He walked right up to her, mesmerized by her gaze. “You may fol-
low your leader to Greece,” he said, for that was where Fulvia had fled when she knew her quest for power was lost. “And you may take your family with you. But you must return to Rome within the month, or there will be a price to pay.”
The girl said nothing but squinted her eyes against the sun that lit Octavian from behind. Her husband, Tiberius Nero, remained silent, confused, perhaps, as to why he had been granted this reprieve. But he was a rich man and probably thought that had something to do with it. Only the governess wailed her thanks to Octavian and to the gods as she held the baby up to the skies, proclaiming him the most blessed of children.
“Do you understand me?” Octavian asked Livia. She did not remove the barrier of her arm that separated her husband from him, nor did she say one word of thanks.
“I do indeed,” she replied.
But she hadn’t understood, not really, because when Octavian came to them back in Rome with his demand, they were stunned. It was simple. She was to divorce Tiberius immediately and marry him. Octavian had already put Scribonia away, and had convinced his allies in the senate to hurry along the process by lifting the imposed amount of time before remarriage. It would not be a problem, he explained to Tiberius and Livia, and hardly a big demand to make in exchange for their lives.
“But she is pregnant with my child,” Tiberius said.
“Yes, I’ve thought of that,” Octavian replied. “If it’s a boy, I’ll send him to you to be raised in your household.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Tiberius said.
“The death sentence was not commuted without condition,” Octavian replied. “Just because we are in Rome does not mean that it won’t be carried out. We made a bargain, if you recall.”
“I recall,” Livia answered. “Do you guarantee the safety of my children and their rights to bear their father’s name and to be reared in his home?”
“I do, Madam,” Octavian said. “I do, indeed, on my word and on the memory of the Divine Julius Caesar.”
“Then make arrangements right away for our wedding. We shall have it right here in my husband’s home with his blessing.”
Tiberius quivered and twitched but did not protest. Octavian was heartened by her words-thrilled, truth be known-but he did not suffer the illusion that she said them in the spirit of love. She seemed at that moment more the general than Fulvia had ever been. Fulvia had emotions that ran high, despite her ability to calculate and maneuver. There was no emotion in what Livia had said, merely the acknowledgment of a business deal. Whether she closed that deal out of fear, duty, or ambition, he could not decipher.
Now Octavian’s bride sat next to him stiff as stone and puffed up with pregnancy. Occasionally she looked in his direction and offered up a half-moon of a smile, but it looked painted on her face rather than animated by a feeling of happiness. Six months along, still, no one said a word about her condition. In fact, despite the odd circumstances of the wedding, everyone ate and drank and celebrated the union with pleasure, even Tiberius Nero, the father of the seed that grew inside her belly. Well, Octavian would do what was right. He would send the child to the father after it was born, particularly if it was a boy. A girl might only be a burden to Tiberius, and would make a good companion to his little Julia.
Perhaps people talked behind Octavian’s back. But the only gaffe made at the wedding was by a ten-year-old serving boy, dressed in white, cheeks rouged to recall Cupid, who informed Livia that she was sitting with the wrong husband. That provoked a snicker or two, but it did not matter to Octavian. He was very proud of his manipulation of the circumstances. His uncle would have felt the same, for was it not Caesar himself who had gleefully reported the secret schemes he concocted with his comrade Clodius, defying law, constitution, and even nature?
Octavian breathed a deep sigh of pleasure and satisfaction. He had the woman of his choosing at his side, and she would learn to love him. He had Caesar’s army. General Fulvia was gone to Greece, thanks to the military genius of Marcus Agrippa, one of the two young men whom Caesar had handpicked to serve as Octavian’s advisers. His enemies were dead by his own hand. The only outstanding problem was Antony. Was Octavian up to a confrontation with Antony? What would Antony do when he found out that Fulvia had started a war in his name and had broken his alliance with Octavian without Antony’s blessing? Or so everyone said. Was Antony really ignorant of his wife’s actions, or did he sanction them from Kleopatra’s bed? Was Fulvia so ambitious that she would wage war on Antony’s behalf while he was entwining himself with another woman? A woman who would stop at nothing until she was Antony’s partner-his empress-in Rome’s eastern empire? Perhaps that was their secret arrangement-Fulvia would defeat Octavian so that Antony would have no obstacles to total authority in Rome, while Kleopatra would furnish him with the resources to command all the countries of the east. Was Antony’s enchantment over women so great that he could manipulate both Fulvia and the queen into doing his bidding? Octavian pushed that thought aside. He did not want to think his rival so formidable. At any rate, did Antony really think he could make an alliance all at once with Caesar’s chosen heir, and also with the woman who claimed to be the mother of Caesar’s only true son? Antony’s next step would answer that question. Octavian did not believe that Caesar’s army would take up arms against Antony, the man who had led them into battle time and again. No, he would have to think of some other way to manage Antony. He did not yet have the plan in mind, but he was sure it would soon occur to him.
Then he remembered that he was not alone. He remembered the calm with which Livia Drusilla, ignoring her husband’s protests, had agreed to their marriage-her subtle but emphatic closing of all questions on the issue, as if she had worked it all out in her mind. Someday he would make her tell him the thought process that had led up to her decision. Someday, but not this evening. This evening, after he consummated the marriage, he would take up the matter of Antony with his new bride and find out what thoughts were swimming about behind that beautiful, impeccably smooth brow.
Alexandria: the 20th year of Kleopatra’s reign
The light is harsher this morning, cutting a hot white slab across her desk. Kleopatra holds a vase in her hands. It is a cheap one, hastily spun on a pottery wheel and crudely painted, manufactured in quantity by order of Octavian and offered for a few pennies so that anyone at all might afford to have something that mocks her. But it is a poor likeness. The figure is huge and shrewlike, and she is taunting the god Herakles with her size and power. She has confiscated his stick and club and holds it in her greedy, grasping hand. In the harridan’s other hand is a bowl of wine, held out to the humiliated god, demanding that he pour her another serving. Herakles, with Antony’s face, is small and sullen, cowering before his female master. The message is clear: Kleopatra has emasculated Antony and has assumed his power.
Is there a truth she might construct to palliate the lies now circulating all over the known world? In her kingdom, she is called Kleopatra VII Theas Philopater, Neos Isis, Father-Loving Queen of Kings, living incarnation of our divine Lady, and Pharaoh of the Two Lands of Egypt. To her children, she is known by a single word-Mother. In her time, she has been called by her regal name, the Queen of her Sons who are Kings, and, for her deeds to the people over whom she rules, the Savior, just as her forebears were honored with that title. But now, new monikers have been invented by the evil one in Rome-monster, prostitute, seductress, mortal enemy of Rome.
She wonders which image will survive. The succubus on the vase? The destroy- er of the living Herakles? The monster Octavian created and fed to the people? When she dies, her first mission in the underworld of the shades will be to confront Caesar for his choice of heir. She will make him answer to her, or her soul will never rest.
She takes the vase to the fallen Titan sitting alone, staring over the sea, the Great Green as he called it in happier days, following the hab
it of the native people. She shows him the thing, carefully watching his face as he takes it in his big hands and stares at it, holding it a little farther from his eyes so that he might see it more clearly. She is hoping it will spark a dialogue between them, hoping this measure of Octavian’s cunning, this assault on his masculinity, will rouse his ire. Instead, he laughs. A good likeness of us both, he says, and turns away.
She is stunned quiet. Not because of his reaction, but because she remembers that this is not the first time he has turned his back on her.
She feels the memory of it all creep up on her like an intruder in the dark, and she is helpless to stop its invasion. For years, she has put aside that dark period of her life, the only time in a lifetime filled with conflict, challenges, and adversity, when she had lost hope. For so long, she has forbidden herself to recall those times, those years when she had to go on without Antony. For so long, she has told herself that those were the years in which his loyalty to Rome shone most brightly; that he had only sacrificed their love and ambitions for circumstances that he believed would bring world peace. She has reminded herself that she, too, has more than once chosen country over love. She has always concentrated on how horribly Antony was deceived by Octavian, not how horribly she was deceived by Antony.
But now, in the wake of Antony’s dismissal, the memory of it all sneaks back in. She feels the glorious rush of love in which she had lived that entire first winter with Antony fill her body. She remembers how Antony had received no word from Rome because the Artesian winds prevented the delivery of mail, and how their love thrived in isolation from Rome and its problems. She remembers her disappointment when the weather cleared and they learned that the Parthians were attacking Roman provinces and had murdered a Roman governor. And she remembers the sorrow and hope she felt as Antony set off with his army, whispering in his ear the joyous news: She was once again pregnant. She remembers him taking her into his great arms and whispering in return that now the son of Caesar would have a son of Antony with whom to play.
She remembers his broad back-the same one she is staring at now-as he walked away, departing with a considerable amount of her money, her army’s horses, and Egyptian grain, leaving her to build ships to strengthen his naval forces
and recruit mercenaries from nearby territories for the final encounter with Parthia. But then it all changed. With one letter, and in one instant, once again, everything Kleopatra had worked for and believed in was gone. Somewhere around Tyre, Antony received the devastating news about Fulvia’s uprising: Fearful of Octavian’s growing influence in Rome, and seeing firsthand his betrayal of the treaty he made with both Antony and Lepidus, Fulvia and Antony’s brother Lucius had waged a bloody war against Octavian’s forces.
Fulvia. What courage it must have taken for her to act. Was she so in love with Antony that she was willing to lay down her own life? Or did she have such confidence in Antony’s popularity and in the men left to her command, and in her own ability to command them? But the hundreds of senators and statesmen who fled Rome to join Fulvia’s cause were slaughtered on a sacrificial altar used for offering animals to the gods. This Octavian had done in Caesar’s name. Caesar, who was renowned for his extraordinary mercy. If there is judgment and vengeance in Hades’ dark land, perhaps Caesar would avenge his name against the deeds of his heir.
As Perugia fell, poor starving Fulvia had fled to Greece. Antony, upon hearing the news, made for Athens to meet her. There he found a broken woman. Starvation, defeat, and the demise of her friends and supporters at Octavian’s demonic hands had ruined her health. Antony chastised her greatly for her efforts, and she-perhaps because she was too weak-did not adequately defend her actions.
Since then, how many times has Kleopatra reprimanded Antony for his treatment of Fulvia? How many times has she said to him that Fulvia was prescient? That she knew Octavian would never honor the terms of peace with Antony, and had attempted to put him down before his influence spread?
Suddenly, Kleopatra feels herself getting dizzy. She has never let herself believe she is reliving Fulvia’s experience, but the comparison has now made itself manifest and sits like an unwanted guest in her mind. She does not let herself dwell on the possibility that history is repeating itself, as it so often does. No, that will not do. She has no time for such meditations. She closes her eyes, cracking the whip on her mind, forcing it to move on.
What happened next? Antony left his grieving wife behind and hurried to Italy to assess the situation. Arriving at Brundisium, he found himself persona non grata-the effects of Octavian’s influence. The local officials did not give him leave to dock. He disembarked nearby with his men and waited. Soon enough, Octavian arrived, encamping directly opposite him.
Antony was ready to strike. Oh, why did he not? But the soldiers who had served both commanders were reluctant to choose, and so they forced their generals to renew their alliance. Octavian pledged Antony twenty thousand soldiers for the Parthian campaign, and also a pardon for Fulvia. But before Octavian had agreed, word came that Fulvia had died in Greece.
It was then-before Fulvia’s body was cold, much less cremated-that Octavian made the proposition that struck through Kleopatra’s heart like one of the daggers that killed Caesar: To demonstrate conviction for their alliance, Antony must wed Octavian’s sister, Octavia. Anxious for peace, Antony readily accepted, giving Octavian leave to install a most loyal spy and operative in Antony’s very bed.
And what of Kleopatra, who had subsidized Antony’s military efforts, and with whom he had made far-reaching plans that he had sworn were paramount to his ambitions and desires? What of Kleopatra, who had just given birth to his twins? What of Kleopatra, who loved him fiercely? He ceased to answer her letters.
Kleopatra now wallows in the very misery she spent years forgetting. She remembers how she watched from afar as Octavia usurped her position in Antony’s life. How she prayed to the goddess that Octavia would be a wife like Caesar’s Calpurnia, taken for political alliance only, a silent mouse of a spinning Roman housewife who stayed home and worshipped Hesta while her husband ran about the world dancing on the heads of his enemies. But it was not to be. Antony-though he denied it, still denies it-fell in love with Octavia. He brought her to Athens with him and honored her as Athena herself, the goddess who presides over the city.
Kleopatra is desolate remembering this, as desolate as she was when she realized that Antony had brought his Roman wife to Greece to show the people of east and west alike that he had rejected the alliance with Aphrodite, the Mother goddess, the goddess of love, in favor of the chaste Athena. And how the Romans approved of that notion. Though they are most barbarously crude in their sexual proclivities, they still like to appear as chaste and restrained as Athena herself. Goddess of War, Abstinence, Childbirth. What better model for a Roman matron? How many times did Antony later swear that he was just putting on a show? And how much of her intuition did Kleopatra have to deny to believe him? The evidence was to the contrary: coins issued with Octavia’s image, coins with them costumed as Athena and Dionysus, making a mockery of his love with Kleopatra. Fabulous games hosted by him and Octavia in Greece, for which they received much praise. The worst evidence of all: Quickly, very quickly, she became pregnant with his child, and the world rejoiced. The poet Vergil even wrote a verse about it that was circulated around the world. It proclaimed that either the child of Antony and Octavia or the child of Octavian and Scribonia would be the New Messiah, the Bringer of a Golden Era of Peace and Joy. Of course, by the time the poem was in print, Octavian had already put Scribonia away and was conspiring to take Livia away from her husband. But the Romans were anxious to produce a New Messiah of their own, because the Golden Child who most fitted the descriptions in the prophecies was the son of Kleopatra and Caesar, Caesarion.
Grief buried long ago descends upon her like a shroud. The astrologer she had attached to Antony’s circle tried to console her with the notion that the baby was the work not of An
tony’s semen but Octavia’s magic. She remembers smiling at him, though she saw the lie. She had known Antony’s passion; she did not believe that Octavia, even if she was just her brother’s spy, could or would resist him.
They were husband and wife in the eyes of the world, and Kleopatra was alone with her heartache, praying that the people of Egypt would accept any of her bastard Roman children as heirs to the throne.
Still, Antony continued to amass forces to march on Parthia. As he moved east with his wife, Kleopatra did not know if the two of them would come to Egypt together, and if she would have to receive them. Or if he would come by himself and demand more of her grain, her money, and her troops. Or if he would merely march into her country with his men and declare the land of her ancestors a client kingdom that he would rule himself, with Octavia his eastern queen.
It was not impossible.
Syria: the 15th year of Kleopatra’s reign
If Antony thought that Antioch was neutral territory, he was mistaken. She knew what he was up to. He had his Roman wife, his Roman children, his Roman army, his Roman half of the empire. She had spent the better part of the last few years wiping him from her heart and her mind. Finally reconciled to life without him, she was annoyed that he was “summoning” her to him now. And if he thought her appearance would come without a price, he was dead wrong.