Egypt's Sister: A Novel of Cleopatra

by Angela Hunt

  When the ceremony had been completed, Octavian walked away, officially at war with Egypt.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Actium, a promontory on Greece’s western coast, was a common stop for travelers by sea. A five-hundred-year-old sacred grove dedicated to Apollo stood on its shore, and the area was known for skilled pearl divers.

  For several months, the Egyptian navy had been transporting legionaries to a base camp Antony had established there. According to reports, Cleopatra and Antony were encamped there, as well.

  On the first day of the new year, Octavian entered his third term as a consul of Rome. He commanded Agrippa to take charge of the Roman fleet, and before leaving the city, Agrippa asked me to travel with him.

  My first reaction was gratitude that he had asked and not commanded, which he had every right to do. But even though I felt grateful, I balked for several reasons. The first was obvious—if Romans despised Antony’s relationship with a foreign woman, how could they approve of Agrippa’s friendship with a foreign slave?

  The second reason was more personal—I had managed to discipline my heart since coming to work in Agrippa’s household, and I did not want to stir embers that could easily be rekindled.

  I did not speak of my second reason, of course, and after hearing my first, Agrippa only shook his head. “Commanders frequently travel with their slaves,” he said, “and you will not sleep in my cabin. I will find a safe place for you, but I want you nearby. You have insight and knowledge that may prove useful for Octavian.”

  So in March I found myself on a ship, sailing southward, toward Egypt. My heart lifted at the thought of Alexandria, but I had no assurance I would ever reach it.

  In swift order, the Roman forces captured the fort of Methone, in the south of Greece, and a string of garrisons along the coast. Soon we had established a camp on high ground at Actium. Octavian drew up his fleet and offered battle . . . but nothing happened. Rumors of sickness, high-level deserters, and desperation in Antony’s camp painted a bleak picture of the opposition, and I couldn’t help but wonder what Cleopatra was doing in the thick of it. Why hadn’t she remained in Alexandria with her children?

  One afternoon in late summer, we looked across the sea and saw smoke. Our scouts went out and returned with reports that Antony was dangerously shorthanded. He was preparing to engage us, but because he did not want his unmanned ships to fall into our hands, he set them ablaze.

  I was serving wine in Octavian’s cabin as he and Agrippa pored over a map with tiny wooden ships riding a paper sea. “Antony had five hundred ships when we arrived,” Agrippa said, “but from what we’ve heard, I doubt he’s able to man more than two hundred thirty now.”

  “And here are our four hundred.” Octavian moved the red ships closer to Actium. “If we load our ships with eight legions—”

  “Ninety men per galley.” Agrippa drummed his fingers on the map. “We will deploy near Actium and wait to see what Antony will do.”

  With Agrippa, I boarded one of those galleys and stood on deck as we stared across the sea. Antony had divided his fleet into four squadrons. One of them was Cleopatra’s ship, the Antonias, and I knew her vessel would be loaded with gold and silver, all her treasures. She would remain in the rear, keeping herself and the royal treasury safe.

  Agrippa walked over to join me—not so near it would appear we were standing together, but close enough for me to hear him. “We have heard that Antony gave an order to have the ships take their sails with them,” he said. “His men have to be wondering if the man is capable of winning this fight.”

  I cast him a quick glance. “I do not understand.”

  “Ships never carry their sails in battle,” Agrippa explained. “The canvas takes up too much room and makes a ship difficult to maneuver if the sails are raised. But if Antony told his captains to carry the sails, he is anticipating a need to escape. He is not as confident as he seems.”

  I gripped the rail more tightly.

  As we watched, Antony’s ships emerged from the narrow channel, rowing in unwavering lines, deploying in parallel columns that stretched between promontories. Squinting, I could see Cleopatra’s ship behind the front lines, as if she planned to observe the battle from the deck.

  We waited . . . and nothing happened. On both sides of the conflict, hundreds of men sat at benches beneath the deck, their ears tuned for the drum, their callused hands on the oars, their backs bent, ready to row.

  Our ships sat motionless as the sun rose to its zenith. Finally, Antony divided his boats into two groups. The groups moved toward each other, and we could barely discern what was happening. I saw Octavian’s ships surround Antony’s, and I glimpsed men fighting with shields, spears, and flaming missiles. Antony’s sailors launched flaming rocks from catapults while Octavian’s ships struggled to get close enough to board the enemy’s vessels.

  For two hours the fighting raged, then the wind shifted as it always did at that time of day. Without warning, Cleopatra’s ship unfurled its purple sails and moved steadily through the center of the fighting. Men on both sides of the fray stopped beating each other and watched as the Antonias moved brazenly through the battle toward the open sea.

  Agrippa pointed to Antony’s flagship. Unable to move due to the heavy fighting, Antony leapt from his vessel to a smaller boat and screamed at the rowers, determined to sail after the queen.

  Agrippa muttered a curse and slammed the rail. “What?” I cried, confused. “What’s happening?”

  “I should have known.” Agrippa gripped the rail so hard his knuckles whitened. “They took their sails—he did not think he might need to flee; he intended this move all along. Cleopatra waited until the wind changed, then she barreled through the opening we left for her. I should have kept our ships in a line. We could have captured Antony’s war chest.”

  Agrippa cursed again, then went below decks to share his frustrations with Octavian.

  The next morning, sunrise allowed us to see the aftermath of the battle more clearly. We saw that Antony had lost between thirty and forty ships. Of the one hundred thirty or so remaining vessels, none was willing or able to continue fighting. Octavian had won the day, but we did not know if Antony and Cleopatra were aware of the outcome . . . or if they even cared.

  Agrippa sent for me as we sailed back to Rome. When I entered his cabin, I found him standing behind Octavian, who sat at the desk.

  “Chava.” Octavian gave me an unusually bright smile. “Agrippa tells me you have been useful to him in this matter with Cleopatra and Antony. He also tells me that you come from Alexandria and are well-acquainted with Cleopatra.”

  I bowed my head. “Dominus speaks truthfully, as always. But I have not spoken with the queen in many years.”

  “I have a proposition for you.” Octavian picked up a statue of Mars on his desk and idly spun it on the wooden surface. “We will go back to Rome and plan our invasion of Alexandria—it is the next logical step, and it is necessary. We must conclude what we have begun.”

  I nodded, not willing to speak until he had finished.

  “When we leave for Egypt, which will probably be in the spring, we would like you to accompany us. We will take you to Alexandria, where we will send you to parley with Cleopatra on our behalf.”

  I blinked in utter astonishment.

  “If you do this for us,” Octavian went on, “Agrippa is prepared to offer you manumission, effective immediately. You have served both of us well—as a servant, a midwife, and as a trusted . . .” He looked at Agrippa. “What is she, exactly? Not a spy. Not an informant.”

  Agrippa turned to me. “I think friend is the word you are searching for.”

  Octavian slowly nodded. “Friend. Very well.” He smiled. “We will always be grateful to you.”

  For a long moment, my head swarmed with words. Finally my mind cleared enough for me to ask, “What is it you want me to do for you? Do you simply want me to talk to the queen?”

  Octavian smil
ed again, his face remarkably boyish. “I will give you terms you will communicate to her. It is my hope that she will respond more favorably to the words of a friend than an adversary. Your assistance will be invaluable.”

  I drew a deep breath as a dozen different emotions tore at my heart. Despite the pain she had inflicted on me and many others, I could not hate Urbi. I could not stand before her as Octavian’s emissary if he wanted me to deliver her to death. I could not cooperate if he wanted to humiliate a woman who had sprung from generations of kings, a woman who had been my closest friend.

  “I do not hate her,” I said, that realization becoming clearer by the minute. “And I cannot tell her that you want her dead.”

  Octavian smiled. “I assure you, Chava, I do not want her dead. I am prepared to offer her generous terms. If she will surrender Antony, I will preserve her life and her children’s lives. Is that not generous?”

  What could I do? I looked from one man to the other, then burst into tears. My hope—my dream—had not been accomplished through years of hard work, but in one miraculous moment. HaShem’s promise was being fulfilled, and I had done nothing to bring it about.

  Octavian extended his hand to me. “So, do you agree to this plan?”

  “I do. And thank you.”

  “Then go, get some rest. You will continue to live at Agrippa’s home until we depart for Alexandria. After that, you may go or stay as you desire. That is all.”

  Dismissed as abruptly as I had been summoned, I staggered from the cabin and walked to the railing where I clung to the wood and tried to maintain my balance. I was free. I was going home.

  I did not know what I would find in Alexandria after so many years away, but since HaShem had brought me back, I would trust Him. With a shiver of vivid recollection, I thought of a passage I had recently read in the Septuagint: “Trust in ADONAI with all your heart, lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.”

  He had prepared a path, and I was ready to walk on it.

  “The latest report from Egypt,” Agrippa explained over dinner, “is that Cleopatra and Antony have dissolved their Society of Inimitable Livers and established what they call the Order of the Inseparable in Death. The premise seems to be that they will end their lives together. Until then, they will fill their days with a succession of exquisite dinner parties.”

  I stared at Agrippa, unable to believe my ears. “Do you jest?”

  “Does that not sound like Cleopatra?”

  “It does,” I admitted, “but surely she won’t surrender so easily. She is nothing if not resourceful.”

  “They know we are coming,” Agrippa said, “and the time for negotiation has long passed, though every week Octavian receives envoys from Alexandria with new proposals.”

  “What does Octavian want? If she can remain on the throne, Cleopatra will give him almost anything. The throne is what she cares about. Being queen. Leading her people.”

  “Octavian wants Egypt and her treasures—for himself, and for Rome. He will be satisfied with nothing less. The question is this: Can Cleopatra be a queen in name only?”

  I fell silent and nibbled at a bread loaf. I was still uncomfortable dining with Agrippa; the urge to stand in the shadows and pour his wine had not evaporated. Though we did not share a dining couch, I would be glad when my time in his house came to an end. The gulf between dominus and slave had kept us apart, and I did not trust myself now that it was gone.

  “We sail next week,” Agrippa said, rising. Perhaps he felt as awkward as I did. “Are you looking forward to going home?”

  “Yes,” I answered without hesitation. And I meant it.

  Three weeks later, we were at anchor in Alexandria’s harbor. Antony made a token attempt at defending the city when Octavian’s forces landed, but within days our legionaries were encamped near the hippodrome, just outside the city walls. While we waited in the harbor, messages continued to fly between Octavian and Antony. Antony suggested that the two men settle their differences through one-on-one combat, commander against commander. Octavian dryly replied that there were many different ways by which Antony could die, implying that such a combat would not be one of them.

  The next night, Octavian had his men conduct an evocatio, a ceremony in which participants called on the gods of an enemy city to switch sides. Since Antony and the Ptolemy kings had identified Alexandria with Dionysus, the men called on that god to change his allegiance. Thousands of Octavian’s legionaries shouted and sang the gods’ praises at the stroke of midnight. Later we learned that Antony had heard the sound of music and concluded Dionysus had abandoned him.

  While I did not believe in Dionysus or any carved god, I pitied Mark Antony, understanding that in those moments he must have realized how worthless and empty his worship had always been.

  Soon after sunrise on the first of August, Antony sent his fleet to meet Octavian’s ship, stationing his remaining warriors on the high ground between the city walls and the hippodrome. But as soon as Antony’s ships came within sight of Octavian’s, they raised their oars and surrendered. Outside the city walls, the cavalry deserted and the remaining foot soldiers ran away.

  Antony reportedly went back to Alexandria, stunned, bewildered, and furious. At some point he received word that Cleopatra was dead, so he staggered through the streets shouting that Cleopatra had betrayed him by dying first.

  Though I did not witness these events, by the time I entered Alexandria, the story had spread throughout the city. Apparently the distraught Antony had gone to his chamber in the palace, taken off his armor, and commanded his slave to run him through. Terrified, the man turned away and fell on his own sword. Antony then stabbed himself in the gut and collapsed on his bed. The wound, while grievous, was not immediately fatal. In terrible pain, he begged other servants to end his misery, but they fled like frightened rabbits.

  Some of them found Cleopatra in the tomb she was building for herself. Antony’s servants told her what had happened, so she arranged to have Antony brought to her mausoleum where she had barricaded herself with her maids and her stores of gold, precious stones, and other priceless treasures. Half complete, the structure stood near a temple of Isis on a sandy strip of land with a commanding view of the sea. Rather than unseal the ground-level doors, she and two of her servants hoisted a litter bearing the dying Antony, then pulled him into the tomb through a high window.

  Face-to-face with the man she loved, Cleopatra beat her breast and smeared her face with blood from Antony’s wound. He did his best to calm her, they exchanged tender words, he drank a cup of wine . . . and then took his last breath.

  I have often wondered if Cleopatra slipped a potion into his wine, something to alleviate Antony’s pain and ease his journey into death. I suppose we will never know.

  I was a witness to the aftermath of those events. After Antony’s death, one of his bodyguards delivered Antony’s bloodstained sword to Octavian aboard ship. The most powerful man in Rome stared at it for a long moment, gazed at the dried blood on the sharpened edges, and abruptly withdrew into his cabin. Those of us who stood outside heard him weeping.

  “See how he mourns the man,” one of his advisors remarked. But I knew him better. Antony and Octavian had barely tolerated each other, for they could not be more different.

  I believe Octavian wept because the struggle was finally over. For years his leadership and authority had been balanced with Antony’s on an unsteady scale, and the weight could have shifted at any moment. With Antony gone, Octavian found himself free to solidify his role as the sole leader of Rome.

  Shortly after that, Octavian made arrangements for us to go ashore.

  As we entered the city through the Gate of the Sun, I realized that Octavian had never seen anything like Alexandria. Rome boasted of the same number of inhabitants as the Egyptian city, but Roman people and buildings were jammed together like teetering bricks forced into unreliable positions. Alexand
ria, on the other hand, had been thoughtfully designed by Alexander the Great. Its gleaming marble buildings occupied wide streets with room for vehicles and people alike. Life was more elegant in Alexandria, freer and far more luxurious.

  Crowds had gathered to meet the conqueror, and Octavian walked at the head of his entourage with Areius, an Alexandrian citizen and well-known philosopher. Clearly, the Roman wanted to win the people of Alexandria to his side.

  Many noteworthy events filled the following days, and I beheld them at a distance. I will not detail all of them, for my heart and mind were occupied with three things: Urbi, whom I had yet to meet; my father, who might still be alive in the city; and Agrippa.

  After Octavian’s tour of the city, he turned his attention to Cleopatra, as I knew he would. Before dying, Antony had reportedly told Cleopatra to trust a man called Gaius Proculeius, who served on Octavian’s staff. She sent for him, and Octavian allowed Proculeius to go to the mausoleum and stand in front of the barred door where he talked to the queen through a grating.

  After Proculeius reported back, I asked for an audience with Octavian. “Why not send me to the queen?” I asked, trying not to sound demanding. “I am ready to talk to her.”

  “Thank you for your willingness,” Octavian said, his tone chillier than it had been when he first broached the idea of my visiting Cleopatra. “But at the moment I want her to feel that she controls the situation, and she has not asked for you.”

  “She does not know I am here,” I pointed out. “If she did—”

  “She has threatened to set fire to her treasure,” Octavian countered. “So before anything else, I want her removed from that tomb. After that, we shall see.”

  The next day, Gaius Proculeius visited Cleopatra again in the company of Cornelius Gallus. This time Gallus stood outside the door and spoke to the queen while Proculeius mounted a ladder and climbed through the upper window. With a surprised queen and her treasure in his custody, Proculeius proclaimed Cleopatra Octavian’s prisoner and remained with her, her servants, and Antony’s body.