The Sun of God, page 59
Agrippa smiled. “I know it.”
SEPTEMBER 31 BC
The ship pitched side to side, waves cresting over the deck, tossing up stinging salt water. Dark clouds gathered to the east, hanging low in the sky.
Soldiers ran across the deck here and there in bright, glinting armor, hurrying to their posts as battle descended. To the west the sun still shone, gleaming through broken clouds, while Antonius’ large warships dotted the eastern horizon, approaching along with the storm.
The large, armored ships of Antonius sailed swiftly with the wind at their backs, and Agrippa could sense the fear stifling their own men, eyes wide and frantically glancing around, the rowers hesitant, waiting for the impending chaos to break out.
For now, they were well out of range, but that would only last for so long. A loud clap of far-off thunder seemed to shake the very depths of the ocean itself.
“My brothers!”
Agrippa turned.
Octavius stood at the west end of the ship, elevated in the last rays of sunlight from above. His hair was lit as if with a golden crown, and his eyes were storming as the wine-dark sea around them.
Agrippa’s breath caught. For this was no ordinary mortal standing before them.
This was the son of a god.
“My brothers in arms!” Octavius cried out, his voice ringing out clear above the rumbling of the storm. The crew turned, startled, staring at their commander half in fear, half in awe. “A foreign woman has threatened the peace of the Roman nation, the power of the Roman people. Shall we sit back and do nothing? Shall we surrender our customs, our women, our livelihoods, to a foreign queen and her lover, a traitor of his own people, Marcus Antonius?”
There was a resounding clamor of swords beating on shields and shouts of slander against Antonius and his supporters. Agrippa felt a shiver and realized distantly that a light shower had begun falling from the sky.
Octavius raised his sword up, the last light of the sun shining on the glittering waves on their side of the sea. “Then let us fight! Let us fight for Rome! Ordinem servate!”
And as they cried out and took their places, thunder clapped and lightning flashed across the sky. Rain poured upon them in heavy sheets, the dark clouds rolling in and blotting the last blue skies, the deck and the oars so slick that they nearly became one with the waves.
Agrippa met Octavius as he approached the stern. They stopped short, staring at each other, a strange look in Octavius’ dark eyes. Agrippa did not know what to say. His heart beat painfully, out of fear or love he could not tell, and wondered if there was even a difference anymore.
“Do not die,” Octavius warned. “Promise me, Agrippa, you will not do something stupid like that.”
Promise me that you will not get yourself killed for that man.
Agrippa nodded, though his body was numb, as it always felt before battle, when instinct took over and all that mattered was the present moment, life or death only a breath away. Attica’s gray eyes flashed through his mind like a warning, her face spasming in pain, the wrath of the gods in her twisting mouth as the dagger descended—
“Caesar!”
They both turned. A messenger hurriedly approached.
“What news?” Octavius asked darkly.
“We have news from General Lurius, sir,” the messenger said, his chest heaving with deep breaths from rowing across the water. “General Sosius has attacked.”
General Sosius commanded Antonius’ left wing. They had successfully drawn them out into battle, but now they had to win. Octavius looked at Agrippa, and without a second thought, Agrippa stepped towards the messenger.
“Tell Lurius to stick to the plan,” Agrippa said firmly. “Attack swiftly, target the men above deck and then retreat. Above all, be quick, and be nimble.”
The messenger nodded frantically and hurried back to a small boat waiting at the side of their ship filled with rowers, which they used to send messages back and forth between commanders. He watched the small boat row speedily across the choppy waters, disappearing from view as the waves grew in size, rising over the sides of their ship and rushing across the deck.
Agrippa came close to Octavius. He placed a hand on his arm and tried to smile. “I will always find you.”
Octavius nodded, silent as death. Then he stepped away and left Agrippa alone at the stern, looking out at Antonius’ towering warships as the battle raged on.
The storm lasted all afternoon along with the battle, and when the sun dipped below the horizon, a lighter wind picked up from the shore, pressing the clouds onward, and as Agrippa listened he thought he heard a familiar sigh, a soft, gentle whisper, calling his name.
Agrippa.
He looked up, his heart clenched as if in sudden pain. There was a commotion behind him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw sails in the distance, specks of white on the frothing sea.
Promise me.
“He is fleeing! He is fleeing!”
The men were in disbelief, momentarily caught off guard at the news of Antonius’ retreat. As they all stood and watched, a second pair of sails quickly followed the first. After a moment, there was cheering, and the news spread quick as wildfire across the water.
“He is fleeing with the queen! Antonius has surrendered!”
And just like that, the battle was won. Antonius’ fleet would not fight for much longer without their commander. In the end, his queen had cast him under her spell, and bewitched by a woman, Antonius had, of course, retreated.
Or at least, that was what the men were saying. Agrippa could only recall Attica’s panic when he had left for the war. It was as if the end of the war would be the end of their life together.
Agrippa had just not known how true that would be.
Oh, mi vir. My husband.
Two weeks had passed since they had defeated Antonius at last. But suddenly, that did not matter anymore.
The tent nearly swayed before Agrippa’s eyes. Octavius stood before him, his eyes lowered, the scroll of parchment held loosely in his hands. Agrippa wondered if he would ever not feel this pain, this deadly darkness within his very soul.
“I am sorry,” Octavius said quietly. “She loved you very much.”
Octavius held out the letter and Agrippa took it. It was from Livia, addressed to Octavius with an included note for Agrippa about Attica’s death. She had died from her illness nearly two months ago.
The message had taken long to reach them, Octavius had said. But Agrippa knew Livia had probably withheld the information until after she had received news of the victory. He did not have the heart to be angry at her.
“You did not know her,” Agrippa said, surprised at the coldness in his voice.
Octavius could not hide the flash of hurt on his face. “No, I did not.”
Agrippa turned and left the tent. The night was cool but still, with no wind and no clouds in sight, the stars bright and colorful in the sky. He clutched the letter tightly in his hands until it crumpled as he made his way down the cliffside and to the narrow shore.
The water kissed the edge of the sand calmly, and Agrippa could not help but drop to his knees where the waves gently sunk into the earth.
He held up the letter in the white moonlight, hardly able to read the words but not needing to, having them already seared in his mind.
My dear, dear Agrippa,
There are no words for the pain I feel in writing this…
Livia would be taking care of the children until Agrippa returned home. He recalled Attica holding Agrippina when she was not even a year old, and he remembered the surprise, the utter awe he had felt watching her hold their child, a book in her other hand, talking distractedly with him, a woman like no other.
Poor Agrippina! Poor Vipsania! They would never know their mother. Their wonderful, clever, kind mother. They would never know her gray eyes, the intensity like a coming storm, the quick wit, the solemn, tender knowledge of a woman in a world of men.
Who shall kindle the memory of her? Who shall keep it burning? As the wars came and went, as the sun rose and set alongside the moon, as time kept its cruel count and history left even the best of humankind forgotten, who shall bear her torch and salvage her legacy from a nameless fate?
Pomponia Caecilia Attica, his wife, the mother of his children. But also, a woman, a woman of passion, ideas, and incredible strength. He thought of his own mother, already a shadow of a memory in his mind, a name gifted to sons and daughters and lost to death.
He felt the tides of time sinking in the past, and he could not help the tears that fell from his cheeks and into the water swirling about his knees, a drop in an endless ocean.
There were distant shouts carried across the waves. He looked up.
Small boats worked to sift through the burned ruins of their enemy, the wreckage of war. Various ships were still half-destroyed, smoldering on the sea, their crews either rescued or dead.
Antonius’ entire fleet and army had surrendered after their commander had fled with his Egyptian queen. Rumor had already made her rounds, but it did not matter. Octavius had won the war, and without their fleet, it was only a matter of time before Antonius and Cleopatra were found and killed.
Everything was about to change. No. Everything had already changed. He felt familiar icy fear clutch his heart, and he held the letter close to his chest, shutting his eyes tightly.
“Ave atque vale, mea Attica,” Agrippa whispered.
His hands released the letter, which fluttered in the air before settling on the water. The piece of parchment floated with the tide until it was swallowed in the waves, disappearing in the sea along with a part of his heart, forever.
Hail and farewell, my Attica.
57
Marcus Antonius
SEPTEMBER 31 BC
Antonius had never heard the streets of Alexandria so quiet.
The impending war had settled an eerie silence on the city like a blanket of snow in winter. Fear was palpable in the air as night descended, as if they might see the torches of battle glimmering on the horizon at any moment like ferrymen of the Underworld.
He wondered if the city would be ablaze by dawn, the treasures and knowledge of Alexandria devoured in the flames of war, the hot sun blotted by black smoke.
The last time the city was held under siege, Julius Caesar had occupied the palace. Antonius glanced at Cleopatra, lying in bed, her face untroubled in sleep. No matter how much Antonius wished to best his old general’s legacy, it seemed he found himself unable to escape Caesar’s shadow. Now here he was, in the same palace, under siege with the same woman, except Antonius was alive and Julius Caesar was dead. He did not know which fate was worse.
A part of him was surprised he did not feel ashamed. He knew well that in the eyes of the young Caesar, in the eyes of any Roman, his retreat was a coward’s flight. And Antonius also knew well that the boy would return to Italy bearing the message of his defeat.
But there was no shame. No anger. No regret. How could he regret saving the life of the woman he loved?
Perhaps the battle could have been won, but there were too many risks. The desertions had not boded well, and one of them must have betrayed him. Greece was dangerous, poorly resourced, and Caesar had already managed to seize the northern side of the strait, leaving their army vulnerable.
Egypt, on the other hand, could supply and feed them, house them, but above all, protect them. The land and its people had survived many wars, many battles. And it was home.
For the gods knew his home was not Rome. After all, what had Rome ever done for him? What had the Roman people ever given him?
Antonius had always been alone, left to fend for himself, when his father had abandoned their family for a life of piracy and pleasure, when Rome had abandoned him gambling on the streets, chewing up every cent he had and spitting him back out to rot in Greece.
Even when Antonius had promised wealth, when he had promised fame and glory, Rome had not yielded, had not even offered up a thanks. Instead, she had chosen a boy whose only claim was a name and the arrogance to use it.
Now Cleopatra was his home, and he would protect her with his life.
He still remembered the first time he had seen her, a young princess, daughter to a king of kings. Her sharp nose, her dark curling hair, the too-perfect Latin spoken with the faintest air of an accent that she would rather die than admit she had. She had been young, too young for him, really, but he had been young too. Nineteen, a boy eager for war, eager to prove himself a man.
Egypt had been his first triumph, his first glimpse of glory, and it had felt like the entire world had opened up at his feet, all glimmering and gold.
He would never forget what Philippus had told him all those years ago, when Atia Balba had still been alive and terrifying, when his whole life had been gambling and girls, each drop of liquor, each drunken kiss, bringing him one step closer to outrunning his father’s legacy.
Someone nobody remembers.
Antonius shivered and shut the window tightly. He used to fear death. He used to wake up in the middle of the night, still drunk from his escapades, quaking in fear, wondering if the black night would simply swallow him up into oblivion. But now that death was staring him in the face, Antonius did not fear it at all.
For he had love, and there was no one, not even Death himself, who could take that away from him.
“Marcus, my love.”
He turned. Cleopatra stirred in their bed, her dark eyes heavy, watching him.
“Yes?”
“Come back to bed,” she said gently. “Stop worrying.”
“I am not worrying. I am thinking.”
She sighed, her eyes sad. “Thinking is worse. It will not help us now.”
“I do not understand you,” Antonius said, raising a brow. “Have you surrendered already?”
Her eyes flashed like lightning in the night sky. “I never have and never will surrender to a man, much less a Roman man. I shall die before that day comes.”
The words struck him like a blade to the heart, and he felt sick. He pushed the words out, but they rang false. “Then we must prepare for war.”
Cleopatra glanced at him, hidden thoughts in her face. “Then we must prepare to lose. Caesar’s forces are too strong. We cannot hope to defeat them in battle.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Antonius asked angrily. “Flee? To where? All of Greece has surrendered to him. Judea as well. There is no distant shore that will be far enough to escape him.”
She nearly spoke, then held back the words, looking away. A thought formed in his mind, more nauseating than defeat.
“Unless you think to negotiate.” When she said nothing, he continued. “Ah, there is the woman in you. That is it, isn’t it? You think he will spare your life if you fucked him?”
Cleopatra nearly flinched, and her voice turned cold. “No. I do not think he will spare my life.” She paused. “Besides, it would not be for me. It would be for my children.”
“Our children,“ Antonius corrected. “Or have you already forgotten?”
She sat up, looking very much awake, her narrowed eyes accusing. “You may negotiate too, you know. You are still a Roman, and he may feel merciful. It is not because I am a woman that I think to negotiate, but because I am a queen. Or have you already forgotten?”
Her taunts stung him more than he would like to admit. For he understood her position better than she knew, as any good gambler did. Here was the woman who had entertained Julius Caesar, who had captivated Antonius himself since the moment he had met her. Who was to say she would not do the same with the boy? Who was he to stop her?
After all, she was right. While Cleopatra had a kingdom to bargain, for the first time in his life, Antonius had nothing.
“Perhaps if we had not fled Actium we would have defeated him at sea,” Antonius said, more resentful than regretful.
Cleopatra raised a brow. “Already Ahenobarbus and Dellius had defected to the boy, not to mention your Thracian kings and our Eastern allies. You know as well as I that if we had stayed, we would have died that day.”
“Better to die in battle than in retreat,” Antonius countered, though he only half meant it.
“Ah, there is the man in you,” Cleopatra answered mockingly, getting up from the bed in her anger and standing across the room from him. Despite her tousled hair and night dress, she had never looked more like a queen to him. “I forget you Romans and your senseless honor. Well, I have a people to protect, and I cannot do that from the grave. That, at least, is something the young Caesar understands. But tell me, Marcus, what has your precious honor ever gotten you?”
“Certainly more than you have gotten me!” The words came before he could stop them, but he did not regret saying them.
“Oh really?” Cleopatra stood tall, her eyes glowing fiercely at his raised voice. “Did you think if you fucked me I would hand you my kingdom? Did you think because I was a woman I would betray my people? Then I am sorry to disappoint you!”
“I wanted glory! I wanted fame! I wanted to make something of myself!” Antonius shouted, breathing heavily. “And I wanted you. I have wanted you since the moment I met you. And I will never stop wanting you, even if it makes me less of a general, less of a man, less of a Roman. That is what you do not understand. I would throw it all away for you! I have already thrown it all away. For you! And you have hardly done the same for me.”
Cleopatra crossed the room, her face dark and livid. “Have I not? Tell me, have I not given you everything? Look!” She flung her arm wildly towards the window. “Look at my city! On the brink of war! On the brink of destruction!” She shoved him away, and Antonius stumbled back, staring dumbly at the tears in her eyes. “I have given up everything! My scepter, my children, my life! For what, Marcus? I already had glory! I already had fame! I already had everything! Everything! Do you not see? I knew all along, Marcus! One cannot be in love and hope to rule the world.” She shook her head, her eyes glancing up at the ceiling, her voice trembling. “But I loved you anyway. And I knew my love for you would be my death. That, Marcus, is the difference between you and I. That is what you never understood.”
SEPTEMBER 31 BC
The ship pitched side to side, waves cresting over the deck, tossing up stinging salt water. Dark clouds gathered to the east, hanging low in the sky.
Soldiers ran across the deck here and there in bright, glinting armor, hurrying to their posts as battle descended. To the west the sun still shone, gleaming through broken clouds, while Antonius’ large warships dotted the eastern horizon, approaching along with the storm.
The large, armored ships of Antonius sailed swiftly with the wind at their backs, and Agrippa could sense the fear stifling their own men, eyes wide and frantically glancing around, the rowers hesitant, waiting for the impending chaos to break out.
For now, they were well out of range, but that would only last for so long. A loud clap of far-off thunder seemed to shake the very depths of the ocean itself.
“My brothers!”
Agrippa turned.
Octavius stood at the west end of the ship, elevated in the last rays of sunlight from above. His hair was lit as if with a golden crown, and his eyes were storming as the wine-dark sea around them.
Agrippa’s breath caught. For this was no ordinary mortal standing before them.
This was the son of a god.
“My brothers in arms!” Octavius cried out, his voice ringing out clear above the rumbling of the storm. The crew turned, startled, staring at their commander half in fear, half in awe. “A foreign woman has threatened the peace of the Roman nation, the power of the Roman people. Shall we sit back and do nothing? Shall we surrender our customs, our women, our livelihoods, to a foreign queen and her lover, a traitor of his own people, Marcus Antonius?”
There was a resounding clamor of swords beating on shields and shouts of slander against Antonius and his supporters. Agrippa felt a shiver and realized distantly that a light shower had begun falling from the sky.
Octavius raised his sword up, the last light of the sun shining on the glittering waves on their side of the sea. “Then let us fight! Let us fight for Rome! Ordinem servate!”
And as they cried out and took their places, thunder clapped and lightning flashed across the sky. Rain poured upon them in heavy sheets, the dark clouds rolling in and blotting the last blue skies, the deck and the oars so slick that they nearly became one with the waves.
Agrippa met Octavius as he approached the stern. They stopped short, staring at each other, a strange look in Octavius’ dark eyes. Agrippa did not know what to say. His heart beat painfully, out of fear or love he could not tell, and wondered if there was even a difference anymore.
“Do not die,” Octavius warned. “Promise me, Agrippa, you will not do something stupid like that.”
Promise me that you will not get yourself killed for that man.
Agrippa nodded, though his body was numb, as it always felt before battle, when instinct took over and all that mattered was the present moment, life or death only a breath away. Attica’s gray eyes flashed through his mind like a warning, her face spasming in pain, the wrath of the gods in her twisting mouth as the dagger descended—
“Caesar!”
They both turned. A messenger hurriedly approached.
“What news?” Octavius asked darkly.
“We have news from General Lurius, sir,” the messenger said, his chest heaving with deep breaths from rowing across the water. “General Sosius has attacked.”
General Sosius commanded Antonius’ left wing. They had successfully drawn them out into battle, but now they had to win. Octavius looked at Agrippa, and without a second thought, Agrippa stepped towards the messenger.
“Tell Lurius to stick to the plan,” Agrippa said firmly. “Attack swiftly, target the men above deck and then retreat. Above all, be quick, and be nimble.”
The messenger nodded frantically and hurried back to a small boat waiting at the side of their ship filled with rowers, which they used to send messages back and forth between commanders. He watched the small boat row speedily across the choppy waters, disappearing from view as the waves grew in size, rising over the sides of their ship and rushing across the deck.
Agrippa came close to Octavius. He placed a hand on his arm and tried to smile. “I will always find you.”
Octavius nodded, silent as death. Then he stepped away and left Agrippa alone at the stern, looking out at Antonius’ towering warships as the battle raged on.
The storm lasted all afternoon along with the battle, and when the sun dipped below the horizon, a lighter wind picked up from the shore, pressing the clouds onward, and as Agrippa listened he thought he heard a familiar sigh, a soft, gentle whisper, calling his name.
Agrippa.
He looked up, his heart clenched as if in sudden pain. There was a commotion behind him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw sails in the distance, specks of white on the frothing sea.
Promise me.
“He is fleeing! He is fleeing!”
The men were in disbelief, momentarily caught off guard at the news of Antonius’ retreat. As they all stood and watched, a second pair of sails quickly followed the first. After a moment, there was cheering, and the news spread quick as wildfire across the water.
“He is fleeing with the queen! Antonius has surrendered!”
And just like that, the battle was won. Antonius’ fleet would not fight for much longer without their commander. In the end, his queen had cast him under her spell, and bewitched by a woman, Antonius had, of course, retreated.
Or at least, that was what the men were saying. Agrippa could only recall Attica’s panic when he had left for the war. It was as if the end of the war would be the end of their life together.
Agrippa had just not known how true that would be.
Oh, mi vir. My husband.
Two weeks had passed since they had defeated Antonius at last. But suddenly, that did not matter anymore.
The tent nearly swayed before Agrippa’s eyes. Octavius stood before him, his eyes lowered, the scroll of parchment held loosely in his hands. Agrippa wondered if he would ever not feel this pain, this deadly darkness within his very soul.
“I am sorry,” Octavius said quietly. “She loved you very much.”
Octavius held out the letter and Agrippa took it. It was from Livia, addressed to Octavius with an included note for Agrippa about Attica’s death. She had died from her illness nearly two months ago.
The message had taken long to reach them, Octavius had said. But Agrippa knew Livia had probably withheld the information until after she had received news of the victory. He did not have the heart to be angry at her.
“You did not know her,” Agrippa said, surprised at the coldness in his voice.
Octavius could not hide the flash of hurt on his face. “No, I did not.”
Agrippa turned and left the tent. The night was cool but still, with no wind and no clouds in sight, the stars bright and colorful in the sky. He clutched the letter tightly in his hands until it crumpled as he made his way down the cliffside and to the narrow shore.
The water kissed the edge of the sand calmly, and Agrippa could not help but drop to his knees where the waves gently sunk into the earth.
He held up the letter in the white moonlight, hardly able to read the words but not needing to, having them already seared in his mind.
My dear, dear Agrippa,
There are no words for the pain I feel in writing this…
Livia would be taking care of the children until Agrippa returned home. He recalled Attica holding Agrippina when she was not even a year old, and he remembered the surprise, the utter awe he had felt watching her hold their child, a book in her other hand, talking distractedly with him, a woman like no other.
Poor Agrippina! Poor Vipsania! They would never know their mother. Their wonderful, clever, kind mother. They would never know her gray eyes, the intensity like a coming storm, the quick wit, the solemn, tender knowledge of a woman in a world of men.
Who shall kindle the memory of her? Who shall keep it burning? As the wars came and went, as the sun rose and set alongside the moon, as time kept its cruel count and history left even the best of humankind forgotten, who shall bear her torch and salvage her legacy from a nameless fate?
Pomponia Caecilia Attica, his wife, the mother of his children. But also, a woman, a woman of passion, ideas, and incredible strength. He thought of his own mother, already a shadow of a memory in his mind, a name gifted to sons and daughters and lost to death.
He felt the tides of time sinking in the past, and he could not help the tears that fell from his cheeks and into the water swirling about his knees, a drop in an endless ocean.
There were distant shouts carried across the waves. He looked up.
Small boats worked to sift through the burned ruins of their enemy, the wreckage of war. Various ships were still half-destroyed, smoldering on the sea, their crews either rescued or dead.
Antonius’ entire fleet and army had surrendered after their commander had fled with his Egyptian queen. Rumor had already made her rounds, but it did not matter. Octavius had won the war, and without their fleet, it was only a matter of time before Antonius and Cleopatra were found and killed.
Everything was about to change. No. Everything had already changed. He felt familiar icy fear clutch his heart, and he held the letter close to his chest, shutting his eyes tightly.
“Ave atque vale, mea Attica,” Agrippa whispered.
His hands released the letter, which fluttered in the air before settling on the water. The piece of parchment floated with the tide until it was swallowed in the waves, disappearing in the sea along with a part of his heart, forever.
Hail and farewell, my Attica.
57
Marcus Antonius
SEPTEMBER 31 BC
Antonius had never heard the streets of Alexandria so quiet.
The impending war had settled an eerie silence on the city like a blanket of snow in winter. Fear was palpable in the air as night descended, as if they might see the torches of battle glimmering on the horizon at any moment like ferrymen of the Underworld.
He wondered if the city would be ablaze by dawn, the treasures and knowledge of Alexandria devoured in the flames of war, the hot sun blotted by black smoke.
The last time the city was held under siege, Julius Caesar had occupied the palace. Antonius glanced at Cleopatra, lying in bed, her face untroubled in sleep. No matter how much Antonius wished to best his old general’s legacy, it seemed he found himself unable to escape Caesar’s shadow. Now here he was, in the same palace, under siege with the same woman, except Antonius was alive and Julius Caesar was dead. He did not know which fate was worse.
A part of him was surprised he did not feel ashamed. He knew well that in the eyes of the young Caesar, in the eyes of any Roman, his retreat was a coward’s flight. And Antonius also knew well that the boy would return to Italy bearing the message of his defeat.
But there was no shame. No anger. No regret. How could he regret saving the life of the woman he loved?
Perhaps the battle could have been won, but there were too many risks. The desertions had not boded well, and one of them must have betrayed him. Greece was dangerous, poorly resourced, and Caesar had already managed to seize the northern side of the strait, leaving their army vulnerable.
Egypt, on the other hand, could supply and feed them, house them, but above all, protect them. The land and its people had survived many wars, many battles. And it was home.
For the gods knew his home was not Rome. After all, what had Rome ever done for him? What had the Roman people ever given him?
Antonius had always been alone, left to fend for himself, when his father had abandoned their family for a life of piracy and pleasure, when Rome had abandoned him gambling on the streets, chewing up every cent he had and spitting him back out to rot in Greece.
Even when Antonius had promised wealth, when he had promised fame and glory, Rome had not yielded, had not even offered up a thanks. Instead, she had chosen a boy whose only claim was a name and the arrogance to use it.
Now Cleopatra was his home, and he would protect her with his life.
He still remembered the first time he had seen her, a young princess, daughter to a king of kings. Her sharp nose, her dark curling hair, the too-perfect Latin spoken with the faintest air of an accent that she would rather die than admit she had. She had been young, too young for him, really, but he had been young too. Nineteen, a boy eager for war, eager to prove himself a man.
Egypt had been his first triumph, his first glimpse of glory, and it had felt like the entire world had opened up at his feet, all glimmering and gold.
He would never forget what Philippus had told him all those years ago, when Atia Balba had still been alive and terrifying, when his whole life had been gambling and girls, each drop of liquor, each drunken kiss, bringing him one step closer to outrunning his father’s legacy.
Someone nobody remembers.
Antonius shivered and shut the window tightly. He used to fear death. He used to wake up in the middle of the night, still drunk from his escapades, quaking in fear, wondering if the black night would simply swallow him up into oblivion. But now that death was staring him in the face, Antonius did not fear it at all.
For he had love, and there was no one, not even Death himself, who could take that away from him.
“Marcus, my love.”
He turned. Cleopatra stirred in their bed, her dark eyes heavy, watching him.
“Yes?”
“Come back to bed,” she said gently. “Stop worrying.”
“I am not worrying. I am thinking.”
She sighed, her eyes sad. “Thinking is worse. It will not help us now.”
“I do not understand you,” Antonius said, raising a brow. “Have you surrendered already?”
Her eyes flashed like lightning in the night sky. “I never have and never will surrender to a man, much less a Roman man. I shall die before that day comes.”
The words struck him like a blade to the heart, and he felt sick. He pushed the words out, but they rang false. “Then we must prepare for war.”
Cleopatra glanced at him, hidden thoughts in her face. “Then we must prepare to lose. Caesar’s forces are too strong. We cannot hope to defeat them in battle.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Antonius asked angrily. “Flee? To where? All of Greece has surrendered to him. Judea as well. There is no distant shore that will be far enough to escape him.”
She nearly spoke, then held back the words, looking away. A thought formed in his mind, more nauseating than defeat.
“Unless you think to negotiate.” When she said nothing, he continued. “Ah, there is the woman in you. That is it, isn’t it? You think he will spare your life if you fucked him?”
Cleopatra nearly flinched, and her voice turned cold. “No. I do not think he will spare my life.” She paused. “Besides, it would not be for me. It would be for my children.”
“Our children,“ Antonius corrected. “Or have you already forgotten?”
She sat up, looking very much awake, her narrowed eyes accusing. “You may negotiate too, you know. You are still a Roman, and he may feel merciful. It is not because I am a woman that I think to negotiate, but because I am a queen. Or have you already forgotten?”
Her taunts stung him more than he would like to admit. For he understood her position better than she knew, as any good gambler did. Here was the woman who had entertained Julius Caesar, who had captivated Antonius himself since the moment he had met her. Who was to say she would not do the same with the boy? Who was he to stop her?
After all, she was right. While Cleopatra had a kingdom to bargain, for the first time in his life, Antonius had nothing.
“Perhaps if we had not fled Actium we would have defeated him at sea,” Antonius said, more resentful than regretful.
Cleopatra raised a brow. “Already Ahenobarbus and Dellius had defected to the boy, not to mention your Thracian kings and our Eastern allies. You know as well as I that if we had stayed, we would have died that day.”
“Better to die in battle than in retreat,” Antonius countered, though he only half meant it.
“Ah, there is the man in you,” Cleopatra answered mockingly, getting up from the bed in her anger and standing across the room from him. Despite her tousled hair and night dress, she had never looked more like a queen to him. “I forget you Romans and your senseless honor. Well, I have a people to protect, and I cannot do that from the grave. That, at least, is something the young Caesar understands. But tell me, Marcus, what has your precious honor ever gotten you?”
“Certainly more than you have gotten me!” The words came before he could stop them, but he did not regret saying them.
“Oh really?” Cleopatra stood tall, her eyes glowing fiercely at his raised voice. “Did you think if you fucked me I would hand you my kingdom? Did you think because I was a woman I would betray my people? Then I am sorry to disappoint you!”
“I wanted glory! I wanted fame! I wanted to make something of myself!” Antonius shouted, breathing heavily. “And I wanted you. I have wanted you since the moment I met you. And I will never stop wanting you, even if it makes me less of a general, less of a man, less of a Roman. That is what you do not understand. I would throw it all away for you! I have already thrown it all away. For you! And you have hardly done the same for me.”
Cleopatra crossed the room, her face dark and livid. “Have I not? Tell me, have I not given you everything? Look!” She flung her arm wildly towards the window. “Look at my city! On the brink of war! On the brink of destruction!” She shoved him away, and Antonius stumbled back, staring dumbly at the tears in her eyes. “I have given up everything! My scepter, my children, my life! For what, Marcus? I already had glory! I already had fame! I already had everything! Everything! Do you not see? I knew all along, Marcus! One cannot be in love and hope to rule the world.” She shook her head, her eyes glancing up at the ceiling, her voice trembling. “But I loved you anyway. And I knew my love for you would be my death. That, Marcus, is the difference between you and I. That is what you never understood.”
