The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  At first he was shy around his father, but Antony soon disarmed him, and the boy provided him with his only respite from the mounting crisis of the coming war. When he was with Antyllus, he was able to suspend all the cares pressing down on him. Watching them together made me long for Caesarion, for Alexander and Selene, even for little Philadelphos. It is good to have children to take us into other worlds, even as we try to prepare the present one to hand on to them.

  It was from Antyllus, surprising as that may seem, that we first heard about Plancus and Titius’s doings in Rome. And he mentioned it innocently enough. He had been asking questions about Egypt and the pyramids, when he suddenly said, “Is your tomb as big as the Pharaohs’ ?”

  I didn’t know what he meant. “My tomb?” I asked.

  “Yes, your tomb. I kept hearing about it in Rome. They were all talking about it. What’s so special about it?”

  I had to think hard. “Nothing, really. It is next to the Temple of Isis, on my palace grounds. It is just a regular mausoleum, except”—perhaps this is what he meant—“it has special doors that can’t be reopened once they are closed. Why?”

  “Well, everyone says the tomb must be special, since my father insists on being buried in it, instead of in Rome. I tell you, everyone was talking about it!”

  “And how did they know that?” asked Antony, putting down the reports he was reading.

  “They said it was in your will.”

  We looked at one another. The will. It was in the safekeeping of the Vestal Virgins, absolutely inviolate.

  “How did they know what was in my will?” asked Antony. “It’s supposed to be a secret—until I die, that is.”

  “Oh”—Antyllus shrugged, paying more attention to the toy soldiers he was arranging on a heaped-up blanket to serve as a mountainous battlefield—“they stole it from the Vestal Virgins.”

  “What?” Antony got down on one knee and looked sternly at his son. “No joking, now. No playing. Did they really steal it?”

  Antyllus put down the soldiers. “Yes. Uncle Octavian made them. Some Romans who had come back told him about it, and he demanded to see it.”

  “He isn’t your uncle!” I said sharply.

  “He made me call him that,” said Antyllus. “He would get angry if I didn’t.”

  “Well, stop it!” I said. “You aren’t closely related to him!”

  “Hush.” Antony frowned at me. “That isn’t important. What I want to know is who stole the will.”

  “Uncle—I mean Octavian. He grabbed it by force from the Vestal Virgins. It caused a big ruckus in Rome. Everyone was carrying on about the way you wanted to be buried in Egypt. It made people mad. And, oh, let’s see…I don’t remember what else. It was the tomb part people kept talking about.”

  Plancus and Titius. They had witnessed the will. They had told Octavian about it, and he had used it in his uncanny way. But how had he dared to violate the sanctuary of the Vestals? He was gambling that what he found in the will would make it worthwhile. That bastard. And he had won.

  That night in our chambers, I lay quietly against Antony’s shoulder and talked in hushed tones. “We need to take stock of our position,” I said. “Plancus and Titius have changed the equation. What is happening in Rome?”

  “It sounds as if they have won a pardon from Octavian by presenting him with inside information about me—what they were privy to as the keepers of my seal, and witnesses to the will,” Antony said. “They had to offer him something he wanted in order to be taken in. After all, they had been with me for ten years. That would have tainted them in his eyes.”

  “How damaging is this information?”

  “I never thought it was damaging at all,” he said. “I don’t understand why it should be.”

  The sounds of a summer night drifted in through the windows, songs from nearby courtyards, laughter, footsteps on the paving stones below. On the streets of Athens, people were enjoying the warmth, the clear, starry skies above them.

  I put my head on his chest and listened to the slow, steady sound of his heart. How calmly he lay there, how unconcerned he seemed. I put my arms around him, feeling the strong, arched ribs under my hands. He was like a sturdy, rough-barked oak that gave shelter. Just touching him made my worries and fears subside. The defections of Plancus and Titius had disturbed me deeply, but less for the loss of their persons than for what it symbolized. It might sap the morale of those still with us. Desertions could spread, like plague.

  The reports that finally came from Rome were astounding. Antony was right; as price of their admission to Octavian’s good graces, Plancus and Titius told him that Antony’s will contained shocking information that he could put to good use.

  Plancus and Titius’s appearance had been timely. Octavian, freshly returned from Illyria, was only a private citizen now. The Triumvirate had officially expired, and Octavian held no public office. Furthermore, he had no constitutional reason to lead a crusade against his ex-fellow Triumvir and brother-in-law. Antony had not done anything aggressive or illegal, and Octavian had earlier declared the civil wars over. Antony still had a loyal following in Rome, plus almost half the Senate with him, and there were vast numbers of fence-sitters who kept themselves aloof from either faction. Unless Octavian could find some excuse to attack Antony and to marshal public opinion on his side, he could not proceed.

  Then came the divorce. Routine enough in itself, it provided evidence that Antony was casting off his Roman ties for the Egyptian Circe. It gave fuel to the fire, fanned by Octavian, that Antony was becoming un-Roman. Then the will, with its wish that Antony be buried beside me, “proved” that Antony had repudiated Rome and planned to move the capital to Alexandria.

  “While he lies embalmed like a Pharaoh in that foreign land, I—no matter where I fall in battle—I, Imperator Caesar, will lay my bones in the family tomb I am even now constructing beside the Tiber. Even my dust will not forsake or abandon you, Mother Rome!” Octavian had cried, when he revealed the contents of the will.

  The response was an explosion of anger and disgust at us. Antony was called every vile name imaginable. Plancus stood up in what was left of the Senate and described Antony’s servile fawning on me: Antony left a senator in mid-speech to follow my litter and place himself among my eunuchs; he stopped in the middle of council meetings to read love poems written by me on jeweled tablets; he even rubbed my feet in public, anointing them with oil and kissing them passionately.

  I remembered the time in Ephesus when Titius had intruded on us in the privacy of our own house, where Antony was rubbing my feet because I felt ill. Now Plancus had exaggerated it into this slander.

  Plancus entertained the Senate for days outlining one folly, evil, or mistake of Antony’s after another. The catalogue of Antony’s failings was as high as the pyramids.

  Finally one old senator rose and remarked pointedly, “My, Antony certainly managed to do a great many evils before you could bring yourself to leave him.”

  Public fervor was one thing, but Octavian needed something more binding before he could strike. Since burial plans did not constitute disloyalty—one senator had objected that it was unfair to punish a living man for what he intended after his death—Octavian would have to invoke a “higher sanction,” one above the constitution. He thought of a way: Romans would swear allegiance to him, in his own person, rather than for any office he held. Thus he would be the patron, and all the country his clients.

  An oath of allegiance was hurriedly composed, and by autumn people were persuaded to take it.

  I held a copy of it and read it aloud to Antony, who could barely bring himself to listen.

  “ ‘I hearby bind myself to have the same friends and enemies as Imperator J. Caesar Divi filius, to fight with body and soul, by land and sea, against anyone who should threaten him, to report treason seen or heard, and to consider myself and my children less dear than the safety of the Imperator Caesar. Should I break my oath, may Jupiter visit m
e and my children with exile, outlawry, and ruin,’ ” I read. “Thorough, isn’t it?”

  Antony shook his head. “Bononia refused to take it,” he said.

  “Yes, that town is loyal to you.” But the army, the veteran colonies, most of the leading citizens of the towns had taken it. Meanwhile, in Rome, the fence-sitters had finally been pushed off into Octavian’s yard. The will and the divorce had done it—both personal things, pertaining to Antony’s private life. How ironic. They enabled Octavian to claim that all loyal citizens, shocked and saddened at Antony’s disgrace, had risen up in a spontaneous expression of their devotion to the Divi filius: champion of Roman fortitude, virtue, and tradition. Hence the oaths.

  “We still command more resources,” said Antony. “Our army is bigger, our navy superior, and our treasury deeper. When the clash comes, we will prevail. I am a better commander than Agrippa and Octavian put together. Do you remember when we talked about creativity? Mine is in warfare, and it will not fail me now.”

  “There was something in the will that shocked Octavian, but it was not what he shouted about,” I said. “The real thing that frightened him he kept to himself.”

  Antony rubbed his forehead, as if he would erase the lines there, lines that had settled on him since coming to Athens. “What was that?”

  “In the will you emphatically support Caesarion’s inheritance. By that we deny Octavian a place in the west, as well as in the east. We give him no place to go. He knows that, and cannot submit to such a scheme.”

  “Yes, that is true,” admitted Antony. “ ‘Thus we must make war, that we may live in peace,’ as Aristotle said.”

  Golden summer days lasted into October in Athens, but we were far too busy making our military arrangements to notice the swirling leaves or stroll among the butterflies, dancing their last. Soon each contingent would depart to take up its watch in different parts of Greece. Antony and I spent many hours perfecting the plans before we were ready to unveil them.

  For almost the first time, a major campaign would rely equally on sea and land power. Since neither army would be on its home ground, and Greece had scant food, that meant food supplies must be transported by sea. Theirs would come from Italy, and ours from Egypt. Obviously, whoever could manage to cut the other’s lines would starve the enemy army out. So the ships were crucial, and we were proud of ours. Not only did we have more than five hundred warships with every size well represented, but our rowers were expert Greeks and Egyptians. It did little good to have fine ships if the oarsmen were inept. In addition, our admirals Ahenobarbus and Sosius were seasoned commanders.

  As for the army, we still had the core of Roman legionaries, some of whom were veterans of Parthia and even Philippi, as well as newer recruits. The legionaries numbered some sixty thousand, the light infantry and client kings’ soldiers another twenty-five thousand. Amyntas of Galatia had contributed two thousand of the world’s best cavalry to the ten thousand we already had. That gave us land forces of almost a hundred thousand men. Antony would lead the troops, with Canidius and Dellius under him, in addition to the kings of Cappadocia, Paphlagonia, Thrace, Cilicia, and Commagene commanding their own forces.

  I wished to command my squadron of Egyptian ships, but Antony was hesitant. In the first place, he did not like the idea that we would be separated in battle—one on land, one at sea—but he also worried that Ahenobarbus would balk at it. And we needed Ahenobarbus’s expertise against Agrippa. I held my peace, sensing that things might well be different later. One thing I knew: I would not sit on the sidelines. I would be fighting somewhere.

  I also wondered if Caesarion ought to be involved. He was old enough to begin training as a soldier. But Antony was insistent that Antyllus leave and go to the safety of Alexandria, and he urged that Caesarion remain where he was.

  “Full-scale war is not the place for boys to learn soldiering,” he said. “Especially if one is also the heir. The stakes are too high, the chances of an accident too great.” He was so adamant that I bowed to his wishes.

  “What you mean is, you don’t want them in the way,” I said.

  “Exactly,” he said. “I will have enough to worry about, without them underfoot. And what hostages they would make!”

  Still, I wondered if they would not feel cheated afterward. How could a son of Caesar’s sit by while a war was fought in his name?

  At length, all the details having been perfected, we held a council of war in the enormous Stoa of Attalos near the agora. We needed all that space to accommodate our men, and to display the maps and make our presentations. It was the last time we would all be together under one roof.

  As if to emphasize his Romanness, Antony was wearing his general’s costume: buckled brass and silver cuirass with relief ornamentation, a string of military awards across his chest, a sweeping purple cloak, heavy nailed sandals.

  I had been careful to avoid all ornamentation, attiring myself in a plain gown and cloak, and wearing the ancient Egyptian award for military valor, stylized golden flies, which I had earned in raising my army in Ashkelon against my usurping brother, as well as taking my fleet to sea to be used against the assassins. I wanted them to realize that one side of me was of a warrior.

  Behind us a gigantic map had been fixed to a frame; Antony was standing beside it, spear in hand. Looking straight at us were the faces of all our chief officers and the ten kings. Behind them were the senators. Legates, tribunes, and centurions filled the rest of the hall.

  “We have feasted and celebrated, my friends,” Antony began. “Now it is time to dedicate ourselves to the coming test. May all the gods look with favor on us, and give us the victory.”

  He pointed at the map, tapping the peninsula of Italy to the left with his spear. “Octavian must cross the sea to get here,” he said. He gave a laugh, meant to be disarming. “Depending on where he ferries his troops across, the journey may be either long or short. If he departs from here”—he thumped the site of Brundisium—“he will have only about seventy miles to sail to reach Greece. If he chooses Tarentum”—another thump—“and heads south, it will be closer to two hundred miles. What we must do is be prepared to intercept him at either end. Therefore I propose a chain of nine naval stations on sheltered islands just off the coast of Greece, stretching from Corcyra in the north to Crete in the south.”

  There was a slight murmur; the men were nodding, looking impressed.

  “Above Corcyra the coast of Greece is difficult to land on, so we need not worry that Octavian will try that. So we will guard Corcyra, then have a major naval station south of that, at the Gulf of Ambracia. The gulf is ten miles deep and provides safe anchorage from winter storms. The main fleet will winter there.”

  He looked around for questions. There being none, he continued. “Just off the Gulf of Ambracia is the island of Leucas, and we will put our third naval station there. Then, proceeding south, almost in the middle of the chain, there will be another at Patrae, on the Gulf of Corinth. There the main army will winter, and I will have my headquarters. Guarding it will be two more stations, at Cephallenia and Ithaca, home of Odysseus. A little farther south, on the island of Zacynthus, Sosius will command his fleet. He has long experience at Zacynthus, having served there for seven years already.”

  Sosius stood up and nodded.

  “A major station under the command of Bogud of Mauretania will be situated at Methone, in southern Greece. Then, the last one on Greek soil, at Cape Taenarum, will serve to protect our food supply coming from Egypt. Below lies Crete, where our ninth station will be. So you can see, it is a shield stretching down the entire western flank of Greece.”

  “But what about the Via Egnatia, in northern Greece?” said Dellius. “Why just abandon it? I don’t like it.”

  “We have no need of it,” said Antony. “We cannot receive supplies that way.”

  “But the enemy can,” insisted Dellius.

  “No, the enemy will find it of little use if we are south. It only g
oes east-west, and cannot help them transport supplies over the mountains in our direction. It is a wonderful road, but of no use at all to us in this contest.” Antony looked absolutely certain of this.

  “Why station the army near the Gulf of Corinth?” asked Ahenobarbus.

  “If the enemy comes by sea from the west, then we will be ready, and easily deployed toward the coast. If, however, he should make the long overland march through Illyria and come down from the north, we can block him. We will be prepared no matter which direction he comes in.” He added, “But I doubt very much he will make an overland march. For one thing, it is almost a thousand miles.”

  “Better a thousand on land than seventy on the sea!” cried Canidius, playfully.

  “Landlubber!” yelled Ahenobarbus.

  “Keep in mind that this will be a difficult undertaking for Octavian,” said Antony. “Time, money, and supplies are on our side. All we have to do is maintain ourselves in Greece, and wait. He has to get here, keep his troops paid, and transport all supplies. We have had the opportunity to assemble and bring in anything we wish, at our own pace—a great advantage.”

  “And where will she be?” asked Ahenobarbus suddenly.

  I rose. I certainly could speak for myself. “As commander of the Egyptian ships, I shall be with my fleet,” I said.

  “You own the ships, but do you command them?” Ahenobarbus said. “You must have an admiral.”

  “That is to be settled later,” said Antony quickly. “The Queen will be in Patrae with me for the winter.”

  I could see this was going to be a bone of contention between us. Well, he was right—it would be settled later.