Antony and Cleopatra (32 page)

“Would some money help? I can give you enough to travel to Egypt and buy supplies and transport there. Can you get it to this hideous crag without being detected leaving Egypt?”

Herod sat up eagerly. “I can escape detection easily, Publius Ventidius. The crag has a name—Masada—and it’s a long way down the Palus Asphaltites. A camel train going overland from Pelusium would avoid Jews, Idumaeans, Nabataeans,
and
Parthians.”

“A fearsome list,” said Ventidius with a grin. “Then while I deal with Pacorus, I suggest you do that. Cheer up, Herod! This time next year will see you in Jerusalem.”

Herod managed to look humble and diffident, no mean feat. “I—er—how do I—ah—apply for this grant of money?”

“Just see my quaestor, King Herod. I’ll tell him to give you whatever you ask for—within reason, that is.” The bright blue eyes twinkled. “Camels are expensive, I know, but I’m a muleteer by trade. I have a fair idea what anything with four feet costs. Just deal honestly with me, and keep the information coming.”

Eight thousand cataphracts emerged out of the northeast at Samosata, and there crossed the Euphrates while it was at its winter ebb. Leading in person this time, Pacorus struck west for Chalcis along the road that led to Antioch, through verdant country that offered him no challenge, country he knew well from his previous incursions. It had water and grass aplenty, and apart from a low mountain named Gindarus, the terrain was easy, relatively flat. Comfortable because he knew that every minor prince in the area was on his side, he approached the flank of Gindarus with his horsemen stretched out for miles behind him, grazing their way toward Antioch, which they didn’t know was now in Roman hands again. Herod’s agents had done their work well, and Antigonus of the Jews, who might have been expected to keep his channels to Pacorus open, was too absorbed in subjugating those Jews who still felt rule under the Romans was less alien.

A scout came galloping to inform him that a Roman army sat upon Gindarus, well dug in. A relief to Pacorus, summoning his cataphracts into battle order; he hadn’t liked not knowing where the new Roman army was.

He repeated all the mistakes his subordinates had made at the Cilician Gates and Mount Amanus, still imbued with contempt for foot soldiers faced with mailed giants on mailed horses. The mass of cataphracts charged uphill and into a rain of lead missiles that pierced their mail at a range beyond arrows; thrown into disorder, horses screaming from balls that crashed between their eyes, the Parthian vanguard foundered. At which moment the legionaries waded fearlessly into the fray, dodging among the milling horses to hack at their knees, drag the riders down to die with sword thrusts through their faces. Their long spears were useless in such a melée, their sabers still mostly sheathed. With no hope of getting his rearguard through the confusion in front of them and no way to find the Roman flank, Pacorus watched in horror as the legionaries drew ever closer to his own position atop a small mound. But he fought, as did the men around him, defending his person to the last. When Pacorus fell, those of them who could rallied around his body on foot and tried to contend with genuine foot soldiers. By nightfall most of the eight thousand were dead, the few survivors riding hard for the Euphrates and home, leading Pacorus’s horse as proof that he was dead.

In actual fact he wasn’t when the battle ended, though he bore a fatal wound in his belly. A legionary finished him off, stripped him of his armor, and took it to Ventidius.

“The ground was ideal,” Ventidius wrote to Antony, in Athens with his wife and her brood of children. “I will have Pacorus’s golden armor to display at my triumph; my men have hailed me imperator on the field three times, as I can testify should you require it. There was no point in fighting a holding action at any stage in this campaign, which progressed naturally into the series of three battles. Of course I understand that the conclusiveness of my campaign is no cause for complaint from you. Simply, it has given you a Syria safe and sound wherein to marshal your armies—including mine, which I will put into winter camp around Antioch, Damascus, and Chalcis—for your great campaign against Mesopotamia.

“However, it has come to my ears that Antiochus of Commagene concluded a treaty with Pacorus that yielded Commagene to Parthian overrule. He also gifted Pacorus with food and provender, a fact that enabled Pacorus to drive into Syria unaffected by the usual problems besetting a large force of cavalry. Therefore in March I intend to lead seven legions north to Samosata and see what King Antiochus has to say about his treachery. Silo and two legions will proceed to Jerusalem to put King Herod on his throne.

“King Herod has been a great help to me. His agents spread misleading information among the Parthian spies, which enabled me to find myself that ideal ground while the Parthians were in full ignorance of my whereabouts. In him, I believe Rome has an ally worth his salt. I gave him a hundred talents to go to Egypt and buy provisions for his family and the family of King Hyrcanus, which he installed in some mountain retreat incapable of being taken. However, my campaign has yielded ten thousand silver talents in spoils, which are on their way to the Treasury in Rome even as I write. Once I have held my triumph and the spoils have been released, you will profit considerably. My own share, from the sale of slaves, will not be great, as the Parthians fought to the bitter end. I did collect about a thousand men from the army of Labienus, and have sold them.

“As regards Quintus Labienus, I have just had a letter from Gaius Julius Demetrius in Cyprus, who informs me that he captured Labienus and put him to death. I deplore this last fact, as I do not think a mere Greek freedman, even one of the late Caesar’s, has sufficient authority to execute. But I leave the final judgment in that to you, as I must.

“Rest assured that when I reach Samosata I will deal hard by Antiochus, who has forfeited Commagene’s status as Friend and Ally. I trust this finds you and yours well.”

Life in Athens was pleasant, especially since Mark Antony had patched up his differences with Titus Pomponius Atticus, the most treasured Roman in Athens, witness his
cognomen
of Atticus, which meant Athenian at heart. Lover of Athenian boys would have been more to the point, but that was discreetly ignored by every Roman, even one as homophobic as Antony. In much earlier days Atticus had developed the discipline never to indulge his taste for boys anywhere save in homophilic Athens, where he had built a mansion and been very good to the city over the years. A man of great culture and a noted literatus, Atticus had a hobby that eventually earned him a lot of money; he published the works of famous Roman authors from Catullus to Cicero and Caesar. Each new opus was copied in editions that varied from several dozens to several thousands. A hundred scribes chosen for accuracy and legibility were comfortably housed in a building on the Argiletum near the Senate, busy these days on the poetry of Virgil and Horace. Tacked onto this scriptorium were premises that functioned as a lending library, a concept that had actually been invented by the Brothers Sosius, his rival publishers next door. Their career in publishing predated that of Atticus’s, but they lacked his immense wealth and had to hasten more slowly; recently the late Brothers Sosius had produced political hopefuls, one of whom was attached to Antony as a senior legate.

In middle age Atticus had married a cousin, Caecilia Pilia, who bore him a girl, Caecilia Attica, his only child and heir to his fortune. A bout with the summer paralysis had left Pilia an invalid; she died shortly after the battle of Philippi, leaving Atticus to rear Attica on his own. Born two years before Caesar crossed the Rubicon, she was now thirteen years old, tenderly fathered by a sophisticate who never concealed any of his activities from her, believing that ignorance would only render her vulnerable to mischief-making gossip. Notwithstanding this, Atticus worried about his one chick now that she was attaining maturity—whom could he choose as her husband in five years’ time?

Remarkable shrewdness and an uncanny knack of maintaining good relations with every faction in Rome’s upper class had thus far ensured Atticus’s survival, but upon the death of Caesar the world changed so radically that he feared for both his own survival and the welfare of his daughter. His one weakness had been sympathy for the more shady among Rome’s matrons; it had led him to succor Servilia, the mother of Brutus and mistress of Caesar, Clodia, the sister of Publius Clodius and a notorious man eater, and Fulvia, who had been the wife of no less than three demagogues in Clodius, Curio, and Antony.

Sheltering Fulvia had almost caused his ruin, despite his power in the knight-run world of Rome’s commerce; for a terrible moment it had looked as if everything from his grain importations to his vast
latifundia
in Epirus would go on the auction block to benefit Antony, but upon receipt of Antony’s curt letter ordering him to abandon Fulvia, he did just that. Though in private he wept bitterly when she opened her veins, the fate of Attica and his fortune mattered more.

So when Antony arrived in Athens with Octavia and her nursery full of children, Atticus set out to ingratiate himself with both husband and wife. He found the Triumvir much calmed and soothed, and correctly laid the credit for that at Octavia’s door. They were patently happy together, but not in the manner of younger newlyweds, who never wanted any company save their own. Antony and Octavia were eager for company, attended every lecture, symposium, and function the Capital of Culture could offer, and entertained at home frequently. Yes, a year of marriage had improved Antony, in the same way that famous boor, Pompey the Great, had improved after he married Caesar’s enchanting daughter, Julia.

Of course the old Antony still inhabited that Herculean shell—brash, hot-tempered, aggressive, hedonistic, and
lazy
.

It was the last, Antony’s laziness, that occupied most of Atticus’s thoughts as he strolled down a narrow Athenian alley on his way to dinner with Antony in the governor’s residence; it was April of the year in which Appius Claudius Pulcher and Gaius Norbanus Flaccus were consuls, and (along with the rest of Athens) Atticus knew that the Parthians had been driven back to their own lands. Not by Antony, but by Publius Ventidius. In Rome people were saying that the Parthian incursions had simply fallen apart, crumbled so suddenly that Antony hadn’t had time to join Ventidius in Cilicia or Syria. But Atticus knew better; nothing had prevented Antony from being where the military action was. Nothing, that is, except Antony’s most fatal weakness: a laziness that led to perpetual procrastination. He seemed blind to the pace of events, comfortably telling himself that all would happen when
he
wanted it to. As long as Julius Caesar had been alive to push him, the weakness had not seemed so fatal, and after Caesar’s murder Octavian had pushed. But Philippi had been such a great victory for Antony that the weakness had suddenly mushroomed. Just as it had when Julius Caesar had left him in charge of all Italia while he went about the world crushing the last of his enemies. And what had Antony done with this immense responsibility? Harnessed four lions to a chariot, assembled an entourage of magicians, dancing girls, and clowns, and roistered heedlessly.
Work?
What was that? Rome ran herself; as the man in charge, he could do precisely what he wanted, which was to roister. Though it had no basis in reality, he seemed to believe that, since he was Marcus Antonius, everything would turn out the way he thought it should. And when everything didn’t, Antony blamed everyone but himself.

Underneath Octavia’s calming influence, he had not really changed. Pleasure ahead of work, always. Pollio and Maecenas had rearranged triumviral boundaries more sensibly, an act which should have completely freed Antony to lead his armies. But apparently he wasn’t yet ready to do that, and his excuses were hollow. Octavian represented no genuine threat, and despite his protestations, he had enough money to go to war. His legions already existed, were properly equipped, and supplied with cheap grain by Sextus Pompey. So what had stopped him?

By the time he arrived at the governor’s residence Atticus had worked himself into the sour rage old men feel, and found to his dismay that he and Antony would be dining alone; pleading some illness in the nursery, Octavia had begged off. That meant she couldn’t coax or cajole Antony into a good mood. Heart sinking, Atticus realized that it was going to be an uncomfortable meal.

“If Ventidius were here, I’d try him for treason!” was Antony’s opening statement.

Atticus laughed. “Rubbish!” he said.

Antony looked startled, then rueful. “Yes, yes, I see why you say it’s rubbish, but the war against the Parthians was
mine
! Ventidius exceeded his orders.”

“You should have been in the command tent yourself, my dear Antonius!” Atticus said with a snap. “Since you weren’t, what do you have to complain about when your deputy succeeded so well that he didn’t even have many casualties? You ought to be offering to Mars Invictus.”

“He was supposed to wait for me,” Antony said stubbornly.

“Nonsense! Your problem is that you want two ways of life at one and the same moment.”

The fleshy face betrayed Antony’s irritation at such blunt words, but the eyes lacked the red spark that blazed a warning of impending doom. “Two ways of life?” he asked.

“Yes. The most famous man of our day strutting across the Athenian stage to a loud chorus of admiration—that’s one. The most famous man of our day leading his legions to victory—that’s the other.”

“There’s lots to do in Athens!” Antony said indignantly. “It’s not I out of step, Atticus, it’s Ventidius. He’s like a boulder running downhill! Even now he’s not content to rest on his laurels. Instead, he’s taken himself and seven legions up the Euphrates to kick King Antiochus on the shins!”

“I know. You showed me his letter, remember? What Ventidius is or is not doing isn’t the point. The point is that you’re in Athens, not in Syria. Why don’t you admit it, Antonius? You’re a procrastinator.”

In answer, Antony bellowed with laughter. “Oh, Atticus!” he gasped when he was able. “You’re impossible!” Suddenly he sobered, scowled. “In the Senate I’d have to put up with couch generals criticizing me, but this isn’t the Senate, and you’re courting my displeasure.”

“I am not a member of the Senate,” Atticus said, incensed enough to have lost his fear of this dangerous man. “A public career is open to criticism from all walks, including mere businessmen like me. I say again, Marcus Antonius, you are a procrastinator.”

“Well, perhaps I am, but I do have an agenda. How can I go any farther east than Athens when Octavianus and Sextus Pompeius are still up to their tricks?”

“You could squash both those young men, and you know it. In fact, you ought to have squashed Sextus years ago, and left Octavianus to his own devices in Italia. Octavianus is no real threat to you, Antonius, but Sextus is a boil that needs lancing.”

“Sextus keeps Octavianus busy.”

His temper snapped. Atticus leaped off the couch and came around to confront his host across the low, narrow table loaded with food, his normally amiable face twisted into fury. “I am fed up with hearing you say that! Grow up, Antonius! You can’t be the virtually absolute ruler of half the world and think like a schoolboy!” He clenched his fists and shook them. “I’ve wasted a great deal of my precious time in trying to work out what’s the matter with you, why you can’t act like a statesman. Now I know. You’re pigheaded, idle, and not nearly as intelligent as you believe you are! A better-organized world would never have made you its master!”

Jaw dropped, too stunned to speak, Antony watched him gather up his shoes and toga and stalk toward the door. Then he too leaped off the couch, reached Atticus in time to halt his progress.

“Titus Atticus, please! Lie down again, please!” The rictus of a smile peeled his lips back from his teeth, but he managed to keep his grip of Atticus’s arm gentle.

The rage died; Atticus seemed to shrink, then let himself be drawn back to the couch and once more ensconced in the
locus consularis
. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“No, no, you’re entitled to your opinions,” Antony said quite jovially. “At least I know what you think of me.”

“You asked for it, you know. Whenever you start to use Octavianus as an excuse for lingering west of where you ought to be, I am sorely tried,” said Atticus, breaking bread.

“But, Atticus, the boy’s a complete idiot! I
worry
about Italia, I really do.”

“Then help Octavianus instead of hindering him.”

“Not in a thousand years!”

“He’s in dire straits, Antonius. The grain from this coming harvest looks as if it will never arrive, thanks to Sextus Pompeius.”

“Then Octavianus ought to stay in Rome paddling his fingers up Livia Drusilla’s skirts instead of mounting invasions of Sicilia with sixty ships.
Sixty ships!
No wonder he was trounced.” One huge but shapely hand reached for a tiny chicken. The food seemed to soothe him; he looked sideways at Atticus with a grin. “Just grant me a successful campaign against the Parthians next year and I’ll give Octavianus all the help he needs when I’m done.” He looked suspicious. “Surely you don’t
like
Octavianus?”

“I am indifferent,” said Atticus, sounding detached. “He has odd ideas about how Rome should function—ideas that won’t benefit me or any other plutocrat. Like Divus Julius, I think he intends to weaken the First Class and the upper end of the Second Class to strengthen the lower classes. Oh, not the Head Count, I give him that. He’s no demagogue. Were he simply a cynical exploiter of popular gullibility, I wouldn’t be concerned. But I think he firmly believes that Caesar is a god, and he the son of a god.”

“His pushing for the deification of Caesar is a mark of insanity,” said Antony, feeling better.

“No, Octavianus isn’t insane. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a saner man than he.”

“I may be a procrastinator, but he has delusions of grandeur.”

“Perhaps so, but I hope you’ve retained sufficient impartiality to see that Octavianus is something new to Rome. I have reason to believe that he employs a small army of agents throughout Italia working strenuously to perpetuate the fiction that he is as like Caesar as peas in a pod. Like Caesar, he’s a brilliant orator with huge crowd appeal. His ambition knows no bounds, which is why, in a few years’ time, he’s going to face a very serious situation,” Atticus said soberly.

“What can you mean?” Antony asked, at a loss.

“When Caesar’s Egyptian son is older, he’s bound to visit Rome. My Egyptian connections tell me that the boy is Caesar’s image, and in more than mere looks. He’s a prodigy. His mama maintains that all she wants for Caesarion is a secure throne and the status of Friend and Ally of the Roman People, and that may be so. But if he’s Caesar’s image and Rome sets eyes on him, he might very well filch Rome, Italia,
and
the legions of Octavianus, who at best is an imitation Caesar. You won’t be affected because you will have gone into an enforced retirement by then—Caesarion is hardly nine years old. But in thirteen or fourteen years he’ll be a man grown. Octavianus’s struggles with you and Sextus Pompeius will pale to insignificance compared to Caesarion.”

“Hmmm,” said Antony, and changed the subject.

An unsettling dinner, for all that Antony’s digestion stayed its usual hearty self. Some reflection enabled him to shrug off Atticus’s criticisms of his own conduct—how could he know what problems Antony faced anent Octavian? After all, he was seventy-four years old; despite his trim, agile figure and his business acumen, senility must be setting in.

It was Atticus’s comments about Caesarion that stayed with him. Frowning, he cast his mind back to that three-month sojourn in Alexandria, now over two years in the past. Was Caesarion truly almost nine? What he remembered was a gallant little boy, game for every exploit from hunting hippopotamus to hunting crocodile. Fearless. Well, so had Caesar been. Cleopatra tended to lean on him despite his age, though that hadn’t surprised Antony. She was emotional and not always wise, whereas her son was—was
what
? Tougher, certainly. But what else? He didn’t know.