It was an overture from Sextus Pompey, seeking to make an alliance with Antony against Octavian.
“I offer protection for all those fleeing from the tyrant,” he wrote. “Your most noble mother Julia, Tiberius Nero, his wife Livia, and their little son Tiberius have had to seek safety with me, along with many of the oldest names in Rome. They do not wish to bend the knee to that boy—that boy who styles himself ruler, calls himself Caesar’s son. In your absence he has done many illegal things. Join with me, throw your lot in with mine, and together we can rid Rome of this menace.”
I knew better than to concur. I merely handed the letter back to Antony. “It seems that the entire world seeks to ally itself with you,” I said lightly.
“And not only he, but Lepidus has approached me as well,” he admitted.
“A noble Triumvir, sounding out one of his fellows?” I am afraid the mockery crept into my voice. “What can have possessed him?”
Antony shrugged. “He has ever been unreliable. He says one thing one day, another the next.” He stood up. “Come, the sun is shining. I think the winter is truly past. Let’s go fishing on Lake Mareotis. You promised we would—you said there was fine fishing, and boat parties go out among the reeds and papyrus, and there’s beer and singing in the villages—”
I sighed. “I suppose you want to invite a party?”
“Well, isn’t that what such a day is meant for?”
Three houseboats filled with merrymakers bumped along in the shallow water of the great freshwater lake that stretched behind Alexandria. It was a strangely shaped lake, with its main body south of Alexandria, while a long, thin arm reached westward almost fifty miles. Vineyards lined the south banks, producing some of Egypt’s finest wines. Other crops covered the shores: olives, figs, dates, apple orchards. At the very water’s edge, papyrus plantations extended out some way. This was the source of our finest grade of papyrus. There were also bean plantations, with the huge stalks growing ten feet high and the cup-shaped leaves providing shelter for boat parties and lovers.
It was March, the Egyptian month of Tybi, and the vegetation was in bloom: The beans had opened their creamy flowers, the white and blue lotus were rising out of the water, and the pale petals of the almonds on the shore were already scattering on the wind. The sun felt warm on our shoulders, and Antony was in high spirits.
Time and again he cast his line out into the open water, baited with plump small fish; time and again he hauled in his hook, empty. The company we had with us—Charmian and Flavius, some of his guard, their women—began to taunt him.
“Good Imperator,” they singsang, “how pitiful is this!”
Antony, growing ever more exasperated, threw out his line repeatedly. He attempted to joke about it, and called for us to go ashore and eat and drink in one of the little villages lining the shore of the lake.
A number of them, all friendly and inviting, lay stretched out in the sun, sloping back from the lakeshore. We piled ashore, tying up at one of the rickety docks. I was just another woman at the tavern—gods forbid they should know I was the Queen.
But there was no mistaking Antony. He was as different from his fellows as gold from gold paint. When he seated himself, it was with a certain careless nobility that caused eyes to light on him; in spite of his fisherman’s costume, everyone in the establishment became aware that this was no ordinary man. Then their attention turned to his companion, me. But I kept my peasant’s hat low and said little. No ordinary person can appreciate what a gift it is for those of us in power to venture out as one of them. Liberty! For we are imprisoned by our very selves all the days of our lives. Here, too, Antony had freed me from my former restrictions.
“Wine for all!” ordered Antony. “Unless you are known for your beer?”
The proprietor bowed. “Indeed, this is a renowned brewing district.”
“Then bring us your specialty, in jugs! And perhaps some roasted duck, and fish. I suppose the fish are biting well in this season?”
“Oh yes,” said the tavern owner. “Our catches have been phenomenal in the past few days.”
I reached out and touched Antony’s arm. “You must be using the wrong bait,” I said.
“Surely so,” he said, shaking his head.
A heap of fish arrived on a platter, and pieces of duck. Already the beer pitchers had been filled to overflowing. “To my catch!” said Antony, raising his glass.
The food was delicious. I wondered how many palace banquets would pale beside what a waterside tavern like this could provide. The white-fleshed fish was moist and delicately flavored, and the duck had a rich, smoky taste, boosted by the plum gravy served with it. Antony wolfed his, washing it down with draughts of beer.
I looked at him from under my broad-brimmed hat. What I saw was an eager, yearning face, younger than its years, with bright, dark eyes. I reached out and laid my hand on his arm, wishing there were some way I could hold him at this stage in his life forever. My anger at him faded in the sunlight of this, his glorious day.
The meal ended, and we returned to our boats. The vessels made their way uncertainly through the thickets of papyrus and tall bean plants, poled by our mariners under the green umbrella of leaves and buzzing insects into the open water.
“Well, now!” said Antony, standing at the rail and flinging out his line. “We shall see what we land!”
There was a rustling of motion on the boat, and I saw some of the younger boat-boys diving off the side when they thought no one was looking. The waters parted silently and they slipped away.
“Oh, what is this?” cried Antony with mock surprise. And he hauled in a perfect fish—a big mullet. He unhooked it and quickly threw out his line again.
“It bites again!” he cried. He yanked on the line and a fat perch flew through the air. It looked suspiciously like the ones I had just seen for sale at the harbor market.
“My lord Antony is most fortunate,” I said. “He can acquire fish beyond the measure of ordinary fishermen.”
Flavius and the others started cheering, saying now Antony would have to treat them all to more beer, as the winner of the fishing contest. Again and again he threw out his line, and the fish appeared so quickly one could suspect they were all fighting below the waterline to grab Antony’s hook.
Soon a pile of prize fish of amazingly many species lay at Antony’s feet, a glistening mound. Odd how none of them flapped or gasped when they were hoisted in. And just at the time his luck ceased, the boys hauled themselves on board the ship again.
“I am in awe of your luck,” I sighed. “Let us see if it holds tomorrow, for we must venture out again.”
“In the meantime, head for that jetty!” one of the soldiers said. “It’s time for Antony’s treat!”
When we returned home, there were several letters for Antony. He took them and disappeared into his private quarters. He did not come to me that night; they must have been weighty, and depressing. I longed to know what was in them.
The next morning we set out again. The strengthening sun was on us, and as we embarked on our boats from the very foot of the Street of the Soma, where the lake harbor water lapped against the steps of Portus Mareotis, I kept very silent. I had brought along my own divers this time, with their own sacks, and I meant to make a point to Antony.
We rowed out into the middle of the lake, watching the rising sun. It gilded the water, and already I could feel its heat along my arm. The sun would rise higher, achieve the zenith in its season and time; and where would Antony be? In its light or in its shadow?
We sailed and paddled out across the open water, then headed for the marshy borders that were so rich with fish and birds. Some of our party had brought bows and arrows in hopes of shooting wild fowl.
Antony cast his line again. He made reference to his fantastic luck the day before. “Oh, would that such another day would come to me!” The line bobbed and sank. Then at once there was a pulling. Something had bitten. Eagerly he hauled it in.
He looked genuinely pleased—this time he had truly caught something!
The line came up, dripping. On it was a large salted fish—produce of Pontus. It all but shouted, “False catch! False catch!” With a solemn face, he removed it. It had clearly been dead for an entire season. Obviously it had been artificially hooked, like his catch of the day before.
He held it up by its tail, for all to see, and then laughed uproariously. “This truly is a miraculous catch! I confess, I confess!”
“Dear Antony,” I said, sweetly. “Great Antony, noble Imperator! I pray you, leave fishing to us, the poor denizens of Alexandria, Canopus, and Mareotis. This is beneath you. Your catch should be kingdoms, cities, provinces.”
His laughter faded. “You never give up, do you?” He flung the fish down and retired to the cabin.
Back at the palace, Antony stamped away to his quarters, and I waited in mine. Had I been wrong to ridicule him in front of others that way? Show him I recognized his playacting? I thought he would find it amusing, but take the point to heart.
Why were all our words at such cross-purposes? He was under an enormous strain, and seemed unable to take any action at all—besides fishing, boating, exercising, and carousing. It was as if he wanted all the events to resolve themselves in his absence, so that he would not have to make any decisions, as if he were saying, “Wake me when it’s all over.” This was so far from what Caesar would have done that I felt near despair.
Waiting for him to appear—for I did not dare to go to bed early anymore, in case he came crashing in on impulse—I could see the lights of his quarters in the nearby building. Was he going over papers? Looking at maps? Writing letters? Making a decision of some sort?—O Isis, let him take some action!
I walked outside on my terrace, where two torches were burning, their flames whipping in the sea breeze. This is what happens when you love a normal man, with all the flaws and weaknesses of any mortal man, I told myself. Perhaps the hardest thing I have ever had to do is teach myself to love a flawed man—after Caesar. He was the abnormal one, but he spoiled me for anyone else.
I had my own faults and weaknesses and quirks, but I had grown to expect that my partner would be free of them. Caesar had bequeathed a great burden of expectations to me. It was more than his family pendant that he had asked me to wear for the rest of my life. It was his image as the resolute, the strong, the man who never made mistakes. It made it impossible for his successor—indeed, it made it almost impossible for there to be a successor at all.
My heart went out to the man sitting under those lights in Antony’s window. True, he was a flawed man, but at least he did not begrudge others their flaws. I never felt that I had disappointed him or failed to live up to some standard, and was not that in itself a great gift? Caesar had so often made me feel lacking, unable to keep up.
The lights were dimming. He must be preparing for bed. It was late. Now I could sleep. But then I saw a figure leaving the building, and from his gait I knew it was Antony. I stood at the edge of my terrace and waved a long scarf to catch his eye.
He was on his way over to my building, but stopped when he saw the scarf. I motioned to him that I would come down. Wrapping the scarf around my shoulders, I descended and met him on the darkened lawn, the night wind flowing across the grounds.
I embraced him, glad to be with him privately. We seemed always to be surrounded by large numbers of people, now that the world had reached Alexandria again. “You work late,” I said.
“You watch late,” he replied.
“I feel your distress,” I said. “I will watch with you until you can rest.”
He sighed. “There can be no rest until I admit what I must do—tear myself away from this place.” It was hard to hear his words over the noise of the sea not far away, and the rising wind. “I do not want to go.”
“Yes, I know.” I remembered how Caesar had grabbed up his armor and rushed away, not even staying for the birth of Caesarion. Yes, they were entirely different men. I am no second Caesar, Antony had said. He was giving notice. And while it was admirable that nothing stayed Caesar from his duty, it was more touching that someone wanted to stay. “Nor do I want you to.”
He took my face in his hands. “Is it even so? Such doubts have assailed me—ever since—”
“It was but a lovers’ quarrel,” I said quickly. “And you must know that I am your lover, your most ardent partisan.” Let it rest with that; no need to mention any of the rest of it—Octavian, Fulvia, armies, and Sextus. Nor a child. “I would keep you here forever, if we were just private citizens, a man and a woman. But it seems the roof of the world is caving in, and you must go and shore it up.”
We had been walking, without really noticing, toward the mausoleum. As we found ourselves approaching it, Antony groaned. “Oh, not that tomb!”
“We can sit on the steps,” I said. “Come, they won’t hurt you.”
“I refuse to enter a tomb! I fear it would be a bad omen.”
“We needn’t go inside.” And indeed, I would not have wanted to—it lay in deep darkness. “We can just sit here.” I sank down and patted the place beside me on the step. I noticed a strange coldness emanating from the inside of the building.
We sat, side by side, primly, and he took my hand, like an awkward schoolboy, turning it over and over, as if he had a ring to put on it. “I must away,” he said quietly, as if he had finally accepted it. “The events of the wider world call me. As you so glaringly pointed out.”
The fishing incident. “I thought I was more subtle.”
“How subtle could a salted fish be?” He laughed softly. “As subtle as the pyramids, as subtle as the Lighthouse. What more could I expect from you, my Egyptian? My crocodile of Old Nile. But the crocodile is a most noble creature, king of his realm, living eternally.”
“I am as mortal as you,” I said, gesturing to the yawning blackness behind us. “Or I would not need a mausoleum.”
“Perhaps you won’t need it,” he said lightly.
“You have a very silly streak in you,” I said. “But tell me, if you have decided—what you will do. And when.”
“I will go to Tyre and see firsthand what has happened with the Parthians,” he said. “And after that—I don’t know. It will depend on what I find out. But this one thing I do know: I will come back to you. I could not leave, if I thought it was good-bye.”
Pretty words. But in what way could he come back? There was no reason for him to return to Egypt. We were neither rebels nor enemies, or situated near rebels or enemies to serve as a base of operations. And next time Fulvia would most likely travel with him.
“If there is some way for us, I will find it,” he was saying. “Do not ever think I leave out of a surfeit of you, for that is impossible.” He paused. “Nor because I search for anyone else.”
Then why didn’t he divorce Fulvia? Perhaps because he was afraid to—because then he would have no excuse not to behave differently. As it was, she could act in his name, staging rebellions, and he could watch enigmatically. Divorcing her and taking up with me would end all ambiguity in the eyes of the world. Perhaps ambiguity was what suited him best. It gave him freedom of choice. Marcus Antonius was a man who disliked making final decisions.
“Then let’s have one last private night together,” I said, rising.
For the first time since our fight, I desired him again. I took his hand as we walked slowly across the lawn to my chambers. I forgave him for being human, and I think in doing so I became human myself.
The chamber was waiting, delicately perfumed from discreetly smoking burners on tables. The wind swept through from one window to another, and the whispering of the sea far below sounded like ancient music.
“There is only one memory you need to take with you,” I said. I stretched out on my couch, pulling him over against me. He felt solid and glorious. Oh, why is this not a permanent answer to all our anguish and aloneness? It is our highest moment on earth. The pity of it
is, it is only a moment.
Everything we did was colored by knowing it was farewell. I held him and rejoiced in all the lovemaking, which seemed like a memory even as it was happening…hazy and tinged with sadness.
It was good that he would go now. Soon my body would start to change, and he would notice. And I would lose my own freedom to decide what to tell and what not, what to do or not. Perhaps I liked ambiguity as well as he. Caesar would not have approved, but Caesar was gone. I realized with surprise that perhaps I was more like Antony in that regard than I was like Caesar.
49
Once he had decided, Antony moved fast to put everything in order for his leave-taking. He would sail with his small contingent of personal guards directly for Tyre; he sent word ahead that his newly built fleet of two hundred ships should make themselves ready—for what, he was not yet sure. An air of briskness as stirring as the strong spring winds rushed through the palace. There were swirls of mantles, spears, messages, sails, and all the noises of weapons being gathered up.
He stood before me to take his leave. He was flanked by his guard, waiting in the middle of the great audience hall. It was very public, and he was, suddenly, very Roman.
I faced him, Caesarion by my side. I knew this departure would be hard on my son, who had come to depend on Antony as a constant source of amusement and guidance. I put my arm around his little shoulders, which already came up to the middle of my ribs. This summer he would be seven.
“I come to say farewell,” Antony said. “It would be impossible for me ever to repay your hospitality, but I thank you more than I can express.”
“May all the gods go with you, and grant you a safe journey,” I said, mouthing the tired old formula, when what I wanted to say was, I love you because your honor makes you go, and therefore you will go, but remember my words and my warnings.
He bowed, then said impulsively, “Come, look out over the harbor with me. Look upon my ships.” He held out his hand, shattering the formal leave-taking, and I took it. Together we walked across the wide expanse of the hall and out onto the portico, where the brightness of the sea and sky hurt my eyes. The rest of the party trailed along behind us.
The Memoirs of Cleopatra Page 77