Decimus, the vile traitor! Decimus, who, like the evil Trebonius, had helped himself to the province Caesar had entrusted him with! It was too much to be borne!
“—in defiance of the Senate, which declared him a public enemy—”
The Senate! What had Cicero done to them?
“—and besieged him at Mutina. But Decimus and an army sent by the Senate routed him, and he had to flee across the Alps with his legions. He is struggling there now, starving, we have heard, stranded in shoulder-high snow and reduced to eating roots. That’s the end of him.” He nodded, his chin making stabbing motions of satisfaction.
I felt a sickening, swooping sensation, as if my throne had dipped and plunged. Antony stranded in the snow, starving, freezing! It could not be. Only then did I realize how much confidence I had had in him to prevail, to set the times right again. I am Caesar’s right hand, he had said. Was Caesar’s right hand now to be stilled?
And…the only remaining Roman I had liked and respected would disappear, plunging the world into true chaos, where one could choose only between one villain and another, with no honorable men anywhere. Antony had failings, but they were failings of the flesh, not of the spirit—unlike his enemies, who were the opposite.
The man was watching my face. Had my thoughts been visible? “What has happened to Decimus?” I asked calmly.
He scowled. “Decimus had to flee,” he conceded. “Octavian could not see his way clear to—cooperating with him.”
Hardly. Octavian would never ally himself with Caesar’s murderer.
“Where has he gone?”
“He—he tried to go to Greece, to join Brutus, but Octavian’s army blocked his way, so he had to flee to Gaul, where he wandered as a fugitive. It seems that a chieftain there has slain him.”
Joy surged through me. Another assassin dead, killed!
“They say the chieftain was an agent of Antony’s,” the man admitted.
O glory! O praise to Antony!
“But Antony will not live to know it,” he said. “Undoubtedly he is dead now, a frozen corpse, eaten by wolves.”
No. I refused to let myself picture it. “All that is in the hands of the gods,” I finally said. “What dreadful things were set in motion by the Ides of March, we cannot know until they run their course.”
“The deed itself was noble,” he insisted, “and the Liberators acted from the highest motives.”
“The gods will judge,” I said. Even my iron will could not steel itself to make a polite answer, when I longed to strangle the man. And all I had to do was signal my guards to kill him. But why give Cassius the satisfaction, the excuse to revenge himself on me? I meant to win the battle of wills, and if fate was kind to me, to stab Cassius myself, using his own dagger, the one that had taken my love away from me. I needed to get close enough to him to do it. I would embrace him, only to kill him. Thus I must lull his natural caution, let him think it was safe to approach. Yes. Let him come to Alexandria! And such a feast I would give him, such a welcome…wine, song, food, and his own dagger, buried up to its hilt in his lean belly.
I approached the shrine of Isis daily, pouring her sacred water before her as an offering, and begged for the life of Antony with a passion I thought I had lost. I had not thought consciously about him until Cassius’s envoy had delivered that devastating message about his fate. His absence from the world would diminish it in a way I was hard put to explain to myself. Only it seemed that with Antony’s disappearance, the sun would slip below the horizon for good and true night come, never to depart. Was it only because he shone with the reflected light of Caesar? Was it because all the other Romans were so despicable? As I said, I could not explain it, I only knew that I beseeched Isis to help him, ready to promise her anything in return for his life.
And once again, as she had done so long ago, she hearkened to me. Word came that he had survived the ordeal of the retreat across the Alps, and had emerged a hero.
The report came from a letter intercepted on its way to Brutus in Greece, copied secretly, resealed, and then the copy sent on to me.
I had retired into my most private chamber to read it. The words leapt out at me, written as they were for someone else’s eyes.
Antony was defeated, and both the Consuls were slain. Antony, in his flight, was overtaken by distresses of every kind, and the worst of them was famine. But it is his character in calamities to be better than at any other time. Antony, in misfortune, is most nearly a virtuous man. It is common enough for people, when they fall into great disasters, to discern what is right, and what they ought to do; there are but few who in such extremities have the strength to obey their judgment, either in doing what it approves or avoiding what it condemns. And a good many are so weak as to give way to their habits all the more, and are incapable of using their minds.
Yes, that was true. But enough of the lecture. What had happened?
Antony, on this occasion, was a most wonderful example to his soldiers. He, who had just quitted so much luxury and sumptuous living, made no difficulty now of drinking foul water and living on wild fruits and roots. Nay, it is related they ate the very bark of trees, and, in passing over the Alps, lived upon creatures that no one before had ever been willing to touch.
A flash of excitement and admiration went through me. Yes, I could picture the struggling troops, and Antony willingly abasing himself to survive and fight again….
The design was to join the army on the other side of the Alps, commanded by Lepidus, whom he imagined would stand his friend, he having done him many good offices with Caesar. On coming up and encamping near at hand, finding he had no sort of encouragement offered him, he resolved to push his fortune and venture all. His hair was long and disordered, nor had he shaved his beard since his defeat; in this guise, and with a dark-colored cloak flung over him, he came into the trenches of Lepidus, and began to address the army….
It was the very spirit of Caesar, such as I had not thought to see again. I was much moved.
The rest of the letter described his pact with Lepidus. Together they now had seventeen legions and a magnificent cavalry of ten thousand horse, and were marching on Rome. They were on their way to a pact with Octavian, to join forces and pursue the assassins.
They would pursue them from the west, and if fate granted me the opportunity, I would slay them from the east, I still meant to stab Cassius by any means possible. Nothing less would satisfy me than turning the dagger upon him with my own hand.
Where it had hung unmoving before, time now seemed to speed up. The year rushed forward. The plague abated, the granaries kept starvation at bay, and Egypt survived.
On the first day of the Roman New Year, the Senate formally declared Caesar a god. So those who would not have him as their leader would now have him for their god! The irony could not fail to amuse Caesar as he looked down upon all this. But events at Rome were even more surprising. Having used Cicero’s sponsorship and prestige to the utmost to build himself up to Antony’s height, Octavian—or divi filius, son of the god, as he now called himself—coldly discarded him, and sacrificed the gray old head to a grisly end.
Octavian joined forces with Lepidus and Antony, and together they proclaimed themselves the Triumvirate that would rule Rome for the next five years—discarding the Senate as easily as Cicero. Next they announced that the assassins were traitors and must be hunted down and punished.
Both sides desperately needed money. The assassins were plundering the east—Cassius and Brutus attacked Rhodes, Xanthus, Lycia, Patara, and Tarsus—and the Triumvirs launched a program of proscriptions, whereby all enemies must yield up their persons and their treasures. They said they would not make Caesar’s mistake of clemency; they would not set out for the east leaving enemies behind their backs in Rome.
They bargained lives and swapped names—my uncle for your tutor—and Octavian yielded up Cicero without a murmur. The man he had flattered and called “father” was turned over to the executioner
s. They tracked him to his country villa, where he was attempting to flee. But his slaves set down the litter, and Cicero, like one of the sacrificial oxen I had seen at the Triumphs, stuck out his neck for the blow.
They say it was Fulvia, Antony’s wife, who demanded that the right hand be cut off as well, the one that wrote the speeches against Antony—that it was she who set the head at their table and stuck pins through the tongue, until Antony had it taken away to be set on the Rostra. It must have been then that Antony developed his revulsion against her, for he was never bloodthirsty. To triumph over a foe is one thing, to bathe in his blood another. When defecting soldiers were executed, it was Fulvia who stood near enough, laughing, that the blood splashed on her gown.
Such fierce, primitive bloodlust is alarming enough. But what Octavian had, and was, I realized with a sudden insight that left me shaken. I could see what had been veiled, unclear, before.
I had been reading dispatches describing the rapid changes in Rome, when suddenly I remembered bits and snatches of impressions of Octavian, and they floated together to make a portrait of his true face, behind the innocent beauty.
Why, Cicero had even spun some tale about him—what was it? Yes, that he had dreamed of seeing the sons of senators passing before the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitol, for Jupiter to select one to be the chief ruler of Rome. In the dream, lines of youths had passed by the god, until he had stretched his hand out to one. Then he had declared, “O ye Romans, this young man, when he shall be lord of Rome, shall put an end to all your civil wars.” Cicero had seen the face clearly, but did not know the boy. The next day, as he saw boys returning from exercising in the Campus Martius, he recognized the very boy in his dream. When he inquired who it was, he was told it was Octavian, whose parents had no special eminence.
Was this true? Had Cicero seen it? Or was it a tale Octavian himself had circulated? Octavian…he fooled Cicero, who declared that he had easily controlled the boy “until now.” He fooled Caesar, the gods only know how! Now he was attempting to fool Lepidus and Antony.
He would use Antony and Lepidus, then discard them as soon as they had served their purpose. And as for Caesarion—only one “son of the god” could be permitted. He knew that. And so did I.
I leaned against the marble frame of the window, pressing my forehead against it to stave off the sweat that had suddenly sprung up on my brow. I saw it all so clearly—why did not anyone else? Why did I alone feel threatened, and by this boy, six years younger than I?
Because he is cold, calculating, and ruthless. Because he does not make mistakes. And because his very youth is in his favor—he has such a long time to accomplish his aims. All the time in the world…
O Caesar—if you were truly a god, or gifted by the gods, why could you not discern the truth about Octavian? I cried inside, clenching my fists.
What was it Octavian had said, talking of Achilles that night at the Saturnalia? “I wonder what it is to be the greatest warrior in the world.” Until now, no one could take over a throne unless he was a commander, a warrior. But Octavian would find a way, since it was clear he was no soldier. He would find a new way…. He had already got himself named Consul, eleven years before he was even eligible for the office.
I felt as cold as I had during the snow that Saturnalia.
Antony, Lepidus, beware! I whispered.
Cicero had written to Brutus that Octavian must be “praised, honored, and then got rid of.” He had thought to use him. But Octavian had remarked that he would know how to stop himself being got rid of. And it was Cicero’s head that was struck off, on Octavian’s orders.
Octavian had come to Rome with nothing but Caesar’s legacy—no troops, no money, no experience. Now he was one of the three rulers of Rome. It had taken him only a year and a half. He had just turned twenty.
He had achieved in twenty months what it had taken Caesar, the great Caesar, twenty years to achieve.
40
The wind stood fair for sailing, and I walked in measured, stately paces, reviewing my fleet, readied now at last for the voyage to join the Triumvirs at Brundisium where they awaited me. Cassius had continued to demand the ships, and I had put him off with fair words while they were abuilding and I was in secret communication with Antony. Cassius’s threatened invasion of Egypt had not yet taken place; Brutus had reminded him that their enemies were the Triumvirs and not Egypt. As if to show his scorn of me, Cassius recognized Arsinoe as the true Queen of Egypt, and hailed her as such at Ephesus.
Arsinoe! Another of Caesar’s misguided clemencies now turned against me! He had spared her after the Triumph, his heart touched by her. Now she emerged from sanctuary, decked out as Queen of Egypt. It did not take long for the truth to reveal itself: It was she who had persuaded Serapion to turn over the fleet at Cyprus. Doubtless she had promised him a high office in Egypt—the Egypt she planned to rule soon, with the help of the assassins.
To think that Caesar had had his knife at all their throats as they knelt in submission—Cassius, Brutus, Arsinoe—and spared them! Well, we would not. Here Octavian’s ruthlessness would stand us in good stead.
Yes, I was allied with Octavian. For now we had the same purpose: to avenge Caesar’s death. And after that?
The fleet was magnificent. I had altogether some hundred vessels—not enough for a full navy, but enough to be of great help to the Triumvirs. My flagship, a “six”—two men on each oar at three levels—was named the Isis. I had elected not to have any ships larger than a “six,” abandoning the earlier Ptolemaic mania for enormous ships, which had proved to be more a liability than an effective offense weapon. A six, equipped with a ram, could do damage enough. I had five other “sixes,” ten “fives”—quinqueremes—and thirty “fours,” quadriremes—the backbone of the navy, which could prove surprisingly fleet and agile, as well as powerful enough to sink larger ships. The tried-and-true triremes would be the workhorses, the jacks-of-all-trades, and I had twenty-five of them. The rest were light galleys, Liburnians, and supply transports.
It was a great gift to lay at the feet of the Triumvirs. But it had not come without cost. My price for all this had been that Antony pronounce Caesarion Caesar’s undoubted and natural son before the Senate, and that all three Triumvirs recognize him as my co-ruler: Ptolemy XVI Caesar. They had agreed. They wanted these ships very badly.
And what ships they were! I found my heart racing as I looked at them, trim and sleek, smelling of pitch and wood and fresh canvas and rope. Going aboard the Isis, I took my place beside Phidias, the Rhodian captain, on the main deck. I meant to learn all I could about commanding a ship, although of course I would leave the moment-by-moment sailing decisions to the experience of the captain.
“Here,” he said solemnly, presenting me with a helmet. “You must wear the outward sign of a commander.” I took it and lowered it over my head, slowly, feeling its weight encasing me. The feathers on its crest waved in the wind.
“I thank you,” I said. I was eager to begin the voyage, to be the first woman since Artemisia of Halicarnassus to set out with her own fleet. And forgive my pride, but Artemisia had commanded only five ships in accompanying Xerxes, although she fought bravely and escaped pursuit by sinking an enemy ship.
We were to sail straight west across the Mediterranean for some six hundred miles, then steer north for another five hundred or so, sailing between Italy and Greece until we reached Brundisium. There, where the gap between Italy and Greece was narrow, the Triumvirs planned to ferry troops across. I knew that the assassins had stationed a fleet of their own on the southernmost point of Greece to intercept me—should I “stray” from the right direction. But I would fight them—that was what sixes, fives, fours, and threes were for. And I prayed that the gods would give me as good victory as they had given Artemisia.
We cast off from Alexandria, proceeding slowly out of the harbor, a straight line making its way through the narrow channel between the Pharos and the breakwater. Once in the open
sea, we formed a closer gathering of vessels.
How sweet the wind, how blue and beckoning the sea! The waters grew steadily darker, shading from the greenish turquoise of the shore into deeper blue where the bottom could no longer be seen. The wind slapped the water, chiding it playfully, making whitecaps that glittered as they broke. The bow of the ship dipped and rode the waves like a horse running free. Dolphins dove alongside us.
“A cloudless sky,” said the captain, squinting toward the horizon. “If this east wind keeps blowing, our voyage should be smooth and effortless.” The sail was filled, creaking as the lines strained, pulling for Italy.
We were skirting the coast of Africa, passing places that had always been just names to me: the desert west of Alexandria, where the sands were as white as alabaster, sparkling like salt; the little town of Taposiris, a miniature Alexandria with a temple of Osiris and a lighthouse one-tenth the size of its Alexandrian sister. I could see the pylons of the temple, and perceive the winking of the flame of the lighthouse. A series of these lighthouses served as signal posts all along the coast, as far as Cyrene.
The wind whipped my cloak and tore at the feathers of my helmet. I was thankful to be wearing it, for it offered protection and shaded my eyes. I might have to adopt other clothing than a gown and cloak; clearly they were unsuited for standing on a deck in high winds. Should I wear the trousers of the barbarians, then?
It made me laugh, picturing myself in breeches. But doubtless they would serve well on a ship. Or perhaps I would prefer the loincloths of the rowers? They had their advantages too. I smiled. No, not a loincloth!
Soon I would be with the Triumvirs, joining forces with them. I could hardly believe that I was becoming part of a Roman army. But I owed it to Caesar to do whatever was necessary to avenge him.
The Memoirs of Cleopatra Page 64