For some reason beyond Cleopatra’s ability to unravel, this sad little story affected Antony as neither Actium nor Paraetonium had seemed to. He wept inconsolably for several days, and when at last the paroxysm of grief was over, he seemed to have lost his interest, energy, spirit. A melancholy descended, but masked under a huge enthusiasm for the Society of Companions in Death, whose revels he now entered into feverishly, drinking himself senseless. The legions were neglected, the Egyptian army forgotten, and when Caesarion constantly reminded him that he had to buckle down and keep both armies on their toes, Antony ignored him.
At precisely this moment the priests and nomarchs of Nilus from Elephantine to Memphis—a thousand miles—came to Pharaoh Cleopatra and offered to fight to the death of every last Egyptian. Let all of Nilotic Egypt rise up in Pharaoh’s defense! they cried, on their knees with faces pressed to the golden floor of her audience chamber.
Adamant, unbendable, she kept refusing until they went home in despair, convinced that Roman rule would be the end of Egypt. But they didn’t go before they had seen her tears. No! she wept, she would not let Egypt become a bloodbath for the sake of two pharaohs who had hardly any Egyptian blood in their veins.
“A senseless sacrifice I cannot accept,” she said, weeping.
“Mama, you had no right to refuse their offer without me,” Caesarion said when he found out. “My answer would have been the same, but in not requiring my presence you stripped me of my entitlements. Why do you think your behavior spares me pain? It doesn’t. How can I rule with my proper godhead if you persist in shielding me? My shoulders are broader than yours.”
In between trying to jolly Antony out of his gloom and keeping an eye on the three young men Caesarion, Curio, and Antyllus, Cleopatra was very busy completing her tomb, which she had started when she ascended the throne at seventeen, as was custom and tradition. It was inside the Sema, a large compound within the Royal Enclosure where all the Ptolemies were buried, and where Alexander the Great lay encased in a transparent crystal sarcophagus. One of her two brother-husbands was there (she had murdered him to elevate Caesarion to the throne); the other, drowned, was under the waters of Pelusiac Nilus. Each Ptolemy had his own tomb, as did the various Berenices, Arsinoës, and Cleopatras who had reigned. None was a gigantic edifice, though pharaonic in form: an innermost chamber for the sarcophagus, canopic jars, and guardian statues, plus three little outer chambers filled with food, drink, furniture, and an exquisite reed boat for sailing the River of Night.
Since Cleopatra’s tomb was to hold Antony as well, it was twice the size of the others. Her own side was finished; it was Antony’s side the craftsmen labored over frantically. Made of somber red Nubian granite, it was polished like a mirror, and rectangular in shape, its outside walls unadorned save for her and Antony’s cartouches. Two massive bronze doors worked with sacred symbols closed both its sets of chambers, opening into an anteroom that led through two doors into the sides. A speaking tube penetrated the five-foot-thick masonry adjacent to the left leaf of the outer doors.
Until she and Antony lay fully embalmed within it, an aperture would remain high on the door wall, reached by scaffolding made from withies; a winch and a long roomy basket enabled persons and items to be conveyed in and out of the interior. The embalmment process took ninety days, so it would be fully three months between death and the sealing up of the opening high on the door wall; embalmer priests would shuttle to and fro with their instruments and natron, the sour, acrid salts they obtained from Lake Tritonis on the margin of the Roman African province. Even that was ready, the priests housed in a special building together with their gear.
Antony’s inner chamber was connected to hers through a door, and both were beautiful, emblazoned with murals, gold, gems, every solace Pharaoh and her consort might wish for in the Realm of the Dead. Books for them to read, scenes of their lives to smile at, every last Egyptian god, a wonderful mural of Nilus. The food, furniture, drink, and boat were already installed; it would not be long now, Cleopatra knew.
In the rooms reserved for Antony stood his desk and his ivory curule chair, his best suits of armor, an array of togas and tunics, citrus-wood tables on pedestals of ivory inlaid with gold. His miniature temples that held the wax images of all his ancestors who had reached the office of praetor were there, and a bust of himself on a hermed pillar that he particularly liked; the Greek sculptor had sheathed his head in the jaws of a lion skin, its paws knotted over the top of his chest and two red eyes glaring above his skull. The only things missing from his section were a workmanlike suit of armor and one purple-bordered toga, all he would need now before the end.
Of course Caesarion knew what she was doing, had to realize that it meant she thought she and Antony would soon be dead, but he said nothing, nor tried to dissuade her. Only the most foolish pharaoh would not take death into account; it didn’t mean that his mother and stepfather were contemplating suicide, only that they would be ready to step into the Realm of the Dead properly accoutered and equipped, whether their deaths came as the result of Octavian’s invasion, or didn’t occur for another forty years. His own tomb was abuilding, as was fit and proper; his mother had put it next to Alexander the Great, but he had relocated it in a small, unobtrusive corner.
One part of him was thrilled at the prospect of battle, but another fretted and chewed over the fate of his people if they were to be left without Pharaoh. Old enough to remember the famine and pestilence of those years between his father’s death and the birth of the twins, he had an enormous sense of responsibility, and knew that he must live no matter what happened to his mother, her consort. He was sure that he would be permitted to live if he went about the negotiations skillfully, and was prepared to give Octavian whatever amount of treasure he demanded. Living Pharaoh was more important by far to Egypt than tunnels choked with mere stuff. His ideas and opinions about Octavian were private, never transmitted to Cleopatra, who would not agree with them nor think well of him for them. For he understood Octavian’s dilemma, and could not blame him for his actions. Oh, Mama, Mama! So much hubris, so much ambition! Because she had dared the might of Rome, Rome was coming. A new era was about to begin for Egypt, an era that he had to control. Nothing in Octavian’s conduct said he was a tyrant; he was, Caesarion divined, a man with a mission, to secure Rome from her enemies and provide her people with safety and prosperity. With those goals in mind, he would do whatever he must, but no more. A reasonable man, a man who could be talked to and made to see the good sense of a stable Egypt under a stable ruler who would never be a danger. Egypt, Friend and Ally of the Roman People, Rome’s most loyal client-kingdom.
Caesarion turned seventeen on the twenty-third day of June. Cleopatra wanted to give him a big party, but he refused to hear of it.
“Just something small, Mama. The family, Apollodorus, Cha’em, Sosigenes,” he said firmly. “No Companions in Death, please! Try to talk Antonius out of that.”
Not as difficult a task as she had expected; Mark Antony was wearing out, running down.
“If that’s the kind of celebration the boy wants, he shall have it.” The red-brown eyes produced a rare twinkle. “Truth to tell, my dearest wife, I’m more Death than Companion these days.” He sighed. “It won’t be long now that Octavianus has reached Pelusium. Another month, perhaps a little more.”
“My army wouldn’t stand,” she said through her teeth.
“Oh, come, Cleopatra, why should it? Landless peasants, a few grizzled, knotted old Roman centurions who date back to Aulus Gabinius—I wouldn’t ask them to give up their lives any more than Octavianus wishes that. No indeed, I’m glad they didn’t fight.” He looked wry. “And gladder still that Octavianus simply sent them home. He’s acting more like a tourist than a conqueror.”
“What’s to stop him?” she asked bitterly.
“Nothing, and that’s an irrefutable fact. I think we should send an ambassador to him immediately and ask for terms.”
Ev
en a day earlier she would have flown at him, but that was yesterday. One look at her son’s birthday face had told her that Caesarion didn’t want the soil of his country soaked in the blood of his subjects; he would consent to a last-ditch stand by the Roman legions in camp at the hippodrome, but only because those troops hungered for a battle. They had been denied it at Actium, so they wanted it here. Victory or defeat didn’t matter, just the chance to fight.
Yes, what it boiled down to was what Caesarion wanted, and that was peace at any price. So be it. Peace at any price.
“Who will Octavianus see?” she asked.
“I thought, Antyllus,” Antony said.
“Antyllus? He’s a child!”
“Exactly. What’s more, Octavianus knows him well. I can’t think of a better ambassador.”
“No, nor can I,” she said after thinking it over. “However, it means you’ll have to write a letter. Antyllus isn’t bright enough to negotiate.”
“I know. And yes, I’ll write the letter.” He stretched his legs, ran a hand through his hair, whiter now than grey. “Oh, my dearest girl, I’m so tired! I just want it to be over.”
This lump in her throat was on the inside; she swallowed. “And I, my love, my life. I am so sorry for the torment I inflicted on you, but I didn’t understand—no, no, I must stop trying to make excuses! I must take the blame squarely, without flinching, without excuses. If I had stayed in Egypt, things might have gone very differently.” She pressed her forehead against his, too close to see his eyes. “I didn’t love you enough, so now I suffer—oh, terribly! I love you, Marcus Antonius. I love you more than life, I won’t live if you don’t. All I want is to wander the Realm of the Dead with you forever. We will be together in death as we never have been in life, because there is peace, contentment, a most wonderful ease.” She lifted her head. “You do believe that?”
“I do.” His little white teeth flashed. “That’s why it’s better to be an Egyptian than a Roman. Romans don’t believe in a life after death, which is why they don’t fear death. It’s just an eternal sleep, that’s how Caesar looked at it. And Cato, and Pompeius Magnus, and the rest. Well, while they sleep, I’ll be walking the Realm of the Dead with you. Forever.”
Octavianus,
I am sure you don’t want more Roman deaths, and from the way you treated my wife’s army, you don’t want enemy deaths either.
I suppose by the time my eldest son reaches you, you will be in Memphis. He bears this letter because I know it will arrive on your desk rather than some legate’s. The boy is eager to do me this service, and I am happy to let him.
Octavianus, let us not continue this farce. I admit freely that I was the aggressor in our war, if war it can be called. Marcus Antonius has not shone too brightly, so much is sure, and now he wishes an end.
If you permit Queen Cleopatra to rule her kingdom as Pharaoh and Queen, I will undertake to fall on my sword. A good end to a pathetic struggle. Send your answer back with my boy. I will wait three nundinae for it. If by then I have received no answer, I will know you refuse me.
The three nundinae passed, but no word came from Octavian. What worried Antony was that Antyllus didn’t return, but he decided that Octavian would detain the boy until his victory was complete, then—what did one do with the sons of the proscribed? Banishment was the usual practice, but Antyllus had lived with Octavia for years. Her brother wouldn’t banish one of her brood. Nor deny him an income big enough to live as an Antonian must.
“Did you really think Octavianus would accept whatever terms you laid out in your letter?” Cleopatra asked. She hadn’t seen it, nor had she demanded to see it; the new Cleopatra understood that men’s business belonged to men.
“I suppose not,” said Antony, shrugging. “I wish Antyllus would contact me.”
How to tell him the boy is dead? she asked herself. Octavian couldn’t make terms, he needed the Treasure of the Ptolemies. Did he know where to find it? No, of course not. Which wouldn’t deter him from digging more holes in the sands of Egypt than there were stars in the sky. And Antyllus? A nuisance, alive. Sixteen-year-old lads moved like quicksilver and had a certain guile; Octavian wouldn’t run the risk of keeping him alive to escape and report the enemy dispositions to his father. Yes, Antyllus was dead. Did it matter whether she broached the subject to his father or held her counsel? No, it did not. Therefore why drop another burden of grief on his shoulders, so bowed over, so—frail? Not an adjective she had ever thought to apply to Mark Antony.
Instead she broached the subject of a different young man—Caesarion. “Antonius, we have perhaps three nundinae left before Octavianus reaches Alexandria. At some point close to the city I presume you’ll fight a battle, is that right?”
He shrugged. “The soldiers want it, so yes.”
“Caesarion can’t be let fight.”
“In case he dies?”
“Yes. I can see no possibility that Octavianus will allow me to rule Egypt, but nor will he let Caesarion rule. I have to get Caesarion away to India or Taprobane before Octavianus starts to hunt him down. I have fifty good men and a small, swift fleet at Berenice. Cha’em gave my servants sufficient gold to permit Caesarion a good life at the end of his voyage. When he’s a fully grown man, he can come back.”
He studied her intently, a frown bringing his brows together. Caesarion, always Caesarion! Still, she was right. If he stayed, Octavian would hunt him down and kill him. Had to. No rival as like Caesar as this Egyptian son could be let live.
“What do you want of me?” he asked.
“Your support when I tell him. He won’t want to go.”
“He won’t, but he must. Yes, I’ll support you.”
Both of them were astonished when Caesarion agreed at once.
“I see your point, Mama, Antonius,” he said, blue eyes wide. “One of us must live, yet none of us will be let live. If I skulk in India for ten years, Octavianus will have let Egypt go on its way. As a province, not a client-kingdom. But if the people of Nilus know that Pharaoh is alive, they’ll welcome me when I return.” The eyes filled with tears; his face twisted. “Oh, Mama, Mama, not to see you ever again! I must, yet I can’t. You will walk in Octavianus’s triumphal parade and then die at the hands of the strangler. I must, yet I can’t!”
“You can, Caesarion,” said Antony strongly, clasping him by the forearm. “I don’t doubt your love for your mother, but nor do I doubt your love for your people. Go to India and stay there until the time’s right to come back. Please!”
“Oh, I’ll go. It’s the sensible thing to do.” He gave each of them Caesar’s smile, and walked out.
“I can hardly believe it,” said Cleopatra, stroking her lump. “He did say he’ll go, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did.”
“It must be tomorrow.”
Tomorrow it was; robed like a banker or a bureaucrat of the middle order, Caesarion set off with the appropriate two servants, all three mounted on good camels.
Cleopatra stood on the Royal Enclosure battlements watching while ever she could see her son on the Memphis road, waving a red scarf, smiling brilliantly. Pleading a headache, Antony remained in the palace.
There Canidius found him, pausing in the doorway to take in the sight of Marcus Antonius stretched full length on a couch, an arm across his eyes. “Antonius?”
Antony swung his legs to the floor and sat up, blinking.
“Are you unwell?” Canidius asked.
“A headache, but not from wine. My life burdens me.”
“Octavianus won’t cooperate.”
“Well, we’ve known that since the Queen sent him her scepter and diadem to Pelusium. I wish the town had been as sluggish as the army! A lot of good Egyptians died—how did they ever think to resist a Roman siege?”
“He couldn’t afford a siege, Antonius, which is why he stormed the place.” Canidius peered at Antony, puzzled. “Don’t you remember? You are unwell!”
“Yes, yes, I remember!”
Antony laughed, a grating sound. “I have too much on my mind, that’s all. He’s in Memphis, isn’t he?”
“He was in Memphis. Now? Coming up the Canopic Nilus.”
“What has my son to say about him?”
“Your son?”
“Antyllus!”
“Antonius, we haven’t heard from Antyllus in a month.”
“We haven’t? How odd! Octavianus must have detained him.”
“Yes, I daresay that’s what happened,” Canidius said gently.
“Octavianus sent a servant with letters, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Cleopatra from the doorway. She walked in and sat opposite Antony, her eyes signaling Canidius frantically.
“What was the fellow’s name?”
“Thyrsus, dear.”
“Refresh my memory, Cleopatra,” Antony said, obviously very confused. “What was in the letters Octavianus sent you?”
Canidius had slumped into a chair, staring amazed.
“The public one ordered me to disarm and surrender, the one for my eyes only said that Octavianus will work out a solution satisfactory to all parties,” Cleopatra said levelly.
“Oh, yes! Yes, of course that was it…. Ah—didn’t I have to do something for you? Something about the commander of the garrison at Pelusium?”
“He sent his family to Alexandria for safekeeping and I had them arrested. Why should his family avoid the suffering visited on Pelusium? But then Caesarion”—she stopped, wrung her hands—“said I was too angry to dispense justice, and handed them to you.”
“Oh! Oh. And did I dispense justice to the family?”