The End of the Magnus
I
The months had come and gone for Cornelia as well as for Quintus
Drusus, albeit in a very different manner. The war was raging upon
land and sea. The Pompeian fleet controlled all the water avenues; the
Italian peninsula was held by the Caesarians. Cornelia wrote several
times to old Mamercus at Praeneste, enclosing a letter which she begged
him to forward to her lover wherever he might be. But no answer came.
Once she learned definitely that the ship had been captured. For the
other times she could imagine the same catastrophe. Still she had her
comfort. Rumours of battles, of sieges, and arduous campaigning
drifted over the Mediterranean. Now it was that a few days more would
see Caesar an outlaw without a man around him, and then Cornelia would
believe none of it. Now it was that Pompeius was in sore straits, and
then she was all credulity. Yet beside these tidings there were other
stray bits of news very dear to her heart. Caesar, so it was said,
possessed a young aide-de-camp of great valour and ability, one
Quintus Drusus, and the Imperator was already entrusting him with
posts of danger and of responsibility. He had behaved gallantly at
Ilerda; he had won more laurels at the siege of Massilia. At
Dyrrachium he had gained yet more credit. And on account of these
tidings, it may easily be imagined that Cornelia was prepared to be
very patient and to be willing to take the trying vicissitudes of her
own life more lightly.
As a matter of fact, her own position at Alexandria had begun to grow
complicated. First of all, Agias had made one day a discovery in the
city which it was exceeding well for Artemisia was not postponed for a
later occasion. Pratinas was in Alexandria. The young Greek had not
been recognized when, as chance meetings will occur, he came across
his one-time antagonist face to face on the street. He had no fears
for himself. But Artemisia was no longer safe in the city. Cleomenes
arranged that the girl should be sent to a villa, owned by the
relatives of his late wife, some distance up the Nile. Artemisia would
thus be parted from Agias, but she would be quite safe; and to secure
that, any sacrifice of stolen looks and pretty coquetry was cheerfully
accepted.
Soon after this unpleasant little discovery, a far more serious event
occurred. Pothinus the eunuch, Achillas, the Egyptian commander of the
army, and Theodotus, a "rhetoric teacher," whose real business was to
spin, not words, but court intrigues, had plotted together to place
the young King Ptolemaeus in sole power. The conspiracy ran its course.
There was a rising of the "Macedonian"[180] guard at the palace, a
gathering of citizens in the squares of the capital, culminating in
bloody riots and proclamations declaring the king vested with the only
supreme power. Hot on the heels of this announcement it was bruited
around the city that Cleopatra had escaped safely to Palestine, where,
in due time, she would doubtless be collecting an army at the courts
of Hyrcanus, the Jewish prince, and other Syrian potentates, to return
and retake the crown.
[180] Macedonian it is needless to say was a mere name. The
Graeco-Egyptian soldiery and citizen body of Alexandria probably
had hardly a drop of Macedonian blood in their veins.
Alexandria was accustomed to such dynastic disruptions. The rioting
over, the people were ready to go back to the paper and linen
factories, and willing to call Ptolemaeus the "Son of Ra," or "King,"
until his sister should defeat him in battle. Cornelia grieved that
Cleopatra should thus be forced into exile. She had grown more and
more intimate with the queen. The first glamour of Cleopatra's
presence had worn away. Cornelia saw her as a woman very beautiful,
very wilful, gifted with every talent, yet utterly lacking that moral
stability which would have been the crown of a perfect human organism.
The two women had grown more and more in friendship and intimacy; and
when Cornelia studied in detail the dark, and often hideous, coils and
twistings of the history of the Hellenistic royal families, the more
vividly she realized that Cleopatra was the heiress of generations of
legalized license,[181] of cultured sensuality, of veneered cruelty,
and sheer blood-thirstiness. Therefore Cornelia had pitied, not
blamed, the queen, and, now that misfortune had fallen upon her, was
distressed for the plight of Cleopatra.
[181] As, for instance, the repeated wedlock of brothers and sisters
among the Ptolemies.
That Cornelia had been an intimate of the queen was perfectly well
known in Alexandria. In fact, Cleomenes himself was of sufficiently
high rank to make any guest he might long entertain more or less of a
public personage. Cornelia was a familiar sight to the crowds, as she
drove daily on the streets and attended the theatre. Cleomenes began
to entertain suspicions that the new government was not quite pleased
to leave such a friend of Cleopatra's at liberty; and Agias took pains
to discover that Pratinas was deep in the counsels of the virtual
regent--Pothinus. But Cornelia scoffed at any suggestions that it
might be safer to leave the city and join Artemisia in the retreat up
the Nile. She had taken no part whatsoever in Egyptian politics, and
she was incapable of assisting to restore Cleopatra. As for the
possible influence of Pratinas in court, it seemed to her incredible
that a man of his caliber could work her any injury, save by the
dagger and poison cup. That an ignoble intriguer of his type could
influence the policy of state she refused to believe.
Thus it came to pass that Cornelia had only herself to thank, when the
blow, such as it was, fell. The eunuch prime minister knew how to
cover his actions with a velvet glove. One evening a splendidly
uniformed division of Macedonian guard, led by one of the royal
_somatophylakes_,[182] came with an empty chariot to the house of
Cleomenes. The request they bore was signed with the royal seal, and
was politeness itself. It overflowed with semi-Oriental compliment and
laudation; but the purport was clear. On account of the great danger
in the city to foreigners from riots--ran the gist of the letter--and
the extremely disturbed condition of the times, the king was
constrained to request Cornelia and Fabia to take up their residence
in the palace, where they could receive proper protection and be
provided for in a princely manner, as became their rank.
[182] Commanders of the body-guard.
Cornelia had enough wisdom to see that only by taking the letter for
the intentions written on its face could she submit to the implied
command without loss of dignity. She had much difficulty in persuading
Fabia to yield; for the Vestal was for standing on her Roman
prerogatives and giving way to nothing except sheer force. But
Cleomenes added his word, that only harm would come from resistance;
and the two Roman ladies accompanied the escort back to the palace. It
was not pleasant to pass into the power of a creature like Pothinus,
even though the smooth-faced eunuch received his unwilling guests with
Oriental salaams and profuse requests to be allowed to humour their
least desires. But the restraint, if such it can be called, could
hardly take a less objectionable form. Monime and Berenice, as ladies
whose father was known as a merchant prince of colourless politics,
were allowed free access to their friends at the palace. Young
Ptolemaeus, who was a dark-eyed and, at bottom, dark-hearted youth,
completely under the thumb of Pothinus, exerted himself, after a
fashion, to be agreeable to his visitors; but he was too unfavourable
a contrast to his gifted sister to win much grace in Cornelia's eyes.
Agias, who was living with Cleomenes, nominally for the purpose of
learning the latter's business, preparatory to becoming a partner on
capital to come from his predatory cousin, as a matter of fact spent a
great part of his time at the palace also, dancing attendance upon his
Roman friends. Pratinas, indeed, was on hand, not really to distress
them, but to vex by the mere knowledge of his presence. Cornelia met
the Greek with a stony haughtiness that chilled all his professions of
desire to serve her and to renew the acquaintance formed at Rome.
Agias had discovered that Pratinas had advised Pothinus to keep his
hands on the ladies, especially on Cornelia, because whichever side of
the Roman factions won, there were those who would reward suitably any
who could deliver her over to them. From this Cornelia had to infer
that the defeat of the Caesarians meant her own enthralment to her
uncle and Lucius Ahenobarbus. Such a contingency she would not admit
as possible. She was simply rendered far more anxious. Pratinas had
given up seeking Drusus's life, it was clear; his interest in the
matter had ended the very instant the chance to levy blackmail on
Ahenobarbus had disappeared. Pratinas, in fact, Agias learned for her,
was never weary ridiculing the Roman oligarchs, and professing his
disgust with them; so Cornelia no longer had immediate cause to fear
him, though she hated him none the less.
After all, Pratinas thrust himself little upon her. He had his own
life to live, and it ran far apart from hers. Perhaps it was as well
for Cornelia that she was forced to spend the winter and ensuing
months in the ample purlieus of the palace. If living were but the
gratification of sensuous indolence, if existence were but luxurious
dozing and half-waking, then the palace of the Ptolemies were indeed
an Elysium, with its soft-footed, silent, swift, intelligent Oriental
servants; rooms where the eye grew weary of rare sculpture or fresco;
books drawn from the greatest library in the world--the Museum close
at hand; a broad view of the blue Mediterranean, ever changing and
ever the same, and of the swarming harbour and the bustling city; and
gardens upon gardens shut off from the outside by lofty walls--some
great enclosures containing besides forests of rare trees a vast
menagerie of wild beasts, whose roarings from their cages made one
think the groves a tropical jungle; some gardens, dainty, secluded
spots laid out in Egyptian fashion, under the shade of a few fine old
sycamores, with a vineyard and a stone trellis-work in the midst, with
arbours and little parks of exotic plants, a palm or two, and a tank
where the half-tame water-fowl would plash among the lotus and papyrus
plants. In such a nook as this Cornelia would sit and read all the day
long, and put lotus flowers in her hair, look down into the water,
and, Narcissus-like, fall in love with her own face, and tell herself
that Drusus would be delighted that she had not grown ugly since he
parted with her.
So passed the winter and the spring and early summer months; and,
however hot and parched might be the city under the burning sun, there
was coolness and refreshment in the gardens of the palace.
With it all, however, Cornelia began to wax restive. It is no light
thing to command one's self to remain quiet in Sybaritic ease. More
and more she began to wish that this butterfly existence, this passive
basking in the sun of indolent luxury, would come to an end. She
commenced again to wish that she were a man, with the tongue of an
orator, the sword of a soldier, able to sway senates and to lead
legions. Pothinus finally discovered that he was having some
difficulty in keeping his cage-bird contented. The eunuch had
entertained great expectations of being able to win credit and favour
with the conquerors among the Romans by delivering over Cornelia safe
and sound either to Lentulus Crus or Quintus Drusus. Now he began to
fear that Pratinas had advised him ill; that Cornelia and Fabia were
incapable of intriguing in Cleopatra's favour, and by his "protection
at the palace" he was only earning the enmity of his noble guests. But
it was too late to retrace his steps, and he accordingly plied
Cornelia with so many additional attentions, presents, and obsequious
flatteries, that she grew heartily disgusted and repined even more
over her present situation.
Bad news came, which added to her discomfort. Caesar had been driven
from his lines at Dyrrachium. He had lost a great many men. If the
Pompeian sources of information were to be believed, he was now really
a negligible military factor, and the war was practically over. The
tidings fell on Cornelia's soul like lead. She knew perfectly well
that the defeat of the Caesarians would mean the death of Quintus
Drusus. Her uncle and the Domitii, father and son, would be all
powerful, and they never forgave an enmity. As for herself--but she
did not think much thereon; if Drusus was slain or executed, she
really had very little to live for, and there were many ways of
getting out of the world. For the first time since the memorable night
of the raid on Baiae, she went about with an aching heart. Fabia, too,
suffered, but, older and wiser, comforted Cornelia not so much by what
she might say, by way of extending hopes, as by the warm, silent
contact of her pure, noble nature. Monime and Berenice were grieved
that their friends were so sad, and used a thousand gentle arts to
comfort them. Cornelia bore up more bravely because of the
sympathy--she did not have to endure her burden alone, as at Rome and
Baiae; but, nevertheless, for her the days crept slowly.
And then out of the gloom came the dazzling brightness. A Rhodian
merchantman came speeding into the haven with news. "Is Caesar taken?"
cried the inquisitive crowd on the quay, as the vessel swung up to her
mooring. "Is Pompeius not already here?" came back from the deck. And
in a twinkling it was all over the city: in the Serapeium, in the
Museum, under the colonnades, in the factories, in the palace.
"Pompeius's army has been destroyed. The Magnus barely escaped with
his life. Lucius Domitius is slain. Caesar is master of the world!"
Never did the notes of the great water-organ of the palace sound so
sweet in any ears as these words in those of the Roman ladies. They
bore with complacency a piece of petty tyranny on the part of
Pothinus, which at another time they would have found galling indeed.
Report had it that Cleopatra had gathered an army in Syria, and the
eunuch, with his royal puppet, was going forth to the frontier town of
Pelusium, to head the forces that should resist the invasion. Cornelia
and Fabia were informed that they would accompany the royal party on
its progress to the frontier. Pothinus clearly was beginning to fear
the results of his "honourable entertainment," and did not care to
have his guests out of his sight. It was vexatious to be thus at his
mercy; but Cornelia was too joyous in soul, at that time, to bear the
indignity heavily. They had to part with Monime and Berenice, but
Agias went with them; and Cornelia sent off another letter to Italy,
in renewed hope that the seas would be clear and it would find its way
safely to Drusus.
Very luxurious was the progress of the royal party to Pelusium. The
king, his escort, and his unwilling guests travelled slowly by water,
in magnificent river barges that were fitted with every requisite or
ornament that mind of man might ask or think. They crossed the Lake
Mareotis, glided along one of the minor outlets of the delta until
they reached the Bolbitinic branch of the Nile, then, by canals and
natural water-courses, worked their way across to Bubastis, and thence
straight down the Pelusiac Nile to Pelusium. And thus it was Cornelia
caught glimpses of that strange, un-Hellenized country that stretched
away to the southward, tens and hundreds of miles, to Memphis and its
pyramids, and Thebes and its temples--ancient, weird, wonderful; a
civilization whereof everything was older than human thought might
trace; a civilization that was almost like the stars, the same
yesterday, to-day, and forever. Almost would Cornelia have been glad
if the prows of the barges had been turned up the river, and she been
enabled to behold with her own eyes the mighty piles of Cheops,
Chephren, Mycerinus, Sesostris, Rhampsinitus, and a score of other
Pharaohs whose deeds are recorded in stone imperishable. But the
barges glided again northward, and Cornelia only occasionally caught
some glimpse of a massive temple, under whose huge propylons the
priests had chanted their litanies to Pakht or Ptah for two thousand
years, or passed some boat gliding with its mourners to the
necropolis, there to leave the mummy that was to await the judgment of
Osiris. And down the long valley swept the hot winds from the realm of
the Pygmies, and from those strange lakes and mountains whence issued
the boundless river, which was the life-giver and mother of all the
fertile country of Egypt.
Thus with a glimpse, all too short, of the "Black Land,"[183] as its
native denizens called it, the royal party reached the half-Hellenized
town of Pelusium, where the army was in waiting and a most splendid
camp was ready for Ptolemaeus and his train. Cleopatra had not yet
advanced. The journey was over, and the novelty of the luxurious
quarters provided in the frontier fortress soon died away. Cornelia
could only possess her soul in patience, and wonder how long it would
be before a letter could reach Italy, and the answer return. Where was
Drusus? Had aught befallen him in the great battle? Did he think of
her? And so, hour by hour, she repeated her questions--and waited.
[183] "Black" because of the black fertile mud deposited by the
inundation.
II
Cleopatra's forces had not reached proportions sufficient for her to
risk an engagement, when a little squadron appeared before Pelusium
bearing no less a person than Pompeius himself, who sent ashore to
demand, on the strength of former services to the late King Ptolemaeus
Auletes, a safe asylum, and assistance to make fresh head against the
Caesarians. There was a hurried convening of the council of Pothinus--a
select company of eunuchs, amateur generals, intriguing rhetoricians.
The conference was long; access to its debates closely guarded. The
issue could not be evaded; on the decision depended the
reestablishment of the Pompeians in a new and firm stronghold, or
their abandonment to further wanderings over the ocean. All Pelusium
realized what was at stake, and the excitement ran high.
Cornelia beyond others was agitated by the report of the arrival of
the Magnus. Rumour had it that Lucius Lentulus was close behind him.
If the council of Pothinus voted to receive the fugitives, her own
position would be unhappy indeed. For a time at least she would fall
into the power of her uncle and of Lucius Ahenobarbus. She was fully
determined, if it was decided to harbour the Pompeians, to try to
escape from the luxurious semi-captivity in which she was restrained.
She could escape across the frontier to the camp of Cleopatra, where
she knew a friendly welcome was in waiting. Agias, ever resourceful,
ever anxious to anticipate the slightest wish on the part of the Roman
ladies, actually began to bethink himself of the ways and means for a
flight. When finally it was announced in the camp and city that
Pompeius was to be received as a guest of the king, Cornelia was on
the point of demanding of Agias immediate action toward escape.
"In a few days," were her words, "my uncle will be here; and I am
undone, if not you also. There is not an hour to lose."
But Agias reasoned otherwise. If Pothinus and Achillas had really
consented to receive the Magnus, flight was indeed necessary. Agias,
however, had grounds, he thought, for hesitancy. He knew that
Achillas, the head of the army, bitterly opposed the idea of letting
Pompeius land; he knew, what was almost as much to the point, that
Pratinas did not care to renew certain acquaintanceships contracted at
Rome. Therefore the young Hellene calmed Cornelia's fears, and waited
as best he might.
The council had convened early in the day; the herald went through the
squares of Pelusium announcing that Ptolemaeus, "Son of Ra," would
receive as his guest the Roman suppliant. The shore fronting the
anchorage was covered with the files of the royal army in full array.
Several Egyptian men-of-war had been drawn down into the water and
their crews were hastening on board. Out in the haven rode the little
fleet of the Pompeians. Agias had heard the proclamation, and hurried
down to the mole to bear the earliest definite information to his
mistress. Presently, out of the throng of officers and court magnates
on the quay, stepped Achillas in a splendid panoply of gilded armour,
with a purple chiton flowing down from beneath. Beside him, with the
firm swinging step of the Roman legionary, strode two other officers
in magnificent armour, whom Agias at once recognized as Lucius
Septimius, a Roman tribune now in Egyptian service, and a certain
Salvius, who had once been a centurion of the Republic. The three
advanced on to the quay and stood for a moment at a loss. Agias, who
was quite near, could hear their conversation.
"The yacht is not ready for us."
"We cannot delay a moment."
There was a large open boat moored to the quay, a fisher man's craft.
In a moment a few subalterns had taken possession of it and there was
a call for rowers. Agias, who, like all his race, never declined a
chance "to see or hear some new thing," took his seat on one of the
benches, and soon the craft shot away from the mole with the three
officers in its stern.
It was a short pull to the Pompeian ships; Agias, as he glanced over
his shoulder thought he could see a motion on board the vessels as if
to sheer away from the boat; but in a moment the little craft was
alongside, under the lee of the flagship.
"Where is Pompeius Magnus?" cried Achillas, rising from his seat; "we
are sent to carry him to the king."
A martial, commanding figure was seen peering over the side,--a figure
that every inhabitant of Rome knew right well.
"I am he; but why do you come thus meanly with only a fisher's boat?
Is this honourable, is this worthy of a great king's guest?"
"Assuredly, kyrios," began Achillas, "we are forced to come in this
small craft, because the water is too shallow for larger ships to
approach the shore."
Agias knew that this was a lie; he was very certain that he was about
to be witness to a deed of the darkest treachery. A vague feeling of
shrinking and horror froze his limbs, and made his tongue swell in his
mouth. Yet he was perfectly powerless to warn; a sign or a word would
have meant his instant death.
"_Salve_, Imperator!" shouted Septimius in Latin, rising in turn.
"Don't you remember the campaign I had with you against the pirates?"
The fugitive general's care-worn face lighted up at the recognition of
an old officer.
"_Eu!_" he answered, "I shall not want for good friends, I see! How
glad I shall be to grasp your hands! But is not this a very small
boat? I see men going on board the galleys by the shore."
"You shall be satisfied in a moment, kyrios," repeated Achillas, with
suave assurance, "that the quicksands by the mole are very dangerous
to large vessels. Will you do us the honour to come aboard?"
Agias felt as though he must howl, scream, spring into the sea--do
anything to break the horrible suspense that oppressed him.
A woman was taking leave of Pompeius on the deck, a tall, stately,
patrician lady, with a sweet, trouble-worn face; Agias knew that she
was Cornelia Scipionis. She was adjuring her husband not to go ashore,
and he was replying that it was impossible to refuse; that if the
Egyptians meant evil, they could easily master all the fugitives with
their armament. Several of the Magnus's servants came down into the
boat--couple of trusted centurions, a valued freedman called Philip, a
slave named Scythes. Finally Pompeius tore himself from his wife's
arms.
"Do not grieve, all will be well!" were his words, while the boat's
crew put out their hands to receive him; and he added, "We must make
the best choice of evils. I am no longer my own master. Remember
Sophocles's iambics,
"He that once enters at a tyrant's door
Becomes a slave, though he were free before.'"
The general seated himself on the stern seat between the Egyptian
officers. Agias bent to his oar in sheer relief at finding some way in
which to vent his feelings; and tugged at the heavy paddle until its
tough blade bent almost to cracking. The silence on the part of the
officers was ominous. Not a word, not a hint of recognition, came from
Achillas or his Italian associates, from the instant that Pompeius set
foot in the boat. The stillness became awkward. The Magnus, flushed
and embarrassed, turned to Septimius. "I was not mistaken in
understanding that you were my fellow-soldier in years past?" His
answer was a surly nod. Pompeius, however, reined his rising feelings,
and took up and began to re-read some tablets on which he had written
an address in Greek, to be delivered before the king. Agias rowed on
with the energy of helpless desperation. They were very close to the
quay. A company of the royal body-guard in gala armour stood as if
awaiting the distinguished visitor. For a moment the young Hellene
believed that Achillas was sincere in his errand.
The boat drew up to the landing; one or two of the rowers sprang to
the dock and made her fast. Agias was unshipping his oar. His thought
was that he must now contrive the escape of Cornelia. Pompeius half
rose from his seat; the boat was pitching in the choppy harbour swell;
the general steadied himself by grasping the hands of Philip the
freedman. Suddenly, like the swoop of a hawk on its prey, Agias saw
the right hand of Septimius tear his short sword from its sheath. A
scream broke from the Hellene's lips; before the Magnus could turn his
head, the blow was struck. Pompeius received the blade full in the
back, and staggered, while Salvius and Achillas likewise drew and
thrust at him. Agias gazed on, paralyzed with horror. The general
seized his red paludamentum, threw it over his face, groaned once, and
fell. Even as he did so Septimius struck him across the neck,
decapitating the corpse. The brutal boatmen tore the blood-soaked
clothes off of the body, and flung it overboard, to drift ashore with
the current. And so it ended with Pompeius Magnus, Imperator, the
Fortunate, the favourite general of Sulla, the chieftain of "godlike
and incredible virtue," the conquerer of the kingdoms of the East,
thrice consul, thrice triumphator, joint ruler with Caesar of the
civilized world!
Agias hastened back to Cornelia to tell her that the danger was past,
that there was no need of a flight to Cleopatra; but he was sick at
heart when he thought of the treachery in which he had shared, albeit
so unwillingly.