by Peter Tonkin
‘That would be bloody useless in battle,’ growled Quintus. ‘It’s not much stronger than toughened hide.’
‘It is impressive, though,’ observed Artemidorus.
‘That is its purpose,’ observed the Macedonian commander. ‘To be impressive rather than functional.’ His dark eyes lingered on Artemidorus’ gleaming kit as he spoke.
‘We have guards like that in Rome,’ said Artemidorus. ‘Praetorians. We eat them for breakfast. It was men like that we slaughtered all around this very bay six years ago when we were fighting alongside your divine queen and our general Julius Caesar, who is also now divine.’
The Macedonian grunted, clearly reassessing the legionaries. ‘You find pretty parade-ground soldiers everywhere,’ he observed more cordially. ‘Mostly the sons of aristocrats who need to do some armed service but don’t want to swap the marble halls of power for the filthy fields of battle.’
They came to the top step – which reached back into a marble-floored precinct before the next flight of steps up to the palace itself began. The Macedonians came to attention. The gilded Egyptians took over. The boxes were handed on with a mixture of relief and amusement as the gold-plated recipients staggered helplessly beneath their weight. But the grim amusement only lasted until the leader of the Egyptian unit called for burly slaves to relieve his men of the burdens. Then they marched across the precinct in a glittering phalanx with the Roman legionaries at its heart.
*
The doors into the palace dwarfed the gates to many cities Artemidorus had seen. There were squads of slaves whose job was simply to open and close them. As the doors swung wide, the golden guards marched in. Artemidorus looked around in awe. He had never visited this palace and could hardly believe the sight. It was square, colonnaded. Columns, almost as tall as those outside, soared upwards, until he had to squint to make out their decorated capitals. It was as though the builders thought only of scale – not accommodation. And, above them, the brightly painted ceiling was so far away as to be almost celestial. This was after all the home of the Goddess Isis. There was a pool in the middle, surrounded by a huge mosaic very much in the Tuscan style still so popular in Rome. But this pool would have floated a quinquereme and in its centre stood a statue of Poseidon from whose cupped hands water cascaded nearly thirty cubits into the small lake at his feet. Whereas the Romans kept golden carp in theirs, there were huge black-backed crocodiles in this one – a gesture to Sobek, crocodile-headed god of the river Nile.
You could have paraded a legion on the mosaic, which showed Poseidon frolicking with Aphrodite and Demeter. Once again Artemidorus was struck by how Greek this city was – and how the Egyptian gods were at home further south in Memphis.
The massive space was full of people in a variety of costumes matching the throng on Canopus Street, but the golden escort marched Artemidorus and Quintus through without hesitating. At the rear of the atrium was a huge square entrance that led into another enormous room. This one was a kind of reception chamber, for at the far side of it another enormous portal consisting of two towering columns and a gigantic carved and painted lintel, opened into the audience chamber. Where it was just possible to see in the distance, Cleopatra, the Pharonic Queen Goddess herself, enthroned on the top of a great marble dais with her co-ruler young Ptolemy Caesarion seated at her side. The young co-ruler was the receptacle of two gods – Osiris and Divus Julius, whose offspring he was – not to mention being the son of Isis herself.
The guards stopped. Artemidorus looked around at the bustling scene, wondering whether he might know any of the men assembled here waiting their turn for an audience. And he found at once that he did. For standing on the far side of the enormous chamber was Lucius Calpurnius Bibulus. Also, fully armed and parade-ground smart. His aristocratic lips curled in arrogant, thoroughly Roman disdain at all this entirely suspect foreign opulence.
iii
‘Bring the Romans forward!’
Artemidorus never saw who called the order, but the men escorting him were in motion at once, so he and Quintus moved as well. On the far side of the vast chamber, Lucius was also marching forward, escorted by his own golden guards. But, whereas everything that Artemidorus had brought was contained in the chests and boxes being carried behind him, Lucius seemed to have brought only a single scroll in a leather scroll-case. The weight of the boxes slowed the men escorting Artemidorus and Quintus, so Lucius and his men went through the huge portal first and ended up at the foot of the dais ahead of himself and Quintus.
There was a moment of stasis. Artemidorus looked up into the face of the woman he had last seen in Caesar’s villa on the top of the Janiculum Hill across the Tiber from Rome. She had been anything but regal then. Shaken to her very foundations by the news that her lover had just been slaughtered by some of the men he trusted most. How different she looked now. Not merely regal but truly divine. On her head the golden pschent, the snake-fronted double crown announcing her sovereignty over the Two Kingdoms of Upper and Lower Egypt. Her mask-like face made up in the Egyptian style. Her eyes lined with kohl, brows defined with gold. Her lips rouged. Her cheeks sprinkled with gold-dust. Her robes cloth-of-gold. The Hequa crook’d scepter and the ritual flail, both gilded and enameled, crossed on her breast, held by steady fingers laden with golden, bejeweled rings. Artemidorus knew that her form was slight but strong, athletic. And yet with her robes and regalia she filled the massive throne and looked down at her Roman guests from an almost Olympian height.
She and Caesarion were by no means alone on the huge dais. They were surrounded by advisors, secretaries, generals, admirals, all in uniforms and robes that rivaled those of the gilded escort surrounding Artemidorus and Quintus. To either side of the group stood slaves with sensors from which scented smoke drifted onto the sultry air – which was in turn stirred by yet more slaves waving great fans that seemed to be made of the tail-feathers of peacocks and ostriches.
Even though nothing was said, and no signal given, one of the secretaries stepped forward, came down the steps and held out his hand. Lucius gave him the scroll he was carrying. The secretary bowed and climbed back to stand by his queen, still sitting in silence.
The secretary broke the security seal on the case, pulled out the scroll, checked Brutus’ personal seal that hung from the ivory-coloured tube, and unrolled the papyrus sheet. He scanned its contents, frowning. ‘It is from the Roman General, Marcus Junius Brutus, my Queen,’ he said in accented Greek. ‘Do you wish me to read it all?’
‘What does General Brutus say?’ Her voice was low, musical, penetrating, and yet the lips in that divine mask hardly seemed to move.
‘The General says that he has many legions and that his friend and fellow Liberator Gaius Cassius Longinus has many more. As well as their legions, they have two large fleets of well-prepared, fully armed warships under the imperium of Generals Ahenobarbus and Murcus, which completely control the waters between Egypt, Greece, and Italy. Furthermore, General Cassius’ troops are still stationed at the border of your country.’ The secretary hesitated.
‘We know all of this,’ said Cleopatra, her voice dangerously calm. ‘What else does General Brutus say?’
*
‘General Brutus informs you that he has become aware of an embassy from his enemy Triumvir and Tyrant Mark Antony. He is certain that General Antony is begging for aid in the form of a fleet of warships powerful enough to counter the fleets of Ahenobarbus and Murcus. For only this will give him the freedom of movement he needs to transport his army from Italy into Macedonia.’
‘I see…’
The two words prompted the increasingly nervous secretary to proceed. ‘General Brutus wishes to inform you that should you even consider doing anything so foolish as acceding to Antony’s demands, he will instantly advise General Cassius to invade Egypt with a view to arresting you as an enemy of the Senate and People of Rome and replacing you upon the throne with your sister Arsinoe, who is currently and conveniently resident in t
he city of Ephesus, which he controls.’
‘He says that, does he?’
‘His very words, Majesty.’
‘And you, messenger. Were you aware of General Brutus’ thoughts?’ The statuesque mask tilted towards Lucius as though the Queen were one of the mechanical figures Alexandria was famous for.
Lucius remained unimpressed. His whole demeanor was arrogant. He addressed the Queen as though speaking to the lowliest of his clients. ‘I was the one who brought him the information about Antony’s message, yes,’ he sneered. ‘And I advised him how best to use that information.’
‘I see.’ The jeweled fingers trembled slightly, closing to fists on the flail and scepter. The voice remained low, but it too shook.
You stupid boy, thought Artemidorus. You’re about to regret your arrogance, and Brutus’ into the bargain.
But Cleopatra was speaking. ‘Lucius Calpurnius Bibulus, were your general Marcus Junius Brutus here I would have him whipped for such insolence and arrogance. But as he is not here, I will have you served with the same well-merited fate in his place. Take him away.’
‘What!’ Roared Lucius, outraged. ‘I am a messenger! You cannot have me whipped! I claim the privileges and protections of my position!’
‘And I am not only a queen but a goddess. You may thank whatever deities you worship that I am content to let you live. Away with you!’
The measured softness of her tone only made the words more chilling. Silence fell on the room – on the entire palace – that reminded Artemidorus of the last moment of quiet before a battle.
Lucius Calpurnius Balbus was dragged away, still shouting about diplomatic immunity until he was silenced – either with a gag or a swift right-hander to his arrogant young jaw.
iv
Cleopatra rose. Caesarion echoed his mother’s actions. The councilors stood to attention. She swept down the steps onto the floor of the audience chamber with the boy immediately behind her. Everyone fell back, bowing, awed, including Artemidorus and Quintus. ‘You,’ she said as she sailed past the secret agent and his gilded escort, ‘Wait here until you are summoned. I will consult with you in private. Though apparently I already know what Antony’s message will be.’
‘If she has that arrogant little nothus bastard whipped then she’ll probably find herself at war whether she wants to be or not,’ said Quintus, watching Cleopatra and her entourage as they vanished through a smaller doorway at the rear of the audience chamber. ‘Brutus won’t take kindly to that at all.’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ said Artemidorus, raising his voice above the bustle as the audience chamber also began to empty. They all stepped back as the court officials and dignitaries followed the Queen down off the dais, talking earnestly but quietly amongst themselves. Hardly surprisingly, thought Artemidorus. Brutus might just as well have declared war immediately. Because Quintus was right. As soon as he heard that his emissary had been whipped, then war was almost inevitable. Wars had been started for less. And yet…
‘Brutus’ threat depends on Cassius’ reaction, though, doesn’t it?’ he continued as the last of the muttering councilors vanished behind the crowd of suppliants. ‘And Cassius isn’t going to invade an entire country just because Brutus feels he’s been insulted. They may be brothers-in-law but they do not like each other. Cassius still blames Brutus for this whole mess. If he hadn’t refused to have Antony killed at the same time as Divus Julius and sent a couple of carnifexes executioners to Apollonia to take care of Octavianus when the will was read out, things would have turned out very differently…’
‘Or if either one of them had had any sort of a plan for what to do once Divus Julius was dead…’ Quintus shook his head.
‘If anyone had thought to get that ruthless bastard Cicero involved at the outset instead of afterwards when it was far too late…’ Artemidorus shrugged.
‘How different the entire world would be!’
‘Just a couple of bad decisions at the crisis point and each of them blaming the other for the way it’s all turned out.’
‘The Fates must have laughed so hard their ribs began to break…’ Quintus fell silent, thinking. ‘Besides,’ he added suddenly. ‘In spite of what we saw at Xanthus, Brutus isn’t much of a general, Septem. Not like Cassius. And if Cassius is waiting at the border because he sees more problems than advantages to invading, then a message from Brutus isn’t going to make him change his mind. Good general though Cassius is, his reputation rests on the fact that he managed to lead his men safely out of the blood-bath at Carrhae where General Crassus lost his own head. I guess they’d have rather had a good clean death on the battlefield than starve to death in the desert or rot alive with plague. I know I would!’
*
At last Charmian, the senior of Cleopatra’s handmaidens, came across the deserted chamber. ‘The Queen will see you now,’ she said. ‘You may go,’ she said to the gilded escourt. ‘But the slaves may bring the boxes with the Romans into the royal presence.’
Artemidorus, Quintus and the sweating slaves followed Charmian through the smaller doorway and into the private sections of the palace which were smaller but still breathtakingly luxurious, however. Sumptuously furnished and decorated. The sheer extravagance of it all went against everything Artemidorus’ Spartan soul and Stoic beliefs held dear. But he did not equate profligacy with immorality. Indeed, if Cleopatra was the embodiment of her country – and Antony sometimes called her Egypt as though it was her name – then Egypt was immeasurably learned, clever, quick-thinking, witty, charming and irresistible. As well as being mysterious, unfathomable, incalculably ancient in spirit and belief.
These thoughts took Artemidorus in Charmian’s footsteps along corridors lined with exquisite hangings and perfumed carpets, up flights of marble stairs, along scented galleries made of cedar and sandalwood at last to the Queen’s private audience chamber, a room which seemed too small to contain a goddess. There were workaday tables and chairs, maps instead of silken hangings on the walls, a window overlooking a courtyard a story or so below. The table was piled with scrolls and letters. Brutus’ most recent one lay on top by the look of things. But a sizeable space had been cleared.
‘Put the boxes on the table, then go,’ said Charmian to the slaves. ‘Please wait just a moment,’ she added to Artemidorus and Quintus. Then she vanished into the next room.
v
Artemidorus was looking out of the window at the lower courtyard when the queen arrived on silent, sandaled feet. They were erecting a tall wooden post down there. The secret agent suspected he knew exactly what it was and precisely who it was for.
‘Hireh, Hello, Septem,’ said Cleopatra, her voice low and musical.
Artemidorus turned and bowed, finding it unexpectedly difficult to breathe. She had been twenty-five years old when he last saw her and was nearing twenty-seven now. The intervening years had put more lines of strain and worry on her face. Her braided black hair was bound in a simple white Greek headband. Her face was devoid of make-up, her forehead broad, her dark eyes deep and her nose pronounced. Her generous mouth was caught in a half- smile, a dimple at each corner. ‘What has Antony sent?’ she asked, ‘apart from one of his most trusted agents and the redoubtable Quintus?’
‘His love. He said to tell your majesty that if he could have discovered which part of him contained his love for you, he would have sent that too.’
Cleopatra chuckled. ‘Well I think we all know which part of Antony contains his love. And if he sent that, the lady Fulvia might be less than happy – and many Roman matrons simply heartbroken.’
Quintus choked. He had never been this intimate with Cleopatra and knew nothing of her ready – occasionally ribald – wit.
The Queen gathered the gauzy robe she was wearing over her simple linen dress around her slim waist, crossed to a chair and sat. ‘So, in place of his love he sends letters.’ An imperious hand was held out.
Artemidorus handed over the first of Antony’s scrolls. ‘Thi
s is the personal letter,’ he explained. ‘As your majesty will see at once, it contains his statements of affection, assurances of perpetual regard, both personal and political.’
He picked up a second scroll and placed it on the table where she could easily reach it. ‘This contains reports of what he has done since his return from beyond the Alps, so you have a clear understanding of the background to this.’ He held up a third scroll. ‘Which contains his assessment of his – and your – current situation and how he plans to proceed, with your help. As well as details of what he would like that help to consist of, if you are willing and able to provide it.’ He put the third scroll beside the second.
‘Is there anything in this third scroll that has not been basically covered by the arrogant boy that Brutus sent with his threats?’
‘I would guess nothing, Majesty. You can see the situation from here as clearly as Antony can see it from Rome. He cannot allow Brutus and Cassius to continue ravishing the east – especially as it is now his personal province as Triumvir. It costs him revenue and reputation. And of course, his legions are restless. They wish Caesar’s murderers caught and punished.’
‘As do I. But I have little room for maneuver. Nor does Antony. He cannot move against them until he has some kind of control of the sea,’ she nodded. ‘Which at present belongs to the fleets commanded by Brutus’ and Cassius’ admirals Murcus and Ahenobarbus, currently stationed at Rhodos. And by Sextus Pompey in Sicily – who may not be Brutus’ friend but is certainly not Antony’s ally either.’
‘Nor yours,’ added Artemidorus, slipping unconsciously into the easy intimacy they had achieved in happier times. ‘Given that it was your brother who had his father killed when he came here for help after the battle of Pharsalus.’
‘Ptolemy XIII. That stupid little rat listened to the power-mad slug of an advisor Pothinus too often. You know, I showed Caesar where to push the knife in when we executed him.’ Her mood darkened suddenly. ‘Probably about the same place Brutus stabbed his knife when he killed Caesar.’