldly discarded him, and sacrificed the gray old head to a grisly end.

Octavian joined forces with Lepidus and Antony, and together they proclaimed themselves the Triumvirate that would rule Rome for the next five years—discarding the Senate as easily as Cicero. Next they announced that the assassins were traitors and must be hunted down and punished.

Both sides desperately needed money. The assassins were plundering the east—Cassius and Brutus attacked Rhodes, Xanthus, Lycia, Patara, and Tarsus—and the Triumvirs launched a program of proscriptions, whereby all enemies must yield up their persons and their treasures. They said they would not make Caesar’s mistake of clemency; they would not set out for the east leaving enemies behind their backs in Rome.

They bargained lives and swapped names—my uncle for your tutor—and Octavian yielded up Cicero without a murmur. The man he had flattered and called “father” was turned over to the executioners. They tracked him to his country villa, where he was attempting to flee. But his slaves set down the litter, and Cicero, like one of the sacrificial oxen I had seen at the Triumphs, stuck out his neck for the blow.

They say it was Fulvia, Antony’s wife, who demanded that the right hand be cut off as well, the one that wrote the speeches against Antony—that it was she who set the head at their table and stuck pins through the tongue, until Antony had it taken away to be set on the Rostra. It must have been then that Antony developed his revulsion against her, for he was never bloodthirsty. To triumph over a foe is one thing, to bathe in his blood another. When defecting soldiers were executed, it was Fulvia who stood near enough, laughing, that the blood splashed on her gown.

Such fierce, primitive bloodlust is alarming enough. But what Octavian had, and was, I realized with a sudden insight that left me shaken. I could see what had been veiled, unclear, before.

I had been reading dispatches describing the rapid changes in Rome, when suddenly I remembered bits and snatches of impressions of Octavian, and they floated together to make a portrait of his true face, behind the innocent beauty.

Why, Cicero had even spun some tale about him—what was it? Yes, that he had dreamed of seeing the sons of senators passing before the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitol, for Jupiter to select one to be the chief ruler of Rome. In the dream, lines of youths had passed by the god, until he had stretched his hand out to one. Then he had declared, “O ye Romans, this young man, when he shall be lord of Rome, shall put an end to all your civil wars.” Cicero had seen the face clearly, but did not know the boy. The next day, as he saw boys returning from exercising in the Campus Martius, he recognized the very boy in his dream. When he inquired who it was, he was told it was Octavian, whose parents had no special eminence.

Was this true? Had Cicero seen it? Or was it a tale Octavian himself had circulated? Octavian…he fooled Cicero, who declared that he had easily controlled the boy “until now.” He fooled Caesar, the gods only know how! Now he was attempting to fool Lepidus and Antony.

He would use Antony and Lepidus, then discard them as soon as they had served their purpose. And as for Caesarion—only one “son of the god” could be permitted. He knew that. And so did I.

I leaned against the marble frame of the window, pressing my forehead against it to stave off the sweat that had suddenly sprung up on my brow. I saw it all so clearly—why did not anyone else? Why did I alone feel threatened, and by this boy, six years younger than I?

Because he is cold, calculating, and ruthless. Because he does not make mistakes. And because his very youth is in his favor—he has such a long time to accomplish his aims. All the time in the world…

O Caesar—if you were truly a god, or gifted by the gods, why could you not discern the truth about Octavian? I cried inside, clenching my fists.

What was it Octavian had said, talking of Achilles that night at the Saturnalia? “I wonder what it is to be the greatest warrior in the world.” Until now, no one could take over a throne unless he was a commander, a warrior. But Octavian would find a way, since it was clear he was no soldier. He would find a new way…. He had already got himself named Consul, eleven years before he was even eligible for the office.

I felt as cold as I had during the snow that Saturnalia.

Antony, Lepidus, beware! I whispered.

Cicero had written to Brutus that Octavian must be “praised, honored, and then got rid of.” He had thought to use him. But Octavian had remarked that he would know how to stop himself being got rid of. And it was Cicero’s head that was struck off, on Octavian’s orders.

Octavian had come to Rome with nothing but Caesar’s legacy—no troops, no money, no experience. Now he was one of the three rulers of Rome. It had taken him only a year and a half. He had just turned twenty.

He had achieved in twenty months what it had taken Caesar, the great Caesar, twenty years to achieve.

The wind stood fair for sailing, and I walked in measured, stately paces, reviewing my fleet, readied now at last for the voyage to join the Triumvirs at Brundisium where they awaited me. Cassius had continued to demand the ships, and I had put him off with fair words while they were abuilding and I was in secret communication with Antony. Cassius’s threatened invasion of Egypt had not yet taken place; Brutus had reminded him that their enemies were the Triumvirs and not Egypt. As if to show his scorn of me, Cassius recognized Arsinoe as the true Queen of Egypt, and hailed her as such at Ephesus.

Arsinoe! Another of Caesar’s misguided clemencies now turned against me! He had spared her after the Triumph, his heart touched by her. Now she emerged from sanctuary, decked out as Queen of Egypt. It did not take long for the truth to reveal itself: It was she who had persuaded Serapion to turn over the fleet at Cyprus. Doubtless she had promised him a high office in Egypt—the Egypt she planned to rule soon, with the help of the assassins.

To think that Caesar had had his knife at all their throats as they knelt in submission—Cassius, Brutus, Arsinoe—and spared them! Well, we would not. Here Octavian’s ruthlessness would stand us in good stead.

Yes, I was allied with Octavian. For now we had the same purpose: to avenge Caesar’s death. And after that?

The fleet was magnificent. I had altogether some hundred vessels—not enough for a full navy, but enough to be of great help to the Triumvirs. My flagship, a “six”—two men on each oar at three levels—was named the
Isis
. I had elected not to have any ships larger than a “six,” abandoning the earlier Ptolemaic mania for enormous ships, which had proved to be more a liability than an effective offense weapon. A six, equipped with a ram, could do damage enough. I had five other “sixes,” ten “fives”—quinqueremes—and thirty “fours,” quadriremes—the backbone of the navy, which could prove surprisingly fleet and agile, as well as powerful enough to sink larger ships. The tried-and-true triremes would be the workhorses, the jacks-of-all-trades, and I had twenty-five of them. The rest were light galleys, Liburnians, and supply transports.

It was a great gift to lay at the feet of the Triumvirs. But it had not come without cost. My price for all this had been that Antony pronounce Caesarion Caesar’s undoubted and natural son before the Senate, and that all three Triumvirs recognize him as my co-ruler: Ptolemy XVI Caesar. They had agreed. They wanted these ships very badly.

And what ships they were! I found my heart racing as I looked at them, trim and sleek, smelling of pitch and wood and fresh canvas and rope. Going aboard the
Isis
, I took my place beside Phidias, the Rhodian captain, on the main deck. I meant to learn all I could about commanding a ship, although of course I would leave the moment-by-moment sailing decisions to the experience of the captain.

“Here,” he said solemnly, presenting me with a helmet. “You must wear the outward sign of a commander.” I took it and lowered it over my head, slowly, feeling its weight encasing me. The feathers on its crest waved in the wind.

“I thank you,” I said. I was eager to begin the voyage, to be the first woman since Artemisia of Halicarnassus to set out with her own fleet. And forgive my pride, but Artemisia had commanded only five ships in accompanying Xerxes, although she fought bravely and escaped pursuit by sinking an enemy ship.

We were to sail straight west across the Mediterranean for some six hundred miles, then steer north for another five hundred or so, sailing between Italy and Greece until we reached Brundisium. There, where the gap between Italy and Greece was narrow, the Triumvirs planned to ferry troops across. I knew that the assassins had stationed a fleet of their own on the southernmost point of Greece to intercept me—should I “stray” from the right direction. But I would fight them—that was what sixes, fives, fours, and threes were for. And I prayed that the gods would give me as good victory as they had given Artemisia.

We cast off from Alexandria, proceeding slowly out of the harbor, a straight line making its way through the narrow channel between the Pharos and the breakwater. Once in the open sea, we formed a closer gathering of vessels.

How sweet the wind, how blue and beckoning the sea! The waters grew steadily darker, shading from the greenish turquoise of the shore into deeper blue where the bottom could no longer be seen. The wind slapped the water, chiding it playfully, making whitecaps that glittered as they broke. The bow of the ship dipped and rode the waves like a horse running free. Dolphins dove alongside us.

“A cloudless sky,” said the captain, squinting toward the horizon. “If this east wind keeps blowing, our voyage should be smooth and effortless.” The sail was filled, creaking as the lines strained, pulling for Italy.

We were skirting the coast of Africa, passing places that had always been just names to me: the desert west of Alexandria, where the sands were as white as alabaster, sparkling like salt; the little town of Taposiris, a miniature Alexandria with a temple of Osiris and a lighthouse one-tenth the size of its Alexandrian sister. I could see the pylons of the temple, and perceive the winking of the flame of the lighthouse. A series of these lighthouses served as signal posts all along the coast, as far as Cyrene.

The wind whipped my cloak and tore at the feathers of my helmet. I was thankful to be wearing it, for it offered protection and shaded my eyes. I might have to adopt other clothing than a gown and cloak; clearly they were unsuited for standing on a deck in high winds. Should I wear the trousers of the barbarians, then?

It made me laugh, picturing myself in breeches. But doubtless they would serve well on a ship. Or perhaps I would prefer the loincloths of the rowers? They had their advantages too. I smiled. No, not a loincloth!

Soon I would be with the Triumvirs, joining forces with them. I could hardly believe that I was becoming part of a Roman army. But I owed it to Caesar to do whatever was necessary to avenge him.

Did I want to see any of them again? I had thought to be done with them. When I had sailed away from Rome—so heartsick, so weakened—I had comforted myself with saying,
No more Antony, no more Octavian, no more Cicero, no more Rome
. Well, there was no more Cicero, but what of Antony and Octavian?

Antony…Antony I wanted to see. Lepidus, yes, I would be happy to see Lepidus. Octavian…I had seen all I needed of Octavian.

For two nights I slept well in the built-in bed they had fashioned for me in the cabin. There were shelves with netting to hold my goods safe, and trunks bolted to the floor served as storage. So well secured was it that nothing rattled or broke loose as the wind rose during the third night, then turned into a howling monster.

I slept unknowing until the ship lurched and I sat upright, grasping the rails of the bed. The floor was bucking and jerking, and a cascade of water burst in through the closed window, drenching me. I staggered up out of bed, hanging on to the bolted furniture to keep my footing. Grabbing a heavy waterproof cloak, unable to see in the darkness, I felt my way along the passageway to the deck, crawling up the steps.

Now I could see well enough. A storm had caught us in full fury, and wave after wave was breaking across the deck, rolling in like breakers on a beach. The sailors were struggling to take down the sail, and the captain was shouting orders, barely audible above the roar of the wind. I grasped him by the shoulders, and he turned as best he could.

“It pounced on us as suddenly as a lion,” he shouted. “The wind changed to the northwest; we’re being blown back against the coast.”

“No, no, we have to keep out to sea!” I cried. How far were we from shore? It had been visible at sunset, but I had no way of knowing what had happened in the hours since.

“We will do everything in our power,” he said. “But our ships are toys against the force of the wind and waves.” He broke off to rush across the deck and secure a line that was lashing like a whip, knocking sailors off their feet. While I watched, a man was washed overboard. I crawled to the mast and clung to it. My clothes were soaked, as heavy as metal.

I looked toward shore—or, rather, away from the wind. I could see the faint pinprick of a light—it must be one of the signal lighthouses. If I could see it, that was bad indeed. It meant we were close to the coastline.

The captain made his way back to the mast. “We’ve dropped anchor, and will try to ride it out,” he cried. “The rowers will row against the wind, to hold us in place. But I fear the anchor will rip out anyway.”

And we would be borne relentlessly back onto the shore, there to break into pieces.

The moon made a quick appearance between gaps in black, racing clouds. It showed a sea wrinkled, dark, and covered with sharp, peaked mountains of water—enormous waves. Seeing the size of them made my heart feel as if it stopped. They were higher than the mast of the ship. They paralyzed you with their sheer size—what could prevail against them? The ship was like a leaf blown into the troughs between waves. The helpless oars were lifted high, out of the water, where they rowed frantically against air, and the anchor line stretched, straining with a fearful whine, and snapped.

I felt the jerk and shudder of the whole ship as it broke free and, suddenly freed from the weight of the anchor, spun like a top, slammed from all sides. Then the inexorable drifting, shoved by the wind, back, back toward the shore.

The moon came out again, and in all the surrounding waters I saw the bobbing forms of the rest of the fleet. None of them could escape; we had been sailing close enough together that the storm encompassed us all.

The ship listed to leeward, almost on its side. Water poured in through the oar ports. Now our only hope of survival would be to reach the shore before we sank. Suddenly the shore, too close before, looked impossibly far away. The ship lurched as it filled with water belowdecks, and the rowers struggled out from the hold, gasping and coughing. They staggered about on deck, dazed.

Still clinging to the mast, I had to climb on it as the deck tilted, hugging it like a log. I heard a loud crash and realized that two ships nearby had collided, blown against each other. The splintering of wood and the agonized cries of the sailors rose above the wind. Pieces of masts and oars floated by, whirling, disappearing in the foam, then popping up again. Sometimes a man would be hanging on one, riding it like a raft.

Ahead of us I saw the winking light. We would hit the shore—but would we sink first? If only the sinking was staved off until we were within swimming distance—and that meant very close indeed, for normal swimming was impossible in these high seas.

A gigantic shudder, and the ship stuck on something. Then it wrenched free—or, rather, was torn free by the waves, lifted off and sent scudding along on its side again. The force of the momentary grounding tore the mast from its mooring, and I was thrown off, rolling across the sloping deck, until I hit the railing. There I stuck, almost in the sea. My face dipped down into the cold waves, and I pulled my head up, dripping with salt water. I had taken some into my lungs, and I coughed and gasped.

Another shudder. The ship slammed against a sandbar, shaking. I heard a frightful sound, and I recognized it—the gods only know how, for I had never heard it before. But it was the unmistakable sound of the ship breaking up.

It clove in half, and the two halves separated cleanly, flinging us into the heaving sea. I hit the water with such force I lost my breath, and the cold was a shock. But my head told me the water must be shallow here, or the ship would not have caught and shattered. And I swam in the direction of the lighthouse, pushed by the waves. When they sucked out, I found my feet could touch the bottom; only a little farther in, I could walk to shore.

Another huge wave engulfed me, knocking me off my feet, but when it receded, I felt the firmness of the beach once more, and used those few seconds to walk closer to shore. The next wave knocked me over, too, but by the next one, I had reached the safety of waist-deep water, and I struggled to shore, exhausted, and collapsed on the beach.

There I lay, gasping, and watched as others waded ashore, chased by timbers and fittings of the doomed fleet. One by one they reached the shore, falling limp on the sand. And there we lay, waiting for the light and the dreadful and certain knowledge of what had happened in the dark.

The sun showed its rim above the horizon, in the direction of Alexandria. I had lain shivering under my heavy, waterlogged cloak for hours, hearing the moaning of those around me. The dawn showed a sea strewn with debris, half-hulks of ships still floating, other ships that seemed almost undamaged resting on the sands. Hundreds of sailors were hunched, shivering, up and down the beach.

I was thankful to be alive, thankful that so many had survived. Some of the ships even looked—at first glance—to be repairable. But the losses were great, and I would be unable to aid the Triumvirs in their campaign. My magnificent fleet had not got very far.

I could not see it as an omen. Shipwrecks were common, a fact of life. Octavian had been shipwrecked on his way to Spain; Caesar had twice lost his ships in Britain. There was nothing for it but to start over.

But there was no way a fresh navy could be readied in time to help in the coming contest. I would have to be a passive spectator—something that sat ill with my nature.

Where were we? The snowy sands held no landmarks. How far west had we got?

I saw the captain, lurching along, dragging one leg. He had been injured, but was alive. “Phidias!” I called, waving to him. I pulled myself to my feet and ran to him.

“You are safe!” he cried. “Thanks be to all the gods!” He nervously patted his dagger at his belt.

“I hope you weren’t thinking of behaving like a Roman,” I said. “No matter what had happened to me.”

His expression told me that was just what he had considered. A captain who drowned his sovereign had lost his honor and should kill himself. But he was enough of a practical Greek that he wanted to ascertain exactly what had happened before jumping to conclusions. “The fleet is lost,” he said. “I did my best.”