Antony and Cleopatra by Colleen McCullough Page B

tell Antony she was here.
     
     
    He found Antony bored and restless, but still sober.
    “Well?” Antony demanded, glaring up at Dellius. One big hand gestured at the desk top, awash in scrolls and papers. “Look at this! And all of it’s either bills or bad news! Did you succeed? Is Cleopatra coming?”
    “Cleopatra is here, Antonius. I traveled aboard her fleet, even now being assigned moorings downriver. Twenty triremes, all naval—no trade opportunities, I’m afraid.”
    His chair scraped; Antony got up and went to the window, his movement making Dellius realize anew how graceful some big men could be. “Where is she? I hope you told the city harbormaster to assign her the choicest moorings.”
    “Yes, but it’s going to take some time. Her ship is as long as three Greek war galleys of olden times, so it can’t exactly be slipped in between two merchantmen already tied up. The harbormaster has to shift seven of them—he’s not happy, but he’ll do it. I spoke in your name.”
    “A ship big enough to house a titan, eh? When am I going to see it?” Antony asked, scowling.
    “Tomorrow morning, about an hour after dawn.” Dellius gave a contented sigh. “She came without a murmur, and in huge state. I think she wishes to impress you.”
    “Then I’ll make sure she doesn’t. Presumptuous sow!”
     
     
    Which was why, as the sun nudged up over the trees east of Tarsus, Antony rode a drab horse to the far bank of Cydnus, a drab cloak wrapped about him, and no one in attendance. To see the enemy first is an advantage; soldiering with Caesar had taught him that. Oh, the air smells sweet! What am I doing in a sacked city when there are marches to be made, battles to be fought? he asked himself, knowing the answer. I am still here to see if the Queen of Egypt was going to answer my summons. And that other presumptuous sow, Glaphyra, is beginning to nag me in a way that eastern women have perfected: sweetly, tearfully, larded with sighs and whimpers. Oh, for Fulvia! When she nags, a man knows he’s being nagged—growl, snarl, roar! Nor does she mind a cuff over the ear—provided a man doesn’t mind five nails raked down his chest in retaliation.
    Ah, there was a good spot! He turned sideways and slid off the horse, making for a flat rock raised several feet above the bank. Sitting on it, he would have a perfect view of Cleopatra’s ship sailing up the Cydnus to its moorings. He wasn’t more than fifty paces from the river’s channel; this was so near the edge that he could see a small bright bird nesting in the eaves of a warehouse alongside the quay.
    Philopator came crawling up the river at the speed of a man walking at a fast clip, setting Antony agape long before it drew level with him. For what he could see was a figurehead amid a misty, golden halo; a brown-skinned man wearing a white kilt, a collar and belt of gold and gems, and a huge headdress of red and white. His bare feet skimmed the wavelets breaking on either side of the beak, and in his right hand he brandished a golden spear. Figureheads were known, but not so massive or so much a part of the prow. This man—some king of old?— was the ship, and he bore it behind him like a billowing cloak.
    Everything seemed gold; the ship was gilded from the waterline up to the very top of the mast, and what wasn’t gold was painted in peacock blues and peacock greens, shimmering with a powdering of gold. The roofs of the buildings on deck were of faience tiles in vivid blues and greens, and a whole arcade of lotus-headed columns marched down the deck. Even the oars were gold! And gems glittered everywhere! This ship alone was worth ten thousand gold talents!
    Perfumes wafted, lyres and pipes sounded, a choir sang, all invisibly sourced; beautiful girls in gauzy gowns threw flowers from golden baskets, many beautiful little boys in peacock kilts hung laughing in the snow-white shrouds. The swelling sail, spread to help the oarsmen battle the