Ahenobarbus drew a long breath, then continued. “Egypt,” he said, letting the word fall into a profound silence, “is more an appanage of Rome than any other eastern kingdom. By that I mean it is Rome’s close cousin, too entwined with Rome’s destiny to be of any danger. Egypt keeps no standing army, and has no ideas of conquest. The territories I have ceded to Egypt in Rome’s name are better governed by Egypt, as all of them once belonged to Egypt for centuries. While King Ptolemy Caesar and Queen Cleopatra are busy establishing stable governments in these places, no tribute will be paid to Rome, but tribute will recommence at some date in the future.”
“What a comfort,” said Messala Corvinus.
Now the peroration, thought Octavian. It will be short, a mercy. Ahenobarbus reads well, but a letter can never replace a speech given in person. Especially by someone like Antonius, a very good orator.
“All Rome really wants from the East,” Ahenobarbus thundered, “are trade and tribute! My dispositions will enhance both.”
He sat down to cheers and applause, though the three hundred who had deserted Antony after the Alexandrian triumph and Donations did not cheer or applaud. Antony had lost them for good with that last section of his letter, which all true Romans deemed evidence of Cleopatra’s hold over him. It didn’t take much imagination to deduce that what remained of Anatolia and Syrian Asia were to go to that wonderful appanage, that close cousin, Egypt.
Octavian rose, cuddling the folds of toga on his left shoulder with his left hand, moving until he found that ray of sunlight coming through a small hole in the roof. Once found, it lit up his hair brilliantly, and as it moved, he moved. What no one knew save Agrippa was that he had caused the hole to be made.
“What an astonishing document,” he said after the salutations were out of the way. “Marcus Antonius, that fabulous authority on the East! A native of the place, one is tempted to say. In nature that might be so, since he is much addicted to lying on couches popping grapes into his mouth—liquid as well as solid—much addicted to scantily clad dancing-girls, and much addicted to all things Egyptian. But then again, I may be wrong, for I am no kind of authority on the East. Um—let me see…How many years is it since Philippi, after which battle Antonius left for the East? Nine years, or thereabouts…In the time since then, he has made three brief visits to Italia, two of them involving a trip to Rome. Only once did he remain in Rome for any length of time. That was four years ago, after Tarentum—you remember, conscript fathers, surely! Upon his return to the East after that, he dumped my sister, his wife, on Corcyra. She was heavily pregnant, but it was up to the good Gaius Fonteius to bring her home.
“Very well, nine years do indeed make Marcus Antonius an expert on the East, I have to admit that. For four years he has kept his Roman wife at home, while keeping his other wife, the Queen of Beasts, so close by his side that he cannot exist long without her there. She holds pride of place in Antonius’s array of client-kings, for she at least has demonstrated her strength, her determination. Alas, I cannot say the same for the rest of his client-kings—a sorry lot. Amyntas the clerk, Tarcondimotus the brigand, Herod the savage, Antonius’s son in-law Pythodorus the slimy Greek, Cleon the brigand, Polemon the sycophant, Archelaus Sisenes the son of his mistress—oh, I could go on and on!”
“Go off and off instead, Octavianus!” Poplicola yelled.
“Caesar! I am Caesar. Yes, a sorry lot. It is true that tribute is beginning to flow at last from Asia Province, Bithynia, and Roman Syria, but where is the tribute from any of Antonius’s sorry lot of client-kings? Especially that dazzling jewel, the Queen of Beasts? One presumes her money is better spent on buying potions to feed Antonius, for I cannot imagine that Antonius whole and intact would give away Rome’s spoils as a gift to Egypt. Nor give away the entire world to the son of the Queen of Beasts and a pathetic slave.”
No one interjected; Octavian paused, positioned himself in the light properly, and waited patiently for a comment that did not come. On, then, to speak of the legions and offer his own solution to the problem of “going native”—shuffle legions on garrison duty around from province to province.
“I do not intend to make your day a total ordeal, my fellow senators, so I will conclude by saying that if Marcus Antonius’s legions—his legions!—have gone native, why does he expect me to find them retirement land in Italia? I would imagine that they would be happier if Antonius found them land in Syria. Or Egypt, where it seems he intends to settle himself permanently.”
For the first time since he had entered the House ten years ago, Octavian found himself heartily applauded; even some of Antony’s four hundred clapped, while his own adherents and the three hundred neutrals gave him a standing ovation. And no one, not even Ahenobarbus, had dared to boo or hiss. He had cut too close to the bone for that.
He left the House on the arm of Gaius Fonteius, who had become suffect consul on the Kalends of May; his own consulship he had laid down on the second day of January, thus imitating Antony the year before. There would be more suffect consuls, but Fonteius was to continue in office until the end of the year, a signal honor. The consulship had turned into a triumviral gift.
As if he could read Octavian’s mind, Fonteius sighed and said, “It is a pity that each year has so many consuls these days. Can you see Cicero abdicating so that someone else got a turn?”
“Or Divus Julius, for that matter,” Octavian said with a grin. “I do agree, despite my own abdication. But letting more men be consul removes the glare from a long-term triumvirate.”
“At least you cannot be accused of hungering for power.”
“While ever I am Triumvir, I have power.”
“What will you do when the triumvirate expires?”
“Which it does at the end of this year. Why, I’ll do something I don’t think Antonius will do—I’ll cease to use the title and put my curule chair on the front bench. My auctoritas and dignitas are so unassailable that I won’t suffer for lacking a title.” He cast Fonteius a shrewd glance. “Where do you go from here?”
“Up onto the Carinae to visit Octavia,” Fonteius said easily.
“Then I’ll go with you, if you don’t object.”
“I’d be delighted, Caesar.”
Their progress through the Forum was hindered by Octavian’s usual crowds, but when he gestured to the twenty-four lictors he and Fonteius had between them to plough on regardless, the German bodyguard closed ranks before and behind, and the walk proceeded at a brisk pace.
Passing the residence of the Rex Sacrorum on the Velia, Gaius Fonteius spoke again. “Caesar, do you think Antonius will ever come back to Rome?”
“You think of Octavia,” said Octavian, well aware how Fonteius felt about her.
“Yes, I do, but more than her. Can’t he see that he’s losing ground more and more rapidly? I know senators who became physically ill when they learned of the Alexandrian triumph and the Donations.”
“He’s not the old Antonius, that’s all.”
“Do you honestly believe what you say about Cleopatra’s hold over him?”
“I confess it started out as a political ploy, but it’s almost as if the wish were father to the thought. His behavior is hard to credit under any other circumstances than Cleopatra’s hold, yet for the life of me I can’t find out why she has that hold. Above all things I am a pragmatist, so I tend to dismiss stratagems like drugs as impossible.” He smiled. “However, I am not an authority on the East, so maybe such potions do exist.”
“It began on his last journey, if not before,” Fonteius said. “He poured his heart out to me one stormy night on Corcyra—his loneliness, his rudderlessness, his conviction that he had lost his luck. Even then I think Cleopatra gnawed at him, but not in any dangerous way.” He snorted his contempt. “A clever piece of work, the Queen of Egypt! I didn’t like her. But then, she had no fondness for me either. Romans call her a harpy, but I think of her more as a siren—she has the most beautiful speaking voice. It charm
s the senses, it makes one believe everything she says.”
“Interesting,” said Octavian thoughtfully. “Did you know that they have struck coins with their images on both sides?”
“Together?”
“Aye, together.”
“Then he is utterly lost.”
“So I think. But how do I convince those addlepated senators of it? I need evidence, Fonteius, evidence!”
WAR
32 B.C. to 30 B.C.
23
“‘Your acts remain unratified,’” Cleopatra said, reading the letter from Ahenobarbus aloud. “‘I began hammering at the House the moment I became senior consul, but Octavianus has a tame tribune of the plebs, Marcus Nonius Balbus of that obnoxious Picentine family, who keeps vetoing everything I try to do for you. Then when Sosius took the fasces from me on the Kalends of February, he moved a motion of censure against Octavianus, whom he accused of blocking your eastern reforms. Three guesses what happened next: Nonius vetoed the motion.’” She put the letter down, gold eyes fixed on Antony with that cold yet fierce flame that says the lioness is about to pounce. “The only way you can regain your standing in Rome is to march against Octavianus.”
“If I do that, I’m the aggressor in a civil war. I’d be a traitor and declared hostis.”
“Rubbish! Sulla did it. So did Caesar. Both of them wound up ruling Rome. What’s hostis, when it’s boiled down? A decree of outlawry that has no teeth.”
“Sulla and Caesar ruled illegally, as dictators.”
“How one rules doesn’t matter, Antonius!” she snapped.
“I abolished the dictatorship,” Antony said stubbornly.
“Then when you’ve defeated Octavianus, bring it back into law! Just as a temporary expedient, my dear,” she wheedled. “Oh, surely you can see, Antonius, that if Octavianus isn’t stopped, he’ll move that your acts in the East be set aside—and no brave tribune of the plebs will veto him! After that, he can appoint his own clients to reign in all the kingdoms of the East.” She drew a breath, her eyes glowing. “He will also move that Egypt be annexed as a province of Rome.”
“He wouldn’t dare! Nor will I permit the setting aside of my arrangements,” Antony said between his teeth.
“You’d have to go to Rome personally to stiffen the Antonian backbones—they’re rather sagging these days,” she said derisively, “and to make that journey, you’d best have an army with you.”
“Octavianus will collapse. He can’t keep on vetoing.”
There was just enough doubt in Antony’s voice to tell Cleopatra she was starting to win the relentless argument. She had abandoned her plan to coax Antony into an outright invasion of Italy; he would listen to Octavian as the enemy, but never, it seemed, Rome. Alexandria and Egypt had burrowed into his heart, but alongside Rome rather than in place of Rome. Well, so be it. It didn’t matter what the motive was, as long as Antony finally moved. If he didn’t, she was indeed the nothing he had called her. Her agents in Rome reported that Octavian had settled all his veterans on good land in Italy and Italian Gaul, and that he enjoyed the approval of most Italians. But as yet he couldn’t dominate the Senate beyond interposing a tribunician veto; between the four hundred loyal Antonians and the three hundred neutrals, Antony still had the edge on him. But was that edge enough?
“All right,” said Antony several days later, goaded beyond endurance, “I’ll move my armies and fleets closer to Italia. Ephesus.” He glanced at Cleopatra from under his brows. “If, that is, I have the money. It’s your war, Pharaoh, so you pay for it.”
“I’ll happily pay—provided I have the co-command. I want to attend every war council, I want to have my say, I want equal status with you. That means my opinion will count for more than any Roman opinion except yours.”
An intense weariness overwhelmed him; why did there always have to be conditions? Was he never to be free of Cleopatra the dominatrix? She could be so entrancing, so soft, such good company! But every time he thought that side of her had won, up reared her uglier head. She thirsted for power more than any man he had ever known, from Caesar to Cassius. And all for Caesar’s son! Gifted beyond imagining, yet not, he sensed, after power. What would she do when Caesarion declined this Cleopatra-sculpted destiny? She knew nothing about the boy, nothing.
Nor did she know anything about Roman men, knowing only two Romans intimately. Neither Caesar nor Antonius was typical, as she would find out if she insisted on having the co-command. His sense of fair play said she ought to have the co-command, funding the enterprise, but none of his colleagues would accord her that privilege. His mouth opened with the intent of telling her what would inevitably happen, then closed with the words unuttered. Her face bore that flinty look that said she would hear no argument; a brewing storm roiled in her eyes. If he tried to tell her what experience would prove, they would have yet one more quarrel in too many. Was there a man ever born who could deal successfully with a masterful woman owning nigh-unlimited power? Antony doubted it. Perhaps dead Caesar, but he had known her when she was very young, and had established an ascendancy over her that she didn’t know how to destroy. Now, years later, she was set in stone. Far worse, she had seen him, Antony, at his nadir, sodden with wine to the point of coma, and had interpreted that episode as a demonstration of a core weakness. Yes, he could cow her by reminding her that she had no army or navy to achieve her ends, but the next day she would bounce back and start the nagging all over again.
I am caught, he thought, tangled in the web of her weaving, and there is no way to break free without abandoning my own bid for power. To some extent we want the same thing: the destruction of Octavianus. But she would go much further, attempt to destroy Rome herself. That I will not let her do, yet right at this moment I cannot oppose her. I must bide my time, appear to give her everything she wants. Including the co-command.
“I agree,” he said, sounding decisive. Let everything be as Cleopatra wanted—for the time being. Experience would teach her that a command tent of Roman men would spurn her. Yet—could he spurn her? Living with her, sleeping in the same bed, could he spurn her? Time would show him that too.
“You want the co-command,” he said. “You want to be equal to me in the war councils.” He sobbed, suppressed it. “I agree,” he repeated. And finally burned his boats. Let everything be as Cleopatra wanted; perhaps then, he would have peace.
He sat down at once to write to Ahenobarbus, using his now defunct title, Triumvir, and spelling out his demands from the Senate and People of Rome: complete authority in the East, which was to be absolutely divorced from senatorial supervision in any way; the right to levy tribute as he saw fit; the appointment of client-sovereigns; command of any legions Rome might send east of the Drina River; ratification of all his actiones; and one other ratification—the lands and titles he had granted to King Ptolemy Caesar, Queen Cleopatra, King Ptolemy Alexander Helios, Queen Cleopatra Selene, and King Ptolemy Philadelphus.
“I have appointed King Ptolemy Caesar King of Kings and ruler of the world. No one can gainsay me. Furthermore, I would remind the Senate and People of Rome that King Ptolemy Caesar is the legitimate son of Divus Julius, and his heir at law. I want this formally acknowledged.”
Cleopatra was entranced; the ugly head vanished in a trice. “Oh, my dearest Antonius, they’ll shake in their shoes!”
“No, they’ll shit themselves, my lovely lady. Now give me a thousand kisses.”
She gave them ardently, afire with her victory. Now things would happen! Antony was going to war; his letter to the Senate was an ultimatum.
Two documents sped to Rome: the letter, and the last will and testament of Marcus Antonius. Gaius Sosius lodged the will with the Vestal Virgins, custodian of all Roman citizen wills; a man’s will was sacred, not to be opened until after his death, and the Vestals had kept men’s wills since the time of the Kings. But when Ahenobarbus split the seal on Antony’s letter and read it, he dropped the scroll as if it were red hot. Some time p
assed before he could hand it voicelessly to Sosius.
“Ye gods!” Sosius whispered, dropping it in his turn. “Is he mad? No Roman has the authority to do a half of this! Caesar’s bastard, King of Rome? That’s what he means, Gnaeus, that’s what he means. And Cleopatra ruling in the bastard’s name? Oh, he must be mad!”
“Either that, or permanently drugged.” Ahenobarbus looked decisive. “I won’t read this out, Gaius, I can’t. I’m going to burn it and give a speech instead. Jupiter! What ammunition it would make for Octavianus! He’d swing the entire Senate onto his side without needing to lift a finger.”
“You don’t suppose,” Sosius said hesitantly, “that Antonius designed this to do just that? It’s a declaration of war.”
“Rome doesn’t need a civil war,” Ahenobarbus said tiredly, “though I suspect that Cleopatra would love one. Don’t you see? Antonius didn’t write this, Cleopatra did.”
Sosius sat and trembled. “What do we do, Ahenobarbus?”
“As I said. We burn the letter, and I give the speech of my life to those pathetic dotards in the Senate. No one must ever know how complete Cleopatra’s hold over Antonius is.”
“Defend Antonius to the hilt, yes. But how can we prise him loose of Cleopatra? He’s too far away—oh, the wretched East! It’s like chasing a rainbow. Two years ago everything looked as if prosperity was coming back—the tax farmers and businessmen were ecstatic. But in the last months I’ve noticed a change,” said Sosius. “Antonius’s client-kings are moving in, and moving Roman commerce out. And it’s eighteen months since the Treasury had any eastern tributes.”
“Cleopatra,” Ahenobarbus said grimly. “It’s Cleopatra. If we can’t get Antonius away from the woman, we’re lost.”