Her husband is pacing about his chamber, a defeated lion, begging a servant to kill him. The Inimitable One, the Invincible One, trying to face his mortality. His love of life surpasses all reason, and he is staring into the shadows of death, unable to walk into its dark, welcoming arms. Torn between the two worlds, powerless to choose, while Octavian marches into the city. Someone must rescue him from this agony.
“Diomedes, go immediately to the Imperator and tell him that I am already dead; that I heard of the morning’s events, and I took my life.”
No one questions her. These are her closest associates, and they know what she is doing.
Diomedes looks into the portal for the queen’s eyes. She reiterates: “Tell the Imperator that I took a dagger to my own breast, and that I died immediately.”
Diomedes leaves. Kleopatra hisses at her companions, “Do not speak.”
She wants to be alone with her thoughts. She knows that Antony will do one of two things. Either he will follow her example of courage and quickly take his own life so that they will go together to the gods. Or he will hurry to the mausoleum to see if she is truly dead, knowing he will have to keep himself alive to negotiate for the children.
She begs the Lady Isis to exercise her wisdom. What is best for the higher good of all is what shall transpire, she prays. But what she prays for is not what she hopes for. She hopes that Antony will hurry to her. When he arrives and finds that she is alive, they will not kill themselves, but tear off their clothes and dress in rags and run away. She has been an artist of disguise all her life. Antony is a natural man of the stage. He once disguised himself as a slave to escape the hostility of those against Caesar. With an actor’s aplomb, he put on a tattered hood and hobbled out of the city and into Caesar’s camp to demonstrate what degradation he was willing to stoop to in Caesar’s service. She will convince him that it does not matter where they go as long as they are alive. Let Octavian have Egypt. He will make himself their children’s regent, and when the time comes, he will put them on the throne like little puppets and he will pull their strings. Better the children, who have yet to learn independence, than herself.
She praises the gods for giving Antony this reprieve from death. It was the work of the Divine, she knows. The gods did not allow a battle today because they do not want Antony to die. Not yet. It is a sure sign that they are to live, to prevail. Together they will flee to India, not as king and queen, but as simple lovers. They will meet up with Caesarion along the way, and take the trade routes through the east with a caravan of merchants paid to keep their secret. They will live in her palace in India in peace, waiting for Octavian to be overthrown, probably by his own people. Then they will return and guide their children to fulfill the ambitions of empire spun long ago. If the gods are merciful, then this is what will happen. Antony will read the truth into Diomedes’ message, or beat it out of him, and he will come to her.
She knows, of course, that these are fantasies. Antony will never run away with her. A general first, a leader of men, he goes nowhere without an army marching behind him. Which is why he is so lost now. The footsteps of soldiers that have followed him all his life are silent, and he is lost without that driving rhythm.
Charmion and Hephaestion stare at her like proud parents, while Iras, who loves Antony, tends more fastidiously to his chore of making a new comb. They believe they know what she has done, that she has finally taken the step the two cold-blooded ones have urged all along. Rush Antony to his death so that she might live. They think they know her mind, but none can guess her private hope.
Antony does come to her, but he is covered in his own blood. His arrival is announced by woeful cries. She recognizes the voices of his servants asking her to open the door to let him in, but she no longer knows who she can trust. Octavian’s men cannot be far behind. She orders Hephaestion to lower ropes through a wide window so that only Antony may be let in.
“He is slain!” Diomedes yells. “He has taken his own life!”
She hears her husband say, “I am tied to the ropes. Take me up.”
Kleopatra and her companions pull on two ropes, she and Iras at one, Hephaestion and Charmion at the other. He must have fastened a rope to each of his arms because she can hear him use his feet against the wall to climb. He yells at her to keep pulling, that he is dying, and that she must hurry or he will die alone. She can hear his servants weeping as he uses the last bit of his strength to die in her sight.
Inside, all four of them are pulling, Kleopatra working so hard that with each effort her arms are in searing pain and her head is to the ground. The servants are screaming to them to keep pulling, to not let their master fall, to be strong. That he is dying, that he must see the queen before he goes to the gods, that this is his final wish. Two times, they almost falter. Charmion’s hands are bleeding. Hephaestion and Iras, though they have lived lives of little physical exertion, are stronger than the women, but Antony is the weight of two men. She calls out to him to hold on, that he is almost inside. A ladder is placed against the wall, and three of them struggle with the ropes while Iras climbs to the top, grabbing Antony and helping him inside. Antony strives to balance on the sill of the window while Iras swings his legs over for him and places them on the top rung. One step at a time, Antony descends, groaning in pain. His feet hit the ground and he falls into her arms. Hephaestion helps her carry him to a couch. He is still in his armor.
She surveys his body, taking stock of the laceration in his gut. By the stains on his clothes, on his body, on the walls, on the ladder, she knows that he has lost most of his blood.
Holding his face, she looks into his eyes and sobs. “Oh, my husband, my love, my lord, I have killed you.”
“You simply helped an old soldier to die.”
Antony smiles, and she wonders if he is so far gone now that he can no longer feel pain. “Get me some wine, would you?” He is casual, as if he has just come in from military drills and is thirsty.
“What have you done? My darling, I wanted us to run away together. I prayed for you to see through my lie!” She helps him out of his breastplate and puts her head on his chest. His leather tunic is damp and smells salty and metallic like blood.
“When they told me you were dead, I begged Eros yet again to kill me, but he turned his sword on himself. It took a servant’s bravery and a woman’s lie for me to let go of life.”
“Because you love life, my darling, not because you have no courage.” Kleopatra takes the goblet of wine from Charmion and holds it to his lips. Iras props Antony’s head with his hands. The eunuch is crying, trying to hide his face.
Kleopatra turns to Hephaestion. “Check his wound. See what can be done.”
Antony puts a hand up to stop Hephaestion, and then pleads to Kleopatra with eyes. He whispers, “We only have a moment longer. Drink with me, as if we were alone in our room, with no cares but one another’s pleasure.”
Her hands shake as she takes a sip of the wine. Antony watches her, wincing with pain, but his eyes are bright. “That’s it,” he says. “Now, let me have some more. You know how I love a good vintage.” He tries to chuckle, but the laugh catches in his throat and he coughs.
Now she breaks down, tearing at her clothes, taking a swath of her white dress and covering his wound. “Let me help you,” she cries, spreading the cloth, watching it soak up his blood. She cannot bear to see the life seep from his body this way and she throws the cloth aside and tries to stanch the flow of blood with her hands. She realizes she is hurting him, so she lets him take her wet hand, and they both feel his warm blood between their skin.
“My guard has taken my bloody sword to Octavian. My death will buy you smooth negotiations.”
She puts the wine to his lips again because she does not want to hear talk of death or of Octavian. Closing his eyes, he sips a very little bit, swallowing with some effort. “I might have died far away from you, slain by some ignoble foreign sword,” he says. “It is better this way, taking your face with me to t
he gods.”
But she does not want him to comfort her. She wants him to live. She tears again at her clothes, thinking she might fashion some magical tourniquet. She begs him, “Do not give in so quickly, Imperator. Let me help you.”
He stops her again with his hand, and pulls her close to his face so that he is burying his mouth in her hair. “Happier times,” he whispers, and the hot air of his breath makes her body go slack. She stays there, with his warm mouth nuzzling her ear until she feels him let drop her hand.
She realizes she has never known grief, not even for Caesar, because it overtakes her with an unfamiliar ferocity. She has seen death before, and she has always remained calm in its wake. But now, when she is most called upon to remain composed, sorrow takes her prisoner and she is no longer in control. She feels Antony leave her, just as if his flesh is walking away. She tries to grab at his ghost but he is too quickly gone, and she thinks he is laughing, not with her but with someone, something else. She wonders if Caesar has come for his Master of the Horse, and if they are sharing a joke. Or has Antony realized so soon death’s pleasures? She is furious that he has this quick relief from life’s anxieties, jealous that he has expeditiously discharged himself of their woes. She beats on his chest as if she might resurrect him; as if she can hurt him enough to make him come back. But her fists ring hollow against his breast and so she turns on herself. She wipes his blood on her face like a mad Dionysian, ripping her dress open and beating at her chest. She hears her fists pound against her breasts, sees her hands flying in the air and striking her body, but she is numb to her own pain. She tears open her dress and, making animal paws out of her hands, lacerates her skin with the nails Charmion has so carefully painted pale blue. She cannot make herself hurt enough, and she gives up and falls over his corpse, that same body in which she has taken refuge so many times. Now it has nothing to offer.
She hears shouts and screams outside. As heavy footsteps approach, others scamper away. She knows the unmistakable thud of a Roman soldier’s gait.
Pounding on the door. “My name is Marcus Proculeius, Your Majesty, and I am sent by Caesar.”
Charmion helps her up and away from Antony’s body, but this man’s words have awakened her, and she remembers who she is and what she has promised.
“Caesar is dead, murdered by twenty-three blows of the knife. But if you promise to deliver me to him, I will happily open my door.”
Charmion takes her arm and yanks her to attention. “Marcus Antonius is with the gods and you are with the living.” Charmion has never taken such a liberty, not even when Kleopatra was small and rebellious.
“It is time to negotiate, Your Majesty,” Hephaestion adds. “The opportunity may not come again.”
Charmion does not let go. “Think of your children. And of your father and his father and his father and the many kings from whom you are descended.”
Kleopatra frees herself from Charmion’s grip and opens the tiny portal. All she can see is the chin strap of a Roman helmet and a square jaw “What is your message?”
“You must open the doors and come with us.”
“And why should I do such a thing?”
“You are to trust in Caesar’s wisdom and mercy. He told me to tell you to have courage. Release yourself from your prison, come to him, and let the negotiations begin.”
“A moment, sir.” Hephaestion closes the portal and whispers, “Do you hear what he says? Octavian only wished for Antony’s death. Now is the time to ask for favor.”
“Why is he so willing to negotiate, when he has ignored all our attempts? He wants the contents of this chamber.” How could one so wise as Hephaestion be so naive?
She opens the portal. “If your master wishes to negotiate, then tell him to come to this door and swear upon the name and memory of Julius Caesar that he will allow my children to retain their titles and their thrones. For myself, I am done with public life and wish to go into exile. Those are my terms.”
“And if he does not accept them?”
“Then you may tell him that all that he covets he will have, but it will be in ash.”
For one hour, she weeps over Antony’s body, feeling the warmth seep away, when a new pair of lips appears at the portal. It is Cornelius Gallus, who had turned Antony’s troops against him at Crete.
Kleopatra cannot wait to speak to him, opening the portal herself and breathing venom. “Ah, Gallus, the Imperator’s body lies dead, not by your hand but by his own. So you see that in the end, he succeeded where you failed. Have you come to take revenge upon a dead man? Aren’t your hands stained enough with his blood?”
Hephaestion stands beside her fanning his arms in an effort to get her to calm down. “Hear him out, Your Majesty,” he says loud enough for Gallus to hear.
“I have come from Caesar, with an answer to your offer, madam. He asks that you first leave your shelter. Then he will comply with your wishes.”
Kleopatra is disgusted. “Why will he comply with my wishes only after I leave my shelter? Does he think me such a fool? If he has any intention of complying with my wishes, let him come here now and swear it to me. Why does he not come himself but send messengers? Is he afraid to see me?”
“He is settling the affairs of the city, madam.”
Her city. “And what is more important to settle than the city’s queen?”
She slams the portal shut. “Do you see his method? He thinks he can lull me into opening these doors. Then he will have everything he needs, and I will be taken prisoner or killed. Or both.”
“The Imperator believed he would negotiate,” Charmion says tersely.
“You did not trust his judgment in life, Charmion. Has he so risen in your esteem in death?” She turns to Hephaestion, whispering, “Prepare the fire.”
“Madam, I care nothing for my life, but if you burn the entire treasure, will he not take revenge upon the children?”
Kleopatra sees no way out. Antony lies dead, Iras sponging the blood from his body so that he will not go disheveled to the gods. Through her grief, she is furious that she agreed to be the one to stay alive. Should it not be him, bargaining with the man he knows so well? Romans are notoriously merciful to their fellow countrymen in matters of civil strife. If Octavian had greeted the familiar face of Antony, would he not have capitulated to at least some of their demands? Now it was far too late. Antony’s honor is preserved in death, and Kleopatra is left to defend her children, her people, her throne, her dignity. She knows that Octavian only wants her money. Would he trade it for her life? If she opens the door, he will have both and she will have no bargaining power.
She goes to a wooden trunk, opens it, and removes a large emerald ring and a small ruby pendant. She opens the portal and hands the jewels to Gallus. “The emerald is for your general, the ruby, a gift you may give to the lady of your choosing. I repeat my terms. Say to your general that I respectfully request his presence so that we may talk face-to-face. Say to him that I wish no misrepresentations made through the inadvertent mistakes of mediators. Our business is too important and too delicate a matter.”
“Madam, I do not believe he will be summoned. He has sent me with his assurances. I beg you to do as he wishes.”
“I do not believe I shall.”
“He asked me to remind you of the merciful qualities of Julius Caesar, whose every aspect he emulates.”
Kleopatra thinks of the many agreements with Antony Octavian failed to honor: how he neglected to send the promised twenty thousand troops for the Parthian war; how he asked Antony to come to Brundisium to make peace and then failed to show; how he refused to answer any of their requests for negotiation, instead confiscating money sent as peace offerings. How he won Antony’s soldiers by bribery. She thinks of the stories of how he feigns illness during battle, turning all responsibilities over to Marcus Agrippa; how he has called her every foul name before the senate; how he used Cicero and then sanctioned his death and his posthumous degradation-severed head and ha
nds ignobly displayed in the Forum. How he murdered three hundred of his senatorial colleagues at Perugia, offered up as human sacrifices after his successful siege. How it was said that his lust forced a man to give up his own wife to him; how he turned his agents into whoremasters, procuring young girls for him, tearing them from their homes and families.
He emulates Julius Caesar in nothing. Caesar’s victories were won by Caesar’s genius; his lovers conquered by his charm. His enemies in war pardoned as if they had done nothing more than deliver a slight insult over a drunken dinner. There is no evidence that Caesar’s heir has inherited anything but his money
“Still, I must ask you to reiterate what I have said. The general may choose his response.”
“Your Majesty you must trust Caesar. With my own eyes I saw him shed tears upon learning that Marcus Antonius had taken his own life . . .”
She will hear no more of these lies. “Why do you not go forth with my answer?” She has lost patience with this Gallus, this messenger. Why does he dally? Does he really think that he, a second-rate commander, may negotiate with a queen? Is this yet one more of Octavians insults?
Charmion screams. Hephaestion puts himself in front of the queen, making a shield out of his body. Iras cowers behind the couch where Antony lies dead. A Roman soldier is through the window, descending the ladder. Others follow, one scaling the wall with ropes, swords and armor clanking a song of death.
She will not give them the glory of kill or capture. She pushes Hephaestion forward and reaches beneath her dress for the dagger. With a deep breath, she pulls her arm back so that the blow will be deep and fatal. Before she strikes, she meets Charmion’s eyes, eyes that have watched over her all her days. Like herself, Charmion has assessed the situation quickly, has seen that once again treachery and not honorable negotiation has always been Octavian’s plan. Charmion gives the queen an almost indiscernible nod as if to say, Yes, this is the proper thing to do. Kleopatra braces herself for death, and with all her might, brings the vulnerable spot right below the breastplate. But Hephaestion catches her wrist before the knife hits its mark. She screams at his betrayal, and he pulls her close to him, whispering, Only those who live can negotiate. And then Roman hands are on her, and the lips she recognizes as belonging to Proculeius are barking orders to make certain that no other weapons are hidden on her body, no vials of poison, nothing that may be used as an instrument of death. “The general needs her alive,” he says. To her, he adds, “He wishes the opportunity to demonstrate his mercy to the queen.”