by Jo Graham
Her voice shook a little, finally. “You could have said what you meant, as Caesar did.”
“As Caesar did.”
“Yes.” Their eyes met.
“I am not your Alexander, or anything else out of a dream.”
“I know,” she said.
“I did love you. I do love you.” He put the cup down on the table with a clatter. “What do I have to do to convince you of that?”
“Act like it.”
Over their oblivious heads, Sigismund and I exchanged a glance.
“By laying vast territories at your feet as a symbol of my contrition?”
“By laying vast territories at my feet as your children’s patrimony,” she said. “You have not even seen them. I know perfectly well they are nothing to Roman law. Are they nothing to you as well, Antonius? I thought you a better father than that in Rome, and a better man.”
“How can I ask you for that?” He turned back to the wine table again. “Cleopatra, I have nothing to say. We can’t start over again. There’s too much between us, and always politics in the way.” He filled the cup to the rim. “If I had my way, I would come back to Alexandria with you and come to know the children, live in some reasonable way. But you know perfectly well that’s never going to happen. I am going to spend my life as a series of interludes between one battlefield and another until I die, playing games I never quite understand. Octavian’s a better player, Cleopatra. You last saw him years ago. You don’t know.”
“Then don’t play against him,” she said, standing up swiftly. “You have the East. Leave Rome to Octavian. Stop trying to roll dice against him to be the First Man of Rome. Do the thing that you do well. Choose territory you can hold and keep it. Forget the Senate and the people of Rome.”
“Stop being Roman,” he said blankly.
“Yes.”
There was confusion in Sigismund’s eyes, and I saw that he did not have the context I did—Ptolemy in the double crown and white warrior’s shenti of Pharaoh, nothing of Macedon about him, refusing to play games of regency in Pella while the Black Land waited. It had worked before.
“Come to Alexandria,” she said. “Let us build a successor kingdom in the East, you and I, to be ruled by Caesar’s son and our children after us. Octavian wants the West. Let him have it! We have more than enough.”
Antonius put the cup down again. “You will still have me.”
She blinked, and her eyes were wet. “Maybe.”
“I will swear my oath to you,” he said roughly, “I will swear by any god you like that I will never again put anything before you or our children.”
“Done,” she said, and stepped forward into his arms.
In Sigismund’s eyes I saw nothing but vast relief.
EMRYS HEARD THE GIST of the conversation from me and Sigismund both, though I did not give him all of the details. He and Sigismund had cups in hand, and I sat with them in a tavern in Antioch, a rare break from the Queen’s work.
“Can the leopard change his spots?” Emrys mused. “Leopards have, but the other leopards don’t like it.”
Sigismund poured more wine for all three of us. “Well, you and I, Emrys, we’ve already changed our spots. Would anyone at home recognize us the way we are now? When we joined up we thought we’d go home in sixteen or twenty years as rich men. But in sixteen or twenty years, is there any going home? My village on the headwaters of the Rhenus wouldn’t recognize me. I’d be as odd as a dragon there.”
“What are you going to do when you get your discharge, Sigismund?” I asked.
“Go back to Rome,” he said, taking a deep swallow. “I’ve a woman there, a widow with three children. She’s got a tavern in the Subura she’s trying to hang on to, and she could use a man about to keep the crowd civil. We’ve got an understanding. When I get out, we’ll get married.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said. “I wish you every happiness.”
“Yes, well,” he said, smiling. “Not as fancy as Emrys here, but a good future.”
“A better idea than being a gladiator,” Emrys said.
“Too old,” Sigismund said, cracking his knuckles. “I could have done it ten years ago. But I’m thirty-six. Not as fast as I used to be. It’s time to be done with campaigning. If that’s the leopard changing spots, it’s all to the good.”
“The other leopards don’t like it,” I murmured.
WE WINTERED IN ANTIOCH. All was preparation for the great campaign in the spring, in which the Parthian Empire should be defeated by Antonius as decisively as it had been by Alexander. I did not have much enthusiasm for the task. I could not shake the vague feeling of foreboding, that the entire enterprise was ill conceived and badly timed.
The plan was thus: Rather than advance straight upon Parthia, as Crassus’ disastrous expedition had, Antonius’ forces would advance northward, through Armenia, and then come down on the heartland of Media from the west. The first city to fall should be the city of Praaspa.
Alexander could have done it. Alexander had done it. But we did not have Alexander.
FOR THE MOST PART, the winter passed pleasantly. Emrys had one more year of service—this would be his last campaign. The Queen and Antonius were all smiles, and one never saw them except together, usually with Helios and Selene in tow.
Antonius had brought his oldest child east with him, Antyllus, who I remembered as the little boy shoved on Caesarion as playmate by Fulvia in the last days of Caesar’s life. Now he was twelve. He was a slim, well-mannered boy just reaching the age when it seems as if his knees and elbows were too big for the rest of him. He had the look of Fulvia about him, and he was very gentle with the twins. I thought that he was a little shy, something of a defect in the oldest son of the First Man of Rome.
Toward spring I had a week of worry when my blood didn’t come, and I wondered if Emrys and I had finally not been careful enough. I had not conceived since Demetria’s difficult birth, and was not at all certain whether or not I could, but we tried to take no chances. Still, as any good physician would say, such things are always uncertain, and celibacy the only sure barrier to conception. I was, after all, only thirty-three.
After a week, it came on hard, and I breathed a sigh of relief. There were children enough in my life, with Demetria, Caesarion, and the four-year-old twins. The prospect of another pregnancy and child just now seemed daunting.
In any event, another child was on the horizon, as three weeks later the Queen missed her blood. I knew how she loved all of her children, Caesarion, Selene, and Helios alike, but I confess that my first thought was “Not again!” Her pregnancy with the twins had been so dangerous and taxing on everyone, and very nearly tragic at the end.
Therefore, it was decided that when Antonius marched toward Armenia at the beginning of Roman May, we would return by sea to Alexandria. Antyllus would come with us, as Antonius thought him still too young for a military campaign.
Of all the times I had said farewell to Emrys, this one was the hardest. I wept, as I had not before.
“You worry too much,” he said with a smile. “I’m an old soldier and I know how to look after myself.”
“I know,” I said. “And I will make offerings in your name every day anyway.”
“It can’t hurt,” he said, and kissed me good-bye.
I DID NOT HAVE TO WAIT LONG for a letter. Soon after we reached Alexandria the first one arrived.
Hail Charmian,
We are advancing with eleven legions, and as yet have met no resistance to speak of. Therefore we have stripped the countryside of provisions, and our baggage train is grown very large indeed, so we do not lack for food. However, by necessity, we move very slowly, no faster than the pace of a laden mule. This chafes the light cavalry very much! Our Armenian allies are helpful, and they have many more horsemen than we do, so you see all is well. . . .
I wished this comforted me, but it did not. However, I had other things to think of. Caesarion had his own household now, and I h
ad charge of the twins in the nursery, who would at the end of the fall be joined by a little brother or sister. The doctors could only hear one heartbeat, something for which I made a thank offering in the Temple of Isis.
When Cleopatra appeared at festivals or on progress with Helios and Selene, people rushed to touch her, calling that she was Isis incarnate, the fertility of the Black Land personified. And so she seemed, her two beautiful children on either side of her, with Caesarion, the Horus of Egypt, walking behind.
Summer came on, and the Inundation.
The Queen’s belly swelled. The Temple of Hathor at Dendara was finished. Caesarion and Antyllus frightened everyone by sneaking out of the palace together and going about town in the middle of the night dressed as servants. Antyllus was scolded, and Caesarion lost the use of his horse for two weeks.
Iras and I laughed about it as soon as the boys were gone. “You do know,” she said to Cleopatra, “they do no more than we did.”
“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.”
Antonius’ Gamble
The 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.
SIX 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.