Cleopatra's Secret: Keepers of the LIght (45 page)

The raw fury rose in him again as he thought of this morning’s brave battle charge across the desert, the pounding of the legion’s wild galloping horses, the brilliant morning light and Octavian’s awaiting army. But as they reached the enemy and Antony lowered his sword to strike, his men and those of Octavian had all stood down, massing into one great army behind the banner of the eagle of Rome––Octavian’s emblem.

Rage pumping through him, Antony had charged forward, daring them to fight, clashing his sword against the soldier’s shields, provoking them to do battle. But the legionnaires scattered before him, refusing to strike against their former general.

With his men joining the enemy and his enemy unwilling to lift a sword, or even their eyes, towards him, he called for Octavian. His voice rang out from his deep chest through the silent desert, but there was no response.

Antony scanned the bright horizon for any signs of his enemy. All he saw was a sea of men.

“Where’s your cowardly general?” he demanded of Rome’s legions, but the soldiers only shifted their feet in the sand and slowly backed away from the point of his sword. Antony let out a long breath that almost became a bitter exhausted laugh. Octavian had not even bothered to lead his own men into battle.

Tightening his jaw, Antony glowered down at the foot soldiers nearest him.

“Will none of you fight me? None of you allow me the honor of death on the battlefield?”

A somber old veteran stepped up and looked him square in the eye. “We cannot fight with you or against you, Lord Antony.”

Antony regarded the soldier, taking in the full import of his words.

So that was it.

That was what it had all come down to in the end. A general without an army to lead or legions to fight.

He looked down from his stallion one last time at Rome’s legions, his no more, and suddenly the armies, and battles, and strategies seemed nothing more than little boys’ playthings. There was only one great thing that mattered now. It was truly all that had ever really mattered. Why had it taken him so long to understand?

He turned his mount and began to ride back in the direction he had come from. Back to Alexandria. An Alexandria he now found desolate of all life save the soft, rhythmic chants of the priests.

Antony paused to catch his breath as he reached the avenue of stone sphinx guarding the Temple of Isis. He silently prayed she would be within its walls. He urged his mount forward, but when he arrived at the entrance, the solid doors, which had always stood open to supplicants, were bolted shut. He pounded on them with his fists, calling to the inhabitants inside. After a moment, a bar slid away and the doors slowly opened.

A silver-haired priestess, her face yellow and cracked with lines like old ivory, stood with her shaking body hunched over a cane bearing the head of Anubis. Antony shivered at the sight of the Dark God, but was relieved as the priestess bowed her head and allowed Antony to enter.

He made his way through the garden, treading on the petals of softly blooming roses which had been carried to rest on the ground by the high winds that had risen up just before sunset, only to mysteriously die away, leaving this uncanny stillness behind.

“The Romans?” enquired the priestess.

“They’re on their way.”

She nodded slowly and led Antony into the great room of the temple, its gently glowing candles lighting the shrine to the Goddess.

“Where’s Cleopatra?” asked Antony anxiously.

The old priestess turned her eyes towards the passage leading to the Queen’s tomb.

Antony followed her gaze and his heart began to thud unevenly.

“Where is she?” he demanded of a young initiate who knelt, paying her libations at the altar of Isis.

“Lord Antony, the Queen of Heaven has retired to her tomb,” said the girl, her big solemn eyes lowering under the intensity of his gaze.

“Her tomb?’ he asked in hoarse whisper.

The girl nodded and returned to her offering, lighting the brazier at the silver Goddess’s feet with bittersweet myrrh.

The world slowed down to one deafening eternal moment––one great fact.

Cleopatra was dead.

The life force which had radiated throughout Egypt, throughout the world, had dimmed and left him in a cold dark temple, more alone he now realized, than he had ever been. Even in those miserable days in Rome, when he had married Octavia, even then, his loneliness had not been absolute. Cleopatra, his living Goddess, breathed the lotus scented air in her pleasure gardens, watched lovingly over her children and her subjects, performed enchantments in the moonlit desert––magic shimmering all around her and from her. The universe lived and breathed in her, and in his heart, he had not ever been entirely alone simply because she lived. Without her, all the mysteries and magic in the world vanished like a mirage.

He thought of their night so many years before at the Great Pyramid in Giza. She had led him to a place he could not name. Was it the realm of the Gods or the Land of the Dead? He couldn’t remember it, except for a hint of starlight and the soft lilting strain of the Song of the Heavens singing in the air around him and in his own blood and breath.

The siren Song called to him now.

He could see her clothed in gleaming white robes, her jade eyes filled with mysteries, beckoning to him. Even in death, she was just out of reach.

His life here on earth seemed a distant thing now, a dream of no importance. If only he could lift the veil and remember the real thing. Hear the Song more fully. Go back to the land of the Gods…it was just a whisper away.

He watched himself dispassionately, as if his soul no longer resided in his strong body, as he clutched his sword, placing the sharp point against his stomach.

“If Cleopatra’s dead, then I must go too,” he declared to the room full of paralyzed priests and priestesses, who seemed also caught out of time, and stood watching in horrified amazement.

The sharp thrust of his blade cutting through the muscles, burning deep into his flesh, brought him back to himself in a swift, agonizing rush of pain.

He stumbled into the arms of the shocked priestess, who burst into tears exclaiming, “My lord, the Queen is not dead! She has only retired to her tomb for protection!”

Antony buckled under the weight of the girl’s words as much as the blood pumping from his wound. He clutched the girl’s robes in his fists as he slid to the ground. “Not dead?” he gasped.

Sobbing, the girl shook her head and stepped back to allow the priests with medical knowledge to tend to Antony’s wound.

The priests were gently inspecting him, when they all felt a presence and looked up.

Iris stood in the doorway, her face as hard and pale as marble, her hand pressed to her white lips.

The attending priest looked up. “He’s mortally wounded.”

“Bring him to the Queen quickly!” ordered Iris, as she moved aside for them to pass.

***

Cleopatra’s breath caught in her throat, and her knees almost gave way as they carried Antony into the tomb.

He was alive!

Still breathing. Still able to hear her and look at her with his beautiful deep blue eyes, so filled with the urgency of final love.

She rushed to his side as the priests gently lay Antony’s heavy body on the marble floor and retreated back to a respectful distance. With tears of gratitude pouring down her face, Cleopatra clung to his broad shoulders and pressed her head against his chest for a moment, just feeling his body against her, alive and warm.

He was dying. She knew that immediately. She had known for so long now that it was his fate. But he was not dead yet. She could see him once more, speak to him, touch his brow and kiss his lips. He had not perished alone on a barren desert battlefield. It would be here in her soft loving embrace. Even if Anubis was waiting in the shadows to snatch him away, to see him now for one last moment and be allowed to say goodbye was something she would give her kingdom for––had it still been hers to give.

Carefully, she peeled his tunic away from the wound which was spurting blood across his belly. “Oh, my dearest love,” she whispered, her hands stained crimson as she applied pressure to his wound. She felt as if her own gut had been ripped apart as the blood escaped through her fingers.

With great effort, Antony reached out and took her hands away, allowing the blood to flow anew and he grasped her slippery fingers in his. “You’re not a dream?” he asked fervently, his brow creased with worry, his eyes bright as any fever victim.

“I’m here by your side. I will never be anywhere else again,” she promised, tears rolling down her cheeks to fall like raindrops on his sunburnt skin.

“I’ll be dead soon,” he whispered, clinging to her hand more tightly. “You can’t be with me then?”

“I swear it,” she said vehemently. “I will be with you in the world beyond. Only wait for me there, Antony. No matter what happens, wait in the mists by the river. Don’t let the Jackal row you away until I’m by your side, holding your hand as tightly as I do now. I promise I won’t be long!”

“Egypt…” he whispered, barely able to speak any longer as the last of his life’s blood pooled around them on the floor

“Egypt belongs to the Gods now. We’ve done all we can,” she said, panicked he had not heard her plea to wait for her. “Only promise you’ll wait! Please! It’s all I have left!” He must understand she thought wildly. If only there was more time.

Isis make him understand!

He could no longer speak, but he inclined his head slightly. He would wait for her.

With a sob of relief she pressed her warm lips against his. For a heartbeat, one fervent moment of dying passion sparked between them and then went cold. In her mind’s eye she saw the spinning women the Greeks called the Fates, as they turned their wheel, and snipped one magnificent golden thread, more brilliant and fine than most that passed through their patient hands. A supernatural wind blew gently through the tomb carrying away Antony’s last breath, sweeping up his soul with it.

Opening her eyes, Cleopatra raised her head to look at Antony's beloved face. It was unsettlingly still. Her head bowed under the heavy weight and she sat silently clutching her arms across her breast, rocking back and forth as if in prayer.

In the awesome silence that comes in the moment of death, Cleopatra heard a rhythmic sound growing slowly louder. The sound turned around her shocked brain and she could make no sense of it.

Antony was dead. That was the only thing now.

But the sound was relentless, menacing. So menacing, she was forced to look up. She met the eyes of her attendants as they all registered its meaning.

It was the sound of thousands of feet marching in unstoppable unison, like a great conquering machine, mowing down everything in its path. Rome’s legions were marching through the gates of Alexandria.

Octavian, now reunited with his army, rode at the head of his legions as they entered the city. Rumors of the fabled Alexandria had circulated through Rome since he was a boy. His ears had been filled with tales of the sinful cosmopolitan metropolis of exquisite pleasure palaces, where through opium-filled haze, dusky half-naked dancing girls worshiped animal-headed Gods. The excesses of the place had revolted his cold orderly mind. Yet his heart sped up in anticipation as he passed through the mammoth limestone walls, his eyes hungrily taking in every detail.

Alexandria was his. The only city that could rival Rome was his. Now he was truly master of the world.

But there was something strange about this place. It was utterly deserted. Had the entire population of Alexandria fled? Or were they hiding in their pretty buildings invoking their bestial Gods?

Never mind. The spoils from this city would be enough to fund his legions for the rest of his lifetime.

But where was Cleopatra? His spies informed him she was still within the city walls. He smirked. The fall of Egypt would not be complete without a great Triumph through the streets of Rome and the haughty Egyptian Queen dragged in chains behind his chariot wheels.

As they passed through the exquisitely inlaid doors of mahogany laced with ivory and entered the great hall of Lochias Palace, he motioned for his men to halt. The place was unnaturally silent, but the perfume of blooming roses and lotus blossoms mixed with a hint of the myrrh incense, which still smoldered on the braziers in the corners of the hall, filled the air. He gazed around at the sheer scale of the chamber and at the magnificent golden throne which sat empty on its raised dais.

He took a step towards it.

A low elegant voice from behind halted his steps. “If you wish to speak with the Queen of Heaven, you will come with me.”

Experiencing for the first time the unnerving way in which Cleopatra’s courtiers slid from room to room unobserved, Octavian snapped his head around to find Charmion standing before, what looked like, a solid stone wall. No one had seen her enter.

His eyes narrowed as he inspected her ebony face. But Charmion's expression was impossible to read, as calmly serene as any of the priceless statues adorning the palace.