Antony and Cleopatra (39 page)

“By this time Marcus Antonius should have taken up residence in Antioch,” said Fonteius, thinking that the freshwater shrimp he was eating lacked flavor. With Our Sea at the foot of her palace steps, why didn’t she direct her fishing fleets to catch saltwater ones? While his mind dealt with this conundrum, his lips continued to speak. “He plans to make his stay there a permanent one, for two reasons.”

“One of which,” said the boy, “is its proximity to the lands of the Parthians. He’ll jump off from Antioch.”

The rude little monster! thought Fonteius. Butting into an adult conversation! What’s more, his mother thinks that’s normal as well as wonderful. All right, little monster, let’s see how smart you really are! “And the second reason?” Fonteius asked.

“It’s truly east, which can’t be said of Asia Province, and certainly not of Greece or Macedonia. If Antonius is to regulate the East, he should be situated somewhere truly east, and Antioch or Damascus is ideal,” said Caesarion, unabashed.

“Then why not Damascus?”

“A better climate, but too far from the sea.”

“Just what Antonius himself said,” Fonteius answered, too much the diplomat to let his displeasure show.

“So why are you here, Gaius Fonteius?” the Queen asked.

“To invite you, Your Majesty, to Antioch. Marcus Antonius is very anxious to see you, but more than that. He is in need of advice from someone who is eastern by birth and culture, and thinks you are by far the best candidate.”

“He considered other people?” she asked sharply, frowning.

“No, I did,” said Fonteius quietly. “I brought forward names, but for Antonius there was only the one—yours.”

“Ah!” She lay back on her couch and smiled like the tawny cat that lay at her elbow. One thin hand went out to stroke the creature’s back, and it turned its smile on her.

“You like cats,” he said.

“Cats are sacred, Gaius Fonteius. Once upon a time, perhaps twenty-five years ago, a Roman businessman in Alexandria killed a cat. The people tore him into little pieces.”

“Brr!” he said with a shiver. “I am used to grey cats with stripes or spots, but I have never seen one this color.”

“She is Egyptian. I call her Bastella—to call her Bast would be sacrilegious, but I got good omens for the Latin diminutive.” Cleopatra turned from the cat, reached to eat a date. “So Marcus Antonius commands me to come to Antioch?”

“Not commands, Your Majesty. Requests.”

“In a pig’s eye!” said Caesarion, chuckling. “He commands.”

“You may tell him I will come.”

“And I!” said the boy quickly.

A curious little dumb show followed between mother and son; no word was said, though she yearned to speak. A tussle of wills. That the boy won it was no surprise to Fonteius; Cleopatra had not been born an autocrat, circumstances had made her one. Whereas Caesarion was an autocrat formed in the womb. Just like his
tata
. Fonteius experienced a frisson of fear that streaked down his backbone and stood his hair on end. Imagine what Caesarion would be like when fully grown! The blood of Gaius Julius Caesar and the blood of eastern tyrants. He would be unstoppable. And it is because Cleopatra knows it that she will pimp and pander for poor Antonius. Caring nothing for Antonius or his fate. Wanting her son by Caesar to rule the world.

Fonteius was advised to set off overland, accompanied by an Egyptian guard Cleopatra said was necessary; Syria was full of brigands since the various principates had foundered during the Parthian occupation.

“I will follow you as soon as I can,” she told Fonteius, “but I do not think it will be before the New Year. If Caesarion insists upon coming, I’ll have to arrange for a regent and a council, though Caesarion won’t be staying in Antioch more than a few days.”

“Does he know that?” Fonteius asked slyly.

“Certainly,” Cleopatra said stiffly.

“What about Antonius’s children?”

“To see them, Antonius must come to Alexandria.”

A month later he found Antony in residence in Antioch and working hard. Lucilius ran to obey one order after another, while Antony sat at his desk and reviewed stacks of papers, a very few scrolls. His only recreation was parading his troops, back in winter camp after a brisk campaign into Armenia that Publius Canidius had conducted as efficiently as Ventidius had the previous campaigns; Canidius himself had stayed in the north with ten of the legions, waiting for the spring, the rest of the legions, the cavalry, and Marcus Antonius. The only thing Canidius did wrong in Antony’s eyes was to warn him in every letter that King Artavasdes of Armenia was not to be trusted, for all his protestations of loyalty to Rome, enmity for the Parthians. A prophecy Antony chose to ignore, more wary of the other Artavasdes, King of Media. He too was making overtures of friendship.

“I see the city is filling up with potentates and would-be potentates,” Fonteius said as he sank into a chair.

“Yes, I’ve finally got all of them sorted out, so I summoned them to hear their fates,” Antony said with a grin. “Is she—is she coming?” he added, the amusement fading before anxiety.

“As soon as she can. That impudent brat Caesarion has insisted on coming with her, so she has to find a regent.”

“Impudent brat?” Antony asked, frowning.

“So
I
consider him. Insufferable, actually.”

“Oh, well, he participates in the monarchy as his mother’s equal—both of them are Pharaoh.”

“Pharaoh?” Fonteius asked.

“Aye, supreme ruler of river Nilus, the true kingdom of Egypt. Alexandria is considered non-Egyptian.”

“I agree with that, at any rate. Very Greek indeed.”

“Oh, not inside the Royal Enclosure.” Antony tried to look disinterested. “When exactly is she coming?”

“Early in the new year.”

Crestfallen, Antony waved a vague hand of dismissal. “Tomorrow I’m going to hand out Rome’s largesse to all the potentates and would-be potentates,” he said. “In the agora. Custom and tradition say I should wear a toga, but I hate the things. I’m wearing gold armor. Have you got a dress set with you?”

Fonteius blinked. “No, Antonius, not even a workaday set.”

“Then Sosius can lend you some.”

“Is armor—er—legal?”

“Outside Italia, anything the Triumvir decides is legal. I thought you knew that, Fonteius.”

“I confess I didn’t.”

Antony had set up a tall tribunal in the agora, the biggest open space in Antioch, and there he seated himself in military splendor, with Sosius the governor and his legates seated atop the tribunal in less prominent positions, and poor Fonteius, uncomfortable enough because of the borrowed armor, all on his own. When exactly, he wondered, did Antony start using twenty-four lictors? The only magistrate entitled to so many was the Dictator, and Antony himself had abolished the dictatorship. Yet there he sat, with a dictatorial number of lictors! Something that Octavian in Rome did not dare to do, Divi Filius notwithstanding.

It was a closed meeting; those present had formal invitations. Guards blocked the many entrances, much to the ire of Antiochites not used to being excluded from their own public spaces.

No prayers were said or auguries taken, an interesting and odd omission. Antony simply launched into speech, using his high voice, which carried farther.

“After many moons of deep thought, careful consideration, many interviews, and inspections of documents, I, Imperator and Triumvir Marcus Antonius, have come to a decision about the East.

“First, what is the East? I do not include Macedonia and its prefectures that cover Greece proper, the Peloponnese, Cyrenaica, and Crete, to be a part of the East. Though the triumvirate includes them, they belong geographically and physically to the world of Our Sea. The East is Asia—that is, all land east of the Hellespont, the Propontis, and the Thracian Bosporus.”

Hmmm, thought Fonteius, this is going to be interesting! I begin to see why he chose to display Rome’s armed might rather than her civilian government.

“There will be three Roman provinces in the East, each under the direct control of Rome through a governor! First, the province of Bithynia, which will include the Troad and Mysia, and have its eastern boundary at the Sangarius River. Second, the province of Asia, incorporating Lydia, Caria, and Lycia! And third, the province of Syria, bordered by the Amanus ranges, the western bank of the Euphrates River, and the deserts of Idumaea and Arabia Petraea. However, southern Syria will also incorporate kingdoms, satrapies, and principalities, as will the western bank of the Euphrates!”

The small crowd stirred, some faces eager, some downcast. To one side and under heavy guard stood several eastern-looking men chained together. Who are they? Fonteius asked himself. Never mind, I’m bound to find out.

“Amyntas, come forward!” Antony shouted.

A young man in Greek garb stepped out of the crowd.

“Amyntas, son of Demetrius of Ancyra, in Rome’s name I appoint you King of Galatia! Your realm includes all four Galatian tetrarchies, Pisidia, Lycaonia, and all regions from the south bank of the Halys River to the coast of Pamphylia!”

A huge gasp went up; Antony had just given Amyntas a bigger kingdom than ambitious old Deiotarus had ever ruled.

“Polemon, son of Zeno of Laodiceia, in Rome’s name I appoint you King of Pontus and Armenia Parva, including all lands on the north bank of the Halys River!”

Polemon’s was a familiar face; he had done a lot of dancing to Antony’s tune in Athens. Now he had his reward, a big one.

“Archelaus Sisenes, son of Glaphyra, priest-king of Ma, in Rome’s name I appoint you King of Cappadocia, commencing east of the great bend in the river Halys and incorporating all lands on its south bank from that point to the Tarsian coast and the coast of Cilicia Pedia. Your eastern boundary is the Euphrates River above Samosata. I may designate small areas within your realm as better ruled by another, but in effect such is yours.”

Another very pleased young man, thought Fonteius, and look at his mother! Rumor says she sucked it out of Antonius with her vagina. Clever to choose young men. Clients for decades.

More minor now, the appointments continued; Tarcondimotus, others. But then came the executions, something Fonteius had not counted on. Lysanias of Chalcis, Antigonus of the Jews, Ariarathes of Cappadocia. Oh, I am not a warrior! cried Fonteius to himself, hanging on to the contents of his stomach as the reek of blood stole upward in the hot sun and the sticky flies came in syrupy swarms. Antony viewed the carnage indifferently; Sosius fainted. That I refuse to do, said Fonteius silently, thanking every god there was when finally he could depart for the governor’s palace. Of course Antony stayed behind; he was giving a feast for the new rulers and their hordes of followers right there in the agora, as the palace was not endowed with big rooms or spacious courtyards. If Fonteius hadn’t known better, he would have said that the governor’s palace in Antioch had once been a particularly vile caravanserai, not the home of kings like Antiochus and Tigranes.

On the morrow he met his first genuine Parthian, a refugee named Monaeses from the court of the new king, Phraates. Tricked out in ring-leted curls, an artificial wig-beard held on by gold wires looped behind each ear, a frilly skirt, fringed jacket, and huge amounts of gold.

“I’m thinking of making him king of the Skenite Arabs,” said Antony, pleased with his dispositions. Seeing the look on Fonteius’s face, he seemed surprised. “Now why the disapproval? Because he’s a Parthian? I
like
him! Phraates murdered his whole family except for Monaeses, who was clever enough to escape.”

“Or was his escape assisted?” Fonteius asked.

“Why on earth should it have been?” Antony demanded.

“Because the whole world knows you’re planning to invade the Kingdom of the Parthians, that’s why! No matter how obsessed a king may be at being deposed by his own flesh and blood, he’d be stupid not to save
one
heir! I think Monaeses is here as a Parthian spy. Besides, he’s very proud and haughty. I can’t think he’d be thrilled at the thought of kinging it over a bunch of desert Arabs.”

“
Gerrae!
” Antony exclaimed, unimpressed by any of this. “I think Monaeses is a good man, and I’ll take a bet that I’m right. A thousand denarii?”

“Done!” said Fonteius.

The chief reason Cleopatra took her time about traveling to Antioch had nothing to do with finding a regent or a council; that alternative was always set up ready to go. She wanted time to think and time to arrive at the proper moment. Not too fast, not too slow. And what was she going to ask for when she reached Antioch? This summons had come by a very different man than Quintus Dellius; Fonteius was an aristocrat and devoted to Antony; he wasn’t in it for the money. Too sophisticated to be caught out, nonetheless he emanated an aura of apprehension—no, worry. That was it, worry! Though life for the past four years had been uneventful, senior Pharaoh hadn’t relaxed her vigilance one iota. Her agents in the East and the West reported regularly; there was little she did not know, including who expected to get what from Antony when he got around to making his dispositions. The moment Fonteius said that Antony was already in Antioch, she knew why he had wanted her there in a hurry: he intended to have the Queen of Egypt stand below his dais with a lot of dirty peasants and receive—nothing. Just stand there as a statement that Egypt too was under the Roman parasol. In the shade.

Fury engulfed her. She shook with it, hardly able to catch her breath. So he wants me there to witness his lordly acts, does he? Well, by Serapis, I’ll not do it! Let him put me to death, but I’ll not do it! Watch him appoint this peasant king and that peasant prince? Never! Never, never, never! And when I do come to Antioch, Marcus Antonius, I will be asking for more than you have the power to give me. But you will give it to me, power or not! Fonteius is worried about you, therefore you’ve developed a weak spot dangerous enough for Fonteius to think it imperils you.