Antony and Cleopatra

by Colleen McCullough

  “I haven’t come to scold, or nag, or criticize,” she said.

  His brilliant smile showed regular white teeth. “I didn’t expect you had, Mama. What is it?”

  “A petition, I think.”

  “Then plead your case.”

  “Give me time, Caesarion,” she said in her most honeyed voice. “I need time, but I have less of it than you. You owe me time.”

  “Time for what?” he asked warily.

  “To prepare our people of Alexandria and Egypt for change.”

  He frowned, displeased, but said nothing. She hurried on.

  “I’m not going to tell you that you haven’t lived long enough to have sufficient experience in dealing with people, be they subjects or colleagues—you would reject that. But you must take my age and experience into account as worth listening to! Truly, my son, people have to be educated to accept change. You can’t issue pharaonic edicts that throw people into instant upheaval and expect no opposition. I admire the thoroughness of your investigations, and admit the truth of much you said. But what you and I know to be the truth isn’t as obvious to others. Ordinary people, even Macedonian aristocrats, are set in their ways. They resist change the way a mule resists being led on a halter. A man or woman’s world is circumscribed compared to our world—few of them travel, and those who do go no farther than the Delta, or Thebes for a holiday if they have the money. The Recorder has never been farther from Alexandria than Pelusium, so how do you think he sees the world? Does he care about Memphis, let alone Rome? And if that is true of him, how do you think lesser people will feel?”

  His face grew mulish, but the eyes showed uncertainty. “If the poor have free grain, Mama, I cannot think they’ll revolt.”

  “I agree, which is why I suggest you start with that. But not overnight, please! Spend the next year working out what your father would have called the logistics, put it down on paper, and bring it back to council then. Will you do that?”

  Obviously the free grain dole was first on his list of priorities; she had guessed correctly. “It won’t take that long,” he said. “Just a month or two.”

  “Even the great Caesar’s legislation took years to draft,” she countered. “You can’t cut corners, Caesarion. Deal with each change properly, meticulously, perfectly. Take Cousin Octavianus as your example—now, there is a real perfectionist, and I am not too bigoted to admit it! You have so much time, my son. Do things gradually, please. Talk long before you act—people must be carefully prepared for change so that they don’t feel it has been thrust upon them without warning. Please?”

  His face had relaxed; now he smiled. “All right, Mama, I take your point.”

  “Your solemn word on it, Caesarion?”

  “My solemn word.” He laughed, a clear, attractive sound. “At least you didn’t make me swear on the gods.”

  “Do you believe in our gods enough to regard an oath taken in their name as sacred, binding unto death?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Well, I see you as a man of his word, a man who doesn’t need to be bound by oaths.”

  Off the rock, descending on her to hug her, kiss her. “Oh, thank you, Mama, thank you! I will do as you say.”

  And that, she thought, watching him leap from rock to rock as gracefully as a dancer, is exactly the way to handle him. Offer him a fraction of what he wants and convince him it is enough. For once I have acted wisely, seen my way unerringly.

  A month later Cleopatra realized that she was constantly stroking her throat to check on that swelling. It didn’t look or feel like a lump, but when Iras commented upon her new habit and inspected the swelling for herself, she insisted that her mistress consult a physician.

  “Not a slimy Greek quack! Send for Hapd’efan’e,” Iras said. “I mean it, Cleopatra! If you don’t summon him, I will.”

  The years had dealt kindly with Hapd’efan’e; he looked much as he had when he had followed Caesar around from Egypt to Asia Minor to Africa to Spain to Rome, keeping a stern eye on Caesar’s “epilepsy,” which he had realized only happened if Caesar forgot to eat for long periods, something his captious and difficult patient was prone to do. After Caesar’s death he returned to his homeland aboard Caesarion’s ship, then, following a year as royal physician in Alexandria, he got permission to go back to the precinct of Ptah in Memphis. The order of physicians was under the patronage of Ptah’s wife, Sekhmet; its members were shaven-headed, wore a white linen dress that commenced under the nipples and flared gently to a hem below the knee, and were required to be celibate. Travel had broadened him, both as man and doctor; he was now acknowledged as the finest diagnostician in Egypt.

  First he examined Cleopatra carefully, feeling for a pulse, sniffing her breath, probing her bones, pulling down her lower eyelids, making her extend her hands to arm’s length, observing her walk a straight line. Only then did he concentrate on the problem, feeling under her jaw and down the throat and neck.

  “Yes, Pharaoh, it is a swelling, not a lump,” he said. “The cause of the swelling is not encapsulated like a cyst—the edges simply fuse into unswollen tissue all around. I have seen its like among those who live in Egypt of the river, but rarely in Alexandria, the Delta, and Pelusium. It is called a goiter.”

  “Is it malignant?” she asked, dry-mouthed.

  “No, Majesty. Which is not to say that it won’t grow bigger. Most goiters get bigger, but very slowly, over years. Yours is new, so there is always a chance that its growth will be rapid. If so, then your eyes will start to pop out of their sockets like frog’s eyes. No, no, do not panic! I doubt that this goiter is going to give you pop eyes, but a physician who does not warn a patient of all eventualities is not a good practitioner of the medical arts. However, you are not quite symptom free, Majesty. You have the faintest hint of a vibrating tremor in the hands, and your heart is beating a little too fast. I want Iras to feel your pulse before you arise from your bed every morning”—he gave her and Charmian his sweetest smile—“because Charmian is too dramatic. After a month, Iras will know how fast your heart beats, and be able to monitor it. The heart, you see, is tied inside your chest by vessels holding blood, which is why you can assess it by finding the wrist pulse. Did these vessels not exist, hearts would wander the way the Greeks think a womb does.”

  “Is there a potion I can take? A god I can offer to?”

  “No, Pharaoh.” He paused, coughed delicately. “Your moods, Majesty. Are you more nervous than you used to be? More likely to be irritated by small things?”

  “Yes, Hapd’efan’e, but only because my life has been very difficult these past two years.”

  “Perhaps” was all he said, prostrating himself; he backed from the room on hands and knees.

  “A relief to know it isn’t a true malignancy,” Cleopatra said to Iras and Charmian.

  “Yes indeed, but if it grows it will disfigure you,” said Iras.

  “Bite your tongue!” Charmian cried, rounding on Iras fiercely.

  “It wasn’t said thoughtlessly, you silly spinster! Too busy worrying about losing your looks and all hopes of a husband to see that the Queen must be prepared before anything happens, that’s you!”

  Charmian stood spluttering, unable to get her retaliation out, while Cleopatra laughed, the first sound of genuine amusement she had uttered since she arrived home.

  “Come, come!” she said when she was able. “You’re thirty-four, not fourteen—and you’re both spinsters.” A frown replaced the smile. “I have taken your youth and your chances of marriage from you, I am well aware of it. Whom do you meet except eunuchs and old men, serving me?”

  Charmian forgot the insult, started to chuckle. “I hear that Caesarion had words to say about eunuchs.”

  “How do you know?”

  “How couldn’t we know, more like? Apollodorus is shattered.”

  “Oh, that wretched boy!”

  21

  King Artavasdes of Armenia stood no chance of defeating the huge for
ce Antony led against him, but he didn’t give in tamely, which provided Antony with several decent battles to blood his inexperienced men and bring his experienced men to peak fitness. Now that he wasn’t drinking any wine at all, his ability to general a battle returned, and with it, his confidence. Cleopatra was right—his real enemy was wine. Sober and in the pink of health, he admitted to himself that his proper course the year before last would have been to remain in Carana with the remnants of his army, bring Cleopatra’s aid to them there; instead, he had inflicted another five-hundred-mile march upon them before they had any succor at all. Still, what was done, was done. No point in dwelling upon the past, the reinvigorated Antony told himself.

  Titius was governing Asia Province in place of Furnius, and Plancus remained in Syria, but Ahenobarbus had come on campaign, and Canidius was, as always, Antony’s trusty right hand. Safely inside Artaxata, his army camped in comfort, his own mood sanguine, he began to plan his move against the other Artavasdes. There was time to invade and conquer before winter; Armenia had crumbled and its king was a prisoner by the beginning of Julius.

  Then, before he could start his march into Media Atropatene, Quintus Dellius arrived in Artaxata accompanied by an enormous caravan that incorporated King Artavasdes of Media Atropatene himself, his harem, children, furniture, an impressive number of treasures including a hundred gigantic Median horses, and all of Antony’s lost artillery and engines of war.

  Very pleased with himself, the moment he set eyes on Antony, Dellius produced a draft of the treaty he had concluded with Median King Artavasdes.

  Antony looked nonplussed, anger visibly rising. “Who gave you the right to negotiate anything in my name?” he demanded.

  The faunlike face creased into lines of surprise, the fawnish eyes widened in astonishment. “Why, you did! Marcus Antonius, you must remember! You agreed with Queen Cleopatra that the best way to deal with Media Atropatene was to bring its Artavasdes on to Rome’s side. You did, you did, I swear it!”

  Something in his attitude convinced Antony, bewildered now. “I don’t remember issuing any such order,” he muttered.

  “You were still sick,” Dellius said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “That must be it, because you did order it done.”

  “Yes, I was sick, I remember that. What happened in Media?”

  “I persuaded King Artavasdes that his only course was to cooperate with Rome. His relations with the King of the Parthians have deteriorated since Monaeses went to Ecbatana and told Phraates that the Medians had made off with the entire contents of your baggage train—Monaeses had expected to share the plunder. To make matters worse, Phraates is threatened by rivals who happen to have Median blood on the distaff side. It wasn’t difficult for Median Artavasdes to see that you would conquer Armenia unless he came to its rescue. Which he couldn’t do, given the situation in his own lands. So I talked and talked until I made him see that his best alternative was to ally his kingdom with Rome.”

  Antony’s anger died; the memories were coming back. That was worrying—worse, frightening. How many other decisions, orders, and momentous conversations didn’t he remember?

  “Give me the details, Dellius.”

  “Artavasdes came himself to reinforce his sincerity, complete with his women and children. If you consent, he wishes to offer his four-year-old daughter, Iotape, as a bride for your Egyptian son, Ptolemy Alexander Helios. Five other children, including a son by his principal wife, will be handed over as hostages. There are many gifts, from Median horses to gold bullion and the precious stones of his kingdom—lapis lazuli, turquoise, jasper, carnelian, and rock crystal. All your artillery is there, your engines and materials of war, even the eighty-foot battering ram.”

  “So all I’ve lost are two legions and their Eagles.” Antony kept his tone neutral.

  “No, their Eagles are with us. It appears Artavasdes didn’t send them to Ecbatana immediately, and by the time he would have, Monaeses had turned Phraates against him.”

  Mood lightening, Antony chuckled. “That won’t please dear Octavianus! He’s made much of my four lost Eagles in Rome.”

  A meeting with Median Artavasdes cheered Antony greatly. With little fuss and no rancor, the terms of the treaty as drafted by Dellius were redrafted, ratified, and signed with the seals of Rome and Media Atropatene. This occurred after Antony had closely inspected the gifts contained in fifty wagons—gold, precious stones, chests of Parthian gold coins, several chests of exquisite jewelry. But perhaps no gift thrilled Antony as much as the hundred massive horses, tall enough and strong enough to sustain the weight of a cataphract. The artillery and materials of war were divided, half to go to Carana later with Canidius, the other half to go to Syria. Canidius was to winter in Artaxata with one-third of the army before taking up quarters in Carana.

  He sat down to write to Cleopatra in Alexandria.

  I miss you very much, my little wife, and can’t wait to see you. First, however, I go to Rome to hold my triumph. Oh, the booty! As much as Pompeius Magnus had after he beat Mithridates. These eastern kingdoms are awash in gold and jewels, even if they contain no statues worthy of Phidias or any other Greek. A six-cubit-high solid gold statue of Anaitis is bound for Rome and the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, and it is but a small part of the Armenian plunder.

  You will be pleased to know that Dellius concluded the treaty you wanted so badly—yes, Rome and Media Atropatene are now allies. Armenian Artavasdes is my prisoner and will walk in my triumph. It is a long time since a triumphing general has displayed a genuinely royal, reigning monarch of such high status. All Rome will marvel.

  It is now but fifteen days until the Kalends of Sextilis, and I am shortly beginning my return to Rome. As soon as my triumph is over, I will sail for Alexandria, winter seas or not. There are many arrangements to be made, including a big garrison in Artaxata. There, I will leave Canidius and one-third of my troops. The other two-thirds I will march back to Syria and put them into camp around Antioch and Damascus. The Nineteenth Legion will sail with me to Rome to represent my army at my triumph, its spears and standards wreathed in laurels. Yes, I was hailed Imperator on the field at Naxuana.

  I am very well, except a little perturbed by some odd lapses of memory. Do you know, I didn’t remember sending Dellius to see Median Artavasdes? I must rely upon you to confirm other things when they are drawn to my attention.

  I send you a thousand thousand kisses, my Queen, and yearn to hold your tiny sparrow of a body in my arms. Are you well? Is Caesarion well? And our own children? Write to me at Antioch. There will be time because I am sending this by courier at a gallop. I love you.

  Having formed a very affectionate alliance with an Armenian woman, Publius Canidius wasn’t sorry to winter there. The lady was related in some vague way to the royal family, spoke fluent Greek, was extremely well read, and, though not in the first blush of youth, was beautiful. His Roman wife was not of exalted rank, could hardly read, and offered no real companionship. Clymene therefore seemed to Canidius a gift from the Armenian gods he had conquered, someone special just for him.

  Antony and his two-thirds of the army marched via Carana for Syria; Ahenobarbus accompanied them as far as the Syrian Gates of the Amanus, then struck off overland for his province, Bithynia. Only Dellius, Cinna, Scaurus, and a grandson of the slain Crassus continued in his train to Antioch.

  There Antony found a letter from Cleopatra.

  What do you mean, Antonius, triumph in Rome? Are you mad? Have you forgotten everything? Let me refresh your memory, then.

  You vowed to me that you would return from your Armenian campaign to me in Alexandria, together with the spoils. You vowed to me that you would display your spoils in Alexandria. Nothing was said about a triumph in Rome, though I suppose I cannot very well stop your doing that if you must. But you vowed that Alexandria would come before Rome, and that your spoils would be donated to me as Queen and Pharaoh. What do you owe Rome and Octavianus, tell me that? He works a
gainst you incessantly, and as for me—I am the Queen of Beasts, the enemy of Rome. Every day he says it, every day the Roman people grow more angry. I have done nothing to them, but to hear Octavianus, you would think me Medea and Medusa combined. And now you are returning to Rome and Octavia, there to smarm to your wife’s brother and donate your hard-won spoils to a nation that will use them to tear me down?

  I truly think you must be mad, Antonius, to condone the insults perpetually thrown my way by Octavianus and Rome, to want to ingratiate yourself with Egypt’s foes by triumphing amid a brood of Roman snakes. Are you a man of no honor, to abandon me, your loyalest ally, friend—and wife!—in favor of people who sneer at you as well as at me, who deride you as my puppet, who believe that I have clothed you in women’s garb and strut before you clad in men’s armor? They say you are Achilles in the harem of King Lykomedes, face painted and skirts flowing. Do you really want to display yourself in front of people who say such things behind your back?

  You vowed that you would come to Alexandria, and I hold you to that vow, husband. The citizens of Alexandria and the people of Egypt have seen Antonius, yes, but not as my consort. I deserted my kingdom to go to you in Syria, bringing with me a whole fleet of comforts for your Roman soldiers. May I remind you that I paid for that mission of mercy?

  Oh, Antonius, do not let me down! Do not scorn me as you have scorned so many women. You said you loved me, then you married me. Am I, Pharaoh and Queen, to be discarded?

  Hands shaking, Antony dropped the letter as if it were red hot, unbearably painful. The cacophany of noises outside, Antioch going about its business, drifted through the open shutters of his study windows; horrified, stunned, he stared at the brilliant rectangle of light that filled one such aperture, suddenly chilled to the bone despite the Syrian summer heat.