Then we heard it--a clatter at the gates. We both stood and clasped hands. Whatever it was, the moment had come. I shut my eyes and took deep, long breaths.
More noise, the sound of horses and armed men. I flew to the window and looked down. The flaring torches in their hands showed the riders to be-- Romans. But which Romans? They were laughing and flushed, jumping with energy.
Then I saw, bareheaded, Eros. He was wheeling his horse in circles, drawing arcs with his torch.
"Eros!" I cried, and then I saw Antony behind him.
He looked up, and his face was exultant. Without waiting, I grabbed Mardian's hand and together we rushed down the steps and out into the courtyard, into the milling horsemen.
"My Queen!" cried Antony, as we reached him. He leaned over and scooped me up onto the saddle; kissing me all the while. I was suspended in the air while his lips clamped down on mine and barely let me breathe.
"We've done it!" he cried, as he helped me into the saddle in front of him. "We fell on them so quickly they could barely get onto their horses--routed them--killed a hundred or so, and sent the rest scurrying back to Octavian!" He laughed, and kissed me again. "You should have heard them yell! Like scalded cats!"
Canidius had pulled Mardian up onto his horse, and now we smiled at each other, relief flooding us and making us limp. The death instructions receded, seemed an obscene dream.
"Come! A feast! A feast!" Antony cried to his men. "Can that be arranged, my love?"
"The kitchens are as ready as need be," I assured him. We would manage.
"And wine, wine, enough to rejoice us but not impair us for the morrow," he said. "And music--"
"Yes," I said. "Tonight, anything."
Details followed. Of how they had streamed out the gate, galloped down the road some five miles, past the grove of Nemesis where Pompey's memorial was, and found the beginnings of a camp being set up. The trenches had been started and the streets outlined, but nothing else. The men were resting with their horses, and scarcely had time to mount after they saw Antony's forces bearing down on them. They were tired, and had little fighting strength to counter the attack. A number were slain outright, and the rest scattered, disappearing in all directions.
"Some of them even rode out into the sea!" said Antony. "As if they expected Poseidon to rescue them!" His big hands were curled around a gold drinking cup, and he swallowed a draught of wine. "Ah. And here is the bravest soldier of all--my lieutenant Aulus Celsus. He rode right into their midst, wreaking havoc, endangering his own person."
I looked up to see a burly young man still wearing his armor--stained leather cuirass and battered helmet tucked under his arm. Antony had swept everyone in for the feast dressed as they were.
Celsus bowed stiffly. "It was my pleasure and duty."
"He is too modest," said Antony. "The truth is, he was the very hand of Mars. I would be content--no, proud--if any of my sons made such a soldier."
"It seems you are in need of better fighting gear," I said. "We will make your reward useful as well as profitable." I nodded to one of my attendants. "The gold armor that was old Polemo's--it shall be yours." The storehouse of military treasure was not heaped in the mausoleum, as weapons and armor do not pile tightly.
"Oh no, I could not--" He started to demur, but Antony stopped him.
"And I say you shall," he insisted. Then, after Celsus had taken his leave, Antony whispered to me, "That was as profligate as me."
I did not care. Riches meant little at the moment; they had become just more items to be disposed of. I shrugged.
The noise in the room was rising, aided by the wine and the soaring relief. It was almost like days gone by--but the tension was still there. The men were eating heartily and drinking deeply, but not to lose themselves. At length Antony rose from his couch and held up his hands for silence. It fell quickly--too quickly, showing it had been lurking all the while.
"My friends," he said, "for your bravery today, I commend you. For our fighting tomorrow, I exhort you to slack not! For tomorrow . . . tomorrow we shall meet the foe in our full force, and his. Not just a vanguard, but the whole army. All our fortunes ride on this battle."
The men all stood attentively, but their faces were blank. I could not guess their feelings.
"I challenged Octavian to single combat," he suddenly said. "Yes! I invited him to meet me, man to man, sword in hand."
I had not thought it was possible for them to become stiller and more blank-faced, but they did. The roomful of soldiers stared at him, not even moving their eyes.
"And he refused. But rather than refuse outright, he said flippantly, 'If he wishes to die, there are many other ways open to him.' How clever. How cutting. But you see, he was right. I have thought much on it." He held out his cup for it to be refilled. A servant came forward, and Antony waited for him to finish pouring before he resumed his words. "And I have concluded that tomorrow I shall seek either to live or to die in honor. To defeat the enemy would be honor, and to die in battle would be equal honor. Either way, I conquer." Now he took a long, deliberate sip of the wine. "So drink with me, and pour the wine freely in my cups, for tomorrow you may serve a new master, and I lie dead."
Now at last they stirred, and words poured forth like the wine.
"No, sir, you cannot--"
"Never, I will die with you--"
"Why go into battle, then?"
The page pouring the wine had clasped his arm and begun crying.
"Nay, stop," Antony said. "I did not mean to make you weep. Nor do I mean to lead you into a battle where I do not expect victory. I only meant that, should the gods see otherwise, they cannot bereave me of my honor, even though I fall."
His words were disheartening them. For a commander to speak so matter-of-factly of his death was hardly inspiring. Some of the younger ones were shiny-eyed, and the more seasoned ones were shifting on their feet.
"Just fight as you fought today, and tomorrow we will gather in this same hall, to feast and shout until the fretted ceiling overhead shakes as with an earthquake!" I cried. "The wind sits fair for victory!" I stepped forward. "I have spoken to the gods. Isis will not desert, no, she will protect us! And Hercules, your ancestor"--I took Antony's hand and held it aloft--"will wield the club for us." I looked around at the men. "Do not your officers wear the ring engraved with the likeness of Hercules?" I knew Antony gave such rings to his men. "He will strengthen your arms!"
Antony's staunch followers now crowded around him to assure him of their devotion. The musicians struck up again. The wine flowed. Outside, the streets were still deserted.
Waiting in the chamber. All dark except for one lamp. Charmian has removed my gown, folding it and storing it as she has a hundred--a thousand-- times. My sleeping garments slide over my head, as if I truly plan to sleep. I hold my metal mirror up to my face, and in the dim light I see only wide eyes, devoid now of the kohl lining them, the powdered malachite on the lids. Just ordinary eyes, not even weary or lined. Nothing shows in them, neither joy nor fear. Only a slight curiosity.
Yes, I am curious. It has been reduced to that, now. The unanswered questions will surely be answered tomorrow.
Antony is here ... I must stop.
He stepped into the room, bringing light with him.
"What? So dark?" he said, taking his lamp and using it to light the others, including the many-branched one standing in the corner. While he did so, I left the writing desk and stole over to the bed, then climbed on and covered myself.
I watched him as he moved about the room. Still so unbowed, so full of strength.
"Ah. Time to rest," he said, turning to strip himself of his armor and tunic. He did it himself in easy movements, not wanting to call Eros. "In only a few hours I will put you on again," he said to the garments. He laid his sword and dagger on top of the pile.
"Leave those things," I told him, holding out my arms to him.
He came to me as he had, also, a hundred, a thousand tim
es, and embraced me. Everything we were doing was only a repeat of a thousand prior actions-undressing, holding each other, lying down. Nothing singular in anything. The very ordinariness of it was lulling.
"You have spoken to the children?" Only in that did I betray the difference between tonight and any other.
"Yes. Just now. It was h^rd."
Tomorrow they would leave their quarters and go into the special rooms prepared for them. "For them as well," I said.
"I think to them it is something of a game," he said. "Children love secret passages, locks, hiding."
I held him against me. "Why did you light all those lamps when we must try to sleep?" I asked him. I did not want to have to get up and extinguish them. He pulled back a little. "Because I wanted to look at you." He did not say one last time.
I was touched. "Then look," I said quietly.
He studied my face as intently as if he were inspecting a text. "For years this has filled my vision," he said. "It has been all I have seen."
I could not help smiling. "Then all of Octavian's rantings are true," I said. "The Triumvir had no eyes for anything but the Queen, his world had shrunk to her bedroom--"
"No, that is twisting it. I only meant that you have filled my world, but not obscured it. If anything, you have enhanced it, clarified my vision."
He did not need to say all the things he had done for me, in my name. Now the reckoning was at hand. He stopped looking, closed his eyes, bent forward, and kissed me.
We embraced for a long time, a lingering clasp. Beyond passion. Finally, lying quietly side by side, I had to say it.
"Tomorrow, when you leave, I will ready myself to go to the mausoleum. Charmian, Iras, and Mardian will be with me. But we will wait to shut ourselves in until we have word of what has happened. Should it be Octavian who rides up to the palace, he will never take us alive. Nor lay his hand on the treasure. But there can be no mistake. You and I must have a clear signal for what has happened. If I do not hear the trumpet sound two notes, and you cry, 'Anubis!' I will flee to the monument and there proceed to the rest."
"Why 'Anubis'?"
"Because anything else--my name, or your name, or 'Isis!' or 'Victory!'-- could be shouted by anyone. But no one will think to shout 'Anubis.' That way there can be no mistake."
"Then we are resolved that unless Octavian is beaten, we will die?"
I hated that word, die. "If he is not beaten, we will die anyway, only the time and place will be of his choosing."
Antony bent his head. "Yes."
"Let us talk no more about it," I said.
"Strange how many times I have made final arrangements," he said. "In Parthia, at Paraetonium . . . then my friends refused to let me, and now you, my wife, urge it."
It struck me to the quick that he would see me as a minister of death, more unfeeling than Eros or Lucilius. "It was not the time then," was all I could say. "To do things prematurely angers the gods, but to delay at the proper time thwarts their will for us." I kissed the side of his face, the very borders of his hair, where it curled over his forehead, his ears. "I would keep you forever," I whispered. "And I will, but not here. We will have to continue in Elysium."
Did I really believe in it? Were there Elysian fields, meadows with butterflies and wildflowers waiting for us? I wanted to believe it. I want to, now. Now . . .
"Can we not die together?" he said plaintively. "To die apart is the cruelest blow."
"There is no way," I said stoutly. "For I would stop you, and you stop me. Neither of us could let the other go first, and stand by. While we delayed, Octavian would come upon us. No, this is the only way." Yet I held him tighter, as if that would prevent it.
I could not go into battle with him; I had to stand to the last in my city. He could not shirk the task of leading his army. At dawn we would part, and each meet the death fashioned for him. It would be foolish for me to be slain on horseback, pitiful for him to hide in the mausoleum and take my method of death, since it was uniquely royal and Pharaonic. He must die as a Roman, I as an Egyptian.
"If you would keep me," I said, "then fight tomorrow as you have never fought before. Think you not that at this very moment Octavian is also making death preparations? It may be he who lies low tomorrow, not even attaining the age of Alexander. It lies in your power!"
"Whatever lies in my bodily power, you can rely on me to perform," he said. "But the gods--"
Damn the gods! came the impious thought. We will defy them!
Antony closed his eyes and lay still, his arm draped over one of my shoulders, the hand dangling. In the dim light I could see all the fingers curled the way they are at rest, a graceful half-circle. His breathing was not as deep as true sleep, but he was drowsing lightly.
As I lay there I heard faint strains of music. Was someone in the silent city awake and celebrating? The pall of unnatural quiet, so un-Alexandrian, had persisted until now.
As I listened, I heard it again, more distinctly now. There were pipes and tambourines. It sounded like a distant procession. But who would parade through the streets tonight?
I slipped out from under Antony's arm and stole across the cool marble floor to the window. The friendly lamplight in the room masked the deep night outside. I could see nothing. The city lay still and waiting in all directions; few torches were burning anywhere, and only the whiteness of the stone served to light the whole.
The sea shone back, reflecting the starlight and empty sky, and I could see Octavian's fleet, hovering just beyond the breakwaters. From the east, was it my imagination that the sky was faintly red from the enemy campfires?
The music, again. Louder now, distinct, coming from just outside the palace, just at the Canopic Way. A huge company of revelers, singing, crying out, playing the pipes, the drums, the cymbals. At any moment they would emerge on the other side, going eastward, and I would see them.
The sound rose, swelling as if it were directly underground, passing under the palace itself, a noisy company, an enormous band. . . . But even though the sound passed by, and now was on the other side of the Canopic Way, I still could see nothing. I opened the doors of the terrace and stepped out, straining to see down the wide marble street, which was . . . empty. Yet filled with sound, a sound suddenly, horribly, familiar. I had heard it before, heard it the night my father died.
It was Dionysus, Dionysus accompanied by his band of bacchantes, his worshipers, leaving us. Leaving Antony!
The noise was growing fainter now, and it was passing out of the city gate, out of the Gate of Canopus, toward the east.
Antony's god had deserted him, as he had deserted my father.
It was unmistakable, a deadly, ugly leave-taking.
My heart was pounding, and I clung to the rail. Without his god, without Dionysus, he was lost.
That coward of a god! I hated him. What good is a god who deserts you in your last hour? He does not deserve to be a god, he is lower than Plancus, than Titius, than Dellius!
O, would that the house of Ptolemy had never trafficked with Dionysus!
Had Antony heard it? I rushed back to the bed and climbed in. He seemed to be still asleep. That was merciful. I lay down beside him and watched as the room slowly grew light.
But you, Isis, will never desert your daughter. You are the supreme goddess, able to deliver. I must trust in you. Even now. Especially now.
Chapter 85.
He came awake easily--if he had ever been asleep. It was still almost dark in the room, but this day--this day that would go on forever, end forever-- must start well before the sun.
He swung his feet down over the bed and shook his head. "I had strange dreams--such dreams as it were better I had stayed awake. I dreamed . . . odd music. . . He shook his head as if to clear it.
"Think no more on it," I said briskly.
He was eyeing his clothes, and he clapped for Eros, who appeared in only a moment. He must have been sleeping just outside the door--or rather, staying. For it was doubtful
any of us had slept.
Had Eros heard it, the leave-taking? I could not ask, but from his white, drained face, I guessed that he had.
Holding the bowl of heated water, Eros let Antony splash his own face and neck. Then, very gently, he wiped the water away from his master's face.
The clothes went back on: the undertunic of red wool, the heavy cuirass, the scarf to protect the sunburnt neck, the high-strapped sandals. He fastened the sword on his right side, tucked the dagger in its proper place on his left. The hot helmet would not be put on until he actually rode forth.
Light had stolen bit by bit into the chamber, and now I drew back the curtains to admit the day. Outside the sea was gleaming, the two fleets riding on its bosom, facing each other.
He stood there and we looked at one another across the expanse of floor. Eros slipped out, disappearing into an adjoining chamber.
Antony looked like a statue of Mars, standing motionless in his armor. The proud head, head that had carried my heart with it through many toils and dangers, stared mournfully at me. I could not bear that look in his eyes, a look that said, Farewell, farewell, now all unwilling we must part.
I flew into his arms and held him, pressing my face up against the hard metal of his armor. Already he was beyond me, encased.
Then I felt him pulling on my hair, drawing my head back to kiss me. I lifted my face to meet his and receive the kiss.
Memoirs of Cleopatra (1997) Page 139
