The line came up, dripping. On it was a large salted fish--produce of Pontus. It all but shouted, "False catch! False catch!" With a solemn face, he removed it. It had clearly been dead for an entire season. Obviously it had been artificially hooked, like his catch of the day before.
He held it up by its tail, for all to see, and then laughed uproariously. "This truly is a miraculous catch! I confess, I confess!"
"Dear Antony," I said, sweetly. "Great Antony, noble Imperator! I pray you, leave fishing to us, the poor denizens of Alexandria, Canopus, and Mareotis. This is beneath you. Your catch should be kingdoms, cities, provinces."
His laughter faded. "You never give up, do you?" He flung the fish down and retired to the cabin.
Back at the palace, Antony stamped away to his quarters, and I waited in mine. Had I been wrong to ridicule him in front of others that way? Show him I recognized his playacting? I thought he would find it amusing, but take the point to heart.
Why were all our words at such cross-purposes? He was under an enormous strain, and seemed unable to take any action at all--besides fishing, boating, exercising, and carousing. It was as if he wanted all the events to resolve themselves in his absence, so that he would not have to make any decisions, as if he were saying, "Wake me when it's all over." This was so far from what Caesar would have done that I felt near despair.
Waiting for him to appear--for I did not dare to go to bed early anymore, in case he came crashing in on impulse--I could see the lights of his quarters in the nearby building. Was he going over papers? Looking at maps? Writing letters? Making a decision of some sort?--O Isis, let him take some action!
I walked outside on my terrace, where two torches were burning, their flames whipping in the sea breeze. This is what happens when you love a normal man, with all the flaws and weaknesses of any mortal man, I told myself. Perhaps the hardest thing I have ever had to do is teach myself to love a flawed man--after Caesar. He was the abnormal one, but he spoiled me for anyone else.
I had my own faults and weaknesses and quirks, but I had grown to expect that my partner would be free of them. Caesar had bequeathed a great burden of expectations to me. It was more than his family pendant that he had asked me to wear for the rest of my life. It was his image as the resolute, the strong, the man who never made mistakes. It made it impossible for his successor--indeed, it made it almost impossible for there to be a successor at all.
My heart went out to the man sitting under those lights in Antony's window. True, he was a flawed man, but at least he did not begrudge others their flaws. I never felt that I had disappointed him or failed to live up to some standard, and was not that in itself a great gift? Caesar had so often made me feel lacking, unable to keep up.
The lights were dimming. He must be preparing for bed. It was late. Now I could sleep. But then I saw a figure leaving the building, and from his gait I knew it was Antony. I stood at the edge of my terrace and waved a long scarf to catch his eye.
He was on his way over to my building, but stopped when he saw the scarf. I motioned to him that I would come down. Wrapping the scarf around my shoulders, I descended and met him on the darkened lawn, the night wind flowing across the grounds.
I embraced him, glad to be with him privately. We seemed always to be surrounded by large numbers of people, now that the world had reached Alexandria again. "You work late," I said.
"You watch late," he replied.
"I feel your distress," I said. "I will watch with you until you can rest."
He sighed. "There can be no rest until I admit what I must do--tear myself away from this place." It was hard to hear his words over the noise of the sea not far away, and the rising wind. "I do not want to go."
"Yes, I know." I remembered how Caesar had grabbed up his armor and rushed away, not even staying for the birth of Caesarion. Yes, they were entirely different men. I am no second Caesar, Antony had said. He was giving notice. And while it was admirable that nothing stayed Caesar from his duty, it was more touching that someone wanted to stay. "Nor do I want you to."
He took my face in his hands. "Is it even so? Such doubts have assailed me--ever since--"
"It was but a lovers' quarrel," I said quickly. "And you must know that I am your lover, your most ardent partisan." Let it rest with that; no need to mention any of the rest of it--Octavian, Fulvia, armies, and Sextus. Nor a child. "I would keep you here forever, if we were just private citizens, a man and a woman. But it seems the roof of the world is caving in, and you must go and shore it up."
We had been walking, without really noticing, toward the mausoleum. As we found ourselves approaching it, Antony groaned. "Oh, not that tomb!"
"We can sit on the steps," I said. "Come, they won't hurt you."
"I refuse to enter a tomb! I fear it would be a bad omen."
"We needn't go inside." And indeed, I would not have wanted to--it lay in deep darkness. "We can just sit here." I sank down and patted the place beside me on the step. I noticed a strange coldness emanating from the inside of the building.
We sat, side by side, primly, and he took my hand, like an awkward schoolboy, turning it over and over, as if he had a ring to put on it. "I must away," he said quietly, as if he had finally accepted it. "The events of the wider world call me. As you so glaringly pointed out."
The fishing incident. "I thought I was more subtle."
"How subtle could a salted fish be?" He laughed softly. "As subtle as the pyramids, as subtle as the Lighthouse. What more could I expect from you, my Egyptian? My crocodile of Old Nile. But the crocodile is a most noble creature, king of his realm, living eternally."
"I am as mortal as you," I said, gesturing to the yawning blackness behind us. "Or I would not need a mausoleum."
"Perhaps you won't need it," he said lightly.
"You have a very silly streak in you," I said. "But tell me, if you have decided--what you will do. And when."
"I will go to Tyre and see firsthand what has happened with the Parthians,"
he said. "And after that--I don't know. It will depend on what I find out. But this one thing I do know: I will come back to you. I could not leave, if I thought it was good-bye."
Pretty words. But in what way could he come back? There was no reason for him to return to Egypt. We were neither rebels nor enemies, or situated near rebels or enemies to serve as a base of operations. And next time Fulvia would most likely travel with him.
"If there is some way for us, I will find it," he was saying. "Do not ever think I leave out of a surfeit of you, for that is impossible." He paused. "Nor because I search for anyone else."
Then why didn't he divorce Fulvia? Perhaps because he was afraid to-- because then he would have no excuse not to behave differently. As it was, she could act in his name, staging rebellions, and he could watch enigmatically. Divorcing her and taking up with me would end all ambiguity in the eyes of the world. Perhaps ambiguity was what suited him best. It gave him freedom of choice. Marcus Antonius was a man who disliked making final decisions.
"Then let's have one last private night together," I said, rising.
For the first time since our fight, I desired him again. I took his hand as we walked slowly across the lawn to my chambers. I forgave him for being human, and I think. In doing so I became human myself.
The chamber was waiting, delicately perfumed from discreetly smoking burners on tables. The wind swept through from one window to another, and the whispering of the sea far below sounded like ancient music.
"There is only one memory you need to take with you," I said. I stretched out on my couch, pulling him over against me. He felt solid and glorious. Oh, why is this not a permanent answer to all our anguish and aloneness? It is our highest moment on earth. The pity of it is, it is only a moment.
Everything we did was colored by knowing it was farewell. I held him and rejoiced in all the lovemaking, which seemed like a memory even as it was happening . . . hazy and tinged with sadness.
> It was good that he would go now. Soon my body would start to change, and he would notice. And I would lose my own freedom to decide what to tell and what not, what to do or not. Perhaps I liked ambiguity as well as he. Caesar would not have approved, but Caesar was gone. I realized with surprise that perhaps I was more like Antony in that regard than I was like Caesar.
Chapter 49.
Once he had decided, Antony moved fast to put everything in order for his leave-taking. He would sail with his small contingent of personal guards directly for Tyre; he sent word ahead that his newly built fleet of two hundred ships should make themselves ready--for what, he was not yet sure. An air of briskness as stirring as the strong spring winds rushed through the palace. There were swirls of mantles, spears, messages, sails, and all the noises of weapons being gathered up.
He stood before me to take his leave. He was flanked by his guard, waiting in the middle of the great audience hall. It was very public, and he was, suddenly, very Roman.
I faced him, Caesarion by my side. I knew this departure would be hard on my son, who had come to depend on Antony as a constant source of amusement and guidance. I put my arm around his little shoulders, which already came up to the middle of my ribs. This summer he would be seven.
"I come to say farewell," Antony said. "It would be impossible for me ever to repay your hospitality, but I thank you more than I can express."
"May all the gods go with you, and grant you a safe journey," I said, mouthing the tired old formula, when what I wanted to say was, I love you because your honor makes you go, and therefore you will go, but remember my words and my warnings.
He bowed, then said impulsively, "Come, look out over the harbor with me. Look upon my ships." He held out his hand, shattering the formal leave-taking, and I took it. Together we walked across the wide expanse of the hall and out onto the portico, where the brightness of the sea and sky hurt my eyes. The rest of the party trailed along behind us.
For an instant we were by ourselves; he leaned close and whispered into my ear, "This is not farewell, but just a brief separation." His breath was warm, sparking off a thousand memories and their attendant desire.
"Duty is the stern daughter of the gods," I said. "And now we must do homage to her." I dropped his hand, lest I try to hold on to it and pull him back.
The ships sailed away, their sails as white as the waves on the sea, growing smaller and smaller until they disappeared on the eastern horizon. I stood watching from my window as they rounded the Lighthouse and made out for the open sea; Caesarion watched with me.
"Now they are around the Lighthouse . . . now they must be almost to Canopus . . . now they are gone." His voice sounded faint and sad. The game of watching had sustained him for a little while, but now the last of the Antony-games had finished.
He sighed and made his way back inside, to slump down at the table where an abandoned board game waited. "When will he come back.7" he asked.
"I don't know," I answered. Never, I thought. "He has a war to prepare for, and after that, we cannot know what will happen."
Odd how he had filled the palace, had filled all of Alexandria, or so it seemed, and now it almost echoed and cried out for him. It had existed long before he came, of course, but now it seemed peculiarly his, as if he had stamped an insignia on it. He had not actually lived in my rooms, but they--and I-- ached for him, diminished without him.
I allowed myself to roam around my depleted quarters and touch each place of deficiency, then put it away in my mind, folding it as neatly and resolutely as any Roman soldier ever folded his tent when morning came. That was over. Antony had gone, after rejecting my offer of both a personal and a political alliance, gone to fight his own battles on a different stage, and they were now his battles, not mine.
Of course it was not entirely over. There was that legacy of the meeting at Tarsus, the long winter nights, gaudy and flaming, in Alexandria. Charmian knew, or guessed, even though she was fighting her own unhappiness at the departure of Flavius. One quiet night, after she had brushed my hair and folded my gown, she said simply, "So he left anyway."
"He didn't know." It was a relief to be able to talk about it to someone, to give voice at last to this most important fact. I didn't even ask, How did you know?
"You didn't tell him?" She sounded incredulous. "Was that fair to him?"
"I thought it was. It seemed that telling him would be unfair."
"Why is the truth unfair?" she asked. "What were you protecting him from?"
"I don't know," I said. "I felt more as if I was protecting myself."
She shook her head. "No, you've done just the opposite. You've injured yourself. They'll say--oh, I can't bear to think of what they'll say about you!"
"I don't care," I answered, but that was not strictly true. I could not bear ridicule or pity, particularly the latter. "And which 'they' do you mean? My subjects? The Romans? Fulvia?" There, I had said Fulvia.
"Oh, all of them--any of them! Judging, clucking, stoning--"
"That is in Judaea. Greeks and Egyptians don't stone," I reminded her. "Besides, perhaps it will convince people that Antony is more Caesar-like than Octavian, since he has followed in his footsteps." The humor of it struck me.
Charmian laughed, her deep, husky laugh. "I don't think it was Caesar's footsteps where he followed."
Now we both laughed. Finally Charmian said, seriously, "I don't suppose it would hurt Antony to have a son who was half brother to Caesar's."
No, not if Antony would exploit it, I thought. But he was unlikely to. That was both his honor and his weakness.
In a few days I felt obligated to tell Olympos; perhaps I felt it made up for not telling Antony, to tell another man. His reaction was even more vehement than I had expected.
"Have you no sense at all?" he cried. "What about--"
I opened the box where I had stored his opportune birthday gift, and handed the jar back to him, wordlessly.
"Untouched, I see," he said, peering down inside. He sounded utterly exasperated, like a parent with a wayward child. He set it down on the floor and crossed his arms, as if he expected me to confess. "Well?" he said, tapping his foot.
"You and Mardian were always at me to provide more heirs to the throne, so I have merely tried to comply." I tried to smile at him, but he was having none of it.
"Oh, my dear, my dear Queen and friend," he lamented. "This is terrible, terrible! The world looked the other way the first time, with all that mumbo-jumbo about Isis and Amun, and the gods know Caesar always got away with whatever he did, but this is different. Antony is no Caesar--"
As Antony himself had pointed out. "Olympos--" I was touched that he was so deeply affected; it was comforting that someone was.
"--Antony is no Caesar, and the world is harsh on him. Besides, he has many other children, unlike Caesar. This is not a special gift you bring him, something no one else has offered, but--how many children does he have, anyway?"
I had to stop and count. There was at least one from his marriage to his cousin Antonia, and he and Fulvia had two sons. "Three that I know of," I admitted.
"You see? What is a fourth? Besides, as soon as he sees Fulvia again, there'll be another one."
The thought was painful--especially since it was probably true. I could not think of any reasonable answer.
"Sit down here," said Olympos, ignoring the fact that he had no right to order me to do anything. I was his Queen first, his friend second, his patient third, but now the last took precedence. He then took a seat opposite me, and sat staring at me, his long, dark face drawn with worry. "Who else knows about this?"
"Only Charmian," I said. "And only because she guessed. You are the only one I have told."
"Not Antony?" he said quickly.
"No, not Antony."
"He doesn't suspect?"
"No."
"Good. Then it's still early enough, or else he would have known. Now listen. You have to rid yourself of it. There is still
time--thank all the gods."
"But I--"J_
"At least listen to my argument, and then think over my words tonight. I have an elixir that works if used in the early days. It won't hurt you. No one would have to know. It can be gone, just like Antony himself."
His choice of words hurt, again, because they were true.
"Think about it. Ask yourself why you want to punish yourself by going through with it, when you don't have to. Isn't it painful enough to have been left like this, without having a bastard as well?"
He stood up, again without leave. I just sat looking at him.
"I will come back after dinner. Prepare for bed early. Send Charmian on some errand, say you want to be alone."
"You sound like a lover," I said, faintly.
"No, I am the person who has to undo what the lover has done. I clean up other people's messes."
Like a sleepwalker, I did what he said. It was oddly comforting to be ordered around, to be told exactly what to do. No thinking, just obedience. I was worn out from the burden of making decisions, of orchestrating events, of leading, amusing, cajoling Antony. How soothing to be led, to be relieved of any responsibility.
I waited in my chamber, dressed in a plain sleeping gown with a coat over it. Charmian had brushed my hair, rubbed my hands with almond cream, massaged my feet with mint water. She had lit three small lamps in the chamber, and opened my favorite window onto the palace grounds. Then she had stolen away to what she assumed would be a sweet night of rest for me.
Memoirs of Cleopatra (1997) Page 78
