The Memoirs of Cleopatra Part 127

"If you would keep me," I said, "then fight tomorrow as you have never fought before. Think you not that at this very moment Octavian is also making death preparations? It may be he who lies low tomorrow, not even attaining the age of Alexander. It lies in your power!"

"Whatever lies in my bodily power, you can rely on me to perform," he said. "But the G.o.ds--"

d.a.m.n the G.o.ds! came the impious thought. We will defy them!

Antony closed his eyes and lay still, his arm draped over one of my shoulders, the hand dangling. In the dim light I could see all the fingers curled the way they are at rest, a graceful half-circle. His breathing was not as deep as true sleep, but he was drowsing lightly.

As I lay there I heard faint strains of music. Was someone in the silent city awake and celebrating? The pall of unnatural quiet, so un-Alexandrian, had persisted until now.

As I listened, I heard it again, more distinctly now. There were pipes and tambourines. It sounded like a distant procession. But who would parade through the streets tonight?

I slipped out from under Antony's arm and stole across the cool marble floor to the window. The friendly lamplight in the room masked the deep night outside. I could see nothing. The city lay still and waiting in all directions; few torches were burning anywhere, and only the whiteness of the stone served to light the whole.

The sea shone back, reflecting the starlight and empty sky, and I could see Octavian's fleet, hovering just beyond the breakwaters. From the east, was it my imagination that the sky was faintly red from the enemy campfires?

The music, again. Louder now, distinct, coming from just outside the palace, just at the Canopic Way. A huge company of revelers, singing, crying out, playing the pipes, the drums, the cymbals. At any moment they would emerge on the other side, going eastward, and I would see them.

The sound rose, swelling as if it were directly underground, pa.s.sing under the palace itself, a noisy company, an enormous band. . . . But even though the sound pa.s.sed by, and now was on the other side of the Canopic Way, I still could see nothing. I opened the doors of the terrace and stepped out, straining to see down the wide marble street, which was . . . empty. Yet filled with sound, a sound suddenly, horribly, familiar. I had heard it before, heard it the night my father died.

It was Dionysus, Dionysus accompanied by his band of bacchantes, his worshipers, leaving us. Leaving Antony!

The noise was growing fainter now, and it was pa.s.sing out of the city gate, out of the Gate of Canopus, toward the east.

Antony's G.o.d had deserted him, as he had deserted my father.

It was unmistakable, a deadly, ugly leave-taking.

My heart was pounding, and I clung to the rail. Without his G.o.d, without Dionysus, he was lost.

That coward of a G.o.d! I hated him. What good is a G.o.d who deserts you in your last hour? He does not deserve to be a G.o.d, he is lower than Plancus, than t.i.tius, than Dellius!

O, would that the house of Ptolemy had never trafficked with Dionysus!

Had Antony heard it? I rushed back to the bed and climbed in. He seemed to be still asleep. That was merciful. I lay down beside him and watched as the room slowly grew light.

But you, Isis, will never desert your daughter. You are the supreme G.o.ddess, able to deliver. I must trust in you. Even now. Especially now.

Chapter 85.

He came awake easily--if he had ever been asleep. It was still almost dark in the room, but this day--this day that would go on forever, end forever-- must start well before the sun.

He swung his feet down over the bed and shook his head. "I had strange dreams--such dreams as it were better I had stayed awake. I dreamed . . . odd music. . . He shook his head as if to clear it.

"Think no more on it," I said briskly.

He was eyeing his clothes, and he clapped for Eros, who appeared in only a moment. He must have been sleeping just outside the door--or rather, staying. For it was doubtful any of us had slept.

Had Eros heard it, the leave-taking? I could not ask, but from his white, drained face, I guessed that he had.

Holding the bowl of heated water, Eros let Antony splash his own face and neck. Then, very gently, he wiped the water away from his master's face.

The clothes went back on: the undertunic of red wool, the heavy cuira.s.s, the scarf to protect the sunburnt neck, the high-strapped sandals. He fastened the sword on his right side, tucked the dagger in its proper place on his left. The hot helmet would not be put on until he actually rode forth.

Light had stolen bit by bit into the chamber, and now I drew back the curtains to admit the day. Outside the sea was gleaming, the two fleets riding on its bosom, facing each other.

He stood there and we looked at one another across the expanse of floor. Eros slipped out, disappearing into an adjoining chamber.

Antony looked like a statue of Mars, standing motionless in his armor. The proud head, head that had carried my heart with it through many toils and dangers, stared mournfully at me. I could not bear that look in his eyes, a look that said, Farewell, farewell, now all unwilling we must part. Farewell, farewell, now all unwilling we must part.

I flew into his arms and held him, pressing my face up against the hard metal of his armor. Already he was beyond me, encased.

Then I felt him pulling on my hair, drawing my head back to kiss me. I lifted my face to meet his and receive the kiss.

"Good-bye, my love," was all I could say.

I knew I would never see him again.

Quickly he turned and left the chamber, clutching his helmet, without a backward glance.

And so it was over. Is over. I wait now, midmorning, for the news I do not want to receive. After he left, I dressed myself, called the children, hugged and played with them. Mardian is here, and the others. Olympos came. I showed him the scrolls, where I had stored them. He promised. Then he kissed my cheek and left, to hide in his house until the danger had pa.s.sed. I told him there would be just this one scroll to add to the rest; I would have that with me, wherever I was. He seemed to accept it; at least he asked no questions.

One hy one they leave. I am stripped bare like an athlete before a contest.

Mardian touches my shoulder. "What is their battle plan?" he asks.

"Publicola will command the ships," I say. "Antony will lead the cavalry, Canidius the infantry. This time there is no question of the enemy refusing to give battle. They have been encamped only a few hours; they have not had time to dig in well enough to resist an attack." No second Actium.

He shakes his head. "And we shall know . . . how?"

"By the sound of the returning soldiers. If the day is ours, the shout will be 'Anubis!' "

"How fitting," he says.

High noon, but not as hot as yesterday. The slight breeze cools us. I am again on the ramparts, and I see the motionless fleets, still drawn up in battle lines. Why does no one move? What are they waiting for?

Clutching the marble edge, I see at last the oars flash, see them plunge down into the water, rise, shoot the ships forward. Our fleet is on its way out of the harbor, heading toward the breakwater, to confront Octavian's.

The enemy ships now move a little, drawing back. They will lie in wait like a panther, let us come to them.

Now . . . now we are close enough to start firing stones and fireb.a.l.l.s at them. Why don't we? Fire! Loose a volley on them!

But they stream on, harmlessly. Instead ... I cannot believe my own eyes . . . they turn themselves broadside and salute Octavian's ships! They raise their oars to signal nonaggression. And now ... a shout of camaraderie!

Caps fly through the air . . . rejoicing . . . reunion! The two fleets join in brotherhood. Our navy, the survivors of Actium, and the new-built ships, have joined the enemy.

That was several hours ago. I knew then that the day was lost. Dionysus had laid us low. Calmly (for what was there to be wild about? it was over), I ordered the children to their hiding place, took my mantle and this scroll, and walked slowly to the mausoleum. Its wide doors were open, bidding me welcome.

Following behind us were two slaves carrying a trunk, in which my royal robes and crown and scepter were laid. This crown was finer than the one I had sent Octavian, as he would doubtless note when he beheld it. Another slave walked behind the trunk, carrying a large basket with a tightly fitting lid. Now these had been deposited on the floor of the monument, and the slaves departed.

There is no natural light here except what enters from the second story. And yet I hesitated, unwilling to proceed, in case I heard the miraculous word Anubis. Anubis. The story of the army was yet to tell, regardless of what happened at sea. The story of the army was yet to tell, regardless of what happened at sea.

In the quiet heat of noon I made my way to the adjoining Temple of Isis in order to offer final prayers. It was a formality only, as I had no words left to use. I stood before the milky-white statue of the G.o.ddess and silently pleaded with her to soften Octavian's heart and spare my children and Egypt. Look on them with mercy, I asked. Impart some of that mercy to him.

Outside the sea was washing against the base of the temple. The harbor was filling with returning ships. Not much time left.

I descended from the high platform of the temple and returned to the monument. I could hear shouts now, a din of riders. Something had happened beyond the city wall. Something decisive.

I cried to one of the pa.s.sing servant boys to run out into the Canopic Way and tell me what he saw. He obeyed and sprinted away.

There was noise, lots of noise, but no trumpet blasts of victory. Just cries and screams, and the thudding of hooves and tramping of feet.

I stood in the door of the mausoleum. I would not move until I knew; it would not be much longer now. . . .

The boy came running, his long tunic streaming out behind him. He skidded to a stop beside me and stood panting. "It's . . He gasped for breath. "The legions are defeated, and the cavalry deserted to Octavian." He bent over in pain from a cramp in his side.

"The legions fought? And were beaten?"

He nodded, still doubled over.

"And Lord Antony--he led them? Is he--did he--?"

He shook his head. "I know not."

"Has he entered the city?"

"I know not. I think not. There seemed to be no officers, only common foot soldiers in the returning men." His breath was still harsh.

So Antony had perished on the battlefield. It was as he had wanted it.

"Thank you," I told the boy. I wanted to reward him, but had nothing but my jewelry. I took off the pearl earrings and put them in his hand.

Before I could move at all, I shut my eyes to stop the fierce wheeling of the ground all around me. So this is what is feels like, this is how you are told. Not even the solemn, final words that impart some dignity. Instead, a guess, a surmise, a confusion.

Is he? Did he? I know not. I think not.

O Antony, you deserve a higher announcement than that, and I deserve to know for a certainty. Else how can I have the courage I need in this hour?

Lying dead on a field? Would he be recognized? Yes, of course, from his marks of rank. But he would be tended by enemies. Oh, it was too much to be borne.

And now he lay far from me. I was stunned, as stunned as if we had not prepared, had not expected it. Now the cruelty of it robbed me of speech and movement. I stood unmoving, rooted, while all around me people were running, panic-stricken.

The mausoleum. I had to get back inside it. To safety. To Mardian and Iras and Charmian. I forced myself to turn, leave the sunlit grounds, and reenter the tomb.

I ordered the inner doors closed. They are not the permanent ones, for those can be sealed only once, and we have funerals to conduct first. But they are strong enough, locked in all the conventional ways, fitted with iron bands and oak bolts. An enemy would need a battering ram to enter.

Here we have huddled for hours, waiting to know for an absolute certainty what has happened. My right to know must be satisfied, I tell myself; it is only that, not cowardice or second thoughts, that keeps me from lifting the lid on the basket. . . .

How long can they live in that basket? Many days, I have been told. The silent creatures just lie motionless, barely breathing. Nakht had done well, obeying my orders. He said they were prize ones, two of Ipuwer's favorites. But could they be the same? How long did the creatures live?

There was so much I would know, so much I would learn! my healthy mind cried out in protest. I am still young--I don't want to die this afternoon. Not this afternoon . . . perhaps tomorrow afternoon, or the next night, but, sweet Isis, not this afternoon!

But that was a momentary lapse and rebellion of my desire against the sternness of my will. It must not happen again. I bent and listened for any sound from within the basket, to a.s.sure myself that deliverance was at hand, and all I had to do was lift a light woven lid of straw.

Through the grille on the doors I could see, and hear, that the city was boiling with troops. Had Octavian arrived? Were these his soldiers? We climbed the stairs to the second story, which had a sort of inner balcony and windows that looked out over all the grounds. It was the one part of the building that was incomplete, and two of the windows were lacking bars.

With sadness I saw the tumult in my beloved city, lying helpless now before an invader, its gates thrown open, its citizens running in panic. And I was powerless to help it; all my life, dedicated to keeping it safe, has been spent laboring in vain to prevent this hour. My alliances, my plans, my stratagems, my sacrifices had staved it off but not stopped it.

Why delay any longer? Why behold this grisly spectacle of failure any longer? I was resolved to do it now; suddenly death was welcome. I spun away from the window and motioned to Charmian and Iras. But Charmian was pointing to something outside, and her face was rigid.

"Yes, it is pitiful," I told her. "But do not torture yourself by watching any longer." I took her hand.

"Madam, it is--see where they are bringing him," she whispered, pointing our hands together in the direction of an odd little procession.

Far to the right, on the path from the palace, men were carrying a litter with a sprawled body on it, and a knot of attendants cl.u.s.tered on both sides.

Even from this distance, I could see that the man--it was a man--was covered in blood, but lived. He did not have that limpness that betokens death.

"O my friend, it is--it is Antony," said Mardian, his voice strained.

Yes, it was. Had he been carried from the battlefield? Had he wished to lie here with me, today? In a hot gush of relief, I poured out my thanks to Isis that I yet lived. I would have missed him, had I steeled myself only a few minutes earlier.

He was trying to sit up, but did not have the strength. The whole front of his tunic was bathed in blood, and it was dripping off the litter and staining the ground. The armor was gone.

One of his attendants banged on the door, but I cried from the window, "We cannot open it now, lest Octavian storm inside and take the treasure. But the window--can we not use that?"

There were ropes still dangling from the unfinished upper masonry, and we lowered them to fasten to the litter. It was a long way to the ground, and I wondered if we would have the strength to haul him all the way up. He was a heavy man, his body now was almost dead weight, since he could not haul or help us pull.

He looked so weak, lying there, the blood bubbling up from wherever the wound was, his face pale and his words coming only with difficulty.

"Courage! Courage!" I cried, to strengthen him, as we four strained to pull the ropes and hoist him. None of us had enough strength, and it was grueling. Inadvertently we banged the litter against the wall over and over again, and each time I could see the pain chase across his face as he was jolted on the stone.

"Oh, hurry," he begged in so low a voice I could barely hear it. The sun was beating down on his blood-smeared face and cracked lips, and flies, attracted to the blood, were plaguing him. He was too weak to lift his hand and ward them off.

That hand, which had always been so strong. . . too weak now to wave away flies.

With a surge of determination, the four of us together yanked the ropes up and got the litter to the windowsill, where we lifted it over and set it on the floor.

"Oh, my dear--do not die without me!" I heard myself saying, as I threw myself on his chest, which was sleek with blood. Now I was covered in it, too, but I wanted to be. I took the palms of my hands and smeared my face, my neck, with his blood. Then, without even knowing it, I tore the top of my gown open and stripped myself of it, covering his chest with it. The blood soaked right through it.

"My lord, my husband, my emperor," I whispered by his ear. "Wait for me!"

I knew nothing could save him; the wound was mortal. He could barely speak.