Antony and Cleopatra

by Colleen McCullough

  “No poison,” she said. “I have lit upon the one way to die which will absolve you of all blame. It will be clear to the world that I chose the way myself, of my own volition. I will die as Pharaoh of Egypt, fitting and proper.”

  “Then you may send for your fruit.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I will eat this special fruit in my tomb. You may inspect the manner of my death after it is done. But I insist that you let the embalmer priests finish their work on Antonius and me. Then have the tomb sealed. If you yourself are not in Egypt, it must be done by your deputy.”

  “As you wish.”

  The bust of Caesarion filled her eyes; no more tears, the time for them was over. My beautiful, beautiful boy! How much you were your father’s son, yet how little. You duped me so cleverly that I had no suspicion of your intentions. Trust Octavianus? But you were too naive to see the threat you were to him, too little a Roman. And now you lie in an unmarked grave, no tomb around you, no boat to sail the River of Night, no food or drink, no comfortable bed. Though I think I can forgive Octavianus everything except the carpet. His snide little poke. What he doesn’t know is that his vengeance gave you a sarcophagus of a kind, enough to hold your Ka for a while.

  “Send for Cha’em,” she said when Iras and Charmian came in.

  He had always had the ageless look of a priest of Ptah, this chief of the order exiled from his precinct to serve Pharaoh, but these days he wore something of the air of a mummy.

  “I don’t need to tell you that Caesarion is dead.”

  “No, Daughter of Ra. The day you queried me I saw that he would live only until his eighteenth year.”

  “They wrapped him up and buried him alongside the Memphis road where there should be some signs that the army paused. Of course now you will be returning to Ptah’s precinct, shepherding your carts and barrows and laden donkeys. Find him, Cha’em, and hide him inside the mummy of a bull. They won’t detain you long if they detain you at all. Take him to Memphis for a secret entombment. We will beat Octavianus yet. When I am in the Realm of the Dead, I must see my son in all his glory.”

  “It shall be done,” said Cha’em.

  Charmian and Iras were weeping. Cleopatra let them have their cry, then waved them to silence. “Be quiet! The time draws near, I need certain things done. Have Apollodorus send for a basket of the sacred figs. Complete. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Majesty,” Iras whispered.

  “What clothes will you wear?” Charmian asked.

  “The Double Crown. My best collar, girdle, and bracelets. The pleated white dress with the beaded coat I wore for Caesar years ago. No shoes. Henna my hands and feet. Give all of it to the priests against the day when they put me in my sarcophagus. My beloved Antonius’s dress armor they have already, the set he wore when he crowned my children.”

  “The children?” Iras asked, reminded. “What of them?”

  “Going to Rome to live with Octavia. I don’t envy her.”

  Charmian smiled through her tears. “Not when it comes to Philadelphus! I wonder if he’s kicked Octavianus’s shins?”

  “Probably.”

  “Oh, madam!” Charmian cried, at a loss. “It was never meant to end like this!”

  “Nor would it, had I not encountered Octavianus. The blood of Gaius Julius Caesar is very strong. Now leave me.”

  One is supposed, thought Cleopatra, wandering the room yet keeping her gaze on the bust of Caesarion, to think of one’s whole life at this moment, but I do not want to. I can only think of Caesarion, his fluffy gold head against my breast as he took in my milk with big, long gulps. Caesarion, playing with his wooden Trojan horse—he knew the name of every one of the fifty dolls in its belly. Caesarion, determined to have his entitlements as Pharaoh. Caesarion, lifting up his arms to his father. Caesarion, laughing with Antonius. Always and forever, Caesarion.

  Oh, but I am glad it’s over! I cannot bear to walk this vale of tears a moment longer. The mistakes, the griefs, the shocks, the struggles. Widowhood. And for what? A son I didn’t understand, two men I didn’t understand. Yes, life is a vale of tears. I am so very grateful for the chance to quit it on my own terms.

  The basket of figs came with a note from Cha’em that said everything had been done as she commanded, that Horus would greet her when she came, that Ptah himself had furnished the instrument.

  She bathed scrupulously, shrugged on a plain dress, walked with Charmian and Iras to her tomb. Birds sang in a new dawn, the scented breeze of Alexandria blew gently.

  A kiss for Iras, a kiss for Charmian; Cleopatra shed her robe and stood naked.

  When she lifted the lid on the basket of figs they stirred as the immense king cobra cruised the confines of his prison. There! Now! Cleopatra took his body in both her hands just below his flaring hood as he surged rearing out of the basket, and offered him her breasts. He struck with an audible thud, a blow so powerful that she staggered, dropped him. He writhed away immediately to hide in a dark corner; eventually he found his way out through a conduit.

  Charmian and Iras sat with her while she died, not a long process, but an agonizing one. Rigors, convulsions, a restless coma. Her dying done, the two women set about their own.

  From the shadows the embalmer priests came forward to take Pharaoh’s body and stretch it upon a bared table. The knife with which they made the incision in her flank was obsidian; through the rent they removed liver, stomach, lungs, and intestines. Each was washed, rolled, and stuffed with crushed herbs and spices save for frankincense, forbidden, then placed in a canopic jar amid natron and resin. The brain would come later, after the Roman conqueror paid his visit.

  By the time he came in with Proculeius and Cornelius Gallus, she was covered in mounds of natron save for her chest and head; they knew the Romans wanted to see how she had died.

  “Ye gods, look at the size of the fang punctures!” Octavian said, pointing to them. Then, to the chief embalmer: “Where did you put her heart? I should like to see her heart.”

  “The heart is not removed, Great One, nor the kidneys,” said the man, bowing low.

  “She doesn’t even look human.”

  Octavian was clearly unaffected, but Proculeius went pale, excused himself, and left.

  “Things shrink when the life goes out of them,” said Gallus. “I know she was a tiny woman, but now she’s like a child.”

  “Barbaric!” Octavian walked out.

  He was vastly relieved, and delighted at her solution to their dilemma: a snake! Perfect! Proculeius and Gallus had seen the fang marks, would publicly attest to the manner of Cleopatra’s death. What a monster the thing must be! he thought. I wish I had seen it, preferably with a sword in my hand.

  Late that night, a little tipsy—it had been a harrowing month—Octavian stood back to let his valet pull the covers down so he could climb into bed. There, coiled in the middle of it, was seven feet of cobra as thick as a man’s arm. Octavian screamed.

  METAMORPHOSIS

  29 B.C. to 27 B.C.

  29

  When Cleopatra’s three living children embarked for Rome in the care of the freedman Gaius Julius Admetus, they sailed alone; like Divus Julius when he had left Egypt, Octavian decided he may as well tidy up Syrian Asia and Anatolia before returning to Rome. A stipulated amount of the gold he had sent to the Treasury was to be sold to buy silver for minting into denarii and sesterces: neither too much nor too little. The last thing Octavian wanted was inflation after so many years of depression.

  A wearisome business, my sweetest girl, yet I feel you will approve of my logic; yours is its only rival. Store your desires in a place you will not forget, have them ready for me when I come home. Not for many months, alas. If I settle the East properly, I need not return there for years.

  It is hard to credit that the Queen of Beasts is dead and in her tomb, there to be reduced to an effigy made out of what looks like Pergamum parchment glued together. Similar t
o the puppets people so love when the traveling shows come to town. I saw some mummies in Memphis, all bandaged up. The priests weren’t happy when I commanded them to unwrap the things, but obeyed because they were not of the highest class of dead. Just a wealthy merchant, his wife, and their cat. I can’t decide whether it is the muscle that wastes away, or the fat that melts away. One or the other does, leaving the face fallen in, as happened to Atticus. One does see that it is the relic of a human being, and can make assumptions about character, beauty, et cetera. I am bringing some of these mummies to Rome and will display them on a float in my triumphal parade, together with a few priests so that the People can see every stage of the gruesome process. The Queen of Beasts is welcome to this fate, but the thought of Antonius chews at me. Undoubtedly it is a mummified Marcus Antonius who has stimulated such fascination among those of us who were in Egypt. Proculeius tells me that Herodotus described the business in his treatise, but as he wrote in Greek, I never read him myself: not on a schoolboy’s syllabus.

  I have left Cornelius Gallus to administer Egypt as praefectus. He’s very pleased, so much so that the poet has vanished, temporarily at least. All he can talk about are the expeditions he wants to make—south into Nubia and beyond that to Meroë—west into the eternal desert. He is also convinced that Africa is a mighty island, and intends to sail right around it in Egyptian ships that are built to go to India. I don’t mind these giddy essays into exploration, as they will keep him busy. Far rather them, than learn he has spent his time sniffing around Memphis in search of buried treasure. The affairs of the country have been well taken care of by a team of officials I personally chose.

  This comes to you with Cleopatra’s young children, a ghastly trio of miniature Antonii with a dash of Ptolemy. They need heavy discipline that Octavia won’t be prepared to administer, but I’m not worried. A few months living with Iullus, Marcellus, and Tiberius will tame them. After that, we shall see. I hope to marry Selene to a client-king when she’s grown, whereas the boys present a more difficult problem. I want all memory of their origins erased, so you are to tell Octavia that Alexander Helios will henceforth be known as Gaius Antonius, and Ptolemy Philadelphus as Lucius Antonius. What I hope is that the boys are on the dull side. As I am not confiscating Antonius’s properties in Italia, Iullus, Gaius, and Lucius will have a decent income. Luckily so much was cashed in or sold that they will never be hugely rich and therefore a danger to me.

  Only three of Antonius’s marshals were executed. The rest are nothings, grandsons of famous men long dead. I pardoned them on condition that they swore the oath to me in a slightly modified form. Which is not to say that their names won’t go down on my secret list. An agent will be assigned to watch each of them, certainly. I am Caesar, but no Caesar.

  As to your request to have some of Cleopatra’s clothing and jewelry, my dearest Livia Drusilla, all of it will come to Rome, but to be displayed in my triumph. Once that is over, you and Octavia may choose some items that I will buy for you, thus ensuring that the Treasury is not cheated. There will be no more sticky fingers.

  Keep well. I will write again from Syria.

  From Antioch Octavian went to Damascus, and from there sent his ambassador to King Phraates in Seleuceia-on-Tigris. The man, a pretender to the Parthian throne named Arsaces, was loath to put his head back inside the lion’s jaws, but Octavian was adamant. As Syria held Roman legions from one end to the other, Octavian was sure the King of the Parthians would do nothing foolish, including harming the Roman conqueror’s ambassador.

  So as winter began at the end of that year when Cleopatra’s dreams had died, Octavian met with a dozen Parthian noblemen in Damascus and hammered out a new treaty: everything east of the Euphrates River to be in the domain of the Parthian Empire, and everything west of the Euphrates to be in the domain of the Roman Empire. Armed troops would never cross that mighty body of milky blue water.

  “We had heard that you were wise, Caesar,” said the chief Parthian ambassador, “and our new pact confirms it.”

  They were strolling the fragrant gardens for which Damascus was famous, an incongruous couple: Octavian in a purple-bordered toga; Taxiles in a frilly skirt and blouse, a series of gold rings around his neck, and a little round brimless hat encrusted with ocean pearls upon his corkscrewed black locks.

  “Wisdom is mostly common sense,” said Octavian, smiling. “I have had a career so checkered that it would have foundered dozens of times were it not for two things—my common sense and my luck.”

  “So young!” Taxiles marveled. “Your youth fascinates my king more than anything else about you.”

  “Thirty-three last September,” said Octavian rather smugly.

  “You will be at the head of Rome for decades to come.”

  “Definitely. I hope I can say the same for Phraates?”

  “Just between you and me, Caesar, no. The court has been in turmoil since Pacorus invaded Syria. I predict that there will be many Kings of Parthia before your reign ends.”

  “Will they adhere to this treaty?”

  “Yes, categorically. It frees them to deal with pretenders.”

  Armenia had fallen away since the war of Actium took place; Octavian started the exhausting journey up the Euphrates to Artaxata, fifteen legions following him on what seemed to some of the soldiers to be a march they were doomed to repeat forever. But this was to be the last time.

  “I have handed responsibility for Armenia to the King of the Parthians,” Octavian said to Artavasdes of Media, “on condition that he stays on his side of the Euphrates. Your part of the world is shadowy because it lies north of the Euphrates headwaters, but my treaty fixes the boundary hereabouts as a line between Colchis on the Euxine Sea and Lake Matiane. Which gives Rome Carana and the lands around Mount Ararat. I am returning your daughter Iotape to you, King of the Medes, for she should marry a son of the King of the Parthians. Your duty is to keep the peace in Armenia and Media.”

  “And all done,” said Octavian to Proculeius, “without loss of life or limb.”

  “You need not have gone to Armenia in person, Caesar.”

  “True, but I wanted to see the lie of the land for myself. In years to come when I am sitting in Rome, I may need to have firsthand knowledge of every eastern land. Otherwise some new military man hungry for fame might hoodwink me.”

  “No one will ever do that, Caesar. What will you do with all the client-kings who sided with Cleopatra?”

  “Not demand money from them, for sure. If Antonius hadn’t tried to tax these people money they just do not have, things might have turned out very differently. Antonius’s dispositions themselves are excellent, and I can see no merit in overturning them simply to assert my own might.”

  “Caesar’s a puzzle,” said Statilius Taurus to Proculeius.

  “How so, Titus?”

  “He doesn’t behave like a conqueror.”

  “I don’t believe he thinks of himself as a conqueror. He’s simply fitting together the pieces of a world he can hand to the Senate and People of Rome as finished, complete in every way.”

  “Huh!” Taurus grunted. “Senate and People of Rome, my arse! He has no intention of letting go the reins. No, what puzzles me, old chap, is how he intends to rule, as rule he must.”

  He was holding his fifth consulship when he pitched camp on the Campus Martius accompanied by his two favorite legions, the Twentieth and the Twenty-fifth. Here he was obliged to stay until he had celebrated his triumphs, three all told: for the conquest of Illyricum, for victory at Actium, and for the war in Egypt.

  Though none of the three could hope to rival some of the triumphs of the past, each of them far outstripped any predecessors when it came to propaganda. His pageant Antonys were shambling oafs of elderly gladiators, his Cleopatras gigantic German women who controlled their Antonys with dog collars and leashes.

  “Wonderful, Caesar!” said Livia Drusilla after the triumph for Egypt was over and her husband came home from the lav
ish feast in Jupiter Optimus Maximus.

  “Yes, I thought so,” he said complacently.

  “Of course some of us remembered Cleopatra from her days in Rome, and were amazed at how much she’d grown.”

  “Yes, she sucked Antonius’s strength and elephanted.”

  “What an interesting verb!”

  Then came the work, which was what Octavian loved the most. He had departed from Egypt the owner of seventy legions, an astronomical total that only gold from the Treasure of the Ptolemies enabled him to retire comfortably. After careful consideration he had decided that in future Rome needed no more than twenty-six legions; none of them was to be stationed in Italia or Italian Gaul, which meant that no ambitious senator of a mind to supplant him would have troops conveniently close by. And at last these twenty-six legions were to constitute a standing army that would serve under the Eagles for sixteen years and under the flags for a further four years. Each of the forty-four legions he discharged was disbanded and scattered from one end of Our Sea to the other, on land confiscated from towns that had backed Antony. These veterans would never live in Italia.

  Rome herself began the transformations Octavian had vowed: from brick to marble. Every temple was repainted in its proper colors, the squares and gardens were beautified, and the plunder from the East was dispersed to adorn temples, forums, circuses, marketplaces. Wondrous statues and paintings, fabulous Egyptian furniture. A million scrolls were to be put in a public library.