Cleopatra's Secret: Keepers of the LIght (21 page)

Even if she did jump at every cricket’s chirp.

Octavia reached the shoreline and stopped to search the beach for the opening which led into the Sibyl's grotto. She could just make it out, nestled above a cluster of volcanic boulders at the far side of the bay overlooking a point where the rough ocean waters rushed in a brew of foam, crashing salty spray across the rocks.

Pulling off her sandals, she trotted across the beach towards the cave. As she reached the stony outcropping below the grotto, she had to cross away from the waves which splashed dramatically against the crags of the jagged rock-face. Grabbing hold of a small overhang she began climbing. It was hard going on the slippery algae-covered boulders and she had to move slowly for fear of stumbling to her death in the churning riptide below.

The air grew cold when she neared the top of the rocky trail and as she stood shivering in the darkness, Octavia began to doubt she would ever reach the Sibyl's grotto. But a few paces ahead there was more of a distinguishable path, which turned sharply along a shallow ledge and she soon found herself staring at the mouth of the cavern, its flickering torchlight barely making a dent in the velvet blackness of the shadows within.

Her flesh crawled as a wild animalistic moan echoed from deep inside the chamber, followed by the barely audible strain of strange singing floating out to her on a ribbon of darkness.

They said the Sibyls were mad.

Rome was filled with wild stories of the priestesses and their terrible power. Though she knew their insanity was a gift from her own Apollo, somehow this darkened cave, which reeked of sulfuric fumes, did not seem to have much in common with the God of sunlight and order. Perhaps Octavian had been right in trying to keep her away. Maybe it was only her safety he had been concerned with.

Octavia stood shivering in the night’s chill, listening to the waves pounding the rocks below, unsure of what to do. She had come this far. If she did not enter now, she would sail for Brundisium ignorant of her fate. Besides, wasn’t she the sister of Apollo's chosen son? Surely she had nothing to fear from his oracle?

Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders, and with a wildly beating heart entered the cave.

All was silent but for the scrunch of gravel beneath her feet and the sound of condensation dripping onto the rock floor. The faint sour smell of sulfur made her vaguely nauseous but she walked on through the wide tunnel, the moonlight slipping away as she followed the glow of torches dancing in a maze of shadows on the jutting rock walls of the cave.

As she entered the grotto’s inner chamber, she found a woman half hidden in shadow singing quietly to herself as she rocked back and forth, twining disheveled locks between her fingers. Octavia strained to see her better in the flickering light.

The priestess jerked her head up revealing eyes which seemed permanently rolled up into their sockets, the whites swirling like raw egg under fluttering lids.

“Enter, daughter of Rome,” commanded the Sibyl.

Octavia took a few faltering steps toward the priestess until she stood as close as she dared. “I have come bearing gifts for you.” With shaking hands, Octavia laid a small bag of gold at the woman's dirty feet. “In return, I ask for an oracle. I wish to know what the future holds for my marriage to Lord Mark Antony.”

The Sibyl nodded and her eyes continued to roll drunkenly in their sockets. Her body swayed, as if to some remote music only she could hear, as she rocked murmuring and humming to herself incoherently. Her hands played, like pale spiders crawling among a pile of oak leaves in her lap.

Octavia held her breath, waiting. Had the mad priestess heard her request? Her blood was pounding in her ears as her heart began to hammer faster. She didn’t like this dank claustrophobic cave. Why hadn’t she trusted Crescentia and told her she was coming here? If something happened, no one would know where to search for her.

Octavia was just turning to creep back through the tunnel when the Sibyl sang out:

“
The daughter of Rome the God shall wed,

She shall tend his children, though not his bed,

From this Rome's glory is sealed.
”

Octavia almost went limp with relief. Though she was not skilled in translating the words of Sibylline oracles, this one could not be more clear. She smiled at the priestess. “Thank you, I am greatly relieved.”

The Sibyl paused in her unheard song and fixed her sightless gaze directly at Octavia. “Are you, daughter of Rome?”

Octavia stared back. A shiver ran up her spine. Suddenly the cave felt deathly cold and the stench of sulfur made the bile rise in her throat. Covering her mouth with her hand she took a step back.

“Indeed, I am very pleased.” Her voice sounded hollow and small in the dark cavern.

But the Sibyl was no longer paying attention, and resuming her eerie song, began to distractedly scribble strange symbols on more oak leaves which lay at her feet next to Octavia’s untouched gold.

The rotting smell of sulfur was overwhelming. Octavia’s throat constricted as her chest seized up. She couldn’t breathe.

Backing away, she turned and ran through the cave, stumbling on the rubble of the stone floor, scrambling up and running again through the menacing shadows that seemed to leap out at her, until at last she broke out of the tunnel into the clear air of the cliff outside the grotto.

Standing on the rocks she gulped in breaths of the fresh breeze until her heartbeat slowed and her claustrophobic terror subsided. Pressing her back against the cool stone boulders she looked out at the beach. The crescent moon shone a shimmering path across the waves to a sky bright with stars.

Nervous laughter bubbled to her lips, dispelling the tension she had wound up like a coil inside. She pushed a few locks of hair out of her face, smoothing it back behind her ears. How silly she had been in the cave. Running away like a frightened child.

Over what?

The prophecy could not have been better if she divined it herself. She would marry Antony and bear him children, but not be overly troubled with his amorous nature, and Rome would benefit from the union. Surely, she could not have hoped for much better. It was only the priestess’s strange eyes and the fumes from the sulfur pools, which must lie somewhere within the grotto, that had made her feel unwell.

She gazed up at the face of the moon, serene and detached, glowing her silver light over the sea, and vowed there and then before this crescent moon of Artemis, to be a faithful and loving wife. Perhaps, in time, she would even come to enjoy her new role.

Octavia gathered her cloak and prepared for the treacherous climb back down. She must return home before someone discovered her absence. But her adventure had been worth it. Now she could journey to Brundisium, and Antony, with an easy heart.

A cold driving wind carried Antony's boat into the crowded harbor of Brundisium. He and Germanicus fought their way through the bustle of warships and dockworkers to their awaiting chariot. Antony snapped the reins setting a brisk pace along the Via Appia towards a remote temple which lay just outside the city’s perimeter.

When they reached their destination, the temple seemed almost a child's miniature compared with the soaring palaces Antony had left behind in Alexandria, but its simple white columns and the olive grove surrounding it were not unattractive. As they climbed down from the chariot, Antony took in the gray sky of clouds filled with rain which hung over the landscape and he felt in tune with nature’s brooding temperament.

The temple was lit only with a single sacred flame in the center of the room. The corpse of a dove lay split open on the altar, its delicate breastbone crushed.

Octavian's sacrifice to his patron God?

Antony scanned the room. The temple appeared empty, but as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he saw Octavian and his guards emerge from the naos at the rear of the building. Months had passed since Antony set eyes on the young leader. He was struck anew by Octavian’s cold beauty, so different from the sensual grace of the Egyptians.

Octavian gave him a thin smile and extended his arms. “Welcome home,” he gripped Antony’s shoulders with his slender hands. “It’s good to see you again. Rome, and I, have missed you sorely.”

“Indeed. It’s been a long time,” observed Antony, taking in the rosy glow of Octavian’s cheeks. “You seem in better health than when I left you.”

“It’s my pleasure in seeing you, Antony, that restores strength to me. I have been distressed by your long absence. In this time of uncertainty, Rome needs her leaders near her and on good terms.” Octavian smiled with seeming genuine relief. “When you left for Egypt without so much as a message to me, I could not fathom what you were about. But now that you’ve returned, I see my fears were unfounded.”

Antony’s brow darkened. “I did nothing wrong in going to Alexandria. The East is my province. How can I govern it if I spend no time there?”

Octavian shook his head. “You misunderstand me. I didn’t mean to imply you did anything wrong by inhabiting your share of the Republic. Certainly your territory must keep you often from Rome's shores. It's only that the
citizens
begin to wonder when they see you away for so long and setting up perceived alliances with foreign monarchs.
I
have no doubt of your loyalty, but there is only so much I can do about the gossip on the street…and in the Senate.”

“The Senate? Do they dare speak ill of me in the Senate, when I’m the one who fought the battles to ensure their survival?” Antony turned to Germanicus, who stood silently at his side. “Germanicus! Is it true?”

“There has been some whispering behind closed doors,” confirmed the legionnaire.

The blood washed through Antony and he squeezed his fists tight to maintain control. “Cowards! They whisper behind their closed doors, eh? But they wouldn’t lift a sword to avenge Caesar or protect Rome! Who has spoken ill of me? Tell me their names!”

Octavian laid a cool hand on Antony's shoulder. “No one of any importance has dared to slander you…
yet
, but you see, I have a plan that will quiet the idle tongues that wag in Rome and would unite us in such a bond, our relationship will be cemented forever and the stability of the Republic assured.”

As Antony's irritation cooled, it was replaced with a gut feeling of mistrust. On a battlefield no one could get the better of him. He knew where he stood and what his next move should be, but when it came to the delicate game of politics, his over-trusting confidence had led him astray so many times, he no longer knew what to believe.

“What is your proposal?”

“It’s simply this,” said Octavian, excitement lighting up his face. “You cannot always be in Rome, as we have agreed. But if you had some bond, some uncontestable tie, the people would not doubt you and things would be settled.”

“What sort of bond do you speak of?”

Octavian smiled. “I’ll show you.”

The younger man reached out to take Antony’s arm, but Antony stepped back glaring at Octavian.

“We’ll follow you,” interposed Germanicus smoothly.

“As you like.” Octavian nodded and led them through the chamber into a little garden behind the temple. They crossed through the quiet woodland terrace. Antony paused to clear away a tangle of overhanging ivy from his pathway before he passed through the twin columns which marked the formal entrance to the garden.

Silhouetted against the cypress trees stood a young woman, a carpet of bluebells nodding at her feet. She was dressed in the Greek fashion in a chiton of purest white, her golden hair streaming down her back as she waited patiently by a bubbling fountain at the garden’s center.

She raised innocent blue eyes to meet Antony's and he felt as if he had stumbled upon the secret abode of the Virgin Goddess, Diana. He stared stupidly as she cast her lashes down, a delicate pink rising to warm her snowy complexion.

“Octavia,” beckoned her brother. “Come and greet Lord Antony, who has sailed all the way across the sea for the privilege.”

Antony took in the graceful movements of her body as she came to his side. Taking her hand in his, he held it for a long moment as he looked down at her bowed head. “Lady,” he whispered, “this is an honor I did not expect. I must confess, I had forgotten the beauty of Rome's daughters.”

Octavian looked pleased and clasped their hands between his. “Now Antony, do you see the alliance I speak of? Your marriage to my sister, Octavia, would create a bond of kinship between us and keep your heart in Rome, where it belongs, even if your duties must take you abroad from time to time.”

Something deep inside Antony sounded a warning, the whisper of Cleopatra in his blood surged up for a moment and he dropped Octavia's hand. He could not betray his love, no matter how enchanting this untouched girl before him was, or how canny a political move it would be to marry her.

The soft, rain-filled clouds pressed in over the garden and a needle fine rain touched his face and bare arms. He must tell Octavian he could not marry his sister but a strange drowsy feeling was stealing over him. Shaking his head, he attempted to clear his mind as a gentle fog clouded his senses. He tried to call up Cleopatra and Egypt but they seemed remote, an eternity away, almost not even real––a dream that dissolved like moonbeams at dawn’s first clear light.