Cleopatra's Secret: Keepers of the LIght (7 page)

He felt the honey of her loins, and the sweet flower-like softness of them, as his fingers penetrated the sacred darkness of the Goddess. An erotic shock of all creation hit him as his fingers probed the womb of the Mother. He could wait no longer––he throbbed to be inside her.

Her dew drenched body yielded to him and she cried out a name.

Was it his? The God’s?

But he lost the ability to discern anything at all as his body entered hers. The sounds, smells, vision of the chamber around him melted away as their flesh merged. Cleopatra had become simply a vessel for Her. It was the fever of Isis that burned emerald light from her eyes. Their movements were the deep churning of the oceans, the gravity pulling the weight of the planets through the heavens. And then even that was surpassed: there was only blinding light, eternal and unending, filled with a divine ecstatic love.

The immortals had joined in heavenly union, and with the mingling of the lover’s physical bodies, their souls entwined and irrevocably became one. He felt an almost unbearable rapture as he came to a climax. Then all faded as he collapsed on his lover’s breast, the throb of her heartbeat a gentle drum to lull him to sleep.

***

Antony awoke to find himself alone in a bed of pure white silk. In fact, he could just barely see through the gauze curtain surrounding the bed that the entire room was a dazzling white, much too bright for his bloodshot eyes. He lay stricken, feeling the gentle sway of the barge beneath him, his hands and forehead clammy with the stale sweat of the after effects of the wine and those damn herbs the priestess had given him. In the pit of his stomach he could feel nausea rising, but he lay very still just breathing in the healing sea air that wafted in the small windows at the top of the room.

He closed his eyes again and images of the night before flooded his mind, coming like the momentary remembrance of a dream. He saw the deer’s mortal demise, remembered in bewilderment how he had felt the animal's pain. He recalled the God entering him, the earthy scent of the nighttime forest, and the great banquet which must have taken place here aboard this vessel.

Antony sat up and a sudden jolt of pain surged through his head. He grasped his forehead and reclined back a bit on the pillows. All was quiet. Last night the barge had been filled with the voices of holiday revelers. Everywhere he looked there had been dancers in brightly colored costumes, the priests of Isis with their shaven heads, servants, musicians, everyone in the world it had seemed. Now the boat was silent as a tomb. Even the tiny lapping waves which washed against the barge were quiet. Where had they all gone?

Where was she?

But he couldn't think of her now, or what had happened between them. It was simply too much to consider what it all meant for him, for Rome, for the Gods. He had never felt confusion like this the morning after a night of love. He buried his eyes in the palms of his hands trying to block out the pain in his head.

He felt the silk of the bed and sheets against his skin. This was her bed. He pressed his face against its softness and closed his eyes.

He started at the touch of a cool hand on the back of his neck. He looked up. Cleopatra stood above him, dressed in a plain white tunic, her dark hair loose about her shoulders. She looked a bit pale and had circles beneath her eyes, but even now, obviously tired and probably sick, she was serenely beautiful.

She smiled down at him. “It is depleting to become a God, is it not?”

He grasped her hand and held it against his cheek. He couldn't help it. “I've never been sick from wine in all my life and I've had plenty of occasion for it.”

“It’s the herbs. “ She sank into the creamy silk next to him. “They are very powerful, and when the Gods inhabit one, it takes all your energy simply to sustain the divine presence within you, even for a few hours, even for a strong Roman general.”

He laughed as he stared fascinated by her lovely unreadable face. He could never see enough of it. “Perhaps it’s too much for a poor Roman soldier, but it does not seem to have done too much damage to an Egyptian Queen.”

Cleopatra’s eyes danced with amusement as she rose and went to a little chest. She removed several bottles filled with powders and liquids. She measured a few splashes of them together in an alabaster cup and brought them to Antony.

“I am High Priestess, and no matter how ill I am, I must rise at dawn for the morning rituals, but I did have some help.” She indicated the cup of herbs. “Drink this and you’ll feel much better.”

He eyed the brew skeptically. “You Egyptians have magic potions for everything it seems, but in Rome it’s believed a man ought to recover with his own strength.”

Her charming dimples came out as she laughed. “There is nothing magical about these. They are simply a few healing herbs. In Alexandria we have the most skilled physicians in the world. Why, I even cured Caesar of his falling sickness with our medicine.”

“No one can cure the falling sickness, the whole world knows that,” he barked––
Caesar
.

“Well then,” she removed the cup, “Caesar
was
cured, but if you are afraid of my medicine and wish to suffer, that’s certainly your right, Lord Antony.”

The remark stung, and even though he knew he was behaving like a fool, he grabbed the cup and drank it down. Cleopatra sat smiling at him, like an indulgent mother, but he couldn’t stand that from her. For her to think herself superior, or to see the nonchalance in her face. Suddenly, he felt as though he still had not really possessed her. Last night had been only a dream that changed nothing, though this was her chamber, and they were here upon her bed together. She was still out of reach.

The thought infuriated him. He would make her feel him. He would dispel the tranquil air about her if he had to kill her. Roughly, he took her in his arms, pulling her down onto the bed beside him, and kissed her passionately.

The heat he remembered from the night before was still there, but now he discovered tenderness too in her trembling lips and he found himself cupping her head gently in his hands, running his fingers caressingly through her thick dark hair as he sensed the vulnerability in the way her mouth opened under his, allowing him to deepen their kiss into a thing of such sweetness, he could not recall the like.

When he pulled back to look at her, her face was raw with emotion, her cheeks the color of dark berries under coppery skin, and her eyes held a yearning which it thrilled him to see.

Her lips were trembling and she appeared almost frightened as she gazed up at him.

“Antony,” she whispered, “how has this happened?” She shook her head and looked at him in awe. “I believed when I rose this morning it was the God who had moved me so deeply, but it’s you.”

He took her hands in his, pressing them tenderly between his rough palms. “What you feel, Cleopatra,” his voice trembled with emotion, “is the spark of my passion for you. It has burned slowly inside of me until I am consumed by it completely. You, Caesar, the war that has torn me apart…” He dropped her hands and pressed his palm against his brow as if to silence the whir of guilty thoughts that had plagued him for too long. “I don’t care about any of it. I am your captive!”

She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could utter a word, his lips burned against hers and she surrendered to his embrace. They gave themselves up to one another, now not as the Gods directed them, but as a mortal man and woman who hungered for each other.

As they came together, the golden barge, shimmering in the brightness of the morning air, slipped from the harbor of Tarsus and raised its perfumed sails for Egypt.

Octavian reclined on the cushions of his litter, the curtains drawn against the masses outside and the thick dust rising up in the hot morning air. The streets of the ever-expanding Rome were choked with peddlers selling their wares, legionnaires on sturdy warhorses, and slaves toiling under the weight of heavy sacks of grain and dried fruit. All around construction was underway. Marvelous public buildings, which Caesar had begun, Octavian was now seeing completed. Caesar had dreamed of making the city into a beautiful temple-filled metropolis as grand as any in the world. Octavian, who considered such buildings ostentatious, had nonetheless made a special point of hurrying their construction, because it was a popular cause, and because in continuing the projects Caesar began, he showed himself to be the dictator’s heir in more than simply name.

Octavian’s litter came to a stop in front of the Senate, its stately columns looking out over the Field of Mars. His slaves helped him to alight and he walked up the steps, his pale eyes scanning the front of the building until they rested on old Cicero, the most acclaimed orator in the Republic, his bony hands clutching tightly to a walking stick, his back bowed with age. Knowing full well how instrumental this sharp-tongued orator could be, Octavian had favored and indulged Cicero until he had won the august senator’s complete allegiance.

Octavian smiled pleasantly at the old man, his handsome young face radiant in the morning light. “Well met, Cicero, I hoped to see you before the Senate begins its session today.”

The senator nodded. “Indeed, there is much we need to discuss. Perhaps you would accompany me back to my litter where we may speak in private?”

Octavian coolly scanned the square. “We needn’t retire into dark corners as though we plotted and schemed.”

Cicero smiled. “Forgive me, I am old I suppose, and have grown overly cautious through the years. You’re like a breath of fresh air to all of Rome, Octavian. You wish for the good of all and speak only for that.”

“Please, you must never ask my forgiveness. Now that Caesar’s gone, you have become my wise pedagogue and I count on you to advise me in all things,” said Octavian looking earnestly into the old man's eyes.

Cicero laughed a dry laugh which caught in his throat, and patting the younger man on the shoulder, reminded him, “
You
are Caesar now.”

Octavian lowered his eyes to hide the flash of pleasure. “So tell me, what news is of such urgency?”

Cicero's face became a mask of wrinkles as he frowned. “Antony is up to no good in the East. First he has himself proclaimed a God in those vile rites of Dionysus. Next, he has abandoned his post and sailed away to Egypt aboard Queen Cleopatra's barge, and he has taken her as his lover.”

“Poor Antony,” murmured Octavian.

“But isn’t this shocking news?” exclaimed the old man. “Think of the danger to you––to us all. Are we to see a repeat of the late Caesar's actions? Are we once more to be plunged into civil war? Antony has the love of a great army and the riches of the East, which are beyond measure, I assure you. Now he’s worshipped as a God! With that woman for a companion, ever urging him on in his ambition, who knows what he’s capable of?”

Octavian looked grim. “It is worrisome…”

“Only think, the late Caesar himself was content to serve Rome as a rightful member of the Senate before Cleopatra poisoned his mind with ideas of kingship and divinity. If he could be swayed, what can we expect from Antony?”

“You’re right, of course.” Octavian pretended he had not lain awake all night ruminating on the situation. “Perhaps I’m too trusting of Antony. He’s my ally, and was Caesar’s great friend, but I must admit the truth in what you say.”

“But what are we to do? Can you possibly declare war on Antony? Haven’t we had enough of civil war?”

Octavian looked up, his ice blue eyes twin pools of sincerity. “I could never declare war on my ally. It’s not Antony who’s to blame. He does what the followers of that vile religion call him to do. The cult of Isis and Dionysus has even spread to Rome, like a disease forcing our citizens to rave like beasts and pervert themselves in the most revolting manner. This cult is the antithesis of the order we Romans seek to create in the world.”

A fury kindled in the old senator’s eyes. “Why then do we not outlaw this filthy religion? Then Antony, as a leader of the Republic, must renounce his divinity, or become Rome’s enemy. In giving up the Dionysians, he will fall at odds with Cleopatra and be safely out of her grasp.”

Octavian suppressed a delighted smile. “You truly deserve your title as the cleverest man in Rome, Cicero…” his voice trailed off. Closing his eyes, he rested the weight of his body against a pillar.

“Caesar, are you well?” The senator seized Octavian’s elbow to hold him up, looking with concern on his slumping figure.

Octavian passed his hands over his face, apparently disoriented. “I’m a little dizzy,” he whispered. “Only give me a moment and I’ll be quite all right.” He faltered, and would have fallen, if Cicero did not come to his aid.

“Octavian, forgive me, but you’re not strong and the last few years spent on the battlefield, and now in the administration of Rome, have taken their toll. Your health cannot stand it.” Cicero’s eyes were filled with compassion. “I know what it is to be infirm. I have suffered with illness my entire life and I understand all the shame of feeling less than what a Roman man ought to be. But now, in my old age, I see that I have served my country in my own way. You, Octavian, forgive me,
Caesar
. You are the greatest hope for Rome, but you must take care of yourself. If anything should happen to you, the Republic would be thrown into disorder again.”