Mark Antony checked himself one last time as he stood waiting on the docks at Tarsus. There was a breeze coming off the water and he was cool, his uniform polished. He could almost laugh at his nervous sense of anticipation as he looked down the river with a hundred officials from the Roman town. None of them had predicted that the Egyptian queen would come herself, but her barge had been sighted off the coast of Damascus days before.
Mark Antony leaned forward yet again, staring down the river at the huge barge coming slowly up to the port. He saw the description had been no exaggeration. The oars shone blindingly in the sun, each blade covered in polished silver. Purple sails fluttered above the craft, catching the breeze and easing the strain on the slaves working below. Mark Antony grinned. Or perhaps it was just for the effect, the glorious splash of colour that already made the Roman port look drab in comparison.
He watched in pleasure at the spectacle as the enormous vessel came up to the piers and the crew snapped orders in a tongue he did not know, easing their charge in as the oars were shipped and ropes flung to waiting dockmen to tie them off fore and aft. Mark Antony could see a figure on the deck, reclining under an awning amidst a sea of coloured cushions. His breath caught as she rose like a dancer to her feet, her gaze passing lightly over the men waiting and then settling on him. It was surely no accident that she was wearing the formal dress of Aphrodite, with her shoulders bare. The pale pink cloth looked well against her tanned skin and Mark Antony recalled the woman’s Greek ancestry, visible in the curling black hair bound in tiny golden seashells. For a moment, he envied Julius.
Mark Antony told himself not to forget that she was the joint ruler of Egypt with her son. It had been Cleopatra who led the negotiations with her estranged court when Caesar had come to her lands. It was because of her that Cyprus was Egyptian once more and no longer an island of Rome. Her barge would have passed it on the journey around the coast and he wondered if she had thought of Julius then, or pointed out her possession to his son.
A wooden ramp was laid to the docks and, to Mark Antony’s surprise, a troupe of beautiful women came up from the hold, singing as they went. A dozen black soldiers took their position as an honour guard on the docks, perhaps aware of how splendid they looked with their dark skin set against armour of polished bronze.
Through them all, the queen of Egypt walked, guiding a young boy with her hand resting on his shoulder. Mark Antony stared, entranced as they came towards him. The women walked with her, so that she moved in song.
He cleared his throat, deliberately bluff and composed. He was a triumvir of Rome! He told himself to get a grip on his awe as she came to stand before him, looking up into his face.
‘I have heard about you, Mark Antony,’ she said, smiling. ‘I have been told you are a good man.’
Mark Antony found himself flushing and he nodded, collecting wits which seemed to have deserted him.
‘You are … welcome in Tarsus, your majesty. It is a pleasure I did not expect.’
She did not seem to blink as she listened, though her smile widened. By the gods, she was still beautiful, Mark Antony thought to himself. His eyes drank her in and he did not want to look away.
‘Let me introduce my son, Ptolemy Caesar.’
The boy stepped forward with her hand still on his shoulder. He was dark-haired and serious, a boy of only six years. He glowered at Mark Antony, looking up at the man with no sign of being impressed.
‘We call him Caesarion – little Caesar,’ Cleopatra said. He could hear the affection in her voice. ‘I believe you knew his father.’
‘Yes, I knew him,’ Mark Antony replied, searching the boy’s features in fascination. ‘He was the greatest man I have ever known.’
Cleopatra cocked her head slightly as she listened to him, all her attention focused on the big Roman welcoming her to his lands. She smiled a little wider at that, seeing honesty in his response.
‘I know Caesarion would like to hear about his father, Mark Antony, if you are willing to talk about him.’
She held out her hand and he took it formally, leading her away from the docks and breaking the trance that had settled on him since she set foot on land.
‘It would be my pleasure,’ he said. ‘It is a fine tale.’