Antony and Cleopatra. Colleen McCullough

a tent rather than commandeer a private home was evidence of his confidence that the siege of Brundisium would not be a long business.

      The tent’s public room was generous but, with the flap down, very dark. To Octavian, an indication of Antony’s wariness. He didn’t trust his face not to betray his emotions. Which didn’t worry Octavian. Not faces but thought patterns concerned him, for they were what he had to work on.

      ‘I’m so pleased,’ he said, swallowed by a chair much too big for his slight frame, ‘that we have reached the stage of drafting out an agreement. I felt it best that you and I in person should thrash out those matters on which we haven’t quite reached accord.’

      ‘Delicately put,’ said Antony, drinking deeply from a goblet of wine he had ostentatiously watered.

      ‘A beautiful thing,’ Octavian remarked, turning his own vessel in his hands. ‘Where was it made? Not Puteoli, I’d wager.’

      ‘In some Alexandrian glassworks. I like drinking from glass, it doesn’t absorb the flavor of earlier wines the way even the best ceramic does.’ He grimaced. ‘And metal tastes … metallic.’

      Octavian blinked. ‘Edepol! I didn’t realize you’re such a connoisseur of something that merely holds wine.’

      ‘Sarcasm will get you nowhere,’ Antony said, unoffended. ‘I was told all that by Queen Cleopatra.’

      ‘Oh, yes, that makes sense. An Alexandrian patriot.’

      Antony’s face lit up. ‘And rightly so! Alexandria is the most beautiful city in the world; leaves Pergamum and even Athens shivering in the shade.’

      Having sipped, Octavian put his chalice down as if it burned. Here was another fool! Why rave about a city’s beauty when his own city faded to nothing from lack of care? ‘You may have as many of Calenus’s legions as you wish, that goes without saying,’ he lied. ‘In fact, nothing about your conditions fazes me save only your refusal to help me rid the seas of Sextus Pompeius.’

      Frowning, Antony got to his feet and pulled the tent flap wide open, apparently deciding it was necessary to see Octavian’s face properly after all. ‘Italia is your province, Octavianus. Have I asked for your help in governing mine?’

      ‘No, you haven’t, but nor have you sent Rome’s share of the Eastern tributes to the Treasury. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that, even as Triumvir, the Treasury is supposed to gather in the tributes and pay Rome’s provincial governors a stipend, out of which they fund their legions and pay for public works in their provinces,’ Octavian said blandly. ‘Of course I understand that no governor, least of all a Triumvir, simply collects what the Treasury demands – he always asks for more, keeps the surplus for himself. A time-honored tradition I have no quarrel with. I too am a Triumvir. However, you’ve sent nothing to Rome in the two years of your governorship. Had you, I would be able to buy the ships I need to deal with Sextus. It may suit you to use pirate ships as your fleets, since all the admirals who sided with Brutus and Cassius decided to become pirates after Philippi. I’m not above using them myself, were it not that they grow fat picking at my carcass! What they’re busy doing is proving to Rome and all Italia – the source of our best soldiers – that a million soldiers can’t help two ship-less Triumvirs. You should have grain from the Eastern provinces to feed your legions right fatly! It’s not my fault that you’ve let the Parthians overrun everywhere except Bithynia and Asia Province! What’s saved your bacon is Sextus Pompeius – as long as it suits you to stay sweet with him, he sells you Italia’s grain at a modest price – grain, may I remind you, bought and paid for by Rome’s Treasury! Yes, Italia is my province, but my only sources of money are the taxes I must squeeze from all Roman citizens living in Italia. They are not enough to pay for ships as well as buy stolen wheat from Sextus Pompeius for thirty sesterces the modius! So I ask again, where are the Eastern tributes?’

      Antony listened in growing ire. ‘The East is bankrupt!’ he shouted. ‘There isn’t any tribute to send!’

      ‘That’s not true, and even the least Roman from end to end of Italia knows that,’ Octavian countered. ‘Pythodorus of Tralles brought you two thousand silver talents to Tarsus, for instance. Tyre and Sidon paid you a thousand more. And raping Cilicia Pedia yielded you four thousand. A total of one hundred and seventy-five million sesterces! Facts, Antonius! Well-known facts!’

      Why had he ever consented to see this despicable little gnat? Antony asked himself, squirming. All he had to do to gain the ascendancy was remind me that whatever I do in the East somehow leaks back to every last Roman citizen in Italia. Without saying it, he’s telling me that my reputation is suffering. That I’m not yet above criticism, that the Senate and People of Rome can strip me of my offices. And yes, I can march on Rome, execute Octavianus and appoint myself Dictator. But I was the one who made a huge fuss out of abolishing the dictatorship! Brundisium has proved that my legionaries won’t fight Octavianus’s. That fact alone is why the little verpa can sit here and defy me; be open about his antagonism.

      ‘So I’m none too popular in Rome,’ he said sullenly.

      ‘Candidly, Antonius, you’re not at all popular, especially after laying siege to Brundisium. You’ve felt at liberty to accuse me of putting Brundisium up to refusing you entry, but you’re well aware I didn’t. Why should I? It profits me nothing! All you’ve actually done is throw Rome into a frenzy of fear, expecting you to march on her. Which you cannot do! Your legions won’t let you. If you genuinely want to retrieve your reputation, you have to prove that to Rome, not to me.’

      ‘I won’t join you against Sextus Pompeius, if that’s what you’re angling for. All I have are a hundred warships in Athens,’ Antony lied. ‘Not enough to do the job, since you have none. As matters stand, Sextus Pompeius prefers me to you, and I’ll not do anything to provoke him. At the moment, he leaves me alone.’

      ‘I didn’t think you would help me,’ Octavian said calmly. ‘No, I was thinking more of something visible to all Romans from the top of the heap to the very bottom.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Marriage to my sister, Octavia.’

      Jaw dropped, Antony stared at his tormentor. ‘Ye gods!’

      ‘What’s so unusual about it?’ Octavian asked softly, smiling. ‘I’ve just concluded a similar kind of marital alliance myself, as I’m sure you know. Scribonia is very pleasant – a good woman, pretty, fertile … I hope tying myself to her keeps Sextus at bay, for a while at any rate. But she can’t begin to compare with Octavia, can she? I am offering you Divus Julius’s great-niece – known and loved by every stratum in Rome as Julia was, beautiful to look at, enormously kind and thoughtful, an obedient wife, and the mother of three children, including a boy. As Divus Julius expected of his