Last Days With Cleopatra

by Jack Lindsay

  “No,” said Nicias with sidelong eyes. There was a pause, and Olympos felt that there was no way of getting Nicias to speak, when suddenly Nicias began talking of his own accord.

  “I’ve been working. Finishing my book. It only needs a word or two.” He rose and settled some papers, then turned them upside down as if to hide what was written on them. His voice soared exultantly. “It’s getting clearer. It’s like this.” He stretched out his arms from the shoulder cross-wise, then drew them gradually together before him. His eyes glinted, and he stopped the movement when the hands were about an inch apart. “One is life, and the other is poetry. Never before have they quite touched. Well, soon they will come together, and then we’ll see. Ah, then we’ll see. Let all those who have hounded me beware in time. Something that has never been seen yet. A full explanation.”

  He stared at his hands, defying them to touch; then dropped them to his sides and looked again at the papers he had turned over.

  “I advise you to speak in a low voice,” he said warningly.

  “She’s sleeping.” His voice grew very soft. “She’s tired.”

  Olympos had ceased to be alarmed, but could not forebear one professional probe. “Hasn’t someone else written all that before?” He pointed at the papers.

  Nicias snatched them up, hugged them to his breast, and glared fiercely round. “Has someone cheated?” he screamed. “By god, I’ll kill the man who’s stolen in and copied my work. It’s mine, mine.” He stroked the papers and set them down again, keeping his palm tightly pressed over them.

  Olympos felt his alarm returning. He knew all he needed to know about the condition of Nicias; there was no sense in prolonging the conversation. But he felt caught in a downward vortex, of which he himself was part; he was no longer able to feel a spectator, a physician. The unexplored depths of his own life padded with horrifying jungle-footsteps, thrust spidery fingers of decay out of the night of ages, echoed with gibbering voices and the wail of valley-winds. He felt that it was not Nicias at whom he was looking, but at himself; and a slow paralysis, a terror of those forgotten depths in himself, kept him in his seat, waiting for what Nicias would next say.

  Nicias seated himself and leaned forwards, staring into the eyes of Olympos from under his heavy brows. His sunken eyes were filmed with a bright unfocussed glare; the eyes of a bird. He spoke in a low ecstatic voice.

  “The joy of life is death. Then the spirit of blood is free. It’s free; pouring out; suddenly. Coming and going as one. Squeezed between the fingers.” He paused and plucked at his sparse beard. “One must not die at the wrong time, or it is wasted. But to die with all the will, to gush with all the blood at once. In such a moment one sees everything, owns everything. One is God. And imagine if such a moment is the end of a cleansing from sin, if it is union with the beloved, if it is the death of sin and the becoming of God...Ah...”

  He gave sidelong glances and plucked at his beard again. “Of course I was only putting a case. Do you think anyone was listening?”

  He studied Olympos suspiciously, trying to remember how much of his secrets he had given away. He had tried to express himself in a way that wouldn’t be understood, because it was necessary to say something to put Olympos off the scent; necessary to say something that was almost the reality, but not quite. But what if Olympos was cleverer than he seemed? what if the secret was stolen at the last moment, when Nicias was so near the final explication, Daphne’s throat under his hands and his spirit and hers mingling, purified, acceptable, god and victim? with the world fading away in the light of glory, the coming and the going of life made one at last, mystically merging. His head was sick. He wanted to nurse his head, a sick baby. He swayed his shoulders and wondered if he ought to throw Olympos out of the window or hit him on the head from behind while going down the stairs.

  “Let us have some wine,” said Olympos, growing more and more oppressed. “And I will go.”

  Nicias took no notice, counting the movements of his head to and fro. Nine-ten. He was terrified that when he came to thirteen he would be stopped, held there for ever. Eleven-twelve. He gripped the chair. Thirteen. Sure enough, his head stopped, inclining over his left shoulder, and he couldn’t raise it again. Now he was convinced that Olympos was up to no good; once he could raise his head, he would have things out with him.

  Olympos went to the door, asked Simon to get the wine, and stood there waiting for the tray. Simon had degenerated as badly as his master; his hair was knotted; his eyes protruded. The rooms hadn’t been tidied for many days. At last the wine was forthcoming. Olympos took the tray, and, as he turned, broke into one of the cups the phial which he had been hiding in his sleeve. Then, reaching the table, he quickly poured out the wine.

  “To your health.” He lifted his cup to his mouth.

  Nicias continued to stare at him. Everything that Olympos said was proving him a traitor, a skulking liar. What was there wrong with Nicias that he should be wished good-health in that suggestive way? Olympos was trying to ferret things out. Nicias glanced haggardly at his papers, but couldn’t draw them away from Olympos because of his rigidly inclined head. There was some demonry in this matter of his head. Why couldn’t he straighten it? He was sure that Olympos had some evil intent.

  Olympos was becoming frightened. How could he get Nicias to drink? He did not dare to speak directly of the wine again, but raised his own cup, hoping that the gesture would call forth an automatic imitation from Nicias. But Nicias still stared at him, all his faculties employed on the problem of lifting his head from his shoulder.

  “This is quite good wine,” said Olympos in a shaky voice.

  Nicias looked at the wine-flask and at the cups. Why was Olympos jealous of the wine? He wanted for a moment to fling the wine in the face of Olympos; then felt that that would be too obvious. No. He would get Olympos drunk; he would call for a whole cask and drink Olympos senseless; for he was certain that no wine could affect himself. A man tense on the brink of death’s meaning, a man destined to save the world, to redeem the sin of his nearest and dearest, to slay in order to save...such a man could not be affected by wine. He felt a desire to drink. Dionusos, the bringer of wine, was the redeemer, the giver of death’s ecstasy.

  He put out his hand and took the wine-cup, forgetting that his head was bound down to his shoulder. He straightened his head and drank.

  Holding his breath, Olympos watched. Slowly the wine gurgled down the throat of Nicias. The drug was a very quick-acting one. The last drop of the drugged wine went down the throat of Nicias. Olympos breathed again.

  “Let’s have some more wine,” said Nicias with kindled eyes. “Let’s have all the wine in the world. I have never taken wine seriously enough. But that will all be explained. Have you ever killed anyone, Olympos?”

  Olympos shook his head, and Nicias went on, “Neither have I.” He felt quite fond of Olympos, no longer afraid of having his secret read. He wanted to tell all, for he meant to drink Olympos senseless and then consider how best to dispose of him. The man knew too much already. “Not yet. I’m not referring to ordinary murder. That’s easy. I mean ceremonial death....You don’t understand...”

  He waved his hand hazily, contemptuously. “We’ll come to that after...” He chanted in a deep vibrating voice lines from Agamemnon:

  Now you shall hear my oath, my solemn oath. By Justice that avenged my daughter’s death, by Wrath, to whom I sacrifice this man, Hope does not tread for me the halls of Fear...

  His voice died away, and he thumped his hand on the table, counting. Would the cursed thirteen thwart him again? One, two, three...His head nodded and sank on his breast. He fell forward.

  Olympos caught him falling, and laid him back in the chair. The words of the quotation “my daughter’s death” had sent a shiver of dread through Olympos. Had Daphne already been killed ? But there was only one way of finding out. He passed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

  “Simon,” he called. Simon ap
peared at the door of the small kitchen, and Olympos addressed him with as easy an air as he could summon. “ Go over to my rooms at the Museion and bring the roll that you’ll find on the table there. Your master wishes to see it. They know you and will let you in.”

  He looked straight into Simon’s eyes. If Simon refused, he would use what strength he possessed to throw him down the stairs. Daphne must be rescued if she were still alive. It seemed that all his life he had prepared only for this moment, which would give him a real claim on Daphne’s love for ever; he forgot Victor and saw only his own old-age tended by Daphne in her darling gratitude, bringing him the surety of life’s beauty and eternity that he craved. And the fear of her death hardened him, gave him power to dominate Simon.

  “Go right over,” he said in level tones, and Simon left unuttered the demand to see his master and have the order verified. The determination in the eyes of Olympos quelled and disconcerted him. He went off down the stairs, slowly, muttering to himself; but he went.

  The front door shut behind him. Olympos went at once to Daphne’s door. It was locked. He picked up the largest chair in the room, with an effort normally far beyond him; and flung it at the door. The gesture used up all his strength, but the latch on the inside was broken. Hobbling weakly to the door, he opened it and peered into the dark room.

  “Daphne,” he called. There was no reply, and he was sure that he was too late. Then in the filtering light he saw a shape on the bed. The shape moved, moaned, sat up.

  “Olympos....”

  “Daphne.” He was at her side.

  “I haven’t had anything to eat for three days. I think it was three.” She moaned, and then winced beneath his examining fingertips. “I’m sore all over.”

  “You are with child,” he said. “O god.”

  She stroked his tear-wet cheeks. “Poor father...” Then she shuddered. “O I thought you were him. He keeps staring at me. Save me.” She clung round his neck.

  He lifted her from the bed; she tottered, still holding to him.

  “Listen,” he said. “However weak you feel, you must walk downstairs. Victor is waiting for you.” The memory of Victor returned bitterly, but nothing mattered except to rouse her.

  She gave an incredulous cry, and clung more tightly. He helped her towards the door, but was so weak himself that he almost fell beneath her weight.

  “Why isn’t Victor here?” she asked suspiciously as they halted in the door-way of her room.

  “He couldn’t get in, he’s waiting,” said Olympos, unable to think of better excuses.

  She held to the door-post. “Are you sure he loves me?”

  “For God’s sake, come on,” he cried.

  She wavered. “You’ll come with me.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  She let him draw her on, and down the stairs, without sandals, in a tattered filthy dress that she clasped about her with pitiful attempts at coquetry. At last they reached the foot of the stairs; then after a brief pause emerged into the street, dazed by the many people, the sunlight and the noise and the swarming forms of life, after the dark chamber caverned with strangeness. Victor was hurrying forward. “O Daphne.”

  She clung to Olympos, speaking in her timbreless child-voice, her eyes closed with brain-fever. “You’ll come with me. I don’t know if he loves me.”

  Victor wanted to kneel at her feet, to kiss the hem of her dirtied gown; but there was so many people passing. Already several had stopped to look at Daphne.

  “Come with me, dearest,” he said brokenly. “I love you, utterly, only you.”

  She turned to Olympos. “You heard what he said. He said he loves me.” Her voice still had its note of child-questioning. “But so do others say. I don’t know what to believe. I wish I knew.”

  Olympos could not but feel pleasure in the way she turned to him rather than to Victor, giving him and not Victor her trust. But he was deeply pained at the same time; for it was not the real Daphne who acted thus, it was a poor child of pain, and to wish to keep this suffering trust of hers was nothing but to wish to keep her suffering.

  “He loves you,” he said with gentle certainty, and felt that he was giving her up to a stranger, thereby making her a stranger henceforth. “Truly he loves you.”

  She stood swaying and looking into Victor’s eyes. “Yes, I believe he does. Say you love me again.”

  “I love you, darling.” He wanted to weep with terror and pity. What had they done to his Daphne? Would she remain thus bewildered always?

  She touched his hand. “I’ll trust you then. It’s all so hard.” She passed her hand over her brow. “I’m so sore,” she said complainingly. “I’d like something to eat, please.”

  Olympos put his hand into the pouch that hung at his side, took out a handful of gold pieces, and gave them to Victor.

  “Take her away and let her rest for a few days. Then come to me again.”

  He called to the coachmen, who, following his instructions, had brought the carriage up once more; and Daphne was led towards the carriage. She climbed in obediently and lay back on the seat, pouting her mouth like a child for a kiss. Victor climbed in beside her, and kissed her. She shook her head. “You mustn’t do that. He wouldn’t like it.”

  Victor felt that his heart was breaking. He clasped her in his arms, and she nestled against him, then looked appealingly up into his face.

  “You’ll be kind to me, won’t you?”

  “Darling Daphne,” he sobbed, half-feeling that she wasn’t Daphne after all, that the world had suddenly become a different place without his knowing of the change, and that he alone was left, the survivor of a meaningless past. “Don’t. I love you. O do be yourself again.”

  The coachman asked where they wanted to be driven, and Victor told him to find any decent house with apartments to let near the Dragon Canal. The carriage moved off, Daphne lying quiescent in her lover’s arms.

  *

  Olympos watched the retreating carriage, a great relief and emptiness in his heart. He turned to go, but something held him to the spot. After all Nicias was his brother-in-law; he was in a bad state of feverish breakdown and needed attention; and on recovering consciousness he might rush to the authorities and cause trouble for the lovers before his state was discovered. The police weren’t functioning very well these days, but a risk was a risk. Besides, Olympos felt curious. He didn’t like to leave a process half-way through.

  Calling to a loafer who seemed sturdily built, he offered a good wage for a few hours’ attendance. The man readily agreed; and thus accompanied, Olympos returned upstairs.

  Simon arrived back with the roll, panting, to find Olympos and his sneering guard in possession, with the door of Daphne’s room wide open.

  “What have you done with master?” he howled, and ran to the study-door. The guard flung him back and sat him in a corner, where he was bidden to remain; and there he remained, glowering.

  Olympos went into the study and seated himself opposite the drugged Nicias. He was ready to wait. It would be some hours before Nicias recovered; and the time would have to be passed. Time passed anyway, whether a wretch was having his limbs wrenched apart on the rack or a lover was dawdling in the bed of a kiss. Time passed, thank the god.

  Moved by a sudden impulse, he went to the table, and, conquering a feeling of distaste for such prying, he turned over the papers which had aroused in Nicias so strongly the fear of plagiarism. The pages were entirely blank.

  Olympos went back to his chair, and waited, trying to understand. If only he could see himself as Nicias, he would know why it had all happened. But it was no use. As soon as he thought he had it all clear, he found that a voice within himself answered, “Yes, but still you wouldn’t have done to Daphne what he did.” Probably, however, what he would have done would have been just as cruel, pointless; and Nicias would have failed to understand how anyone could have done such a thing. One could never really know another person or the act of another person. One co
uld work out from oneself all the reasons why the act was done, and yet not know in the least why it was done...Misery everywhere. Cleopatra would know by now that Caesarion was dead. A world forever wailing. The present was in throes of the future and there was no rest. There was no present, only a dying past and an unborn future; and humankind stood on that cloven point, that nothingness, and tried to create happiness and loyalties, to dream of justice. Was it heroism or madness?

  Hours passed, and the bored guard came in to ask for an increase in wages, after ransacking the pantry. Olympos ate a few brine-pickled olives, and tried a date, but the lusciousness repelled him, and he ate another olive to remove the taste from his mouth. He waited. Night fell, and still Nicias slept. Then out of a dim silence he stirred and looked up.

  “Why are you here?” he said, blinking in his returning awareness; and Olympos had the hope that the obsessions had left him, for he spoke in his old grumpy tones.

  “I am here to look after you,” said Olympos quietly. “You are ill.”

  Nicias lay back, trying to digest this statement. Yes, he was ill. He tried to remember. “Daphne!” he called suddenly. Then “Daphne!” in a bleak despairing voice.

  Simon appeared at the door. “He took her off,” he shouted angrily, before the guard yanked him away and shut his mouth for him.

  Nicias tried to comprehend. He stared at Olympos and struggled up on his elbows. “Give me my papers,” he said in a furious mumble.

  Olympos handed him the papers from the table. Nicias turned them over and over, scrutinised them, lifted them close to his eyes. “They’ve been stolen,” he said fearfully. “These are not my papers.” His eyes roved round the room, looking at everything but Olympos. His great work was ruined, he was cheated. “Where is Daphne?” Then he remembered in full and knew that he had indeed been cheated. Daphne was taken away! He struggled up again, his chest heaving, foam between his blackened lips.

  “God!” he screamed. “Blast this man! She is stained forever. God, have pity on her, my poor lost child. Give her back to me, only for a moment! How can I die for her unless I kill her first?”