The Memoirs of Cleopatra (123 page)

And then I heard the wild whoops, the cheers; something momentous had happened, but I was still ignorant of what. I saw horses galloping westward, but whose? Was it Antony leading the attack? They were moving swiftly.

The unmistakable din of fighting now reached my ears. Even if one had never heard it before, it was identifiable. The most sequestered scholar, who had only read Plato, would have recognized it instantly.

The moment had come! I drew myself up in the saddle, ready to gallop forward. Waiting was agony, but it would only last a little longer. And then—and then—!

My heart had leapt, utter relief buoying it up. The moment that would decide all had come at last. And it was as welcome as a lover, although I had dreaded it as I would an emissary of death. How surprising we are, even to ourselves. Our ranks bristled with swords drawn, horses trembling at the ready. And then, Antony’s lines far away seemed to split in half—one side kept galloping west; the rest milled and then headed downhill, in our direction.

“Canidius!” I cried, searching for him. What had happened? I must know; he must tell me. But I could not find him.

The legionaries stood their ground, proceeding no farther. A horn sounded. Retreat!

Retreat? Why must we retreat? The troops around me began falling back, but I moved off to one side and let them pass. Soon Canidius and the front ranks were marching past, but still I stood aside, waiting.

I recognized Antony’s bay warhorse, flashing with all his trappings, heading down the hill, followed by his mounted troops. He was not running away, but he was moving fast. I signaled to him as he approached; he motioned to me to fall in with him, and I did. His face was set grimly ahead, and he barely looked at me.

“Antony, what is it?” I cried, hoping he would hear me and be able to respond.

He did not answer, just leaned forward, urging his horse.

“What has happened?” I called again, leaning sideways toward him.

“Amyntas has deserted,” he shouted, “taking his cavalry with him.”

Amyntas and the Galatian riders! The backbone of the cavalry!

I almost fell off my own horse, so shocked I forgot to grip with my knees. This was a body blow!

“No attack,” he said. “We were betrayed by our own forces.”

So the river was still secure! Octavian could drink all he wished, in safety.

We galloped back into our camp, with only the remaining Roman cavalry to accompany us. Canidius and Dellius were left to deal with the untried legions, who would tramp back into camp behind us.

Antony retreated into his wooden headquarters, brusquely fending off questions and entreaties. Eros went in after him, and was turned out. He emerged looking distressed. Outside the headquarters a crowd of soldiers gathered; they were bewildered and wanted their Imperator to explain what had happened. Even Sosius was not admitted, and stood angrily by the door, insulted.

Antony had to come out and face them. I must see to it. I strode through the crowd, my helmet tucked under my arm, using my shield to push the men aside. I tried the door and found it bolted from inside.

“Open this door!” I said, loudly enough to carry through all the rooms, to reach him wherever he was.

There was no answer.

“Open this door, in the name of the Queen of Egypt!” I commanded.

Still silence. I hammered on the door, and finally I heard a sound inside.

“The Queen of Egypt demands to enter these headquarters,” I repeated.

“The request of the Queen must be deferred for now.” Antony’s voice was muffled and sounded far away.

How dare he? In front of all these men, to deny me entrance! Maybe the slogans were right; maybe he
was
losing his mind!

“The Queen will enter!” I insisted, loudly.

“Who?” he asked. “Who will enter?”

“Your wife,” I finally said. “Your wife asks leave to enter.”

Only then did he unfasten the door and admit me. The crowd cheered; I was too surprised to be angry.

Once inside, Antony sat stonelike on a chair, grasping its arms and staring straight ahead. I stood in front of him and waited for him to raise his head and look at me. Instead he stubbornly kept it at the same level.

“Antony!” I said. “This is not seemly. You cannot hide in here.”

Finally he spoke. “Can I not have a moment’s privacy? I must have a few moments to myself.”

“Not
these
moments,” I said. “Not immediately after the—”

“The battle? What battle? The Battle That Never Was. Or perhaps you mean the desertion! Is that what you mean?” His voice was as bitter as the waters of the Dead Sea I had tasted long ago.

“Whatever it is, you must say some words to your men. They need it; they are depending on you.”

“What, to make sense of it for them? Shall I tell them what it means? The best horsemen, gone to Octavian? And that it was Amyntas—Amyntas, the prince I chose, and elevated, and made what he was!” Now the pain beneath the anger began to emerge. “Perhaps I cannot choose; perhaps I lack the ability to discern a man’s character. I trusted Artavasdes—and I trusted Amyntas.”

“When someone wishes to deceive, it is hard to penetrate his screen.” I remembered Amyntas’s little show of pulling out his dagger and demonstrating how eager he was to stab Octavian. I tried to be soothing, but Antony’s words had a ring of truth to them. It had taken him a long time to finally see through Octavian, and only because Octavian had obligingly dropped his mask. And then there were Plancus and Titius.

He lifted his chin and looked at me, but I did not like the expression in his eyes.

“They say I was a fool to trust
you
,” he said. “That all you have ever wanted me for was my power to bestow territory on you.” He laughed, but not in mirth. “And I have done that, indeed. The Donations—now even this war—”

First I had had to humble myself in public and address him only as his wife before the troops—and now this. I tried to remember that he was in shock from what had just happened, and in his pain was lashing out at anything near. Still, it hurt that he could think it even for a moment.

Oh, he was just angry, we tell ourselves when someone blurts out something he later apologizes for. But a word, once spoken, lingers forever; to keep peace we pretend to forget, but we never do. Strange that a spoken word can have such lasting power when words carved on stone monuments vanish in spite of all our efforts to preserve them. What we would lose persists, lodged in our minds, and what we would keep is lost to water, moths, moss.

“It grieves me that you would think that,” I finally said, stiffly. “I think I have lost more in this association than you!” There, now I had attacked back, when I had meant to hold my tongue. “I have spent a fortune, and my entire country is at risk!”

“Always your country! Do you think of nothing else?”

Outside I could hear the sounds of the crowd. He would have to address them soon.

“I am a queen,” I said. “And that is what queens must do.”

Now he stood up, and grabbed my shoulders, twisting his fingers against the bone. “And I thought you were my wife, and held that office highest of all things.”

“Is that why you would open the door to the wife, but not to the Queen? Why must you make it a contest between the two? They are the same person.” I wished he would let go of my shoulders. “And you are the Imperator, and must go back to your men! What we as husband and wife have to say must wait.”

“Ah yes.” He kept squeezing my shoulders. “This defeat is decisive for the land operations,” he said. “I do not—I do not—” He looked close to tears. “I do not know the next step. I cannot see ahead of me.”

“They don’t need to know the next step!” I told him. “They only need to know that their leader is himself, and that they may have confidence in him. Antony, if your men lose confidence in you, then the battle is lost in advance.”

“What battle? What battle?” he kept saying. “There can be no battle.”

“You do not know that. Wait. Sleep. Think. But, for the love of Hercules, go out and speak to them!”

Now he dropped his hands from my aching shoulders. “Yes. I will.”

As if some spirit had entered him, he went outside and talked to his men. I heard his voice, loud and sure, heard the cheers and laughter. He was convincing, then. I felt relief flow over me like a mountain stream, cool and refreshing. There might still be hope.

That night, desolation settled on him. He had asked Sosius and Ahenobarbus to attend us after supper to discuss the state of the fleet, now that the land operations were suspended. We had lost several ships in the attempted escape, and poor Tarcondimotus of upper Cilicia had been killed in the action.

“You see,” I said, “not all the client kings are disloyal. He gave up his life. And so far from home.” It seemed sad that he had met his end on the sea, since his country was landlocked. I also regretted comparing him to a snake, if only in my own mind.

Antony shook his head. “Poor devil.”

“If we give up now, it will have been in vain.” I feared that Antony was close to despair.

“So there must be more deaths to redeem his?” He looked around. “Where
are
they? It grows late. And I am—tired.” He poured out a big cup of wine.

We waited silently, and then after what seemed forever, and a second cup of wine for Antony, Sosius appeared. His usually calm face was strained.

“Welcome,” said Antony. “I will try not to keep you very late. As soon as Ahenobarbus appears, we—”

“He won’t appear, sir,” said Sosius, his voice shaking. “He’s gone.”

“To Octavian?” Antony did not sound surprised, but resigned. That was more alarming to me than Ahenobarbus’s departure. “He left a note?” He sounded as if it were a courtesy note for a dinner party.

“Yes, sir. Here it is.” He held it out with hands that trembled slightly.

“Hmm.” Antony broke the seal and read. “Like a true sailor, he has embarked before the tide has completely ebbed.” He tossed the letter on his table. “Read.”

I let Sosius look first, then I took it. Ahenobarbus had had himself rowed across as soon as darkness fell. But there was something odd about the letter; it had a note beyond political leave-taking.

“Had his cough worsened?” I asked.

Sosius had to think. “Why—yes. He was in bed early last night, and at dinner he ate little because of the cough.”

Perhaps he had crawled away to die. Perhaps he thought Octavian would be more merciful to his heirs in Rome if he made peace with him. Perhaps—

“His possessions are still in his quarters?” Antony asked suddenly.

“Yes, everything,” said Sosius. “Even his favorite brass-bound trunk.”

Only a dying man would do that.

“I will send them all after him,” said Antony.

“Sir!” protested Sosius. “A man should pay some price for desertion!”

Antony shrugged. “But not his brass-bound trunk.” He laughed thinly. Then he poured more wine.

“Sosius, if you wish to follow”—he nodded solemnly—“do so now.”

“Sir!” Sosius was shocked.

“Because, henceforth, if I catch any deserters, I am going to execute them as a warning. This is becoming a dangerous hemorrhage, and I will have to take drastic measures to stanch it.” He lifted his cup. “But you, friend, I will give safe passage.”

“Sir!”

“Very well. But this is your last chance.” Antony took a long swallow.

The wine…oh, dear gods! Let us not have another episode like Pergamon! I watched him carefully.

But he seemed dead sober, as if the shocks of the day had cut him so deep even the wine could not numb him further.

“I think we must turn our attention back to the ships,” Antony said. “After the attempted escape, what is their state?”

Sosius gave a quick tally: There were more ships than able oarsmen to man them, and the remaining rowers were in a bad way, both in body and spirit. Their bodies suffered from the food shortage—our only source of grain was bags hauled by Greek villagers over the mountains—and their spirits from the inactivity, inexperience, illness, and failed escape.

“A deadly combination, sir,” said Sosius.

“By the gods, man, can they still sit and row?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“Then row they shall,” said Antony grimly. “And soon.”

At last we could retire to sleep, the faithful Eros and Charmian silently preparing us. Once we were alone, we still did not speak. Words seemed futile. Antony lay on his side, turning away from me.

Just when my weary mind finally began to release its grip on this day, and the pinpricks of light from the hanging lantern were starting to blur, another message arrived. Antony sat up and read it in the faint light.

Rhoemetalces of Thrace and Marcus Junius Silanus, a commander, had slipped away under cover of darkness to join Octavian.

“You have only seen him win. You don’t know a man until you see him lose.” Olympos had once said those words, casually, about a chariot racer I had wished to reward by appointing him overseer of the royal stables. Now they haunted me.

You don’t know a man until you see him lose
.

Antony’s despair, his fits and starts, his irresolution after the second cavalry attack failed, were worse than the defeat itself. I watched in disbelief as this man, whom I thought I had known down to the bone, seemed to break up like a ship caught on the rocks.

Prince Iamblichus of Emesa and Quintus Postumius, a senator, tried to sneak away, but were caught, and executed by Antony as a warning. That stopped the desertions among the higher ranks, but how much longer would it be until the common soldiers aped their officers and began deserting themselves?

We were constantly tormented by the messages and slogans fired into our camp, all of them insulting and most urging our men to desert. Someone—Octavian himself?—was thoughtful enough to send a copy of a poem written by Horace celebrating our ignominious sea retreat and Amyntas’s desertion. It must have been Octavian, since the poem was written to his intimate, M aecenas. Who else would have had a copy of it?

It seemed they were rejoicing in Rome, bringing out their best wine.

Both the truths and the untruths made me sick. Amyntas had not deserted because he was disgusted by the sight of my pavilion (what pavilion?) or my eunuchs (what eunuchs?); nor was Antony my slave. But we
had
been forced to effect a “pitiful retreat” back into the gulf, and…

Should I show it to Antony? It would have fired the old Antony; first he would have laughed, then he would have set out to punish the taunters. But this new Antony—this stranger,
vanquished by land and sea, his regal robes of purple shifts for miserable weeds of woe—
would it break him completely? I folded up the offensive poem and hid it. I was afraid to take the chance.

Swelter: to be faint from heat. To be oppressed by heat. To sweat profusely
. That is what we did, at Actium in July. July. The month of Julius. On Caesar’s birthday, the twelfth of that month, we held a sweltering dinner of commemoration, in which sweltering guests ate meager food, served by sweltering servants under a moon that even seemed to emit heat. Yes, a hot moon, its beams burning, searing the scum-rimmed waters of the gulf, making their stink rise.

The food on our plates was scant enough. There were some boiled beans, some toasted cattails (I had remembered the toasted papyrus stalks in Egypt and tried a substitute), moldy bread, and the ever-sustaining fish. And wine so sour it made the mouth pucker.

I thought of Maecenas and Horace drinking their delicate amber Caecuban, somewhere in Rome.

“Why, I wager even Octavian’s pretty little pages are drinking Falernian,” said Dellius, echoing my own thoughts. He was frowning into his cup. “If he brought them with him, that is.”

“He probably never travels without them,” I said. Octavian, like many Romans, evidently kept what were called
deliciae
for his pleasures. But of course he felt free to insult Mardian as a eunuch!

Dellius took another swallow of the wine, making unpleasant noises with his mouth to indicate his suffering. I tried not to dwell on the enemy camp, with its ample supplies for the men and dainties for the officers.

The last of Antony to change was his public self, and he was able to preside over the gathering in his old manner. The moonlight falling on his tousled hair showed a head still held high, dark eyes alert to all that passed, white teeth ready to flash in laughter. Sweat gleamed on the cords of his thick neck, and on the sinews of his forearms as he held his cup, but the heat did not wilt him.

“To the god Caesar,” he said, raising his goblet.

Everyone drank.

But the unspoken thought must have hovered in everyone’s mind: What would Caesar do in this position? It was unthinkable that he would not be able to extricate himself and force a victory. But how? How?

“And to his true son, Ptolemy Caesar,” Antony continued. He raised his cup again. The others followed.

We must not lose sight of that; it was Caesar’s son’s heritage we were defending. Surely Caesar himself would lend us aid! I thought.

I felt unwell, unsteady and weak. I kept telling myself that it was merely from the near-starvation rations we were on. I prayed it was nothing more. Ahenobarbus had indeed died only a few days after his departure. Even the highest-ranking were not immune from the diseases sweeping through the troops.

Gathered about us were our officers and about twenty senators, none of them looking robust. I heard a cough here and there, discreetly muffled. In the general discomfort of the camp, togas had long since been laid aside, and the senators were wearing only tunics, as were the military officers. Without their distinctive dress, they were hard to tell apart.

I picked at my food; starved as I was, I had no appetite. The moon seemed to be glaring down at me malevolently.

“When do we leave?” asked a senator suddenly. “It seems that we must move, do
something
.”

“And what do you suggest, Senator?” Antony asked blandly.

“Run the entire army over them. Send all nineteen legions against them—overrun their camp.”

“Ah! If only we could. But they are surrounded by stout defenses.”

“Then batter them down!”

“I am afraid I did not bring siege machines.”

“Wouldn’t have mattered if you did,” I heard someone muttering from the back. “They didn’t last long in Parthia.”

“We will indeed do something,” Antony assured them. “But we must be sure it is the right thing. We cannot afford a mistake—now.”

Men were shaking their heads, as if they were thinking,
Yes, you’ve made enough already
. But most likely they were all in their own dream worlds, making perfect military plans—even the non-soldiers. Especially the non-soldiers. It is impossible to get a consensus from so many people, which is why great commanders have to act alone, trusting to their lonely inspiration.

“Pity about Marcus Licinius Crassus,” someone dared to say.

Crassus, commander of our garrison in Crete and of the four legions guarding Cyrenaica, had gone over to Octavian.

Antony handled it well. “Crassus changed for political reasons, but—what a tribute for us!—his troops did not follow suit. Yes, they refused to be disloyal, and thus Cyrenaica is still secure. I have appointed Lucius Pinarius Scarpus, a relative of the great Caesar’s, in his place there.” He lifted his goblet again. “Caesar, you are with us still!”

“Where was he in Corinth?” someone asked. Agrippa had succeeded in ousting Nasidius from his command there; we had now lost the entire region.

Still Antony would not be provoked. “Everyone knows Caesar was not a naval man,” he said, with a smile.

“General Atratinus in Sparta has gone over,” someone else said, “and I have been informed that Berytus has thrown off the Ptolemaic yoke.” He turned to me accusingly.

I felt a flash of anger at his taunt, but I did not show it. “Berytus was always a troubled spot,” I finally said. “Such places take advantage of unsettled conditions. But it is temporary.” I paused. “Quintus Didius in Syria, with his three legions, is still our loyal governor, and will address the problem.”

Forcing myself to smile as I sipped the wretched wine, I knew the real difference between our camp and Octavian’s was not the quality of the wine but the bickering, questioning, and rivalry between our leaders. Our lack of consensus was glaring, whereas in Octavian’s headquarters they were probably all of one mind. This put us at a grave disadvantage.
There is a strength in the union even of very sorry men
, Homer had said. By the same token, even the strongest men are undone by quarrels.

“Have you noticed,” someone asked snidely, “that no one seems to be crossing the lines to come over here?”

A swarm of insects flew overhead, buzzing and circling our torches. Some were burnt, making crackling noises. I nodded to our attendants to start fanning to waft them away. It was that still time of evening, before the nightly breeze came down from the mountains.

The dinner ended early, to my relief. I was pleased that we had managed to honor Caesar even here, but any gathering was now unpleasant. The guests wandered away, back to their tents; no one wanted to linger by the water’s edge.

But Antony and I did, turning to see our fleet waiting, like chained animals, on the moonlit waters. We stood side by side on the banks and watched.

“You answered them well tonight,” I finally ventured to say. “It is unfortunate that we must have these gatherings.”

He sighed, discarding the mask of the hearty man he had just played. “If we did not, worse rumors would arise. They would say—oh, the gods know what! I must show my face on a regular basis, attempt to placate them.”

“And listen to them.”

“Yes, listen to them. Both what they say and what they do not say.”

“I think the latter was louder tonight.”

“Oh yes, I sense their mood. General discontent, fear, panic—nothing good!” He gave a quiet laugh, and tightened his arm about my waist. “You are so thin. Are you feeling well?”

“Yes,” I lied. No need to add to his worries. “It has been a long time since you put your arm there; you have just forgotten.” He had kept away from me, living in an abstinence that would have shocked Octavian. But when the spirits are crushed, the appetites flee.

“I would never forget,” he said. “Do not take my absence for something willful.”

I leaned my head back against his arm to show him I meant nothing by my remark. “I know,” I finally said.

The sacred month of July dragged past, and then we were in Sextilis, still sitting, still sweltering. Food stores had fallen further and were now failing in earnest; every day more dead men were carried from the ships and camp, and the dull
thump-thump
of dirty water against the hulls of the ships beat an ominous rhythm. It was dirty because of the human refuse continually dumped overboard. Moss and slime grew on the timbers, birds nested under the inactive oars, and we feared that if we did not move soon, the ships would be completely unseaworthy.

Antony spent many hours staring at his maps and reading reports, breaking off to stare glumly into space. We spoke little; people confined together in inactivity have a tendency to lapse into silence.

I never regained my sense of well-being. Perhaps I had a touch of the illness attacking the men; but I kept it from Antony as well as I could. Only when he was gone from headquarters did I allow myself to lie on my cot, wrapped in a sheet, sometimes feeling a chill pass over me even in this ovenlike heat.

Charmian would kneel near me and smooth my hair, wipe my face with damp cloths.

“We will not tell the Imperator,” she would say, with a wink.

“No,” I said. “We will not tell him.” The gods forbid that he should know!

Toward the end of Sextilis, with the break in the weather, something seemed to change in Antony. He flung off the black clouds that had shrouded him like those of Strongyle, and reclaimed his old self, wrenching it by sheer self-will out of the mire of despondence.

“It is time,” he said grimly one night.

Everything else was the same: the same guttering lamplight, the same grumbling and aching stomachs, the same lines of defense. Why now?

“I will call a council of war. The situation cannot continue.”

At last! At last! The stalemate would be broken. Antony had determined on his course. Now, by all the gods, let it be a wise one!

“Yes,” I said softly, rising and coming to his side. I put my hand on his shoulder; he almost jumped. We had touched each other so seldom of late. Finally he reached up and took my hand in his; his felt so unfamiliar. But I squeezed it nonetheless.

“I think it must be by sea,” he said simply. “All our land routes are too dangerous.”

“By sea?” For so long the two had weighed equally.