Antony and Cleopatra by Colleen McCullough Page A

firmly packed him off to bed, then dismissed the servants to leave her alone with Antony.
    Alexandria didn’t have a proper winter, just a slight chill in the air after sunset that meant the breeze walls were closed. After Athens, more extreme, Antony found it delightful, could feel himself relaxing as he hadn’t in months. And the lady had been an interesting dinner companion—when she managed to get a word in edgewise; Caesarion had bombarded Antony with a staggering variety of questions. What was Gaul like? What was Philippi really like? How did it feel to command an army? And on, and on, and on.
    “He wore you out,” she said now, smiling.
    “More curiosity than a fortune-teller before she tells your fortune. But he’s clever, Cleopatra.” A grimace of distaste twisted his face. “As precocious as the other Caesar’s heir.”
    “Whom you detest.”
    “That’s too mild a verb. Loathe, more like.”
    “I hope you can find it in you to like my son.”
    “Much better than I expected to.” His eyes traveled over the lamps set around the room, squinting. “It’s too bright,” he said.
    In answer she slid from the couch, picked up a snuffer, and quenched all save those flames that didn’t shine in Antony’s face. “Have you a headache?” she asked, returning to the couch.
    “Yes, as a matter of fact.”
    “Would you like to retire?”
    “Not if I can lie here quietly and talk to you.”
    “Of course you can.”
    “You didn’t believe me when I said I was falling in love with you, but I spoke the truth.”
    “I have silver mirrors, Antonius, and they tell me that I am not the kind of woman you fall in love with. Fulvia, for example.”
    He grinned, his small white teeth flashing. “And Glaphyra, though you never saw her. A delectable piece of work.”
    “Whom clearly you did not love, to say that about her. But Fulvia you do love.”
    “Used to, more like. At the moment she’s a nuisance, with her war against Octavianus. A futile business, badly conducted.”
    “A very beautiful woman.”
    “Past her prime, at forty-three. We’re much of an age.”
    “She’s given you sons.”
    “Aye, but too young yet to know what they’re made of. Her grandfather was Gaius Gracchus, a great man, so I hope for good boys. Antyllus is five, Iullus still a baby. A good mare, Fulvia. Four by Clodius—two girls, two boys—a boy by Curio, and mine.”
    “The Ptolemies breed well too.”
    “With only one chick in your nest, you can say that?”
    “I am Pharaoh, Marcus Antonius, which means that I cannot mate with mortal men. Caesar was a god, therefore a fit mate for me. We had Caesarion quickly, but then”—she sighed—“no more. Not for want of trying, I can assure you.”
    Antony laughed. “No, I can see why he wouldn’t tell you.”
    Stiffening, she lifted her head to look at him, her big, golden eyes reflecting the light of a lamp behind Antony’s close-cropped curls. “Tell me what?” she asked.
    “That he’d sire no more children on you.”
    “You lie!”
    Surprised, he too lifted his head. “Lie? Why should I?”
    “How would I know your reasons? I simply know that you lie!”
    “I speak the truth. Search your mind, Cleopatra, and you’ll know that. Caesar, to sire a girl for his son to marry? He was a Roman through and through, and Romans do not approve of incest. Not even between nieces and uncles or nephews and aunts, let alone brothers and sisters. First cousins are considered a risk.”
    The disillusionment crashed upon her like a massive wave—Caesar, of whose love she was so sure, had led her a dance of pure deception! All those months in Rome, hoping and praying for a pregnancy that never happened—and he knew, he knew! The God out of the West had deceived her, all for the sake of some stupid Roman shibboleth! She ground her teeth, growled in the back of her throat. “He deceived me,” she said then, dully.
    “Only because he didn’t think you’d understand. I see that