“Not at all. Where should I start?”
She considered for a brief moment.
“With the naval battle of Actium,” she then said, “where Antony and Cleopatra’s ambitions to win control of the Roman Republic finally came to an end. Mostly it’s the details immediately following their defeat by Octavian that I find confusing.”
David poured himself another drink before obliging her.
As he explained, the final war of the Roman Republic between Antony and Octavian took place in Greece in early September of the year 31 BCE, culminating in the largest naval battle the roman world had yet seen off the straits of Actium—and with decidedly disastrous results for the forces of Antony and Cleopatra. Though their army and navy closely matched Octavian’s forces in size, Antony made the fateful mistake of casting all of his hopes for victory on personally leading a decisive sea engagement, something far outside all his previous experience.
When it became all-too-clear that his strategy was ill conceived and going poorly, he and Cleopatra fled the scene with what surviving ships remained to them and sailed for Alexandria. Watching their retreat from the shore, his land commanders capitulated, surrendering their legions en mass to Octavian, the nephew of Julius Caesar and the man destined to become Rome’s first emperor under the name of Augustus.
Being in no immediate hurry, Octavian waited out the winter before again resuming his campaign in the spring of 30 BCE. He rejected the idea of transporting his army across the sea to attack Alexandria directly, choosing instead to travel by land through the Asian provinces where Antony had received much of his backing from Rome’s client kingdoms in the east. By doing so, he ensured Antony could not reinstate his authority over these provinces.
When Antony attempted to bolster what little remained of his former army from the legions in Cyrenaica, he discovered they too had switched loyalties to Octavian. Now trapped inside Egypt with only the remnants of his army to defend them, Antony and Cleopatra knew their cause was lost, forced to but bide their time as they awaited the end. In early summer, Octavian arrived at Alexandria and placed the entire city under siege, leaving the doomed lovers no alternative except to commit suicide, the exact details of which are not known with any real certainty.
“It’s generally accepted,” David concluded, “that in true Roman tradition, Antony fell on his sword. As to Cleopatra, the actual method of her demise is often disputed by historians.”
“Did they have children?”
David nodded.
“Three in all,” he answered, “their oldest a boy of eight named Ptolemy Philadephus, and a set of twins scarcely more than babes; a boy named Alexander Helios and a girl named Cleopatra Selene. However, they were never considered in any serious danger. As proof, Octavian later had them sent to Rome under his guardianship to be raised by his sister, Octavia.”
“And what of Cleopatra’s eldest, her son by Julius Caesar?”
“Unfortunately, seventeen-year-old Ptolemy Caesarian posed a very different sort of threat—one requiring a harsher solution. Since Octavian was the nephew and adopted heir of the deified Julius Caesar, he could ill-afford having Caesar’s actual son left alive to muddy the waters. Young Caesarian had to be eliminated post-haste.”
“I can’t imagine Cleopatra didn’t anticipate this.”
“She evidently did,” he replied, “for he wasn’t found in Alexandria when Octavian arrived.”
“So she’d already sent him into hiding?”
“Apparently. You’ll have to quiz Omar about what’s fact or fiction. As I recall, the accepted history on this really isn’t all that clear. If I had to guess, I’d say Octavian intentionally kept it that way. The less known of the youth’s eventual fate, the better for him.”
Elizabeth gave a sad shake of her head.
“Okay, I realize we’re talking a full two millennia ago, but I still can’t help sympathize with the agonizing pain she must’ve endured knowing her son was under such an irrevocable sentence of death. I mean, the boy was only a few years older than our Jake is now when—” She abruptly stopped, noting the odd expression building on his face. It was a look she’d come to recognize over the years as a prelude to one of his epiphanies.
“What is it, David?” she asked. “What are you thinking?”
“Something you just said,” he finally replied. “Now it’s all beginning to make sense to me. It doesn’t answer everything, mind you, but I think it might point us in the right direction. Don’t know why we didn’t consider the possibility sooner.”
CHAPTER NINE
Alexandria, Egypt. July 26 Of The Year 30 BCE.
High within the vast palace-complex of alabaster and polychrome marble that comprised the royal enclosure of her capital city, a distraught Cleopatra silently paced the polished tiles of her private chambers. Though dawn was still a full hour away, none of the crystal lamps on the citrus wood tables were lit, for she found the soft flood of moonlight entering from the open balcony more than adequate to her purpose. Thus no servants had been wakened and set to this task. What she most desired was to be alone with her tortured thoughts.
Weary from long weeks of insufficient sleep, her heart ached at the prospect of what was soon to come—and most important the pressing need to reach a final decision regarding the future of her eldest child, Caesarian. Did her dear son even have one? She could only pray so. She’d delayed far too long seeking a solution. Time was fast running out, the youth’s very survival now in dire jeopardy.
So what was to be done?
Despite the undeniable warmth of the light breeze reaching her off the placid sea, she felt an occasional chill penetrate the filmy gauze of her robe. Was this from her rising fear? she wondered. Or was it from a deep sense of guilt? She suspected both. Her memory of the disaster at Actium had become a continuing nightmare, one that over the past days had sorely tested her fortitude on every imaginable level.
And how could it not?
The calamity was of her doing, the responsibility hers alone to bear! It was she who convinced Antony to gamble everything on a naval engagement when all of his seasoned generals and land commanders urged otherwise. Yet solely because of his love for her, Antony refused to heed their wise council.
Now she despaired over her grave error in judgment, and how she further compounded the catastrophe. When she perceived the battle was proceeding badly, she foolishly ordered her fleet to slip away at first opportunity and head back to Egypt. Watching this happen, Antony was so aggrieved at her sudden departure that he deserted his command ship for a faster vessel and fled after her, unwilling to be without his adored queen. The damage of this apparent abandonment to his already dispirited forces was immediate and complete. By the end of the day his entire navy lay at the bottom of the sea, Antony’s disheartened land forces rushing to transfer their allegiance to Octavian. From that point forward, any hope for maintaining the Antonian cause was irretrievably lost.
Both he and Cleopatra were essentially doomed.
Alexandria was now only days—if not mere hours—from being seized by Octavian’s approaching legions, and there was no one from whom she could seek advice or make plans. Certainly not Antony. As much as she loved him, she recognized he was but a hollow shell of the man he’d once been. The effects of massive depression and constant overindulgence in wine had taken its toll, leaving him in no condition to be of any real aid to either of them. His once sharp mind had lost its edge, his attention span so daily degraded as to render his opinions quite useless in confronting reality.
Cleopatra sighed to think of it, all-too-aware that their end-days could no longer be forestalled. The last major decision concerning Caesarian would be hers alone to make—and perhaps this was only proper under the circumstances.
Accepting this, she stepped to the open balcony, again feeling a faint chill as she cast her gaze seaward. Well across the divided harbor stood the signature symbol of Alexandria, the towering marble light-house that was as impo
sing now as when first conceived three centuries ago by her ancestor, Ptolemy Soter, the great founder of her dynasty. Was she destined to see it all come to an end?
It seemed so.
Yet, save for her dear Caesarian, she felt she was actually somewhat prepared—at least to an acceptable degree. Inside the enormous temple complex called the Soma, her tomb was fast nearing completion. Begun many years before when she was first crowned pharaoh, there she would be interred alongside all of the other Ptolemies surrounding the golden sarcophagus of Alexander the Great. If Octavian had illusions of forcing her to walk in his triumphal procession back in Rome, then this would be denied him. The gods willing, she prayed her tomb would also house Antony’s mortal remains, as well, for she knew of his intention to soon commit honorable suicide.
As for her three younger children by Antony, all her instincts assured her they were safe from harm. Octavian was far too conscious of his carefully crafted image to jeopardize it at the moment of victory. Due to their tender years—and being no danger whatsoever to his lofty ambitions—he was unlikely to risk being portrayed as a vindictive monster. Far better for him to instead show a magnanimous and compassionate face to the world.
Convinced of this, she again turned her thoughts to her eldest son.
She knew for a certainty Octavian could ill afford the luxury of allowing Caesarian to live. Nor would he. He was too much the calculating pragmatist to ever consider any other option. Being herself a realist, she understood and accepted this. Since Caesarian was the acknowledged son of Julius Caesar, his very existence would be a constant threat.
By her own logic, Caesarian was therefore likewise doomed.
The answer to this conundrum came to her as if delivered on the night breeze, the only possible solution to an otherwise fatal dilemma—and one she realized needed acting upon without delay. Now resolute in her sudden decision, she summoned her maids from the adjoining anteroom, not in the least concerned with the hour.
If her plan was to succeed, not a precious minute could be wasted.
Northern Cairo. The Present.
Samir’s overdue phone call reached Abdel Khafaghi in the upper floor of theold Bulaq mansion just after seven in the evening. Though his call was expected, the timing bordered on being highly inconvenient for the naked Khafaghi patriarch, a man in his middle sixties who fervently disliked disruptions to his regular nights pursuing sexual pleasure.
Fortunately for Samir, however, he escaped his employer’s ire by possessing information that Abdel sought. Also—though Samir had no way of knowing—his boss had only moments before checked the progress of the drugs administered to the young woman sprawled on his bed and determined she wasn’t quite ready to receive his full attention. At least not in the various ways he so enjoyed. Experience had taught him that a little more time was yet required to maximize his jaded appetites.
First things first.
“Repeat that, Samir,” he said, reaching for a notepad. “Give it to me again—and slowly this time.”
Samir did as instructed.
“All three are staying at the Cairo Marriott. Manning and his woman have an open booking. They went straight there around four in the afternoon from Haleem’s apartment building.”
Abdel jotted the hotel down.
“That’s the Marriott on Saray El Gezira Street, right?”
“Yes, sir. They ate in one of the hotel’s fancier restaurants, then went straight back to Manning’s suite. Still there, in fact.”
“All three of them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you got a name for the other man?”
“It took some doing, sir, but I got it from the front desk. His name is Omar Bayoumi and he apparently works out of the Cairo Museum in some high capacity.”
“Bayoumi, you say?”
Abdel recognized the name—and he smiled to himself, thinking he’d finally acquired proof to back up his long held suspicions regarding Haleem. The spiteful old bastard was indeed the one responsible for fucking up some of his more recent black-market transactions. Excellent! He found it immensely satisfying to know he’d been right all along about his late father’s duplicitous friend.
“So what do I do next?” asked Samir. “I doubt they’re going anyplace else tonight.”
Abdel reflected a moment.
“No, probably not,” he agreed. “Go home. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Abdel replaced the phone, unsure how to proceed; yet knew he’d ample time to think it all through. One thing was certain, keeping proper tabs on Manning as well as Haleem would require putting at least one more man on the job. Maybe more. But it must be done. He couldn’t risk screwing this up, for he knew what happened years earlier when Manning and his woman were last in Egypt. The Alexander treasure had made headline news around the world.
Were they now onto another find of similar value?
This opportunity was too promising to be ignored.
A low and enticing moan from the bed drew his attention, and his smile deepened in erotic anticipation. Not only did he have countless hours to formulate plans regarding Manning, but it also appeared that the semi-conscious girl was now finally receptive to being used in any fashion of his choosing.
Everything seemed to be going his way.
CHAPTER TEN
When the three returned to David’s suite after dining in one of the Marriott’s crowded restaurants, Bayoumi immediately picked up on the last threads of their guarded table conversation. The new theory David alluded to over dessert was one he now found increasingly intriguing.
And somewhat perplexing, as well.
“So let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re suggesting we should be focusing on what became of Caesarian, Cleopatra’s eldest child? I’m confused. To what end? If you don’t mind my asking, where did this angle come from?”
“Something Elizabeth said.”
Omar sank into one of the padded armchairs and loosened his tie.
“That’s going to require explaining, my friend.”
“Let me start,” David responded, “by saying before dinner Elizabeth and I were talking about the mystery surrounding the young man’s disappearance prior to Octavian’s arrival in Alexandria. I admitted I wasn’t entirely sure, other than the fact that he didn’t survive. I told her we’d have to wait and draw on your expertise to fill in the many blanks.”
“I see . . .”
“It then crossed my mind perhaps the answer to that question might be directly tied to the current puzzle of what might’ve happened to the treasure chest of pearls—assuming that it really existed and was still in Cleopatra’s possession. And let’s face it, the evidence of the second necklace implies there probably was such a thing.”
Omar picked up the fuzzy trail of David’s hypothesis.
“So you’re thinking the chest was sent along with him into permanent exile?”
“Permanent exile?” interrupted Elizabeth. “Was—was that what Cleopatra intended, do you think? Send him away with no chance of ever returning to his homeland?”
“No question. It could’ve been nothing less. Remember, Caesarian had been installed as co-ruler of Egypt—though in name only, of course—since the tender age of three. Nothing could alter this. In the final analysis, it turned out to be the youth’s undoing. With her impending suicide, she knew he’d effectively become the last crowned pharaoh of Egypt. Not something Octavian would ever tolerate.”
“Exactly,” agreed David. “And this only strengthens my assumption.”
“And just how does this—?”
“The process of simple deduction. Look at it this way. By your own words, Caesarian would’ve been the last of the Ptolemaic line and thus the rightful inheritor of the so-called Porus Legacy. If Cleopatra did her duty by all her royal ancestors in those final days, then the chest of pearls would’ve been sent with her son, something that belonged to him by right of birth.”
A slow smile grew on Omar’s fea
tures.
“You know, I never thought of that!” he said. “Now it makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? Besides, the boy had only just turned seventeen. What better way for her to finance and ensure a long lifetime for him spent in exile.”
David mixed himself an after-dinner whiskey and soda before moving the conversation along. “Which brings us back to whatever you can tell us. What do the historians say about where Caesarian went?”
The pleased smile now slipped from Omar’s lips.
“Nothing very enlightening, I’m afraid. The three primary sources that come to mind all wrote one or two centuries after the fact—making them only marginally credible in my opinion. Cassius Dio, for example, says Octavian’s forces captured and murdered the youth on the road south as he was heading toward Ethiopia. Suetonius gives a similar report with only a few minor variations. Other writers have him being overtaken at the port of Berenice on Egypt’s Red Sea coast along with his trusted tutor, Diodorus, as they were about to board ship for India. Plutarch relates somewhat the same story, implying that the traitorous tutor was instrumental in betraying the boy. No doubt heavily bribed, Diodorus convinced him he was in no real danger; Octavian merely wishing to negotiate terms over the proper governing of Egypt. Being young and gullible, Caesarian was easily persuaded to return—only to then be executed and buried in an unmarked grave before ever reaching Alexandria.”
Elizabeth moved her head in obvious pity.
“And what about the boy’s tutor?” she asked. “What eventually became of this—this Diodorus?”
“Unknown. He falls off the pages of history. To the best of my knowledge, no further mention of him is ever made anywhere.”
“Well, if true,” she said, “I hate to think he long profited from his cruel deceit.”
“I agree. But such is the story.”
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