by LYDIA STORM
Antony rose unsteadily and went to his cabinet. He pulled out a fresh supply of wine and smiled bitterly at Germanicus. “Perhaps not, but I might be able to conjure up a few spirits.” His smile faded. “Besides, what else is there to do when you’re imprisoned?”
Germanicus stood for a moment, watching Antony drink. Carefully, Germanicus placed the wine on the table and walked to the door. “It is a prison of your own making. If you will, there’s a battle to be fought for the glory of the Republic. It’s your choice.”
The door closed behind Germanicus with a sharp crack, leaving Antony alone with his libations and a stack of useless scrolls.
He stared out the window at the winter twilight. A prison of his own making, was it? No, it was Octavian who had fashioned this trap for him. In that first year of marriage Antony had wracked his brains for a way out––some plan that would free him from Octavian's golden cage. There was nothing. His brother-in-law had devised a plan that made Antony his prisoner as a surely as if he had bound him in chains and sent him to the dungeons, which had grown so elaborate and bloody of late, under the Palatine Hill.
Many times he made the decision to return to Egypt, but the thought of seeing the accusation and hate in Cleopatra’s eyes stopped him cold.
Intolerable though it was, Antony had resigned himself to this life without her. He thought he could stand it, if only he could somehow recapture that moment of grace he experienced in the Great Pyramid. That celestial Song.
Sometimes, in the predawn hours, when he’d had enough wine and the world was very still, like a hunter chasing the illusive phoenix, he’d catch a brilliant flash of golden light, the trill of a note sung so sweetly it brought tears to his eyes. But his prey slipped away before he could really grasp it, into the dark tangled forests of his haunted mind leaving a longing behind so intense, not even the wine could dull the terrifying emptiness which every day seemed to draw him more deeply into the void.
And she wasn’t there to whisper the lost name in his ear.
He rubbed his eyes trying to clear his mind. How many years had gone by like this? How long had he been sleepwalking through his life? To all appearances he had been sitting still doing nothing, but the world outside his door continued to erupt with new problems and challenges. It was becoming clear he could not hide forever. If Octavian truly gained absolute power he would crush Egypt.
Even if Cleopatra despised him, Antony could never allow that to happen. He felt a rousing in his blood at the thought of any harm coming to her, or the beautiful city of Alexandria where he had spent the only truly happy moments of his life. A protective instinct to shield her from Octavian at any cost forced him to put down the wine jug and he staggered to the door bellowing for Maurus.
Cleopatra might never know that it was for her sake he would take up his sword again, might not, could not ever love him for it. None of that mattered. All he cared about was that she was safe.
After a few moments, the steward appeared. Antony ran his fingers restlessly across his overgrown beard. “Prepare the baths for me and bring something to eat. When I’m done, I wish an audience with my wife.”
The steward nodded. “Yes, Lord Antony.”
Antony rubbed his face trying to clear the grime and fuzziness that still clung to the corners of his mind. “And bring all the maps of Parthia from my study…and my sword.”
***
All of Rome turned out to see their beloved general off to battle. Scarlet pennants bearing the screeching eagle of Rome waved proudly in the winter sun and Antony’s bronze chariot and breastplate gleamed brightly as he took his place before his assembled legions, who formed neat phalanxes behind him.
Octavia, with little Antonia cuddled close in her arms, rode next to Antony in his chariot. As they approached the city gates, Antony pulled back the reins of his warhorses and they came to a stop. “I’m afraid this is as far as I can bring you.”
Octavia nodded.
Antony took her hand in his and formally kissed it. “Be well, Octavia, and all the blessings of happiness be on you while I’m gone.”
Octavia dutifully adjusted the clasp of his scarlet cloak. “May the Gods bring you victory.”
“May they grant it so.” Antony grew serious and lowered his voice slightly as he handed a scroll into her possession. “Guard this document carefully. It states, in my absence, all my powers are yours, and if anything should happened to me, all that is mine will be yours too, Octavia. You never need to go back to your brother again, if you don’t want to.”
Octavia accepted the scroll. “Thank you. I’m grateful for Antonia’s sake.”
He shifted uncomfortably on the chariot. “I know I have not been a good husband to you, but you are…my true friend. “
For a moment she looked down and he could see she was blinking back tears. “I will do my best to uphold our family’s honor.”
Antony gently pulled Octavia and his little girl into his arms and embraced them with sincere affection. Releasing them, he planted a kiss on Antonia’s brow and looked into her dark blue eyes, so like his own. “Be good, little one. Try to be like your mother and you can do no better.”
Antonia beamed and Antony escorted his wife and daughter to the litter which waited to carry them back to their villa. But just before he stepped away, Octavia reached out her hand to grasp his. “Antony, be careful in Parthia.”
He held her soft palm for a moment and looked into her worried eyes. “No harm will come to me. But you must be careful too…I know how you love your brother, but…” he searched for the words. “If ever a time comes when your heart whispers to you that all is not as it seems, even if Octavian tells you differently, listen to your own heart. Will you do that?”
Octavia was silent for a moment, but she met his eyes and nodded gravely. “I will.”
Antony drew the silk curtains closed around his wife and child, and watched as the citizens respectfully made way for Octavia’s litter before he climbed aboard his chariot. With an impatient crack of the reins, he sent his horses dancing forward. Something like his old vigor and enthusiasm returned to him as he led his army through Rome's gates and they left the city behind.
His heart lifted as they picked up speed and he felt the wind in his hair and his cloak whipping in the breeze behind him. He had missed the time spent with his men laughing around the campfire and the adrenaline rush of a battle charge on swiftly galloping horses, the sound of horns and his soldiers' cries ringing in his ears. This was a stage he knew how to perform on and perform he would. He had been lost for too long chasing demon’s fire through the dark misty woods.
And at the head of a great army, Antony was Octavian’s puppet no more.
CHAPTER TWO
Antony cut a swath of victory across the East, confirming to everyone the years of introversion had not dulled the blade of his sword. With the fierce light of Mars blazing in his eyes, Antony lead the charge through the crash of clanging steal and galloping warhorses, the Eagle of Rome screeching on her blood red standard over the battlefields of Atropatene, Cappadocia and Anatolia, and the opposing forces were made to submit to his legions as Antony took possession of territory after territory––claiming them for the Republic.
In Rome the citizens were drunk with joy on Antony's conquests, and his name rang out in the Senate and in all the twisted old streets as the people rallied around him. News spread that at last his army rode into the steep mountains of Parthia to face the Parthian King. Once Antony dominated the eastern monarch, who had caused Rome so much unrest, the war would be over and they would hail their conquering general with a Triumph, the likes of which had not been celebrated since Julius Caesar’s time.
Octavian observed coolly from his tower in the Palatine as his network of spies reported more and more of how Antony’s glory glowed and blossomed, until they said he had become unstoppable.
But, as Octavian issued his orders, he mused that halting Antony in his tracks was a far more simple matte
r then anyone seemed to believe.
***
Snow floated down in unending waves of powdery white upon the legion’s tents and the wine rations turned to ice. The jagged mountain range of Parthia made an inhospitable shelter for Antony's ragged army and illnesses and famine were taking hold of his men.
The troops and rations Octavian pledged never arrived, and in the midst of a desperate battle, Antony found himself mortally short of supplies and outnumbered six to one. Though he and his soldiers fought with all the force and determination they could, without Octavian’s promised aid, his legion suffered a crushing defeat in their engagement with the Parthians. They fell back, but too short on horses and provisions to make it through the winter storms to safety, the Romans were forced to settle into the desolate mountains, making whatever shelter they could for themselves.
Without enough men and weapons to fight, Antony spent much of his time in the tent where they housed the wounded. He did his best to cheer the sick and dying with his warm presence, telling bawdy jokes to make the men laugh and playing dice by the light of fading oil lamps to occupy them on the bitter cold winter nights, all the while wracking his brain for some way to save them all.
Today he sat with one of his veterans. The toothless soldier, with his grizzled face and stooping shoulders, seemed too old to Antony to be stuck here in the frozen mountains with his leg wrapped in dirty bandages where a spear had pierced his wrinkled flesh.
“How goes it today, Pabluis?” Antony forced a reassuring smile onto his face.
“It goes as it will, though I would be a sight better with a good hot loaf of bread and some warm stew in my belly,” replied the old soldier with a wink, but his face was sickly pale and when he moved the blood seeped through his bandages.
“Well then, Germanicus!” Antony called across the tent, “tell the cook to bring my dinner to this man, Pablius.”
Germanicus frowned but went out into the storm to give the instructions to the cook.
“I have no stomach for food now anyway.” Antony was unable to keep the sorrow from his voice as he looked around the room at the maimed and rotting men.
“May Mars bless you with eternal glory, General,” wheezed the legionnaire gratefully.
“If only I had enough dinners to feed all of my troops,” Antony replied. He had been informed that food was so scarce around the camp, a quart of wheat sold for fifty drachmas and barley loaf was worth its weight in silver.
The Gods curse Octavian for starving his own legions!
He still had the pile of scrolls his brother-in-law sent, begging Antony’s forgiveness, but informing him that the winter storms made it impossible for his promised aid to arrive in time to help Antony. All lies. All a coward’s trick to destroy him. He could live with his own destruction, but not that of his faithful soldiers.
Germanicus returned from the cook's quarters. He hovered behind Antony and said quietly, “Antony, if you’ll retire with me to your tent, I might have a way to improve this situation.”
Surprised, Antony went with Germanicus out into the white blizzard. He pulled his cloak up around his head and squinted against the assaulting hail and frozen ripping winds as he followed his friend to the scant warmth of his own tent. Once inside, they shook off their wet cloaks and collapsed onto the ground before the meager smoking fire.
Germanicus held his hands up close to the blaze. “We can’t go on with this campaign unless we get help. We need more supplies and re-enforcements.”
“I’m well aware of that, but where do you plan to get them?” asked Antony, beginning to flare up. “I have exhausted all my own personal resources.” His face was heavy with sadness. “My men are lost. We have no medicine, no food and we can’t get out of these damned mountains until the ice thaws. I should never have trusted Octavian. But I didn’t think he would betray his only sister.” He fixed his eyes on the fire and watched it kindle pale licks of flame. “There must be something I can do to salvage this situation. Some way to win against the Parthians. Even now.”
“Antony, I don’t think we can win this war, but perhaps we can save our troops.”
Antony looked up, waiting for his friend to continue, but an uncharacteristically anxious look came over Germanicus's face.
“Well, what is it? If you have a plan to save my men, out with it!”
The legionary commander rose, shifting nervously on his feet. “As I said earlier, what you need now more than anything is food and supplies––really what you need is the gold to buy them, and I know of someone who has gold beyond their capacity to use it who might be induced to send it to you.”
Antony narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Who is this generous patron?”
Germanicus took a deep breath. “Cleopatra.”
Antony stood staring at his friend as if he had suggested they journey down to the bowels of Hades and request a few bags of gold from Pluto himself.
“What did you say?”
“Queen Cleopatra of Egypt.” Germanicus looked intently at Antony. “She has more than enough gold to help us. Her coffers would hardly be drained, and no matter what sort of grudge she bears you, you’re still the father of her two children. Besides, it has been several years since you left. Perhaps she’s forgiven you. Even if she hasn’t, the Queen is a wise stateswomen. Surely, whatever her personal feelings for you may be, she would not miss the opportunity to forge a relationship with Rome again.”
Germanicus leaned forward trying to convey the urgency of what he said. “Only think, Antony, we could save all of these men. Men who have been loyal to you, even in these horrendous circumstances. Don’t you owe it to them to do everything in your power to help?”
Antony shook his head belligerently. “I won’t do it. I’ll devise some other plan.”
“There is no other plan. These men will die. Worse than that, they’ll suffer horribly before they do.”
Antony stood looking at Germanicus with his stomach churning. “It’s you who sent me off on this fool's errand with your talk of victory and glory! Why should I listen to you again?”
“Because it’s your only hope.” Germanicus held his calm before Antony’s glowering expression.
They stared each other down for a long moment. Then Antony turned away. He marched to the far end of the room, bowing his head to hide the naked fear in his eyes. The wind roared around the tent and an icy blast swept through, chilling him to the bone.
Germanicus stood patiently watching Antony's back in the blue gloom of the winter light.
Finally, Antony half turned around and said quietly, “What if she refuses me?”
“If she refuses, then at least you’ll know you’ve done all you can to save your men. That it is the Fates’ will, and not your pride, that sent them to their deaths.”
Antony moved closer to the fire and stood staring moodily into the pale flames.
At last he looked up. “I’ll write a letter. But you yourself must take it to her.”
The tense lines of Germanicus’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you––”
But Antony silenced him with a gesture of his hand. “Go now. I’ll have the letter for you by morning.”
Germanicus struck his heart and left the tent. Antony felt the frosty rush of air sweep through once more as his friend opened the flap and then he was alone with his frozen wine sack and an empty page of parchment.
“Venus help me,” he muttered, as he took his reed pen from his satchel and sat down to compose his first words to Cleopatra in years.
***
Germanicus rode at dawn. Antony said a silent prayer as he watched his friend’s horse pick its way across the icy mountain range. The days went by and Antony waited impatiently for Cleopatra's reply. He busied himself doing all he could to help his men, but they were dying, and inside so was he as the time stretched on with no word from Germanicus.
Finally a messenger arrived. Glaring at the horseman as if he were half mad, Antony took the scroll and snapped it open.
The letter was short and to the point.
Antony,
She has refused to see me or even receive your letter. You must come yourself.
Your loyal friend,
—G
Antony crumpled the papyrus in his fist and glared at the messenger. “Is this all? There’s no other letter? No further explanation?”
The messenger took a step back from the fuming general. “No, my lord.”
Cursing, Antony uncrumpled the scroll and read it again, then tossed it aside in disgust. Annoyed at the frightened messenger still lurking in the corner of the tent, he barked, “Go to the cook's quarters and see if there's anything left to feed you.”
The youth beat a swift retreat.
Antony paced his tent like a caged lion. He could not leave his men and go to Alexandria. Surely Germanicus knew that. But if he didn’t, his men would die. He pressed his palms against his brow to block out the frustration.
In the darkness of his mind’s eye he saw her, breathtaking as she had been in their last embrace, jade green eyes glowing with the intimacy of sacred love, her ripe lips parted in a secret smile like the Egyptian Cat Goddess, the long tangles of her hair as black as desert midnight. He could almost smell the ghostly scent of damask roses mingled with lotus blossoms and the smoky spice of incense….
He opened his eyes and stared at the swirling snow outside his tent.
So it had come to this at last.
As the blizzard caught the wind and obscured everything in a kaleidoscope of spiraling white flakes, he wondered that it had taken so long.
Her presence was so strong.
He closed his eyes again and reached out his hand, half expecting to feel her warm palm against his. He clenched his fist and whispered into the frosty air. “I can’t stay away from you any longer. No matter what comes of it.”
