Antony and Cleopatra (33 page)

Oh, why didn’t he have more patience with the fine art of correspondence? Cleopatra did write to him from time to time, and it hadn’t escaped Antony that her letters were mostly about Caesarion, his cleverness and natural authority. But he hadn’t really taken much notice, deeming her remarks the waffles of a besotted mother. Married to Octavia, he knew all about besotted mothers. A vague itch stirred in him to visit Alexandria and see for himself what Caesarion was becoming, but at the moment it was impossible. Though, he thought, it would afford him terrific pleasure to discover that Octavian had a rival cousin more to be feared than Marcus Antonius.

He sat down to write to Cleopatra.

 

My dearest girl, I have been thinking about you as I sit here in Athens metaphorically impotent. The literal state has not yet been visited upon me, I hasten to add, and I feel the best friend welded to my groin begin to stir at the memory of you, your kisses. Athens, you perceive, has improved my literary style—there’s little else to do here than read, patronize the Academy and other philosophical haunts, and talk to men like Titus Pomponius Atticus, who comes to dinner.

Can Caesarion really be nearing his ninth birthday? I suppose he must, but it sorrows me to think that I’ve missed two precious years of his childhood. Believe that as soon as I can, I’ll come to you. My own twins must be close to two—where does the time go? I have never seen them at all. I know you called my boy Ptolemy and my girl Cleopatra, but I think of them as the Sun and the Moon, so maybe, when you have Cha’em in residence, you could officially call my boy Ptolemy Alexander Helios, and my girl Cleopatra Selene? He’s the sixteenth Ptolemy and she’s the eighth Cleopatra, so it would be good if they had their private names, wouldn’t it?

Next year I will definitely be in Antioch, though I may not have time to visit Alexandria. No doubt you’ve heard that Publius Ventidius exceeded his mandate from me by going to war and throwing the Parthians out of Syria? It did not please me, since it smacks of hubris. Instead of putting Herod on his throne, he went off to Samosata, which, I am just informed, has shut its gates to withstand siege. Still, it must be the size of a village, so it shouldn’t take more than a
nundinum
to reduce.

Octavia is delightful, though sometimes I find myself wishing she had more of her brother’s obnoxiousness. There’s something intimidating about a woman who has no faults, and she has no faults, take my word for that. If she complained occasionally, I’d think better of her, since I know she thinks I don’t spend enough time with the children, only three of whom are mine. In which case, why not spit it out? But does she? Not Octavia! She just looks sorrowful. Still, I must count myself lucky. There’s no woman in all of Rome more desirable; I am deeply envied, even by my enemies.

Write and tell me sometime how you are, and how Caesarion is. Atticus made some penetrating remarks about him and his relationship to Octavianus. Hinted there might be future danger in it for him. Whatever you do, don’t send him to Rome until I can accompany him. That’s an order, and don’t be a Ventidius. Your boy is too like Caesar to be welcomed kindly by Octavianus. He’ll need allies in Rome, strong support.

 

In late May Antony received a letter from Octavian on the usual subject—his difficulties with Sextus Pompey and the grain supply—but this one implored Antony to meet him in Brundisium immediately. Accompanied only by a squadron of German horse guards, a grumbling Antony left Athens for Corinth to catch the ferry to Patrae. But before departing he testily repeated his grievances to Dellius, starting with his resentment of Ventidius.

“He’s still sitting in front of Samosata conducting that ridiculous snail’s pace siege! I mean, it puts him in Cicero’s league! The whole of Rome knew that Cicero couldn’t general a fox in a henhouse, even with Pomptinus doing the actual fighting.”

“Cicero?” Dellius asked incredulously, sidetracked; he was too young to remember much about Cicero’s earlier exploits. “When on earth did the Great Advocate conduct a siege? This is the first I’ve heard about any military exploits.”

“He went out to govern Cicilia ten years after he was consul, and got mired down in a siege in eastern Cappadocia—a literal village named Pindenissus. It took him and Pomptinus ages to reduce it.”

“I see,” said Dellius, who was indeed seeing, but not sieges conducted by the most unwarlike consul Rome had ever produced. “I was under the impression that Cicero was a good governor.”

“Oh, he was—if you approve of the kind of man who makes it impossible for Roman businessmen to make provincial profits. But Cicero isn’t the point, Dellius. Ventidius is. I hope that by the time I return from seeing Octavianus he’s gotten the gates of Samosata reduced to pieces and is busy counting the booty.”

Antony wasn’t away nearly as long as Dellius expected, but he had his tale ready when the Triumvir of the East stormed into his Athens residence fuming about Octavian, who hadn’t turned up nor sent word as to why. To add insult to injury, once again Brundisium refused to lower its harbor chain and admit the visitor. Instead of going to another port to land, Antony turned around and came back to Athens in high dudgeon.

Dellius half listened to the diatribe, too used to Antony’s hatred for Octavian to take much notice. This was an ordinary temper tantrum, not one of those
nundinum
-long affairs that would terrify a Hector, so Dellius waited for the period of calm that followed the ranting and raving. Once it ensued, Antony buckled down to work again as if he found the outburst beneficial.

Most of his work at this time concerned the vital decisions he had to make about which man would rule each of the many kingdoms and principalities dotted around the East—places Rome did not administer in person as provinces. Antony in particular was firmly convinced that client-kings were the correct solution, not extra provinces. It was shrewd policy that saw the local rulers inherit the odium of tax and tribute collection.

His desk was piled high with reports about every candidate for each job. Each man had a dossier that would be gone into thoroughly; Antony often asked for additional information, and sometimes commanded that this or that candidate appear in Athens.

However, it wasn’t long before he returned to the subject of Samosata and the siege, his displeasure undiminished.

“It’s the end of June, and still no word,” Antony said with a scowl. “There sit Ventidius and seven legions before a town the size of Aricia or Tibur! It’s scandalous!”

Now was his chance to pay Ventidius back for that humiliating interview in Tarsus! Dellius struck. “You’re right, Antonius, it’s scandalous. From what
I
hear, anyway.”

Arrested, Antony focused his gaze on Dellius’s sorrowful face, irritation dying before curiosity. “What do you mean, Dellius?”

“That Ventidius’s investment of Samosata is a scandal. Or so, at least, a correspondent of mine in the Sixth Legion said in his last letter to me. It arrived yesterday, surprisingly fast.”

“And the name of this legate?”

“I’m sorry, Antonius, I can’t tell you that. I gave my word that I wouldn’t divulge my source of information.” Dellius spoke softly, eyelids lowered. “I was told in strictest confidence.”

“Are you at liberty to tell me the nature of the scandal?”

“Certainly. That the siege of Samosata goes nowhere because Ventidius accepted a thousand-talent bribe from Antiochus of Commagene. If the siege drags on long enough, Antiochus hopes that you’ll order Ventidius and his legions to pack up and leave.”

Stunned, Antony said nothing for a long moment. Then his breath hissed between his teeth, his fists clenched. “Ventidius accept a bribe?
Ventidius?
No! Your informant is mistaken.”

The small head snaked from side to side to intimate a sad skepticism. “I understand your reluctance to believe ill of such an old comrade in arms, Antonius, but tell me this—why should my friend in the Sixth lie? What profits it him? More than that, it appears the bribe is common knowledge among the legates of all seven legions. Ventidius has made no secret of it. He’s fed up with the East and yearns to go home to celebrate his triumph. There is also a rumor that he doctored the account books he’s sent to the
aerarium
along with the spoils of his entire campaign. That, in fact, he’s skimmed another thousand talents off the booty. Samosata is such a mean place that he knows he won’t get much out of it, so why try to take it at all?”

Antony leaped to his feet, roaring for his steward.

“Antonius! What do you mean to do?” Dellius asked, paling.

“What any commander-in-chief does when his second-in-command betrays his trust!” said Antony curtly.

The steward edged in apprehensively. “Yes,
domine
?”

“Pack my chest, including armor and weapons. And whereabouts is Lucilius? I need him.”

Off went the steward in a hurry; Antony began to pace.

“What are you going to do?” Dellius repeated, sweating now.

“Go to Samosata, of course. You can come with me, Dellius. Rest assured, I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

His whole life flashed before Dellius’s eyes; he swayed, gurgled, fell to the floor and went into convulsions. The next thing Antony was on his knees beside him, shouting for a physician. Who took an hour to arrive, during which time Dellius was put to bed, apparently in extremis.

Not that Antony had remained with him; as soon as Dellius was carried away, he was rapping orders to Lucilius and making sure the servants knew how to pack for a campaign—a fool decision, not to have his batman or his quaestor with him!

Octavia walked in with the physician, her face alarmed. “My dear Antonius, what is the matter?” she asked.

“I’m off to Samosata in less than an hour. Lucilius found a ship I can hire to take me to Portae Alexandreia. That’s on the Sinus Issicus, the closest I can get.” He grimaced, remembered to kiss her hand. “From there I have a three-hundred-mile ride,
meum mel
. If Auster blows, the voyage will take almost a month, but if he doesn’t, more like two months. Add the ride, and you have two to three months just getting there. Oh,
curse
Ventidius! He’s betrayed me.”

“I refuse to believe that,” she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Ventidius is an honorable man.”

Antony’s eyes went over her head to the physician, bowing low and trembling at the knees. “Who are you?” he demanded.

“Oh, this is Themistophanes,” said Octavia. “He’s the doctor who has just seen Quintus Dellius.”

Having forgotten all about Dellius, Antony blinked. “Oh! Oh, yes. How is he? Still alive?”

“Yes, lord Antonius, he lives. A crisis of the liver, I think. He managed to tell me that he is to go to Syria with you today, but he cannot—I am firm about that. He needs poultices of charcoal, verdigris, bitumen, and oil applied to his chest several times a day, as well as regular purgations and phlebotomy,” the physician said, looking terrified. “An expensive treatment.”

“Oh, well, he’d better stay here,” said Antony, annoyed that he wouldn’t have Dellius to point out the tattling legate. “Apply to my secretary, Lucilius, for your fees.”

Another hug and kiss for Octavia, and Antony was gone. She stood, bemused, then lifted her shoulders in a shrug and smiled. “Well, that’s the last I’ll see of him until winter,” she said. “I must break the news to the children.”

Upstairs, safely tucked in his bed, Dellius thanked all the gods for giving him the presence of mind to collapse. From what Themistophanes said, he was in for considerable discomfort, if not outright pain—a small price to pay for salvation. That Antony would set out for Samosata was the one thing he hadn’t bargained for; why would he, when he hadn’t moved a muscle to eject the Parthians? Perhaps, Dellius decided, it would be a good idea to make a miraculous recovery and spend some months in Rome being nice to Octavian.

Auster did blow, and the ship, carrying no cargo save Antony and his gear, could afford to have two shifts of oarsmen aboard. But a south wind wasn’t ideal and the ship’s captain disliked the open sea, so hugged the coastline all the way from making landfall in Lycia to Portae Alexandreia. Just as well, thought the restless Antony, that Pompey the Great had scoured all the pirates out of those convenient coves and strongholds along Pamphylia and Cilicia Tracheia. Otherwise he would have been captured and held to ransom like many Romans, including Divus Julius.

Even reading was difficult, as the ship had a tendency to bob up and down; though Our Sea had no ocean swell and minimal tides, it was choppy and could be dangerous in a storm. Those at least he was spared at this summer season, the best time of year to sail. About the only way he could assuage his impatience was to play dice with the crew for mere sesterces, and even then, he was careful to lose. He also walked the deck around and around, kept his muscles in condition by lifting water barrels and other feats of strength beyond the crew. Hardly a night went by that the captain didn’t insist on putting into port or anchoring off some deserted beach. A seven-hundred-mile voyage at the rate of thirty miles a day on a good day. At times Antony felt as if he’d never get there.

When all else failed, he leaned on the ship’s rail and stared into the water, hoping to spot some gigantic sea monster, but the closest he came to that were the big dolphins that leaped and frolicked around the hull, playing games amid the two rudder oars and flying past like marine hares. Then he discovered that gazing so for too long provoked a wave of loneliness in him, a sense of abandonment, of weariness and disenchantment, and wondered what was happening to him.

In the end he concluded that the defection of Ventidius had destroyed some part of his core, imbued him not with his customary rage, which was a kind of fighting spirit, but with black despair. Yes, he thought, I dread the meeting with him. I dread to find the proof of his perfidy right there under my nose. What can I do? Fire him, of course. Banish him to Rome and that wretched triumph he’s so set upon. But with whom do I replace him? Some whining cur like Sosius? Who else is there, than Sosius? Canidius is a good man. And my cousin Caninius. Yet—if Ventidius could accept a bribe, why not any of them, not attached to me by years in Further Gaul and Caesar’s civil war campaigns? I am forty-five, but the rest are ten and fifteen years younger. Calvinus and Vatia are for Octavianus, and so too, I am told, Appius Claudius Pulcher, the most important consul since Calvinus. Maybe that’s the nucleus of it? Infidelity. Disloyalty.