Cleopatra's Heir

by Gillian Bradshaw

  “Uncle,” now—and Ani suspected that this time Octavian did mean Caesar. He wondered again why he’d been selected as imperial confidant. “He remembers things in it, he says,” Ani volunteered hesitantly. “Horrible things, over and over again.”

  “My uncle suffered that,” said Octavian in a low voice. “He used to wake up from his fits and weep.” He met Ani’s eyes, and went on, very quietly: “It’s strange how much he reminds me of my uncle—my father, I should say, since he adopted me, but if I’m honest I still think of him as Great-uncle Julius. When they brought him in, unconscious from the fit, it all came back. Marcus and Areios were rattling on about what was wrong with him and when he’d wake up, and I knew, because I’d seen Uncle Julius in the same condition. He has that same trick Uncle Julius had, too, of looking at you like he’s just stepped down from Olympus, and that headlong look when he’s moved. Not the charm, though. Not his mother’s charm, either. No, you’re right, he’s had a miserable life.”

  There was a silence, and then Ani said hesitantly, “Lord, what are you going to do to the boy?” He did not so much want as need to know, but he also felt that, for some strange reason, Octavian wanted him—him specifically—to ask that.

  “He is too dangerous to be allowed to live,” Octavian replied at once. “You call him a boy, but I was that age when my uncle died and I was named his heir. Many people—Marcus Antonius among them—thought I was too young to be taken seriously. They were egregiously mistaken.”

  “But he doesn’t want to contend with you,” Ani dared, still feeling for what was allowed, afraid every moment to be slapped down again for insolence. “You heard him. Lord, you want him to disappear quietly, and that’s exactly what he wants himself. Ptolemy Caesar has been dead for a month. Couldn’t you say that Arion is just a young man who happens to look a bit like him? Nobody would believe that the son of Cleopatra was working as a Red Sea trader.”

  Octavian regarded him with an amused twist to his mouth. “You are like my stepfather. He never gave up on anything, either. You still want that young man as a partner. Did he sleep with your daughter?”

  Ani felt his face heat again. “No,” he said shortly. “—Not so far as I know. She’s a good girl, and I’m sorry she ever met him, because she won’t get over him in a hurry.”

  Octavian looked down at the knife he was still holding. He began to toy with it again. “I will tell you something. When Caesar named me as his heir, my stepfather advised me to refuse the inheritance. It would destroy me, he said, one way or another—and by that, he meant that either I would be crushed and killed in the contention, or that the deceits, cruelties, and betrayals I would have to practice in order to succeed would kill my soul. I loved Philippus, and I did consider doing as he said. Certainly I think he was wise. My soul is not quite dead, but I have felt pieces of it go: here a principle, there a cherished hope, and there a man betrayed.”

  “You want to spare him,” Ani said, suddenly understanding why he was there.

  Octavian looked up at him with another twisted smile. “When Cleopatra was my prisoner, she showed me some of my uncle’s letters to her. He did love her. When I was a boy I adored Uncle Julius, and as a man I owe him everything. He acknowledged Caesarion as his. He had no other son of his body. And that is his son, whatever I may say to the world. I was not convinced of it before, but I am now. Uncle Julius would not want me to kill him.” He sighed. “The boy annoyed me, with his assumption of superiority and his prating about the proscriptions. He has, though, exceptional courage, together with intelligence, eloquence, loyalty to his friends, and a conscience. I wish I had not met him. It was much easier to order his death before I had.”

  “But you are the emperor!” exclaimed Ani. “Why should you do something you don’t want to do?”

  “Leaving that young man alive would be like defeating an army and leaving it intact with all its weapons and its paychest,” said Octavian. “He is a threat to peace as long as he draws breath. Now he wants to disappear quietly, now his friends want the same—but a few years from now? Some unforeseen mischance—a failure of the inundation, a foreign invasion—and Egypt may be crying for a savior. Wouldn’t he appear again then?”

  “Lord, you heard him! He knows that if he did it would start a war and make everything worse. He acknowledged that only you can create peace. What, you think he was lying when he said he agreed that it was better for him to die? It hasn’t crossed his mind that you might spare him!”

  “I’m certain that he was saying what he believes to be the truth—now. But circumstances change, and kings, if they want to survive, adapt to them.”

  “He’s only a threat if he’s Ptolemy Caesar,” said Ani, coming closer and dropping to one knee to look the emperor in the face. “Arion’s no threat to anyone. And if he’s been Arion for a few years, who’ll believe he was ever Ptolemy Caesar? You killed Ptolemy Caesar, and everybody knows it. You could let Arion live.”

  Octavian slid the knife into its sheath and clenched both hands on it. He looked up into Ani’s eyes.

  “It wouldn’t be a life fit for a king,” Ani admitted. “It would be a merchant’s life. But he would be alive, and you would know. You would know that your uncle’s son still saw the light of day, that his blood still ran in living veins—perhaps that his line continued, however humbly, that you were not responsible for exterminating it. You could have both things: your enemy dead, and your cousin alive.”

  “Would you be responsible for him?” Octavian asked, in a low voice. “Would you pledge your life, and the life of every member of your household, that he would remain Arion, whatever happens?”

  Ani thought for a minute, then took a deep breath. “Yes, lord. I would pledge my life to that, and the life of every member of my household. Give him to me, and I will be responsible for him. I don’t know, though … I don’t know whether he’ll accept it. He is desperately proud, and he doesn’t value his own life. I think in many ways he regards death as a release.”

  “He loves your daughter,” said Octavian. “I will make him the offer. If he accepts, I will hold you to your pledge.” He got to his feet and strode to the door, flung it open.

  A short distance away down the dim corridor, Arion and Melanthe were standing together among the guards. Melanthe was inside the hoop of Arion’s shackled arms, and she was stroking his head. Everyone looked around at the open door.

  “Bring them back in,” ordered the emperor.

  There was a shuffling as the party reordered itself. Melanthe ducked out under the shackles then caught Arion’s arm. The little procession trooped back into the audience chamber.

  Ani remembered Arion on the boat between Ptolemais and Alexandria—the slow, shy, nervous unfurling of happiness. He felt a sudden desperate desire for that to go on. Arion, though, had been Arion only for one month. He had been Ptolemy Caesar all his life. How could he be expected to renounce everything he had been for something that had barely begun?

  Octavian sat down and inspected his prisoner again. “I have been discussing the situation with your friend Ani son of Petesuchos,” he announced. “He has made a suggestion. Are you familiar with the Electra of Euripides?”

  Arion stared a moment in baffled incomprehension. Then his face went white. “Caesar,” he began—and stopped.

  “Of course, in that play, the commoner did not fulfill the queen’s expectations,” Octavian went on remorselessly. “I would not permit such conduct from you.”

  “Caesar,” whispered Arion. “Caesar—I do not ask this.”

  “Ptolemy Caesar is dead. He must remain dead. If you live, it would be as Arion son of Gaius. You would renounce your former name and condition, and swear never to reveal it to anyone. You would leave Alexandria as soon as you are able, and never return. I would inform Archibios and Rhodon that I have had you put to death, and you would make no effort to contact them or anyone else who knew you in your former life. You would remain in the household of Ani son of Petesuc
hos, who has agreed to be responsible for your conduct, and who has pledged his life and the life of every member of his household that if I give you to him you will never disturb the peace of Egypt. Are you willing to accept your life on these conditions?”

  Arion said nothing. He turned a stunned face to Ani, then to Melanthe, who was suddenly ablaze with hope. He made an incoherent sound, clawed at the top of his tunic, then dropped to his knees. His eyes fixed on nothing with an expression of horror.

  “It’s a fit,” Ani said hurriedly, afraid that the emperor would be offended and withdraw his offer. “He’s—he’s overcome. You’ll have to wait until it passes, lord.”

  Octavian regarded the young man with clinical detachment. Arion had started to grind his teeth. He whimpered in horror. “He hasn’t fallen down,” he objected.

  “He doesn’t, with this sort,” Ani told him, obscurely ashamed to be discussing the affliction with such knowing calm. “He has this sort much more often than the other, but they don’t last long.”

  Octavian sighed. He looked around himself and then, from the same place under the couch where he’d taken the knife, lifted a familiar silk bag on a fine gold chain. “He said it was a remedy,” he remarked, and handed it to Ani.

  “Yes,” agreed Ani, and hurried over to hold it before Arion’s tortured face. “I can’t say I’ve noticed it doing anything to stop a fit, but I think it makes him calmer after one.”

  “Lord,” said Melanthe, looking at the emperor with shining eyes, “you are kind, and good, and I thank you with all my heart, and I pray that you rule Egypt in health and prosperity until my children are old.”

  “He hasn’t agreed yet, girl,” said Octavian—but he smiled smugly.

  CHAPTER XV

  Arion finished the oath and lifted his hand from the small pile of signets and amulets, all of them engraved with symbols of different gods, which they had used for the swearing—the private audience chamber could hardly accommodate an altar and a sacrificial victim. He found himself staring at the hand in the flickering lamplight. It looked no different than it had, but ten minutes before, it had been the hand of a deposed king, and now it was the hand of—what?

  He didn’t know. He didn’t know, and a part of himself was screaming that this was wrong, wrong, wrong; that he should have died—at Kabalsi, at Berenike, at Ptolemais, and certainly here in Alexandria, before he ever abased himself so far as to disown his very name.

  The rest of himself was wildly relieved.

  Melanthe was gazing at him rapturously. Part of himself wanted to kiss her; the rest stood, stunned and bereft, furious with her for being the cause of his destruction. She started toward him, but Ani checked her, somehow aware of the agony of his division. Arion was grateful to him.

  “I hope I do not regret this,” said Octavian.

  “I hope neither of us does,” Arion replied. “If you wish to change your mind, I will not protest it.”

  Agrippa was scowling. He disapproved. He had tried to talk his friend out of this extreme and unwarrantable clemency. Arion still didn’t understand why Agrippa hadn’t succeeded. He suspected, though, that Octavian had done it because he wanted exclusive possession of the name of Caesar—a thing which Caesarion would otherwise have kept even in death. Octavian had been unable to resist humiliating an enemy—twice: once in the degradation itself, and again in his own acceptance of it.

  He wondered if he would have agreed if he hadn’t already lost all dignity and resistance through the treachery of his own diseased brain. It was pointless, though, to try to imagine what things would be like without the disease. The disease was a part of him, and without it he would be another man entirely.

  “I have been considering what explanation to provide for today’s events,” said Octavian. “I have not been able to think of anything remotely satisfactory.”

  Ani coughed. “You thought we were someone else?”

  “Who?” asked the emperor. “I would prefer to avoid any mention of King Ptolemy Caesar.”

  “Spies,” Arion suggested, from the other side of the division he had made in himself. “You had received some intelligence which suggested that the king of Ethiopia had sent spies down the river to determine the strength and the nature of the new regime. Ani and I matched one description of the spies. After thorough investigation and intensive questioning, however, you concluded that we are merely merchants, and that the description you received was inaccurate or malicious.”

  “The king of Ethiopia?” Octavian asked curiously.

  “Ethiopia has a long-standing dispute with Egypt over mutual raiding on the border, land ownership, and the rights of certain temples at Philae and Syene,” Arion informed him wearily. “The king was wary of my moth—of the queen, but I would expect him to make a test of your strength within the next year.”

  “Indeed! I do not believe I have ever before had cause to consider the situation to the south of Egypt. Is the king likely to send spies?”

  “He has almost certainly done so already.”

  “Indeed! I had not been aware. The story will do very well, then—and I will ask Gallus to keep an eye on Ethiopia.” He eyed Arion. “I am appointing Gallus as governor of the province, and leaving him three legions, which, as I am sure you will appreciate, should be more than enough to deal with any trouble that arises—from Ethiopia or from any other source.”

  Arion bowed slightly.

  “I myself will be returning to Rome, setting out next month. I will, however, inform Gallus about you, under conditions of the strictest secrecy. Nothing will be committed to writing, and his closest confidants will not know. He will, however, be able to find you—and your friend Ani—if anything goes amiss.”

  Arion bowed again.

  “Marcus says that Gallus mentions in his letter that he offered you a job.”

  “As his secretary. For the languages, mainly. And some of the same tastes in poetry.”

  Agrippa made a noise of disgust. “He’s much too fond of poetry—especially his own. To offer a job to a young man he knew nothing about, who might have been, and was, anyone—the man’s a fool.”

  “I like poetry, too,” Octavian replied tolerantly. “But Marcus, secretaries who can manage Greek and Latin with elegance aren’t so common, and if you want one with the native language as well—which your mother must have insisted upon, yes?”

  “Yes,” agreed Arion.

  “I don’t think Gallus was a fool,” concluded Octavian. “The blood is still worth something, even if the trappings are lacking.” He looked at Arion levelly, then held out his hand. “I wish you joy.”

  Arion took the hand. It was cool and moist. Octavian, he thought, had the true phlegmatic humor. “I wish you joy,” he said, feeling something within him die—when they had parted, it would be done. He would have disowned his inheritance forever.

  He remembered at that thought one other thing he desperately wanted of this man. “Caesar,” he said, suddenly urgent, “my brother Philadelphus—what are your plans for him?”

  Octavian raised his eyebrows. “Why Philadelphus? You have another brother and a sister.”

  “I loved Philadelphus,” he replied honestly. “I never knew Alexander or Selene very well.”

  “They will all three adorn my triumph,” said the emperor. “On a carriage, I think, with a painting. No chains. The people will like it. After that, my sister has offered to take them. They are, after all, the children of that lout I made her marry. She is already raising Antonius’ other children, the ones Fulvia bore him.”

  Except for Antyllus, Arion thought to himself.

  “My sister is noble, gracious, and kind,” Octavian went on. “Your brother will be well cared for.”

  Cleopatra had loathed Octavia. Cold, smug, percilious little prig, she’d called her. Cleopatra, however, had been jealous: Octavia had married her man. Certainly Octavia had a reputation for piety, grace, and good behavior. She would undoubtedly see to it that Philadelphus was treate
d properly, that he was fed, clothed, educated, and provided for. As for love—well, a Roman matron of Octavia’s standing would hardly look after the children herself, anyway. Philadelphus would have his nurse. Maybe he’d learn to love Alexander and Selene, or his half-brothers and -sisters, the children of Antonius and Fulvia. It was the best that could be had.

  “Thank you,” Arion whispered. “I am in her debt.”

  He wished that he could see Philadelphus, if only to say good-bye. But they had parted before, and the little boy had heard that he was dead. Probably that wound was beginning to heal by now. Better not to reopen it.

  “Then, again, I wish you joy,” he told Octavian.

  “And you, cousin,” replied the emperor.

  Arion looked at him in surprise, but the emperor was signaling to the guards, and they opened the door to the private passageway and ushered his cousin away.

  It was night, and the guards had brought torches. Arion walked in silence, his shoulders hunched. He was very weary, and body and soul alike seemed one indistinguishable ache. He wondered, vaguely, what had happened to his cloak and hat, or the basket of spare clothing Melanthe had been carrying when he had the seizure. Abandoned on the street, probably, no doubt to the delight of some beggar. The money would certainly not turn up. At least Octavian had given him back the remedy. He touched it for reassurance, and wished he still had the knife. He heard Melanthe pressing close behind him, knew that she wanted to take his hand, but he did not look back.

  They emerged at last into the stable. He remembered coming here with Antyllus for riding lessons, remembered his beautiful bay stallion Perseus. He wondered if Perseus was still here, whether if he went to its stall the horse would recognize him and come over in quest of an apple from its master. If he did, would that be a breach of his oath to approach no one who had known him in his former life? Did a horse count as someone? He felt substanceless, a ghost caught in a shadowy dream.