Epaphroditus smiled. Over the years he had finally lost his stiff manner around me. "Oh, that's the least of it," he said. "If it were only just pork-- or oysters! No, he cannot even sit with you to eat, because of all the regulations about how the vessels must have been cleaned, and what can touch each other, and what foods can be served together."
"What am I to do? Never eat the entire time he is here?" This presented a diplomatic dilemma. I was supposed to honor him, as Antony's friend, but how?
"I can send someone to help plan the menu, but I am afraid you will have to buy all new tableware and have your kitchens purified--er, ritually, I mean." Then he had a thought. "On the other hand, maybe he won't care. He isn't a real Jew, you know."
"What do you mean?" This was becoming more and more puzzling.
"His forebears were Idumaeans, and his mother was an--an Arab!" He looked disdainful. "Of course he calls himself a Jew, but I wonder how deep it goes. Politically, he has to--I mean, what other constituency does he have? But perhaps it's something he sheds the moment he leaves the country."
"But I won't know that in advance." I sighed. "I have to go on the assumption that he takes it seriously. And change my kitchen!"
"I will sound him out," said Epaphroditus. "Believe me, I can tell. And in the meantime--well, I shall enjoy my first banquet in the palace, after how many years? About seven, I think. High time!"
"Then, dear friend, it is worth it!"
Herod was announced by his aide-de-camp, and assigned to his quarters. I wondered--too late--whether there were also ritual things that should have been done to his apartments to render them suitable. He would present himself in the late afternoon, his aide said.
I was awaiting him on what I always thought of as my "informal" throne; it was a throne, but plain and not much elevated. I wore a gold brocaded coat, the workmanship of his own country, partly out of flattery, and partly because it was stiff and heavy, standing far out from the body and disguising what lay beneath.
Late-afternoon shadows, thrown by the columns, were slanting across the floor when Herod walked in, his white and gold robes shining. He walked beautifully, and there was a smile of such genuineness on his face that no one could disbelieve it.
"Hail, renowned Queen of Egypt." He looked at me, as if he were seeing a blinding sight. "All reports of your beauty fall far short. I am--I am speechless."
And such was his expression, the tone of his voice, that you believed he was absolutely sincere.
"We greet you, Herod of Judaea, and welcome you," I said.
"And the voice to go with the face!" He paused. "Forgive me for my boldness, Majesty."
I already knew I had a pleasing voice; so again, it did not seem like blatant flattery. "Such boldness is easily forgiven," I said. "I am pleased that you have arrived safely. You must tell me of the state of affairs in your country." I stood up and descended from the throne. "Let us walk about the porticoes; you should see the harbor at sunset."
It was possible to walk around the entire periphery of the main palace building, sheltered by colonnaded walks, and see the harbor from all vantage points. As we swept out of the room together--a flock of attendants keeping a discreet distance--I was aware of what a commanding figure he was. Tall, graceful, with the confidence and bearing of the born soldier and ruler. Out of the corner of my eye I assessed his face: he had the Arab beauty of features, the golden skin, dark melting eyes, thin lips, high nose, and thick eyelashes.
"So you are on your way to Rome?" I asked. "You have a long way yet to go."
"It is imperative that I reach the Triumvirs. I escaped from Judaea by the skin of my teeth. I know Antony plans to make war against the Parthians who have overrun my country! I will do anything to help him."
I could not help liking him. "You might perhaps do more good by staying here. I am in need of a good commander of my troops; I too am on alert and arming against the Parthians."
He shook his head, but his demurral was more charming than someone else's assent. "Antony will need me," he said.
"You helped him--and me--once before," I said. "When Gabinius restored my father to the throne."
"Indeed. That is when I first met Antony; I was only sixteen."
"And already commanding troops."
"One comes of age early in Judaea," he said self-effacingly. "But Antony was older then, and I remember how struck he was by you at the time. He commented many times on it."
Now he was beginning to invent freely, I feared. But. . . could it have been true? Antony had alluded to it himself. That is the real power of people who know the tricks of ingratiating themselves; they mix the truth with what serves them best, and they make us want to believe it--we do their work for them. We urge them on, asking for more.
"Ah, well, that was long ago." I stopped as we reached the outside, and pointed out the harbor spreading out before us. My pride swelled, as it always did, when I surveyed my jewel, my possession: Alexandria.
"What a sight!" he said.
The sun was burnishing a path across the tossing sea and the calmer, flat waters within the harbor. The sails of the multitude of ships were painted golden red as they rocked at anchor.
"The greatest harbor in the world," he said. "What I would not give for such a harbor in Judaea. All we have is miserable little Joppa. Still," he hastened to say, "it is better than nothing. At least we have an outlet to the sea."
"Every inch of land there is so contested," I observed, more to myself than to him. "How many lives have been lost fighting over Jerusalem? Yet it is not special in terms of architecture, or location, or works of art."
"I will make it so!" he said fiercely. "Provided I am given the chance. The chance that only Antony can grant."
Only Antony. We waited to see what he would do. Herod and I, for different reasons.
"First you must reach Italy. I will provide you with a ship. He is not in Rome, though, but in Brundisium. My news is old, but the last I heard, he and Octavian were facing each other there. By now they are most likely at war."
He groaned. "I flee war in Judaea only to find it in Italy."
"We are not at war here," I reminded him. "Perhaps it would be wiser to wait, stay in Egypt. Command my troops, and when Antony comes east again--"
"No, I must go now. They must not reach any agreement without me!"
As well he knew, his presence could be very persuasive.
Thanks to Epaphroditus, my welcoming banquet was a complete success. The menu omitted all the things hateful to a practitioner of the Jewish religion, and the table was set with newly acquired brightly patterned plates from Rhosus, in Syria--unsullied by forbidden foods.
Herod had changed clothes--for a near-refugee he seemed to have brought an extensive wardrobe--and was now in royal purple, with a diadem. He was a prince, and wanted that made clear. He and his loyal companions were placed in the appropriate places indicating their rank, and acquitted themselves well. They were delightful dinner companions, conversant with all the fashions in poetry and art, dining and entertainment. Politics, being an embarrassment, was not discussed. But Epaphroditus relentlessly attempted to pin him down.
"And so Judaea is still in the grip of the Parthians," he said, shaking his head. "May it soon be liberated." He paused. "And when it is, you must immediately cleanse and restore the Temple!"
Herod turned those liquid eyes on him. "Oh, I plan to do more than that," he said quietly. "It is time that the Temple of Jerusalem be rebuilt in accordance with its importance."
"Its importance?" asked Mardian, frowning. "Forgive me, I don't understand."
"The Temple is holy," said Herod.
"So are all temples," said Mardian, with a forbearing smile. "Our temple to Serapis, for example--"
"The god Serapis did not give explicit instructions for the construction of his temple here," said Herod, his mask of pleasingness starting to slip. "Ours did."
Mardian laughed. "Gods have their ways."
"W
e believe there is only one god," said Herod. "And he gave us instructions."
"But ours--" an Egyptian started to say, but I stopped him with a look.
"The day after tomorrow is the Sabbath," said Epaphroditus. "Surely you will wish to come with me to the worship at our synagogue--the largest synagogue in the world--since you are so devout."
Herod smiled, and nodded.
"What is a synagogue?" someone farther down the table asked.
Herod stayed in Alexandria for twenty days, fending off Epaphroditus's attempts to force him to take a stand one way or another--to declare himself a true Jew or not. I sensed in him the conflict between a person who is born, or called to, a particular allegiance, only to find it blocking his ambition. There is nothing more wrenching. Only a very few find glory in being martyrs--Cato for the Republic, Spartacus for slaves, the Israelite prophets for their god. All others long to fulfill their talents, their destinies; they do not easily sacrifice them pn an altar, slaying them like a placid white bull. In that, Herod was only human.
In the end, he sailed away in a ship I provided^ tracking westward into the setting sun, seeking Italy. What he would find there we could not guess. And I was back to waiting, waiting, waiting, for the outcome, which affected me as much as Herod.
* * *
"I don't want to be cruel, but you are simply enormous.'" Olympos blurted out when he came to see me about a month after Herod's departure. His face, usually so guarded, registered dismay and bafflement.
"Dear old Olympos," I said. "Always so tactful! So diplomatic! So thoughtful!" His words were wounding. I knew I was big. The gowns, and even the brocade coat, no longer served.
"Are you absolutely sure about the--the timing?" he asked cautiously.
"Well, I know a date it could not be before," I said. "And that is the one I chose."
He shook his head. "Please--may I?" He reached out his hand toward my belly.
"Oh, go ahead," I said. "And you might as well feel it directly. Be my physician today instead of my companion."
He poked and jabbed with both hands, right on my bare flesh, after discreetly unfastening the front panel--lately added--of my gown. He frowned as he did so, until gradually enlightenment came to him.
"Ah," he said, finally. He took his hands away.
"Well, what?" I demanded.
"Medically this is a relief," he began. "But--"
"Just tell me!" I barked.
"I think there are two of them in there," he said. "What?"
"Twins," he said. "Two. You know, like Apollo and Artemis."
"I know who Apollo and Artemis are, you fool!"
He grinned. "Yes, of course. But are you prepared to be Latona?"
"To wander about, forsaken and persecuted?"
"You won't have to wander, and you won't be persecuted, but forsaken--I must reserve judgment on that."
"Sometimes I hate you!" I said.
"Yes, when I say things you don't want to hear," he said lightly. "I'd be thinking about two names, if I were you." He got up, his eyes dancing. "Ah, what a man is Marc Antony!"
"Go away!" I hurled a pot of ointment at him.
He dodged it and ran out, laughing.
After he left, I put my hands carefully on the great bulge in my front. There did seem to be an inordinate amount of movement in there--more likely from eight hands and feet than only four.
Two. The names were the least of my problems.
Chapter 51.
"Marc Antony is married," said the sailor, who had been hustled into the palace by Mardian. He stood before me smiling, his cap in hand.
"Yes, I know he is married," I said patiently. What was this.7 "What news is this? I want true news--of the war."
The man kept smiling. "Then, what I meant is--forgive me, Majesty--he is remarried. And there is no war."
"What are you talking about?" Why could he not speak clearly? Mardian was leaning up against the wall, his arms crossed, frowning.
"I mean to say that the Triumvir was briefly a widower. Fulvia died, and then--"
Fulvia. Died? He had been freed from her?
"--he has married Octavia. In Rome." "What?"
"The Triumvir Octavian's sister. They have married. There was much rejoicing, as war was averted. Vergil has written a masterful poem celebrating it--saluting a new golden age of peace. Would you like to hear it?" he asked brightly. He started digging in his purse for a copy of it.
"He has married Octavia? He was free to marry, and he chose her?"
"Yes, Your Majesty." He quit looking for the poem.
"When did Fulvia die?" I asked stupidly. It seemed very important to establish that fact.
"After he left her behind in Greece."
"I see." The room seemed to spin, to change into something else, but still I stood there staring at him. Then I asked, but more to fill up the space than anything else, for I knew I would not remember, but have to be told ^ain later, "Why no war?"
"The truth is, the veterans would not allow it. The two armies had fought side by side at Philippi only eighteen months ago, and had no wish to be enemies. They are weary of war--the whole world is weary of war. That is why Vergil wrote about the golden age. All Rome has gone mad with the celebrations! Our ship could barely sail, we had so much trouble moving the cargo to the docks through all the crowds. The agreement was sealed by the marriage, so that now Antony and Octavian are brothers!"
"When did you leave Rome?" I asked. Again, it seemed very important to establish this.
"Less than half a month ago. We had very favorable winds. All of nature is basking in the accord."
Doubtless, I thought. All of nature--all the spheres of heaven--must celebrate this union. "Here," I said, nodding to Mardian. "He will give you something to help you join this jubilation. Oh, and leave the poem here. We would like to read it at our leisure."
The man succeeded in finding it, crumpled and stained, and handed it to Mardian, who escorted him out.
Where could I go, to be alone? Everywhere I looked, there was someone who loved me and knew too much. And as Queen, I could not lose myself in nameless crowds. I was trapped where my grief and humiliation must be seen by others.
Mardian reentered the room, and found me still standing, staring almost sightlessly out toward the harbor. There was no place to hide from the scrutiny of his eyes and his unspoken dismay and pity.
"I am sorry," he said quietly. "When I heard a ship had arrived from Rome, I thought only that you would wish to be informed about the war. I did not know."
"Oh, Mardian." I closed my eyes and rested my head on his shoulder. "Why does it hurt so much?" I asked, stupidly puzzled. I thought I was past ever being able to be wounded deeply again, down to my very core. I thought the funeral pyre in the Forum had burned away all of that in me, leaving me protected from such sudden turns of fate.
He was wise enough not to answer, just to embrace me.
He sent away all the attendants and let me be alone in my chambers. I lay down for a long time, just staring blindly, my thoughts mercifully paralyzed. Far below I could hear the sound of the waves, beating rhythmically against the seawalls. Back and forth, back and forth . . .
Then, little by little, the thoughts crept back in, gathering speed, starting to race to catch up with the turbulent feelings.
There was no war. They had laid down their arms and reconciled, and Octavian had presented his sister Octavia as a peace bond.
He likes to cement treaties by personal ties. He asked to marry into my family, when we became Triumvirs together.
And Octavian, having just married himself off elsewhere, was no longer available. Therefore it had to be Antony.
And here's my sister, in good faith, he probably said.
And why, Antony, did you not say no? What matter what Octavian had said, as long as you had the word no at your command?
He was free, unmarried, and he chose to marry Octavia.
What did she even look like? I tried t
o recall, from my few meetings with her in Rome. She was older than Octavian, but not by much. I thought she was married. What had happened to her husband? Not that that was much of a problem in Rome. She had probably obediently divorced him in order to please Octavian. As Antony might well have done to Fulvia, to please Octavian--rather than to please me. How convenient that she had died instead.
What was Octavia like? My memories of her were hazy. Ironically, she could not have been as fair of face as her brother, or I would remember. What had she said, how had she behaved at the dinners? I had been so preoccupied with Caesar and the other strong presences there, like Brutus and even Calpurnia, that I had paid her scant attention. Had she been unpleasant or ugly, I would have remembered that, too. I had to conclude that she was in between, neither memorable nor outstanding.
And now she was to be his wife. . . . No, she was his wife!
Mardian had left the poem lying on a table. I forced myself to read it. Evidently copies of it had been circulated around Rome and this sailor had pocketed one. Oh yes, it was to be a public rejoicing!
.
Now the last age of Cumae's prophecy has come;
The great succession of centuries is born afresh.
Now too returns the Virgin; Saturn's rule returns;
Memoirs of Cleopatra (1997) Page 81
