OF THE WORDS AND JEALOUSY OF CHARMION; OF THE LAUGHTER OF HARMACHIS; OF
THE MAKING READY FOR THE DEED OF BLOOD; AND OF THE MESSAGE OF THE OLD WIFE, ATOUA
I stood still, plunged in thought. Then by hazard as it were I took up
the wreath of roses and looked on it. How long I stood so I know not,
but when next I lifted up my eyes they fell upon the form of Charmion,
whom, indeed, I had altogether forgotten. And though at the moment I
thought but little of it, I noted vaguely that she was flushed as though
with anger, and beat her foot upon the floor.
“Oh, it is thou, Charmion!” I said. “What ails thee? Art thou cramped
with standing so long in thy hiding-place? Why didst not thou slip hence
when Cleopatra led me to the balcony?”
“Where is my kerchief?” she asked, shooting an angry glance at me. “I
let fall my broidered kerchief.”
“Thy kerchief!--why, didst thou not see? Cleopatra twitted me about it,
and I flung it from the balcony.”
“Yes, I saw,” answered the girl, “I saw but too well. Thou didst fling
away my kerchief, but the wreath of roses--that thou wouldst not
fling away. It was ‘a Queen’s gift,’ forsooth, and therefore the royal
Harmachis, the Priest of Isis, the chosen of the Gods, the crowned
Pharaoh wed to the weal of Khem, cherished it and saved it. But my
kerchief, stung by the laughter of that light Queen, he cast away!”
“What meanest thou?” I asked, astonished at her bitter tone. “I cannot
read thy riddles.”
“What mean I?” she answered, tossing up her head and showing the white
curves of her throat. “Nay, I mean naught, or all; take it as thou wilt.
Wouldst know what I mean, Harmachis, my cousin and my Lord?” she went on
in a hard, low voice. “Then I will tell thee--thou art in danger of the
great offence. This Cleopatra has cast her fatal wiles about thee, and
thou goest near to loving her, Harmachis--to loving her whom to-morrow
thou must slay! Ay, stand and stare at that wreath in thy hand--the
wreath thou couldst not send to join my kerchief--sure Cleopatra wore it
but to-night! The perfume of the hair of Cæsar’s mistress--Cæsar’s
and others’--yet mingles with the odour of its roses! Now, prithee,
Harmachis, how far didst thou carry the matter on yonder balcony? for in
that hole where I lay hid I could not hear or see. ‘Tis a sweet spot for
lovers, is it not?--ay, and a sweet hour, too? Venus surely rules the
stars to-night?”
All of this she said so quietly and in so soft and modest a way, though
her words were not modest, and yet so bitterly, that every syllable cut
me to the heart, and angered me till I could find no speech.
“Of a truth thou hast a wise economy,” she went on, seeing her
advantage: “to-night thou dost kiss the lips that to-morrow thou shalt
still for ever! It is frugal dealing with the occasion of the moment;
ay, worthy and honourable dealing!”
Then at last I broke forth. “Girl,” I cried, “how darest thou speak
thus to me? Mindest thou who and what I am that thou loosest thy peevish
gibes upon me?”
“I mind what it behoves thee to be,” she answered quick. “What thou art,
that I mind not now. Surely thou knowest alone--thou and Cleopatra!”
“What meanest thou?” I said. “Am I to blame if the Queen----”
“The Queen! What have we here? Pharaoh owns a Queen!”
“If Cleopatra wills to come hither of a night and talk----”
“Of stars, Harmachis--surely of stars and roses, and naught beside!”
After that I know not what I said; for, troubled as I was, the girl’s
bitter tongue and quiet way drove me wellnigh to madness. But this I
know: I spoke so fiercely that she cowered before me as she had cowered
before my uncle Sepa when he rated her because of her Grecian garb. And
as she wept then, so she wept now, only more passionately and with great
sobs.
At length I ceased, half-shamed but still angry and smarting sorely.
For even while she wept she could find a tongue to answer with--and a
woman’s shafts are sharp.
“Thou shouldst not speak to me thus!” she sobbed; “it is cruel--it is
unmanly! But I forget thou art but a priest, not a man--except, mayhap,
for Cleopatra!”
“What right hast thou?” I said. “What canst thou mean?”
“What right have I?” she asked, looking up, her dark eyes all aflood
with tears that ran down her sweet face like the dew of morning down
a lily’s heart. “What right have I? O Harmachis! art thou blind? Didst
thou not know by what right I speak thus to thee? Then I must tell thee.
Well, it is the fashion in Alexandria! By that first and holy right of
woman--by the right of the great love I bear thee, and which, it seems,
thou hast no eyes to see--by the right of my glory and my shame. Oh,
be not wroth with me, Harmachis, nor set me down as light, because the
truth at last has burst from me; for I am not so. I am what thou wilt
make me. I am the wax within the moulder’s hands, and as thou dost
fashion me so I shall be. There breathes within me now a breath of
glory, blowing across the waters of my soul, that can waft me to ends
more noble than ever I have dreamed afore, if thou wilt be my pilot
and my guide. But if I lose thee, then I lose all that holds me from my
worse self--and let shipwreck come! Thou knowest me not, Harmachis! thou
canst not see how big a spirit struggles in this frail form of mine! To
thee I am a girl, clever, wayward, shallow. But I am more! Show me thy
loftiest thought and I will match it, the deepest puzzle of thy mind
and I will make it clear. Of one blood we are, and love can ravel up our
little difference and make us grow one indeed. One end we have, one land
we love, one vow binds us both. Take me to thy heart, Harmachis, set me
by thee on the Double Throne, and I swear that I will lift thee higher
than ever man has climbed. Reject me, and beware lest I pull thee down!
And now, putting aside the cold delicacy of custom, stung to it by what
I saw of the arts of that lovely living falsehood, Cleopatra, which
for pastime she practises on thy folly, I have spoken out my heart, and
answer thou!” And she clasped her hands and, drawing one pace nearer,
gazed, all white and trembling, on my face.
For a moment I stood struck dumb, for the magic of her voice and the
power of her speech, despite myself, stirred me like the rush of music.
Had I loved the woman, doubtless she might have fired me with her flame;
but I loved her not, and I could not play at passion. And so thought
came, and with thought that laughing mood, which is ever apt to fashion
upon nerves strained to the point of breaking. In a flash, as it were,
I bethought me of the way in which she had that very night forced the
wreath of roses on my head, I thought of the kerchief and how I had
flung it forth. I thought of Charmion in the little chamber watching
what she held to be the arts of Cleopatra, and of her bitter speeches.
Lastly, I thought of what my uncle Sepa would say of her could he see
her now, and of the strange and tangled skein in which I was inmeshed.
And I laughed aloud--the fool’s laughter that was my knell of ruin!
She turned whiter yet--white as the dead--and a look grew upon her face
that checked my foolish mirth. “Thou findest, then, Harmachis,” she
said in a low, choked voice, and dropping the level of her eyes, “thou
findest cause of merriment in what I have said?”
“Nay,” I answered; “nay, Charmion; forgive me if I laughed. It was
rather a laugh of despair; for what am I to say to thee? Thou hast
spoken high words of all thou mightest be: is it left for me to tell
thee what thou art?”
She shrank, and I paused.
“Speak,” she said.
“Thou knowest--none so well!--who I am and what my mission is: thou
knowest--none so well!--that I am sworn to Isis, and may, by law Divine,
have naught to do with thee.”
“Ay,” she broke in, in her low voice, and with her eyes still fixed upon
the ground--“ay, and I know that thy vows are broken in spirit, if not
in form--broken like wreaths of cloud; for, Harmachis--_thou lovest
Cleopatra!_”
“It is a lie!” I cried. “Thou wanton girl, who wouldst seduce me from my
duty and put me to an open shame!--who, led by passion or ambition, or
the love of evil, hast not shamed to break the barriers of thy sex and
speak as thou hast spoken--beware lest thou go too far! And if thou wilt
have an answer, here it is, put straightly, as thy question. Charmion,
outside the matter of my duty and my vows, thou art _naught_ to me!--nor
for all thy tender glances will my heart beat one pulse more fast!
Hardly art thou now my friend--for, of a truth, I scarce can trust thee.
But, once more: beware! To me thou mayest do thy worst; but if thou dost
dare to lift a finger against our cause, that day thou diest! And now,
is this play done?”
And as, wild with anger, I spoke thus, she shrank back, and yet further
back, till at length she rested against the wall, her eyes covered with
her hand. But when I ceased she dropped her hand, glancing up, and her
face was as the face of a statue, in which the great eyes glowed like
embers, and round them was a ring of purple shadow.
“Not altogether done,” she answered gently; “the arena must yet be
sanded!” This she said having reference to the covering up of the
bloodstains at the gladiatorial shows with fine sand. “Well,” she went
on, “waste not thine anger on a thing so vile. I have thrown my throw
and I have lost. _Væ victis!_--ah! _Væ victis!_ Wilt thou not lend me
the dagger in thy robe, that here and now I may end my shame? No? Then
one word more, most royal Harmachis: if thou canst, forget my folly;
but, at the least, have no fear from me. I am now, as ever, thy servant
and the servant of our cause. Farewell!”
And she went, leaning her hand against the wall. But I, passing to
my chamber, flung myself upon my couch, and groaned in bitterness of
spirit. Alas! we shape our plans, and by slow degrees build up our house
of Hope, never counting on the guests that time shall bring to lodge
therein. For who can guard against--the Unforeseen?
At length I slept, and my dreams were evil. When I woke the light of
the day which should see the red fulfilment of the plot was streaming
through the casement, and the birds sang merrily among the garden palms.
I woke, and as I woke the sense of trouble pressed in upon me, for I
remembered that before this day was gathered to the past I must dip
my hands in blood--yes, in the blood of Cleopatra, who trusted me! Why
could I not hate her as I should? There had been a time when I looked on
to this act of vengeance with somewhat of a righteous glow of zeal. And
now--and now--why, I would frankly give my royal birthright to be free
from its necessity! But, alas! I knew that there was no escape. I
must drain this cup or be for ever cast away. I felt the eyes of Egypt
watching me, and the eyes of Egypt’s Gods. I prayed to my Mother Isis
to give me strength to do this deed, and prayed as I had never prayed
before; and oh, wonder! no answer came. Nay, how was this? What, then,
had loosed the link between us that, for the first time, the Goddess
deigned no reply to her son and chosen servant? Could it be that I
had sinned in heart against her? What had Charmion said--that I loved
Cleopatra? Was this sickness love? Nay! a thousand times nay!--it was
but the revolt of Nature against an act of treachery and blood. The
Goddess did but try my strength, or perchance she also turned her holy
countenance from murder?
I rose filled with terror and despair, and went about my task like a man
without a soul. I conned the fatal lists and noted all the plans--ay, in
my brain I gathered up the very words of that proclamation of my Royalty
which, on the morrow, I should issue to the startled world.
“Citizens of Alexandria and dwellers in the land of Egypt,” it began,
“Cleopatra the Macedonian hath, by the command of the Gods, suffered
justice for her crimes----”
All these and other things I did, but I did them as a man without a
soul--as a man moved by a force from without and not from within. And so
the minutes wore away. In the third hour of the afternoon I went as by
appointment fixed to the house where my uncle Sepa lodged, that same
house to which I had been brought some three months gone when I entered
Alexandria for the first time. And here I found the leaders of the
revolt in the city assembled in secret conclave to the number of
seven. When I had entered, and the doors were barred, they prostrated
themselves, and cried, “Hail, Pharaoh!” but I bade them rise, saying
that I was not yet Pharaoh, for the chicken was still in the egg.
“Yea, Prince,” said my uncle, “but his beak shows through. Not in
vain hath Egypt brooded all these years, if thou fail not with that
dagger-stroke of thine to-night; and how canst thou fail? Nothing can
now stop our course to victory!”
“It is on the knees of the Gods,” I answered.
“Nay,” he said, “the Gods have placed the issue in the hands of a
mortal--in thy hands, Harmachis!--and there it is safe. See: here are
the last lists. Thirty-one thousand men who bear arms are sworn to rise
when the tidings come to them. Within five days every citadel in Egypt
will be in our hands, and then what have we to fear? From Rome but
little, for her hands are full; and, besides, we will make alliance with
the Triumvirate, and, if need be, buy them off. For of money there is
plenty in the land, and if more be wanted thou, Harmachis, knowest where
it is stored against the need of Khem, and outside the Roman’s reach
of arm. Who is there to harm us? There is none. Perchance, in this
turbulent city, there may be struggle, and a counter-plot to bring
Arsinoë to Egypt and set her on the throne. Therefore Alexandria must
be severely dealt with--ay, even to destruction, if need be. As for
Arsinoë, those go forth to-morrow on the news of the Queen’s death who
shall slay her secretly.”
“There remains the lad Cæsarion,” I said. “Rome might claim through
Cæsar’s son, and the child of Cleopatra inherits Cleopatra’s rights.
Here is a double danger.”
“Fear not,” said my uncle; “to-morrow Cæsarion joins those who begat him
in Amenti. I have made provision. The Ptolemies must be stamped out,
so that no shoot shall ever spring from that root blasted by Heaven’s
vengeance.”
“Is there no other means?” I asked sadly. “My heart is sick at the
promise of this red rain of blood. I know the child well; he has
Cleopatra’s fire and beauty and great Cæsar’s wit. It were shame to
murder him.”
“Nay, be not so chicken-hearted, Harmachis,” said my uncle, sternly.
“What ails thee, then? If the lad is thus, the more reason that he
should die. Wouldst thou nurse up a young lion to tear thee from the
throne?”
“Be it so,” I answered, sighing. “At least he is spared much, and will
go hence innocent of evil. Now for the plans.”
We sat long taking counsel, till at length, in face of the great
emergency and our high emprise, I felt something of the spirit of
former days flow back into my heart. At the last all was ordered, and so
ordered that it could scarce miscarry, for it was fixed that if by any
chance I could not come to slay Cleopatra on this night, then the plot
should hang in the scale till the morrow, when the deed must be done
upon occasion. For the death of Cleopatra was the signal. These matters
being finished, once more we stood and, our hands upon the sacred
symbol, swore the oath that may not be written. And then my uncle
kissed me with tears of hope and joy standing in his keen black eyes. He
blessed me, saying that he would gladly give his life, ay, and a hundred
lives, if they were his, if he might but live to see Egypt once more
a nation, and me, Harmachis, the descendant of its royal and ancient
blood, seated on the throne. For he was a patriot indeed, asking nothing
for himself, and giving all things to his cause. And I kissed him in
turn, and thus we parted. Nor did I ever see him more in the flesh who
has earned the rest that as yet is denied to me.
So I went, and, there being yet time, walked swiftly from place to place
in the great city, taking note of the positions of the gates and of the
places where our forces must be gathered. At length I came to that quay
where I had landed, and saw a vessel sailing for the open sea. I looked,
and in my heaviness of heart longed that I were aboard of her, to be
borne by her white wings to some far shore where I might live obscure
and die forgotten. Also I saw another vessel that had dropped down the
Nile, from whose deck the passengers were streaming. For a moment I
stood watching them, idly wondering if they were from Abouthis, when
suddenly I heard a familiar voice beside me.
“_La! la!_” said the voice. “Why, what a city is this for an old woman
to seek her fortune in! And how shall I find those to whom I am known?
As well look for the rush in the papyrus-roll.[*] Begone! thou knave!
and let my basket of simples lie; or, by the Gods, I’ll doctor thee with
them!”
[*] Papyrus was manufactured from the pith of rushes. Hence
Atoua’s saying.--Editor.
I turned, wondering, and found myself face to face with my foster-nurse,
Atoua. She knew me instantly, for I saw her start, but in the presence
of the people she checked her surprise.
“Good Sir,” she whined, lifting her withered countenance towards me, and
at the same time making the secret sign. “By thy dress thou shouldst be
an astronomer, and I was specially told to avoid astronomers as a pack
of lying tricksters who worship their own star only; and, therefore, I
speak to thee, acting on the principle of contraries, which is law to us
women. For surely in this Alexandria, where all things are upside
down, the astronomers may be the honest men, since the rest are clearly
knaves.” And then, being by now out of earshot of the press, “royal
Harmachis, I am come charged with a message to thee from thy father
Amenemhat.”
“Is he well?” I asked.
“Yes, he is well, though waiting for the moment tries him sorely.”
“And his message?”
“It is this. He sends greeting to thee and with it warning that a great
danger threatens thee, though he cannot read it. These are his words:
‘Be steadfast and prosper.’”
I bowed my head and the words struck a new chill of fear into my soul.
“When is the time?” she asked.
“This very night. Where goest thou?”
“To the house of the honourable Sepa, Priest of Annu. Canst thou guide
me thither?”
“Nay, I may not stay; nor is it wise that I should be seen with thee.
Hold!” and I called a porter who was idling on the quay, and, giving him
a piece of money, bade him guide the old wife to the house.
“Farewell,” she whispered; “farewell till to-morrow. Be steadfast and
prosper.”
Then I turned and went my way through the crowded streets, where the
people made place for me, the astronomer of Cleopatra, for my fame had
spread abroad.
And even as I went my footsteps seemed to beat _Be steadfast, Be
steadfast, Be steadfast_, till at last it was as though the very ground
cried out its warning to me.