OCTAVIAN’S INVASION OF EGYPT AND THE DEATH OF ANTONY.
The historian must feel some reluctance in discrediting the romantic
story of the attachment of Cleopatra and Antony at this period; but
nevertheless the fact cannot be denied that they had now decided to
live apart from one another, and there seems very little doubt that
each regarded the other with distrust and suspicion. Antony had lived
so long alone in his Timonium that he was altogether out of touch with
his wife’s projects; and she, on her part, had not, for many a month,
admitted him fully into her confidence. Their relationship was marked,
on his side, by mistrust, and on hers, by disdainful pity; and I can
find no indication of that romantic passage, hand-in-hand to their
doom, which has come to be regarded as the grand finale of their tragic
tale. In its place, however, I would offer the spectacle of the lonely
and courageous fight made by the little Queen against her fate, which
must surely command the admiration of all men. Her husband having so
signally failed her, the whole burden of the government of her country
and of the organisation of her defence seems to have fallen upon
her shoulders. Day and night she must have been harassed by fearful
anxieties, and haunted by the thought of her probable doom; yet she
conducted herself with undaunted courage, never deigning to consider
the question of flight, and never once turning from the pathway of that
personal and dynastic ambition which seems to me hardly able to be
distinguished from her real duty to her country.
When Octavian was preparing in Syria, during the month of June B.C.
30, to invade Egypt, both Cleopatra and Antony attempted to open
negotiations with him. They sent a certain Greek named Euphronius, who
had been a tutor to one of the young princes, to the enemy bearing
messages from them both. Cleopatra asked that, in return for her
surrender, her son Cæsarion might be allowed to retain the throne of
Egypt; but Antony prayed only that he might be allowed to live the life
of a private man, either at Alexandria or else in Athens. With this
embassy Cleopatra sent her crown, her sceptre, and her state-chariot,
in the hope that Octavian would bestow them again upon her son, if not
upon herself. The mission, however, was a partial failure. Octavian
would not listen to any proposals in regard to Antony; but to Cleopatra
he sent a secret message, conveyed by one of his freedmen, named
Thyrsus, indicating that he was well-disposed towards her, and would
be inclined to leave her in possession of Egypt, if only she would
cause Antony to be put to death. Actually, Octavian had no intention
of showing any particular mercy to Cleopatra, and his suggestions were
intended to deceive her. He seems to have made up his mind how to act.
Antony would have to be murdered or made to take his own life: it would
be awkward to have to condemn him to death and formally to execute
him. Cæsarion, his rival, would also have to meet with a violent end.
Cleopatra ought to be captured alive so that he might display her
in his Triumph, after which she would be sent into exile, while her
country and its wealth would fall into his hands, the loot serving for
the payment of his troops. In all his subsequent dealings with the
Queen we shall observe his anxiety to take her alive, while towards
Antony he will be seen to show a relentless hostility.
The freedman Thyrsus was a personage of tact and understanding, and
with Cleopatra he was able to discuss the situation in all its aspects.
The Queen was striving by every means to retain her throne, and she
was quite capable of paying Octavian back in his own coin, deceiving
him and leading him to suppose that she would trust herself to his
mercy. She showed great attention to Thyrsus, giving him lengthy
audiences, and treating him with considerable honour; and Antony, not
being admitted to their secret discussions, grew daily more angry and
suspicious. It is not likely that Cleopatra consented to the proposed
assassination of her husband, but the situation was such that she could
have had no great objection to the thought of his suicide, and I dare
say she discussed quite frankly with Thyrsus the means of reminding
him of his honourable obligations. It is said by Dion Cassius that
Octavian actually conveyed messages of an amorous nature to Cleopatra,
but this is probably incorrect, though Thyrsus may well have hinted
that his master’s heart had been touched by the brave manner in which
she had faced her misfortunes, and that he was eager to win her regard.
Possibly a rumour of the nature of their conferences reached Antony, or
maybe his jealousy was aroused by the freedman’s confidential attitude
to the Queen; for he became even more suspicious than he had been
before, and he appears to have conducted himself as though his mind
were in a condition of extreme exasperation. Suddenly he caused Thyrsus
to be seized by some of his men, and soundly thrashed, after which he
sent him back to Octavian with a letter explaining his action. “The
man’s inquisitive, impertinent ways provoked me,” he wrote, “and in my
circumstances I cannot be expected to be very patient. But if it offend
you, you have got my freedman, Hipparchus, with you: hang him up and
whip him to make us even.” Hipparchus had probably deserted from Antony
to Octavian, and the whipping of Thyrsus and the suggested retaliation
constituted a piece of grim humour which seems to have appealed at
once to Cleopatra’s instincts. The audacity of the action was of the
kind which most delighted her; and she immediately began to pay more
respect to her husband, who, she thus found, was still capable of
asserting himself in a kingly manner. Plutarch tells us that to clear
herself of his suspicions, which were quite unfounded, she now paid
him more attention and humoured him in every way; and it seems that
her change of attitude put new courage into his heart, substituting
a brave bearing for that dejection of carriage which had lately been
so noticeable. She seemed anxious to prove to him that she would not
play him false, and to make her attitude clear to Octavian. When the
anniversary of her birthday had occurred in the previous winter she had
celebrated it very quietly; but Antony’s birthday, which fell at about
this time of year, she celebrated in the most elaborate manner, giving
great presents to all those who had enjoyed her hospitality. It was as
though she desired all men to know that so long as Antony played the
man, and entered into this last fight with that spirit of adventure
which always marked her own actions, she would stand by him to the
last; but that if he lacked the spirit to make a bid for success, then
she could but wish him well out of her way. The thrashing of Thyrsus
proved to be the occasion of a temporary reconciliation between the
Queen and her husband,[135] and for a time Antony acted with something
of his old energy and courage.
Hearing that the army under Cornelius Gallus was marching through
Cyrenaica, the modern Tripoli, towards the western frontier of Egypt,
he hastened with a few ships to Parætonium in order to secure the
defence of that place. But on landing and approaching the walls of the
fortress and calling upon the commander to come out to him, his voice
was drowned by a blare of trumpets from within. A few minutes later the
garrison made a sortie, chased him and his men back to the harbour,
set fire to some of his ships, and drove him with considerable loss
from their shores. On returning to Alexandria he heard that Octavian
was approaching Pelusium, the corresponding fortress on the eastern
frontier of Egypt, which was under the command of a certain officer
named Seleucus; and shortly after this, towards the middle of July, the
news arrived that that stronghold had surrendered.
Thereupon Antony, whose nerves were in a very highly-strung condition,
furiously accused Cleopatra of having betrayed him by arranging
secretly with Seleucus to hand over the fortress to Octavian in
the hope of placating the approaching enemy. Cleopatra denied the
accusation, and, to prove the truth of her words, she caused the wife
and children of Seleucus to be arrested and handed over to her husband,
that he might put them to death if it were shown that she had had any
secret correspondence with the traitor,[136] a fact which seems to
prove her innocence conclusively.
Antony’s suspicions, however, unnerved him once more, and drove the
flickering courage from his heart. Dispirited and agitated, he sent
Euphronius to Octavian a second time, accompanied on this occasion
by the young Antyllus, and provided with a large sum of money with
which he hoped to placate his enemy. Octavian took the money but would
not listen to the pleading of Antyllus on behalf of his father. The
embassy must have been most distasteful to Cleopatra, who could not
easily understand how a man could fall so low as to attempt to buy
off his enemy with gold--and gold, let it be remembered, belonging
to his wife. Her surprise and pain, however, must have been greatly
increased when she discovered that Antony had next sent in chains to
Octavian a certain ex-senator, named Turullius, who had been one of the
murderers of Julius Cæsar, and was, in fact, the last survivor of all
the assassins, each one of the others having met his death as though
by the hand of a vengeful Providence. Turullius had now come into
Antony’s power, and, since Cleopatra’s son was Julius Cæsar’s heir,
the man ought to have been handed over to the Queen for punishment.
Instead, however, Antony had sent him on to his enemy in a manner
which could only suggest that he admitted Octavian’s right to act
as the Dictator’s representative. Octavian at once put Turullius to
death, thereby performing the last necessary act of vengeance in behalf
of the murdered Cæsar; but to Antony he did not so much as send an
acknowledgment of the prisoner’s reception. Receiving no assurance of
mercy, Antony appears for a time to have thought of flying to Spain or
to some other country where he could hide, or could carry on a guerilla
warfare, until some change in the politics of Rome should enable him
to reappear. His nobler nature, however, at length asserted itself,
owing to the example set by Cleopatra, who was determined now to defend
her capital; and once more he pulled himself together, as though to
stand by the Queen’s side until the end. Their position, though bad,
was not desperate. Alexandria was a strongly fortified city. The four
Roman legions which had been left in Egypt during the war in Greece
were still in the city; the Macedonian household troops were also
stationed there; and no doubt a considerable body of Egyptian soldiers
were garrisoned within the walls; while in the harbour lay the fleet
which had retired from Actium, together with numerous other ships of
war. Thus a formidable force was in readiness to defend the metropolis,
and these men were so highly paid with the never-ending wealth of the
Egyptian treasury that they were in much happier condition than were
the legionaries of Octavian, whose wages were months overdue.
Cleopatra, nevertheless, did not expect to come through the ordeal
alive; and although Octavian continued to send her assurances of his
goodwill, the price which he asked for her safety was invariably the
head of Antony, and this she was not prepared to pay. I do not think
that the Queen’s temptation in this regard has been properly observed.
Dion Cassius emphatically states that Octavian promised her that if she
would kill Antony he would grant her both personal safety and the full
maintenance of her undiminished authority; and Plutarch, with equal
clearness, says that Octavian told her that there was no reasonable
favour which she might not expect from him if only she would put Antony
to death, or even expel him from his safe refuge in Egypt. Antony had
proved himself a broken reed; he had acted in a most cowardly manner;
he was generally drunk and always unreliable; and he appeared to be of
no further use to her or to her cause. Yet, although his removal meant
immunity to herself, she was too loyal, too proud, to sanction his
assassination; and her action practically amounted to this, that she
defied Octavian, telling him that if he wanted her drunken husband’s
useless head he must break down the walls of her city and hunt for it.
In accordance with the custom of the age the Queen had built herself,
during recent years, a tomb and mortuary temple wherein her body should
rest after death and her spirit should receive the usual sacrifices
and priestly ministrations. This mausoleum, according to Plutarch,
was surrounded by other buildings, apparently prepared for the royal
family and for members of the court. They were not set up within
the precincts of the Sema, or royal necropolis, which stood at the
side of the Street of Canopus, but were erected beside the temple of
Isis-Aphrodite, a building rising at the edge of the sea on the eastern
side of the Lochias Promontory. I gather from the remarks of Plutarch
that the Queen’s tomb actually formed part of the temple buildings;
and, if this be so, Cleopatra must have had it in mind to be laid to
rest within the precincts of the sanctuary of the goddess with whom
she was identified. Thus, after her death, the worshippers in the
temple of Isis would make their supplications, as it were, to her own
spirit, and her mortal remains would become holy relics of their patron
goddess.[137] The mausoleum was remarkable for its height and for the
beauty of its workmanship. It was probably constructed of valuable
marbles, and appears to have consisted of several chambers. On the
ground floor I should imagine that a pillared hall, entered through a
double door of decorated cedar-wood, led to an inner shrine wherein the
sarcophagus stood ready to receive the Queen’s body; and that from this
hall a flight of stone stairs ascended to the upper chambers, whose
flooring was formed of the great blocks of granite which constituted
the roofing of the hall below. There was, perhaps, a third storey, the
chambers of which, like those on the floor below, were intended to
be used by the mortuary priests for the preparation of the incense,
the offerings, and the vestments employed in their ceremonies. The
large open casements in the walls of these upper chambers must have
overlooked the sea on the one side and the courts of the Temple of
Isis on the other; but, as was usual in Egyptianised buildings, there
were no windows of any size in the lower hall and sanctuary, the light
being admitted through the doorway and through small apertures close
to the ceiling. The heat of these July days did not penetrate to any
uncomfortable degree into this stone-built mausoleum, and the cool
sea-wind must have blown continuously through the upper rooms, while
the brilliant sunlight outside was here subdued and softened in its
reflection upon the marble walls. The rhythmic beat of the breakers
upon the stone embankment below the eastern windows, and the shrill
cries of the gulls, echoed through the rooms; while from the western
side the chanting of the priests in the adjoining temple, and the more
distant hubbub of the town, intruded into the cool recesses of these
wind-swept chambers like the sounds of a forsaken world.
[Illustration:
_Glyptothek, Munich._] [_Photograph by Bruckmann._
OCTAVIAN]
Here Cleopatra decided to take up her residence so soon as Octavian
should lay successful siege to the walls of the city. She had
determined that in the event of defeat she would destroy herself; and,
with this prospect in view, she now caused her treasures of gold,
silver, ebony, ivory, and cinnamon, and her jewellery of pearls,
emeralds, and precious stones, to be carried into the mausoleum, where
they were laid upon a pyre of faggots and tow erected on the stone
floor of one of the upper rooms. If it should be necessary for her to
put an end to her miseries, she had decided to set the fangs of the
deadly asp into her flesh, and, with her last efforts, to fire the
tow, thus consuming her body and her wealth in a single conflagration.
Meanwhile, however, she remained in the Palace, and busied herself in
the preparations of the defence of the city.
In the last days of July Octavian’s forces arrived before the walls,
and took up their quarters in and around the Hippodromos, which stood
upon rocky ground to the east of the city. Faced with the crisis,
Antony once more showed the flickering remnants of his former courage.
Gathering his troops together he made a bold sortie from the city,
and attacking Octavian’s cavalry, routed them with great slaughter
and chased them back to their camp. He then returned to the Palace,
where, meeting Cleopatra while still he was clad in his dusty and
blood-stained armour, he threw his arms about her small form and kissed
her in the sight of all men. He then commended to her especial favour
one of his officers who had greatly distinguished himself in the fight;
and the Queen at once presented the man with a magnificent helmet and
breastplate of gold. That very night this officer donned his golden
armour and fled to the camp of Octavian.
Upon the next morning Antony, with somewhat boyish effrontery, sent
a messenger to Octavian challenging him to single combat, as he had
done before the battle of Actium; but to this his enemy replied with
the scathing remark that “he might find several other ways of ending
his life.” He thereupon decided to bring matters to a conclusion by
a pitched battle on land and sea, rather than await the issue of a
protracted siege; and, Cleopatra having agreed to this plan, orders
were given for a general engagement upon August 1st. On the night
before this date Antony, whose courage did not now fail him, bade the
servants help him liberally at supper and not to be sparing with the
wine, for that on the morrow they might be serving a new master, while
he himself, the incarnation of Bacchus, the god of wine and festivity,
lay dead upon the battlefield. At this his friends who were around him
began to weep, but Antony hastily explained to them that he did not
in the least expect to die, but hoped rather to lead them to glorious
victory.
Late that night, when complete stillness had fallen upon the star-lit
city, and the sea-wind had dropped, giving place to the hot silence of
the summer darkness, on a sudden was heard the distant sound of pipes
and cymbals, and of voices singing a rollicking tune. Nearer they
came, and presently the pattering of dancing feet could be heard, while
the shouts and cries of a multitude were blended with the wild music of
a bacchanal song. The tumultuous procession, as Plutarch described it,
seemed to take its course right through the middle of the city towards
the Gate of Canopus; and there the commotion was most loudly heard.
Then, suddenly, the sounds passed out, and were heard no more. But all
those who had listened in the darkness to the wild music were assured
that they had heard the passage of Bacchus as he and his ghostly
attendants marched away from the army of his fallen incarnation, and
joined that of the victorious Octavian.[138]
The next morning, as soon as it was light, Antony marched his troops
out of the eastern gates of the city, and formed them up on rising
ground between the walls and the Hippodromos, a short distance back
from the sea. From this position he watched his fleet sail out from
the Great Harbour and make towards Octavian’s ships, which were
arrayed near the shore, two or three miles east of the city; but, to
his dismay, the Alexandrian vessels made no attempt to deliver an
attack upon the enemy as he had ordered them to do. Instead, they
saluted Octavian’s fleet with their oars, and, on receiving a similar
salutation in response, joined up with the enemy, all sailing thereupon
towards the Great Harbour. Meanwhile, from his elevated position Antony
saw the whole of his cavalry suddenly gallop over to Octavian’s lines,
and he thus found himself left only with his infantry, who, of course,
were no match for the enemy. It was useless to struggle further,
and, giving up all hope, he fled back into the city, crying out that
Cleopatra had betrayed him. As he rushed into the Palace, followed by
his distracted officers, smiting his brow and calling down curses on
the woman who, he declared, had delivered him into the hands of enemies
made for her sake, the Queen fled before him from her apartments, as
though she feared that in his fury and despair he might cut her down
with his sword. Alone with her two waiting-women, Iras and Charmion,
she ran as fast as she could through the empty halls and corridors
of the Palace, and at length, crossing the deserted courtyard, she
reached the mausoleum adjoining the temple of Isis. The officials,
servants, and guards, it would seem, had all fled at the moment when
the cry had arisen that the fleet and the cavalry had deserted; and
there were probably but a few scared priests in the vicinity of the
temple, who could hardly have recognised the Queen as she panted to
the open door of the tomb, deserted by the usual custodians. The three
women rushed into the dimly-lighted hall, bolting and barring the door
behind them, and no doubt barricading it with benches, offering-tables,
and other pieces of sacerdotal furniture. They then made their way to
the habitable rooms on the upper floor, where they must have flung
themselves down upon the rich couches in a sort of delirium of horror
and excitement, Cleopatra herself preparing for immediate suicide. From
the window they must have seen some of Antony’s staff hastening towards
them, for presently they were able to send a message to tell him that
the Queen was on the point of killing herself. After a short time,
however, when the tumult in her brain had somewhat subsided, Cleopatra
made up her mind to wait awhile before taking the final step, so
that she might ascertain Octavian’s attitude towards her; and, having
determined upon this course of action, she seems to have composed
herself as best she could, while through the eastern windows, her eyes
staring over the summer sea, she watched the Egyptian ships and those
of the enemy rowing side by side into the Great Harbour.
There is no reason to suppose that Cleopatra had betrayed her husband,
or that she was in any way a party to the desertions which had just
taken place. The sudden collapse of their resistance, while yet it
was but mid-morning, must have come to her as a staggering shock; and
Antony’s accusations were doubtless felt to be only in keeping with
the erratic behaviour which had characterised his last years. On the
previous day Antony had offered a large sum of money to every one of
Octavian’s legionaries who should desert; and it is more than likely
that Octavian had made a similar offer to the Egyptian sailors and
soldiers. Only a year previously these sailors had fraternised with
the Romans of the Antonian party in the Gulf of Ambracia, and the
latter, having deserted to Octavian after the battle of Actium, were
now present in large numbers amongst the opposing fleet. The Egyptians
were thus called upon to fight with their friends whose hospitality
they had often accepted, and whose fighting qualities, now that they
were combined with Octavian’s victorious forces, they had every reason
to appreciate. Their desertion, therefore, needed no suggestion on the
part of Cleopatra: it was almost inevitable.
Antony, however, was far too distracted and overwrought to guard his
tongue, and he seems to have paced his apartments in the Palace in a
condition bordering upon madness, cursing Cleopatra and her country,
and calling down imprecations upon all who had deserted him. Presently
those of his staff who had followed the Queen to her mausoleum brought
him the news that she had killed herself, for so they had interpreted
her message; and instantly Antony’s fury seems to have left him, the
shock having caused a collapse of his energy. At first he was probably
dazed by the tidings; but when their full significance had penetrated
to his bewildered brain there was no place left for anger or suspicion.
“Now Antony,” he cried, “why delay longer? Fate has taken away the only
thing for which you could say you still wanted to live.” And with these
words he rushed into his bedchamber, eagerly tearing off his armour,
and calling upon his slave Eros to assist him. Then, as he bared the
upper part of his body, he was heard to talk aloud to the Queen, whom
he believed to be dead. “Cleopatra,” he said, “I am not sad to be
parted from you now, for I shall soon be with you; but it troubles me
that so great a general should have been found to have slower courage
than a woman.” Not long previously he had made Eros solemnly promise
to kill him when he should order him to do so; and now, turning to
him, he gave him that order, reminding him of his oath. Eros drew his
sword, as though he intended to do as he was bid, but suddenly turning
round, he drove the blade into his own breast, and fell dying upon
the floor. Thereupon Antony bent down over him and cried to him as he
lost consciousness, “Well done, Eros! Well done!” Then, picking up the
sword, he added, “You have shown your master how to do what you had not
the heart to do yourself;” and so saying, he drove the sword upwards
into his breast from below the ribs, and fell back upon his bed.
The wound, however, was not immediately mortal, and presently, the
flow of blood having ceased, he recovered consciousness. Some of the
Egyptian servants had gathered around him, and now he implored them to
put him out of his pain. But when they realised that he was not dead
they rushed from the room, leaving him groaning and writhing where he
lay. Some of them must have carried the news to the Queen as she sat
at the window of the mausoleum, for, a few moments later, a certain
Diomedes, one of her secretaries, came to Antony telling him that
she had not yet killed herself, and that she desired his body to be
brought to her. Thereupon Antony eagerly gave orders to the servants
to carry him to her, and they, lifting him in their arms, placed him
upon an improvised stretcher and hurried with him to the mausoleum.
A crowd seems now to have collected around the door of the building,
and when the Queen saw the group of men bringing her husband to her,
she must have feared lest some of them, seeking a reward, would seize
her as soon as they had entered her stronghold and carry her alive to
Octavian. Perhaps, also, it was a difficult matter to shoot back the
bolts of the door which in her excitement she had managed to drive
deep into their sockets. She, therefore, was unable to admit Antony
into the mausoleum; and there he lay below her window, groaning and
entreating her to let him die in her arms. In the words of Plutarch,
Cleopatra thereupon “let down ropes and cords to which Antony was
fastened; and she and her two women, the only persons she had allowed
to enter the mausoleum, drew him up. Those who were present say that
nothing was ever more sad than this spectacle, to see Antony, covered
all over with blood and just expiring, thus drawn up, still holding up
his hands to her, and raising up his body with the little force he had
left. And, indeed, it was no easy task for the women; for Cleopatra,
with all her strength clinging to the rope and straining at it with
her head bent towards the ground, with difficulty pulled him up, while
those below encouraged her with their cries and joined in all her
efforts and anxiety.” The window must have been a considerable distance
from the ground, and I do not think that the three women could ever
have succeeded in raising Antony’s great weight so far had not those
below fetched ladders, I suppose, and helped to lift him up to her,
thereafter, no doubt, watching the terrible scene from the head of
these ladders outside the window.
Dragging him through the window the women carried him to the bed,
upon which he probably swooned away after the agonies of the ascent.
Cleopatra was distracted by the pitiful sight, and fell into
uncontrolled weeping. Beating her breast and tearing her clothes, she
made some attempts, at the same time, to stanch the scarlet stream
which flowed from his wound; and soon her face and neck were smeared
with his blood. Flinging herself down by his side she called him her
lord, her husband, and her emperor. All her pity and much of her old
love for him was aroused by his terrible sufferings, and so intent
was she upon his pain that her own desperate situation was entirely
forgotten. At last Antony came to his senses, and called for wine to
drink; after which, having revived somewhat, he attempted to soothe
the Queen’s wild lamentations, telling her to make her terms with
Octavian, so far as might honourably be done, and advising her to trust
only a certain Proculeius amongst all the friends of the conqueror.
With his last breath, he begged her, says Plutarch, “not to pity him in
this last turn of fate, but rather to rejoice for him in remembrance
of his past happiness, who had been of all men the most illustrious
and powerful, and in the end had fallen not ignobly, a Roman by a
Roman vanquished.” With these words he lay back upon the bed, and soon
had breathed his last in the arms of the woman whose interests he had
so poorly served, and whom now he left to face alone the last great
struggle for her throne and for the welfare of her son.