by LYDIA STORM
The death of a Roman general had saved the throne of Egypt once before. When Caesar first arrived in Alexandria, so many years ago, the head of his enemy, General Pompey, had been presented to him as a gruesome present, and Rome had allowed Cleopatra to ascend the throne. Not that she had murdered Pompey, just as she did not now ask Antony for his head. And yet, wouldn’t his head allow Cleopatra to keep her throne?
He had failed Caesar and failed his soldiers. Perhaps he might not fail Cleopatra and their children.
He sat with himself and the stirring song of the waves all through the night until the sky began to brighten and the awful clarity came to him.
How to say goodbye to a world, which he could feel now with the stirring ocean air and the cry of the sea birds, was still so vibrantly alive? The world was through with him. Even Cleopatra, whom he still loved despite everything, surely despised him. The noble Queen could feel nothing but contempt for a man so corrupted by weakness.
Yet, he longed more than ever to feel her soft arms around him, hear her low voice whispering in his ear, the musky perfume of roses and myrrh enveloping them.
He remembered her as she had been on their first night together on her barge in Tarsus. She had been dressed in a robe of gold, her black-lined eyes burning with a feverish light. The memory of it had been branded into his soul. No matter what she was: witch, Goddess, woman he could only now, when the moment of passing was so close, long for her kiss to take his breath away….
But his blade beckoned.
Antony turned his mind from Cleopatra to his weapon. He placed the point against his hard belly and took a deep breath. The waves outside his window were sparkling with sunlight and the dingy little room seemed now aglow. The sky was clear and blue, and a soft breeze fanned the warm Mediterranean air gently across his face.
Let me die now, in this moment.
Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, tensing his strong arms for the plunge. But feeling something change in the room, he looked to the doorway.
Cleopatra stood there, her black hair uncombed and streaming across her heaving breasts, her face as pale as the lotus blossom. Their eyes met and his sword slipped from his hands, clattering to the floor.
Before he knew what was happening, Cleopatra knelt on the floor, her arms wrapped around his broad chest and the warm smell of her perfume rose up around them.
He grasped onto her like a lifeline.
She turned her face up to his and the naked pain in her eyes filled him with regrets. “Antony, how could you leave me alone?”
It was the question of a woman, not a queen or a Goddess. Antony smoothed back her hair and held her beautiful face in his hands. “I’ve failed you––”
“No!” she protested. “You have not failed. Do you really believe we could do anything that is not the will of the Gods?” Her eyes searched his, as if to read the secrets of his soul. “Only, no matter what they bring us, don’t turn away from me. There’s no grief too painful, no defeat too terrible. Even if death is to be our fate, don’t leave me alone in it!”
He looked away from her imploring eyes. “How can you even stand the sight of me? I’ve brought you defeat. I’ve lost your throne. You want me to stand with you, but for what?” He searched her face as if it were a puzzle he could not put the pieces to. “Octavian has won. The whole world shouts that he and Rome have won and we have failed.” He rose, and turning his back to her, pressed his brow against the wall of the hut. “I can’t live with the dishonor of my failure.”
“Oh no, Antony, you’re wrong,” she said passionately. She grasped his strong arms in her hands. “The dishonor is not in the failure. The dishonor comes in giving up! Antony think, in Rome there is not a single theater, only coliseums where the people amuse themselves with the torturing of innocent people and animals. Your daughter, Antonia, will not inherit your holdings or villas, because women have fewer rights than slaves in Rome. Good honest men are crucified there, merely for speaking the truth.
“If Octavian is allowed to, he will found a Godless Empire of empty conquests where men will never be sated with enough gold, or blood, or glory to fill the void inside them. The corruption of Rome will spread like a disease throughout the world and no place will be safe from it. Can you imagine the horror Octavian will bring then?
“In all the world we are the only ones strong enough to challenge him! If Egypt falls, all the culture and knowledge, all the mysteries which make life worth living fall with it. The world will change forever into a place of darkness where greed, power and ambition are prized above all else. I have seen it in my visions. Let it not be said that we abandoned the world to this barbarian without a fight! You spoke of dishonor––there could be no greater dishonor than that.”
Antony sat motionless, gazing at the floor.
Cleopatra looked at him questioningly. “Antony?”
He looked up and touched her hands, which still rested on his broad shoulders, and held them tenderly for a moment. His eyes fell on the sunlight dancing on the blue green waves and he opened his lungs to breathe in the fresh scent of sea air.
“Then let us fight…to the end.”
***
Though leaner than before, dark hollows still shadowing his eyes, Antony sat tall in the saddle, his scarlet cloak flung across his broad shoulders as he urged his stallion forward, leading his legions into the rising sun and Octavian’s approaching army. He cast one quick glance back to catch a final glimpse of Cleopatra. She stood surrounded by her courtiers, just outside the walls of Alexandria, her white robe and golden crown almost blinding in the sunlight.
Would he ever see her again?
Fixing his eyes on the vast desert before him, Antony let loose a wild battle cry and urged his mount forward. His men picked up the call and the legions tore across the powdery sand like thunder.
At twilight they set up camp for the night. The fires of his men were dwarfed by a sea of tiny lights not more than a league away, like so many twinkling stars fallen to earth in the Egyptian desert––the campfires of Octavian’s army. Antony looked out across the desert at the seemingly unending legions of Rome and his heart sank. How could he ask his soldiers to go to certain death fighting their own countrymen?
As he made his way across the camp it was unusually subdued. There were no dice games or rowdy drunken songs taking place around the fires. No glorious tales of battle recounted by the more seasoned soldiers to an audience of fresh recruits. All was silent and depressed as dusk settled into night.
Antony retired to his tent, too disheartened to mingle with his soldiers, as was his usual practice on the eve of battle. There would be no brave speeches tonight, only quiet prayers for survival.
He sat down to the sumptuous meal his steward set out for him. Cleopatra had seen to it that his army went out well fed, at any rate, thought Antony, chewing on a tender bite of roast goose stuffed with figs. He looked up as a figure in a hooded cloak quietly slipped through his tent flap.
“Antony, forgive me for coming so late,” said a familiar voice.
A broad smile spread across Antony’s face as Germanicus wearily pulled down the hood of his cloak and stepped farther into the tent.
“Well,” said Antony rising, “I had not thought to lay eyes upon you again, my friend.”
A slight frown creased Germanicus's brow. “Have I ever deserted you in your hour of need?”
“Never,” replied Antony, touched at his commander’s loyalty, especially now when it was suicide to join forces with him.
“There’s someone with me I hope you will not be unhappy to see.” Germanicus actually sounded nervous.
“Not an enemy I hope?” asked Antony cautiously.
“I hope you will not consider me so.” Octavia slipped through the tent flap to stand by Germanicus’s side.
“Octavia…” Antony whispered, astonished to see her.
“I hope you’re not angry with me for coming. I haven’t come…my only reason was to help you
defeat my brother.”
“I can’t believe my eyes!” Antony still gaped at her.
“Antony, we’re here as your loyal friends,” said Germanicus. “But also as Octavian’s enemies. He has been crowned Emperor by the Senate. There’s no one in Rome for him to answer to now.”
“But you must know there’s nothing to be done,” said Antony. “I seek battle in the hope of winning an honorable death––nothing more. I can’t defeat Octavian with two legions to fight his twenty.”
“Don’t give up so easily,” urged Octavia. “There are more ways to defeat him than on a field of battle.”
“Perhaps there are,” replied Antony thoughtfully. “But the battlefield is the only playing ground I know. If I can’t defeat him here, then I never will.”
Tears brimmed in her soft blue eyes. “Are you determined to fight tomorrow?”
“I am.” Antony smiled and the ghost of the charming Roman youth he had once been seemed to animate him for a moment. He uncorked a jug of wine and filled a goblet to the brim. “Let us drink one last time together in honor of the good things we have shared and may all the bad times be forgotten in our graves.”
Antony spilled the wine on the ground to honor the Gods, the crimson drops like blood against the desert sand. He drank and passed the goblet to Octavia, who also slowly brought the cup to her lips.
As Germanicus took the wine, he glanced at Octavia. “May all crimes, known and unknown, be forgiven between us now,” and he drained the cup dry.
“Well then,” said Antony, “it’s time for us to say goodbye. May the Gods smile on you both and bless you.”
“But we’re not leaving,” said Octavia distressed. “We’re here to fight with you!”
“There’s nothing you can do to help me here. Germanicus, who's a seasoned commander, knows this.” Antony looked intently at his old friend. “But as you say, Octavian must not be allowed to rule Rome unchecked. You alone are untouchable, Octavia, and with Germanicus at your side, perhaps you can use your influence for good back home.”
“But we can’t leave you to die,” she insisted.
Antony took her slender white hand and pressed it affectionately in his own. “You will not understand this, but here in Egypt I have learned things. Things about the Gods and worlds beyond our own. I can’t say I even understand myself, but I’m not afraid to die an honorable death if the Fates decree it.” He gave her hand a squeeze then let it drop. “This is not your battle to fight and it is not your hour to die.”
Octavia stood quietly absorbing Antony’s words, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. Germanicus gently placed her mantle around her shoulders. “We must go now.”
She looked up at Germanicus. Their eyes met and Antony saw what passed between them. He smiled to himself. At least he had not completely destroyed any chance of happiness for his former wife.
Octavia turned back to him. “May your Gods watch over you, Antony.” Standing on tiptoe she kissed his cheek. He felt a surge of love for her, as for a beloved sister, as she smiled through her tears and pulled the hood over her golden hair.
“Remember me to Antonia. Give her my blessings,” said Antony.
“I will raise her to honor the life of her father,” she promised.
“Farewell,” said Germanicus, his eyes locking for a moment with Antony’s. They both knew they would never meet again. Germanicus struck his heart in the formal sign of respect.
Antony clasped his commander’s shoulders firmly. “Farewell Germanicus. Take care of Octavia.”
Germanicus nodded and Antony watched his oldest, and last, friend retreat from the tent into the cool desert night.
I am truly left with only you now.
Cleopatra’s haunting face rose before him in his mind’s eye. Or was it the face of the Goddess? After so many years, he still found it difficult to know the difference.
***
The trumpets roused Antony just before dawn and the ominous sound of his enemy’s instruments echoing across the sand to where he stood watching his men prepare for battle awakened a deep sense of foreboding in him.
With his head high and his shoulders thrown back, Antony marched to the front of his legions and mounted his warhorse––the finest in all of Cleopatra’s stables, its glossy black mane and golden ornaments reflecting the rising sun. As the trumpets blared again, his well-trained men fell behind him in perfect ranks.
He called out his command and spurred his horse forward, thundering across the desert with his sword raised, his breastplate shining like fire, and with the fierceness of a wild lion, headed straight at the heart of Octavian’s massive legions.
***
Cleopatra awoke with the remnants of her dreams still clinging to her mind, like wisps of spiderwebs, one thin strand of memory leading to another. Flashes of Antony sitting solemnly in a narrow boat, the Jackal God navigating through the misty Land of Reeds sent a thrill of dread through her.
He’s dead. Or will be.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she rolled back against the pillow, willing her mind to go blank. She closed herself to the black hole that was opening up inside of her. Later she would admit it, feel it. But not now. Not yet.
She pulled off her covers and went to the balcony overlooking the harbor. The port was bustling with activity as merchants loaded up whatever they could grab and refugees paid exorbitant sums to gain passage out of Alexandria before the Romans arrived at the city gates.
Charmion stood watching the people go. Feeling numb, Cleopatra squeezed her friend’s shoulder comfortingly. “Free all the palace slaves and let my personal attendants have their leave. Tell them to take whatever furniture or valuables they like from the palace. It will be that much less for the Romans to steal and they will need something to sustain them in the days ahead.”
Charmion bit her lip. “My Lady, what of Antony? Are you so sure he has failed us?”
Cleopatra frowned and turned away. “Antony has not failed us,” she snapped. “He simply was not able to defeat Rome’s legions.”
She turned to Iris and Apollodorus as they entered her chamber. Both looked calm but deathly pale.
Apollodorus, never one to dispense with formality, even now at the collapse of the ten-thousand year reign of the Pharaohs, bowed before her. “Queen of Heaven, the people of the city are in a panic. They’re fleeing from Alexandria in droves and those who remain are barricading their doors and stealing food from the bazaars. It’s utter chaos in the streets.”
Cleopatra pressed her fist against her brow. What could she do? She had no army to protect her people. “I can do no more for them. What men I had are with Antony in the desert.”
None of this could be real. Alexandria about to be taken? Antony dead? She shook her head to clear her thoughts but nothing could remove the sick, heavy feeling in her chest. “We must go.”
“Abandon the city?” asked Apollodorus in shock.
“No, never that,” said Cleopatra. “We must go to the very heart of it––to my tomb.”
The High Priest stood silent for a moment, digesting Cleopatra’s plan. Then he nodded.
Tears sprung afresh to Cleopatra’s eyes. How many tears had she shed these past months? But she would not feel what was going on. She turned abruptly and marched down the hall leading from her chambers to the secret passage which would take her to the tomb. Her retinue followed close behind. She wracked her brain as she passed through the labyrinth of Lochias Palace. Was she forgetting anything? But she knew in the place she journeyed to, she would need very little.
Cleopatra’s party made their way through the twists and turns of secret passages and hidden doors, until they arrived in the Temple of Isis where the silver statue of the Goddess greeted them, shimmering and vibrant in the torchlight.
Inside the temple nothing had changed. The priests and priestesses went about their day as usual and the smell of damask roses floated through the dimly lit halls of the sanctuary. Cleopatra’s heart swelled with
gratitude and pride. At least Rome, and the fear it inspired, had not touched this sacred place yet. Still, she felt obliged to allow these holy people to seek refuge if they wished.
She turned to Apollodorus. “You are High Priest here. You may give the acolytes permission to depart.”
But before he could answer, a fresh-faced girl dressed in the simple white robes of an initiate prostrated herself before the royal party. “Please, Queen of Heaven, don’t send us away! We have nowhere else to go. Besides, we fear neither Romans nor death!”
Cleopatra looked down at the kneeling girl. She could be no more than eleven or twelve. Did she understand the soldiers she claimed not to fear were capable of beating and raping her for their own low pleasure? Or of selling her into slavery for the rest of her life to serve barbarians? She looked into the girl’s soft brown eyes, glowing with faith, and was forced to drop her own.
In all her life she had never felt so powerless.
Pulling a thick gold necklace from her throat, Cleopatra handed it to the initiate. “A little gold may help you in a time of trouble.” And holding her hands over the girl’s head she blessed her.
When she had finished, willing herself to move forward, Cleopatra swept past the kneeling initiate, followed by her attendants and Apollodorus, as she made her way to the secret door behind the statue of Isis. She ran her fingers along the inlaid ebony wall in the symbolic pattern of an ankh and the door sprang open. Pulling a torch from its mount, she led the way into the tunnel.
It was dark and silent when they reached the tomb. The only sound was the softly muffled whisper of the ocean tides lapping against the far wall where the structure had been built into the stone of a sea cave.
Though Iris and Charmion had been in the tomb several times before, they gaped at the splendor of the finished rooms. Every wall gleamed with pure gold and was covered in the most arcane and important magical texts of Egypt. Cleopatra ran her fingertips along the rows of hieroglyphics. The wealth of the written words was so much more valuable than the gold they were carved upon. She had seen to it that all the greatest treasures and knowledge of the kingdom had been brought here for safekeeping, and chests spilling over with emeralds and black pearls vied for space with ancient scrolls bearing magic too powerful to be allowed to fall into the hands of those who had not been properly prepared or who lacked an impeccable moral character.