The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  Now I agreed that Mardian and I must inspect one of the most famous “transformation” trees, the one where Daphne had taken root and sprouted leaves to escape the predations of Apollo.

  “Apollo seems to have an adverse effect on women,” I said. “Clytie had to turn into a sunflower to put an end to her unrequited love, and Daphne decided she would rather be a tree than yield to his embraces. How sad they could not change places!”

  “That’s how legends are,” said Mardian. “Everyone wants what he cannot have, and gets punished. But tell me—if Apollo was so attractive, why did that nymph run away? I ask you, as a woman, to explain it.”

  “Perhaps she ran away from him because he was so attractive,” I said.

  “That makes no sense,” argued Mardian.

  It did not, but I knew it happened. After all, I had resisted meeting with Antony.

  “Sometimes we run away just to thwart fate,” I finally said. “Come, let us go out to Daphne.”

  We clattered along in our carriage, leaving the palace island, passing the old agora, and then traveling the wide paved street toward the elaborate fountain built over the original sweet springs of Antioch. Crowds of people were gathered idly around it, dressed in outlandish garb. They waved at us and shouted in high-pitched voices. A peculiar oily smell drifted toward us.

  “Faster!” Mardian ordered the driver. “That smell—how can they call it perfume?” He held his nose.

  “I think it is many perfumes fighting,” I said.

  “Well, it makes a stink!” Mardian looked disdainful. “And did you see the makeup? As garish as a mummy-carton! On both sexes!”

  “Mardian, I do believe you are turning into a prude,” I said. “Who would ever have expected it of an Alexandrian eunuch?”

  “Don’t tell me you like these people!” His initial enthusiasm for the Antiochenes had waned.

  “I have no prejudices against any particular people. I take them as individuals, you should know that.” I would have to, if Antony and I were to rule over many lands and peoples. But I had always felt that way.

  “This city seems to have adopted all the bad fashions of Alexandria.”

  “And much of the good,” I insisted. “It is the third city in the world now, after Alexandria and Rome. If it does not quite measure up to them—that is why it is third. But there is much to like here.” Could the place where I had married ever be less than dear to me?

  Soon we passed the famous Antioch statue, the goddess of Fortune wearing city walls for her crown, resting on Mount Silpius, the Orontes River swimming beneath her feet. How placid, how uninvolved Fortune looked, as she blandly oversaw men’s fates. Her indifference was chilling.

  Some little distance from the city lay the sacred precinct of Daphne, where Seleucus I had been commanded by Apollo to plant an extensive grove of cypresses. They surrounded the ancient laurel tree; and of course there was the inevitable Temple of Apollo nestled nearby.

  We alighted from the carriage and followed a path through the shadowy grove. The long fingers of the cypresses, like a hall of columns, made us feel we were passing through a natural temple.

  The laurel, twisted and thick, lay in the very center of the grove. It stood with a forsaken dignity, as if long-suffering. It had long ago lost its slender form, becoming gnarled with age, and any nymph residing within was imprisoned in an ugly citadel—a sad fate for something once lovely and young. She had paid a high price for resisting Apollo.

  Mardian ran his fingers over the rough bark. “Are you in there, Daphne?” he called lightly.

  Overhead the leaves, still delicate and healthy, rustled slightly, like a sigh.

  Final preparations for the army were in hand, as melting snows from the mountains gushed down the slopes, opening the passes. Soon Antony would embark: the long-postponed venture was at hand. His generals—all except Canidius—were gathered at headquarters. Titius, the lean-faced nephew of Plancus, was to serve as quaestor, and Ahenobarbus would command several legions. Dellius, the man who had so rudely summoned me to Tarsus all those years ago, would also be entrusted with legions and the task of writing the history of the campaign, as Antony never wrote accounts of his wars. The excitement of the coming campaign hung in the air, like a smell of metal and fire.

  Ahenobarbus, who had visited Rome to settle some family business, asked to speak to Antony privately; Antony took that to include me as well. I could see by Ahenobarbus’s face that he wished to be alone with Antony. His little eyes focused on me, and his forced smile and flat voice made that clear. But Antony ignored it, and merely urged him to speak his mind.

  “And how have you left Rome?” Antony asked, handing him a cup of wine, which Ahenobarbus ostentatiously declined. Antony shrugged and took it himself.

  “Behind,” Ahenobarbus said. “And faring well enough, although there is a severe shortage of bread. So all the talk is about this season’s attack on Sextus.”

  “It will be a repeat of the last,” said Antony. “They are helpless against the self-styled Son of Neptune.”

  “I think not,” said Ahenobarbus. His voice was sharp. “Agrippa created a naval training station near Misenum, and he has been training crack oarsmen all winter. They will meet Sextus as equals. He has also built a fleet of huge ships, so large that Sextus cannot attack them. And as if that were not enough, he has invented a device that allows him to shoot a grappling hook over great distances from the safety of his floating forts. He will haul in Sextus’s boats like little silver fish.”

  “Ah well, I wish him luck,” said Antony, and he meant it. “Did you speak to Octavian about our venture?”

  “Oh yes. He invited me to a most delicious dinner.” Ahenobarbus paused for dramatic effect. “He was curious about your preparations—although he seemed well apprised of all the details I recounted. The man has spies everywhere.”

  Are you one? I wondered. He sounded like it.

  “Aside from Octavian, how do Romans look upon it?” Antony asked.

  “They do not seem to pay it much mind,” said Ahenobarbus. “They are much more concerned with their bellies and bread than with foreign conquests. We have had so many foreign conquests at the hands of Caesar that perhaps interest has worn thin.” His smile was equally thin. He spread his hands as if to say, What remedy?

  “Did Octavian—how did he receive the news of my marriage with the Queen?” Antony took my hand proudly.

  We had had no word from Rome; our announcement was met with a silence that seemed to grow louder with each passing day.

  “If he has received it, he does not acknowledge it,” said Ahenobarbus. “He spoke of granting you the right to dine at the Temple of Concord with your wife and daughters, when you return to Rome. A great honor.”

  “Another daughter?” Antony had had no word from Octavia since she had gone back to Rome.

  “Why, yes,” said Ahenobarbus. “You were not told?” He seemed genuinely surprised.

  “No,” Antony admitted. “No, I have not been informed.” He finished his cup of wine and set it down. I could see that he was taken aback; he might have shaken the dust of Rome from his feet, but he had never considered they might have done the same to him. Ignoring his campaign and our marriage was a signal insult.

  “That was rude of them,” said Ahenobarbus, half jokingly. “Well, after we give the Parthians a thrashing, they’ll mind their manners better in Rome.” He paused. “Now, as for the campaign—if you have not lost your touch of splendid nonchalance on the field, we shall soon have a new Roman province.”

  After he left, I wheeled around on Antony. “How dare Octavian ignore our marriage?”

  Antony looked tired, as he sank down on a couch. He ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his temples. “He is not ignoring it, believe me, regardless of what he wants us to think.”

  “Send Octavia her papers of divorce,” I said. “He cannot ignore that.” If she had had her child, then there was no reason to hold back. “It is time.”<
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  “No,” he said stubbornly. “There is no point in fighting a war on two fronts. If he ignores you, then let me ignore Octavia. Sometimes ignoring someone is a stronger statement than taking action. Let Octavian see how it feels.”

  “You keep giving reasons for not divorcing her.”

  “Let them ask me to,” he said. “Let them acknowledge that they have failed to force the marriage upon me, and are hurting only themselves. I have no wish to harm Octavia,” he said quickly. “Surely Octavian will see that she is the one who suffers most in this, since she cannot marry anyone else until she is free.”

  “I don’t think he cares how much she suffers, as long as he has a hold over you,” I said.

  That night had the feeling of a farewell, although there would be a few more days before we actually left Antioch. But the chamber, its packed trunks and coffers already taken away, seemed empty and echoing—as if our belongings had embarked on the next stage, leaving us behind.

  Lying together in the high bed, its mosquito net making a gauzy tent around us, I said sleepily, “This is like a play-tent.” I rested my head on his shoulder, feeling supremely contented after a prolonged session of lovemaking. “There would not be time for this in a real tent, on a real battlefield.”

  “No.” He sounded wide awake. “I will miss you very keenly. Now even a war tent seems lacking without you, so completely do you fill every aspect of my life.”

  “You make me sound like a faithful hound,” I said, with a drowsy laugh.

  Now that the moment had come, the venture that carried so much weight sat lightly upon him. Perhaps that was the only way to bear it.

  Sometime in the middle of the night a ferocious spring storm broke, with fearsome lightning flashes and sonorous rolls of thunder. Asleep at last, Antony barely stirred, except to burrow his shaggy head deeper against my neck. But I lay listening, hearing the rain washing down from the roof, cleansing the world.

  By dawn the storm was over, and only roiling gray clouds remained. The soaked earth, black and deep-plowed, released a thick, rich, fertile-smelling cloud. Everywhere branches drooped with the aftermath of the pelting rain, each end a shimmering knob of water, each leaf and blossom gleaming. Huge puddles lay scattered on the paving stones; a few brave birds were already singing.

  “Come.” I circled Antony’s waist as we stood looking out at the new-washed garden outside our doors, bordering the wide flagstone terrace. “Let us go outside and walk in it.”

  Barefoot, we emerged onto the terrace, where the cold stones and water made our feet tingle. The hems of our gowns dragged, becoming rimmed with water. Out in the garden itself, the slippery grass, chilled and as sleek as an animal’s fur, gave off a piercingly sweet aroma as we crushed it under our toes. A gust of wind would shake the laden boughs of trees far overhead, sending down showers on us, soaking our shoulders.

  Everywhere there was the gentle sound of dripping. The Persian lilacs, weighed down with their heavy clusters of flowers, bent gracefully, like a row of courtiers. We walked between them, letting the flowers slap us, sending scented spray into our faces.

  After the rain, there is a magic that evaporates when the sun comes out.

  I stopped and shut my eyes, feeling only the slight chill, smelling the lilacs and damp earth, hearing the water drops fall from boughs. The perfume seemed intensified by the moisture, and when I looked down at the ground, at all the little plants brimming with water in their cups, the colors seemed magnified as well, the greens sharp and dazzling. The purple of the violets, the blue of the irises were like jewels.

  I seemed to be in paradise, for that is what a garden is after the rain, in spring.

  After the rain…I tightened my arm around Antony, to prove to myself this was no dream, to feel his solid flesh.

  Far to the east, behind Mount Silpius and the sunrise, lay Parthia, waiting.

  57

  Early May, and we were in Armenia, being feasted by Antony’s new-won ally, King Artavasdes, in his drafty palace overlooking the valley of the Araxes River. It was an elaborate structure, and as I looked around the dim chamber I became aware that the long arm of Greek architecture, style, and furnishings did not reach here. We had left the west behind, and from here on all would be foreign to us: foreign manners, foreign protocol, foreign motives. Octavian has been pleased to call me eastern and exotic, but that is not so—Egypt and Greece are not foreign, even to Rome.

  The hall was many-domed, like a bazaar, or a series of tents. Intricate patterns of gold and lapis covered the span, and were echoed in bright tiles underfoot. More color ran down the walls in heavy gold-embroidered silk, and the tables were draped in what looked more like rugs than cloths. The Armenians did not eat reclining, but sat straight on backless chairs. The vessels on the table were gold, massive, and as encrusted with gems as warts on a toad.

  Artavasdes himself was slender and dark, with enormous, soulful eyes and a drooping mustache. He turned mournful eyes on me when he spoke, and although he was polite, his stare was invasive. Over his oiled ringlets he wore a tiara with a veil in back, and his costume was entirely Persian: baggy trousers, voluminous cape, fringed tunic. He had a ring—sometimes several—on each finger, including his thumbs. Mardian would have been scandalized, since he had found even the Antiochenes repulsive in their overdone finery.

  Artavasdes was seated between Antony and me, and stretching out on either side were the Roman officers: Canidius, who had brought his legions here to join forces with the bulk of the army, and Titius, Dellius, Plancus, and Ahenobarbus. They wore their plain Roman uniforms—bronze cuirasses and purple cloaks, sturdy nailed sandals, and military decorations, either crowns or symbolic silver spearheads. They looked very workmanlike and unembellished next to the Armenians.

  As a child I had studied Median, and it pleased me to speak a bit to Artavasdes, if only to let him know that we could understand his asides to his nobles. Antony was more impressed than he, whispering in my ear, “How many languages do you know?” and then adding, “I suppose you speak Parthian as well!”

  In truth, I had also studied it briefly, but only recently had begun trying to relearn it. I hoped I would have need of it, and soon.

  “I know a little,” I admitted.

  When I saw how surprised Antony was, I said, “You must learn it as well. If you are to be master of all the east, you cannot depend on translators; you must not be at another man’s mercy that way.”

  He merely grunted; like all Romans, he expected the entire world to switch to Latin to accommodate him.

  Artavasdes was gesturing, rolling his hands in intricate circles to punctuate his words. “My brother King Polemo and I will slay hundreds of the Parthians,” he promised.

  At the sound of his name, King Polemo of Pontus nodded at us from his end of the table. Antony had made him king recently, and he was enjoying the title as only an elevated commoner can. Together he and Artavasdes would contribute six thousand fine cavalry and seven thousand foot soldiers to Antony’s army.

  I looked down the table at all the men’s profiles—Antony’s still firm, no hint of a sagging chin or flaccid cheeks, but with lines at the corners of his eyes that had not been there in Rome, and scattered gray in his otherwise dark hair. Canidius, being older, looked it, his skin more like tanned hide than a youth’s. Dellius would have had a perfect profile, but his looks were spoiled by his pitted complexion and his habit of slicking his hair back. Plancus, like Antony, was not young but still in his soldier’s prime, as was Ahenobarbus, with his hawk’s nose and red beard only a little lightened by gray. Plancus’s nephew alone, the dark and caustic Titius, was of the next generation, a youth in search of glory. The rest were wary, less intent on performing astounding feats of arms than on annihilating the enemy in any way possible and returning safely. There was little of Alexander in them, little yearning for wider horizons or conquests; they fought for advancement in the courts of Rome.

  “No, make that thousands,” A
rtavasdes corrected himself, with typical Asiatic exaggeration. Everything was in thousands and tens of thousands. “Tomorrow we will present a demonstration of falconry,” he said.

  “Tomorrow we must review the troops and prepare to move,” said Antony. “The season is late enough already.” Indeed, it was quite late to begin, and time was precious.

  “But, Imperator, can I help it that the snows refused to melt?” He twirled his ringed hands.

  Entertainers filed into the hall, playing unfamiliar instruments: pottery rattles, bull-headed lyres, silver pipes. They had a tame lion that they led about by a silken leash; I wondered if they had removed his teeth, just in case.

  Artavasdes had provided us with sumptuous quarters in his palace—an entire set of apartments, hung with tapestries and staffed with what seemed an army. But I found the quarters gloomy and oppressive, smelling of mold, and I did not wish to spend my last night with Antony in them.

  “Tell your staff to set up your tent,” I suddenly said to Antony.

  “What?”

  “Your commander’s tent—the one you will use in the campaign,” I said. “I want to sleep in it with you.”

  “Set up a tent on the palace grounds?”

  “No, down by the river, where the army waits.”

  Antony laughed. “Decline the king’s hospitality and tell him we prefer to sleep in a tent?”

  “Put some other coloration on it. Say I wish to experience it, and this is the only opportunity I will ever have. That is true.”

  “He will take it as an insult.”

  “Tell him you must do it to humor me, as I am expecting a baby and have odd whims. Or say that you have a personal custom of spending the night before embarking with your men—that the gods commanded it and you dare not break the custom now, lest it jinx the expedition. Or tell him both stories.”

  “Oh, very well. To be honest, I prefer my tent to this.” He looked around distastefully at the dank apartments. Then he turned back to me, suddenly. “Are you? Is it true?”