Fonteius blinked. “No, Antonius, not even a workaday set.”
“Then Sosius can lend you some.”
“Is armor—er—legal?”
“Outside Italia, anything the Triumvir decides is legal. I thought you knew that, Fonteius.”
“I confess I didn’t.”
Antony had set up a tall tribunal in the agora, the biggest open space in Antioch, and there he seated himself in military splendor, with Sosius the governor and his legates seated atop the tribunal in less prominent positions, and poor Fonteius, uncomfortable enough because of the borrowed armor, all on his own. When exactly, he wondered, did Antony start using twenty-four lictors? The only magistrate entitled to so many was the Dictator, and Antony himself had abolished the dictatorship. Yet there he sat, with a dictatorial number of lictors! Something that Octavian in Rome did not dare to do, Divi Filius notwithstanding.
It was a closed meeting; those present had formal invitations. Guards blocked the many entrances, much to the ire of Antiochites not used to being excluded from their own public spaces.
No prayers were said or auguries taken, an interesting and odd omission. Antony simply launched into speech, using his high voice, which carried farther.
“After many moons of deep thought, careful consideration, many interviews, and inspections of documents, I, Imperator and Triumvir Marcus Antonius, have come to a decision about the East.
“First, what is the East? I do not include Macedonia and its prefectures that cover Greece proper, the Peloponnese, Cyrenaica, and Crete, to be a part of the East. Though the triumvirate includes them, they belong geographically and physically to the world of Our Sea. The East is Asia—that is, all land east of the Hellespont, the Propontis, and the Thracian Bosporus.”
Hmmm, thought Fonteius, this is going to be interesting! I begin to see why he chose to display Rome’s armed might rather than her civilian government.
“There will be three Roman provinces in the East, each under the direct control of Rome through a governor! First, the province of Bithynia, which will include the Troad and Mysia, and have its eastern boundary at the Sangarius River. Second, the province of Asia, incorporating Lydia, Caria, and Lycia! And third, the province of Syria, bordered by the Amanus ranges, the western bank of the Euphrates River, and the deserts of Idumaea and Arabia Petraea. However, southern Syria will also incorporate kingdoms, satrapies, and principalities, as will the western bank of the Euphrates!”
The small crowd stirred, some faces eager, some downcast. To one side and under heavy guard stood several eastern-looking men chained together. Who are they? Fonteius asked himself. Never mind, I’m bound to find out.
“Amyntas, come forward!” Antony shouted.
A young man in Greek garb stepped out of the crowd.
“Amyntas, son of Demetrius of Ancyra, in Rome’s name I appoint you King of Galatia! Your realm includes all four Galatian tetrarchies, Pisidia, Lycaonia, and all regions from the south bank of the Halys River to the coast of Pamphylia!”
A huge gasp went up; Antony had just given Amyntas a bigger kingdom than ambitious old Deiotarus had ever ruled.
“Polemon, son of Zeno of Laodiceia, in Rome’s name I appoint you King of Pontus and Armenia Parva, including all lands on the north bank of the Halys River!”
Polemon’s was a familiar face; he had done a lot of dancing to Antony’s tune in Athens. Now he had his reward, a big one.
“Archelaus Sisenes, son of Glaphyra, priest-king of Ma, in Rome’s name I appoint you King of Cappadocia, commencing east of the great bend in the river Halys and incorporating all lands on its south bank from that point to the Tarsian coast and the coast of Cilicia Pedia. Your eastern boundary is the Euphrates River above Samosata. I may designate small areas within your realm as better ruled by another, but in effect such is yours.”
Another very pleased young man, thought Fonteius, and look at his mother! Rumor says she sucked it out of Antonius with her vagina. Clever to choose young men. Clients for decades.
More minor now, the appointments continued; Tarcondimotus, others. But then came the executions, something Fonteius had not counted on. Lysanias of Chalcis, Antigonus of the Jews, Ariarathes of Cappadocia. Oh, I am not a warrior! cried Fonteius to himself, hanging on to the contents of his stomach as the reek of blood stole upward in the hot sun and the sticky flies came in syrupy swarms. Antony viewed the carnage indifferently; Sosius fainted. That I refuse to do, said Fonteius silently, thanking every god there was when finally he could depart for the governor’s palace. Of course Antony stayed behind; he was giving a feast for the new rulers and their hordes of followers right there in the agora, as the palace was not endowed with big rooms or spacious courtyards. If Fonteius hadn’t known better, he would have said that the governor’s palace in Antioch had once been a particularly vile caravanserai, not the home of kings like Antiochus and Tigranes.
On the morrow he met his first genuine Parthian, a refugee named Monaeses from the court of the new king, Phraates. Tricked out in ring-leted curls, an artificial wig-beard held on by gold wires looped behind each ear, a frilly skirt, fringed jacket, and huge amounts of gold.
“I’m thinking of making him king of the Skenite Arabs,” said Antony, pleased with his dispositions. Seeing the look on Fonteius’s face, he seemed surprised. “Now why the disapproval? Because he’s a Parthian? I like him! Phraates murdered his whole family except for Monaeses, who was clever enough to escape.”
“Or was his escape assisted?” Fonteius asked.
“Why on earth should it have been?” Antony demanded.
“Because the whole world knows you’re planning to invade the Kingdom of the Parthians, that’s why! No matter how obsessed a king may be at being deposed by his own flesh and blood, he’d be stupid not to save one heir! I think Monaeses is here as a Parthian spy. Besides, he’s very proud and haughty. I can’t think he’d be thrilled at the thought of kinging it over a bunch of desert Arabs.”
“Gerrae!” Antony exclaimed, unimpressed by any of this. “I think Monaeses is a good man, and I’ll take a bet that I’m right. A thousand denarii?”
“Done!” said Fonteius.
The chief reason Cleopatra took her time about traveling to Antioch had nothing to do with finding a regent or a council; that alternative was always set up ready to go. She wanted time to think and time to arrive at the proper moment. Not too fast, not too slow. And what was she going to ask for when she reached Antioch? This summons had come by a very different man than Quintus Dellius; Fonteius was an aristocrat and devoted to Antony; he wasn’t in it for the money. Too sophisticated to be caught out, nonetheless he emanated an aura of apprehension—no, worry. That was it, worry! Though life for the past four years had been uneventful, senior Pharaoh hadn’t relaxed her vigilance one iota. Her agents in the East and the West reported regularly; there was little she did not know, including who expected to get what from Antony when he got around to making his dispositions. The moment Fonteius said that Antony was already in Antioch, she knew why he had wanted her there in a hurry: he intended to have the Queen of Egypt stand below his dais with a lot of dirty peasants and receive—nothing. Just stand there as a statement that Egypt too was under the Roman parasol. In the shade.
Fury engulfed her. She shook with it, hardly able to catch her breath. So he wants me there to witness his lordly acts, does he? Well, by Serapis, I’ll not do it! Let him put me to death, but I’ll not do it! Watch him appoint this peasant king and that peasant prince? Never! Never, never, never! And when I do come to Antioch, Marcus Antonius, I will be asking for more than you have the power to give me. But you will give it to me, power or not! Fonteius is worried about you, therefore you’ve developed a weak spot dangerous enough for Fonteius to think it imperils you.
As November started its downhill slide the Queen knew all of Antony’s dispositions in Antioch. They seemed logical, sensible, even farsighted. Except, that is, for his last decision: to make Monaeses the Part
hian the new King of the Skenite Arabs. Antonius, Antonius, you fool! You idiot! No matter if the man is a genuine refugee from his uncle’s beheading axe, you don’t make an Aryan Arsacid king of any kind of Arab! It is beneath him. It is an insult. A mortal insult. And if he is an agent for Uncle Phraates, it will steel him in his enmity. You may rule the East, but you are of the West. You don’t begin to understand eastern peoples, how they feel, how they think.
War with the Parthians could not be allowed to happen, she resolved. Only how could she persuade Antony of that? For no other reason was she going to Antioch. Rome was a menace to her throne, but if the Parthians conquered, she would lose it, and Caesarion would meet the same fate as all promising young men: execution. Antony was stirring up an ant’s nest.
At this time of year she would have to journey overland, a complicated progress because Egypt had to stun the people of every land she and Caesarion traveled through. Lumbering wagons of supplies and royal paraphernalia, a thousand-strong segment of the Royal Guard, mule carts, prancing horses, and for the Queen, her litter with its black bearers. A month on the road; she would set out on the Nones of December, not a day before.
And in all of this, Mark Antony the man, the lover, never rose to the surface of Cleopatra’s mind, too busy plotting and scheming about what she wanted and how she was going to get it. Somewhere deep down she had vague recollections that he had been a pleasant diversion, but wearying in the end; she had never grown close to loving him. She dismissed him as a means; she had quickened, Nilus had inundated, Caesarion had a sister to marry and a brother to support him. At this stage, all Antony could give her was power—which necessitated that she strip him of some of his. A tall order, Cleopatra.
THE QUEEN OF BEASTS
36 B.C. to 33 B.C.
15
On the Nones of January and in the teeth of an unusually bitter wind, Cleopatra and Caesarion entered Antioch. Wearing the Double Crown and riding in her litter, the Queen sat like Fonteius’s doll, face painted, body clad in finely pleated white linen, neck, arms, shoulders, waist, and feet blazing with gold and jewels. Wearing the military version of the Double Crown, Caesarion rode a mettlesome red horse, red being the color of Montu, God of War, his face painted red, his body clad in Egyptian pharaonic armor of linen and golden scales. Between the purple tunics and silver armor of the thousand Royal Guards, the glitter of trapped horses carrying officers and bureaucrats, and the royal litter with Caesarion riding alongside it, Antioch hadn’t seen a parade like this since Tigranes had been King of Syria.
Antony had been busy to some purpose. Acknowledging the truth of Fonteius’s contention that the governor’s palace was a caravanserai, he had razed several blocks of adjacent dwellings to the ground and built an annex he thought fit to house Egypt’s queen.
“It isn’t an Alexandrian palace,” he said, escorting Cleopatra and her son around it, “but it’s a great deal more comfortable than the old residence.”
Caesarion was alight with joy, grieving only that he had grown far too much to ride Antony’s hip anymore. Disciplining himself not to skip, he walked solemnly and tried to look regal. Not difficult, in all that loathed paint. “I hope there’s a bath,” he said.
“Ready and waiting, young Caesar,” Antony said with a grin.
The three didn’t meet again until midafternoon, when Antony served dinner in a triclinium so new that it still smelled of plaster and the various pigments used to enhance its bleak walls with frescoes of Alexander the Great and his closest marshals, all mounted on high-stepping horses. Since it was too cold to open the shutters, incense burned to cut the reek. Cleopatra was too polite and aloof to comment, but Caesarion felt no such compunction.
“The place stinks,” he said, clambering onto a couch.
“If it’s unbearable, we can repair to the old palace.”
“No, I’ll stop noticing it in a few moments, and the fumes have lost their power to poison.” Caesarion chuckled. “Catulus Caesar committed suicide by shutting himself in a freshly plastered room with a dozen braziers and all the apertures stuffed to prevent the entrance of outside air. He was my great-grandfather’s first cousin.”
“You’ve been studying your Roman history.”
“Of course.”
“What about Egyptian history?”
“Right back to verbal records, before the hieroglyphs.”
“Cha’em tutors him,” Cleopatra said, speaking for the first time. “Caesarion will be the best-educated king ever.”
This exchange set the tenor for the dinner; Caesarion talked incessantly, his mother interpolated an occasional remark to verify one of his statements, and Antony lay on a couch pretending to listen when he wasn’t answering one of Caesarion’s questions.
Though he was fond of the boy, he saw the truth of Fonteius’s observation; Cleopatra had given Caesarion no real sense of his limitations, and he felt confident enough to participate as an adult in all conversation. That might have been permissible, did he not have the habit of butting in. His father would have put a stop to such conduct—well did Antony remember him when Antony had been Caesarion’s age! Whereas Cleopatra was a doting mother saddled with an imperious, extremely strong-willed son. No good.
Finally, the sweeties having come and gone, Antony acted. “Off you go, young Caesarion,” he said curtly. “I want to talk to your mother in private.”
The boy bridled, mouth open to protest; then he caught the red spark in Antony’s eyes. His resistance collapsed like a pricked bladder. A shrug of resignation, and he was gone.
“How did you do that?” she asked, relieved.
“Spoke and looked like a father. You give the boy too much latitude, Cleopatra, and he won’t thank you for it later.”
She didn’t answer, too busy trying to plumb this particular Mark Antony. He never seemed to age as other men did, nor show any outward signs of dissipation. His belly was flat, the muscles of his arms above the elbows betrayed no hint of the flaccid sag of middle age, and his hair was as auburn as ever, free of grey. What changes there were lay in his eyes—the eyes of a man who was troubled. But why was he troubled? It was going to take time to find out.
Is Octavianus responsible? Ever since Philippi he’s had to contend with Octavianus in a war that isn’t a war. A duel of wits and will, fought without one sword drawn or one blow landed. He could see that Sextus Pompey was his best weapon, but when the perfect opportunity arrived to unite with Sextus and bring in his own marshals Pollio and Ventidius, he didn’t take it. At that moment he could have crushed Octavianus. Now he never will, and he’s beginning to understand that. While ever he thought there was a chance to crush Octavianus, he lingered in the West. That he is here in Antioch says he has given up the struggle. Fonteius saw it in him, but how? Did Antonius confide in him?
“I’ve missed you,” he said abruptly.
“Have you?” she asked casually, as if not very interested.
“Yes, more and more. Funny, that. I always thought missing a person wore off as time went on, but my longing for you grows worse. I couldn’t have waited much longer to see you.”
A feminine tactic: “How is your wife?”
“Octavia? Sweet as ever. The loveliest person.”
“You shouldn’t say that of a woman to another woman.”
“Why not? Since when has Marcus Antonius been in love with virtue, or goodness, or kindness in a woman? I—pity her.”
“That means you think she loves you.”
“I have no doubt of it. Not a day goes by that she doesn’t tell me she loves me, in a letter if we’re not together. I have a pigeonhole full of them already, here in Antioch.” He pulled a grotesque face. “She tells me how the children are, what brother Octavianus is up to—at least as she knows it—and whatever else she thinks I might find amusing. Though she never mentions Livia Drusilla. She doesn’t approve of Octavianus’s wife’s attitude to his daughter by Scribonia.”
“Has Livia Drusilla borne a child
herself? I’ve not heard of it.”
“No. Barren as the Libyan desert.”
“Then perhaps it is Octavianus’s fault.”
“I don’t care whose fault it is!” he snapped.
“You should, Antonius.”
In answer, he moved to her couch, drew her close. “I want to make love to you.”
Ah, she had forgotten his smell, how it stirred her! Clean, sun-kissed, devoid of the faintest eastern tinge. Well, he ate the foods of his own people, he hadn’t succumbed to the cardamoms and cinnamons so favored in the East. Therefore his skin didn’t give off their residual oils.
A glance around told her that the servants had gone, and that no one, even Caesarion, would be permitted through the doors. Her hand covered the back of his, she moved it to one breast, fuller since the birth of the twins. “I’ve missed you too,” she lied, feeling the stir bloom and spread through her. Yes, he had pleased her as a lover, and Caesarion would benefit from a second brother. Amun-Ra, Isis, Hathor, give me a son! I am but thirty-three, not old enough to make childbirth a hazard for a Ptolemy.
“I’ve missed you too,” she whispered. “Oh, this is lovely!”
Vulnerable, consumed with doubts, unsure what his future held in Rome, Antony was ripe for Cleopatra’s picking, and fell of his own accord into the palm of her hand. He had come to an age that saw him in desperate need of more than mere sex from a woman; he yearned for a true partner, and none could he find among his female friends, or his mistresses, or, most of all, his Roman wife. This queen among women—indeed, this king among men—was his equal in every way: power, strength, ambition permeated her to the marrow.
And she, aware of all this, took her time about exacting her wants, which were not of the flesh nor of the spirit. Gaius Fonteius, Poplicola, Sosius, Titius and young Marcus Aemilius Scaurus were all in Antioch, but this new Mark Anthony hardly noticed them any more than he did Gnaeus Domitius Ahenobarbus when he turned up, his governorship of Bithynia just too out of things for such a busybody of a man. He had always disliked Cleopatra, and what he saw in Antioch only reinforced that dislike. Antony was her slave.
Antony and Cleopatra Page 35