Olympos appeared a little while later, a silent visitor who was suddenly there. He was holding something all wrapped in cloth. Reverently he unwrapped it and handed it to me.
It was a tall, thin glass bottle. Through the sea-green glass I could see that the contents were also green. I tilted it and watched as the heavy liquid rolled to one side.
"This is your friend," he said. "Your friend that opens the door of your prison and lets you walk out free."
"What must I do?" I asked. It seemed impossible that this small amount of medicine could be so powerful.
"After I leave, drink it down--all of it. Cover your bed with these cloths." He thrust a basket out at me; inside I could see folded material. "Lie down. Wait. It won't be painful--just wait. Then gather up the cloths and hide them. I'll come to you as soon after daylight as possible, and take them away, before Charmian or Iras even comes in."
I took the basket and walked over to my bed with it.
"Just remember," he said. "Tomorrow night all this will be only a memory. It will be past. Don't lose your courage." He took my hand. "Your hand is cold. Is this so very difficult for you?"
I swallowed, and nodded. My hand felt like ice in his warm one.
"Most people never have a chance to undo mistakes," he said. "Most of our misjudgments stay with us, and we must pay the consequences. There will be those in plenty--for us both. But this need not be one of them." He squeezed my hand and said, "Please don't be afraid." He paused. "I will be back in only a few hours. I promise." Again, he hesitated. "It is not an easy thing for me, to break my oath as a physician and give you this. It is no light matter for either of us. But it must be done."
After he left, as silently as he came, I stood stupidly by the side of the bed. Why could he not stay with me? But of course he couldn't, if the event was to be erased completely. It must come and go with no witnesses.
I spread the thick cloths out over the bed, and then held out the vial of medicine. My hands still felt so cold that they did not warm the glass. I put the bottle down and rubbed my hands together as hard as I could, snow against snow. Even my nose felt cold. I touched its tip and touched stone in winter. All the blood was fleeing from my extremities, as if I had taken the elixir already.
I held it up before the lamp. Why were all drugs green? I remembered the potion we had drunk in Canopus. Maybe it had caused the condition that now called for this antidote--one green potion requiring another. I shivered.
Don't take it, I told myself, and day will follow day, and you will get bigger and bigger and the whole world will know that Antony came to Alexandria, enjoyed himself, and left a bastard--a bastard that will cause amused laughter in Rome and sneering remarks from Octavian. Another discarded mistress like Cytheris and Glaphyra, they'll say.
And it will even reflect badly on Caesar, I realized with a sinking feeling. Antony used Caesar s widow for his pleasure, but then cast her aside. What was good enough for Caesar was trifling to Antony. What did that say about Caesar? I would have dishonored his memory--I, who had promised above all things to revere it. Antony had usurped his place, then trampled on it. And I had allowed it. So they would say.
I reached for the bottle, pried off its lid. This is the least I can do to make amends, I thought wildly. Caesar, forgive me! It is not as the world would think. You know that, but no one else will. There is only one way to stop this dishonor. I will not fail you a second time.
As I raised the bottle to my mouth and felt the smooth glass rim with my lips, I sensed a presence of something, or someone, nearby. It was enough to make me hesitate. I jerked the bottle away, trembling, and set it down. What was I thinking of? It sat there, gleaming, like the snake's eyes in Meroe, and just as poisonous.
I backed away from it. Why had I not even thought of any counterarguments before starting to down it? It was as if my mind were paralyzed, dumbly obedient to Olympos's suggestions--all rational, all persuasive.
Except. . . they ignored the main fact. Regardless of anything else--Antony's other children, Fulvia, Rome, Octavian, Caesar, bastardy, ridicule-- the gods, and Isis, the great mother-goddess, had given me a child. I was its mother, and all the other facts were unimportant beside that one great fact. As Caesarion had brought me joy, so would this one. What happened to their fathers was almost beside the point, or rather, it was a completely different point. One could not cancel out the other.
I fell weeping on the bed, afraid of how near I had come to making what would have been the one mistake--the only mistake--in all this. And it could never have been undone, Olympos's words notwithstanding.
Perhaps it was Isis herself who had come to me.
I jerked off the covering cloths and lay down on the bed. My hands were warm again, and I fell asleep, with deep relief.
I awoke to find Olympos bending over me. He was pointing to the gathered cloth, and stuffed it into his basket. He touched me tenderly and proudly. Then he saw the full bottle on the table. His face changed.
"I see you didn't go through with it," he said sadly.
"I couldn't," I whispered. "I didn't want to."
"You shouldn't have been afraid. I told you--"
"I wasn't afraid," I assured him. "But you see--as hard as it is to explain--I love this child--even though I don't yet know its face or name."
He shook his head. "You are right. You are not able to explain it. Not coherently, anyway." Defeated, he took up the bottle, the basket, and disappeared. It was not yet dawn, and by the time Iras came in and said cheerily, "Good morning!" the whole night seemed a dream.
Perhaps it had been Caesar who had come to me, saying, Don't protect me at your own cost. I won't allow it. Or perhaps it was the child itself, calling out to me. Or perhaps it was simply my own good sense. I would never know.
I just lay in bed, feeling weak. Iras was chattering away, talking about the weather and whether it would be warm enough to eat outside on the terrace.
"Iras," I finally said, "I am still tired. I think I will rest a bit longer." I pulled the covers up over my head, shutting out the light.
* * *
Days passed. I had no desire to call Olympos back or send for his potion; instead, I felt a great sense of deliverance. I kept imagining how I would have felt, had I taken it. Tomorrow night all this will be only a memory. It will be past. I was thankful that what I still had was not a memory, but something still in my future, coming toward me.
There were bits and pieces of news. Antony had reached Tyre. From there he sailed on to Rhodes, then to Ephesus--the Parthians had been stopped east of that. Everything else they held, including Tarsus, so lately Antony's playground. I wondered what had happened to the new gymnasion there, the proud symbol of Greek life. Such odd concerns come to us in the midst of larger ones.
From Ephesus, Antony had sailed on to Athens, where he planned to gather the legions from Macedonia. But they were engaged in fighting off attacks to the north, and so he knew he would have to call on his legions stationed in faraway Gaul, and bring them east. That would take months.
Waiting for Antony in Athens were his general Munatius Plancus, and his other general, his wife Fulvia. I tried to picture the reunion, and failed-- probably because I did not wish to see it in my mind. But a long letter arrived from one of Mardian's informants, and he hurried in to show it to me.
"Here, here's news from Athens," he said, thrusting it out at me. "You can trust the writer; he was one of my fellow students here at the palace school, and quite a storyteller."
I took the letter, half reluctantly, and read it. Now that it was here, did I wish to know?
"My most esteemed Mardian, greetings--" and so on; I skipped the personal items.
.
The arrival of the Triumvir Antonius has caused a stir here, because all the world waits to see what he will do. We already knew what he has only just now learned: that his fellow Triumvir Octavianus has taken over the legions in Gaul, upon the opportune death of their commander, and Ant
onius's friend, Calenus. So he has just lost eleven legions, and not to the Parthians. The general Plancus and Fulvia hoped for a better reward for all their efforts on Antonius's behalf. Not only has he not commended them, but he seems (from what we hear) to have blamed them for his troubles.
.
I put the letter down for a moment. "But it is Octavian who is the cause of his troubles!" I said aloud. Mardian merely raised his eyebrows.
.
Sextus has sent representatives, including his own father-in-law, to negotiate with Antonius, offering him an alliance, and lately Antonius's mother has arrived as well, arguing in favor of Sextus. She had taken refuge with him in the latest fighting, which caused much disruption and discontent in Italy.
Antonius refused to consider making the alliance with Sextus, and instead set out for Italy. He had harsh words with his wife, who attempted to upbraid him on account of the scandal he was causing by his liaison with your sovereign mistress, Cleopatra. (And here I must say, Mardian, that it has caused a scandal; there was talk of little else all winter here! The tales we heard of revels night and day, oxen roasting twelve at a time, drinking orgies, some sort of Club of Excess. . . . Your duties must be interesting ones! I should have stayed in Alexandria and made a palace career for myself there; it certainly would have proved more rewarding than what I do now, being librarian for our gymnasiarch.)
.
I felt my face growing tight, realizing how I furnished a topic of conversation to while away the hours of bored people. A Club of Excess!
Fulvia fell ill on the way to the ships, and the impatient Antonius has left her behind at Sicyon and gone on with Plancus. Gone where? Sailed west, is all we know. The problem is that Domitius Ahenobarbus, the lone Republican admiral, is patrolling the waters between here and Italy. Antonius is heading right into the teeth of his fleet.
.
I lowered the paper. That was all there was concerning Antony; the rest was all personal and local.
"Thank you," I told Mardian. "This is much more informative than official correspondence." I paused, "So I have caused a scandal?"
"You always do," he said shyly, shrugging. "Even in the days of the Egyptian Club, remember? That time we ran away . . ." He laughed. "Scandals are just the earmark of an extraordinary person. What you do is unexpected, and noteworthy."
"That is a flattering way of putting it, but I shall not argue." And wait until the next item became apparent, I thought. More for the Athenians to talk about next winter.
But after he left, gloom settled on me. Antony's situation was grim. How many legions lost? His own eastern territory had been seized, and now he was being shut out of the west by the machinations of Octavian.
Egypt should also prepare, in case the Parthians turned their eyes in our direction. Thanks to the recent good harvest, we had the resources to arm ourselves, and my new navy was almost ready. Certainly we would put up a strong resistance; we would not be easily overcome.
Outside, the sun was sparkling on the water. High summer was here, the time when things happened in the world. Ships sailed, armies marched, messengers galloped where they would. And events gathered force like a coming storm.
At long last a letter came from Antony himself. It had been sent from Athens, before he departed, and so the news in it was old. Where was he now? WTiat had happened since?
.
My own soul, Since we parted my thoughts have flown to be with you every day, but they are deaf and dumb. They cannot speak to you, nor I hear what they overhear you say. Hence they do little good, except that they are able to be where I wish to be. O lucky thoughts! How like the drear time of year it has been to me without you, although all the world would say it is summer. Perhaps to others it is.
As for what I have found: the Parthians victorious as far west as Stratonicea. But their advance has been stopped. It is necessary that I go to Rome, where things are unsettled. I have told Sextus that only if my solemn pact with Octavian and Lepidus has been irretrievably broken will I negotiate with him separately. Thus it must be.
.
I shook my head. He was so stubborn. Even with Octavian taking his legions away, he refused to think ill of him. Or rather, refused to act on what he must sense.
.
My friend and client Herod has slipped away from Masada and sought out the Nabataeans in Petra for support against the Parthians. He expects to travel to Egypt; please welcome him, and in my name provide him with a ship to come to Rome. He must be restored to the throne of Judaea.
A thousand kisses on your hand, your throat, your lips.
M. A.
.
I could almost feel them. Smiling, I put the letter into a strongbox for private correspondence. I noted that he had not mentioned Fulvia.
Several weeks passed, with no further news--at least from the outside world. I had taken to swathing myself in voluminous gowns of layers of the lightest silk, proclaiming it a new fashion. I took care to order the gowns and begin wearing them very early, when there was as yet nothing to excite attention. Thus I hoped to keep my condition a secret as long as possible. I made Charmian and Iras wear similar gowns, and soon everyone at court was imitating us. The palace was filled with fluttering human butterflies, long, swirling clouds of color against the white marble. I must say, it was one of the loveliest seasons we had ever had.
Mardian had even let himself try an adaptation of the fashion, using lighter colors and a looser fit in his clothes than usual, and pronounced them very comfortable. As his girth was steadily increasing, this did not surprise me. Tight belts and fitted shoulders must have been torture to him, yet as my head minister he had to dress formally much of the time. Thus he benefited from my condition.
One hot day he came padding into my quarters, his eyes excited. I noted that he had a new type of sandal to go with his clothes--they had a special strap circling the big toe, and another for the rest of the toes. Around the soles, gilded lotuses were painted directly on the leather.
He was waving a letter. "This has just arrived!" he said.
I took it. "It must be good news, from the look on your face," I said. "Pray, pour yourself some of this cool juice; it is a mixture of cherries and tamarind, and quite good." I indicated the pitcher on my table, surrounded with goblets.
He did so, sipping a sample, then refilling his goblet. "Most refreshing," he agreed, nodding. He seated himself expectantly, arranging his gown precisely.
The letter was from the Egyptian envoy at Apollonia, on the west coast of Greece, where the great main road, the Via Egnatia, began. Situated on a narrow strait of the Adriatric, directly across from Italy, it was an excellent listening post for both Greece and Italy.
Most dread and powerful Queen, greetings! Such a sight as we have seen with our own eyes shall never be forgotten, and I shall try to make you see it as well. The fleet, some hundred ships strong, of Ahenobarbus were cruising in our waters. They always excited terror, because they have attacked Brundisium recently, and so we all lined the cliffs watching them with apprehension. From the south we saw other ships approaching, and were told they were those of the Triumvir Antony. Leaving the bulk of his fleet behind, Antony sailed boldly out to meet Ahenobarbus with only five ships, putting himself completely at his mercy if the information he had--namely, that Antony's general Asinius Pollio had negotiated an agreement with Ahenobarbus--was false.
Closer and closer they approached, and Ahenobarbus looked threatening. Only within close range--far too late for Antony to save himself had it been otherwise--did Ahenobarbus turn the rams of his ships away, making the sign of peace. The two fleets united, and sailed off toward Italy together.
What is most remarkable is what the sailors themselves reported: that the general Plancus tried to persuade the Triumvir not to put himself into Ahenobarbus's hands on blind trust, but that Antony replied, I would rather die by breach of faith than save myself by cowardice."
.
I stopped readi
ng and tried to picture it. The ships on the sea, making toward one another,, with those on land watching . . . the warships turning aside only at the last minute, and Antony doubtless standing on the deck, unflinching.
"How very like him," I said.
"What?" asked Mardian.
"That statement about preferring to die by breach of faith--someone else's breach, that is, not his. Never his." It was both his glory and his folly. Someday it would be his undoing. In that he was like Caesar, only with this difference: Caesar never had any belief in other people's good faith, but only in his own. "And so we are left watching him, still on his way to Italy," I said to Mardian. "The tale is still to tell!" I felt the waiting was killing me.
The next news that came was shocking, even to me, and I prided myself on anticipating the worst behavior to which someone could sink. Octavian, in order to win Sextus to his side, had married Sextus's aunt! She was named Scribonia, was a notorious shrew, and was many years older than Octavian.
I sank down on a stool and began to laugh and cry at the same time. WTiile Antony would give only the strictest, proper response to Sextus's overtures, Octavian was ready to make off with the aunt to disarm Sextus.
"They say she's very tall and bony," said Mardian, shaking his head.
Memoirs of Cleopatra (1997) Page 79
