He stepped back, startled. It was not the response he had expected.
"And so I shall, when you open the doors," he said.
"Never! I will die in here, and my treasure along with me. Your master knows well enough what I have promised. I gave him the opportunity to forestall it, but he chose not to. Now he shall pay the price--the treasure of the Ptolemies will go up in smoke, an offering to the gods," I yelled through the door. I was surprised I had such strength left in me, at this hour.
"You wrong my master," he said. "You must not impute such cruelty to him. Harm yourself? No, he will not have that!"
"Yes, he would pamper and preserve me to parade me through the streets of Rome in his Triumph. His trophy. Never!" He would keep me like a sacrificial animal, until time for the offering.
"No, no! He only wishes you well. Do not deny him the opportunity to show what he is made of."
"Who are you?" I demanded.
"My name is Gaius Proculeius."
Proculeius. Antony had said to trust him. But why?
"I have heard you spoken of," I said cautiously.
"In what manner?"
"That you are trustworthy." But I was not sure of that; Antony often trusted where he should not.
"For that, I thank you."
"If you are trustworthy, then relay to your master, for one last time, my absolute condition: that he bestow the kingdom of Egypt on my children-- Caesarion or Alexander as it pleases him--and spare the others as well. That being done, the treasure is his, yes, and my person, too, to transport where he will."
I did not mean this, for I would never walk in Arsinoe's footsteps. But the treasure--ah! the treasure--he could have in exchange for my children's lives and inheritance. He could make do with a statue of my person for his procession.
"He only wishes you well," Proculeius insisted.
"He wishes my treasure well, that is all," I said. "Tell him what he must do to obtain it, and that I will not be dissuaded."
"Trust him," said Proculeius. "You cannot imagine how generous and kind he, can be. Only grant him the opportunity to show it!"
"The day grows late," I said. "Take my message. Or, by all that's holy, such a fire will fill the night skies from my burning treasure that Octavian will not need a lamp to read by!"
He bowed quickly and left, clutching the sword. The sword that I longed to open the doors for, reach out and grab.
"Well," said Mardian. "That was quite a performance."
I sank down on the cool floor. "Oh, Mardian. It is hopeless. Whatever assurances he gives me, I can never believe them. I am a prisoner in here for the few days I have left. Regardless of any message from Octavian, I am bound to destroy all this, and myself as well."
I had failed; failed to secure even the promise of the throne for my children, and all I could do now was destroy the treasure in spite. I longed to do it; end it all now. My misgivings had flown. I had no desire to live on, to see even another sunrise over this soiled world.
"But if Octavian came in person, would you believe him?" Mardian asked.
"No. All this is just playacting. He would say what is necessary to lay hands on the treasure. I would do the same myself. I understand him, as he understands me." As the noble Antony had never really understood either of us, being made of different, and finer, material. "No, there is no remedy but death; death to shut out the failure that is ringing in my ears, deafening me."
It began to grow dark outside. We lit lamps, which we had had the foresight to bring in with us, along with fruit and wine. We could hold out in here a long time. In the flickering shadows, I looked up the steps, half hoping, expecting, to see Antony lurch down them. Himself, or his shade?
Mardian saw me, and reached out for my hand. "You must not. You must not go up there."
"Only for a moment--"
"Not in the darkness. Not now."
A commotion outside. More banging on the door. I rose and went to it. A new face was pressed against the grille. Flaring torches illuminated it.
"I would speak to the Queen!" he cried.
"Who would?" I demanded.
"Cornelius Gallus," he replied.
Gallus. The poetry-writing commander who had taken over in Cyrenaica, after Scarpus's troops had deserted. So they had sent a general this time.
"The famous General Gallus," I said. "Have you brought your verses? Have you written something celebrating the fall of Alexandria?"
"Put up your spite, lady," he said. "I come in peace--Octavian, my gentle friend and yours, offers his hand in bond of brotherhood."
"He may be your friend, but he is not mine," I said.
"You wrong him. ..." And more in this vein; on and on. Nothing was said, nothing offered. Just words. Words to lull and delude me.
And then . . . and now . . . How it happened, and happened so fast, I cannot reconstruct. I was talking, speaking through the grille. ... I heard the honeyed words, detected the poison beneath them....
I am weary of him. Let him go away. My feet ache. And then, a clatter from above. From where Antony is . ..
Crazy with excitement, I turn, cry, I knew you would come back. . . .
Did I really? Had I been waiting for him to stand once again, come back to life, seek me out by the force of will and desire, stronger even than death itself? Or is it just the madness that grips us in the wake of final, absolute death?
Someone is bounding down the stairs, his face and form in shadow, and even as I turn to face him, he grabs one of my arms.
This is not Antony's touch. So--I must end it. I pull my dagger from my waist, and odd the thought that floats through my mind: Pity it cannot be the snakes, no time for the snakes, only the knife. And I am sad about it. I have failed here, too.
A hard hand wrenches it away from me, twists my wrist so hard it stings. I hear the dagger clatter on the floor, hear a harsh intake of breath.
Then, "What else is there?" And I am being shaken so hard my teeth rattle, and what is left of my gown smacked and felt. "No poison, then."
Never has anyone laid such rough hands on me, treated me so.
"I have her!" he shouts. "It is safe now!"
Two men follow down the steps and rush to the door, pulling back the bolts, sliding them out. They fling the door open, where Gallus is standing, smiling.
"Good work, Proculeius," he says, stepping inside.
Proculeius. The one Antony told me to trust. Thus he was betrayed, again.
"Yes, very clever, Proculeius," I said. He continued to hold me, and Gallus stared, wide-eyed.
Only then was I aware that I was still half naked; the whole upper part of my garment I had torn off to cover Antony. And my skin was all smeared with dried blood, Antony's lifeblood.
"O piteous sight!" Gallus said. "So this is the fatale monstrum, before whom Rome quaked?"
"She still has plenty of fight in her, sir, do not be deceived. I disarmed her of her dagger just in time, and shook her to be assured there is no poison on her person."
"Well done," Gallus said. He removed his cloak and draped it around me, but I shrugged it off. I did not want anything of his to touch me.
"It must be so," he said. "I was but following my orders." He did not sound joyous. "Unhand her, Proculeius."
I felt him release me. "So you deceived me with words at one door while you stole in upstairs?" They must have seen where Antony had been taken in. Perhaps there were even telltale smears of blood on the wall. Now they had besmirched even that, by following in his wake.
"We only sought to prevent you harming yourself, in your present state of mind," Proculeius said. "It was Octavian's concern for you."
"Concern for the treasure, you mean." I glared at them. "You might as well see it," I said. "Come, look."
I led them aroynd to where it was heaped. They followed close on my heels, expecting that I was leading them into a trap. They gave me great credit for wiliness.
"Here." I flung out my arm and pointed to it. Let
them look. The pile was high, and from their hushed breathing, I knew it was more than they had imagined. "It is yours."
Like children--why does gold unman us so?--they approached it, gaping. Proculeius dropped to his knees, as if in worship. He stretched out one hand and grasped the corner of a small statue of Bast.
"Take it," I said. "Octavian will never miss it. Besides, have you not earned it for tonight's work?"
He snatched it out, causing a few other objects to be dislodged--a box of sapphires, and an ivory bowl.
"Oh, take them, too," I told him.
"Wait," ordered Gallus. He suspected me of something bad, and he was right. Perhaps I could get Proculeius and Gallus to dishonor themselves by fighting over the gold, and stealing from Octavian. A small victory, but it would be of some consolation. "Leave it." He turned to me. "You and your servants must come with us," he said. "It is time to rest."
At swordpoint we were led away, through the drinking soldiers sporting themselves on the grounds. They all stared as I passed, undressed and bloody, and fell silent.
Chapter 86.
A prisoner in my own palace. Marched past the majestic portals, the marble rooms, the polished, shining hallways. My own quarters barred to me. Mardian deprived of his. I turn my head toward the passage leading to my apartments, am told roughly, "Not that way!"--as if they know my home better than I, these strangers.
We are steered down a vaulted passage, toward the lesser guests' quarters, but not before a swinging litter passes, its occupant unmoving, face discreetly covered. There are two stiff, sandaled feet protruding.
The litter has come from the direction of Antony's apartments.
"Is that the last of it?" one of my guards asks.
"Yes. All clean now." And they move briskly off.
"Eros?" I ask. I know the answer. They have removed him from where he fell in Antony's room.
"Yes," my guard snaps.
Poor Eros. If I had been capable of feeling anything more, my heart would have ached. But after so many horrors, another cannot increase the depth of pain.
They would reuse Antony's apartments, lodge his enemies there. And mine? For whom was mine reserved?
"Who has the honor of staying in the Queen's apartments?" I ask.
"He is already there. Imperator Caesar."
So Octavian had entered Alexandria already, seized possession of it all.
"When did he arrive?" I keep turning my head to ask, as we are shoved along.
"He entered the city late this afternoon," the soldier says. "He rode in in a chariot, with the philosopher Areius by his side. He called all the officials to gather in the Gymnasion, and there he assured them he would spare the city, out of respect for Alexander, its founder, and also for the sake of the beauty of the city itself; and finally to gratify his friend Areius."
"How noble," I say. Now he was posing as the philosopher-king. "How Alexandrian."
"He addressed the assembly in Greek," the man says.
"That must have been a feat," I scoff. Everyone knew his Greek was painfully poor. More playacting, from the master masquerader.
"Here." They stop abruptly, and indicate a door. The room inside waits.
It is a lowly thing, something I would only assign an envoy's secretary. But Octavian must needs spread himself out in mine.
"Inside."
Charmian, Iras, Mardian, and I are all herded in.
"Clothes and food will be sent," they say. The door clangs shut.
The room had four small beds--cots, really. There was a washstand, one lamp stand, a window so newly fitted with bars that the smell of ground stone and hot metal still lingered. From it I could see the wing of the palace that this morning--this morning!--had been mine.
Charmian had grabbed up the writing materials, but when I asked her what of the fateful basket, she shook her head. "I forgot, my lady, I am sorry. That, and the trunk, remain behind."
Another blow! Even that taken away from me.
In a few minutes a box of clothes and blankets was delivered, as well as some bread and fruit. In stubbornness I wished to refuse both, but the truth was I had to remove what was left of my torn, bloody gown. I let Iras take it off, and Charmian sponge away the blood with a wet cloth. The water in the bowl grew rosy, as Antony's blood dyed it. She emptied it out the window, which grieved me.
"Now . . ." She wrapped one of the coarse common gowns around me. "Rest." I lay down, but knew I would never sleep. Outside I could still hear the soldiers carousing on the grounds. It went on all night.
Early in the morning a soldier entered, without knocking or asking leave.
I sat bolt upright. It was time to end this. "I demand to see the Imperator," I said. "Immediately."
He looked puzzled. "The Imperator has a full day," he said. "He intends to visit the tomb of Alexander, and then to meet with the treasury officials--"
So he would ignore me! How much lower could he grind me? How much pain inflict on me? "Tell him to postpone Alexander," I said. "He won't leave his tomb. Like all the rest of the world, he will await the Imperator. But I must speak to him now about the funeral of Antony. Please!"
Mardian and the women were now watching, listening.
"Already he is besieged with requests to bury Antony," said the soldier. "Some of the eastern kings, and his Roman kinsmen--they are competing for the honor."
Would that they had competed for the honor of serving him when he needed them! "It should be I, and only I, who buries him with my own hands," I insisted. "Am I not his wife, and a queen?"
"I will tell the Imperator of your request," the man said, as if it were something minor.
"And my children! Where are my children?"
"Under a trusted guard," he said.
"They live? And are unharmed?"
"Yes," he said.
"Do you swear it?"
"By the honor of the Imperator," he said. "Not a hair on their heads has been touched."
"May I see them?"
"I will have to ask."
I was reduced to a menial, a mother who wished to see her children, a wife to bury her husband, denied even asking for it except through a messenger.
"What is the Imperator doing that he cannot see me within the next hour?"
"He is overseeing the treasure being taken from the mausoleum. It must be inventoried."
"Of course." There would be no tearing Octavian away from counting his booty. "But there is something more precious there--the body of my husband."
"It will be removed, and treated with honor," he said. "I can assure you of that."
The day passed slowly, my first day of captivity. In its own way it was a blessing to be held in such strict confinement, for I was so stunned and weak all I could do was lie on the bed, or sit looking out the window. With my three faithful friends, I could unburden myself, weep and sleep, as the moods took me.
There was no word from Octavian, just a supper tray shoved in the door after dark.
My keepers delighted in stepping into the room unannounced, at odd hours. Before it had grown light, the same officer appeared, opening the door loudly.
"Madam!" he said, bending over my bed.
"You need not shout," I said. "I am quite awake. But please light my lamp." He was carrying a torch.
"Certainly." He turned obligingly to do it. He was not unkind, this loud soldier.
"What is your name?" I asked.
"Cornelius Dolabella," he said. "I have known the Imperator many years, and served him since the last campaign." He hung the lamp on its stand. "I wish to tell you that my commander has graciously granted your wish. You may make all the funeral arrangements for Antony, conduct it however you please. And you are to be moved into more comfortable quarters. He has also assigned one of his most trusted and esteemed freedmen, Epaphroditus, to you."
Epaphroditus! What a strange thing, that he should also have a favorite companion with that name. It had always been a fortunate name for me; might it pr
ove so again?
"I thank the Imperator," I said.
"He says you may spare no expense," said Dolabella.
"The Imperator is generous." He could afford to be, now that he had my treasury.
Antony's funeral. . . how shall I write of it? That it was magnificent, befitting a king? No earthly tokens and salutes were withheld; and the glittering trappings of majesty that had so offended Rome in advance--in his will--surrounded him. He was borne in a golden coffin, on a heavy, gilded hearse. The funeral cortege was thronged, with the chief mourners keeping pace behind the hearse, solemn dirges playing--like a very slow, drawn-out repetition of the Dionysus procession that had played its way out of the city three nights earlier. The same pipes, the same drums, the same cymbals, now wailing a sad melody. It began in the palace grounds, then wound its way through the city, past scenes where we had been so happy, had had our glorious moments. The Museion ... the Gymnasion ... the Temple of Serapis . . . the wide Canopic Way . . . Alexander's tomb . . . and ended back at the palace, once our place of joy.
Then into the mausoleum, where the granite sarcophagus was waiting, its lid off. The great coffin lifted, placed within it, the lid slid over it, the sad, melancholy thud as the two pieces locked together, sealing him in. I knelt and laid a necklace of flowers on it, like those placed on the Pharaohs; leaned across the cool stone and whispered, "Anubis. Anubis at last, my dearest." My farewell.
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