“I’ll rest when you’re able to,” she told him, her voice wavering. “Oh, seeing the children . . . my gods, what have we done?”
“What we had to do,” he told her, but the words felt like lead on his lips. “Cassius defied us. Brundisium did, too. I spared the city as much as I was able. We need this port. I can’t afford to raze it, rebuilt it, and somewhere find loyal people to live in it. The people in it have to be loyal to us, to start with.” Father sacked it at least twice. A family tradition. Perhaps they’ll learn this time.
“Offer land near here to the legionnaires who retire,” Eurydice suggested, her voice muffled. “They’re loyal. No one more so.”
He released her, and let her start helping him clean the filth away. After several minutes, he managed to realize something important. “Where’s Mother?”
“Antony’s tent. Alone. I . . . didn’t ask. Nor will I look.” Eurydice sounded embarrassed.
I suppose even legates who direct the battle from afar must feel battle-ardor, Caesarion thought muzzily. Gods know, I want a woman right now. Badly. But finding himself a camp-follower would be to lower himself unthinkably; he’d be in a brothel tent with the rank and file, which would certainly be fraternization, and would remove the very important social distinctions between patrician and plebeian. And, having been reminded of his body’s needs, the feel of Eurydice’s gentle fingers became a torment. So he caught her hand, kissed it, and told her, “Go and rest, my dear one. I’ll . . . follow suit. In due course.”
And he watched her retreat into the depths of the private areas of the tent, before burying his face in his hands, conflict brewing in his befuddled, exhausted mind. And that was precisely where he fell asleep, finding only troubled dreams in which he rode through the Empire’s cities. And in his wake, every tenth man and woman fell over dead, tongues protruding from their mouths and eyes bulging.
Chapter V: The Book of Thoth
Iunius 16-17, 16 AC
Cleopatra made her way to the tent of Marcus Antonius, with only a servant for protection. “Return to my son’s tent, Nesa,” she ordered the woman calmly at the flap. “Make sure that both he and Eurydice eat something today.”
The middle-aged handmaiden met her queen’s eyes for an instant, then lowered herself into a bow. “Yes, my lady. If this one may presume . . . ?”
Cleopatra eyed her with a hint of impatience. “You’ve stood as wet-nurse to three of my children. Speak your mind.”
Nesa’s dark eyes rose once more. “Do you intend to see Eurydice rule as queen of Egypt someday? If so, she is too Roman, my lady. She has lived her entire life in this cold place where the sun is pale and weak, and the people have no more hearts than the ghosts of the malevolent dead.”
Cleopatra’s lips curled faintly at the corners. Her servants—all Egyptian nobility, themselves, and honored in service to their queen—had never entirely acclimated to the Italian Peninsula. “I am not entirely Egyptian myself, you’ll recall. But I take your meaning.” She shook her head. “Eurydice will return when it is time. I have plans for her. Great ones. But she needs to stay here for them to have a real chance of coming to fruition.” She waved, cutting off any further discussion. “Go now. I must attend to the man who would be my consort.”
Nesa’s nose crinkled, and Cleopatra laughed, a short, harsh sound. “Mind your face in front of the Romans.”
“Yes, my lady.” And off she went, a small, round figure in an unassuming dress. Defiantly not cut in the Roman style of tunic and stola, but ignoring the stares of the men in the camp as if she, too, were a queen, and not merely the handmaid of one.
It was past dawn, and smoke still hung in the air, acrid and harsh, from the burning buildings of Brundisium. Cleopatra took a lungful of it, and stepped into the tent, gesturing for the wide-eyed Roman slaves inside to depart, before taking the pitcher of wine left on the table, and two cups. And with another deep breath to brace herself, she stepped back behind the curtains into the private area of the legate’s tent.
To her mild surprise, Antony didn’t live in squalor behind the scenes. Asleep on his cot, the only sign of mild disorder in the living area was that his boots had been shucked off and tossed across the enclosure from him, instead of being tucked neatly under his bed. Neither did he live in any real luxury or opulence, as he could have. He’d been Tribune of the Plebs on and off for decades. He’d surely collected his fair number of bribes. But no silk hangings, no cushions on the floor. His private quarters were little better than a barracks room . . . though Antony certainly didn’t share this space with another nine men.
To her greater surprise, his snoring form was entirely alone in the rumpled bed. Not even a strand of long hair on the reed-filled pillow gave evidence of recent company. With eyebrows raised, Cleopatra poured wine into the glasses, and clearing her throat loudly, set it down on the stool beside the bed.
The snoring paused for a moment, and then resumed unabated. Cleopatra rolled her eyes up towards the heavens. This is the gods having a jest at me. I have the unwanted reputation in Rome as a seductive foreign sorceress whose wiles stole the heart, mind, and, apparently, testicles of their greatest general. And here a man who’s professed his undying devotion, or at least his fervent lust, who can’t be roused from his slumbers.
Inelegantly, she kicked the leg of the bed twice with the side of her foot. “Antony. Wake up. It’s time we discussed our wedding.” Peremptory tone. I have to make good on my end of the bargain. Else he’ll take a look at the arrangements between Agrippa and my son, setting up Alexander to wed young Octavia, and begin to think he might not have gotten the best deal possible.
Marcus Antonius snapped awake, his hand finding the dagger under his pillow, and lunged upright. He stilled the motion that would have cut the liver out of an assailant crouching over his bed, lurching to a halt as he registered Cleopatra’s form at the foot, sipping calmly from a silver chalice. He twirled the knife in his fingers for a moment, rubbed at his eyes with the other hand, and, on squinting through the low light of his pavilion, realized that she hadn’t vanished into the haze of lingering morning dreams. “My lady,” he said, tucking the knife back under his pillow. “What an unexpected pleasure, to be sure. If you’ll allow me to rise, shave, and dress, I’d be pleased to break my fast with you.” He raised his eyebrows. “Unless you’d prefer to skip breakfast and just join me here.” He patted the thin, straw-filled mattress that barely covered the interwoven fabric slats that comprised the frame of his bed.
To his astonishment, Cleopatra swallowed what remained in her cup, and sat down at the foot of his bed. “I am sure that I will be hungry for food later,” she allowed, her face a shadowy profile against the light streaming in from the public area of his tent. “However, there are many appetites that require sating. Perhaps we should attend to those, first.” Cool, chill, distant tone as she reached up and let the whisper-thin silk palla slide from her shoulders, revealing a dress of Egyptian linen below. Cut so that the pleated straps that held the sheath of the dress up were what covered her breasts, he swore that the fabric was fine enough for him to see the shadows of her nipples, even in this low light.
Antony had never been a man to look a gift-horse in the mouth. But while she had his undivided attention at the moment, details niggled at him. He took the cup from her limp hand, and placed it beside the pitcher and cup already on the stool. “So, the thought of bedding me is so bad that you feel a need to be drunk first?” he asked bluntly. “Don’t get me wrong. If you want a second or a third cup, I’ll pour them for you. But I’ve never needed Bacchus’ blessing to make a woman scream with pleasure before.” He’d taken her hand in his, and felt her stiffen slightly at his words. “Oh, come now. Caesar was only a few years younger than I am now when you first had yourself delivered to him in that carpet.” He rubbed the back of her hand with a thumb, observing the fine lines of the bones there that age had yet to blunt. “And I’m far younger now than he was a year ago. You can’
t tell me climbing into bed with a man nearing seventy was a pleasure for you.” He leaned closer, pulling her near enough to whisper in her ear, “Or has it been longer than just this year of widowhood since you’ve had pleasure, my dear?”
Cleopatra’s head snapped towards him, and she met his eyes at close range, unflinching. “I’ve never needed a man to experience pleasure,” she told him, just above a whisper. “The gods gave women hands too, you know. But since you asked . . . my dear Gaius remained quite virile up until almost the end.”
Antony had blinked at the first words—he placed more emphasis on the pleasure of his bed-mates than many another Roman man, but the notion of a woman pleasuring herself was so foreign to him that it took a moment or two to register completely. And then he’d had to blink again, having so rarely heard Caesar referred to by his praenomen that it sounded almost as if Cleopatra had spoken of some other, third man. Rattled, but only for a moment, Antony increased the pressure on her hand lightly, pulling her just a little closer. “Good. I like a woman who knows what pleases her. Makes it much easier to hit the mark.”
Her expression stilled. “Rumor has it that you’re more of a man for inexperience than for experience. That you prefer virgins, or at least young whores.”
Excitement began to ebb. Oh, gods. This isn’t an early morning invitation to fuck. It’s an interrogation in disguise. Antony released her hand. “Your information sources are inexact. I prefer whores who haven’t been worn out and aren’t riddled with disease. Youth doesn’t guarantee that, but it makes it a little easier to predict.” He took the cup she’d left beside the bed, and drained it, meeting her eyes the whole time. Here’s hoping it’s not dosed with something. Setting the cup back down, Antony lay back again, propping his head on his pillow, the very picture of ease. “I like women,” he told her bluntly. “Always have. Won’t apologize for it. I like looking at them. I like the smell of them—perfumed or sweaty. I like them skinny. I like them fat. I like what’s between their legs, which is a damned sight prettier than what’s between mine.” He grinned at her expressionless stare.
“You weren’t faithful to your last wife, Octavia.” Her tone was brittle. “I am the queen of Egypt and the widow of the Emperor of Rome. I will not tolerate faithlessness in my consort.”
His eyebrows rose. “And I’m a man of Rome, and once you marry me, you’ll be my wife. A man rules in his own home here, as much as if he were a king.” Antony gave her a long look. “That being said, I’d not have been unfaithful to Octavia if she hadn’t given me cause.” He snorted. “Did I not just tell you how much I like women? I’d have been quite content to plow my own fields, thank you, except that I think she liked women about as much as I do. Lay in bed as rigid as a board every night I came to her. Caught her once kissing one of her maids like a lover, too.” He rubbed at his eyes. “She gave me children. I gave her a home. And I never divorced her, though gods know I wanted to. The political connection to her brother was too important. I might have been out of favor with Caesar—” and he took his hand away from his eyes long enough to give Cleopatra a bleak stare, “but Octavian’s wind blew always towards the Emperor, at least for so long as Caesar lived. Because there was no one better at looking out for himself than that man.”
Cleopatra bit her lower lip. “You’ve made your interest in me very clear over the years,” she began, carefully. “But for some men, having is far less entertaining than wanting. It’s the chase that such men love. The war. The siege. Not holding what they’ve won.”
The words stung. “And you think I’m such a man.” Antony said. It wasn’t a question.
“Ten years ago,” she said quietly, “I thought you understood the rules. My job as Caesar’s consort was to make all of his visitors feel important. Valued. Esteemed.” Her tone remained distant. “Sometimes that required flattering the egos of the men. Making them feel attractive. Virile. Admired by the seductive foreign sorceress queen.” Irony dripped from her words. “You were a little too encouraged by the attention I gave you.”
“I’d just come back from campaign.” His words were terse. “Fulvia had died six months before. I hadn’t bedded a woman since then, and I’d waded up to my ankles in Gallic blood.” He didn’t reach for her. Didn’t trust this moment. She’d just vanish again. The way she always did. “And your breasts brushed my chest as you gave me the kiss of greeting, and then all I could think about was how beautiful you’d been in Egypt. You’d just been crowned queen, and were standing beside your father when I was introduced. Your eyes were like glass. They shone so brightly, but covered up everything you were thinking or feeling.” He gave her a direct look, and then covered his face with his forearm. “I wanted to know what your eyes hid. All the secrets behind them.” Antony snorted. “And you had a little of that look ten years ago, and I thought now’s my chance, and then my whole world came down around my head.”
Vivid, humiliating memories of catching her alone in the villa’s gardens. Taking her in his arms for a kiss as fervent as he’d ever given any woman before. Feeling her body yield, just for an instant, before she’d turned back to ice, slapping him and shouting curses. Misread every one of the damned signals. Idiot that I was. “Turns out the secret wasn’t all that exciting.” He paused, and, still addressing the ceiling, went on, “You use men. You manipulate us. Fair enough, most of us are fairly easily led. Stroke our egos or our cocks, and we’ll follow along willingly enough. But it was disappointing to know that that was all that lay behind your eyes.”
A long pause, and then the sound of a wine cup being refilled. Antony opened his eyes to see her drinking the whole thing in one pull. And to his astonishment, tears seemed to glitter in her eyes. Is she that good of an actress? Does she want me to feel guilt or shame now, for a misunderstanding ten years in the damned past? “And yet you still agreed to marry me,” she said tonelessly, her voice unwavering.
“I need a wife.” Antony shrugged. Not wanting her to see what still burned in his chest. I want this woman. All that brittle, formidable strength. I want that mind brought to bear on my political needs. I want to know what it feels like when she finally yields to something. But he couldn’t say any of that, because those words would give her power over him. And he’d given her too much power over him in his life already. “Caesarion needs allies. It seemed a good idea at the time.”
“And you won’t abuse my daughters.” That wasn’t any more of a question than his had been, moments ago. It was a statement of fact, tinged with the kind of certainty that suggested she’d kill him if he tried.
Outraged, Antony sat up. “What kind of a man do you think I am? I like looking at Eurydice—I wouldn’t be a man if I didn’t notice a nice pair of breasts. But she’s a witch, or close enough to one that I’d sooner sharpen my cock against a whetstone than fuck her. And Selene is a child.” He shook his head. “So, now I know what you really think of me—”
“Wait. Please. Wait.” Cleopatra held up a hand bare of rings, but her bracelets clattered in the dimness. “I’ve only ever told one other person what I’m about to tell you. And Gaius took it with him to his grave. I hope you’ll be so kind as to treat my secrets with the same care that he did.” She’d been looking away all this time, but turned to give him a tight, miserable, shamed expression before turning away again. “You know that in Egypt, it’s common for brothers to marry sisters among the pharaohs.”
“Incest.” Revulsion in his tone, but carefully cloaked. No sense in offending her further.
“As if you Romans don’t marry cousins and step-brothers and step-sisters all the time.” A little snap, a little spark. “If you breed out every few generations or so, bring in fresh blood, it’s not an issue.” She sighed. “At any rate, it’s a replication of the holy union of Isis and Osiris. A sacred, holy, and sometimes beautiful thing. I, myself, am a priestess of Isis. They ordained me when my father brought us out of exile here in Rome. When I was fourteen. Just a few weeks before you met me, in fact.” She du
cked her head down, an odd thing to see from her, and then persevered, getting the words out from some deep pocket in her soul. “I watched my sisters’ execution. Then the priests came and invited Isis to enter into me. I didn’t feel any different, but if she wanted to make me her earthly avatar, I supposed I didn’t mind. If she came to me, I wouldn’t have to think about what it looked like when Berenice and the other Cleopatra had their heads cut off, right?” She sighed. “And then my father made me co-ruler and queen, and I thought everything was finally going to go right in my life. Until he came to my chamber that night, that fat, drunk old man. And raped me.”
Cold, flat, hard words. Antony lurched forward, battle-fury pumping in his veins like the old friend that it was. “What did you just say?”
“I said that my father believed that I was his queen, and that he had a right to my body. It’s not a usual thing,” she added colorlessly. “Brother-sister marriages are sacred. Uncle-niece is acceptable—I can name a few Romans who’ve done that. Aunt-nephew, equally acceptable. But father-daughter or mother-son is not acceptable.” She stared into the distance for a moment. “I suppose that the one saving grace is that he probably was not my blood father,” she added, musingly. “Rumors about my mother’s fidelity abounded for years. But she was legitimate enough. Or else my son wouldn’t have the power of Isis and Osiris in him.”
Cleopatra turned back to Antony now. He still sat rigidly upright in bed, his heart pounding and his hands itching for the sword that hung, sheathed, on an armor stand ten feet away. “He was, as I said, fat and old. He usually couldn’t finish, but I couldn’t push his bulk off of me, either,” she went on, almost emotionlessly. Just stating the facts of the case. “Occasionally, he’d fall asleep on top of me, and I’d cry for the servants to come and pull him away before he suffocated me. They hardly dared to do it, but they couldn’t let me die.” She shrugged faintly. “Fat. Old. But quite thorough. I think he’d already seen that my younger brother was a complete idiot, and wanted another heir or two in case my brother lived up to all the promise of his youth. And then he died, and I celebrated in my heart, and ruled. Until my brother came tapping at my bedchamber door, wanting what Father had already so thoroughly had.”
Ave, Caesarion (The Rise of Caesarion's Rome Book 1) Page 14