The Memoirs of Cleopatra (91 page)

Overhead the leaves, still delicate and healthy, rustled slightly, like a sigh.

Final preparations for the army were in hand, as melting snows from the mountains gushed down the slopes, opening the passes. Soon Antony would embark: the long-postponed venture was at hand. His generals—all except Canidius—were gathered at headquarters. Titius, the lean-faced nephew of Plancus, was to serve as
quaestor
, and Ahenobarbus would command several legions. Dellius, the man who had so rudely summoned me to Tarsus all those years ago, would also be entrusted with legions and the task of writing the history of the campaign, as Antony never wrote accounts of his wars. The excitement of the coming campaign hung in the air, like a smell of metal and fire.

Ahenobarbus, who had visited Rome to settle some family business, asked to speak to Antony privately; Antony took that to include me as well. I could see by Ahenobarbus’s face that he wished to be alone with Antony. His little eyes focused on me, and his forced smile and flat voice made that clear. But Antony ignored it, and merely urged him to speak his mind.

“And how have you left Rome?” Antony asked, handing him a cup of wine, which Ahenobarbus ostentatiously declined. Antony shrugged and took it himself.

“Behind,” Ahenobarbus said. “And faring well enough, although there is a severe shortage of bread. So all the talk is about this season’s attack on Sextus.”

“It will be a repeat of the last,” said Antony. “They are helpless against the self-styled Son of Neptune.”

“I think not,” said Ahenobarbus. His voice was sharp. “Agrippa created a naval training station near Misenum, and he has been training crack oarsmen all winter. They will meet Sextus as equals. He has also built a fleet of huge ships, so large that Sextus cannot attack them. And as if that were not enough, he has invented a device that allows him to shoot a grappling hook over great distances from the safety of his floating forts. He will haul in Sextus’s boats like little silver fish.”

“Ah well, I wish him luck,” said Antony, and he meant it. “Did you speak to Octavian about our venture?”

“Oh yes. He invited me to a most delicious dinner.” Ahenobarbus paused for dramatic effect. “He was curious about your preparations—although he seemed well apprised of all the details I recounted. The man has spies everywhere.”

Are you one? I wondered. He sounded like it.

“Aside from Octavian, how do Romans look upon it?” Antony asked.

“They do not seem to pay it much mind,” said Ahenobarbus. “They are much more concerned with their bellies and bread than with foreign conquests. We have had so many foreign conquests at the hands of Caesar that perhaps interest has worn thin.” His smile was equally thin. He spread his hands as if to say,
What remedy?

“Did Octavian—how did he receive the news of my marriage with the Queen?” Antony took my hand proudly.

We had had no word from Rome; our announcement was met with a silence that seemed to grow louder with each passing day.

“If he has received it, he does not acknowledge it,” said Ahenobarbus. “He spoke of granting you the right to dine at the Temple of Concord with your wife and daughters, when you return to Rome. A great honor.”

“Another daughter?” Antony had had no word from Octavia since she had gone back to Rome.

“Why, yes,” said Ahenobarbus. “You were not told?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

“No,” Antony admitted. “No, I have not been informed.” He finished his cup of wine and set it down. I could see that he was taken aback; he might have shaken the dust of Rome from his feet, but he had never considered they might have done the same to him. Ignoring his campaign and our marriage was a signal insult.

“That was rude of them,” said Ahenobarbus, half jokingly. “Well, after we give the Parthians a thrashing, they’ll mind their manners better in Rome.” He paused. “Now, as for the campaign—if you have not lost your touch of splendid nonchalance on the field, we shall soon have a new Roman province.”

After he left, I wheeled around on Antony. “How dare Octavian ignore our marriage?”

Antony looked tired, as he sank down on a couch. He ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his temples. “He is not ignoring it, believe me, regardless of what he wants us to think.”

“Send Octavia her papers of divorce,” I said. “He cannot ignore that.” If she had had her child, then there was no reason to hold back. “It is time.”

“No,” he said stubbornly. “There is no point in fighting a war on two fronts. If he ignores you, then let me ignore Octavia. Sometimes ignoring someone is a stronger statement than taking action. Let Octavian see how it feels.”

“You keep giving reasons for not divorcing her.”

“Let them
ask
me to,” he said. “Let them acknowledge that they have failed to force the marriage upon me, and are hurting only themselves. I have no wish to harm Octavia,” he said quickly. “Surely Octavian will see that she is the one who suffers most in this, since she cannot marry anyone else until she is free.”

“I don’t think he cares how much she suffers, as long as he has a hold over
you
,” I said.

That night had the feeling of a farewell, although there would be a few more days before we actually left Antioch. But the chamber, its packed trunks and coffers already taken away, seemed empty and echoing—as if our belongings had embarked on the next stage, leaving us behind.

Lying together in the high bed, its mosquito net making a gauzy tent around us, I said sleepily, “This is like a play-tent.” I rested my head on his shoulder, feeling supremely contented after a prolonged session of lovemaking. “There would not be time for this in a real tent, on a real battlefield.”

“No.” He sounded wide awake. “I will miss you very keenly. Now even a war tent seems lacking without you, so completely do you fill every aspect of my life.”

“You make me sound like a faithful hound,” I said, with a drowsy laugh.

Now that the moment had come, the venture that carried so much weight sat lightly upon him. Perhaps that was the only way to bear it.

Sometime in the middle of the night a ferocious spring storm broke, with fearsome lightning flashes and sonorous rolls of thunder. Asleep at last, Antony barely stirred, except to burrow his shaggy head deeper against my neck. But I lay listening, hearing the rain washing down from the roof, cleansing the world.

By dawn the storm was over, and only roiling gray clouds remained. The soaked earth, black and deep-plowed, released a thick, rich, fertile-smelling cloud. Everywhere branches drooped with the aftermath of the pelting rain, each end a shimmering knob of water, each leaf and blossom gleaming. Huge puddles lay scattered on the paving stones; a few brave birds were already singing.

“Come.” I circled Antony’s waist as we stood looking out at the new-washed garden outside our doors, bordering the wide flagstone terrace. “Let us go outside and walk in it.”

Barefoot, we emerged onto the terrace, where the cold stones and water made our feet tingle. The hems of our gowns dragged, becoming rimmed with water. Out in the garden itself, the slippery grass, chilled and as sleek as an animal’s fur, gave off a piercingly sweet aroma as we crushed it under our toes. A gust of wind would shake the laden boughs of trees far overhead, sending down showers on us, soaking our shoulders.

Everywhere there was the gentle sound of dripping. The Persian lilacs, weighed down with their heavy clusters of flowers, bent gracefully, like a row of courtiers. We walked between them, letting the flowers slap us, sending scented spray into our faces.

After the rain, there is a magic that evaporates when the sun comes out.

I stopped and shut my eyes, feeling only the slight chill, smelling the lilacs and damp earth, hearing the water drops fall from boughs. The perfume seemed intensified by the moisture, and when I looked down at the ground, at all the little plants brimming with water in their cups, the colors seemed magnified as well, the greens sharp and dazzling. The purple of the violets, the blue of the irises were like jewels.

I seemed to be in paradise, for that is what a garden is after the rain, in spring.

After the rain…
I tightened my arm around Antony, to prove to myself this was no dream, to feel his solid flesh.

Far to the east, behind Mount Silpius and the sunrise, lay Parthia, waiting.

Early May, and we were in Armenia, being feasted by Antony’s new-won ally, King Artavasdes, in his drafty palace overlooking the valley of the Araxes River. It was an elaborate structure, and as I looked around the dim chamber I became aware that the long arm of Greek architecture, style, and furnishings did not reach here. We had left the west behind, and from here on all would be foreign to us: foreign manners, foreign protocol, foreign motives. Octavian has been pleased to call me eastern and exotic, but that is not so—Egypt and Greece are not foreign, even to Rome.

The hall was many-domed, like a bazaar, or a series of tents. Intricate patterns of gold and lapis covered the span, and were echoed in bright tiles underfoot. More color ran down the walls in heavy gold-embroidered silk, and the tables were draped in what looked more like rugs than cloths. The Armenians did not eat reclining, but sat straight on backless chairs. The vessels on the table were gold, massive, and as encrusted with gems as warts on a toad.

Artavasdes himself was slender and dark, with enormous, soulful eyes and a drooping mustache. He turned mournful eyes on me when he spoke, and although he was polite, his stare was invasive. Over his oiled ringlets he wore a tiara with a veil in back, and his costume was entirely Persian: baggy trousers, voluminous cape, fringed tunic. He had a ring—sometimes several—on each finger, including his thumbs. Mardian would have been scandalized, since he had found even the Antiochenes repulsive in their overdone finery.

Artavasdes was seated between Antony and me, and stretching out on either side were the Roman officers: Canidius, who had brought his legions here to join forces with the bulk of the army, and Titius, Dellius, Plancus, and Ahenobarbus. They wore their plain Roman uniforms—bronze cuirasses and purple cloaks, sturdy nailed sandals, and military decorations, either crowns or symbolic silver spearheads. They looked very workmanlike and unembellished next to the Armenians.

As a child I had studied Median, and it pleased me to speak a bit to Artavasdes, if only to let him know that we could understand his asides to his nobles. Antony was more impressed than he, whispering in my ear, “How many languages do you know?” and then adding, “I suppose you speak Parthian as well!”

In truth, I had also studied it briefly, but only recently had begun trying to relearn it. I hoped I would have need of it, and soon.

“I know a little,” I admitted.

When I saw how surprised Antony was, I said, “You must learn it as well. If you are to be master of all the east, you cannot depend on translators; you must not be at another man’s mercy that way.”

He merely grunted; like all Romans, he expected the entire world to switch to Latin to accommodate him.

Artavasdes was gesturing, rolling his hands in intricate circles to punctuate his words. “My brother King Polemo and I will slay hundreds of the Parthians,” he promised.

At the sound of his name, King Polemo of Pontus nodded at us from his end of the table. Antony had made him king recently, and he was enjoying the title as only an elevated commoner can. Together he and Artavasdes would contribute six thousand fine cavalry and seven thousand foot soldiers to Antony’s army.

I looked down the table at all the men’s profiles—Antony’s still firm, no hint of a sagging chin or flaccid cheeks, but with lines at the corners of his eyes that had not been there in Rome, and scattered gray in his otherwise dark hair. Canidius, being older, looked it, his skin more like tanned hide than a youth’s. Dellius would have had a perfect profile, but his looks were spoiled by his pitted complexion and his habit of slicking his hair back. Plancus, like Antony, was not young but still in his soldier’s prime, as was Ahenobarbus, with his hawk’s nose and red beard only a little lightened by gray. Plancus’s nephew alone, the dark and caustic Titius, was of the next generation, a youth in search of glory. The rest were wary, less intent on performing astounding feats of arms than on annihilating the enemy in any way possible and returning safely. There was little of Alexander in them, little yearning for wider horizons or conquests; they fought for advancement in the courts of Rome.

“No, make that thousands,” Artavasdes corrected himself, with typical Asiatic exaggeration. Everything was in thousands and tens of thousands. “Tomorrow we will present a demonstration of falconry,” he said.

“Tomorrow we must review the troops and prepare to move,” said Antony. “The season is late enough already.” Indeed, it was quite late to begin, and time was precious.

“But, Imperator, can I help it that the snows refused to melt?” He twirled his ringed hands.

Entertainers filed into the hall, playing unfamiliar instruments: pottery rattles, bull-headed lyres, silver pipes. They had a tame lion that they led about by a silken leash; I wondered if they had removed his teeth, just in case.

Artavasdes had provided us with sumptuous quarters in his palace—an entire set of apartments, hung with tapestries and staffed with what seemed an army. But I found the quarters gloomy and oppressive, smelling of mold, and I did not wish to spend my last night with Antony in them.

“Tell your staff to set up your tent,” I suddenly said to Antony.

“What?”

“Your commander’s tent—the one you will use in the campaign,” I said. “I want to sleep in it with you.”

“Set up a tent on the palace grounds?”

“No, down by the river, where the army waits.”

Antony laughed. “Decline the king’s hospitality and tell him we prefer to sleep in a tent?”

“Put some other coloration on it. Say I wish to experience it, and this is the only opportunity I will ever have. That is true.”

“He will take it as an insult.”

“Tell him you must do it to humor me, as I am expecting a baby and have odd whims. Or say that you have a personal custom of spending the night before embarking with your men—that the gods commanded it and you dare not break the custom now, lest it jinx the expedition. Or tell him both stories.”

“Oh, very well. To be honest, I prefer my tent to this.” He looked around distastefully at the dank apartments. Then he turned back to me, suddenly. “Are you? Is it true?”

“Yes,” I said. “I had meant to tell you tonight, at a better time.”

“Then you absolutely must turn back. You cannot come any farther on this campaign. But—it seems that once again I will miss the birth.” He came over to me and put his arms around me, resting his chin on the top of my head.

It seemed fated that the fathers of my children would never be there when I gave birth. I would always bear them alone, with no one to show them to but Olympos.

“It is not your fault,” I assured him. Any more than it was Caesar’s fault that he had to be at war at the time. It was the price I paid for choosing soldiers for my children’s fathers. “I cannot ask you to cut the campaign short to hurry back to Alexandria by early winter. If I did, I would be aiding the Parthians.”

He held me to him tightly. “Always politics,” he lamented. “Even our most private and precious moments are governed by politics.”

“I was born to it,” I assured him. “I am used to it.”

Down by the Araxes, the tent was duly erected a little way from the common soldiers’ tents, who normally slept eight men to a tent. The troops greeted Antony with heartiness and affection, flattered that he wanted to be with them, and their genuine response made a glaring contrast to Artavasdes’ oiled flattery. In the falling light, enormous, fair-haired men crowded around him, calling out, “Imperator! Imperator!” These were the soldiers of the Fifth Legion, recruited by Caesar from native Gauls. They had served faithfully with him, even withstanding charging elephants in the battle of Thapsus; he had rewarded them with an emblem of the beasts for their ensign. There was also the famous Sixth Legion, the Ironclad, that had served Caesar in the fateful Alexandrian War, and gone on to revenge him at Philippi under Antony. They were as hardened as their nickname, leathery and sunburnt.

Around the campfire they raised their cups high, toasting us. They were ready to fight, eager to set out, straining like racehorses to be let loose. They had not fought since Philippi, and were starved for action and battle. As the flames bathed them in a bronze glow, almost turning them into statues, I felt the excitement of war, which stirs men’s hearts and obliterates thoughts of death. Defeat is never more unthinkable than on the eve of a campaign, drinking with one’s comrades before the campfire, polishing the spears.

And how they loved Antony! How they teased and toasted him, as if he were one of them. He seemed to know them all personally, asking after their friends, children, love affairs, injuries. Such things cannot be falsified.

We retired to the tent—a large goatskin one, stretched over an oak frame. Inside there were two folding camp beds, stools, a ground covering, and two lanterns, plus the water pitchers and basins. Antony gestured around, saying, “I hope this is austere enough for you.”

“So this is where you will live for months and months,” I said wonderingly. That he, who so enjoyed luxury, could switch to this.

“I will hardly notice it,” he said. “My mind will be on other things.”

We sat down together on one of the narrow beds. The lanterns gave off only a feeble light around us. “I will bring you victory, lay it at your feet,” he promised.

“And I will lay our new child at your returning feet,” I also promised. My task would be easier than his; my body would form the child, day after day, with no effort on my part.

Suddenly he took me in his arms, burying his face in my hair. He said nothing, but the tight grip of his fingers spoke for him. His silence was more telling than all his usual talk.

Together we lay back on the bed, its light frame creaking under the weight of two people. Still, neither of us spoke. There were so many words I had stored up to use—words of farewell, of good cheer, of love, of encouragement. Now not one of them would come. All I could do was run my hands through his hair, wondering if I would ever do so again, fearing that in our last embrace I was struck mute. But if it was our last embrace, what difference did it make what words I spoke, or failed to speak? It was too momentous; no words would serve.

With Caesar I had not known it was our last time together; this was worse. Better to be ignorant. Damn all leave-taking, curse all staged good-byes! With a cry I held him against me, my heart aching.

I took his head in my hands, and covered his face with kisses, as if I would map it all with my lips, trace it with my tongue. I wanted to remember the imprint of his body on mine, make it permanent; I could not hold him close enough. But I tried, until at last he broke the spell of silence, saying, “I love you,” under his breath, sliding his arms underneath me, clasping me to him so tightly I could hardly breathe.

With the amber-colored light of the lanterns sending out faint pulses of illumination, we twined our arms and legs about each other, twisting and turning on the suspended bed, straining to either banish or elevate the moment. I entered him as much as he entered me, and all our unspoken farewells surged through our bodies.

It was a short night. It seemed that dawn came up at midnight. But that was because I would have had the night never end, would have prolonged it until noon. By the time the first finger of light probed its way into our tent, the soldiers outside had already begun their day. Antony stuck his head out the tent flap and was greeted with choruses of teasing, and, indeed, it was embarrassing for him. He hastily pulled on his clothes, kissing me lightly and saying, “By midmorning I will inspect the legions and present them. I especially want to show you the siege machinery before it is loaded.”

I stretched. “Yes. I will be ready.” As soon as he had left, I got up off the flimsy bed and washed in the cold water that had been provided, then dressed in my traveling clothes. I looked around the tent once more, wondering what it was like to make this one’s quarters in heat and cold. I knew the Romans insisted on making ordered, fortified camp at the end of each day’s march, which added two or three hours to their day. No wonder they slept well at night—not only from the security of their guarded camps but from sheer exhaustion.

I left the tent and found that the entire army was milling around the riverbanks. It was huge—I had not appreciated just how many men a hundred thousand were, and how much equipment was needed: rolled tents, mules, wagons, stakes, food supplies, engineering tools. Each soldier had to carry on his person three days’ worth of food in a bronze box, as well as a kettle and a hand mill. He also had to carry his entrenching tools: a pickax, a chain, a saw, a hook, palisade stakes, and even a wicker basket for moving earth—all of that in addition to his javelin, his sword, his dagger, and his shield, and the heavy bronze helmet he wore. As I watched these sturdy men, thus laden down, I had to marvel that they could cover fifteen miles a day, day after day, and twenty-five on forced marches.

As Antony had told me, there were sixteen legions setting out for Parthia under his command. Some of them were seasoned veterans like the Fifth and Sixth; others were newer. Since each legion was considered a living entity, with its own history and often its own distinguishing emblem, when men were lost they were not replaced with new recruits. Thus a venerable, battle-tried legion might be considerably undermanned, with less than the usual five thousand soldiers. Antony’s now were about at three-quarters strength. New recruits were assigned to new legions.

This was the finest Roman army to set out in our times—perhaps in any time. Even Caesar had not had an army like this.

I saw Antony riding through the crowd, making slow progress because it seemed each man had a personal message for him. If he was impatient or his thoughts were elsewhere, he did not show it. How splendid he looked, there among his men; how easy it was to forget the hundreds of miles lying ahead of them, to be painfully and laboriously covered before the actual fighting could begin. Today, with the new-risen sun sparkling off the river, all the preparations seemed merely invigorating.