"Well, what of it?" I bristled.
Olympos shrugged. "I suppose you wouldn't be a Ptolemy if you didn't lust after power."
"On the other hand, maybe it's married men," ventured Mardian. "After all, Archelaus--"
"Oh, stop about Archelaus! I liked him, he was a fine man, but--"
"He wasn't a married man, and he didn't rule the world. Small failings! You've admitted the power attraction, now what about the married aspect?" said Olympos.
"The challenge, of course," answered Mardian. He looked pained.
"You are awfully free in interpreting my motives," I said, beginning to feel put upon.
"It's our hobby," said Mardian. "We had to do something to amuse ourselves while you were away."
"Antony is coming to Alexandria, and I don't want to hear anything about it out of you two!" I said. I meant it.
"Not us," said Olympos with a straight face. "Not us. We won't say a word." Then they both collapsed in laughter.
After they had left, still laughing, to go to the stables, I sat and stared out at the darkening sky and harbor. What they had said was true enough. I was hard put to explain it even to myself. The political aspects of the situation made sense enough. I would be much more secure on my throne, and Egypt safer, with Caesar's successor our guaranteed friend. But that could easily have been arranged through diplomatic channels. It wasn't necessary to go to bed with him.
I could almost curse the joy of it. How much better--better?--it would have been had he turned out to be lackluster, rough, boring, dull, unsavory, even disgusting as a lover. Then I would have left with a shudder and no backward glance, reassured that a life of celibacy was preferable to disappointing amours.
But I was eager to continue it, I had to admit. In the beginning, I could have called the guards. Certainly the next night, and the next, I didn't have to have anything to do with him. Now I had got myself in an awkward situation, to say the least.
A cold, spray-laden gust of wind whipped through the window. I moved away and went over to the brazier, which was giving off a feeble bit of heat, and warmed my hands over it.
Isis direct me! I thought. This must lead wherever it must lead; the only wrong lies in trying to hinder what must be and will be. The future is veiled from me; I see only what lies directly before me, that Antony will come to Alexandria, and soon.
Outside the storm was rising. There would be no sailing for weeks. But Antony would come by land.
" 'Tis done, my lady," said Mardian, standing before me with a report, which he dutifully presented. "Arsinoe is dead."
His voice was flat. I broke the seal on the message and read its details: how Arsinoe had been dragged from the high altar at the Temple of Artemis, where she had claimed asylum, and killed, by Antony's orders.
"Slain on the steps of the temple," said Mardian primly.
I shivered. So his promise, made lightly in the dark, had been carried out. Caesar had never made such promises, nor would he have allowed himself to be persuaded so easily. In that instant I realized the power I had stumbled onto, in Antony's most willing nature.
"She had no business claiming sanctuary," I said. "Caesar had pardoned her once; she could not expect a second reprieve." People had always taken advantage of that famous clemency. But even Caesar had punished second offenders.
"They have buried her beside the main street of Ephesus, in a tomb shaped like the Lighthouse of Alexandria," said Mardian.
"She can be as Alexandrian as she wishes now," I said. I went on reading. The pretender Ptolemy had also been killed, and the governor Serapion had fled to Tyre, but it had availed him nothing. He, too, was executed. Antony had done as he promised on all three counts.
Reports came about Antony's activities in Syria, where Decidius Saxa was appointed governor. Next he was in Tyre, and then in Judaea, where he made his friend and ally Herod a prince. He was working his way southward, toward Egypt. Next he was in Ashkelon, then came word that he had set out, with his personal praetorian guard, across the desert of Sinai to Pelusium. It was there that, fourteen years earlier, he had led the cavalry charge that took the city for my father--and spared the Egyptian troops inside that my father had wanted to execute for treason. For that, the Egyptians had been fond of him.
He arrived in Alexandria on a clear, cold day. Messengers had come riding to announce his arrival, and I had ordered the eastern Gate of the Sun hung with garlands, the wide Canopic Way swept and decorated. Along the way I posted guards who would direct him to the palace, and ordered that the gates be flung open upon his arrival. Trumpeters would blow as he approached.
A great deal of time seemed to pass between the first trumpet blast at the eastern gate and the final one at the palace entrance. He had been welcomed warmly by the Alexandrians, and his march had been interrupted by crowds swarming around to greet him.
"Antony, keep your tragic Roman face for Rome!" I heard them shouting. "Bring your comic one here!"
And then he was coming up the wide stairs of the palace, taking long steps, hurrying toward me. His stride was sure and easy, his back straight, his curly-haired head high; he fairly glowed with strength and exuberance. There was no laurel wreath on his head, no helmet, no decorations, not even a soldier's uniform. He stepped out in only his own pride and animal spirits,, wearing everyday clothes. He could have been anyone, any common citizen, graced with the beauty of an athlete and a glorious future. My heart rose at the sight of him.
He stopped halfway up the stairs when he saw me, and a radiant smile spread over his face. He held out his arms in a gesture of joy and greeting; his cloak swirled around him. "My most gracious Queen!" he said. Then he slowly walked up the few remaining steps.
"My most welcome guest," I said, extending my hand. He took it and pressed it to his lips, and I loved the feel of them.
"You return at last to the city that loves you," I said, bringing him to stand beside me. From the high vantage point we could see much of Alexandria-- the long, flat porticoes of the Gymnasion, the massive sprawl of the Museion, the solid Temple of Serapis, far away to the south. Beyond that, the waters of Lake Mareotis gleamed. "Do you remember?"
"I remember it all," he said.
Everyone but Olympos was lined up to meet him: Mardian, Epaphroditus, the commander of my Macedonian Household Troops, the chief gymnasiarch, the director of the Museion, the chief priests of Isis and Serapis. And separate from them all, waiting in a chair of state, sat Caesarion, wearing his diadem.
Antony made his way over to him, and Caesarion said, "Welcome, cousin Antony"--for they were indeed distant cousins, in the fourth degree. How like Caesarion to have known that.
Antony bent his knee to him. "Thank you, cousin the King," he said. Then he reached into the folds of his tunic and swiftly brought out something. I saw the guards flanking Caesarion stiffen, and tighten their grips on their swords.
"A lizard that haunted my headquarters in Tyre, Your Majesty," he said, presenting a green, bumpy creature with rotating eyes. "I thought perhaps he would be a novelty in Alexandria."
Caesarion smiled and stepped down to take the animal. As he moved, I saw Antony's face register surprise. Then he masked it. "I hope you and he grow to be great friends," said Antony. "Or she. I must confess I cannot tell the difference."
Caesarion laughed like any six-year-old. "Neither can I," he admitted. "But I will learn!"
"I am sure the lizards have no trouble," said Antony. "Ask them."
Later, all the welcoming done, the long speeches, the presentation of gifts, the settling of the personal guards, we sat alone in my large chamber. I had assigned him his own apartments in another of the palace buildings, so that he could have privacy and a place to conduct the inevitable business that would follow at his heels. But for now he was at leisure; dinner was over and it was yet too early to retire. The last vestiges of sunset were still staining the sky, but lamps had already been lit in all the chambers.
"I have dreamed of retur
ning to Alexandria for a long time," he said, looking out the window.
"Then why was it so difficult to persuade you?" I asked.
"Because Alexandria is no longer just a city; she is you. And everyone will know that I came not to see the Museion, or to visit the Lighthouse, but to see the Queen."
"I was only teasing," I said. "I know well enough what it means." I remembered his exchange with Caesarion. "What do you think of my son? A strange look came over your face--it was fleeting, but I saw it."
He shook his head. "The resemblance to Caesar is unsettling--especially when he moves. His gait is exactly the same. I thought--I thought never to see it again."
"Yes, it is both a comfort and a source of pain."
"No one could see him and fail to recognize him as Caesar's son."
"Not even Octavian?" I asked.
"Especially not Octavian," said Antony.
"Antony, what am I to do?" The words tumbled out. "I cannot just stand by and see Caesar's son shunted aside and neglected. I know there are no legal claims, but--you saw him move. You know."
"Yes, I know." He paused. "Truth is a strong lady. I know the day will come--"
"We must make it come!" I said fiercely. "Don't you realize that fate holds only one set of keys, and that desire and determination hold the others? Destiny is not writ in stone, but waits to see how badly we wish an outcome."
He looked startled. "I also know that the gates of fate cannot be forced." He paused. "Caesar should have taught us that. All his genius, all his strength--felled by accident, chance, little men." He took my hand, covered it with both of his. "I will do my best to see Caesarion succeed as Caesar's heir. But for now he is King of Egypt, and your son. Not a bad lot."
I smiled. He was right, of course. And what mother would wish her child to venture out in the dangerous, turbulent waters of Roman politics--lethal waters in some cases. Egypt was much safer. "You are tired," I said. "I should not have bothered you with political questions." I took his hand. "Come. You need to lie down."
"I fear that, in your presence, that is not very restful." He did look tired.
"But restorative," I said.
And I led him into my bedchamber, which I had thought sealed forever to any man after Caesar. It was as much a way of freeing myself from the past as of easing Antony's travel-stained weariness.
I took him in my arms, rolled across the wide bed with him, savoring the feel of our bodies turning against each other, and came to rest with his face next to mine on the pillow. And I saw, reflected in his dark eyes, all of me--as I was, had been, would be. He was my fate, as I was his, but we must struggle to shape it as we would. It was not necessarily obedient or benign.
I gave myself up to pure pleasure, pure sensation, thinking at its height that he who has known only this has not got a bad bargain in life. The meanest of my subjects might taste pleasure this keen--and probably did. The gods were kind that way.
Alexandria belonged to Antony. From the first moments, they fell in love with one another. The people loved the way he came to the city, as a private citizen, a guest, rather than storming ashore in full Roman regalia and authority, like Caesar. They were taken with his affable manner, his adoption of Greek dress--something Caesar would never have done--his attendance at lectures and plays, his approachability.
The admiration was mutual, for Antony seemed captivated with the city, and in a way I was jealous, as if he loved her better than me, more unreservedly. He laid aside his Roman persona, folded up his togas, dismissed his guards. He ate Egyptian and Greek food, wandered through the temples, roamed the streets, kept most un-Roman hours. He seemed, truly, to have been longing for Alexandria for a long time. It answered something in his nature.
"Beware," said Olympos sourly, "of the man who adopts a foreign culture with abandon. It ruins him."
Olympos had avoided Antony, seeing him only from afar, and deflected all my attempts to introduce them, claiming that he had many patients to attend, and no time.
"Perhaps you should meet him," I said. "It seems very odd to me that my physician, and one of my best friends, keeps his distance."
"I don't need to meet him," said Olympos. "I can study him better if he does not know me."
"And?" I asked.
"Well, he is a fine physical specimen. He does resemble Hercules. Doesn't he claim Hercules as an ancestor?"
"An evasive answer," I said. "What of the man himself, if you know so much?"
"I can see why you find him attractive."
"Tell me something I don't already know."
"Don't trust him," he blurted out. "He isn't reliable."
I was surprised. I had not expected this. "In what way? What do you mean?"
"Oh, I think he's a good man. I must admit that." He sounded cross to say it. "But he has that nature that's--" He stopped. "He doesn't really want to be ruler of the world, he just wants to take the easy way. The strongest nature that's nearest him will always lead him, rule him. Now it's you. When he gets in the vicinity of Octavian, it will be him."
Again, I was surprised. "You've never seen Octavian. How can you speak knowledgeably about his nature?"
"I just know," said Olympos stubbornly.
"I may have to send you to Rome to observe firsthand," I said lightly, not liking his remarks about Antony. But worse was the feeling that he and I both, separately, sensed something hard, intransigent, and formidable in Octavian. Until now I had thought it was just my own impression, probably colored by personal motives.
The day of my twenty-ninth birthday came, but I did not celebrate it or even tell Antony about it. I was afraid he would stage some gigantic festivity to honor me, and the very thought was unappealing. The spectacle at Tarsus had quite satisfied me in that regard for the foreseeable future. Mardian gave me a new writing set, with seals carved of amethyst, and Caesarion had taught his lizard to pull a miniature cart as a trick for me, but that was all. Olympos brought me an enormous jar of the choicest silphion from Cyrenaica, with a note saying, "Here! A present you can really use!" I was so embarrassed I shoved it into a box and hid it. Why was he so obsessed with that subject? It really was time he married and diverted his attention to his own bed.
But I knew Antony would want to celebrate his own birthday in some lavish manner, and so I suggested that we reserve the entire Gymnasion for him and his guests.
"We can have our own Ptolemaieia," I said one evening. "It isn't scheduled for another three years, but does it matter?" The biggest athletic games and contests outside of Olympia were held every four years in Alexandria, with horseracing, field sports, gymnastics, and tragedies and comedies in the theater.
"What will you call it, the Antonieia?" He laughed dismissively. I knew then that he meant to have it.
"I'll call it Natalicia Nobilissimi Antoni" I said. "The Birthday Celebration of the Most Noble Antony."
He raised his eyebrows. "You know more Latin than you let on."
I always enjoyed surprising him. "And of course you will have to compete in everything, so it will be a smaller affair than the regular games," I continued. "After all, you are not a charioteer, nor do you perform acrobatics--do you?" I hoped not. The races were notoriously expensive to put on.
"No," he said. "But you must remember what birthday it will be for me-- my forty-second. Perhaps it isn't a good idea to compete, unless I should make a present to myself of losing."
"Nonsense!" I said. "You should compete against your own men and officers, not runners and wrestlers who do nothing besides train. It would be unfair otherwise." And it would give some structure to his days, training for it. He was too proud just to walk out on the field with no practice. As it was now, he stayed up far too late and slept half the morning away, on a. Perpetual holiday.
"These will be Greek games and athletics," I warned him. "None of that killing you Romans love so much."
"When with Greeks, do as the Greeks do," he said. "It is generally much more civilized."
"Spoken like a convert," I said. "Now if you would just embrace the Greek harmony of a balanced life--"
"Bah!" He laughed. "Dionysus is excess--that's what he's all about. Drunken soberness, artistic license, freedom of the senses--"
"But Hercules has to keep himself fit in order to perform all his labors and turn into a god. The two sides of you will have to take turns." "They do," he said. "They do. Don't you know that yet?"
In truth, Antony had a deep and abiding interest in the theater; he loved plays, and took his patronage of the Dionysian guild of actors seriously. There was that in him that loved costume and playacting, and even in Rome he had had actors and actresses as his friends in his retinue, much to Cicero's disgust. In Alexandria he attended not only the theater, but lectures and demonstrations at the Museion, while I accompanied him in his late-night revels. We were both doing things out of character, seeking to please the other.
January fourteenth, Ludi et Natalicia Nobilissimi Antoni, the Games and Birthday Celebration of the Most Noble Antony, was a still, blue-skied day. I was surprised at how enthusiastic all the guests had been about the entertainment. Women' were eager to be invited to sit in the stone grandstand and ogle the oiled male bodies, while the men, even the older ones, were unexpectedly willing to strip off most of their clothes and compete. One man of sixty-five--a supply officer from Antony's guard--sought permission to enter the contests. A champion runner from a Ptolemaieia of twenty years ago also asked if he could compete. But the other contestants were personal friends of mine or Antony's, and that was what gave it such curiosity value. We knew these people in other capacities, and suddenly they would appear, flinging off their tunics, imitating famous athletes. Perhaps they had always had a secret desire to do so.
Memoirs of Cleopatra (1997) Page 72
