Archibius had buried himself so deeply in the past that it was several
minutes ere he could bring himself back to the present. When he did so,
he hastily discussed with the two ladies the date of their departure.
It was hard for Berenike to leave her injured brother, and Barine longed
to see Dion once more before the journey. Both were reluctant to quit
Alexandria ere decisive news had arrived from the army and the fleet. So
they requested a few days' delay; but Archibius cut them short, requiring
them, with a resolution which transformed the amiable friend into a stern
master, to be ready for the journey the next day at sunset. His Nile
boat would await them at the Agathodaemon harbour on Lake Mareotis, and
his travelling chariot would convey them thither, with as much luggage
and as many female slaves as they desired to take with them. Then
softening his tone, he briefly reminded the ladies of the great
annoyances to which a longer stay would expose them, excused his rigour
on the plea of haste, pressed the hands of the mother and daughter, and
retired without heeding Barine, who called after him, yet could desire
nothing save to plead for a longer delay. The carriage bore him swiftly
to the great harbour.
The waxing moon was mirrored like a silver column, now wavering and
tremulous, now rent by the waves tossing under a strong southeast wind,
and illumined the warm autumn night. The sea outside was evidently
running high. This was apparent by the motion of the vessels lying at
anchor in the angle which the shore in front of the superb Temple of
Poseidon formed with the Choma. This was a tongue of land stretched like
a finger into the sea, on whose point stood a little palace which
Cleopatra, incited by a chance remark of Antony, had had built there to
surprise him.
Another, of white marble, glimmered in the moonlight from the island of
Antirrhodus; and farther still a blazing fire illumined the darkness.
Its flames flared from the top of the famous lighthouse on the island of
Pharos at the entrance of the harbour, and, swayed to and fro by the
wind, steeped the horizon and the outer edge of the dark water in the
harbour with moving masses of light which irradiated the gloomy distance,
sometimes faintly, anon more brilliantly.
Spite of the late hour, the harbour was full of bustle, though the wind
often blew the men's cloaks over their heads, and the women were obliged
to gather their garments closely around them. True, at this hour
commerce had ceased; but many had gone to the port in search of news, or
even to greet before others the first ship returning from the victorious
fleet; for that Antony had defeated Octavianus in a great battle was
deemed certain.
Guards were watching the harbour, and a band of Syrian horsemen had just
passed from the barracks in the southern part of the Lochias to the
Temple of Poseidon.
Here the galleys lay at anchor, not in the harbour of Eunostus, which was
separated from the other by the broad, bridge-like dam of the
Heptastadium, that united the city and the island of Pharos. Near it
were the royal palaces and the arsenal, and any tidings must first reach
this spot. The other harbour was devoted to commerce, but, in order to
prevent the spread of false reports, newly arrived ships were forbidden
to enter.
True, even at the great harbour, news could scarcely be expected, for a
chain stretching from the end of the Pharos to a cliff directly opposite
in the Alveus Steganus, closed the narrow opening. But it could be
raised if a state galley arrived with an important message, and this was
expected by the throng on the shore.
Doubtless many came from banquets, cookshops, taverns, or the nocturnal
meeting-places of the sects that practised the magic arts, yet the weight
of anxious expectation seemed to check the joyous activity, and wherever
Archibius glanced he beheld eager, troubled faces. The wind forced many
to bow their heads, and, wherever they turned their eyes, flags and
clouds of dust were fluttering in the air, increasing the confusion.
As the galley put off from the shore, and the flutes summoned the oarsmen
to their toil, its owner felt so disheartened that he did not even
venture to hope that he was going in quest of good tidings.
Long-vanished days had, as it were, been called from the grave, and many
a scene from the past rose before him as he lay among the cushions on the
poop, gazing at the sky, across which dark, swiftly sailing clouds
sometimes veiled the stars and again revealed them.
"How much we can conceal by words without being guilty of falsehood!"
he murmured, while recalling what he had told the women.
Ay, he had been Cleopatra's confidant in his early youth, but how he had
loved her, how, even as a boy, he had been subject to her, body and soul!
He had allowed her to see it, displayed, confessed it; and she had
accepted it as her rightful due. She had repelled with angry pride his
only attempt to clasp her, in his overflowing affection, in his arms; but
to show his love for her is a crime for which the loftiest woman pardons
the humblest suitor, and a few hours later Cleopatra had met him with the
old affectionate familiarity.
Again he recalled the torments which he had endured when compelled to
witness how completely she yielded to the passion which drew her to
Antony. At that time the Roman had merely swept through her life like a
swiftly passing meteor, but many things betrayed that she did not forget
him; and while Archibius had seen without pain her love for the great
Caesar bud and grow, the torturing feeling of jealousy again stirred in
his heart, though youth was past, when at Tarsus, on the river Cydnus,
she renewed the bond which still united her to Antony.
Now his hair had grown grey, and though nothing had clouded his
friendship for the Queen, though he had always been ready to serve her,
this foolish feeling had not been banished, and again and again mastered
his whole being. He by no means undervalued Antony's attractions; but he
saw his foibles no less clearly. All in all, whenever he thought of this
pair, he felt like the lover of art who entrusts the finest gem in his
collection to a rich man who knows not how to prize its real value, and
puts it in the wrong place.
Yet he wished the Roman the most brilliant victory; for his defeat would
have been Cleopatra's also, and would she endure the consequences of such
a disaster?
The galley was approaching the flickering circle of light at the foot of
the Pharos, and Archibius was just producing the token which was to
secure the lifting of the chain, when his name echoed through the
stillness of the night.
It was Dion hailing him from a boat tossing near the mouth of the harbour
on the waves surging in from the turbulent sea. He had recognized
Archibius's swift galley from the bust of Epicurus which was illumined by
the light of the lantern in the prow. Cleopatra had had it placed upon
the ship which, by her orders, had been built for her friend.
Dion now desired to join him, and was soon standing on the deck at his
side. He had landed on the island of Pharos, and entered a sailors'
tavern to learn what was passing. But no one could give him any definite
information, for the wind was blowing from the land and allowed large
vessels to approach the Egyptian coast only by the aid of oars. Shortly
before the breeze had veered from south to southeast, and an experienced
Rhodian would "never again lift cup of wine to his lips" if it did not
blow from the north to-morrow or the day after. Then ships bearing news
might reach Alexandria by the dozen--that is, the greybeard added with a
defiant glance at the daintily clad city gentleman--if they were allowed
to pass the Pharos or go through the Poseidon basin into the Eunostus.
He had fancied that he saw sails on the horizon at sunset, but the
swiftest galley became a hedgehog when the wind blew against its prow,
and even checked the oars.
Others, too, had fancied that they had seen sails, and Dion would gladly
have gone out to sea to investigate, but he was entirely alone in a frail
hired boat, and this would not have been permitted to pass beyond the
harbour. The expectation that every road would be open to Archibius had
not deceived him, and the harbour chain was drawn aside for the Epicurus.
With swelling sails, urged by the strong wind blowing from the southeast,
its keel cut the rolling waves.
Soon a faint, tremulous light appeared in the north. It must be a ship;
and though the helmsman in the tavern at Pharos, who looked as though he
had not always steered peaceful trading-vessels, had spoken of some which
did not let the ships they caught pass unscathed, the men on the well-
equipped, stately Epicurus did not fear pirates, especially as morning
was close at hand, and it had just shot by two clumsy men-of-war which
had been sent out by the Regent.
The strong wind filled every sail, rowing would have been useless labour,
and the light in front seemed to be coming nearer.
A wan glimmer was already beginning to brighten the distant east when the
Epicurus approached the vessel with the light, but it seemed to wish to
avoid the Alexandrian, and turned suddenly towards the northeast.
Archibius and Dion now discussed whether it would be worth while to
pursue the fugitive. It was a small ship, which, as the dark masses of
clouds became bordered with golden edges, grew more distinct and appeared
to be a Cilician pirate of the smallest size.
As to its crew, the tried sailors on the Epicurus, a much larger vessel,
which lacked no means of defence, showed no signs of alarm, the helmsman
especially, who had served in the fleet of Sextus Pompey, and had sprung
upon the deck of many a pirate ship.
Archibius deemed it foolish to commence a conflict unnecessarily. But
Dion was in the mood to brave every peril.
If life and death were at stake, so much the better!
He had informed his friend of Iras's fears.
The fleet must be in a critical situation, and if the little Cilician had
had nothing to conceal she would not have shunned the Epicurus.
It was worth while to learn what had induced her to turn back just before
reaching the harbour. The warlike helmsman also desired to give chase,
and Archibius yielded, for the uncertainty was becoming more and more
unbearable. Dion's soul was deeply burdened too. He could not banish
Barine's image; and since Archibius had told him that he had found her
resolved to shut her house against guests, and how willingly she had
accepted his invitation to the country, again and again he pondered over
the question what should prevent his marrying the quiet daughter of a
distinguished artist, whom he loved?
Archibius had remarked that Barine would be glad to greet her most
intimate friends--among whom he was included--in her quiet country.
Dion did not doubt this, but he was equally sure that the greeting would
bind him to her and rub him of his liberty, perhaps forever. But would
the Alexandrian possess the lofty gift of freedom, if the Romans ruled
his city as they governed Carthage or Corinth? If Cleopatra were
defeated, and Egypt became a Roman province, a share in the business of
the council, which was still addressed as "Macedonian men," and which was
dear to Dion, could offer nothing but humiliation, and no longer afford
satisfaction.
If a pirate's spear put an end to bondage under the Roman yoke and to
this unworthy yearning and wavering, so much the better!
On this autumn morning, under this grey sky, from which sank a damp,
light fog, with these hopes and fears in his heart, he beheld in both the
present and future naught save shadows.
The Epicurus overtook and captured the fugitive. The slight resistance
the vessel might have offered was relinquished when Archibius's helmsman
shouted that the Epicurus did not belong to the royal navy, and had come
in search of news.
The Cilician took in his oars; Archibius and Dion entered the vessel and
questioned the commander.
He was an old, weather-beaten seaman, who would give no information until
after he had learned what his pursuers really desired.
At first he protested that he had witnessed on the Peloponnesian coast
a great victory gained by the Egyptian galleys over those commanded
by Octavianus; but the queries of the two friends involved him in
contradictions, and he then pretended to know nothing, and to have
spoken of a victory merely to please the Alexandrian gentlemen.
Dion, accompanied by a few men from the crew of the Epicurus, searched
the ship, and found in the little cabin a man bound and gagged, guarded
by one of the pirates.
It was a sailor from the Pontus, who spoke only his native language.
Nothing intelligible could be obtained from him; but there were important
suggestions in a letter, found in a chest in the cabin, among clothing,
jewels, and other stolen articles.
The letter-Dion could scarcely believe his own eyes-was addressed to his
friend, the architect Gorgias. The pirate, being ignorant of writing,
had not opened it, but Dion tore the wax from the cord without delay.
Aristocrates, the Greek rhetorician, who had accompanied Antony to the
war, had written from Taenarum, in the south of the Peloponnesus,
requesting the architect, in the general's name, to set the little palace
at the end of the Choma in order, and surround it on the land side with a
high wall.
No door would be necessary. Communication with the dwelling could be had
by water. He must do his utmost to complete the work speedily.
The friends gazed at each other in astonishment, as they read this
commission.
What could induce Antony to give so strange an order? How did it fall
into the hands of the pirates?
This must be understood.
When Archibius, whose gentle nature, so well adapted to inspire
confidence, quickly won friends, burst into passionate excitement, the
unexpected transition rarely failed to produce its effect, especially as
his tall, strong figure and marked features made a still more threatening
impression.
Even the captain gazed at him with fear, when the Alexandrian threatened
to recall all his promises of consideration and mercy if the pirate
withheld even the smallest trifle connected with this letter. The man
speedily perceived that it would be useless to make false statements;
for the captive from Pontus, though unable to speak Greek, understood the
language, and either confirmed every remark of the other with vehement
gestures, or branded it in the same manner as false.
Thus it was discovered that the pirate craft, in company with a much
larger vessel, owned by a companion, had lurked behind the promontory of
Crete for a prize. They had neither seen nor heard aught concerning the
two fleets, when a dainty galley, "the finest and fleetest that ever
sailed in the sea"--it was probably the "Swallow," Antony's despatch-
boat-had run into the snare. To capture her was an easy task. The
pirates had divided their booty, but the lion's share of goods and men
had fallen to the larger ship.
A pouch containing letters and money had been taken from a gentleman of
aristocratic appearance--probably Antony's messenger--who had received a
severe wound, died, and had been flung into the sea. The former had been
used to light the fire, and only the one addressed to the architect
remained.
The captured sailors had said that the fleet of Octavianus had defeated
Cleopatra's, and the Queen had fled, but that the land forces were still
untouched, and might yet decide the conflict in Antony's favour. The
pirate protested that he did not know the position of the army--it might
be at Taenarum, whence the captured ship came. It was a sin and a shame,
but his own crew had set it on fire, and it sank before his eyes.
This report seemed to be true, yet the Acharnanian coast, where the
battle was said to have been fought, was so far from the southern point
of the Peloponnesus, whence Antony's letter came, that it must have been
written during the flight. One thing appeared to be certain--the fleet
had been vanquished and dispersed on the 2d or 3d of September.
Where would the Queen go now? What had become of the magnificent galleys
which had accompanied her to the battle?
Even the contrary winds would not have detained them so long, for they
were abundantly supplied with rowers.
Had Octavianus taken possession of them? Were they burned or sunk?
But in that case how had Antony reached Taenarum?
The pirate could give no answer to these questions, which stirred both
heart and brain. Why should he conceal what had reached his ears?
At last Archibius ordered the property stolen from Antony's ship, and the
liberated sailor to be brought on board the Epicurus, but the pirate was
obliged to swear not to remain in the waters between Crete and
Alexandria. Then he was suffered to pursue his way unmolested.
This adventure had occupied many hours, and the return against the wind
was slow; for, during the chase the Epicurus had been carried by the
strong breeze far out to sea. Yet, when still several miles from the
mouth of the harbour at the Pharos, it was evident that the Rhodian
helmsman in the island tavern had predicted truly; for the weather
changed with unusual speed, and the wind now blew from the north. The
sea fairly swarmed with ships, some belonging to the royal fleet, some to
curious Alexandrians, who had sailed out to take a survey. Archibius and
Dion had spent a sleepless night and day. The heavy air, pervaded by a
fine mist, had grown cool. After refreshing themselves by a repast, they
paced up and down the deck of the Epicurus.
Few words were exchanged, and they wrapped their cloaks closer around
them. Both had quaffed large draughts of the fiery wine with which the
Epicurus was well supplied, but it would not warm them. Even the fire,
blazing brightly in the richly furnished cabin, could scarcely do so.
Archibius's thoughts lingered with his beloved Queen, and his vivid power
of imagination conjured before his mind everything which could distress
her. No possible chance, not even the most terrible, was forgotten, and
when he saw her sinking in the ship, stretching her beautiful arms
imploringly towards him, to whom she had so long turned in every perilous
position, when he beheld her a captive in the presence of the hostile,
cold-hearted Octavianus, the blood seemed to freeze in his veins. At
last he dropped his felt mantle and, groaning aloud, struck his brow with
his clenched hand. He had fancied her walking with gold chains on her
slender wrists before the victor's four-horse chariot, and heard the
exulting shouts of the Roman populace.
That would have been the most terrible of all. To pursue this train of
thought was beyond the endurance of the faithful friend, and Dion turned
in surprise as he heard him sob and saw the tears which bedewed his face.
His own heart was heavy enough, but he knew his companion's warm devotion
to the Queen; so, passing his arm around his shoulder, he entreated him
to maintain that peace of soul and mind which he had so often admired.
In the most critical situations he had seen him stand high above them, as
yonder man who fed the flames on the summit of the Pharos stood above the
wild surges of the sea. If he would reflect over what had happened as
dispassionately as usual, he could not fail to see that Antony must be
free and in a position to guide his own future, since he directed the
palace in the Choma to be put in order. He did not understand about the
wall, but perhaps he was bringing home some distinguished captive whom he
wished to debar from all communication with the city. It might prove
that everything was far better than they feared, and they would yet smile
at these grievous anxieties. His heart, too, was heavy, for he wished
the Queen the best fortune, not only for her own sake, but because with
her and her successful resistance to the greed of Rome was connected the
liberty of Alexandria.
"My love and anxiety, like yours," he concluded, "have ever been given
to her, the sovereign of this country. The world will be desolate, life
will no longer be worth living, if the iron foot of Rome crushes our
independence and freedom." The words had sounded cordial and sincere,
and Archibius followed Dion's counsel. Calm thought convinced him that
nothing had yet happened which compelled belief in the worst result; and,
as one who needs consolation often finds relief in comforting another,
Archibius cheered his own heart by representing to his younger friend
that, even if Octavianus were the victor and should deprive Egypt of her
independence, he would scarcely venture to take from the citizens of
Alexandria the free control of their own affairs. Then he explained to
Dion that, as a young, resolute, independent man, he might render himself
doubly useful if it were necessary to guard the endangered liberty of the
city, and told him how many beautiful things life still held in store.
His voice expressed anxious tenderness for his young friend. No one had
spoken thus to Dion since his father's death.
The Epicurus would soon reach the mouth of the harbour, and after landing
he must again leave Archibius.
The decisive hour which often unites earnest men more firmly than many
previous years had come to both. They had opened their hearts to each
other. Dion had withheld only the one thing which, at the first sight of
the houses in the city, filled his soul with fresh uneasiness.
It was long since he had sought counsel from others. Many who had asked
his, had left him with thanks, to do exactly the opposite of what he had
advised, though it would have been to their advantage. More than once
he, too, had done the same, but now a powerful impulse urged him to
confide in Archibius. He knew Barine, and wished her the greatest
happiness. Perhaps it would be wise to let another person, who was
kindly disposed, consider what his own heart so eagerly demanded and
prudence forbade.
Hastily forming his resolution, he again turned to his friend, saying:
"You have shown yourself a father to me. Imagine that I am indeed your
son, and, as such wished to confess that a woman had become dear to my
heart, and to ask whether you would be glad to greet her as a daughter."
Here Archibius interrupted him with the exclamation: "A ray of light
amid all this gloom? Grasp what you have too long neglected as soon as
possible! It befits a good citizen to marry. The Greek does not attain
full manhood till he becomes husband and father. If I have remained
unwedded, there was a special reason for it, and how often I have envied
the cobbler whom I saw standing before his shop in the evening, holding
his child in his arms, or the pilot, to whom large and small hands were
stretched in greeting when he returned home! When I enter my dwelling
only my dogs rejoice. But you, whose beautiful palace stands empty,
to whose proud family it is due that you should provide for its
continuance--"
"That is just what brings me into a state of indecision, which is usually
foreign to my nature," interrupted Dion. "You know me and my position in
the world, and you have also known from her earliest childhood the woman
to whom I allude."
"Iras?" asked his companion, hesitatingly. His sister, Charmian, had
told him of the love felt by the Queen's younger waiting-woman.
But Dion eagerly denied this, adding I am speaking of Barine, the
daughter of your dead friend Leonax. I love her, yet my pride is
sensitive, and I know that it will extend to my future wife. The
contemptuous glances which others might cast at her I should scorn,
for I know her worth. Surely you remember my mother: she was a very
different woman. Her house, her child, the slaves, her loom, were
everything to her. She rigidly exacted from other women the chaste
reserve which was a marked trait in her own character. Yet she was
gentle, and loved me, her only son, beyond aught else. I think she would
have opened her arms to Barine, had she believed that she was necessary
to my happiness. But would the young beauty, accustomed to gay
intercourse with distinguished men, have been able to submit to her
demands? When I consider that she cannot help taking into her married
life the habit of being surrounded and courted; when I think that the
imprudence of a woman accustomed to perfect freedom might set idle
tongues in motion, and cast a shadow upon the radiant purity of my name;
when I even--" and he raised his clenched right hand. But Archibius
answered soothingly:
"That anxiety is groundless if Barine warmly and joyfully gives you her
whole heart. It is a sunny, lovable, true woman's heart, and therefore
capable of a great love. If she bestows it on you--and I believe she
will--go and offer sacrifices in your gratitude; for the immortals
desired your happiness when they guided your choice to her and not to
Iras, my own sister's child. If you were really my son, I would now
exclaim, 'You could not bring me a dearer daughter, if--I repeat it--
if you are sure of her love.'"
Dion gazed into vacancy a short time, and then cried firmly: "I am!"