Cleopatra
I
A "clear singing zephyr" out of the west sped the ships on their way.
Down they fared along the coast, past the isle of Capreae, then,
leaving the Campanian main behind, cut the blue billows of the
Tyrrhenian Sea; all that day and night, and more sail and oar swept
them on. They flew past the beaches of Magna Graecia, then, betwixt
Scylla and Charybdis, and Sicilia and its smoke-beclouded cone of AEtna
faded out of view, and the long, dark swells of the Ionian Sea caught
them. No feeble merchantman, hugging coasts and headlands, was
Demetrius. He pushed his three barques boldly forward toward the
watery sky-line; the rising and setting sun by day and the slowly
circling stars by night were all-sufficient pilots; and so the ships
flew onward, and, late though the season was, no tempest racked them,
no swollen billow tossed them.
Cornelia sat for hours on the poop, beneath a crimson awning, watching
the foam scudding out from under the swift-moving keel, and feeling
the soft, balmy Notos, the kind wind of the south, now and then puff
against her face, when the west wind veered away, and so brought up a
whiff of the spices and tropic bloom of the great southern continent,
over the parching deserts and the treacherous quicksands of the Syrtes
and the broad "unharvested sea."
Cornelia had seen the cone of AEtna sinking away in the west, and then
she looked westward no more. For eastward and ever eastward fared the
ships, and on beyond them on pinions of mind flew Cornelia. To Africa,
to the Orient! And she dreamed of the half-fabulous kingdoms of
Assyria and Babylonia; of the splendours of Memphis and Nineveh and
Susa and Ecbatana; of Eastern kings and Eastern gold, and Eastern pomp
and circumstance of war; of Ninus, and Cyrus the Great, and Alexander;
of Cheops and Sesostris and Amasis; of the hanging gardens; of the
treasures of Sardanapalus; of the labyrinth of Lake Moeris; of a
thousand and one things rare and wonderful. Half was she persuaded
that in the East the heart might not ache nor the soul grow cold with
pain. And all life was fair to Cornelia. She was sure of meeting
Drusus soon or late now, if so be the gods--she could not help using
the expression despite her atheism--spared him in war. She could wait;
she could be very patient. She was still very young. And when she
counted her remaining years to threescore, they seemed an eternity.
The pall which had rested on her life since her uncle and her lover
parted after their stormy interview was lifted; she could smile, could
laugh, could breathe in the fresh air, and cry, "How good it all is!"
Demetrius held his men under control with an iron hand. If ever the
pirate ship was filled with sights and sounds unseemly for a lady's
eyes and ears, there were none of them now. Cornelia was a princess,
abjectly waited on by her subjects. Demetrius's attention outran all
her least desires. He wearied her with presents of jewellery and
costly dresses, though, as he quietly remarked to Agias, the gifts
meant no more of sacrifice to him than an obol to a rich spendthrift.
He filled her ears with music all day long; he entertained her with
inimitable narrations of his own adventurous voyages and battles. And
only dimly could Cornelia realize that the gems she wore in her hair,
her silken dress, nay, almost everything she touched, had come from
earlier owners with scant process of law.
Demetrius was no common rover. He had been a young man of rare culture
before misfortune struck him. He knew his Homer and his Plato as well
as how to swing a sword. "Yet," as he remarked with half jest, half
sigh, "all his philosophy did not make him one whit more an honest
man."
And in his crew of Greeks, Orientals, and Spaniards were many more
whom calamity, not innate wickedness, so Cornelia discovered, had
driven to a life of violence and rapine.
Demetrius, too, gave no little heed to Artemisia. That pretty creature
had been basking in the sunshine of Agias's presence ever since coming
on shipboard. It was tacitly understood that Cornelia would care for
the welfare and education of Pratinas's runaway, until she reached a
maturity at which Agias could assert his claims. The young Hellene
himself had been not a little anxious lest his cousin cast obstacles
in the way of an alliance with a masterless slavegirl; for of late
Demetrius had been boasting to his kinsman that their family, before
business misfortunes, had been wealthy and honourable among the
merchant princes of Alexandria. But the worthy pirate had not an
objection to make; on the contrary, he would sit for hours staring at
Artemisia, and when Agias demanded if he was about to turn rival,
shook his head and replied, rather brusquely:--
"I was only thinking that Daphne might be about her age, and look
perhaps like her."
"Then you do not think your little daughter is dead?" asked Agias,
sympathetic, yet personally relieved.
"I know nothing, nothing," replied his cousin, a look of ineffable
pain passing over his fine features; "she was a mere infant when I was
arrested. When I broke loose, I had to flee for my life. When I could
set searchers after her, she had vanished. Poor motherless thing; I
imagine she is the slave of some gay lady at Antioch or Ephesus or
Rome now."
"And you do not know who stole her?" asked Agias.
"Don't tear open old wounds," was the retort. "I know nothing. I
think--but it matters little what I think. There was that sly-eyed,
smooth-tongued Greek, like that Phaon who met his deserts, who was no
stranger to Domitius's blackmailings. I _feel_ that he did it. Never
mind his name. If ever I get the snake into my power--" and
Demetrius's fingers tightened around the thick, hard cable he was
clutching, and crushed the solid hemp into soft, loose strands; then
he broke out again, "Never mention this another time, Agias, or I
shall go mad, and plunge down, down into the waves, to go to sleep and
forget it all!"
Agias was faithful to the injunction; but he observed that Demetrius
showed Artemisia the same attention as Cornelia, albeit mingled with a
little gracious and unoffending familiarity.
II
After a voyage in which one pleasant day succeeded another, Cornelia
awoke one morning to hear the creak of blocks and tackle as the
sailors were lowering sail. The full banks of oars were plashing in
the waves, and on deck many feet were rushing to and fro, while
officers shouted their orders. Coming out of her cabin, the young lady
saw that the end of her seafaring was close at hand. Even to one fresh
from the azure atmosphere of the Campanian Bay, the sky was
marvellously clear. The water was of a soft green tint, that shaded
off here and there into dark cerulean. The wind was blowing in cool
puffs out of the north. A long, slow swell made the stately triremes
rock gracefully. Before them, in clear view, rose the tall tower of
the Pharos,--the lighthouse of Alexandria,--and beyond it, on the
low-lying mainland, rose in splendid relief against the cloudless sky
the glittering piles and fanes of the city of the Ptolemies. It was a
magnificent picture,--a "picture" because the colours everywhere were
as bright as though laid on freshly by a painter's brush. The
stonework of the buildings, painted to gaudy hues, brought out all the
details of column, cornice, and pediment. Here Demetrius pointed out
the Royal Palace, here the Theatre; here, farther inland, the Museum,
where was the great University; in the distance the whole looked like
a painting in miniature. Only there was more movement in this picture:
a splendid yacht, with the gold and ivory glittering on its prow and
poop, was shooting out from the royal dockyards in front of the
palace; a ponderous corn-ship was spreading her dirty sails to try to
beat out against the adverse breeze, and venture on a voyage to Rome,
at a season when the Italian traffic was usually suspended. The
harbour and quays were one forest of masts. Boats and small craft were
gliding everywhere. Behind the pirate's triremes several large
merchantmen were bearing into the harbour under a full press of sail.
"And this, your ladyship," said Demetrius, smiling, "is Egypt. Does
the first sight please you?"
"Does it not!" exclaimed Cornelia, drinking in the matchless
spectacle. "But you, kind sir, do you not run personal peril by
putting into this haven for my sake?"
Demetrius laughed.
"It speaks ill for the law-abiding qualities of my countrymen, lady,"
said he, "that I have nothing now to fear. I have too many great
friends both in the court and in the city to fear arrest or annoyance.
Here I may not stay long, for if it were to be noised in Rome that a
pirate were harboured habitually at Alexandria, a demand for my arrest
would come to the king quickly enough, and he must needs comply. But
for a few days, especially while all Rome is in chaos, I am safe; and,
come what may, I would be first warned if any one intended to lay
hands on me."
Indeed, Demetrius's boast as to his own importance in Alexandria was
soon verified. The customs officials were all obsequiousness when they
went through the form of levying on the cargo of the ship. The master
of the port was soon in Demetrius's own cabin over a crater of
excellent wine, and no sooner had the vessels touched the quay than
their crews were fraternizing with the hosts of stevedores and
flower-girls who swarmed to meet the new arrivals.
* * * * *
A few days later Cornelia and Fabia found themselves received as
members of the household of no less a person than Cleomenes, a distant
kinsman of Demetrius and Agias, and himself one of the great merchant
princes of the Egyptian capital. The Roman ladies found a certain
amount of shyness to overcome on their own part and on that of their
hosts. Cleomenes himself was a widower, and his ample house was
presided over by two dark-skinned, dark-eyed daughters, Berenice and
Monime--girls who blended with the handsome Greek features of their
father the soft, sensuous charm of his dead Egyptian wife. Bashful
indeed had been these maidens in contact with the strangers who came
bearing with them the haughty pride of all-conquering Rome. But after
a day or two, when Cornelia had cast off the hauteur begotten of
diffidence, and Fabia had opened the depths of her pure womanly
character, the barriers were thrown down rapidly enough; and Cornelia
and Fabia gained, not merely an access to a new world of life and
ideas, but two friends that they could regard almost as sisters.
It was a new thing for these Roman ladies to meet a foreigner on terms
approaching equality. A non-Roman had been for them a servant, an
intelligent underling, nothing more; even Agias and Demetrius they had
regarded as friends, very close and agreeable, but whom it was a
distinct condescension not to treat with ostentatious superiority. But
to sustain this feeling long with Berenice and Monime was impossible.
The young Egyptians were every whit as cultured, as intelligent, as
themselves, every whit as accustomed to deference from others, and
implicitly assumed the right to demand it. The result was that
Cornelia found herself thinking less and less about being a Roman, and
more and more regarded her gracious hosts as persons in every way
equal to herself.
And less and less of a Roman, Cornelia, the Hellene-hater, became.
Greek was the only tongue now that sounded in her ear, unless she
talked privately with Fabia or was beguiled into trying to learn a
little Egyptian--a language Berenice and Monime spoke fluently. The
clothes she wore were no longer stola and palla, but chiton and
himation. The whole atmosphere about her was foreign, down to the
cries on the streets. And Italy was very far away, and the last
memories thereof none the most pleasant.
It chanced that one morning Cleomenes, Monime, and Cornelia were
driving down the great central street, under the shadow of seemingly
endless colonnades.
"_A!_ dearest one," cried Monime, "why must you think of leaving our
lovely Alexandria, of going back to cold, cheerless Rome? What good
thing does Rome send out but stern men and sharp iron?"
Cornelia shook her head and made answer--
"You Alexandrians are not one nation, but all the world; therefore you
think all who are less cosmopolitan poor. See, I count in the crowds
not only the dark Egyptians and fair Greeks, but a Persian in his
splendid long kaftan, and a very venerable Jew, and a wiry little
Arab, and Syrians, and negroes, and, I think, a Hindoo."
"And yourself, my lady, a Roman," concluded Cleomenes. "Truly all the
earth has met in our city."
They whirled down the splendid highway that ran straight as an arrow
the whole length of the city, lined on either side by a forest of the
infinite number of columns of the great stretches of porticos.
Handsomely dressed cavalrymen of the palace guard were dashing to and
fro over the clean, hard pavement; elegant carriages containing the
noble and wealthy were whirling in every direction. At each glance,
the eye lit on some pleasing bit of sculpture, some delicate curve of
architecture. Statues were everywhere, everywhere colour, everywhere
crowds of gayly dressed citizens and foreigners. Cornelia contrasted
the symmetrical streets, all broad, swept, and at right angles--the
triumph of the wise architectural planning of Dinocrates--with the
dirty, unsightly, and crooked lanes of the City of the Seven Hills,
and told herself, as she had told herself often in recent days, that
Romans had much yet to learn.
They drove on past the Amphitheatre toward the Egyptian quarter of the
Rhacotis; and here, at the intersection of the Great Street with the
other broad way leading from the "Gate of the Moon" on the harbour to
the "Gate of the Sun" on Lake Mareotis, a moving hedge of outriders,
cavalrymen, and foot-guards met them.
"The queen coming from the Serapeum," said Cleomenes, drawing rein.
Cornelia saw half-naked Numidian footmen thrusting back the crowd that
bustled in the Omphalos--the great square where the two highroads met.
Behind them pushed a squadron of light cavalry in silvered armour and
splendid purple and scarlet uniforms. Then, in the midst of all, moved
a chariot drawn by four horses white as snow, the harness resplendent
with gold and jewels; at either side ran fan-bearers, waving great
masses of bright ostrich plumes; a gaudy parasol swept over the
carriage itself. There were three occupants, whereof two stood: an
Egyptian, gaunt and of great height, clad in plain white linen, who
was driving, and a handsome, gaudily dressed Greek youth, who was
holding the parasol. Cornelia could just catch the profile of a young
woman seated between them. The face was not quite regular, but
marvellously intelligent and sensitive; the skin not pale, yet far
from dark, and perfectly healthy and clear; the eyes restive and
piercing. The queen was dressed plainly in Greek fashion; her himation
was white, her only ornament a great diamond that was blazing like a
star on her breast. Upon the coils of her heavy, dark hair sat a
golden circlet faced in front with the likeness of the head of the
venomous uraeus snake--the emblem of Egyptian royalty. This was all
Cornelia could observe in the brief time the queen was in view. Some
of the people--Egyptians mostly--cried out to her in their own
tongue:--
"Hail to the ever glorious Daughter of Ra!"
But the queen paid them little heed. Once her restless eyes lit on the
carriage of Cleomenes, and she made a slight inclination of the head
in return to that gentleman's salute, for Cleomenes had standing at
court as one of the "friends of the king."[172]
[172] A high order of Egyptian nobility.
The cortege rolled away toward the palace.
"This Cleopatra is a rather remarkable woman," observed Cornelia, for
the sake of saying something.
"Indeed, that is true," replied Cleomenes, as he turned to drive
homeward. "She is worthy to have lived in the days of the first
Ptolemies, of Ptolemaeus Soter and Philadelphus and Euergetes. She is
still very young, only twenty, and yet five years ago she was so
fascinating that when Antonius, of whom I have heard you speak, came
here with Gabinius's expeditions he quite lost his heart to her. She
has a marvellous talent for statecraft and intrigue and diplomacy. You
know that, nominally at least, she has to share her crown with young
Ptolemaeus, her younger brother. He is a worthless rascal, but his
tutor, the eunuch Pothinus, really wields him. Pothinus, as the custom
is, was brought up with him as his playmate, and now Pothinus wants to
drive out the queen, and rule Egypt through his power over the king.
His ambition is notorious, but the queen has not been able to lay
hands on him for treason."
Cleopatra and her fortunes and perils played a slight part in
Cornelia's mind, however, that day. To know Alexandria in its sunlight
and shadows was indeed to know a miniature world. First of all to
notice, besides the heterogeneous nature of the crowds on the streets,
was the fact that every person, high as well as low, was engaged in
some trade. Very far was the typical Alexandrian from the quiet
"leisure" which the average Greek or Latin believed requisite for a
refined life--a life in which slaves did all the necessary work, and
amassed an income for the master to expend in polite recreations. In
Rome, for a free citizen to have been a handicraftsman would have been
a disgrace; he could be farmer, banker, soldier,--nothing more. In
Alexandria the glass-workers, paper-makers, and linen weavers were
those who were proudest and most jealous of their title of "Men of
Macedonia."[173] Money, Cornelia soon discovered, was even a greater
god here than in Rome. Cleomenes himself was not ashamed to spend a
large part of the day inspecting his factories, and did not hesitate
to declare that during a period when he and his family had been in
great distress, following the failure of the banking house of Agias's
father, he had toiled with his own hands to win bread for his
daughters.
[173] The official title of Alexandrian Greek citizens.
The conception that any honest labour, except a certain genteel
agriculture, might not make a man the less of a gentleman, or a woman
the less of a lady, was as new to Cornelia as the idea that some
non-Romans could claim equality with herself. Neither proposition did
she accept consciously. The prejudice wore quietly away. But other
things about the city she gathered quickly enough from the caustic
explanations of Cleomenes.
"Here in Alexandria," he asserted on one occasion, "we are always ripe
for a riot. Never a chariot race without stone-throwing and
throat-cutting after it. An unpopular official is torn in pieces by a
mob. If you chance to kill a cat, the Egyptians are after you for your
life. The Greeks hate the Jews, and are always ready to plunder their
quarter; the Egyptians are on bad terms with both. We talk about being
free citizens of the capital of the Ptolemies, and pretend to go to
the Gymnasium for discussion, and claim a right to consult with the
king; but our precious Senate, and all our tribes and wards, are only
fictions. We are as much slaves as the poor creatures down in the
royal quarries; only we demand the right to riot and give nicknames.
We called the last Ptolemaeus, Auletes "the Piper," because in that way
we have punished him in all history for the way he oppressed us.
_Euge!_ Have we not a wonderful city!"
It was on the very next day that Cleopatra was recalled to Cornelia's
mind in a quite marked fashion. It was rather early, and she was upon
the roof-garden, on the third story of the house, where there was a
commanding view of the city. Berenice was busy reading from a papyrus
the Egyptian legend of the "Adventures of Sinuhit," translating into
Greek as she read.
Cleomenes broke in upon the reading. His face wore a mysterious smile.
"I have a rather strange piece of news for you, my lady," he said. "A
chamberlain of the court has just been here, and brings a royal
command."
"I am not accustomed to being commanded," interrupted Cornelia, all
her Roman haughtiness rising.
"I do not think you will be found disobedient. The queen, it seems,
noticed you in my carriage yesterday, and at once divined, with that
wonderfully quick wit of hers, that you must be a Roman lady of rank.
She immediately made inquiries, and now sends her chamberlain to ask
you and the Lady Fabia, as well as myself, to dine with her at the
palace to-night. You may be sure nothing will be lacking to do you
honour."
Cornelia meekly acquiesced in this royal mandate. Fabia, however,
could not stir from the house. The shock to her finely strung nature
when she was taken from Rome had, indeed, produced a physical
reaction. She was not seriously ill, but could endure no excitement.
So it was with only Cleomenes for an escort that Cornelia mounted into
one of the splendid royal chariots sent from the palace about dusk,
and drove away surrounded by a cloud of guardsmen sent to do honour to
the guests of the queen.
Cornelia herself felt highly strung and slightly nervous. She wished,
for the first time since she reached Alexandria, that she could go
dressed in the native costume of a Roman lady, She was going to enjoy
the hospitality of a princess who was the successor of thirty odd
dynasties of Pharaohs; who was worshipped herself as a goddess by
millions of Egyptians; who was hailed as "Daughter of the Sun," and
with fifty other fulsome titles; a princess, furthermore, who was
supposed to dispose of the lives of her subjects as seemed right in
her own eyes, without law of man or god to hinder. Cornelia was not
afraid, nay rather, anticipatory; only she had never before been so
thoroughly conscious that she was Roman down to her finger-tips--Roman,
and hence could look upon the faces of princes unabashed.
The people saw the royal chariot, and some shouted salutations to the
guests whom the queen delighted to honour. The company swept up under
the magnificent archway leading to the palace; above them rose tall
Ionic columns of red granite of Syene, building rising above building,
labyrinths of pillars, myriads of statues. Torches were blazing from
every direction. The palace grounds were as bright as day. The light
breeze was sweeping through rare Indian ferns and tropical palms. The
air was heavy with the breath of innumerable roses. Huge fountains
were tossing up showers of spray, which fell tinkling onto broad
basins wherein the cups of the blue and white lotus were floating. It
was indeed as if one had been led on to enchanted ground.
Cornelia and her friend dismounted from their chariot, and were led
through an endless colonnade, past a second, lower gateway, and then
into a hall, not very high or large, but admirable in its proportions,
with a whole gallery of choice mythological paintings on its walls.
Small heed did Cornelia give to them. For at the end of the hall rose
a low dais, whereon sat, in a gilded chair, the same person who had
been pointed out to Cornelia the day before as the mistress of Upper
and Lower Egypt.
The light was too dim to discover in the distance anything new in the
face of the queen. She wore a loose, long gown of some light blue
silken stuff; and her belt, shoes, neck, breast, and ears were all
glittering with gems. At the foot of the dais was a group of half a
dozen showily dressed chamberlains and courtiers, who made a slight
motion of greeting when the two guests darkened the doorway. One of
these functionaries advanced to Cornelia.
"Your ladyship," he began, in a smooth, colourless voice, "I have the
honour to be the Royal Introducing Chamberlain. In approaching the
queen, do as I shall direct. First, before advancing to the dais bow
slightly; then at the foot of the dais it is proper--"
"Sir," interrupted Cornelia, drawing herself up to her full height, "I
am not accustomed to your prostrations and genuflections, and of them
my countrymen make sorry work; pray excuse me." And without waiting
for reply or expostulation she advanced straight toward the dais. The
hall was small, the steps from the door to the queen's chair few; but
never did Cornelia fare on more tedious journey. She knew that a
half-horrified titter was passing through the group of courtiers She
knew that Cleopatra herself had stirred in her seat, as if to rise.
But one word sounded in Cornelia's ears, and that word was "Rome."
Were not Roman citizens nobles among nobles, and Roman senators peers
of kings! And she, daughter of the Cornelii and Claudii, whose
ancestors had broken the might of Antiochus the Great and
Mithridates--should she not look in the face the heiress of the
Lagidae? Had not one hundred years before Popilius, the Roman
commissioner, come unarmed into the presence of Antiochus Epiphanes,
while he was advancing to the gates of defenceless Alexandria, drawn a
circle in the dust about the king, and bidden him answer, before he
stepped over, whether he would court destruction or obey the mandate
of the Republic and leave Egypt in peace? And had not the great king
obeyed--humbly? Why, then, should not a Roman patrician maiden look
down on a mere monarch, who was a pawn in the hands of her kinsfolk
and countrymen?
To repeat these things is long. The mind moves faster than the
sunlight. Cornelia came to the dais, and there gave the slightest
inclination of her head--the greeting of a mistress to slaves--to the
group of courtiers. She advanced straight toward the royal chair and
stretched forth her hand.
"I am your debtor, O queen, for a kindness that I may not soon, I
fear, repay--unless you come to Rome."
She spoke as a superior addressing an inferior who had rendered some
slight service. The queen rose from her seat and took the proffered
hand without the least hesitation.
"And I will ask for none other reward than that you do honour to my
entertainment."
The voice was wonderfully soft, modulated, and ringing; like an
instrument of many strings. Every syllable blended into the next in
perfect harmony; to hear a few words was like listening unto music.
Cornelia knew later, when she was older and had thought more, that the
queen had instantly caught the defiant mood of her guest, and
thereupon left nothing unspared to conciliate it. At that moment,
however, she attempted no such analysis of motive. She was conscious
of only one thing: the luminous personality of Cleopatra. The queen
was all that Cornelia had noticed her to be when they met at the Great
Square; but she was more than a beautiful woman. In fact, in mere
bodily perfection Monime or Berenice might well have stood beside her.
The glance of the queen went through and through her guests like
arrows of softly burning light. It was impossible to withdraw one's
eyes from her; impossible to shake off the spell of an enjoyable
magnetism. If she moved her long, shapely fingers, it was speech; if
she raised her hand, eloquence. As shade after shade of varying
emotion seemed to pass across Cleopatra's face, it was as if one saw
the workings of a masterful spirit as in a mirror; and now could cry,
"This is one of the Graces," and now "This is one of the Fates," as
half-girlish candour and sweetness was followed by a lightning flash
from the eyes, disclosing the deep, far-recessed subtleties of the
soul within. Cornelia had entered the hall haughty, defiant; a word
and a look--she was the most obedient vassal.
Cornelia had seen many a splendid banquet and dinner party in Rome.
Even Oriental kings had not a great deal to teach the "masters of the
toga" in ostentatious luxury. Perhaps the queen had realized this. The
present occasion called, indeed for very little formality, for,
besides Cornelia, Cleomenes was the only guest; and when that
gentleman inquired politely if his Majesty, the King Ptolemaeus, was to
honour them with his presence, Cleopatra replied, with an eloquent
raising of the eyebrows:--
"The king will be to-night, as he always is, with his
tutor--Pothinus."
There was indescribable scorn in the last word.
The doors of the reception hall had been flung back on noiseless
pivots by unseen hands. The banqueting room disclosed within was not
so much a room as a garden. Flowers, flowers were everywhere, roses,
violets, narcissuses, and a score of others breathing forth a heavy
fragrance. Overhead, the goldstudded ceiling was converted into a vast
arbour of blending flowery tints. The room was large, very large for
only three banqueters; on the walls, from out between the potted
tropical plants, shone marvellous marble reliefs, one hundred in all;
and in betwixt them were matchless paintings. Framing, after a
fashion, the pictures, were equally perfect embroideries, portraying
in silk and fine linen the stories of Thebes, the kingly house of
Argos, and many another myth of fame. The pillars of the room
represented palm trees and Bacchic thyrsi; skins of wild beasts were
fastened high up to the walls; and everywhere was the sheen of silver
and gold, the splendour of scarlet and purple tapestries.
"The decorations of this room," said the queen, as her two guests
entered, "are nearly all preserved from the great banqueting pavilion
of Ptolemaeus Philadelphus, which he erected for the grand festival
that ushered in his reign."
Cornelia drew back as her foot crossed the threshold. Her sandals trod
on the fair white cup of a blooming lily. The queen laughed as merrily
as a little girl at her confusion.
"In Rome, I doubt not," she said, smiling, "there are not flowers
enough at this time of year to have them for a carpet. But this is
Alexandria. Flowers are never out of bloom."
So Cornelia advanced, but perhaps it grieved her more to tread on the
innocent flowers, than any small thing had since she left Baiae.
And then the banquet, if such it may be termed when there are but
three to enjoy it, began. Cleopatra knew well that she could not
overwhelm her Roman guest with show of plate and gems, nor did she
try. But Cornelia forgot about such things long before they rose. For
the queen displayed to her a myriad dainty perfections and refinements
that never had endeared themselves to the grosser Italian gourmands.
Cleomenes had whispered to his companion, before they reached the
palace, "Plato tells of four sorts of flattery; but I can promise you
a thousand sorts from Cleopatra if she but cares to win your
friendship." And surely the queen did thus desire. For Cornelia was
surfeited with strange dishes, and rare sherbets, flowers, and music;
surfeited with everything save the words that fell from the lips of
Cleopatra.
The more the queen spoke, the more complete became the vassalage of
her guest. Cornelia discovered that this woman, who was but little
older than she, could speak fluently seven languages, and carried
about with her an exceedingly accurate knowledge, not merely of the
administration of Egypt, but of the politics of Rome, and the details
of the great contest racking the Republic. When Cleopatra asked
questions concerning Roman affairs, Cornelia was fain to confess
ignorance and be put to shame. And as the evening advanced, Cornelia
found herself talking with more and more confidence to this woman that
she had never addressed until an hour before. Cleopatra of course
knew, as all Alexandria knew, that Cornelia and Fabia were Roman
ladies of the highest rank, who had been forced to take refuge abroad
until the political crisis was over. But now Cornelia told the queen
the true reasons that had led her to be willing to submit to
Demetrius's friendly kidnapping; and when, in a burst of
frankness,--which in a saner moment Cornelia would have deemed
unwise,--she told of her betrothal to Drusus and willingness to wait
long for him, if they might only come together in the end, the queen
seemed unable to speak with her usual bright vivacity. Presently she
said:--
"So you love this young man as none other? You are willing to be all
your life his handmaid, his slave?"
"I love him, assuredly," said Cornelia, with a little heat. "And so
far as being all my life his slave, I've given that never so much as a
thought. Where love is, there slavery cannot be."
"And where love is not, there slavery must be, doubtless you wish to
add?" broke in the queen.
"I should be very miserable if I had nothing to love, which I might
love purely, and feel myself the nobler and happier thereby."
"Then pity us poor mortals who cannot climb up to your Olympus! Eh, my
very noble Cleomenes," went on the queen, addressing the Greek, "do I
not deserve compassion, that I have not been able to find some
Tigranes of Armenia, or Parthian prince, who will be all in all to me,
and make me forget everything in worshipping him?"
These were the first words that evening that had grated on Cornelia. A
little ruffled, she replied:--
"I fear, O queen, that if you are awaiting a Tigranes or an Artavasdes
to sue for your hand, you will indeed never find a lord to worship.
Quintus Drusus is indeed wealthy at Rome, his family noble, he may
rise to great things; but I would not lay down my life for him because
of his wealth, his lineage, or his fair prospects. It is not these
things which make a common woman love a man."
"But I am not a common woman," responded Cleopatra, with emphasis. "I
am ambitious, not to be led, but to lead. I must rule or I must die. I
cannot love a master, only fear him. Why, because I was born a woman,
must I give up all my royal aspirations to rise to a great place among
princes, to build up a great empire in the East, to make Alexandria a
capital with the power of Rome, the culture of Athens, the splendour
of Babylon, all in one? It is because I have these hopes stirring in
me that I may love no man, can love no man! Nothing shall stand in my
way; nothing shall oppose me. Whoever thwarts my ambitions, the worse
for him; let him die--all things must die, but not I, until I have won
my power and glory!"
For once, at least, the queen's emotions had run away with her; she
spoke hotly, passionately, as though tearing her words from the
recesses of her throbbing heart. Her wonderful voice was keyed in
half-bitter defiance. For the moment Cornelia was mistress, and not
the queen.
"O queen," broke in the young Roman, "would you know how I feel toward
you?"
Cleopatra looked at her with dilated eyes.
"I feel for you a very great sorrow. I know not whether you will or
will not do as you wish--set your empire over the far East, a rival,
friendly, I hope, to our Rome; but this I know, that with your glory,
and with your renown among men for all time, you will go down to your
grave with an empty heart. And I know not what may compensate for
that."
Cleomenes was clearly a little disturbed at this turn to the
conversation; but Cleopatra bowed her head on her hands. It was only
for an instant. When she looked up once more there were tears in her
eyes, which she made no effort to conceal. The look of high defiance
had faded from her face.
"Think kindly of me, Lady Cornelia," she said; "I am but a wilful girl
with many things to learn. Perhaps you yourself know that purple robes
do not make a light heart."
"That I know well and sadly."
"Therefore," went on the queen, "if I forget myself, and half envy a
cup of happiness that seems dashed from my lips, do not be over
blameful."
"Never," responded the young Roman.
"Time advances," said the queen; "let us forget that any barriers shut
us out from perfect bliss. Let us call in the Egyptian musicians; and
cry out upon me if my looks grow sad!"
Whereat a whole section in the side of the room turned on a pivot, and
there entered three native harpers and eight pretty Egyptian girls, in
gauzy dresses, who danced in intricate figures, and juggled with
balls; now with two, now with three, catching them with their hands
crossed. Boys ran in and out and sprinkled _kyphi_[174] on the heads
of the three feasters, and flung huge wreaths of flowers round their
necks, and thrust lotus flowers in their hair. And all the time the
girls sang sweetly.
[174] A mixture of myrrh, frankincense, and other aromatic materials.
The queen kept her guests very late.
"We of Alexandria," said she, "make little difference between night
and day. Our city is a new Sybaris."
And all through the evening Cleopatra kept close to Cornelia, often
with her hand upon her, as though extremely loath to let her go. At
last the moon crept up into the heavens, and as the queen and her
guests roved out of the heated banqueting hall into the cool gardens,
the pale yellow light gently bathed the sweep of the city, which lay
in full view of the palace terrace.
"All sleep," said Cleopatra, "all but ourselves. Let there be one more
song, and then farewell!--but soon to meet again."
The chorus of maidens, which followed them, sang, in Greek, the hymn
of Onomacritus:[175]--
[175] Elton, translator.
"Heavenly Selene! goddess queen! that shed'st abroad the light!
Bull-horned moon! air-habiting! thou wanderer through the night!
Moon bearer of mighty torch! thou star-encircled maid!
Woman thou, yet male the same, still fresh and undecayed!
Thou that in thy steeds delightest, as they travel through the sky,
Clothed in brightness! mighty mother of the rapid years that fly;
Fruit dispenser! amber-visaged! melancholy, yet serene!
All beholding! sleep-enamour'd! still with trooping planets seen!
Quiet loving; who in pleasance and in plenty tak'st delight;
Joy diffusing! Fruit maturing! Sparkling ornament of night!
Swiftly pacing! ample-vested! star-bright! all divining maid!
Come benignant! come spontaneous! with starry sheen arrayed!
Sweetly shining! save us virgin, give thy holy suppliants aid!"
"Yes," said Cleopatra, passing her hand over her brow, "give us aid,
either thou, O moon, or some other power, for we are full weak
ourselves."
When the queen parted with her guests she put her arms around
Cornelia's waist and kissed her on the forehead.
"I sent for you," said Cleopatra, "half intending to amuse myself with
the boorishness and clumsy insolence which I conceived a noble Roman
lady to possess. I have been punished. Promise to come to see me
often, very often, or I shall call my body-guards and keep you
prisoner. For I have very few friends."
While the chariot was bearing the two guests away, Cleomenes asked
Cornelia what she thought of the queen.
"She is the most wonderful woman I have ever met," was her answer,
enthusiastic and characteristically feminine. "I admire her. I am
almost her slave."
The frequency of Cornelia's visits to the palace on following days
seemed to prove that the admiration was not unreciprocated. Indeed,
Monime and Berenice grew jealous of the queen for stealing their new
friend from them.