Olympos gave a noncommittal grunt, and I could have kicked him. He could be so aloof it crossed over into rudeness. It was amusing sometimes, but not now; Antony did not deserve the treatment Olympos usually meted out to bad carriage drivers or overeager merchants.
"You are supposed to be so skilled you can bring back the dead," said Antony, in his friendly, open manner.
More silence. Olympos was turning over the hand and sniffing it.
"But the most wonderful thing you ever did was to bring my children safely into the world, when it seemed they were doomed, along with the Queen herself."
I had told Antony of the debt we owed to Olympos for the lives of the twins.
Finally, Olympos looked up at him, and I saw the faintest trace of a smile on his lips--or rather, a softening of the dour expression. He nodded slightly. "How long have you had this?" he asked.
"In the last skirmish with the Parthians, just before we crossed over the boundary into Armenia . . . about twenty or thirty days, I suppose. I didn't notice it at first."
"Yes, that's the way these things develop," said Olympos, poking at it. "I suppose this hurts?"
Antony attempted to laugh, but it was a thin one. "Oh, a bit--it feels like a mild torture." He jumped a little.
"Hot, I see." Olympos was laying a finger along it.
"Well?" said Antony.
"Untreated, it might cure itself," said Olympos, straightening up. "Of course, it would leave a large scar, and the hand would always be stiff."
"And treated?" Antony was clenching his fist, then stretching out the fingers, like someone trying on a glove.
"It would be very painful," said Olympos in his haughtiest voice. You certainly don't want that, his tone implied. "I would have to cut away all the darkened flesh. It is dying--my nostrils told me that. I would have to scrape it down to the raw flesh and let it start healing from there. And perhaps-- depending on the size of it--it may need an old device, so old no one uses it anymore--a tin pipe so it can drain--"
"Then do it," said Antony simply.
Olympos looked surprised; he had been hoping Antony would demur and spare him any further involvement.
"I can't do it now!" he said quickly. "I need daylight so I can see. And time to prepare the drain--and I will need other things as well."
"What are they?" I asked. "I will see that all is ready by tomorrow."
"Red wine that is between six and nine years old," he said. "That has the strongest effect on fresh wounds."
Antony laughed. "Wounds have expensive tastes! Order enough that we can drink some ourselves. Afterward, that is."
"I think you ought to drink yours beforehand," said Olympos. "It will dull the pain--which will be considerable." He emphasized the last word, hoping to scare him.
"I will follow your prescription, wise one," said Antony, and Olympos smiled in spite of himself.
"I will need myrrh as well," he said, turning to me. "If you can get it for me by tonight, I can make a medicated stick for tomorrow."
"You don't ask for much!" I scoffed. "Myrrh at sundown!" But I would find some.
The next day Olympos and Antony disappeared into a field station set up to admit light without the glare of the sun. They were gone so long I found myself pacing back and forth, even talking to the raven, who alternated cawing with rasping, "Hail! Farewell! Kiss, kiss!"
When Olympos finally returned, he was drained; his medicine case, slung over his shoulder, looked ransacked.
"Well, I've done my best," he said. "But it's nasty. I had to take so much flesh out that he'll always have an indentation there--assuming it heals over."
"Is that why it took so long?" Babies had been born in less time.
"How long did it take?" He sank down on a bench. "I lost track. But with the wine, and the myrrh, it has a good chance. And the drainage tube--I'm quite proud of it. Hippocrates used them, but no one does now. This will be interesting."
"So, did you drink the wine?"
"Not me," said Olympos. "And Antony--he passed the time and distracted himself by asking the oddest questions."
"Well, what?"
"He wanted to know what we did as children--when I first met you, and all that. What you were like."
"I hope you didn't tell him!" Yet I was touched that he would be curious.
"Only the respectable parts," said Olympos. "I did tell him about some of our adventures--like the time we went to the embalmer's, and you lay down on the table like a mummy. And the time we hid in the marsh and overturned the little fishing boat, pretending to be crocodiles."
"Now that I know more," I said, "it's a miracle we didn't encounter a real crocodile ourselves."
He laughed. "Those were happy days," he said.
But I knew better. They had been dangerous days, and my danger had come not from crocodiles but from the court, where my sisters seized the crown. Yet such is the stoutheartedness of childhood that we were able to put that out of our minds for an afternoon and paddle around in the marshes, making memories that lasted a lifetime.
"Yes, I am surprised that he would ask," said Olympos. But he was pleased, I could tell. Antony had begun to win him over. Although it would be a long time before he capitulated completely, at least he would no longer think of him as a demon.
That night Antony waved the bandaged hand, so bulky it looked like a bear's paw. A little tin straw protruded from it, allowing liquid to run out. The entire hand, bandage and all, was to be plunged into a bucket--a bucket-- of eight-year-old Falernian every hour or so.
"Does it hurt?" I ventured to ask.
"Like hell," he said jovially.
"If it works, then it will be worth it," I said.
"That's easy for you to say--you didn't have to sit still while he carved you up," he reminded me.
The hand responded, and after several days, and multiple inspections and bandage changes, Olympos seemed elated. The red puffiness of the original wound had subsided, and the edges were clean. Olympos kept dousing it with the wine and sprinkling ground myrrh on it. His stitches looked as neat as Syrian embroidery, and I told him so.
"Next time I must employ gold thread," he said, "and make it truly decorative."
Decision time was at hand--the seas had opened and a message must go to Rome. But what was it to be? At length Antony told me that after much deliberation, he had decided to downplay the losses in Parthia, but not claim outright victory.
"It will not be dishonorable to be vague about the particulars," he said.
"But misleading." I had to say it.
"I prefer Vague,' " he repeated stubbornly. "It is no dishonor--"
How concerned he was about that word! He would do anything to avoid it.
"--to refuse to dwell on the past, and look to the future. I will emphasize the coming campaign in Armenia."
At least that would buy us some time to recoup our losses. "With Octavian away from Rome, that will serve us well," I said.
"If he has not left already, he will soon." The word was out that Octavian had found a task for his legions--he would employ them on the frontier of Illyria.
"Is he really going to command his own troops?" I asked.
"So they say. He is desperate to prove himself a military leader. Even getting himself injured would be helpful," said Antony. "It has become so glaring that without Agrippa to fight for him, he is totally ineffectual." But then a look of pain passed over his face. It was not Octavian who had lost forty-two thousand legionaries. The irony, of course, was that Octavian never would have attempted such a campaign in the first place.
"If he is gone, it would serve me well to go to Rome myself," Antony said, thinking out loud. "I could renew my ties there."
With Octavia? Quickly I said, "If you were to return in person, you would be questioned closely about Parthia. There would be no hiding it. Don't return in weakness!"
"I have been gone so long, I fear I may be losing my hold there--politically and in the memories of the people.
It may be necessary to make a return visit."
"If you go when Octavian is gone, it will appear you are afraid of him!" I said quickly. "As if you are sneaking into the city behind his back, too timid to face him." Of course, I knew well enough that that was the time to go--
when he could have Rome to himself. But if he went, he might drift back into the wake of Octavian.
The strongest nature that's nearest him will always lead him, rule him. I could not risk that. I must keep him away from Rome.
"Then I'll go and call him to a meeting," said Antony.
"No, no!" I said. "Let him stay in Illyria. Let him be beaten there--let the Illyrians do your work for you. Otherwise he'll be looking for an excuse to leave and turn the fighting over to Agrippa, who'll earn him more glory!"
"I suppose that makes sense," said Antony. But I could tell he was far from convinced. "I will go later. After I can present the Armenian king in chains in a Triumphal procession."
"Yes. That will dazzle the Romans. They love Triumphs. And so far Octavian has not been able to claim one." Now I must change the subject, and quickly. "I am needed in Egypt. I must return soon."
"Yes."
"What are your plans? Will you come, or stay here with the troops?"
"If I could only rebuild my legions, I would mount the attack on Armenia as soon as possible. But it is already March, and there is no way I could be ready to campaign this season--it's such a short one in the mountains. And then there's Sextus on the loose, roaming here with his three renegade legions. I dare not march east and leave my back unprotected."
"So you must lose another year," I said. "Another year canceled out by other people." First Octavian's dallying, now Sextus's. How maddening it is to be caught in the grip of faraway events, when you cannot either surmount them or ignore them!
"Sextus must be dealt with," Antony insisted.
He was right, of course. And the truth was that Antony needed to regroup after last year, to revive both his army and his spirits.
"So you will remain here?"
"For a few more weeks," he said. "Then I will probably be able to oversee my responsibilities from Alexandria."
"Hurry," I said. "Your city has missed you."
"Alexandria is wherever you are," he said, taking my face in his hands-- one still bandaged and the other normal--and looking at me.
My preparations for departure were almost complete, and I would leave in deep gratitude that Isis and the two gods of medicine--Asclepius and Imhotep--had returned Antony's hand to him. It had healed nicely, the tube and stitches long gone.
Then it came, the letter from Rome, announcing that Octavia was on her way to bring help to Antony: cattle, food, the ships left over from those he had lent Octavian, and two thousand of the best Roman soldiers, handpicked from Octavian's prize guard.
A pleasant messenger--Niger, a friend of Antony's--had brought the letter. I was forced to entertain him and ask polite questions about the journey, trying to find out exactly where Octavia was now. The answer was, almost to Athens with her cargo. There she would await instructions from Antony.
4And what will those instructions be?" I asked Antony as we prepared for bed. "I am sure she will obediently do whatever you ask!" Oh, why had he not divorced her already? Why had I not insisted on it? My mistake!
"I could use the soldiers--"
"This is comical," I said. "Your two wives both sailing to you with aid and comfort. It's a miracle we didn't collide on the high seas."
"She isn't my wife," he said lamely.
"Why? Have you divorced her? And I remember that Rome ignored our marriage announcement completely. I don't exist as your wife--not in their eyes."
"Oh, I am tired of this!" said Antony, flopping back on the bed.
"Then end it!" I said. I wanted to add, As you should have done bng ago. But I must not nag. Not now. "Send her back." That would convey a loud message.
"But the men--"
"The men are an insult! He owes you four legions, and what does he do but send this little token as a bait--or as a means of bringing you to heel! They are attached to Octavia, hooked to her, so you are supposed to swallow the entire thing, like a fish. 'Be good, Antony, and perhaps I shall let you have more'--that's what he's saying! Is that what you want--to be his subordinate, dance to his tunes? I tell you, it's an insolent challenge! Two thousand men when he owes you twenty thousand, and only in a package with his sister--the extension of himself." I glared at him. "You said it was like having Octavian himself in your bed!"
"Yes, yes." He was staring up at the ceiling.
"Well, do as you like," I said, and I meant it. He must decide for himself. "I am returning to Alexandria. You must board a ship for either Athens or Alexandria. They lie in opposite directions."
I turned on my side and pulled the covers over my shoulders. My heart was beating fast, but it was only because, like all irrevocable choices, this had descended fast and unlooked for. Yet it was welcome, in some mysterious way. Now it must happen; at last he must sail either north op south.
It was unlike me, but I would say nothing further to sway him either way. It must be entirely his own decision, originate in his own heart. Otherwise it would mean nothing.
The next morning a cheery letter came from Octavia, announcing her arrival in Athens, and signing herself, "Your devoted wife." The day after that, Olympos and I boarded a ship for Alexandria.
As he had when we arrived, Antony stood on the shore alone, watching us.
I waited, although of course I told myself I was not waiting. I busied myself with all the work that had accumulated in Egypt in my absence, especially since the seas had reopened. Already trade that had been repressed by Sextus had sprung back full force and healthy.
"There is no doubt that Octavian did the world a favor by getting rid of him," said Mardian. He held a report in his hands detailing the amphorae of oil dispatched in April. "Every time someone dips his bread in oil, he can give thanks to Octavian--for both the bread and the oil. It matters not whether he is in Greece, Cyprus, or Italy."
I glumly had to concur. Even we in Alexandria were reaping the benefits; our merchants' ships could go wherever they liked now.
"Here's proof of the expanded trade," Mardian said, lifting something out of a box. Flailing legs and a wrinkled neck strained and struggled. "Two tortoises from Armenia. The King sent them. He said he knew we had a zoo, and hoped we did not already have some of these." He rotated the creature in his hand. "He said their blood does not freeze and they can sleep in the snow with no ill effects."
"Unlike Antony's men!" So the King sought to avert punishment by such paltry presents. He was truly stupid.
Mardian was stroking the turtle's head, and it seemed to enjoy it; at least it stopped struggling. "A tragedy," he agreed. "And now the . . . situation with Octavia."
"Yes. She sits in Athens, surrounded by her bait. Octavian sent her; it could not be her doing." Of that I was sure.
"How do you know that?" Mardian frowned.
"Even if she wished to, he never would have permitted it unless it furthered his own aims. Besides, she has no thoughts, desires, or plans of her own!"
The weak creature was content to be married how and where her brother decreed, to be ordered about like a slave. What good was all her scholarship, then, and her vaunted lofty character?
"Everyone in Rome praises her," said Mardian cautiously. "And they say she is . . . beautiful."
"I've seen her. She isn't," I said. "People say the most ridiculous things! That's because it makes the story better, and the competition sharper between us. I and my eastern wiles against the virtuous beauty of Rome." I knew that was how it was perceived, and there was no remedy for it. As I said, people like dramatic stories and elemental conflicts.
"Antony will have to decide," I said. "And I will do nothing to help him make up his mind."
"My dear, if you have not done enough already, then it will never be enough," said Mardian
.
I had spoken bravely to Mardian in the daylight, but at night I lay awake and felt much less sure. The truth was that common sense said Antony should return to the fold of Rome. His eastern venture had failed; he ought to put it behind him as a lost cause. He possessed that unusual, chameleonlike quality of fitting in anywhere. In his purple general's cloak and helmet he was pure warrior, in his toga he was a Roman magistrate, in a Greek robe he was a gymnasiarch, in lionskin and tunic he was Hercules, and in vine leaves he was Dionysus, an eastern god. Unlike me, he could be all things to all people--it was his gift and his charm.
Now he could easily resume the Roman mantle, take the hand of his Roman wife, and sail back to Rome. The east had not answered his dreams; very well, there were others for him elsewhere. Octavian would welcome him back, his errant past forgiven. They would never mention me, as a mutual embarrassment.
The west was sure for Antony. All I could offer was a struggle to build a wide eastern alliance and eventually an equal partnership with Rome. That, and myself.
Yet I wondered about a woman like Octavia. If I had been deserted, my husband publicly marrying someone else, bestowing lands on her and putting her head on coins, I never would want him back--or at least I would never take him back, no matter how much I wanted him. And to chase after him--I would be ashamed even to think of it!
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