"And here, the balm." A servant proffered a flask of balm of Gilead, one of the costliest ointments in the world. It came from the small groves in Jericho; the bush that yielded it was reputed to grow nowhere else in the world. I held out my hands while the servant poured a few drops into my palms, then massaged them into my skin. They were absorbed as if by magic, leaving no greasy stain behind, but only a delightful aroma.
"When the heat abates, in the cool of the twilight, we shall inspect the groves," Herod said. "I know you will wish to see them."
The shadows were lengthening when we saw, from horseback, the small grove of balsam bushes. They were planted in neat rows, with irrigation ditches between them, and numerous guards stationed at the fence.
"The resin is collected from the stems," said Herod. "It oozes out by itself, but if it is slow in coming, the keepers wound the tree and collect it."
"I see it must be guarded," I said.
"Yes," he said. "It is as precious as gold. After all, it is used in holy oil, to heal wounds, and to make costly perfume. Now, as to my offer--"
"I appreciate it," I said. "And I think I will agree." He smiled. "But only on condition that your gardeners make cuttings for me while we are at the Dead Sea tomorrow. I wish to try to grow them in Egypt." His smile faded.
The cliffs on the western side of the Dead Sea were pockmarked with caves and ledges, and radiated heat. We passed them, umbrellas shielding us from the glare that glanced off the sea and the landscape. The sea stretched far away, and it did not look dead. There were waves on its surface, and birds flew over it. But a strange haze lay upon it, a cloud and yet not a cloud; and Herod pointed out that not a single plant grew by its shore.
"It is a lake with no life at all--no seaweed, no fish, no crabs, no slime, no shells. There is no odor of anything but brine, and a corpse placed in it would not be eaten or rot, but float, preserved, on its surface."
On closer inspection, it did look different, and soon crusts and eruptions of white salt reared up in its shallows. We were nearing the area where the bitumen also arose. I could smell sulfur and other foul odors.
"Put your hand in it," said Herod, when we had dismounted near the station where the bitumen was extracted. I walked over the rocky shore and dipped my finger in, bringing a few drops to my mouth. They were horribly bitter and sour. In an instant the water dried on my hand, making a dull white crust.
"You are turning into a pillar of salt, like Lot's wife," he said. He motioned for a jar of sweet water to be poured over my hand, rinsing it.
I would not wish my officials to be stationed here, unless they deserved punishment. Let natives deal with this hellish place.
I looked at Herod. I was sorry we must be adversaries over territory and Antony's patronage. He was a likable man, and clearly a resourceful one. But we had our separate wants, desires, and ambitions. It was nothing personal.
We could be polite, and observe all the pleasantries. That was the civilized way, and we were children of ancient civilizations.
* * *
Leaving Herod, I made my way slowly down the Mediterranean coast, stopping in Ashkelon, still a free city, and Gaza, then traversing the waterless desert strip until we reached the Pelusic branch of the Nile. We transferred to a ship and sailed toward Memphis; on the way I ordered my balsam shrub cuttings to be planted at Heliopolis, a site sacred to the Pharaohs that seemed to offer good conditions for the bushes to thrive. If they did, I would have done the next best thing to finding new gold mines in my land. I was determined to increase my country's wealth any way I could.
We sailed into Alexandria from the lake side, and I saw the white city reflected in the waters and framed by reeds. I had left a lifetime ago, so it seemed; in truth, it was only half a year. The changes wrought in my situation were so profound that I was on guard as we landed; I did not know what to expect from the Alexandrians. How did they feel about my marriage and partnership with a Roman?
A crowd was gathered, and I could not read their faces. They had not been asked or consulted about my decision; it was the fate of subjects, but now I faced them uneasily. They watched silently as the ship docked and the royal trumpeters announced my arrival. Wearing my silver robes, I stepped out and hailed them, and a great burst of shouts erupted--welcoming cries. Relief flooded me; I need not have worried. I smiled and greeted them, genuinely happy to be surrounded by my own people once again.
"The bride! The bride!" they cried. "Isis! Where is Dionysus?"
"In his grape arbor!" they answered themselves.
"We wish you joy, happiness, love--"
"And fertility!" yelled one group.
"Prosperity for Egypt!" cried another. "Peace with Rome!"
"All this you shall have," I promised them, and then, on impulse, tore off my silver-threaded veil and tossed it out to them. They scrambled for it, and then my shaded litter was waiting to whisk me through the streets and back to the palace.
The children came racing across the marble floor: Alexander and Selene sliding and jumping, Caesarion--who had grown so much!--walking with controlled dignity as fast as he could. Mardian beamed, and Olympos affected his unexcited look. The rest of the staff were delighted to see Iras and Charmian, whom they had missed sorely.
"Married at last?" said Olympos, kissing my cheek. "So you have staved off spinsterhood?" He laughed at his own joke. "I know you did it only to copy me."
"Indeed, that is the only reason," I assured him. I was wearing the wedding necklace, and I let everyone feast their eyes on it, "Antony has departed for Parthia?" asked Mardian. I could tell that something worried him.
"Yes, I saw him off from the Araxes River," I said. "The army was splendid, and terrible in its weapons. And the war machines ..." I shook my head. "But plenty of time for this news later. Let us pull off our traveling clothes, wash our feet, and take refreshment."
Everything was changed, but nothing was changed--the furniture all stood in the exact same places, the curtains ballooned and billowed from the puffs of sea wind, just as I remembered, even making the same patterns as before, and shoes I had left behind were waiting, silent and polished, for me in my wardrobe. But now I, and Alexandria, were tied to something outside; I felt as though a walled garden had been breached. It was a retreat no longer, nor was it self-contained, as Egypt had always been. Now Rome was here, in the person of Antony and his fortunes, in this very room.
"Your face is sad," said Charmian. "Is there something amiss in your chambers?"
"No. No, of course not. It is just that, for a moment, it seemed unfamiliar." I shook my head. What melancholy thoughts! The alliance with Antony would protect Egypt, would preserve it, not compromise it.
The twins came running in. "Where's our father? Where is he? Where's he hiding?"
Their squeals told me how excited they were to have discovered that they had a father, let alone one who liked to play.
"He's gone to do his job," I told them. "He's a soldier, and soldiers have to go with their armies."
"Oh." Alexander looked up brightly. "I have some toy soldiers. Want to see them? Now?"
I let myself be dragged into their rooms, but not before I had motioned to a servant to bring along Antony's old spear and helmet. "These are for you," I told Alexander. "They are what a grown-up soldier wears, and your father left them for you to wear someday."
It was something Antony would have done.
Selene was hanging on me, and I quickly pulled off a silver bracelet with ram's heads that had been presented to me by Artavasdes, and featured the fine workmanship of his country. "This is for you," I assured her, putting it on.
"And nothing for me?" The ever-taller Caesarion was standing in the doorway, feeling left out. I had to think of something. He was too old for toys and too intelligent to be fobbed off with a makeshift present.
"Of course there is something for you. One thing for you to play with, and another for you to keep. I have brought back a jar of the most extraordinar
y water, from the Dead Sea in Judaea. I thought you might like to taste it and test it to see how heavy it is. And when you are finished with it, you can evaporate it and compare it with seawater. It must have three times as much salt in it. Just don't make any pets drink it--although I don't think you could. And the other present--it's a beautiful Arab horse, small and as fast as the wind." The bitumen extractors had presented it to me, in relief that they could continue their business unmolested. It was time Caesarion perfected his horsemanship, and I knew he needed a special horse, one that he loved, to do it.
"Oh!" His eyes grew large. "What color is it?"
"He is white, with a gray mane and tail." I had been quite taken with him.
"His name?"
"He had a Nabataean one that meant 'Leader,' but you may call him anything you please."
Thus my presents were redistributed to eager recipients.
* * *
Mid-July, and I was pacing up and down in my workroom. Antony had been gone two months. What was happening to him? I longed for news. But instead I was forced to hear about the wretched Octavian--Mardian had just received a dispatch.
"So, what of him?" I hated hearing what Octavian was doing, but braced myself. Let him be sunk on a shoal.
"His campaign is finally launched," said Mardian, reading as he spoke. "Or, I should say, Agrippa's campaign."
"Ha!" I cried. "Yes, he is completely dependent on Agrippa for both the brains and the brawn of any military action." The puny Octavian and his robust friend: a happy combination, for them.
"At least he has someone he can depend on," said Mardian pointedly.
Antony fought alone, basically. It would be a comfort to have a reliable partner; yes, it would.
"He is fortunate in his friends," I admitted. "What plans have they settled on?" I had to know.
"You know about Agrippa's strategy," said Mardian. "We had reports all winter."
"Yes, yes!" I barked. "I know all about his naval training station and his twenty thousand oarsmen."
"He has mobilized all the forces at his command against Sextus, as his very political survival depends on defeating him," said Mardian, his eyes darting across the paper. "The battle will be fought in Sicily, on both land and sea. The Consul Taurus is sailing from Italy with the two squadrons Antony donated, and Lepidus is bringing up his twelve legions, plus a fleet from Africa. Agrippa has determined that he will leave nothing to chance. Therefore, against the swift ships and superior seamanship of Sextus he has built such massive ships that they cannot be sunk, but must crush the enemy by weight alone. Last year he struggled under three disadvantages: his ships were no better than Sextus's, his oarsmen were worse, and he had no secure harbor. He has now solved all these problems."
If only we had such an industrious, clever lieutenant! Agrippa had indeed grown into impressive manhood.
"Oh, and he has invented a device called 'the snatcher'--it is a catapult that fires a grappling hook, so that the little boats of Sextus can be hauled against Agrippa's, and a land battle on decks commence."
"They will cut the ropes of 'the snatcher,' " I said. That seemed obvious.
"He has encased them in long tubes of iron, so they cannot."
Damn his cleverness! Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, that polite boy at Caesar's dinner--who could have predicted his military acumen?
"They expect naval action at any day," said Mardian. "And it will come just in time to rescue Octavian from his growing unpopularity with the Roman mobs. They will not tolerate him or Sextus much longer. One has to go."
The blue seas around Alexandria were innocent and calm, belying the action elsewhere. We waited, day after day, for news, which seemed so slow in coming. Ships limped in with reports. Octavian's fleet had been wrecked, again. Thirty-two ships of the line and many more light Liburnian galleys were destroyed in a storm. Octavian thought seriously of postponing the campaign for another year. Our spirits soared. That would give Antony the lead he needed.
Octavian thought likewise. He dared not let another season pass, allowing Antony a great victory while he suffered from unpopularity at Rome yet another winter. And he feared that Sextus would find a way to destroy his fleet at anchor. So, with his customary determination and thoroughness, he pressed on grimly. "I will triumph even over the will of Neptune," he vowed.
"There is even a report that he almost committed suicide," said Mardian. "He was so discouraged when his fleet was lost, but--"
"With the morning light he thought better of it," I said. I knew his thinking. Octavian would always wait for the morning light.
More reports came in on the next stage of the campaign. The action had narrowed to the wicked Strait of Messina, which Sextus guarded and Octavian's forces needed to cross. Agrippa fought Sextus, and his heavier ships proved the worth of his strategy, crushing Sextus's vessels. But Sextus withdrew and decided to attack Octavian instead as he ferried his troops across; Octavian escaped, but the ships Antony had lent him were ruined, unable to withstand Sextus.
"A lesson for us in that!" I said. "No more small ships!"
"Time had run out for Octavian," said Mardian, with delight, reading the dispatch. "He had to send Maecenas back to Rome to quiet things down. Oh--but then Agrippa--Agrippa--"
"Agrippa what?" I grabbed the letter from him. Was Agrippa some kind of god, always able to deliver his friend?
Agrippa had seized a port on Sicily that allowed him to land his and Octavian's land forces--a total of twenty-one legions and auxiliaries. They caged in Sextus, who then decided to stake all on a sea battle.
"And what happened?" I waved the letter. It had ended there.
The battle was long over, but we must wait to know the outcome.
We finally learned: On the third of September, the great battle was fought at last, and Sextus utterly defeated. Sextus's men and ships fought spectacularly and bravely, knowing they could expect no mercy. But Agrippa's big ships won the day, holding Sextus's ships captive, hooking them, boarding them, sinking them. Twenty-eight of Sextus's ships were sunk, against only three of Agrippa's. Only seventeen escaped, and Sextus fled with them.
"How many ships out of three hundred?" I could not believe it.
"Seventeen."
"The victory is decisive, then." Octavian had prevailed.
"Sextus has fled to Antony," Mardian read in disbelief. "He will throw himself on his mercy."
"O Isis!" I said. "What will Antony do with him?"
There was more yet. Lepidus made his move against Octavian and Agrippa. It seemed that he had resented being the neglected member of the Triumvirate all these years; swelled with pride in the twenty-two legions he had acquired--reckoning that neither side had had as many at Philippi--he tried to overthrow Octavian and Agrippa. But the troops were having none of it; they were weary of civil war and unimpressed with Lepidus.
"Lepidus was forced to throw himself on Octavian's mercy," read Mardian. "To kiss his sandals!"
I shuddered. Then I remarked, "His built-up sandals." The ultimate humiliation.
"Octavian made a great show of mercy, but he has deprived him of his office as Triumvir, his legions, and his power. Lepidus has departed for an enforced retirement."
"Octavian is master of the west," I said slowly. "Sextus and Lepidus gone. He rules all, as far as Greece."
"Yes," said Mardian. "He has forty-five legions under his command. Some are undermanned, but they still number at least a hundred and twenty thousand soldiers."
"Whatever will he do with them?" I asked softly. "For they must either be paid and dismissed, or used, and he has no funds to pay them."
Work must be found for those soldiers, then. Octavian could, of course, transfer some to Antony. But I knew he would not. He would keep them busy and in training. .. and find some plunder for them, some untouched treasure trove into which they could dip their hands and pay themselves. Egypt? Or what Antony won in Parthia?
Chapter 59.
The late summer, one of t
he clearest and windiest in years, cried out for enjoyment, but I was in the grip of dreadful waiting. As days passed with no word from the east, I grew more and more agitated. It seemed as though Antony and his huge army had disappeared over the horizon without a trace. Ships coming from Cilicia, from Rhodes, from Tarsus--I had their captains whisked ashore to be interrogated, but no one had heard anything from the interior.
Five hundred years ago an entire army of fifty thousand Persians had vanished in the sands of Egypt on their way to the Siwa Oasis--every schoolchild shuddered at the story of the sands opening and taking them, one and all. The Siwa Oasis was not as isolated and vast as the plains of Parthia. . . . O gods! Why did he go? Why did we not hear any news?
I tried to play with my children, to continue learning Parthian--although I came to hate it, as daily it seemed more and more hostile--to read all the news coming from the rest of the world, to ready my heart and mind for the new baby. These were distractions, though, while I waited for the answer to the great question: Would Antony truly wear Caesar's mantle and take his place beside him and Alexander in military greatness? Or fail and be accorded a place--where? Or live at all?