For an instant we were by ourselves; he leaned close and whispered into my ear, “This is not farewell, but just a brief separation.” His breath was warm, sparking off a thousand memories and their attendant desire.
“Duty is the stern daughter of the gods,” I said. “And now we must do homage to her.” I dropped his hand, lest I try to hold on to it and pull him back.
The ships sailed away, their sails as white as the waves on the sea, growing smaller and smaller until they disappeared on the eastern horizon. I stood watching from my window as they rounded the Lighthouse and made out for the open sea; Caesarion watched with me.
“Now they are around the Lighthouse…now they must be almost to Canopus…now they are gone.” His voice sounded faint and sad. The game of watching had sustained him for a little while, but now the last of the Antony-games had finished.
He sighed and made his way back inside, to slump down at the table where an abandoned board game waited. “When will he come back?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered. Never, I thought. “He has a war to prepare for, and after that, we cannot know what will happen.”
Odd how he had filled the palace, had filled all of Alexandria, or so it seemed, and now it almost echoed and cried out for him. It had existed long before he came, of course, but now it seemed peculiarly his, as if he had stamped an insignia on it. He had not actually lived in my rooms, but they—and I—ached for him, diminished without him.
I allowed myself to roam around my depleted quarters and touch each place of deficiency, then put it away in my mind, folding it as neatly and resolutely as any Roman soldier ever folded his tent when morning came. That was over. Antony had gone, after rejecting my offer of both a personal and a political alliance, gone to fight his own battles on a different stage, and they were now his battles, not mine.
Of course it was not entirely over. There was that legacy of the meeting at Tarsus, the long winter nights, gaudy and flaming, in Alexandria. Charmian knew, or guessed, even though she was fighting her own unhappiness at the departure of Flavius. One quiet night, after she had brushed my hair and folded my gown, she said simply, “So he left anyway.”
“He didn’t know.” It was a relief to be able to talk about it to someone, to give voice at last to this most important fact. I didn’t even ask, How did you know?
“You didn’t tell him?” She sounded incredulous. “Was that fair to him?”
“I thought it was. It seemed that telling him would be unfair.”
“Why is the truth unfair?” she asked. “What were you protecting him from?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I felt more as if I was protecting myself.”
She shook her head. “No, you’ve done just the opposite. You’ve injured yourself. They’ll say—oh, I can’t bear to think of what they’ll say about you!”
“I don’t care,” I answered, but that was not strictly true. I could not bear ridicule or pity, particularly the latter. “And which ‘they’ do you mean? My subjects? The Romans? Fulvia?” There, I had said Fulvia.
“Oh, all of them—any of them! Judging, clucking, stoning—”
“That is in Judaea. Greeks and Egyptians don’t stone,” I reminded her. “Besides, perhaps it will convince people that Antony is more Caesar-like than Octavian, since he has followed in his footsteps.” The humor of it struck me.
Charmian laughed, her deep, husky laugh. “I don’t think it was Caesar’s footsteps where he followed.”
Now we both laughed. Finally Charmian said, seriously, “I don’t suppose it would hurt Antony to have a son who was half brother to Caesar’s.”
No, not if Antony would exploit it, I thought. But he was unlikely to. That was both his honor and his weakness.
In a few days I felt obligated to tell Olympos; perhaps I felt it made up for not telling Antony, to tell another man. His reaction was even more vehement than I had expected.
“Have you no sense at all?” he cried. “What about—”
I opened the box where I had stored his opportune birthday gift, and handed the jar back to him, wordlessly.
“Untouched, I see,” he said, peering down inside. He sounded utterly exasperated, like a parent with a wayward child. He set it down on the floor and crossed his arms, as if he expected me to confess. “Well?” he said, tapping his foot.
“You and Mardian were always at me to provide more heirs to the throne, so I have merely tried to comply.” I tried to smile at him, but he was having none of it.
“Oh, my dear, my dear Queen and friend,” he lamented. “This is terrible, terrible! The world looked the other way the first time, with all that mumbo-jumbo about Isis and Amun, and the gods know Caesar always got away with whatever he did, but this is different. Antony is no Caesar—”
As Antony himself had pointed out. “Olympos—” I was touched that he was so deeply affected; it was comforting that someone was.
“—Antony is no Caesar, and the world is harsh on him. Besides, he has many other children, unlike Caesar. This is not a special gift you bring him, something no one else has offered, but—how many children does he have, anyway?”
I had to stop and count. There was at least one from his marriage to his cousin Antonia, and he and Fulvia had two sons. “Three that I know of,” I admitted.
“You see? What is a fourth? Besides, as soon as he sees Fulvia again, there’ll be another one.”
The thought was painful—especially since it was probably true. I could not think of any reasonable answer.
“Sit down here,” said Olympos, ignoring the fact that he had no right to order me to do anything. I was his Queen first, his friend second, his patient third, but now the last took precedence. He then took a seat opposite me, and sat staring at me, his long, dark face drawn with worry. “Who else knows about this?”
“Only Charmian,” I said. “And only because she guessed. You are the only one I have told.”
“Not Antony?” he said quickly.
“No, not Antony.”
“He doesn’t suspect?”
“No.”
“Good. Then it’s still early enough, or else he would have known. Now listen. You have to rid yourself of it. There is still time—thank all the gods.”
“But I—”
“At least listen to my argument, and then think over my words tonight. I have an elixir that works if used in the early days. It won’t hurt you. No one would have to know. It can be gone, just like Antony himself.”
His choice of words hurt, again, because they were true.
“Think about it. Ask yourself why you want to punish yourself by going through with it, when you don’t have to. Isn’t it painful enough to have been left like this, without having a bastard as well?”
He stood up, again without leave. I just sat looking at him.
“I will come back after dinner. Prepare for bed early. Send Charmian on some errand, say you want to be alone.”
“You sound like a lover,” I said, faintly.
“No, I am the person who has to undo what the lover has done. I clean up other people’s messes.”
Like a sleepwalker, I did what he said. It was oddly comforting to be ordered around, to be told exactly what to do. No thinking, just obedience. I was worn out from the burden of making decisions, of orchestrating events, of leading, amusing, cajoling Antony. How soothing to be led, to be relieved of any responsibility.
I waited in my chamber, dressed in a plain sleeping gown with a coat over it. Charmian had brushed my hair, rubbed my hands with almond cream, massaged my feet with mint water. She had lit three small lamps in the chamber, and opened my favorite window onto the palace grounds. Then she had stolen away to what she assumed would be a sweet night of rest for me.
Olympos appeared a little while later, a silent visitor who was suddenly there. He was holding something all wrapped in cloth. Reverently he unwrapped it and handed it to me.
It was a tall, thin glass bottle. Thro
ugh the sea-green glass I could see that the contents were also green. I tilted it and watched as the heavy liquid rolled to one side.
“This is your friend,” he said. “Your friend that opens the door of your prison and lets you walk out free.”
“What must I do?” I asked. It seemed impossible that this small amount of medicine could be so powerful.
“After I leave, drink it down—all of it. Cover your bed with these cloths.” He thrust a basket out at me; inside I could see folded material. “Lie down. Wait. It won’t be painful—just wait. Then gather up the cloths and hide them. I’ll come to you as soon after daylight as possible, and take them away, before Charmian or Iras even comes in.”
I took the basket and walked over to my bed with it.
“Just remember,” he said. “Tomorrow night all this will be only a memory. It will be past. Don’t lose your courage.” He took my hand. “Your hand is cold. Is this so very difficult for you?”
I swallowed, and nodded. My hand felt like ice in his warm one.
“Most people never have a chance to undo mistakes,” he said. “Most of our misjudgments stay with us, and we must pay the consequences. There will be those in plenty—for us both. But this need not be one of them.” He squeezed my hand and said, “Please don’t be afraid.” He paused. “I will be back in only a few hours. I promise.” Again, he hesitated. “It is not an easy thing for me, to break my oath as a physician and give you this. It is no light matter for either of us. But it must be done.”
After he left, as silently as he came, I stood stupidly by the side of the bed. Why could he not stay with me? But of course he couldn’t, if the event was to be erased completely. It must come and go with no witnesses.
I spread the thick cloths out over the bed, and then held out the vial of medicine. My hands still felt so cold that they did not warm the glass. I put the bottle down and rubbed my hands together as hard as I could, snow against snow. Even my nose felt cold. I touched its tip and touched stone in winter. All the blood was fleeing from my extremities, as if I had taken the elixir already.
I held it up before the lamp. Why were all drugs green? I remembered the potion we had drunk in Canopus. Maybe it had caused the condition that now called for this antidote—one green potion requiring another. I shivered.
Don’t take it, I told myself, and day will follow day, and you will get bigger and bigger and the whole world will know that Antony came to Alexandria, enjoyed himself, and left a bastard—a bastard that will cause amused laughter in Rome and sneering remarks from Octavian. Another discarded mistress like Cytheris and Glaphyra, they’ll say.
And it will even reflect badly on Caesar, I realized with a sinking feeling. Antony used Caesar’s widow for his pleasure, but then cast her aside. What was good enough for Caesar was trifling to Antony. What did that say about Caesar? I would have dishonored his memory—I, who had promised above all things to revere it. Antony had usurped his place, then trampled on it. And I had allowed it. So they would say.
I reached for the bottle, pried off its lid. This is the least I can do to make amends, I thought wildly. Caesar, forgive me! It is not as the world would think. You know that, but no one else will. There is only one way to stop this dishonor. I will not fail you a second time.
As I raised the bottle to my mouth and felt the smooth glass rim with my lips, I sensed a presence of something, or someone, nearby. It was enough to make me hesitate. I jerked the bottle away, trembling, and set it down. What was I thinking of? It sat there, gleaming, like the snake’s eyes in Meroe, and just as poisonous.
I backed away from it. Why had I not even thought of any counterarguments before starting to down it? It was as if my mind were paralyzed, dumbly obedient to Olympos’s suggestions—all rational, all persuasive.
Except…they ignored the main fact. Regardless of anything else—Antony’s other children, Fulvia, Rome, Octavian, Caesar, bastardy, ridicule—the gods, and Isis, the great mother-goddess, had given me a child. I was its mother, and all the other facts were unimportant beside that one great fact. As Caesarion had brought me joy, so would this one. What happened to their fathers was almost beside the point, or rather, it was a completely different point. One could not cancel out the other.
I fell weeping on the bed, afraid of how near I had come to making what would have been the one mistake—the only mistake—in all this. And it could never have been undone, Olympos’s words notwithstanding.
Perhaps it was Isis herself who had come to me.
I jerked off the covering cloths and lay down on the bed. My hands were warm again, and I fell asleep, with deep relief.
I awoke to find Olympos bending over me. He was pointing to the gathered cloth, and stuffed it into his basket. He touched me tenderly and proudly. Then he saw the full bottle on the table. His face changed.
“I see you didn’t go through with it,” he said sadly.
“I couldn’t,” I whispered. “I didn’t want to.”
“You shouldn’t have been afraid. I told you—”
“I wasn’t afraid,” I assured him. “But you see—as hard as it is to explain—I love this child—even though I don’t yet know its face or name.”
He shook his head. “You are right. You are not able to explain it. Not coherently, anyway.” Defeated, he took up the bottle, the basket, and disappeared. It was not yet dawn, and by the time Iras came in and said cheerily, “Good morning!” the whole night seemed a dream.
Perhaps it had been Caesar who had come to me, saying, Don’t protect me at your own cost. I won’t allow it. Or perhaps it was the child itself, calling out to me. Or perhaps it was simply my own good sense. I would never know.
I just lay in bed, feeling weak. Iras was chattering away, talking about the weather and whether it would be warm enough to eat outside on the terrace.
“Iras,” I finally said, “I am still tired. I think I will rest a bit longer.” I pulled the covers up over my head, shutting out the light.
Days passed. I had no desire to call Olympos back or send for his potion; instead, I felt a great sense of deliverance. I kept imagining how I would have felt, had I taken it. Tomorrow night all this will be only a memory. It will be past. I was thankful that what I still had was not a memory, but something still in my future, coming toward me.
There were bits and pieces of news. Antony had reached Tyre. From there he sailed on to Rhodes, then to Ephesus—the Parthians had been stopped east of that. Everything else they held, including Tarsus, so lately Antony’s playground. I wondered what had happened to the new gymnasion there, the proud symbol of Greek life. Such odd concerns come to us in the midst of larger ones.
From Ephesus, Antony had sailed on to Athens, where he planned to gather the legions from Macedonia. But they were engaged in fighting off attacks to the north, and so he knew he would have to call on his legions stationed in faraway Gaul, and bring them east. That would take months.
Waiting for Antony in Athens were his general Munatius Plancus, and his other general, his wife Fulvia. I tried to picture the reunion, and failed—probably because I did not wish to see it in my mind. But a long letter arrived from one of Mardian’s informants, and he hurried in to show it to me.
“Here, here’s news from Athens,” he said, thrusting it out at me. “You can trust the writer; he was one of my fellow students here at the palace school, and quite a storyteller.”
I took the letter, half reluctantly, and read it. Now that it was here, did I wish to know?
“My most esteemed Mardian, greetings—” and so on; I skipped the personal items.
The arrival of the Triumvir Antonius has caused a stir here, because all the world waits to see what he will do. We already knew what he has only just now learned: that his fellow Triumvir Octavianus has taken over the legions in Gaul, upon the opportune death of their commander, and Antonius’s friend, Calenus. So he has just lost eleven legions, and not to the Parthians. The general Plancus and Fulvia hoped for a bet
ter reward for all their efforts on Antonius’s behalf. Not only has he not commended them, but he seems (from what we hear) to have blamed them for his troubles.
I put the letter down for a moment. “But it is Octavian who is the cause of his troubles!” I said aloud. Mardian merely raised his eyebrows.
Sextus has sent representatives, including his own father-in-law, to negotiate with Antonius, offering him an alliance, and lately Antonius’s mother has arrived as well, arguing in favor of Sextus. She had taken refuge with him in the latest fighting, which caused much disruption and discontent in Italy.
Antonius refused to consider making the alliance with Sextus, and instead set out for Italy. He had harsh words with his wife, who attempted to upbraid him on account of the scandal he was causing by his liaison with your sovereign mistress, Cleopatra. (And here I must say, Mardian, that it has caused a scandal; there was talk of little else all winter here! The tales we heard of revels night and day, oxen roasting twelve at a time, drinking orgies, some sort of Club of Excess…. Your duties must be interesting ones! I should have stayed in Alexandria and made a palace career for myself there; it certainly would have proved more rewarding than what I do now, being librarian for our gymnasiarch.)
I felt my face growing tight, realizing how I furnished a topic of conversation to while away the hours of bored people. A Club of Excess!
Fulvia fell ill on the way to the ships, and the impatient Antonius has left her behind at Sicyon and gone on with Plancus. Gone where? Sailed west, is all we know. The problem is that Domitius Ahenobarbus, the lone Republican admiral, is patrolling the waters between here and Italy. Antonius is heading right into the teeth of his fleet.
The Memoirs of Cleopatra Page 78