Octavian had discovered a love of children in himself that, while it couldn’t rival Octavia’s, was strong and protective. When Antyllus tried to run away and was brought back, he wasn’t punished. And whenever Octavian was home for dinner, the entire nursery participated in the meal. Since Vipsania’s addition made twelve of them, Octavia hadn’t exaggerated when she had told her brother that she needed a second pair of motherly hands.
For Livia Drusilla, it was time to plan which child would marry which; she cornered Octavian and forced him to listen.
“Of course Antyllus and Iullus will have to find brides elsewhere,” she said, that competent, positive look on her face that told Octavian he wasn’t supposed to argue. “Tiberius can marry Vipsania. Her fortune is immense, and he likes her.”
“And Drusus?” he asked.
“Tonilla. They like each other too.” She cleared her throat and looked stern. “Marcellus should marry Julia.”
He frowned. “They’re first cousins, Livia Drusilla. Divus Julius didn’t approve of first cousins marrying.”
“Your daughter, Caesar, is an uncrowned queen. No matter who her husband is, if he isn’t to be a part of the family, will be a threat to you. He who marries Caesar’s daughter is your heir.”
“You’re right, as always.” He sighed. “Very well, let it be Marcellus and Julia.”
“Antonia is taken care of—Lucius Ahenobarbus. Not the match I would have chosen, but she was in her father’s hand when the betrothal contract was drawn up, and you’ve promised to honor it.”
“And Atia’s daughter, Marcia?” He still hated thinking about her and his mother’s treachery.
“I leave that to you.”
“Then she’ll marry a nobody, preferably a provincial. Maybe even a mere socius. After all, Antonius married a daughter to a socius, Pythodorus of Tralles. Which leaves Marcella.”
“I thought of Agrippa for her.”
“Agrippa? He’s almost old enough to be her father!”
“I know that, silly! But she’s in love with him, haven’t you noticed? Moons and sighs and spends all day looking at the bust of him she bought in the market.”
“It won’t last. Agrippa’s not right for a young girl.”
“Gerrae! She’s dark, Attica was mousy—she’s cuddly, Attica was angular—she’s gorgeous, Attica was—er, undistinguished. And it will elevate him to the ranks of Rome’s First Family, where he belongs. How else is he to get there?”
He knew when he was beaten. “Very well, my dear. Marcella shall marry Agrippa. But not until she’s eighteen, which will give her another year to fall out of love with him. If she should, Livia Drusilla, the marriage will not take place, so we won’t mention it for the time being. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly,” she purred.
Short of money but trusting to get some from the client-kings, Octavian sailed to Ephesus, reaching it in May at the same time as his legions and cavalry arrived.
All the client-kings were there, including Herod, oozing charm and virtue.
“I knew you’d win, Caesar, which is why I resisted all Marcus Antonius’s blandishments and bullying,” he said, fatter and more toad-like than ever.
Octavian eyed him with amusement. “Oh, no one can deny that you’re a sharp fellow,” he said. “I suppose you want rewards?”
“Of course, but none that won’t benefit Rome.”
“Name them.”
“The balsam gardens of Jericho, the bitumen fisheries of the Palus Asphaltites, Galilaea, Idumaea, both sides of the Jordanus, and the coast of Your Sea from the river Eleutherus to Gaza.”
“In other words, all of Coele Syria.”
“Yes. But your tribute will be paid the day it’s due, and my sons and grandsons will be sent to Rome to be educated as Romans. No client-king is more loyal than I, Caesar.”
“Or shrewder. All right, Herod, I agree to your terms.”
Archelaus Sisenes, whose contributions to Antony failed by and large to materialize, was allowed to keep Cappadocia, and was given Cilicia Tracheia, a part of Cleopatra’s grant. Amyntas of Galatia kept Galatia, but Paphlagonia was incorporated into the Roman province of Bithynia, while Pisidia and Lycaonia went to Asia Province. Polemon of Pontus, who had succeeded in safeguarding the eastern borders against the Medes and Parthians, was also let keep his kingdom, expanded to include Armenia Parva.
None of the rest fared nearly as well, and some lost their heads. Syria was to be a province of Rome all the way to the new borders of Judaea, but the cities of Tyre and Sidon were freed of direct supervision, in return for tribute. Malchus of Nabataea lost the bitumen, but nothing else; in return for what Octavian saw as leniency, Malchus was to watch the Egyptian fleets in the Sinus Arabicus and deal with any unusual activity there.
Cyprus was attached to Syria, Cyrenaica to Greece, Macedonia, and Crete. Cleopatra’s territory had shrunk to Egypt proper.
And in June Octavian and Statilius Taurus loaded the army aboard transports, their destination Pelusium, the entrance to Egypt. Auster, the south wind, was late in coming, so sailing was feasible. Cornelius Gallus was to approach Alexandria from Cyrenaica. All was in train for the final defeat of Cleopatra, Queen of Beasts.
27
Antony and Cleopatra ended in sailing together to Paraetonium. He had not yet left the Caesarion when Cassius Parmensis boarded it to tell them that the densely packed soldiers were drinking the water much faster than the praefectus fabrum had estimated. Therefore the whole fleet would have to put in at Paraetonium to top up the barrels.
Antony’s mood was better than Cleopatra had expected; there were no signs of that grey melancholy he had fallen into during those last months at Actium, nor did he have defeat on his mind.
“You just wait, my love,” he said to her jovially as the fleet prepared to sail from Paraetonium, its water barrels topped up and the soldiers’ bellies full of bread, something unavailable at sea. “You just wait. Pinarius can’t be far away. The moment he arrives, Lucius Cinna and I will be following you to Alexandria. By sea. Pinarius has enough transports to hold his twenty-four thousand men, and a good fleet to augment the Alexandrian one.” A hard kiss on her mouth, and he was gone, sentenced to kick his heels in Paraetonium until Pinarius hove in view.
Only two hundred miles to Alexandria and Caesarion—how much Cleopatra had missed them! All was not yet lost, she told herself; we can still win this war. In hindsight she could see that Antony was no admiral, but on land she believed he had a fighting chance. They would march to Pelusium and defeat Octavian there, on Egypt’s frontier. Between the Roman soldiers and her Egyptian army they would marshal a hundred thousand men, more than enough to crush Octavian, who didn’t know the lie of the land. It should be possible to split his force in two and beat each half in a separate engagement….
Only how to suppress indignation among the Alexandrians? Though they had been more tractable of recent years, she knew their volatility of old, and feared an uprising if their queen were to slink into harbor a beaten woman, accompanied not by her Egyptian fleets, but by a refugee Roman army. So before the city appeared she summoned her captains and Antony’s legates and gave succinct instructions, pinning her hopes on the fact that news of Actium would not yet have reached the Alexandrians.
Garlanded and decorated, the transports entered the Great Harbor amid the sound of victory paeans, ostensible conquerors returning home. However, Cleopatra took no chances. The fleet was anchored in the roads and its occupants kept aboard until a camp could be made near the hippodrome; she herself sailed Caesarion all around the harbor foreshores standing high in the prow, her cloth-of-gold dress vying to outdo the glittering splendor of her jewels. Cheers erupted as the Alexandrians rushed to see her; limp with relief, she knew she had fooled them.
When she drew into the Royal Harbor she could see Caesarion and Apollodorus standing on the jetty, waiting.
Oh, he had grown! Taller than his father now, broad in the shoulders, sl
ender but well muscled. His thick hair hadn’t darkened, though his face, long and high in the cheekbones, had lost all trace of its boyish contours. He was Gaius Julius Caesar to the life! Love poured out of her in a spate akin to downright worship; her knees trembled until her legs wouldn’t hold her up without support, her eyes were blinded by sudden tears. Charmian on one side and Iras on the other, she managed to walk the gangway and into his arms.
“Oh, Caesarion, Caesarion!” she said between sobs. “My son, it is beyond joy to see you!”
“You lost,” he said.
Her breath caught. “How do you know?”
“It’s written all over you, Mama. If you won, why has none of your fleet come with you and why are these transports crewed by Roman troops? Most of all, where is Marcus Antonius?”
“I left him and Lucius Cinna in Paraetonium,” she said, taking his arm and compelling him to walk alongside her. “He’s waiting for Pinarius to get there from Cyrenaica with his fleet and four more legions. Canidius was left at Ambracia—the rest deserted.”
He said nothing in reply, simply walked with her into the big palace, then transferred her to Charmian and Iras. “Bathe and rest, Mama. We’ll meet for a late dinner.”
Bathe she did, but quickly. There could be no rest, though a late dinner was very welcome because it gave her time to do what had to be done. Only Apollodorus and her palace eunuchs were let into the secret, which had to be kept at all costs from Caesarion; he would never approve. The Interpreter, the Recorder, the Night Commander, the Accountant, the Judge, and every nepotistic appointee in their departments were rounded up and executed. Gang leaders vanished from the stews of Rhakotis, demagogues from the agora. She had her story prepared for the questions Caesarion was bound to ask when he noticed that all the bureaucrats were new men. The old ones, she would explain, had been seized by a fit of patriotism and gone off to serve with the Egyptian army. Oh, he wouldn’t believe her for a moment, but lacking the ruthlessness to imagine her chosen path, he would assume that they had fled to avoid Roman occupation.
The late dinner was sumptuous; the cooks were as elated as the rest of Alexandria. If, when most of it was returned uneaten to the kitchens, they wondered, no one enlightened them.
Her murders done, Cleopatra felt better and looked composed. She told the story of Ephesus, Athens, and Actium without any attempt to excuse her own folly. Apollodorus, Cha’em, and Sosigenes listened too, more moved than Caesarion, whose face remained impassive. He has aged ten years hearing this terrible news, thought Sosigenes, yet he apportions no blame.
“Antonius’s Roman friends and legates wouldn’t defer to me,” she said, “and though they harped on my sex, I thought it was my foreignness at the root of their animosity. But I was wrong! It was my sex. They wouldn’t be ordered around by a woman, no matter how exalted her station. So they never stopped badgering Antonius to send me back to Egypt. Not understanding why, I refused to go.”
“Well, it’s all in the past and can’t matter now,” Caesarion said with a sigh. “What do you plan to do next?”
“What would you do?” she asked, suddenly curious.
“Send Sosigenes as ambassador to Octavianus and try to make peace. Offer him as much gold as he wants to leave us be in our little corner of Their Sea. Give him hostages as a guarantee and permit the Romans to send inspectors regularly to make sure we’re not secretly arming.”
“Octavianus won’t leave us be, take my solemn word for that.”
“What does Antonius think?”
“Regroup and fight on.”
“Mama, that’s pointless!” the young man cried. “Antonius is past his prime and I don’t have the experience to lead in his stead. If what you say about being a woman is true, then these Roman troops here in Alexandria will never follow you. Sosigenes must lead a delegation to Rome or wherever Octavianus is, and try to negotiate a peace. The sooner, the better.”
“Let’s wait until Antonius returns from Paraetonium,” she pleaded, her hand on Caesarion’s arm. “Then we can decide.”
Shaking his head, Caesarion got up. “It must be now, Mama.”
She said no.
Her son’s attitude had spoken volumes, opened her senses and mind to what she should have seen before she left for Ephesus. Every ounce of her energy and mental resources had gone into her plans for his future, that brilliant, triumphant, glorious future as King of Kings, ruler of the world. Now for the first time she realized that he didn’t want any of it, that he had meant what he said on those several occasions when he had sought her out to tell her that. Hers, the hunger for that glowing future, putting herself in his shoes in the mistaken belief that no one could resist its lure, least of all a youth with godly descent, a royal background, the mind of a genius. His military exercises had proven him no coward, so it wasn’t fear for his skin that deterred him. What Caesarion lacked was ambition. And lacking it, he would never be King of Kings in anything but name; he wasn’t driven. Egypt and Alexandria were enough, he wanted no more.
Oh, Caesarion, Caesarion! How could you do this to me? How can you turn your back on power? Where did the combination of my blood and Caesar’s blood go wrong? Two of the most driven people ever to walk this globe have produced a brave but gentle, strong but unambitious child. It has all been for nothing, and I haven’t even the consolation of thinking I can replace my firstborn with Alexander Helios or Ptolemy Philadelphus, devoid not of ambition but of sufficient intelligence. Mediocre. It is Caesarion makes Nilus rise into the Cubits of Plenty year after year, it is Caesarion who is Horus and Osiris. And he doesn’t want his destiny. He who is not mediocre yearns for mediocrity. What an irony. Oh, what a tragedy!
“When I used to say that he was a child one couldn’t spoil, I didn’t understand what that meant,” she said to Cha’em after that silent dinner was over and Apollodorus and Sosigenes, pale-faced, had vanished.
“But now you understand,” the old man said, voice tender.
“Yes. Caesarion wants for nothing because he wants nothing. Had Amun-Ra put him into the body of an Egyptian hybrid and set him to baking bread or sweeping the streets, he would have accepted his lot with grace and gratitude, happy to be earning enough to eat, rent a tiny house in Rhakotis, marry, and have children. If some perceptive baker or street superviser saw his merits and raised him up a little, he would have been ecstatic not for his own sake, but for his children’s sake.”
“You have seen the truth.”
“But what of you, Cha’em? Did you see Caesarion’s character and nature that time when you went the color of ashes and refused to explain your vision to me?”
“Something like that, Daughter of Ra. Something like that.”
Antony returned to Alexandria a month later, just before the Alexandrians learned about the defeat at Actium. No one demonstrated in the streets, no one formed a mob to move on the Royal Enclosure. They wept and wailed, nothing more, though some had lost sons, nephews, cousins who had manned the Egyptian fleets. Cleopatra issued an edict explaining that few of these men were lost for good; if Octavianus wanted to sell them into slavery, she would buy them, or, if Octavianus released them, she would bring them home as soon as possible.
During the month she waited for Antony, she fretted about him as never before; love had invaded her heart, and that meant fear, doubt, perpetual worry. Was he well? How was his mood? What was happening in Paraetonium?
All of that she had to find out from Lucius Cinna. Antony refused to go near the palaces; he clambered over the side of his ship into shallow water and waded ashore at a tiny beach adjacent to the Royal Harbor. He had spoken to no one since they sailed from Paraetonium, Cinna said.
“Truly, lady, I’ve never seen him like this, so full of despair.”
“What happened?”
“We had word that Pinarius had surrendered to Cornelius Gallus in Cyrenaica. A terrible blow for Antonius, but worse followed. Gallus is sailing for Alexandria with his own four legions and the four th
at belonged to Pinarius. He has plenty of transports and two fleets, his own and Pinarius’s. So there are eight legions and two fleets bearing down on Alexandria from the west. Antonius wanted to stay in Paraetonium and engage Gallus there, but—well, you can see for yourself why he couldn’t, Your Majesty.”
“Not enough time to fetch the troops from Alexandria. So he has convinced himself he should have kept his legions in Paraetonium. But to have made that decision, Cinna, he would have had to be a seer!”
“We have all tried, lady, but he won’t listen.”
“I must go to him. Please see Apollodorus and tell him to find you accommodation.” Cleopatra patted Cinna on the arm and started to walk to the cove, where she could see the hunched figure of Mark Antony sitting with his arms around his knees and his chin on his hands. Desolate. Alone.
Every omen is against us, she thought, her cloak flapping around her wildly. The day was cloudy and the wind much colder than an ordinary Alexandrian winter breeze. This was a gale that chilled to the bone. White foam ruptured the grey waters of the Great Harbor, the clouds streamed low and dense from north to south; Alexandria was going to get rain.
He stank of sweat, but not, thank all the gods, of wine. His beard had grown in to the spiky stage and his hair stood up in a stiff umbel, uncut; no Roman wore a beard or long hair save after a death or some other huge calamity. Mark Antony was mourning.
She squatted down beside him, shivering. “Antonius? Look at me, Antonius! Look at me!”
In answer he pulled his paludamentum over his head and tugged it down to hide his face.
“Antonius, my love, speak to me!”
But he would not, nor unveil his face.
At the end of what must have been more than an hour, it began to rain, a hard and steady downpour that soaked them. Then he spoke—but only, she felt, to get rid of her.