"No. We cannot." We must pursue them to the very heart of their stronghold, as relentlessly as Caesar himself, and in his name.
Outside I could hear the rain beating. In the dark night, in winter's grip, it seemed impossible that warm weather would return, and that Antony would actually set out for Parthia. It was a long journey--over three hundred miles to the spot where he and Canidius would meet and review their troops, and another four hundred, through mountain passes and trails, to Phraaspa. Ecbatana, his target, lay another hundred and fifty to the south: a total that approached a thousand Roman miles, and over difficult terrain, infested with enemies. A land march of a thousand miles for a fully equipped army was a staggering undertaking. It would be a miracle if he reached Ecbatana by winter. The mountains were the sticking point in the plans--he could not cross them until winter was over, but that delayed the starting time a great deal.
''Everything takes so long!" I burst out.
He turned around and came back to the table. "Yes," he said. "And it seems to have taken a long time already, because year after year I have had to postpone the campaign. I think that soured me on Octavian more than anything else--attending to his needs, rushing back to Italy at his beck and call, only to be kept waiting and ignored!" His voice grew angry, an unusual thing to hear. "He has put stumbling blocks in my way, done everything to keep me from this campaign!"
"Yes, and we know why," I said. "Because he would not have you attain the position that fate has reserved for you. Thanks be to Isis that your eyes have finally seen his maneuvering! Now let Sextus sink him in their next sea battle. When you return from Parthia, may you find nothing left of Octavian but an empty ship lying in shallow waters, its mast gone, its hull smashed."
He began rolling up the maps. "Have you seen what you wished?" he asked politely.
"Yes." I had seen the magnitude of the task that lay before him. "I will come with you, at least to Armenia," I said. "Perhaps farther."
He looked startled. "You are welcome, of course, but--"
"After all, am I not supporting the campaign with Egyptian money?" I had invested three hundred talents, enough to support six legions for a year. Antony had had difficulty raising funds in the east, which was wrung dry by Cassius and then the Parthians. Our allies had little left to give. "I will not distract you." I could not resist teasing him.
"I would insist that you turn back before we cross the mountains," he said. "One of us must survive the war."
I put my arms around his waist and rested my head on his chest. I thought of the Ninety-nine Soldiers. "Yes. I know."
"Before we set out," he said, "please send for our children. I wish to see them, in case--in case--"
In case I am one of the Ninety-nine, and not the Hundredth.
"Yes. Of course."
I wondered if Octavian was even now saying to Livia that the Parthians would take care of Antony for him--just as I had said Sextus would take care of Octavian for us.
Chapter 56.
Surrounded by a hundred shades of green--the deep mourning-green of cypresses, the exuberant bright green of spring meadow grass, the silvery green of old olive leaves, and far away on the flat plain, the many hues of just-sown crops, and beyond even that, the dancing blue-green of shallow waters in the Gulf of Alexandretta--I felt as though I were in a painting on the wall of a Roman villa. Behind us, Mount Silpius was thrusting up into the sky, and we stretched out on its flanks, eating our picnic in the warm sunshine.
From where I lay I could hear the soft clanking sound of goat-bells from herds higher up on the mountain, and fancied they were those of Pan himself, and th^t if I strained my ears harder I could hear his pipes.
"Here." Antony leaned over and placed a crown of wildflowers on my head. Their delicate leaves and petals felt cool on my forehead, and the soft smell of the violets and marigolds was lulling. Idly I pulled it off my head and looked at the bands of intertwined flowers.
"What is this?" I asked, seeing an unfamiliar pinkish flower with twisted, curly leaves.
"A wild orchid," he said.
I was amazed that he would know.
"I have spent a great many days in the field," he said, as if he had read my thoughts. "Sometimes I have had to survive on what I found there." He motioned to the children, romping farther down the hill, holding up two smaller crowns for them.
"Crowns for my wife, crowns for my children--crowns for all those with royal blood.'' He laughed, seeming not to mind excluding himself.
"You will earn yours," I assured him. "When you conquer Parthia--"
"No talk of that," he said quickly. "I would not think of anything today but the blue skies and the racing clouds. And spring on the hillside with you, and them."
Alexander and Selene came stumbling over the stones that studded the mountainside. They were three and a half years old now, as eager to play in the open air as any colt or kid.
"For you, Your Majesty," Antony said solemnly, placing the coronet on Alexander's head, where it was all but lost in his thick curls. "And you." He had one for Selene, this one with more poppies. She accepted regally.
"Well done," he said. "You see, that queenly gesture comes from you," he said to me. "It's inherited, not learned."
I put my arms around their shoulders. Antony seemed inordinately proud of them, as if they were the only children he had ever had. Seeing them together, the resemblance between Alexander and him was quite marked-- Alexander had the same husky frame and wide face--but the true similarity was in their rambling, exuberant personalities. Alexander never brooded, or minded taking a tumble.
Selene was a bit of a mystery, as befitted a child named for the moon. She was not really like either of us, and with her pale coloring she looked as though she came from far to the north. She was quiet, but unusually self-possessed, and seldom cried or betrayed her feelings, either of joy or sorrow.
As promised, I had sent for them, and they had been with us for almost a month now. Mardian had accompanied them, wishing to confer with me about matters of state, as well as to ascertain my plans for the next few months. He had found Antioch and Antiochenes quite congenial to his tastes, enjoying their frivolity and overlooking their renowned tendency toward luxury and quarrelsomeness.
"Alexandrians can be described the same way," he had said.
"Antiochenes are less intellectual than Alexandrians," I had said, defending my city.
"When a mob forms in Alexandria, it is not particularly intellectual," he said. "You know how volatile they are."
"Well, here in Antioch they are too lazy to get up out of their scented baths to form a mob," I said.
"Good," said Mardian. "That makes the streets safer."
Alexander and Selene had betrayed great curiosity about their father. Until now, they had assumed that he was dead, like Caesarion's father. In fact, it seemed the normal state for a father, to have retired to the heavens. Now that he was with them, they kept staring at him and saying, "Are you truly our father? Will you stay?"
"Yes," Antony had said the first time, hugging them both at the same time. "And yes, I will stay, although I will be gone from time to time. But I will always come back."
Now he lay back down on the blanket covering the rough ground, and closed his eyes. "I will give you a hundred counts to hide," he said. "And if I cannot find you in another hundred counts, you may name a prize for yourself." He opened one eye and stared at them. "Ready?"
With a squeal, they scampered off. "One--two--" When he got up to ten, he stopped. "That should busy them for a while," he said, sitting up and kissing me.
"You are cheating," I said. "Those poor children--"
"They will welcome a few extra minutes to hide," he assured me.
Behind us the tinkle of the goat-bells grew louder, and the olive trees shading us rustled in the soft breeze. I had never been so content. Just as the vista of Antioch and the plain spread out below me as far as I could see in all directions, so the future lay, fair and promi
sing. I loved, I was loved; I was surrounded by my children; my country was prosperous, and the ugly past, fraught with dangers and defeats, was receding like a distant shore. Antony and I saw eye-to-eye in everything; now that he had cast off Octavian, our aims had truly become one. The joy of it was dizzying.
It is almost impossible to describe happiness, because at the time it feels entirely natural, as if all the rest of your life has been the aberration; only in retrospect does it swim into focus as the rare and precious thing it is. When it is present, it seems to be eternal, abiding forever, and there is no need to examine it or clutch it. Later, when it has evaporated, you stare in dismay at your empty palm, where only a little of the perfume lingers to prove that once it was there, and now is flown.
So those days in Antioch with Antony. The world lay before him, waiting for his invading footstep. Anticipation quickened every day, but reality still was far enough off to float on the mist of possibilities, seductive and soothing, just out of reach.
We danced in a haze of joy like two butterflies, flying from one hedge to another, caught up in a divine drunkenness of the spirit. I was young, sometimes feeling younger even than the children; I was entirely adult, believing myself endowed with mature wisdom, having no trouble making even the most difficult decisions--all answers seemed given to me. Everything seemed given to me. If I forgot to thank you, Isis--forgive me. I do so now, belatedly.
* * *
Mardian was leaving, taking the children back to Alexandria with him. "Duty calls," he said pointedly.
"I will return by summer," I promised him. "If I did not have such trustworthy ministers, I could not be away so long."
"Oh, so I am to blame for your absence?" he said. "Am I to be punished for being competent?"
I laughed. "Most ministers would not consider being left in charge to be punishment," I reminded him.
"Perhaps most ministers do not like the kings and generals they serve," he said. "We must be the exception. Well, do not linger too long. How do you plan to return? When shall I send a ship?"
I had been thinking of that. A brilliant idea had come to me. All my ideas during those weeks seemed brilliant. "I won't need a ship," I said. "I plan to accompany Antony as far as Armenia, and that leaves me a long way from the sea. So I have decided to retrace my steps and journey through Judaea. I will pay Herod a diplomatic visit."
He raised his eyebrows. "You're a trusting soul," he said. "Putting yourself in his hands! He has little cause to protect you, and much cause to see that an 'accident' befalls you."
"He wouldn't dare," I said. I knew Herod and I were antagonists now, since I had asked for--and been granted--large portions of his kingdom. He was said to be boiling about the loss of the lucrative date palm and balsam groves in Jericho, and his seaports as far south as Gaza.
"I repeat, you are a trusting soul," said Mardian. "There is no limit to what someone will dare when he sees his country's existence threatened."
Now those words return to me; someone continually pours them into Octavian's ear about me.
"It is in my interest to placate him, then," I said.
"Unless you plan to restore his property to him, I fail to see what you can offer."
"My friendship rather than my enmity."
"It is his place to offer that. Naturally, you would want to offer friendship, since you are the gainer; it is up to the loser to put aside enmity, and you cannot force that."
"True," I said. "But no harm can come of meeting with him."
"Don't be too sure," said Mardian.
It was hard for me to tell whether he was entirely serious. He raised one of his eyebrows and stretched, breaking the tension.
"You have not shown me Daphne yet, and how can I return to Alexandria without seeing the famous laurel tree? Olympos will be disappointed."
Yes, Olympos had an academic interest in the sites where supernatural transformations had taken place. He had visited the weeping rock that had once been Niobe, had inspected an oak tree said to contain a nymph, and had dissected sunflowers to see if their stems were different from those of regular flowers, since they were supposed to originate from a maiden named Clytie who was hopelessly in love with Apollo. Seeing no difference, he published a paper refuting the story.
"As if anyone had believed it anyway," Mardian said. "Why does he waste his time like that?"
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, dresseid 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."
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