by Jack Lindsay
“I don’t like them,” she said faintly, in a sinking voice.
Her words roused the birds, or their strength had returned. Frantically pecking once more, they flew up and disappeared over the bush-top. A woman passing, convulsed at some jest of her escort, uttered a jeer of vulgar laughter, which sounded like a cymbal-clash farewelling the birds with its taunt, though the lovers knew there was no connection.
“Why do you think they were fighting?” Daphne asked dubiously after a while.
“I don’t know,” said Victor sadly. “Perhaps they’d thought they loved one another.”
“More likely one was a husband who found the other in his nest,” said Daphne wisely, laughing somewhat constrainedly; then began to cry softly. “I can’t bear to hurt you.”
“I know you can’t, because I can’t bear to hurt you either. I can’t sleep if I’ve said anything harsh...”
“Neither can I.”
They were surprised to learn once more that they were both the same. It always surprised them, though they felt at the same time that it was impossible for things to be otherwise. They kissed, and were silent, kissing; and nothing more came between them. Only words robbed them of peace, and they had no more words to speak today.
*
Cleopatra was weary when she reached the Palace again. She kissed Caesarion on the brow and sent him to his apartments, told Antonius that she would see him at dinner, and ordered Olympos to be fetched.
“You have given me sleeping-potions,” she said in a meditative weariness, her hands clasped between her knees, her ceremonial breasts still bared with rouged nipples. “I want something stronger...Not to be taken yet. Perhaps never to be taken. But I must have it nearby.”
“There are many poisons,” answered Olympos, insisting on the plain word, for he no longer felt sympathy with her and the wish to palliate her sufferings; all his thoughts were with Daphne and he demanded straightforward dealing. He glanced at her supple form; she looked a young girl in the dim light, despite the fatigued lines of her body, her drooping hands. “Some poisons are painful.”
“It must be quick and without pain.” She looked up, dark patches showing under her eyes where the cosmetics had begun to wear. “Neither must it discolour or puff up the dead body, nor make it rot before it can be embalmed.” She twined her fingers together, speaking clearly.
“I will look into the matter.”
“You know all about it already.” Her voice became once more weary. “Don’t play with me.”
“The combination you ask is not easy. Quick poisons are mostly painful. The best that I know is the venom of the cobra. It is used upon the condemned in your prisons.”
“I will go and see its effects. If it is suitable, you must make me up a potion from the venom. And say nothing of this to anyone.”
She rose with a low laugh, as if relieved after a decision, took up the serpent-crown from the table on which it lay, and placed it on the head of Olympos.
“Is it very heavy?”
“Too heavy for an old man who wears no headgear.”
“It has crushed me.” She took the crown again from his head and studied the cobra modelled upon it. “Ra visits his wives in the form of a snake. Ra has wedded me, all Egypt knows. I am the wife of the snake, Olympos.” She smiled at him. “You are a good old man; and the only person beside myself who has worn my crown. Can you guess why?”
“Certainly, my lady,” he answered in a subdued voice. “Because I have the least wish in all Egypt, in all the world, to wear it. Your crown or anyone else’s.”
“Do you know, Olympos,” she said, reluctant to let him go, wishing to justify herself before the voiceless accuser, “I have been true to my two men. First to Caesar and then to Antonius. Entirely true. Yet neither has been true to me. Is not that humiliating?”
“Virtue cannot humiliate its possessor,” he answered humbly, wondering if the moral tag had any meaning.
“I had lovers before that,” Cleopatra went on, only half to Olympos. “Many of them. Once a dozen in a night. Therefore am I all the more proud of my faithfulness throughout these years. For when a girl gets a taste for such things, it is seldom that the woman can lie lonely in bed. And I have known many lonely nights.”
“You have always been as lonely,” said Olympos with quickening realisation, looking at her sharply and seeing her in the truth of her nature.
Cleopatra made no reply, wondering why she had told the lie about the dozen men; and Olympos felt his glowing certainty of penetration fade. Was that certainty the inner meaning of love, the meeting of infinitely distant tendrils of self which were stimulated by the mating of bodies? However that might be, it was very hard to preserve a moment of illumination, to see clearly into another, right into the heart of identity.
“I’m tired,” said Cleopatra in the voice of a complaining child, and Olympos bowed and left her. She clapped her hands, and the maids crowded round the curtains, to wash and scent her, to change her semi-Egyptian garb for a Greek gown. As they were braiding her hair, Antonius entered impetuously, brushing aside the eunuch door-keeper.
“They’re advancing on Cyrene,” he said, waving a despatch. The day of public activity had returned him to confidence. “I’m going to take part of the fleet and sail for Paraitonion. We can hold Egypt if we keep them from making a base there. Once I gain Paraitonion, I’ll soon bring all Cyrene to heel. Then I’ll lead the army into Iudxa and Syria.”
“As you will,” answered Cleopatra, trying to react to his enthusiasm. Certainly Egypt could be defended if sufficient energy and leadership were shown, and one real reverse would shake Octavianus. But she felt tired, and Caesarion had looked so worn-out, and she had no faith in the returning spirits of Antonius. “Still, you must not enter my rooms so unceremoniously.” She turned back to the mirror held by a slim negress, and the murmuring girls surrounded her afresh.
Antonius gave a look of rage at her bared back, whistled, and went out, patting the eunuch on the cheek.
“Throw me out next time, old lad,” he said, squaring his broad shoulders and winking. Hercules, he’d beat the enemy and then give Cleopatra a public spanking.
9 FORLORN HOPE
No sooner had Victor unwillingly reported for duty than he heard the news of the expedition. It was of no interest to him that Paraitonion was only about two hundred miles along the westward coast; for if Antonius went there first, heaven knew where he’d go next. Victor was conscience-stricken for not having obeyed Daphne and pleaded at once with Antonius for freedom. He would never see Daphne again if Antonius was to go warring outside Egypt. He met her and told her the news, and they wept, clinging piteously to one another.
“You must speak to him now.”
“No, now is the worst possible time,” he answered, with mingled terror and resentment. “If I asked him now, he’d think I wanted to desert him. Can’t you see that? But he’s sure to take the place, and then he’ll come back. That will be the right time. He’ll be ready to give anyone anything.”
Daphne was unconvinced, but had to acquiesce. Victor talked on till he was quite sure that Antonius would return triumphantly; then would be the moment to appeal. Growing sure of this he refused to heed Daphne’s tears, and, overcoming the feeling that she was trying to force him to ruin, he consoled her magniloquently, so that while they were together they grew filled with soaring dreams. They even quarrelled over the kind of furniture they were to buy, and the kind of bathroom they would have, and whether they’d plant olives or castor-trees.
Antonius was in earnest. He sent his officers travelling round at post-haste; and in five days the fleet of his selection was stocked, equipped, and manned; a legion had been withdrawn from Pelusion on the eastern border where the troops were concentrated, and distributed among the ships as marines; and Cleopatra, surprised from her despair, began to feel that there was hope after all. Egypt was so easy to defend. No attack could be made from the south; if Paraitonion was held, no atta
ck could be made through the western deserts; the Pelusiac swamps guarded the east, and the isthmus could be guarded confidently. Only if the enemy had a very strong sea-power could a frontal assault be made. Therefore if Antonius safeguarded the west, there was no reason why he should not afterwards checkmate Octavianus in Syria. One victory, and the East would again sway towards Antonius, the familiar Dionusos-figure. This time there would be no divided counsels such as had wrecked the last campaign; there would be no pretence of restoring the Republic of Rome and the hierarchy of financiers and a corrupt governing class (all in the name of Liberty); the issue would be plain. The East with the mysticism of its collective aspiration, the demand for a unification of power, would stand against the restless individualism of the West, its crafty liberalism. The East would conquer.
*
The fleet had been anchored On the sea-front between the Timonion and the Palace; but the flagship was to sail from the Royal Harbour. Antonius had sickened of the imposing hulks of vessels with five or six banks of oars; at Actium he had seen the damage inflicted on them by the more manageable Liburnian galleys; and now he had chosen ships with two or three banks. He himself was sailing in a trireme. Also, he wanted to move quickly, to manoeuvre with ease; he was tired of all grandiosities, and dressed in an ordinary staff-officer’s uniform, keeping only his scarlet paludament to mark him as commander; all his elaborate corselets, scabbards, and helmets were laid aside.
Victor forbade Daphne to come to the quay, saying that she would give herself away and would make things more difficult for him; but Olympos was there, standing in the rear of Cleopatra’s train, wryly smiling and looking out for Victor, having promised Daphne to bring her word that no accidents had happened. Perhaps, however, it would be best if the boy was killed in the war; but Olympos could not bring himself to wish it. Instead he looked at the Queen.
She was dressed in a straight-cut gown of fine Amorgos-stuff, wearing a purple-dyed hat with very shallow crown and very wide brim, held in its place by fillets tied under her chin; and the purple dye, a necessary token of her royalty, treated her face unkindly.
Still, she was bearing herself with queenly grace and assurance.
Olympos closed his eyes and saw her in another setting. Early that morning she had visited with him the condemned cells at the rear of the Dikasterion, to see the cobra sting condemned prisoners. There had been two prisoners under sentence, a girl and a man. The Queen asked what the girl had done, and learned that she had murdered her husband by getting him drunk and then driving a rusty nail into his heart with a wooden mallet. The Queen stared at the half-swooning girl and then said, “Let her go.” She refused to hear what the man had done, but ordered the cobra to be applied at once to his breast. The cobra with its flattened head, as if someone had trodden on it, so that its tongue flickered in throes of panged revenge...The man had crumpled up, died on the pavement, showing the whites of his eyes, but there was no discoloration or swelling of the flesh, and he died quickly. The fetid smell of the jail. The corpse would be presented to the Surgical Faculty. “Make me a phial of cobra-venom,” said the Queen. Nothing more; her skirts held close against her shapely ankles.
Now she was farewelling Antonius, shining with the certainty of success, although the purple light sallowed her face a little, brought out a greenish tinge visible at least to the eyes of Olympos. A slight discoloration, but no swelling as yet. A slow death.
I should like to see her die nobly, thought Olympos, and then I should have no regret; but if anything happened to Daphne, I should regret it for ever, however noble it might seem. Quite irrational. It was disturbing to find himself as irrational as all the others, when he had considered his life perfectly systematised and only the nature of the arteries unproven. Nothing was proved. He knew now that he knew nothing about the body—except that it was everything, was the universe. Sad, penetrating thought.
The ship had been strewn with flowers and hung with garlands and pennons; and the court-girls were pelting flowers at the party of officers. The sails had been run up, for show. On the sail of the main mast was painted a large image of Isis benignly blessing the ship, and on the sail of the foremost was painted a K. A gay carpet had been hung over the stern, under the carving of the twin-brother gods. The quayside was filled with chatter and laughter.
Victor had boarded early, to get away from the crowd with their endlessly repeated remarks of inane farewell, the weak jokes that created such a gust of merriment from people brightly ill at ease. He wandered about in the inside of the vessel, which showed like a dim melancholy cloister; the movable seats of the rowers, installed only yesterday, made a complicated geometrical pattern of ascending and retreating lines; resting on planks that ran sideways from the foot of one of the deckstays to the top of the stay behind. Light floated shadowily across the covered space through the hundreds of oar-holes.
He climbed up on to the parodos, the encircling gangway; but everything was so bare that he could find no rest for his uprooted spirit, and he went out on to the deck again, where the flowers and flags lessened the sense of crude emptiness without slaking loneliness. The ship was going to be crammed; no luxuries as on the Antonias, the old flagship.
The soldiers were gathering on the quarterdeck and the platform below; the sailors were grinning round the fore-castle, thrusting out their hairy chests before the ladies of the court on the quay. Antonius had gone ashore again for some further last words with Cleopatra. The rowers filed along the side of the quay, and climbed up the narrow rear-plank, each man with a leathern apron and an oar of firwood. They disappeared below.
Antonius, who a moment past had been fuming to leave, had fallen into a deep conversation with Cleopatra, spreading out his hands, his brow lined. Everyone was looking at him and the Queen. The band played under the yellow awning on the right. At last Antonius finished what he had to say; he clasped the hands of the Queen; they both smiled. He turned and raced back to the ship. At a whistle the seamen sprang at the ropes and brought the sails rattling down. Isis swayed for a moment, then crumpled pathetically, was crushed, fell in distorting creases to the deck, and went out of sight. All was a bustle. The plank was hauled aboard, ladders were drawn over the bulwarks, ropes creaked and rasped, hawsers were unwound, poles pushed the ship from the quay. The trumpeter on the quarterdeck pealed forth his call. The oars appeared at the oar-ports, were adjusted, dipped into the water. The ship swung out. The half-submerged beak with its three prongs cut at the creaming waves. The oars gripped, lashed the water, rose into the air. The oar-rudders clattered out. The cry of the boatswain was heard. “O-op op!” O-op for the pull and the jerk of recovery, op for the stroke. The rowers answered in chorus, “O-op op!”
The ship’s-musician shrilled in time on his flute. The ship lurched, resisted, then gathered strength, and shouldered forwards, the timbers straining. Out of the Royal Harbour the trireme went, between the narrow jaws of the entrance and the cheers of the dock-guard. At once the other ships beyond signalled for their anchors to be raised, and followed after the admiral’s ship. Soon the whole of the Great Harbour was covered with warships converging towards the Lochias Promontory.
Victor climbed up on to the quarterdeck, slinking past the group of officers. He went to the extreme aft-platform, disregarding the shrine of Isis-Aphrodite and the Saviour Twins. The sternpost curved up overhead, turning into a swan-curve and carved with the head and beak of a swan. Victor saw only the disappearing city, and a tiny form in white dwindling on the sea-front. He knew it wasn’t Daphne and yet believed that it was. Then the white smudge was lost, and the ship slithered and heeled, meeting a stronger surge outside. Daphne was lost.
*
There was nothing to do except quarrel with Eros. Three days sail to Paraitonion: that was the calculation. Antonius wished to arrive fresh and with the whole fleet intact. The first night was spent in an uninhabited inlet. The weather was calm, and the sailors were not instructed to draw the ships ashore (for which p
urpose war-ships had a false oak-keel), since the coast was rocky: a dangerous place in which to be caught by a storm. But the pilots swore that no storm would come, and the risk was taken. Antonius was in his most jovial mood, and called all the ship’s officers to dine with him, except the boatswain and forecastle-chief, whom the captain, chief helmsman, and purser considered to be of a definite lower ranking. Even as things were, each officer was very much on his dignity and fearful that the others would presume. But Antonius ignored their stiffness, drinking gaily; for with action he had lost his dread of drunken obsessions, and the wine had little effect on him. Lucilius was there, drinking also, and other officers, centurions and tribunes.
A brazier had been set out on the deck, attracting mosquitoes and insects from the shore. Antonius boasted as he drank. Everyone was pleased, except the helmsman who considered himself snubbed by the attentions paid to the purser. Antonius had had rations of wine shared out for all aboard, and below deck the rowers were gabbling together. The sailors lay on the forecastle-roof, telling lies about Alexandrian girls, and soldiers were grouped on all sides. The other ships were clustered round at anchor, with stern-lights showing. A large lantern had been hoisted to the mast-head of the flagship.
Victor and Eros amused themselves by throwing into the water any scraps or oddments they could find, watching the splashes of light. Though not on speaking terms, they could hardly refuse to share their boredom; and each played silently, as if unaware of the other.
“Borios told me that he kissed your piece,” said Eros at last, when they had used up every missile and sat fanning away the insects.
Victor wanted to pay no attention, but couldn’t hold his tongue. “Borios is a liar.”
But his pulse was beating faster; perhaps Borios had really kissed Daphne...However, he meant to get his own back on Eros. He went on: