Antony and Cleopatra (22 page)

“Antonius!” shrieked Atia loudly enough to bring servants running, only to be waved out impatiently. “Antonius! A boor, a scavenger, a—a—oh, there aren’t words to describe him!”

While Octavia thought, am I to be lucky at last, have a man I want as my husband? Thank you, thank you, Little Gaius!

“Antonius!” roared Atia, flecks of foam at the corners of her mouth. “Dearest girl, you must screw up the courage to say no! No to him, and no to my wretched son!”

While Octavia thought, I have dreamed of him for so long, hopelessly, sadly. In the old days, when he was in Italia and came to call on Marcellus, I used to find excuses to be present.

“Antonius!” howled Atia, pounding her fists on the chair arms, thump, thump, thump! “He’s sired more bastards than any other man in the history of Rome! Not a faithful bone in him!”

While Octavia thought, I used to sit and feast my eyes on him, offer to Spes that he’d visit again soon. Yet careful that I never gave myself away. Now this?

“Antonius!” whimpered Atia, the tears gathering again as her impotence gained the upper hand. “I could plead until next summer, and my traitor of a son wouldn’t listen!”

While Octavia thought, I will make him a good wife, I will be whatever he wants me to be, I won’t complain about mistresses or beg to accompany him when he returns to the East. So many women, all more experienced than I am! He will grow tired of me, I know it in my bones. But nothing can ever take away the memories of my time with him after it is over. Love understands, and love forgives. I was a good wife to Marcellus, and I have mourned him as a good wife does. But I pray to all Rome’s goddesses of women that I have long enough with Marcus Antonius to last for the rest of my life. For he is my true love. After him, there can be no one. No one…

“Hush, Mama,” she said aloud, eyes open and shining. “I will do as my brother says and marry Marcus Antonius.”

“But you’re not in Gaius’s hand, you’re
sui iuris
!” Then Atia recognized the look in those splendid aquamarine eyes, and gaped.
“Ecastor!”
she exclaimed feebly. “You’re in love with him!”

“If love is to long for his touch and his good esteem, then I must be,” said Octavia. “Do you know when it is to happen?”

“According to Philippus, Antonius and your callous brother have made a pact at Brundisium that there will be no civil war. The whole country is wild with joy, so the pair of them elected to make a regular spectacle out of their journey to Rome. Up the Via Appia to Teanum, then up the Via Latina. Apparently they won’t arrive here until the end of October. The marriage is to take place very shortly after that.” The mother’s face twisted. “Oh, please, dearest daughter, refuse it! You’re
sui iuris,
your fate is in your own hands!”

“I shall accept gladly, Mama, whatever you say or how much you beseech me. I know what Antonius is like, and that makes not a scrap of difference. There will always be mistresses, but he has never had a satisfactory wife. Look at them,” Octavia went on, warming to her theme. “First Fadia, the illiterate daughter of a dealer in everything from slaves to grain. I never saw her, of course, but apparently she was as unattractive as she was dull. But Antonius didn’t divorce her, he just didn’t come home much. She bore him a son and a daughter, bright little things by all accounts. That Fadia and her children died of the summer paralysis cannot be blamed on Antonius. Then came Antonia Hybrida, daughter of a man who tortured his slaves. They say Antonia Hybrida tortured her slaves too, but that Antonius ‘beat it out of her’—can you condemn Antonius for curing his wife of such a horrible habit? I do remember her vaguely, also the child. The poor little girl was so fat and plain—but far worse, slightly simple.”

“That’s what comes of marrying close relatives,” said Atia grimly. “Antonia Minor is sixteen now, but she’ll never find a husband, even one of low birth.” Atia sniffed. “Women are fools! Antonia Hybrida fell into a depression after Antonius divorced her, which he did with cruel words. Yet she loved him. Is that the fate you want? Is it?”

“Whether Antonia Hybrida loved Antonius or not, Mama, the fact remains that she was not an interesting wife. Whereas, for all her faults, Fulvia was. Her troubles I lay at the door of far too much money, that
sui iuris
status you keep throwing at me, and her first husband, Publius Clodius. He encouraged her to run wild in the Forum, engage in behavior that isn’t condoned in high-born women. But she wasn’t too bad until after Philippi, when she found out that Antonius would be permanently in the East for years, and wasn’t planning any trips to Rome. Her freedman Manius got at her, worked on her. And on Lucius Antonius. But she paid the price, not Lucius.”

“You’re determined to find excuses,” said Atia, sighing.

“Not excuses, Mama. My point is that none of Antonius’s wives was a good wife. I intend to be a perfect wife, the kind Cato the Censor would have approved of, the awful old bigot. Men have whores and mistresses for bodily gratification, the sort of relief they cannot obtain from their wives because wives are not supposed to know how to please a man bodily. Wives who know too much about gratifying a man are suspect. As a virtuous wife, I will fare no differently or better than any other virtuous wife. But I will make sure that whenever I see Antonius, I am an educated, interesting confidante as well as a pleasure to spend time with. After all, I grew up in a political household, listened to men like Divus Julius and Cicero, and I am exceptionally well schooled. I will also be a wonderful mother for his children.”

“You’re already a wonderful mother for his children!” Atia snapped tartly, having listened to this tall order with despair. “I suppose the moment you’re married you’ll demand to take charge of that dreadful boy, Gaius Curio? What a dance he’ll lead you!”

“There’s not a child born I can’t tame,” said Octavia.

Atia rose, wringing her knotted, crippled hands. “I will say this for you, Octavia, you’re not as sheltered as I thought. Perhaps there’s more Fulvia in you than you realize.”

“No, I’m quite different,” Octavia said, smiling, “though I do know what you’re trying to say. What you forget, Mama, is that I am the full sister of Little Gaius, which means I am one of the cleverest women Rome has produced. The quality of my mind has given me a self-confidence my life thus far hasn’t put on display to anyone, from Marcellus to you. But Little Gaius is well aware what lies inside me. Do you think he doesn’t know how I feel about Marcus Antonius? There’s nothing Little Gaius misses! And nothing he can’t use to further his own career. He loves me, Mama. That should have told you everything. Little Gaius, force me into a marriage I wouldn’t welcome? No, Mama, no.”

Atia sighed. “Well, since I’m here, I’d like to see the contents of your nursery before it grows even larger. How is little Marcia?”

“Beginning to show her true colors.
Very
self-willed. She won’t be forced into an unwelcome marriage!”

“I heard a whisper that Scribonia is pregnant.”

“So did I. How lovely! Her Cornelia is a nice girl, so I imagine this child will have a good disposition too.”

“Well, it’s too early for her to know whether she’s carrying a boy or a girl,” Atia said briskly as they walked toward the sound of baby wails, toddler giggles, and small child arguments. “Though I hope it will be a girl for Little Gaius’s sake. He has such a high opinion of himself that he won’t welcome a son and heir from such a mother. As soon as he can, he’ll divorce her.”

Thank the gods for the proximity of the nursery! We are too close to dangerous ground, thought Octavia. Poor Mama, always on the periphery of Little Gaius’s life, unseen, unmentioned.

By the time the cavalcade got to Rome, Mark Antony was in a very good mood. His reception by the crowds that lined the roads every inch of the way had been ecstatic: so ecstatic, in fact, that he was beginning to wonder if Octavian had exaggerated his unpopularity. A suspicion accentuated when every senator inside Rome at this moment came thronging out in full regalia to greet not Octavian, but him. The trouble was that he couldn’t be sure; there was too much evidence of Italia’s and Rome’s relief at the ebbing of civil war. Perhaps it was the Pact of Brundisium that brought all his old adherents back wholeheartedly to his side. If he had been able to sneak around Italia and Rome in disguise a month ago, he might have heard disillusioned words and abuse of himself. As it was, he hovered between doubt and elation, neatly balanced, cursing Octavian only under his breath and out of habit.

The prospect of marriage to Octavian’s sister didn’t worry him; rather, it contributed to his good mood. Though his eye would never of its own volition have alighted on her as a wife, he had always liked her, found her physically attractive, and had even envied his friend Marcellus’s luck in espousing her. From Octavian he had learned that she had taken in Antyllus and Iullus after Fulvia died, which reinforced his impression that she was as good a person as her brother was bad. That often happened in families—look at himself versus Gaius and Lucius. They all got the Antonian physique, but marred in Gaius’s case by a shambling gait and in Lucius’s by a bald head; only he had gotten the Julian cleverness. Careless strewer of his seed though he was, Antony liked those of his children whom he knew, and had just had a brilliant idea about Antonia Minor, whom he pitied in an offhand way. In fact, his children occupied more of his mind as he reached Rome than they usually did, for he found a letter from Cleopatra waiting there.

 

My dearest Antonius, I write this on the Ides of Sextilis, in the midst of such halcyon weather that I wish you could be here to enjoy it with me—and with Caesarion, who sends his love and good wishes. He is growing apace, and his exposure to Roman men (especially you) has been of great benefit to him. He is currently reading Polybius, having cast aside the letters of Cornelia the Mother of the Gracchi—no wars, no exciting events. Of course he knows his father’s books by heart.

I do not know whereabouts in the world this may catch up with you, but sooner or later it will. One hears that you are in Athens, a moment later that you are in Ephesus, even that you are in Rome. No matter. This is to thank you for giving Caesarion a brother
and
a sister. Yes, I have given birth to twins! Do they run in your family? They do not run in mine. I am delighted, of course. In one blow you have secured the succession and provided Caesarion with a wife. Little wonder that Nilus rose high into the Cubits of Plenty!

 

How well she knows me, he thought to himself. Realizes that I don’t read long letters, so kept hers short. Well, well! I did my duty splendidly. Two of them, no less, a pigeon pair. But to her, they’re simply adjuncts to enhance Caesarion. Her passion for Caesar’s son knows no bounds.

He dashed off a letter to her.

 

Dear Cleopatra, what terrific news! Not one, but two little Antonians to follow big brother Caesarion around the way my brothers followed me. I’m marrying Octavianus’s sister, Octavia, very shortly. Nice woman, very beautiful too. Did you ever meet her in Rome? It solved my difficulties with Octavianus for the moment and pacified the country, which won’t countenance a civil war. Nor, from what Maecenas said, will Octavianus. That ought to mean that I can march in and stamp on Octavianus, except that the soldiers are a part of the national conspiracy to outlaw civil war. Mine won’t fight his, his won’t fight mine. Without willing troops, a general is as impotent as a eunuch in a harem. Speaking of potency, we must have another roll in the papyrus sometime. If I get bored, watch out for my arrival in Alexandria to do a bit of inimitable living.

 

There. That would do. Antony poured a small puddle of melted red wax on the bottom of the single sheet of Fannian paper, and pushed his signet ring into it: Hercules Invictus in the middle, IMP. M. ANT. TRI. around its edge. He’d had it made after that conference on the river island in Italian Gaul. What he yearned for was the chance to make M. ANT. a DIV. ANT. for Divus Antonius, but that wasn’t likely as long as Octavian existed.

Of course he had to go around to the
domus Hortensia
for his men’s party before the wedding, and found Octavian’s complacency so irritating that he couldn’t help himself, had to lash out with invigorating venom.

“What’s your opinion of Salvidienus?” he asked his host.

Octavian looked besotted at mention of the name. I really do believe that he’s a secret turd pusher, thought Antony.

“The very best of good fellows!” Octavian exclaimed. “He’s doing extremely well in Further Gaul. As soon as he can free them up, you’ll have your five legions. The Bellovaci are giving a lot of trouble.”

“Oh, I know all about
that
. What a fool you are, Octavianus!” Antony said contemptuously. “The very best of good fellows is negotiating with me to change sides in our nonwar, has been almost since he arrived in Further Gaul.”

Octavian’s face gave nothing away, neither astonishment nor horror; even when it had shone with affection for Salvidienus, its eyes had not genuinely participated. Did they ever? Antony wondered, unable to remember one time in his experience that they had. The eyes never told you what he really thought about anything. They just—watched. Watched the behavior of everyone, including himself, as if they and the mind behind them stood twenty paces away from his body. How could two orbs so luminous be so opaque?

Octavian spoke, easily, diffidently even. “Do you consider, Antonius, that his conduct is treasonous?”

“Depends how you look at it. To switch allegiance from one Roman of good standing to another of equal standing may be—ah—treacherous, but it’s not treasonous. However, if said conduct is aimed at inciting civil war between those two equals, then it’s definitely treasonous,” Antony said, enjoying himself.

“Have you any tangible evidence to suggest that Salvidienus should be put on trial for
maiestas
?”

“Talents of tangibility.”

“Would you, if I asked it, tender your evidence at trial?”

“Of course,” said Antony in mock surprise. “It’s my duty to a fellow triumvir. If he’s convicted, you’re short one very good general of troops—fortunate for me, eh?
If
there were a civil war, I mean, naturally. Because I wouldn’t enlist him in my ranks, Octavianus, let alone have him as my legate. Was it you who said that traitors might be made use of, but never liked or trusted, or was it your divine daddy?”

“Who said it doesn’t matter. Salvidienus must go.”

“Across the Styx, or into permanent exile?”

“Across the Styx. After trial in the Senate, I think. Not in
comitia
—too public. In the Senate, behind closed doors.”

“Good thinking! Difficult for you, however. You’ll have to send Agrippa to Further Gaul now it’s an official part of your triumvirate. If it were mine, I could send any one of several—Pollio, for instance. Now I’ll be able to send Pollio to relieve Censorinus in Macedonia, and send Ventidius to hold Labienus and Pacorus at bay until I can deal with the Parthians in person,” said Antony, twisting the knife.

“There is absolutely nothing to stop your dealing with them in person at once!” Octavian said caustically. “What,
afraid
to go too far from me, Italia, and Sextus Pompeius, in that order?”

“I have good reason to stay near all three of you!”

“You have no reason whatsoever!” Octavian snapped. “I will not war against you under any circumstances, though I will war against Sextus Pompeius the moment I’m able.”

“Our pact forbids that.”

“In a pig’s eye it does! Sextus Pompeius was declared a public enemy, written on the tablets as
hostis
—a law you were party to, remember? He’s not the governor of Sicilia or anywhere else, he’s a pirate. As Rome’s
curator annonae,
it is my duty to hunt him down. He impedes the free flow of grain.”

Taken aback at Octavian’s fearlessness, Antony decided to terminate their conversation, if so it could be called. “Good luck,” he said ironically, and strolled away in the direction of Paullus Lepidus to verify the rumor that Lepidus the Triumvir’s brother was about to marry Scribonia’s Cornelian daughter. If it is true, he thinks he’s a canny fellow, thought Antony, but it won’t advance him a notch higher apart from her huge dowry. Octavianus will divorce Scribonia as soon as he’s defeated Sextus, which means I’ll have to ensure that day never comes. Give Octavianus a big victory, and all Italia will worship him. Is the little worm aware that one reason I stay so close to Italia is to keep the name Marcus Antonius alive in Italian eyes? Of course he is.

Octavian gravitated to Agrippa’s side. “We’re in trouble again,” he said ruefully. “Antonius has just told me that our dear Salvidienus has been in contact with him for months with a view to changing his allegiance.” The eyes looked dark grey. “I confess it came as a blow. I didn’t think Salvidienus such a fool.”

“It’s a logical move for him, Caesar. He’s a red-haired man from Picenum—when have such ever been trustworthy? He’s dying to be a bigger fish in a bigger sea.”

“It means I’ll have to send you to govern Further Gaul.”

Agrippa looked shocked. “Caesar, no!”

“Who else is there? It also means I can’t move against Sextus Pompeius anytime soon. Luck is with Antonius, she always is.”

“I can do the shipyards between Cosa and Genua as I travel, but from Genua I’ll be on the Via Aemilia Scaura to Placentia—not enough time to hug the coast all the way. Caesar, Caesar, it will be two years before I can come home if I do the job properly!”

“You must do it properly. I want no more of these uprisings among the Long-hairs, and I think Divus Julius was wrong to let the Druids go about their business. It seems mostly to consist of stirring up discontent.”

“I agree.” Agrippa’s face brightened. “I do have an idea how to keep the Belgae in order.”

“What?” Octavian asked, curious.

“Settle hordes of Ubii Germans on the Gallic bank of the Rhenus. Every tribe from the Nervii to the Treveri will be so busy trying to push the Germans back to their own bank of the river that they won’t have the leisure to rebel.” He looked wistful. “I’d love to imitate Divus Julius and cross into Germania!”

Octavian broke into laughter. “Agrippa, if you want to teach the Suebi Germans a lesson, I’m sure you will. On the other hand, we need the Ubii, so why not gift them with better land? They’re the best cavalry Rome has ever fielded. All I can say, my dearest friend, is that I’m very glad you chose me. I can bear the loss of hundreds of Salvidien-uses, but I could never bear the loss of my one and only Marcus Agrippa.”

Agrippa glowed, reached out an impulsive hand to clasp it around Octavian’s forearm.
He
knew that he was Caesar’s man to the death, but he loved to see Caesar acknowledge that fact by word or deed. “More important, whom will you use while I’m on service in Further Gaul?”

“Statilius Taurus, of course. Sabinus, I suppose. Calvinus goes without saying. Cornelius Gallus is clever and reliable as long as he’s not wrestling with a poem. Carrinas in Spain.”

“Lean heaviest on Calvinus” was Agrippa’s reply.

Like Scribonia, Octavia didn’t think it right to wear flame and saffron to her wedding. Having good taste, she chose a color she knew became her, pale turquoise, and with the gracefully draped dress she wore a magnificent necklace and earrings Antony gave her when he walked around to the late Marcellus Minor’s house to see her the day before the ceremony.

“Oh, Antonius, how beautiful!” she breathed, studying the set in wonder. Made of massive gold, the necklace sat flat like a narrow collar, and was rich with flawless turquoise cabochons. “The stones have no dark patches to spoil their blueness.”

“I thought of them when I remembered the color of your eyes,” Antony said, pleased at her patent delight. “Cleopatra gave them to me for Fulvia.”

She didn’t look away, nor let a fraction of the light die out of those much admired eyes. “Truly, they are beautiful,” she said, up on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I’ll wear them tomorrow.”

“I suspect,” Antony went on heedlessly, “that they weren’t up to Cleopatra’s standards when it comes to jewels—she gets a lot of gifts. So you might say she gave me her cast-offs. I got none of her money,” he ended bitterly. “She’s a—oops, sorry.”

Octavia smiled the way she did at little Marcellus when he was naughty. “You may be as profane as you like, Antonius. I am not a sheltered young maiden.”

“You don’t mind marrying me?” he asked, thinking he ought to ask.

“I have loved you with all my heart for many years,” she said, making no attempt to hide her emotions. Some instinct told her that he liked being loved, that it predisposed him to love in return, and she wanted that desperately.

“I would never have guessed!” he said, amazed.

“Of course not. I was Marcellus’s wife, and loyal to my vows. Loving you was something for myself, quite separate and private.”

He could feel the familiar slide in his belly, the visceral reaction that warned him he was falling in love. And Fortuna was on his side, even in this. Tomorrow Octavia would belong to him. No need to worry that she might look at another man when she hadn’t looked at him through the seven years she belonged to Marcellus Minor. Not that he had ever worried about any of his wives; all three had been faithful to him. But this fourth was the pick of the bunch. Cool, sleek, and elegant, of Julian blood, a republican princess. A man would have to be dead not to be moved by her.