Antony and Cleopatra

by Colleen McCullough

  Thank the gods for the proximity of the nursery! We are too close to dangerous ground, thought Octavia. Poor Mama, always on the periphery of Little Gaius’s life, unseen, unmentioned.

  8

  By the time the cavalcade got to Rome, Mark Antony was in a very good mood. His reception by the crowds that lined the roads every inch of the way had been ecstatic: so ecstatic, in fact, that he was beginning to wonder if Octavian had exaggerated his unpopularity. A suspicion accentuated when every senator inside Rome at this moment came thronging out in full regalia to greet not Octavian, but him. The trouble was that he couldn’t be sure; there was too much evidence of Italia’s and Rome’s relief at the ebbing of civil war. Perhaps it was the Pact of Brundisium that brought all his old adherents back wholeheartedly to his side. If he had been able to sneak around Italia and Rome in disguise a month ago, he might have heard disillusioned words and abuse of himself. As it was, he hovered between doubt and elation, neatly balanced, cursing Octavian only under his breath and out of habit.

  The prospect of marriage to Octavian’s sister didn’t worry him; rather, it contributed to his good mood. Though his eye would never of its own volition have alighted on her as a wife, he had always liked her, found her physically attractive, and had even envied his friend Marcellus’s luck in espousing her. From Octavian he had learned that she had taken in Antyllus and Iullus after Fulvia died, which reinforced his impression that she was as good a person as her brother was bad. That often happened in families—look at himself versus Gaius and Lucius. They all got the Antonian physique, but marred in Gaius’s case by a shambling gait and in Lucius’s by a bald head; only he had gotten the Julian cleverness. Careless strewer of his seed though he was, Antony liked those of his children whom he knew, and had just had a brilliant idea about Antonia Minor, whom he pitied in an offhand way. In fact, his children occupied more of his mind as he reached Rome than they usually did, for he found a letter from Cleopatra waiting there.

  My dearest Antonius, I write this on the Ides of Sextilis, in the midst of such halcyon weather that I wish you could be here to enjoy it with me—and with Caesarion, who sends his love and good wishes. He is growing apace, and his exposure to Roman men (especially you) has been of great benefit to him. He is currently reading Polybius, having cast aside the letters of Cornelia the Mother of the Gracchi—no wars, no exciting events. Of course he knows his father’s books by heart.

  I do not know whereabouts in the world this may catch up with you, but sooner or later it will. One hears that you are in Athens, a moment later that you are in Ephesus, even that you are in Rome. No matter. This is to thank you for giving Caesarion a brother and a sister. Yes, I have given birth to twins! Do they run in your family? They do not run in mine. I am delighted, of course. In one blow you have secured the succession and provided Caesarion with a wife. Little wonder that Nilus rose high into the Cubits of Plenty!

  How well she knows me, he thought to himself. Realizes that I don’t read long letters, so kept hers short. Well, well! I did my duty splendidly. Two of them, no less, a pigeon pair. But to her, they’re simply adjuncts to enhance Caesarion. Her passion for Caesar’s son knows no bounds.

  He dashed off a letter to her.

  Dear Cleopatra, what terrific news! Not one, but two little Antonians to follow big brother Caesarion around the way my brothers followed me. I’m marrying Octavianus’s sister, Octavia, very shortly. Nice woman, very beautiful too. Did you ever meet her in Rome? It solved my difficulties with Octavianus for the moment and pacified the country, which won’t countenance a civil war. Nor, from what Maecenas said, will Octavianus. That ought to mean that I can march in and stamp on Octavianus, except that the soldiers are a part of the national conspiracy to outlaw civil war. Mine won’t fight his, his won’t fight mine. Without willing troops, a general is as impotent as a eunuch in a harem. Speaking of potency, we must have another roll in the papyrus sometime. If I get bored, watch out for my arrival in Alexandria to do a bit of inimitable living.

  There. That would do. Antony poured a small puddle of melted red wax on the bottom of the single sheet of Fannian paper, and pushed his signet ring into it: Hercules Invictus in the middle, IMP. M. ANT. TRI. around its edge. He’d had it made after that conference on the river island in Italian Gaul. What he yearned for was the chance to make M. ANT. a DIV. ANT. for Divus Antonius, but that wasn’t likely as long as Octavian existed.

  Of course he had to go around to the domus Hortensia for his men’s party before the wedding, and found Octavian’s complacency so irritating that he couldn’t help himself, had to lash out with invigorating venom.

  “What’s your opinion of Salvidienus?” he asked his host.

  Octavian looked besotted at mention of the name. I really do believe that he’s a secret turd pusher, thought Antony.

  “The very best of good fellows!” Octavian exclaimed. “He’s doing extremely well in Further Gaul. As soon as he can free them up, you’ll have your five legions. The Bellovaci are giving a lot of trouble.”

  “Oh, I know all about that. What a fool you are, Octavianus!” Antony said contemptuously. “The very best of good fellows is negotiating with me to change sides in our nonwar, has been almost since he arrived in Further Gaul.”

  Octavian’s face gave nothing away, neither astonishment nor horror; even when it had shone with affection for Salvidienus, its eyes had not genuinely participated. Did they ever? Antony wondered, unable to remember one time in his experience that they had. The eyes never told you what he really thought about anything. They just—watched. Watched the behavior of everyone, including himself, as if they and the mind behind them stood twenty paces away from his body. How could two orbs so luminous be so opaque?

  Octavian spoke, easily, diffidently even. “Do you consider, Antonius, that his conduct is treasonous?”

  “Depends how you look at it. To switch allegiance from one Roman of good standing to another of equal standing may be—ah—treacherous, but it’s not treasonous. However, if said conduct is aimed at inciting civil war between those two equals, then it’s definitely treasonous,” Antony said, enjoying himself.

  “Have you any tangible evidence to suggest that Salvidienus should be put on trial for maiestas?”

  “Talents of tangibility.”

  “Would you, if I asked it, tender your evidence at trial?”

  “Of course,” said Antony in mock surprise. “It’s my duty to a fellow triumvir. If he’s convicted, you’re short one very good general of troops—fortunate for me, eh? If there were a civil war, I mean, naturally. Because I wouldn’t enlist him in my ranks, Octavianus, let alone have him as my legate. Was it you who said that traitors might be made use of, but never liked or trusted, or was it your divine daddy?”

  “Who said it doesn’t matter. Salvidienus must go.”

  “Across the Styx, or into permanent exile?”

  “Across the Styx. After trial in the Senate, I think. Not in comitia—too public. In the Senate, behind closed doors.”

  “Good thinking! Difficult for you, however. You’ll have to send Agrippa to Further Gaul now it’s an official part of your triumvirate. If it were mine, I could send any one of several—Pollio, for instance. Now I’ll be able to send Pollio to relieve Censorinus in Macedonia, and send Ventidius to hold Labienus and Pacorus at bay until I can deal with the Parthians in person,” said Antony, twisting the knife.

  “There is absolutely nothing to stop your dealing with them in person at once!” Octavian said caustically. “What, afraid to go too far from me, Italia, and Sextus Pompeius, in that order?”

  “I have good reason to stay near all three of you!”

  “You have no reason whatsoever!” Octavian snapped. “I will not war against you under any circumstances, though I will war against Sextus Pompeius the moment I’m able.”

  “Our pact forbids that.”

  “In a pig’s eye it does! Sextus Pompeius was declared a public enemy, written on the tab
lets as hostis—a law you were party to, remember? He’s not the governor of Sicilia or anywhere else, he’s a pirate. As Rome’s curator annonae, it is my duty to hunt him down. He impedes the free flow of grain.”

  Taken aback at Octavian’s fearlessness, Antony decided to terminate their conversation, if so it could be called. “Good luck,” he said ironically, and strolled away in the direction of Paullus Lepidus to verify the rumor that Lepidus the Triumvir’s brother was about to marry Scribonia’s Cornelian daughter. If it is true, he thinks he’s a canny fellow, thought Antony, but it won’t advance him a notch higher apart from her huge dowry. Octavianus will divorce Scribonia as soon as he’s defeated Sextus, which means I’ll have to ensure that day never comes. Give Octavianus a big victory, and all Italia will worship him. Is the little worm aware that one reason I stay so close to Italia is to keep the name Marcus Antonius alive in Italian eyes? Of course he is.

  Octavian gravitated to Agrippa’s side. “We’re in trouble again,” he said ruefully. “Antonius has just told me that our dear Salvidienus has been in contact with him for months with a view to changing his allegiance.” The eyes looked dark grey. “I confess it came as a blow. I didn’t think Salvidienus such a fool.”

  “It’s a logical move for him, Caesar. He’s a red-haired man from Picenum—when have such ever been trustworthy? He’s dying to be a bigger fish in a bigger sea.”

  “It means I’ll have to send you to govern Further Gaul.”

  Agrippa looked shocked. “Caesar, no!”

  “Who else is there? It also means I can’t move against Sextus Pompeius anytime soon. Luck is with Antonius, she always is.”

  “I can do the shipyards between Cosa and Genua as I travel, but from Genua I’ll be on the Via Aemilia Scaura to Placentia—not enough time to hug the coast all the way. Caesar, Caesar, it will be two years before I can come home if I do the job properly!”

  “You must do it properly. I want no more of these uprisings among the Long-hairs, and I think Divus Julius was wrong to let the Druids go about their business. It seems mostly to consist of stirring up discontent.”

  “I agree.” Agrippa’s face brightened. “I do have an idea how to keep the Belgae in order.”

  “What?” Octavian asked, curious.

  “Settle hordes of Ubii Germans on the Gallic bank of the Rhenus. Every tribe from the Nervii to the Treveri will be so busy trying to push the Germans back to their own bank of the river that they won’t have the leisure to rebel.” He looked wistful. “I’d love to imitate Divus Julius and cross into Germania!”

  Octavian broke into laughter. “Agrippa, if you want to teach the Suebi Germans a lesson, I’m sure you will. On the other hand, we need the Ubii, so why not gift them with better land? They’re the best cavalry Rome has ever fielded. All I can say, my dearest friend, is that I’m very glad you chose me. I can bear the loss of hundreds of Salvidien-uses, but I could never bear the loss of my one and only Marcus Agrippa.”

  Agrippa glowed, reached out an impulsive hand to clasp it around Octavian’s forearm. He knew that he was Caesar’s man to the death, but he loved to see Caesar acknowledge that fact by word or deed. “More important, whom will you use while I’m on service in Further Gaul?”

  “Statilius Taurus, of course. Sabinus, I suppose. Calvinus goes without saying. Cornelius Gallus is clever and reliable as long as he’s not wrestling with a poem. Carrinas in Spain.”

  “Lean heaviest on Calvinus” was Agrippa’s reply.

  Like Scribonia, Octavia didn’t think it right to wear flame and saffron to her wedding. Having good taste, she chose a color she knew became her, pale turquoise, and with the gracefully draped dress she wore a magnificent necklace and earrings Antony gave her when he walked around to the late Marcellus Minor’s house to see her the day before the ceremony.

  “Oh, Antonius, how beautiful!” she breathed, studying the set in wonder. Made of massive gold, the necklace sat flat like a narrow collar, and was rich with flawless turquoise cabochons. “The stones have no dark patches to spoil their blueness.”

  “I thought of them when I remembered the color of your eyes,” Antony said, pleased at her patent delight. “Cleopatra gave them to me for Fulvia.”

  She didn’t look away, nor let a fraction of the light die out of those much admired eyes. “Truly, they are beautiful,” she said, up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I’ll wear them tomorrow.”

  “I suspect,” Antony went on heedlessly, “that they weren’t up to Cleopatra’s standards when it comes to jewels—she gets a lot of gifts. So you might say she gave me her cast-offs. I got none of her money,” he ended bitterly. “She’s a—oops, sorry.”

  Octavia smiled the way she did at little Marcellus when he was naughty. “You may be as profane as you like, Antonius. I am not a sheltered young maiden.”

  “You don’t mind marrying me?” he asked, thinking he ought to ask.

  “I have loved you with all my heart for many years,” she said, making no attempt to hide her emotions. Some instinct told her that he liked being loved, that it predisposed him to love in return, and she wanted that desperately.

  “I would never have guessed!” he said, amazed.

  “Of course not. I was Marcellus’s wife, and loyal to my vows. Loving you was something for myself, quite separate and private.”

  He could feel the familiar slide in his belly, the visceral reaction that warned him he was falling in love. And Fortuna was on his side, even in this. Tomorrow Octavia would belong to him. No need to worry that she might look at another man when she hadn’t looked at him through the seven years she belonged to Marcellus Minor. Not that he had ever worried about any of his wives; all three had been faithful to him. But this fourth was the pick of the bunch. Cool, sleek, and elegant, of Julian blood, a republican princess. A man would have to be dead not to be moved by her.

  He bent his head and kissed her on the mouth, suddenly very hungry for her. The kiss was returned with light-headed feeling, but before it could burn her, she broke it and moved away.

  “Tomorrow,” she said. “Now come and see your sons.”

  The nursery was not a very big room, and seemed at first glance to be overcrowded by small children. His quick soldier’s eye made the count six ambulant, and one jigging in a cot. An adorable, fair little girl of about two planted a vicious kick on the shin of a dark, handsome little boy about five. He promptly gave her a push-slap with the palm of his hand that sat her down on her bottom with a thump just audible before the howls started.

  “Mama, Mama!”

  “If you dole out pain, Marcia, you have to expect to get it back,” Octavia said without a scrap of sympathy. “Now stop your racket, or I’ll slap you for starting something you can’t finish.”

  The other four, three around the little boy’s age, and one a trifle younger than the blond termagant, had spied Antony and stood with their mouths open, as did Marcia the kicker and her victim, whom Octavia introduced as Marcellus. At five, Antyllus had vague memories of his father, but wasn’t quite sure that this giant was really his father until Octavia assured him of the fact. Then he simply stared, too afraid to hold out his arms for a hug. At not quite two, Iullus burst into noisy tears when the giant advanced on him. Laughing, Octavia picked him up and gave him to Antony, who soon had him smiling. The moment he did, Antyllus held out his arms for that hug, and was picked up too.

  “Handsome little chaps, aren’t they?” she asked. “They’ll be as big as you when they grow up. Half of me can’t wait to see how they look in cuirass and pteryges, and half of me dreads it, for then they’ll have passed out of my keeping.”

  Antony answered something, his mind elsewhere; it was Marcia who gnawed at him. Marcia? Marcia? Whose was she, and why did she call Octavia Mama? Though, he noted, Antyllus and Iullus also called her Mama. The one in the cot, fair as Marcia, was her own youngest, Cellina, he was told. But whose was Marcia? She had a Julian look, otherwise he would have deemed her a Philippan
cousin rescued from some dire fate by this child-obsessed woman. For obsessed she clearly was.

  “Please, Antonius, may I have Curio?” Octavia asked, her eyes begging. “I didn’t feel I could take him without your permission, but he badly needs stability and supervision. He’s nearly eleven, and dreadfully wild.”

  Antony blinked. “You’re welcome to the brat, Octavia, but why would you want to saddle yourself with yet another child?”

  “Because he’s unhappy, and no boy of his age should be. He misses his mama, ignores his pedagogue—a very silly, inadequate man—and is mostly to be found in the Forum making a nuisance of himself. Another year or two, and he’ll be stealing purses.”

  Antony grinned. “Well, his father my friend did enough of that in his day! Curio the Censor, his father, was a tight-fisted, narrow-minded autocrat who used to lock Curio up. I’d break him out, and we’d create chaos. Maybe you’re what this Curio needs.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Octavia closed the nursery door on a chorus of protests; apparently she usually spent a longer time with them when she came, and they blamed the giant, even Antyllus and Iullus.

  “Who exactly is Marcia?” he asked.

  “My half sister. Mama bore me, her first, at eighteen, and Marcia at forty-four.”

  “You mean she’s Atia’s by Philippus Junior?”

  “Yes, of course. She came to me when Mama couldn’t look after her properly. Mama’s joints are swollen and terribly painful.”

  “But Octavianus has never mentioned her existence! I know he pretends that his mother is dead, but a half sister! Ye gods, it’s ludicrous!”

  “Two half sisters, actually. Don’t forget that our father had a girl by his first wife. She’s in her forties now.”