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Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them;
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While the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain:
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In the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few, and those that look out the windows be darkened, .
And the doors shall be shut in the streets, when the sound of the grinding is low, and all the daughters of music shall be brought low;
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Also when they shall be afraid of that which is high, and fears shall be in the way, and desire shall fail: because man goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about in the streets.
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Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern.
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Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.
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Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher. All is vanity.
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The end of the day. The sun sloping down, Octavian on his way. With the luxury of privacy, I wept for all that the sun was setting on.
Better is the end of a thing than the beginning thereof. No, never. The Preacher was wrong.
Antony found me sitting alone in the room, grown quite dark now. The sun had sunk, the purple twilight had come and gone, and now night enveloped me.
"What's this?" he cried. "No lamps? What's the matter?" He rushed off to light one and bring it. He waved it in front of my face.
"Are you all right?" He looked anxiously into my eyes.
"Yes," I said. "I was just sitting here and--thinking."
"Deep thoughts, that kept you from lighting a lamp."
"It was peaceful." And it had been. Acceptance always brings peace--after the first wild mourning.
"What's this?" He reached out and took the scroll, unrolled around me like a long ribbon.
"Something Ephaphroditus brought, along with his reports."
"Hmm." Antony lit more lamps, until the chamber was bright. Then he held up the scroll and started reading. "Poetry in one hand, figures in the other. Strange man, Epaphroditus." His eyes scanned the verses rapidly. "Whoever wrote this was in a bad way," he said, shaking his head. "Poor devil."
The poor devil is us, I wanted to say. Don't you recognize us there?
"Hmm. Hmm. Well, he's right about this," said Antony.
"About what?"
"Listen to this. The poet says, .
"Go thy way, eat thy bread with joy, and drink thy wine with a merry heart; for God now accepteth thy works.
"Let thy garments be always white; and let thy head lack no ointment.
"Live joyfully with the wife whom thou lovest all the days of thy life, which he hath given thee under the sun: for that is thy portion in this life, and in thy labor which thou takest under the sun.
"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.
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"He speaks true in that. It s all we can do." He had found those happy verses in the writing, while I had overlooked them. How like him. He put the scroll down and reached out for my hands, pulling me up to my feet, holding me against him. He fell silent, just letting us lean together.
There were two of us on the ramparts after all, one to arm, the other to comfort, taking turns. That was the depth and surety of love, a love that does not desert.
"Now, my dearest, I think we need a little wine--as the Preacher recommends," he finally said, leaving me to locate a pitcher and cups.
"For a merry heart?" I asked.
"Indeed so," he said, flourishing the cups.
Antony: always able to seize joy across the ordinary, across suffering. That was his magic, still undimmed.
* * *
"A messenger from Octavian, madam," said Mardian, peering around the ivory screen into my work chamber. He said it so matter-of-factly that no one would have suspected we had been waiting anxiously for news, any news, of his whereabouts.
I rose. "Just arrived?"
"The travel dust is still on his cloak," Mardian said.
The young soldier was indeed dirty from his journey, but I noted that he was a military tribune, not a common foot soldier. Evidently Octavian had decided to send an envoy of higher grade than the previous one.
"We welcome you," I told him. "What has Octavian to say to us?"
He stood straight and tried not to look as if he was observing everything to report back. "Madam, Imperator Caesar wishes to inform you that he is approaching the very border of Egypt. He rests now at Raphia."
"Ah yes, Raphia. An important landmark. It was at the battle of Raphia long ago that Ptolemy the Fourth first employed native Egyptian soldiers to defeat his enemy from Syria. A turning point." I looked at the young man. "And I suppose Octavian hopes it will prove so again."
"It would be a great blessing to us all if it was," he said. "My commander asks that you send word to Pelusium to surrender."
"And why does he think I would?"
"Because, he says, you have made him an offer based on no bloodshed."
"But he has not replied to my offer, and therefore I assume he does not wish to accept it." No word from him meant no agreement. And after the treatment of Thyrsus, what else could he do?
"Quite the contrary. But the only way to show your good faith is to let us pass unhindered through Pelusium."
I laughed. "His discourtesy in not replying has made that impossible. It has aroused certain . . . suspicions of his intentions. Now I cannot trust him." As if I ever could!
"It is the other way around. You must demonstrate that your offer was made in good faith, and that you wish absolutely to avoid bloodshed, even at some sacrifice to yourself."
"Young man, are you aware of what my offer to him was?"
"No, he has not told anyone."
"I thought not." I decided not to reveal it, either. Then it was only between the two of us. "He has sent no instructions about it, nor any message for me?"
"He sent you this," he said, opening a leather pouch and producing a small box.
I opened it and found two things inside: a coin that had both a sibyl and a sphinx on it, and a jasper seal with a sphinx. "If he means to be baffling, he has succeeded," I finally said. I took out the seal and turned it around between my fingers, examining it.
"He said to tell you that the coin dates from Caesar's time, while the seal is his own. He gives you a riddle to solve, as the sphinx--which is yours in Egypt as well as his, as his personal emblem--gave riddles. He says, There is room in the mystery for two.' "
I could not imagine what he meant. That we both could share in Caesar's legacy? That there had been prophecies about us in the Sibylline books? That he was coming to take the Egyptian sphinx, which he regarded as his symbol? That only two out of the three of us--he, Antony, and I--could survive? That there was room in the mausoleum--the mystery of death--for two of us? Or that two could share the treasure heaped up in it?
"And what am I to do with these?" I held out my hand with the coin and seal.
"If you have any message for him, at any time, affix the sphinx seal, and he will act on it immediately." I could tell that the soldier knew nothing more than that.
"Well, I have no message for him now, other than one you can convey in person: I can make no concessions without a formal request and agreement between us, and I still intend to destroy the treasure. That is all."
"What treasure?" So Octavian had not told him even about that.
"He knows what I mean." I smiled. "Tell him I applaud his murkiness, and I will attempt to fathom the riddle at my leisure."
"So . . . we are to proceed to Pelusium?" He looked disappointed; clearly they hoped that we would j
ust capitulate.
"As best you can," I said. "And we shall defend it, as best we can."
We gathered together to have a family meal in the dining chamber of Antony's quarters. All the children, even the youngest, were to partake. Everything was still and frighteningly normal. There was no exodus out of the city, because where could people go? Alexandrians had always been apart from Egypt, and her citizens were not likely to find the flat farm fields of the Delta compatible, or live in tents in the desert. If they sailed away, there was no beckoning destination. And so things continued in their daily fashion.
Young Antyllus had requested a Roman dish he was homesick for: stuffed cuttlefish and baked gladiolus bulbs. He had apologized, saying he realized it was homely fare, but he missed it. I told him I would have the dock warehouses searched for those bulbs, but if we had none, then onions would have to be substituted. But I had managed to find some. You can find anything in Alexandria.
Alexander and Selene had sophisticated tastes, which was not surprising, as they had grown up in the most sophisticated court in the world. They asked for such things as gilded prawns and squill patties, and specified that they did not want any olive oil from a second pressing.
"Snobs," said Antony. "To think my children are snobs."
"I'm not," said Antyllus.
"I know," his father said. "That's because you didn't come here until your tastes were formed."
"Neither did you," I reminded him. "But you converted quickly enough."
"No, merely broadened my tastes. I still like plain fare well enough." He stretched himself out on the dining couch and rested on one elbow. "It pleases me to have you all gathered around me," he said. "What more could any man want? Three fine sons, a beautiful daughter, and an indescribable wife." He raised his goblet and drank solemnly to us all. "I am satisfied with my epitaph."
"Let us not talk of epitaphs!" I said quickly. "We can never be sure what is to be written of us afterward."
"Nonetheless, I have not done badly," Antony insisted.
"Where's the duck?" asked Philadelphos, little Hedgehog. Ever since he had been taken hunting in the marshes, he had claimed duck as his favorite food, but it was really only the memory of the boats, the water, and the rustling of the reeds that he loved. I noticed he always left most of the duck on his platter. At five, duck was still too greasy for him to digest easily.
"It is coming," I assured him.
I looked around at my brood, keenly missing Caesarion. I prayed all the gods kept him safe. How different my four were from me and my siblings. My children actually seemed to care for one another, and there was not a monster among them. The Ptolemies seemed to produce fiends in each litter, but I had escaped that. There were no Arsinoes here, no Berenices. Perhaps it was the admixture of Roman blood that sidestepped the bad results of generations of inbreeding.
Alexander and Selene ... I had not received any reply from Media about them, and it was now too late to send them away. They must stay here in Alexandria with me, ready for whatever came. Perhaps it was for the best. They were young and disarming enough that they would be persuasive on their own behalf. When Octavian saw them, he might be moved.
Alexander was a strapping boy, hearty and open; his twin sister was soft-spoken and poised. Both of them possessed the beauty of person that goes far to soften the hearts of enemies.
I would ask for the throne for them, and since they were here, it would be easier to confer the crown on them than on Caesarion, so far away. They would make--I hated to use the words--harmless figureheads for Octavian. He would not be adverse to elevating cooperative children, so I reasoned, even though they were Antony's. They were also of his own Julian family.
"So if it chance that you meet Octavian alone," I told them, "treat him with all courtesy. Be sure to call him . . . Imperator Caesar." It was all I could do not to choke on the words. " 'Octavian' antagonizes him."
"Why?" asked Alexander. "It's his name!"
"Well, it is one of his names. It is the name he had when he was your age. But as he grew older, he acquired others, ones he liked better. Just as you are both 'Alexander' and 'Helios,' so he has four names. Someday you may prefer to call yourself 'Helios.' Then you will understand."
"I don't think so!" he said. "It would make me seem very pompous."
"Some people do not mind being pompous," I said.
"I am pleased that my children aren't among them," said Antony.
"Aren't we cousins to Octavian?" asked Selene.
"Distant," said Antony. "He is Caesar's great-nephew, and I am Caesar's third cousin, once removed. You figure it out!"
"Hmmm." Alexander knitted his brow. I could see him trying to sort it all out in his head. He was quite good at mathematics. "I would need a paper for that," he finally admitted.
"I wish you to indulge me in a fancy," I told them. I held the stem of the agate cup in my right hand. "This was my father's drinking cup," I said. "I remember him filling it, lifting it to his lips. Drink from it with me." I motioned, and a servant filled the vessel. "I think he told me once it had come from Macedon, but I honestly cannot remember. In any case, I always associate it with him, and now I would like to see it in your hands." I sipped from it and then handed it to Alexander.
He dutifully tilted his head back and drank from it, then passed it to Selene. She closed her eyes and lifted the cup daintily.
"Philadelphos, too?" she asked.
"All of you," I said.
My youngest took a big swig from it, then handed it to Antyllus.
What would become of Antyllus? I wondered. Antony had made no provision for him, as if he could not bear to. He trusted that Octavian would carry him back to Rome and preserve him. There was no place to send him, no shore of refuge; Egypt and India were not part of his heritage. Poor Antony, the displaced Roman. My heart ached for him.
"My children, in only a few days Alexandria may be attacked," I told them. "You are to follow the instructions my captain of the Household Guard gives you for your safety. We have prepared hiding places for you in the tunnels beneath the palace. They are stocked with food, lamps, water. When you are given the signal, you must take shelter there. We have no way of knowing what will happen after that." I paused. "Whatever you do, whatever you feel, remember your blood. It is precious, and will be honored even by the enemy. Do not be afraid."
"Aren't we going to fight?" asked Alexander.
"Indeed yes!" Antony said in his old voice. "We have four legions at our service, as well as the formidable Macedonian Household Guard, and the Egyptian soldiers. And our cavalry is well trained. I shall lead them myself."
"Not to mention our fleet," I reminded him. "We still have some survivors from Actium, as well as the new-built ships, at the ready."
"We will draw up the battle lines around the city," said Antony. It was as if, knowing the efforts to be last-ditch and doomed, he was now ready to throw all his might behind them. But he should have gathered his far-flung legions earlier, fortified the Nile, strengthened Pelusium and its garrison of Egyptian soldiers. Too late, the flame of resistance burned brightly in Antony, his heroism flaring now like a funeral pyre.
"Octavian is marching toward Pelusium," I told the children. "He has to traverse the desert highway to do so, a wavering, waterless stretch in these days of high summer."
"Pelusium," said Antony. "I took Pelusium . . . long ago."
"Yes, you are familiar with it," I said.
"When I was a young cavalry officer, and Gabinius had decided to restore your grandfather Auletes to the throne"--he leaned forward, speaking to Alexander and Selene--"for ten thousand talents, he sent me on ahead to take the fortress, while he waited in comfort back in Judaea. I took it by storm ... yes . . ." He had retreated back far in time, the years rolling off him. His voice changed. "It's a difficult place to capture, but I led a massive assault on it, and it fell. Then, the way having been cleared for them, Gabinius and the King followed. They wanted to kill the Egypt
ian prisoners of war, but I absolutely refused. They had fought bravely, I said, and should be spared. Oh, were they angry with me!" He took a deep drink of his wine.
"And you became wildly popular with the Egyptians as a result," I said. "They were touched, one and all, by your mercy."
"Yes, it was the beginning of a mutual love affair with Egypt," said Antony.
"From that moment onward, we were as one." He paused dramatically "And then I met your mother," he said to the children, leaning over conspiratorially. "When she was only a little older than you." He touched Selene's chin.
"I cannot imagine her ever that way," she said, with all the ferocious ignorance of the very young.
"Oh, she was, she was," said Antony. "She was young as Persephone, before Pluto grabbed her. As young as the flowers she gathered. And I loved her from the first instant I glimpsed her."
"He embellishes," I assured the children. "His memory gilds the past."
"No, it is true!" averred Antony.
"Ever gallant," I said. Perhaps I was embarrassed because I had not loved him then, or even realized I would ever see him again. It seemed so blind of me--how could I not have known? My only strong memory of him was standing beside him at the Dionysus festival. He had spoken knowledgeably of wine, and had been kind about my father's indulgence. For that I had been grateful.