The Murder of Cleopatra

by Pat Brown

  Cleopatra turned and followed the soldiers to the inner sanctum, where they gently lay Antony down upon a richly upholstered bench. The children had caught a glimpse of the glum procession as they passed through the second courtyard and came running to their father’s side.

  “Father!” cried Antyllus. “What happened?”

  Antony could scarcely see his son through his blurring vision.

  “Antyllus.” Antony attempted to reach out and touch his son’s head, but fell back with the slight effort. “Antyllus.”

  Tears streamed down Antyllus’s cheeks and he shifted from foot to foot, his agitation increasing as blood seeped out from under Antony’s armor and began to drip from the bench to the floor beneath.

  “Father! Open your eyes!” Antyllus beseeched Antony. Antyllus suddenly looked only a boy, not the almost-man who had stood proud at his coming-of-age ceremony just months ago.

  The twins kept their distance, hugging the waists of Cleopatra’s handmaidens, who stroked their hair and patted their heads, bent over and whispered in their ears, offering what little comfort they could under such horrible circumstances.

  Cleopatra grabbed Antony by both shoulders and shook him. “Antony! Antony!” If she could only get a strong-enough response, if the wound wasn’t that deep, if she could rouse him quickly enough, bandage him, and send him back to his men before they went over to Octavian, if she could just . . .

  Antony’s lips did not move in response, and his breathing had become barely perceptible.

  The last foolish flicker of hope blew out, and Cleopatra felt a wave of nausea overtake her. She stepped away from Antony. He was beyond help and, therefore, he could be of no further use to her.

  Antyllus looked from his father to Cleopatra, desperation etched on his face. He knew what his father’s death meant.

  “You made me stay!” he accused Cleopatra. “You let Caesarion go, but you made me stay!”

  Cleopatra looked at him dispassionately. “It was your place to stay. Your father didn’t run away, nor did I. We did what we must, and Caesarion did what was required of him. He did not want to leave.”

  Antyllus’s eyes darted toward the front door of the temple and up at the walls surrounding him. “I can make a run for it.”

  Cleopatra laughed. “A run for it? Where do you think you can run with that face of your father’s and thousands of Roman soldiers between you and the border of Egypt?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You can act like a man, Antyllus. You can stay and fight with our soldiers when Octavian’s men come over the walls of the temple.”

  Antyllus turned away from her and sank to his knees by his father’s side. He grabbed his father’s hand, but then pulled his own away quickly. Antony was dead.

  Cleopatra climbed up the circular stairs to the roof over the hypaethral room. From here she could see all of Alexandria—her Alexandria. She felt a terrible pain as she watched the fleet sail out of the harbor and the ships raise their oars in unison, signaling her navy’s surrender to the enemy. Then the two fleets merged, and like the wave of a tsunami, one large mass rolled over and came back toward the docks.

  The gates were now open at the front of the city, and she no longer could tell which side was which. She laughed ironically when she remembered that the only ones left on her side where the men with her at the temple. And, she wondered, how long would they put up even a minimal fight to turn back Octavian’s men? An hour? A few minutes? It was not as if anyone believed they could hold out for long. For that matter, even if they could, they would run out of food and be starving to death by the end of one week’s time.

  Cleopatra wished only for some manner of resistance, just to let Octavian know her people were not traitors like Antony’s Romans; that they would be willing to die for their queen. Such a show might be in her favor. Octavian might realize the depth of her countrymen’s loyalty for her and conclude that allowing her to rule might be to his advantage.

  Besides, she still had her treasure. She could offer to send it to him bit by bit in exchange for her life and her sovereignty. Meanwhile, if she could indeed get her men to put up a fierce fight when Octavian made his attempt to breach the temple, she could buy more time for Caesarion to leave Berenice; at least he would still be free.

  Motion from the hills in the front of town caught Cleopatra’s eye; a long trail of horses, Octavian’s cavalry, and a portion of his infantry were billowing into the city like the smoke that was supposed to go up from inside the Caesarium that morning. The swath of dark, sleek horses with their silvery rows of helmeted riders retraced the same path Antony took earlier that day as he led his men to the temple and himself to his death.

  Cleopatra let out a long rush of air, not realizing she had been holding her breath. It was time to go exhort her men to fight for her, for Egypt, for pride. She would let them know Octavian was the type to leave no Egyptian soldier alive who didn’t come to him at the earliest opportunity. Perhaps she could spur them on to fight with all they had.

  She suddenly heard shouting from below, from in front of the temple. There was a rising commotion, and she felt some satisfaction in knowing she was still being defended.

  The sounds of battle were short-lived, and there was quiet once again on the street below. One of her guards came up the stairs, bowed stiffly in front of her, keeping his eyes low.

  “Octavian asks you to open the door and save your men. He says he will do what he can for you and your children.”

  Cleopatra snorted. “Tell him if he dares to climb these walls, the fire shall be lit and all his treasure will be lost.” At this point, Octavian might truly believe she was holding out to the last moment. She might as well play along, as she had no other options left except for her men to try to hold on while the Romans swarmed up scaling ladders and descended into the temple.

  The guard bowed quickly and went to deliver her message. Cleopatra followed him down the staircase and went to speak to her commander in charge of the temple brigade.

  She met his eyes directly. “Will you be giving fight or turning tail like Antony’s men?”

  The commander was a man of exactly Antony’s age, and he knew the fears of men younger than he. He smiled broadly at Cleopatra, as if he was actually enjoying the day.

  “My men will do as I command, and I will do as you command.”

  Cleopatra nodded. “Very well. I expect the Romans will be assaulting us from all sides, over the walls and through the windows. We should have burnt all our damn ladders! I am sure, by now, they have procured them from our construction sites.”

  Cleopatra hoped he would fare better than Antony at encouraging his men to engage in battle. She had planned to give a rousing speech herself, but then thought better of it. She had lost so much of her command that a woman giving orders at this time might not be the best course.

  Cleopatra stepped close to the commander and let tears come into her eyes.

  “Do this for me, this one last time.” She made herself tremble and look a bit confused. “My children, I must go to my children.” She touched his arm gently as she turned away, and then she ran off softly across the courtyard and disappeared into the darkened chamber.

  Octavian did not take the bait. He struck immediately. Cleopatra did not know if he feared that she would indeed light the fire, attempting to destroy the Lagide treasure, or if he simply did not wish to barter with her. The ploy had been worth trying, regardless. Now Octavian wanted Cleopatra and the Lagide treasury in his hands without any more delay.

  The “battle” lasted for less than twenty minutes, but Cleopatra’s guard did not disgrace themselves. Only Antyllus turned out less than a general’s son, and, instead of joining the others in protecting the temple, he turned and ran farther into the temple corridors, hiding out in a crypt that he hoped would be overlooked until some unknown time when he might slip out unseen.

  Proculeius, Octavian’s right-hand man, made his entrance as soon as his men had quelled the small rebellio
n and the door was unbolted. He made his way past the large pile of logs and found his eyes searching between the timbers for any sign of the Egyptian wealth Octavian so dearly coveted. He stepped over the bodies of the faithful Egyptian soldiers and the last of the unfortunate Roman infantrymen who lost their lives on a day that began as one meant for celebration.

  The beauty of the temple was not lost on Proculeius even as he viewed the brutal results of warfare within its walls. He could see, at that moment, why the Egyptian queen would fight so hard for her country, and why Antony should be so taken by this Alexandrian splendor. The soaring pillars with the geometric shapes and bright colors, the intricate motifs, put Roman architecture to shame. The immense flourishes of gold adorning the interior and furnishings were dazzling, and the quantity of it, astonishing.

  He was stopped in the hall by one of Cleopatra’s servants.

  “Cleopatra awaits you,” he informed Proculeius, motioning the astounded Roman to enter into the most spectacular of its worship rooms. The woman had nerves of steel!

  Proculeius went forward, surrounded by guards on all sides, expecting an ambush. But when he entered the room with his men, his footsteps echoed in the silence. There were but four bodyguards, two standing rigidly on either side of a pedestal intended for displaying the god of the temple. There Cleopatra sat, the woman who had turned the heads of two great Roman rulers, waiting calmly for Proculeius to approach her. She was stunningly beautiful. It was hard to believe that this was a woman defeated, about to lose her country, about to lose her life.

  Cleopatra smiled warmly at the Roman. “You must be Proculeius. Antony has told me you are an honorable man, and since you have been sent by Octavian, I can believe this is an auspicious sign of his good intentions.” Cleopatra nearly coughed when she spoke those words, knowing Octavian hated her and would do only as much as he might be forced into acquiescing. As for Antony, his understanding of human nature left much to be desired. Proculeius was likely a two-faced bastard.

  But the emissary smiled graciously in return. “Indeed, Madam.”

  Cleopatra waved her arm in a semicircle in the direction of the immense fire materials in the courtyard. “Have you seen the treasure, Proculeius?”

  “I saw nothing, Madam, but the tower of wood logs.”

  “Quite right, Proculeius,” Cleopatra agreed. “I had never planned to destroy my treasure or this beautiful temple. It would be such a waste for everyone, and I haven’t the heart to do such a horrid thing.”

  She could see the man was puzzled. She laughed.

  “The treasure, Proculeius,” she said, “is not here. I removed it long ago, keeping it safe for its proper disbursement. Please inform Octavian that I wish to continue to handle the affairs of Egypt, under his dominion, and I will be sure to deliver the monies as is needed to pay whatever debts he has incurred during these last difficult years. His soldiers and the people of Rome need not suffer any longer.”

  Cleopatra went on. “My son, Caesarion, is no longer in the country. He will remain outside Egyptian borders as long as Octavian does not feel he has a place in the governance of this region.”

  Cleopatra fixed her eyes on some spot past Proculeius’s left ear.

  “Tell Octavian that I wish to move forward. Antony is dead; his fight with him is over. Like my neighbor, King Herod of Judea, I have no ill will toward Octavian. Herod was loyal to Antony, as was I, and when Antony failed him, did not hesitate to transfer his loyalty to Octavian, and so will I.”

  Proculeius wasn’t quite sure why Cleopatra was saying this to him. He found himself nearly agreeing that she should be spared and Octavian should be thankful to her for her willingness to cooperate.

  What magnificent will! What confidence! Did Octavian hate her because she was truly evil, or because he saw himself in her reflection and he could not tolerate seeing a woman as his equal in that unbiased mirror?

  Proculeius admired the queen; of this, he was sure. He actually felt a bit peeved that he had never been a guest in her country or enjoyed the queen’s magnanimity.

  He realized Cleopatra had not looked back at him. The audience with the queen was over. She, the prisoner, had dismissed her jailer.

  Proculeius bowed and strode out of the temple.

  Octavian did not take the news well. He had Cleopatra’s treasurer brought to him and demanded to know where the Lagide treasury had been hidden.

  Seleucus remained silent.

  Octavian had him tortured. Still Seleucus said nothing.

  Octavian’s patience was at an end. He had been away from home a long time. He had business to take care of, and Cleopatra was impeding it. Unlike Proculeius, he hardly believed Cleopatra’s assertion that she and Herod were of the same mind-set. Herod could be bought. Cleopatra would never consider herself subservient, no matter how convincingly she played the part. If ever she found an opportunity to carve out her own destiny, she would do so, and Octavian wasn’t about to hand her the knife. Even though she actually had cooperated with the Romans for the last two decades, he just didn’t trust her.

  “Bring me Cleopatra,” ordered Octavian.

  The Alexandrians were beginning to ask about the fate of their queen. They had seen the skirmish at the temple and now saw the Roman guards replace the Egyptian force on the perimeter of the temple complex.

  “Escort the twins, the family servants, and Cleopatra in a tight formation three men deep. Let the populace see them through the soldiers, but be sure there are no gaps that would allow for any escape or a sudden hero from the crowd to break through the line and try to save them. I want no drama,” he warned. “It should appear that the queen is being allowed to return to the palace while government matters are being worked out.”

  Octavian paused.

  “Antyllus is not to leave the temple. Finish him and make sure he is not recognizable. Put a Roman uniform on him and bring him out among the bodies of the dead soldiers.”

  Antyllus did not survive the hour. He was found crouching among the deity’s ceremonial crockery in the middle of the row of crypts where he had once gotten in trouble as a boy for playing hide-and-seek.

  He was pulled from the chamber, and with a flash of a blade, Antyllus’s head left his body. It was hidden in a bag, and when the boy was removed from the temple in military dress, he appeared as another anonymous soldier who had died for his Rome.

  The march from the Caesarium Temple to the palace past the stares of her countrymen was a crushing humiliation, but Cleopatra’s head remained high. As she nodded her greetings, she looked up and saw the horrified looks of her people as they leaned from windows and stood upon any rise of land or structure to get a glimpse of their queen. When she arrived at the palace steps, the rectangular formation surrounding her little party opened up at the front and allowed them to pass through the open doors of the main hall. At least she was permitted to enter her previous home gracefully, almost as an honored guest rather than as a closely guarded prisoner of war.

  The show of civility was fleeting. As the doors closed behind her, her children were sent with their caretakers in one direction and Cleopatra and her handmaidens were taken to a far room in the palace that had served Cleopatra quite well when she wished to keep a political prisoner close by. Now the tables were turned and she was locked in the room with her two ladies.

  The room had been swept clean. Before Cleopatra was locked in the cell with her ladies, their clothes were removed, and their bodies checked for weapons and hidden poisons. All three women were handed simple slips to wear in their confinement.

  When evening came, the guards returned and removed the handmaidens. Cleopatra was left alone. She hadn’t eaten since leaving the Caesarium, and hunger was beginning to trouble her. She had little time to dwell on the sensation. The door to the small chamber opened, and a man of slight stature entered with three larger men who hung back and closed the door gently behind them. The most muscled of the entourage held his arm close to his side, his fist c
losed around a handle from which sprouted long leather straps that reached the floor.

  The lead man, his chiseled face devoid of expression, placed a slim sheaf of papyrus papers, a small container of ink, and a quill on the floor in front of the bed on which Cleopatra was sitting.

  “Write a list. Octavian wants a full report on the locations of your treasure.”

  Cleopatra ignored the request.

  “Tell Octavian that I will only release the treasure if I continue to be its comptroller.”

  “Octavian commands you to write and will not take no for an answer.” The man’s face remained a stone.

  “He will get no other answer from me.”

  Cleopatra kept her gaze steady as she faced her inquisitor.

  The man stepped back and motioned for the three men to come forward. A smile imperceptibly played on his lips.

  “They will change your mind.”

  Cleopatra knew what the men could do, two holding her arms immobile, the third wielding his whip. But she was still queen, the immortal Isis, and the great Cleopatra.

  “Never.”

  The men moved in, and the whip fell upon her.

  Three days passed with no food and no water, only the daily visits from the three men and their instrument of persuasion.

  On the fourth morning, Cleopatra lay unmoving on her cot, angry welts crisscrossing her back, her breasts, and her shoulders, with a few stray marks on her arms where the whip had veered off course. Her face was untouched but drawn, and her eyes were shadowed underneath from agonizing pain and exhaustion. Fever raged in her body, the result of untended infections in the mangled flesh of her torso.

  She was brought a guest—her treasurer, Seleucus.

  Standing haggardly in the doorway, bent with the pain he too suffered at the hands of Octavian’s torturers, he gasped when he saw Cleopatra.