The Memoirs of Cleopatra

by Margaret George

  “Uncanny.” Antony was sitting, his arms resting on his knees, hands hanging limply. “I would say—no, never.”

  He had been thinking the same thing as I. But we must not give in to that mood. The gods enjoyed testing us to see what we were made of, that was all. This was not final.

  “It is time for another attack on the river Louros,” he said. “I think we will have conviction behind our assault this time.”

  The day stood fair, the wind—obedient now, perfect for an escape, as if mocking us—blowing early. Antony would lead the attack in person, commanding the Roman cavalry and supported by Amyntas and his Galatian horsemen; Dellius would provide the muscle of two legions behind them. In case they were successful in forcing a wider battle, Canidius and the other legions were ready for the signal to swarm up the hill.

  As before, they would ride around the head of the ten-mile gulf and approach the river from the east. If they could succeed in surprising or overpowering them quickly, Octavian’s forces would be without a water supply. Let them drink seawater, then, and go mad!

  Mounted and wearing my protective helmet and shield, I waited with Canidius. No, I did not expect to fight; I was not trained with swords or spears. But I could not bear to wait out of eyesight, not knowing what had happened until it was long over. And so, properly prepared, I sat my horse and watched, my eyes trained to the east, searching for any betraying movement.

  Canidius rode over beside me. His horse looked thinner than was ideal, but that was not surprising.

  “Hail,” he said, reining up. His helmet gleamed in the fierce sun, making an intense spot of light that moved as he moved his head. He gestured toward the east, jerking his horse that way. “Today, the gods willing, the tide will turn in our favor.”

  Yes. The gods willing…They had been stubbornly against us so far. But their most outstanding characteristic was capriciousness. A shove here from Apollo, and Patroclus stumbles, a whisper from Athena and a mortal blow is averted…. Let this work in our favor today! Let them embrace us!

  “What must be, will be.” I was surprised to hear these words come from my lips. They were not exactly what I meant. “And what we wish, will be,” I assured him.

  Behind me the massed legions were waiting, standing patiently, as they had been trained to do. I could smell the leather of their gear and hear the low murmurs of their voices.

  “How are their spirits?” I asked Canidius quietly.

  “Were they higher, I would be well content,” he replied tartly. “The conditions day after day wear away at them. And then there are the taunts from the other camp, the arrows and stones carrying messages, fired right into our midst.”

  “Saying what?”

  Silently he handed me a paper, which he had kept folded inside his glove. “I picked this one up this morning.”

  I opened it. “ANTONY IS NO LONGER HIMSELF. YOU FOLLOW A MADMAN. HE CANNOT PROVIDE FOR YOU.”

  “Tired old lies,” I said lightly.

  “They are taking their toll,” said Canidius. “I am hard put to counteract them.”

  “But they have seen him, they hear him speak!” I gathered the reins into my hands, wrapping them around my palms.

  “Yes,” he admitted. “But the lies wear away at them like drops of acid, corroding everything they touch. They wonder, in their hearts, how Antony can give them their plot of land when it is all over. He has no rights in Italy now. And that is what they really want.”

  “But the purpose of war is to win! Just as Octavian will seize Egypt if he wins”—horrible thought! insupportable outcome!—“Antony’s rights in Italy will be restored.” It was all so simple.

  “Their hearts have grown faint,” said Canidius bluntly. “Perhaps there have been too many years of civil war, and it is hard for them to believe in anything anymore. They are just tired, and want an end.”

  “Then they must fight to achieve it!” But I was not addressing the men; my exhortation fell only on Canidius’s ears. His words were chilling, ominous. Had Antony lost his power to inspire and lead them? Had his fortunes run aground, mired in the faintheartedness of his men? What a fall that would be, what an unexpected thing to topple an empire!

  “Yes, I know,” he said. He turned his head abruptly to the east, his attention instantly riveted in that direction.

  Now I could see the sun glinting on something moving; far across the gulf, many points of light danced as riders approached the swamps guarding the approach to the precious river.

  “There!” I said, almost under my breath. But Canidius’s eyes were focused on his legions; he had forgotten me, as well he should. The only thing that mattered now was the fight that would unfold at the river, and how we could win it.

  He trotted off to take his position, and I was left to stare at the tiny moving figures on the far side of the gulf. No sound carried across the water; all I heard were the cries of gulls swooping and diving.

  I clutched the reins and waited. If there was a charge up the hill, I meant to follow with the rearguard. I would not grieve Antony by placing myself in too much danger, but I must be there, must be a part of our battles.

  I was trembling. I was surprised; I had not thought myself so tightly wound with anticipation. The troops were drawing themselves up, fastening their helmets, adjusting the hand-straps on their shields.

  Then, from far away, a rise of voices—cries and shouts. The faint sounds of a tumult reached us.

  “Ready!” Canidius ordered, his horse nervously prancing before the lines.

  A horn sounded from the river, blowing notes we were to follow.

  “Signa inferre!” It was not the command for a charge, but only an order to advance. The troops marched briskly in formation, aimed toward the hill, Canidius at the fore.

  O Zeus! O Hercules! Be with your son today, give him strength and glory! I prayed. Let Antony ride, resplendent, into the enemy lines, scattering them into confusion.

  A lone, wavering note sounded from the attackers, the music suddenly choked off in midnote. What had happened? I was halfway up the hill, but through the lines of troops and the distance, I could see little.

  I saw some movement from the west side, but truly, it meant nothing. Canidius and his legions were still marching smartly uphill, but then the vanguard seemed to halt.

  And then I heard the wild whoops, the cheers; something momentous had happened, but I was still ignorant of what. I saw horses galloping westward, but whose? Was it Antony leading the attack? They were moving swiftly.

  The unmistakable din of fighting now reached my ears. Even if one had never heard it before, it was identifiable. The most sequestered scholar, who had only read Plato, would have recognized it instantly.

  The moment had come! I drew myself up in the saddle, ready to gallop forward. Waiting was agony, but it would only last a little longer. And then—and then—!

  My heart had leapt, utter relief buoying it up. The moment that would decide all had come at last. And it was as welcome as a lover, although I had dreaded it as I would an emissary of death. How surprising we are, even to ourselves. Our ranks bristled with swords drawn, horses trembling at the ready. And then, Antony’s lines far away seemed to split in half—one side kept galloping west; the rest milled and then headed downhill, in our direction.

  “Canidius!” I cried, searching for him. What had happened? I must know; he must tell me. But I could not find him.

  The legionaries stood their ground, proceeding no farther. A horn sounded. Retreat!

  Retreat? Why must we retreat? The troops around me began falling back, but I moved off to one side and let them pass. Soon Canidius and the front ranks were marching past, but still I stood aside, waiting.

  I recognized Antony’s bay warhorse, flashing with all his trappings, heading down the hill, followed by his mounted troops. He was not running away, but he was moving fast. I signaled to him as he approached; he motioned to me to fall in with him, and I did. His face was set grimly ahead, and
he barely looked at me.

  “Antony, what is it?” I cried, hoping he would hear me and be able to respond.

  He did not answer, just leaned forward, urging his horse.

  “What has happened?” I called again, leaning sideways toward him.

  “Amyntas has deserted,” he shouted, “taking his cavalry with him.”

  Amyntas and the Galatian riders! The backbone of the cavalry!

  I almost fell off my own horse, so shocked I forgot to grip with my knees. This was a body blow!

  “No attack,” he said. “We were betrayed by our own forces.”

  So the river was still secure! Octavian could drink all he wished, in safety.

  We galloped back into our camp, with only the remaining Roman cavalry to accompany us. Canidius and Dellius were left to deal with the untried legions, who would tramp back into camp behind us.

  Antony retreated into his wooden headquarters, brusquely fending off questions and entreaties. Eros went in after him, and was turned out. He emerged looking distressed. Outside the headquarters a crowd of soldiers gathered; they were bewildered and wanted their Imperator to explain what had happened. Even Sosius was not admitted, and stood angrily by the door, insulted.

  Antony had to come out and face them. I must see to it. I strode through the crowd, my helmet tucked under my arm, using my shield to push the men aside. I tried the door and found it bolted from inside.

  “Open this door!” I said, loudly enough to carry through all the rooms, to reach him wherever he was.

  There was no answer.

  “Open this door, in the name of the Queen of Egypt!” I commanded.

  Still silence. I hammered on the door, and finally I heard a sound inside.

  “The Queen of Egypt demands to enter these headquarters,” I repeated.

  “The request of the Queen must be deferred for now.” Antony’s voice was muffled and sounded far away.

  How dare he? In front of all these men, to deny me entrance! Maybe the slogans were right; maybe he was losing his mind!

  “The Queen will enter!” I insisted, loudly.

  “Who?” he asked. “Who will enter?”

  “Your wife,” I finally said. “Your wife asks leave to enter.”

  Only then did he unfasten the door and admit me. The crowd cheered; I was too surprised to be angry.

  Once inside, Antony sat stonelike on a chair, grasping its arms and staring straight ahead. I stood in front of him and waited for him to raise his head and look at me. Instead he stubbornly kept it at the same level.

  “Antony!” I said. “This is not seemly. You cannot hide in here.”

  Finally he spoke. “Can I not have a moment’s privacy? I must have a few moments to myself.”

  “Not these moments,” I said. “Not immediately after the—”

  “The battle? What battle? The Battle That Never Was. Or perhaps you mean the desertion! Is that what you mean?” His voice was as bitter as the waters of the Dead Sea I had tasted long ago.

  “Whatever it is, you must say some words to your men. They need it; they are depending on you.”

  “What, to make sense of it for them? Shall I tell them what it means? The best horsemen, gone to Octavian? And that it was Amyntas—Amyntas, the prince I chose, and elevated, and made what he was!” Now the pain beneath the anger began to emerge. “Perhaps I cannot choose; perhaps I lack the ability to discern a man’s character. I trusted Artavasdes—and I trusted Amyntas.”

  “When someone wishes to deceive, it is hard to penetrate his screen.” I remembered Amyntas’s little show of pulling out his dagger and demonstrating how eager he was to stab Octavian. I tried to be soothing, but Antony’s words had a ring of truth to them. It had taken him a long time to finally see through Octavian, and only because Octavian had obligingly dropped his mask. And then there were Plancus and Titius.

  He lifted his chin and looked at me, but I did not like the expression in his eyes.

  “They say I was a fool to trust you,” he said. “That all you have ever wanted me for was my power to bestow territory on you.” He laughed, but not in mirth. “And I have done that, indeed. The Donations—now even this war—”

  First I had had to humble myself in public and address him only as his wife before the troops—and now this. I tried to remember that he was in shock from what had just happened, and in his pain was lashing out at anything near. Still, it hurt that he could think it even for a moment.

  Oh, he was just angry, we tell ourselves when someone blurts out something he later apologizes for. But a word, once spoken, lingers forever; to keep peace we pretend to forget, but we never do. Strange that a spoken word can have such lasting power when words carved on stone monuments vanish in spite of all our efforts to preserve them. What we would lose persists, lodged in our minds, and what we would keep is lost to water, moths, moss.

  “It grieves me that you would think that,” I finally said, stiffly. “I think I have lost more in this association than you!” There, now I had attacked back, when I had meant to hold my tongue. “I have spent a fortune, and my entire country is at risk!”

  “Always your country! Do you think of nothing else?”

  Outside I could hear the sounds of the crowd. He would have to address them soon.

  “I am a queen,” I said. “And that is what queens must do.”

  Now he stood up, and grabbed my shoulders, twisting his fingers against the bone. “And I thought you were my wife, and held that office highest of all things.”

  “Is that why you would open the door to the wife, but not to the Queen? Why must you make it a contest between the two? They are the same person.” I wished he would let go of my shoulders. “And you are the Imperator, and must go back to your men! What we as husband and wife have to say must wait.”

  “Ah yes.” He kept squeezing my shoulders. “This defeat is decisive for the land operations,” he said. “I do not—I do not—” He looked close to tears. “I do not know the next step. I cannot see ahead of me.”

  “They don’t need to know the next step!” I told him. “They only need to know that their leader is himself, and that they may have confidence in him. Antony, if your men lose confidence in you, then the battle is lost in advance.”

  “What battle? What battle?” he kept saying. “There can be no battle.”

  “You do not know that. Wait. Sleep. Think. But, for the love of Hercules, go out and speak to them!”

  Now he dropped his hands from my aching shoulders. “Yes. I will.”

  As if some spirit had entered him, he went outside and talked to his men. I heard his voice, loud and sure, heard the cheers and laughter. He was convincing, then. I felt relief flow over me like a mountain stream, cool and refreshing. There might still be hope.

  That night, desolation settled on him. He had asked Sosius and Ahenobarbus to attend us after supper to discuss the state of the fleet, now that the land operations were suspended. We had lost several ships in the attempted escape, and poor Tarcondimotus of upper Cilicia had been killed in the action.

  “You see,” I said, “not all the client kings are disloyal. He gave up his life. And so far from home.” It seemed sad that he had met his end on the sea, since his country was landlocked. I also regretted comparing him to a snake, if only in my own mind.

  Antony shook his head. “Poor devil.”

  “If we give up now, it will have been in vain.” I feared that Antony was close to despair.

  “So there must be more deaths to redeem his?” He looked around. “Where are they? It grows late. And I am—tired.” He poured out a big cup of wine.

  We waited silently, and then after what seemed forever, and a second cup of wine for Antony, Sosius appeared. His usually calm face was strained.

  “Welcome,” said Antony. “I will try not to keep you very late. As soon as Ahenobarbus appears, we—”

  “He won’t appear, sir,” said Sosius, his voice shaking. “He’s gone.”

 
; “To Octavian?” Antony did not sound surprised, but resigned. That was more alarming to me than Ahenobarbus’s departure. “He left a note?” He sounded as if it were a courtesy note for a dinner party.

  “Yes, sir. Here it is.” He held it out with hands that trembled slightly.

  “Hmm.” Antony broke the seal and read. “Like a true sailor, he has embarked before the tide has completely ebbed.” He tossed the letter on his table. “Read.”

  I let Sosius look first, then I took it. Ahenobarbus had had himself rowed across as soon as darkness fell. But there was something odd about the letter; it had a note beyond political leave-taking.

  “Had his cough worsened?” I asked.

  Sosius had to think. “Why—yes. He was in bed early last night, and at dinner he ate little because of the cough.”

  Perhaps he had crawled away to die. Perhaps he thought Octavian would be more merciful to his heirs in Rome if he made peace with him. Perhaps—

  “His possessions are still in his quarters?” Antony asked suddenly.

  “Yes, everything,” said Sosius. “Even his favorite brass-bound trunk.”

  Only a dying man would do that.

  “I will send them all after him,” said Antony.

  “Sir!” protested Sosius. “A man should pay some price for desertion!”

  Antony shrugged. “But not his brass-bound trunk.” He laughed thinly. Then he poured more wine.

  “Sosius, if you wish to follow”—he nodded solemnly—“do so now.”

  “Sir!” Sosius was shocked.

  “Because, henceforth, if I catch any deserters, I am going to execute them as a warning. This is becoming a dangerous hemorrhage, and I will have to take drastic measures to stanch it.” He lifted his cup. “But you, friend, I will give safe passage.”

  “Sir!”

  “Very well. But this is your last chance.” Antony took a long swallow.