CHAPTER XVI

OF THE PLAN OF CHARMION; OF THE CONFESSION OF CHARMION; AND OF THE

ANSWER OF HARMACHIS

For some while I sat with bowed head, and the last bitterness of shame

sank into my soul. This, then, was the end. For this I had betrayed my

oaths; for this I had told the secret of the pyramid; for this I had

lost my Crown, my Honour, and, perchance, my hope of Heaven! Could there

be another man in the wide world so steeped in sorrow as I was that

night? Surely not one! Where should I turn? What could I do? And even

through the tempest of my torn heart the bitter voice of jealousy called

aloud. For I loved this woman, to whom I had given all; and she at this

moment--she was----Ah! I could not bear to think of it; and in my utter

agony, my heart burst in a river of tears such as are terrible to weep!

Then Charmion drew near me, and I saw that she, too, was weeping.

“Weep not, Harmachis!” she sobbed, kneeling at my side. “I cannot endure

to see thee weep. Oh! why wouldst thou not be warned? Then hadst thou

been great and happy, and not as now. Listen, Harmachis! Thou didst hear

what that false and tigerish woman said--to-morrow she hands thee over

to the murderers!”

“It is well,” I gasped.

“Nay: it is not well. Harmachis, give her not this last triumph over

thee. Thou hast lost all save life: but while life remains, hope remains

also, and with hope the chance of vengeance.”

“Ah!” I said, starting from my seat. “I had not thought of that. Ay--the

chance of vengeance! It would be sweet to be avenged!”

“It would be sweet, Harmachis, and yet this--Vengeance is an arrow that

in falling oft pierces him who shot it. Myself--I know it,” and she

sighed. “But a truce to talk and grief. There will be time for us twain

to grieve, if not to talk, in all the heavy coming years. Thou must

fly--before the coming of the light must thou fly. Here is a plan.

To-morrow, ere the dawn, a galley that but yesterday came from

Alexandria, bearing fruit and stores, sails thither again, and its

captain is known to me, but to thee he is not known. Now, I will find

thee the garb of a Syrian merchant, and cloak thee, as I know how, and

furnish thee with a letter to the captain of the galley. He shall give

thee passage to Alexandria; for to him thou wilt seem but as a merchant

going on the business of thy trade. Brennus is officer of the guard

to-night, and Brennus is a friend to me and thee. Perhaps he will guess

somewhat; or, perhaps, he will not guess; at the least, the Syrian

merchant shall safely pass the lines. What sayest thou?”

“It is well,” I answered wearily; “little do I reck the issue.”

“Rest thou, then, here, Harmachis, while I make these matters ready;

and, Harmachis, grieve not overmuch; there are others who should grieve

more heavily than thou.” And she went, leaving me alone with my agony

which rent me like a torture-bed. Had it not been for that fierce desire

of vengeance which from time to time flashed across my tormented mind

as the lightning over a midnight sea, methinks my reason had left me

in that dark hour. At length I heard her footstep at the door, and she

entered, breathing heavily, for she bore a sack of clothing in her arms.

“It is well,” she said: “here is the garb with spare linen, and

writing-tablets, and all things needful. I have seen Brennus also, and

told him that a Syrian merchant would pass the guard an hour before the

dawn. And though he made pretence of sleep, I think he understood, for

he answered, yawning, that if they but had the pass-word, ‘Antony,’

fifty Syrian merchants might go through about their lawful business. And

here is the letter to the captain--thou canst not mistake the galley,

for she is moored along to the right--a small galley, painted black, as

thou dost enter on the great quay, and, moreover, the sailors make ready

for sailing. Now I will wait here without, while thou dost put off the

livery of thy service and array thyself.”

When she was gone I tore off my gorgeous garments and spat upon them and

trod them on the ground. Then I put on the modest robe of a merchant,

and bound the tablets round me, on my feet the sandals of untanned hide,

and at my waist the knife. When it was done Charmion entered once again

and looked on me.

“Too much art thou still the royal Harmachis,” she said; “see, it must

be changed.”

Then she took scissors from her tiring-table, and, bidding me be seated,

she cut off my locks, clipping the hair close to the head. Next she

found stains of such sort as women use to make dark the eyes, and mixed

them cunningly, rubbing the stuff on my face and hands and on the white

mark in my hair where the sword of Brennus had bitten to the bone.

“Now thou art changed--somewhat for the worse, Harmachis,” she said,

with a dreary laugh, “scarce myself should I know thee. Stay, there is

one more thing,” and, going to a chest of garments, she drew thence a

heavy bag of gold.

“Take thou this,” she said; “thou wilt have need of money.”

“I cannot take thy gold, Charmion.”

“Yes, take it. It was Sepa who gave it to me for the furtherance of

our cause, and therefore it is fitting that thou shouldst spend it.

Moreover, if I want money, doubtless Antony, who is henceforth my

master, will give me more; he is much beholden to me, and this he knows

well. There, waste not the precious time in haggling o’er the pelf--not

yet art thou all a merchant, Harmachis;” and, without more words, she

thrust the pieces into the leather bag that hung across my shoulders.

Then she made fast the sack containing the spare garments, and, so

womanly thoughtful was she, placed in it an alabaster jar of pigment,

with which I might stain my countenance afresh, and, taking the

broidered robes of my office that I had cast off, hid them in the secret

passage. And so at last all was made ready.

“Is it time that I should go?,” I asked.

“Not yet a while. Be patient, Harmachis, for but one little hour more

must thou endure my presence, and then, perchance, farewell for ever.”

I made a gesture signifying that this was no time for sharp words.

“Forgive me my quick tongue,” she said; “but from a salt spring bitter

waters well. Be seated, Harmachis; I have heavier words to speak to thee

before thou goest.”

“Say on,” I answered; “words, however heavy, can move me no more.”

She stood before me with folded hands, and the lamp-light shone upon her

beauteous face. I noticed idly how great was its pallor and how wide

and dark were the rings about the deep black eyes. Twice she lifted her

white face and strove to speak, twice her voice failed her; and when at

last it came it was in a hoarse whisper.

“I cannot let thee go,” she said--“I cannot let thee go unwitting of the

truth.

“_Harmachis, ‘twas I who did betray thee!_”

I sprang to my feet, an oath upon my lips; but she caught me by the

hand.

“Oh, be seated,” she said--“be seated and hear me; then, when thou hast

heard, do to me as thou wilt. Listen. From that evil moment when, in

the presence of thy uncle Sepa, for the second time I set eyes upon thy

face, I loved thee--how much, thou canst little guess. Think upon

thine own love for Cleopatra, and double it, and double it again, and

perchance thou mayst come near to my love’s mighty sum. I loved thee,

day by day I loved thee more, till in thee and for thee alone I seemed

to live. But thou wast cold--thou wast worse than cold! thou didst deal

with me not as a breathing woman, but rather as the instrument to an

end--as a tool with which to grave thy fortunes. And then I saw--yes,

long before thou knewest it thyself--thy heart’s tide was setting strong

towards that ruinous shore whereon to-day thy life is broken. And at

last that night came, that dreadful night when, hid within the chamber,

I saw thee cast my kerchief to the winds, and with sweet words cherish

my royal Rival’s gift. Then--oh, thou knowest--in my pain I betrayed

the secret that thou wouldst not see, and thou didst make a mock of me,

Harmachis! Oh! the shame of it--thou in thy foolishness didst make a

mock of me! I went thence, and within me were rising all the torments

which can tear a woman’s heart, for now I was sure that thou didst love

Cleopatra! Ay, and so mad was I, even that night I was minded to betray

thee: but I thought--not yet, not yet; to-morrow he may soften. Then

came the morrow, and all was ready for the bursting of the great plot

that should make thee Pharaoh. And I too came--thou dost remember--and

again thou didst put me away when I spake to thee in parables, as

something of little worth--as a thing too small to claim a moment’s

weighty thought. And, knowing that this was because--though thou knewest

it not--thou didst love Cleopatra, whom now thou must straightway slay,

I grew mad, and a wicked Spirit entered into me, possessing me utterly,

so that I was myself no longer, nor could control myself. And because

thou hadst scorned me, I did this, to my everlasting shame and

sorrow!--I passed into Cleopatra’s presence and betrayed thee and those

with thee, and our holy cause, saying that I had found a writing which

thou hadst let fall and read all this therein.”

I gasped and sat silent; and gazing sadly at me she went on:

“When she understood how great was the plot, and how deep its roots,

Cleopatra was much troubled; and, at first, she would have fled to Sais

or taken ship and run for Cyprus, but I showed her that the ways were

barred. Then she said she would cause thee to be slain, there, in the

chamber, and I left her so believing; for, at that hour, I was glad that

thou shouldst be slain--ay, even if I wept out my heart upon thy grave,

Harmachis. But what said I just now?--Vengeance is an arrow that oft

falls on him who looses it. So it was with me; for between my going and

thy coming Cleopatra hatched a deeper plan. She feared that to slay thee

would only be to light a fiercer fire of revolt; but she saw that to

bind thee to her, and, having left men awhile in doubt, to show thee

faithless, would strike the imminent danger at its roots and wither

it. This plot once formed, being great, she dared its doubtful issue,

and--need I go on? Thou knowest, Harmachis, how she won; and thus the

shaft of vengeance that I loosed fell upon my own head. For on the

morrow I knew that I had sinned for naught, that the burden of my

betrayal had been laid on the wretched Paulus, and that I had but ruined

the cause to which I was sworn and given the man I loved to the arms of

wanton Egypt.”

She bowed her head awhile, and then, as I spoke not, once more went on:

“Let all my sin be told, Harmachis, and then let justice come. See now,

this thing happened. Half did Cleopatra learn to love thee, and deep in

her heart she bethought her of taking thee to wedded husband. For the

sake of this half love of hers she spared the lives of those in the plot

whom she had meshed, bethinking her that if she wedded thee she might

use them and thee to draw the heart of Egypt, which loves not her nor

any Ptolemy. And then, once again she entrapped thee, and in thy folly

thou didst betray to her the secret of the hidden wealth of Egypt, which

to-day she squanders to delight the luxurious Antony; and, of a truth,

at that time she purposed to make good her oath and marry thee. But on

the very morn when Dellius came for answer she sent for me, and telling

me all--for my wit, above any, she holds at price--demanded of me my

judgment whether she should defy Antony and wed thee, or whether she

should put the thought away and come to Antony. And I--now mark thou all

my sin--I, in my bitter jealousy, rather than I would see her thy wedded

wife and thou her loving lord, counselled her most strictly that

she should come to Antony, well knowing--for I had had speech with

Dellius--that if she came, this weak Antony would fall like a ripe fruit

at her feet, as, indeed, he has fallen. And but now I have shown thee

the issue of the scheme. Antony loves Cleopatra and Cleopatra loves

Antony, and thou art robbed, and matters have gone well for me, who of

all women on the earth to-night am the wretchedest by far. For when I

saw how thy heart broke but now, my heart seemed to break with thine,

and I could no longer bear the burden of my evil deeds, but knew that I

must tell them and take my punishment.

“And now, Harmachis, I have no more to say; save that I thank thee for

thy courtesy in hearkening, and this one thing I add. Driven by my great

love I have sinned against thee unto death! I have ruined thee, I have

ruined Khem, and myself also I have ruined! Let death reward me! Slay

thou me, Harmachis--I will gladly die upon thy sword; ay, and kiss its

blade! Slay thou me and go; for if thou slayest me not, myself I will

surely slay!” And she threw herself upon her knees, lifting her fair

breast toward me, that I might smite her with my dagger. And, in my

bitter fury, I was minded to strike; for, above all, I thought how,

when I was fallen, this woman, who herself was my cause of shame, had

scourged me with her whip of scorn. But it is hard to slay a fair woman;

and, even as I lifted my hand to strike, I remembered that she had now

twice saved my life.

“Woman! thou shameless woman!” I said, “arise! I slay thee not! Who am

I, that I should judge thy crime, that, with mine own, doth overtop all

earthly judgment?”

“Slay me, Harmachis!” she moaned; “slay me, or I slay myself! My burden

is too great for me to bear! Be not so deadly calm! Curse me, and slay!”

“What was it that thou didst say to me just now, Charmion--that as I had

sown so I must reap? It is not lawful that thou shouldst slay thyself;

it is not lawful that I, thine equal in sin, should slay thee because

through thee I sinned. As _thou_ hast sown, Charmion, so must _thou_

also reap. Base woman! whose cruel jealousy has brought all these woes

on me and Egypt, live--live on, and from year to year pluck the bitter

fruit of crime! Haunted be thy sleep by visions of thy outraged Gods,

whose vengeance awaits thee and me in their dim Amenti! Haunted be thy

days by memories of that man whom thy fierce love brought to shame and

ruin, and by the sight of Khem a prey to the insatiate Cleopatra and a

slave to Roman Antony.”

“Oh, speak not thus, Harmachis! Thy words are sharper than any sword;

and more surely, if more slowly, shall they slay! Listen, Harmachis,”

and she grasped my robe: “when thou wast great, and all power lay within

thy grasp, thou didst reject me. Wilt reject me now that Cleopatra hast

cast thee from her--now that thou art poor and shamed and with no pillow

to thy head? Still am I fair, and still I worship thee. Let me fly with

thee, and make atonement for my lifelong love. Or, if this be too great

a thing to ask, let me be but as thy sister and thy servant--thy very

slave, so that I may still look upon thy face, and share thy trouble

and minister to thee. O Harmachis, let me but come and I will brave all

things and endure all things, and nothing but Death himself shall stay

me from thy side. For I do believe that the love that sank me to so low

a depth, dragging thee with me, can yet lift me to an equal height, and

thee with me!”

“Wouldst tempt me to fresh sin, woman? And dost thou think, Charmion,

that in some hovel where I must hide, I could bear, day by day, to look

upon thy fair face, and seeing, remember that those lips betrayed me?

Not thus easily shalt thou atone! This I know even now: many and heavy

shall be thy lonely days of penance! Perchance that hour of vengeance

yet may come, and perchance thou shalt live to play thy part in it. Thou

must still abide in the Court of Cleopatra; and, while thou art there,

if I yet live, I will from time to time find means to give thee tidings.

Perhaps a day may dawn when once more I shall need thy service. Now,

swear that, in this event, thou wilt not fail me a second time.”

“I swear, Harmachis!--I swear! May everlasting torments, too hideous to

be dreamed--more hideous, even, by far, than those that wring me now--be

my portion if I fail thee in one jot or tittle--ay, though I wait a

lifetime for thy word!”

“It is well; see that thou keep the oath--not twice may we betray. I go

to work out my fate; abide thou to work out thine. Perchance our divers

threads will once more mingle ere the web be spun. Charmion, who unasked

didst love me--and who, prompted by that gentle love of thine, didst

betray and ruin me--fare thee well!”

She gazed wildly upon my face--she stretched out her arms as though to

clasp me; then, in the agony of her despair, she cast herself at length

and grovelled upon the ground.

I took up the sack of clothing and the staff and gained the door, and,

as I passed it, I threw one last glance upon her. There she lay, with

arms outstretched--more white than her white robes--her dark hair

streaming about her, and her fair brows hidden in the dust.

And thus I left her, nor did I again set my eyes upon her till nine long

years had come and gone.

[Here ends the second and largest roll of papyrus.]

BOOK III--THE VENGEANCE OF HARMACHIS

CHAPTER I

OF THE ESCAPE OF HARMACHIS FROM TARSUS; OF HIS BEING CAST FORTH AS AN

OFFERING TO THE GODS OF THE SEA; OF HIS SOJOURN IN THE ISLE OF CYPRUS;

OF HIS RETURN TO ABOUTHIS; AND OF THE DEATH OF AMENEMHAT

I made my way down the stair in safety, and presently stood in the

courtyard of that great house. It was but an hour from dawn, and none

were stirring. The last reveller had drunk his fill, the dancing-girls

had ceased their dancing, and silence lay upon the city. I drew near the

gate, and was challenged by an officer who stood on guard, wrapped in a

heavy cloak.

“Who passes,” said the voice of Brennus.

“A merchant, may it please you, Sir, who, having brought gifts from

Alexandria to a lady of the Queen’s household, and, having been

entertained of the lady, now departs to his galley,” I answered in a

feigned voice.

“Umph!” he growled. “The ladies of the Queen’s household keep their

guests late. Well; it is a time of festival. The pass-word, Sir

Shopkeeper? Without the pass-word you must needs return and crave the

lady’s further hospitality.”

“‘_Antony_,’ Sir; and a right good word, too. Ah! I’ve wandered far, and

never saw I so goodly a man or so great a general. And, mark you, Sir!

I’ve travelled far, and seen many generals.”

“Ay; ‘_Antony_‘’s the word! And Antony is a good general in his

way--when it is a sober way, and when he cannot find a skirt to follow.

I’ve served with Antony--and against him, too; and know his points.

Well, well; he’s got an armful now!”

And all this while that he was holding me in talk, the sentry had been

pacing to and fro before the gate. But now he moved a little way to the

right, leaving the entrance clear.

“Fare thee well, Harmachis, and begone!” whispered Brennus, leaning

forward and speaking quickly. “Linger not. But at times bethink thee of

Brennus who risked his neck to save thine. Farewell, lad, I would that

we were sailing North together,” and he turned his back upon me and

began to hum a tune.

“Farewell, Brennus, thou honest man,” I answered, and was gone. And, as

I heard long afterwards, when on the morrow the hue and cry was

raised because the murderers could not find me, though they sought me

everywhere to slay me, Brennus did me a service. For he swore that as

he kept his watch alone an hour after midnight he saw me come and stand

upon the parapet of the roof, that then I stretched out my robes

and they became wings on which I floated up to Heaven, leaving him

astonished. And all those about the Court lent ear to this history,

believing in it, because of the great fame of my magic; and they

wondered much what the marvel might portend. The tale also travelled

into Egypt, and did much to save my good name among those whom I had

betrayed; for the more ignorant among them believed that I acted not

of my will, but of the will of the dread Gods, who of their own purpose

wafted me into Heaven. And thus to this day the saying runs that “_When

Harmachis comes again Egypt shall be free._” But alas, Harmachis comes

no more! Only Cleopatra, though she was much afraid, doubted her of the

tale, and sent an armed vessel to search for the Syrian merchant, but

not to find him, as shall be told.

When I reached the galley of which Charmion had spoken, I found her

about to sail, and gave the writing to the captain, who conned it,

looking on me curiously, but said nothing.

So I went aboard, and immediately we dropped swiftly down the river with

the current. And having come to the mouth of the river unchallenged,

though we passed many vessels, we put out to sea with a strong favouring

wind that before night freshened to a great gale. Then the sailor men,

being much afraid, would have put about and run for the mouth of Cydnus

again, but could not because of the wildness of the sea. All that night

it blew furiously, and by dawn our mast was carried away, and we rolled

helplessly in the trough of the great waves. But I sat wrapped in a

cloak, little heeding; and because I showed no fear the sailors cried

out that I was a wizard, and sought to cast me into the sea, but the

captain would not. At dawn the wind slackened, but ere noon it once more

blew in terrible fury, and at the fourth hour from noon we came in sight

of the rocky coast of that cape in the island of Cyprus which is called

Dinaretum, where is a mountain named Olympus, and thither-wards we

drifted swiftly. Then, when the sailors saw the terrible rocks, and how

the great waves that smote on them spouted up in foam, once more they

grew much afraid, and cried out in their fear. For, seeing that I still

sat unmoved, they swore that I certainly was a wizard, and came to

cast me forth as a sacrifice to the Gods of the sea. And this time the

captain was over-ruled, and said nothing. Therefore, when they came to

me I rose and defied them, saying, “Cast me forth, if ye will; but if ye

cast me forth ye shall perish.”

For in my heart I cared little, having no more any love of life,

but rather a desire to die, though I greatly feared to pass into the

presence of my Holy Mother Isis. But my weariness and sorrow at the

bitterness of my lot overcame even this heavy fear; so that when, being

mad as brute beasts, they seized me and, lifting me, hurled me into the

raging waters, I did but utter one prayer to Isis and made ready for

death. But it was fated that I should not die; for, when I rose to the

surface of the water, I saw a spar of wood floating near me, to which I

swam and clung. And a great wave came and swept me, riding, as it were,

upon the spar, as when a boy I had learned to do in the waters of the

Nile, past the bulwarks of the galley where the fierce-faced sailors

clustered to see me drown. And when they saw me come mounted on the

wave, cursing them as I came, and saw, too, that the colour of my

face had changed--for the salt water had washed way the pigment, they

shrieked with fear and threw themselves down upon the deck. And within a

very little while, as I rode toward the rocky coast, a great wave poured

into the vessel, that rolled broadside on, and pressed her down into the

deep, whence she rose no more.

So she sank with all her crew. And in that same storm also sank the

galley which Cleopatra had sent to search for the Syrian merchant. Thus

all traces of me were lost, and of a surety she believed that I was

dead.

But I rode on toward the shore. The wind shrieked and the salt waves

lashed my face as, alone with the tempest, I rushed upon my way, while

the sea-birds screamed about my head. I felt no fear, but rather a wild

uplifting of the heart; and in the stress of my imminent peril the love

of life seemed to waken again. And so I plunged and drifted, now tossed

high toward the lowering clouds, now cast into the deep valleys of the

sea, till at length the rocky headland loomed before me, and I saw the

breakers smite upon the stubborn rocks, and through the screaming of

the wind heard the sullen thunder of their fall and the groan of stones

sucked seaward from the beach. On! high-throned upon the mane of a

mighty billow--fifty cubits beneath me the level of the hissing waters;

above me the inky sky! It was done! The spar was torn from me, and,

dragged downwards by the weight of the bag of gold and the clinging of

my garments, I sank struggling furiously.

Now I was under--the green light for a moment streamed through the

waters, and then came darkness, and on the darkness pictures of the

past. Picture after picture--all the long scene of life was written

here. Then in my ears I only heard the song of the nightingale, the

murmur of the summer sea, and the music of Cleopatra’s laugh of victory,

following me softly and yet more soft as I sank away to sleep.

Once more my life came back, and with it a sense of deadly sickness and

of aching pain. I opened my eyes and saw a kind face bending over me,

and knew that I was in the room of a builded house.

“How came I hither?” I asked faintly.

“Of a truth, Poseidon brought thee, Stranger,” answered a rough voice

in barbarous Greek; “we found thee cast high upon the beach like a dead

dolphin and brought thee to our house, for we are fisher-folk. And here,

methinks, thou must lie a while, for thy left leg is broken by the force

of the waves.”

I strove to move my foot and could not. It was true, the bone was broken

above the knee.

“Who art thou, and how art thou named?” asked the rough-bearded sailor.

“I am an Egyptian traveller whose ship has sunk in the fury of the gale,

and I am named Olympus,” I answered, for these people called a mountain

that we had sighted Olympus, and therefore I took the name at hazard.

And as Olympus I was henceforth known.

Here with these rough fisher-folk I abode for the half of a year, paying

them a little out of the sum of gold that had come safely ashore upon

me. For it was long before my bones grew together again, and then I was

left somewhat of a cripple; for I, who had been so tall and straight and

strong, now limped--one limb being shorter than the other. And after I

recovered from my hurt, I still lived there, and toiled with them at the

trade of fishing; for I knew not whither I should go or what I should

do, and, for a while, I was fain to become a peasant fisherman, and so

wear my weary life away. And these people entreated me kindly, though,

as others, they feared me much, holding me to be a wizard brought hither

by the sea. For my sorrows had stamped so strange an aspect on my face

that men gazing at me grew fearful of what lay beneath its calm.

There, then, I abode, till at length, one night as I lay and strove to

sleep, great restlessness came upon me, and a mighty desire once more to

see the face of Sihor. But whether this desire was of the Gods or born

of my own heart, not knowing, I cannot tell. So strong was it, at the

least, that before it was dawn I rose from my bed of straw and

clothed myself in my fisher garb, and, because I had no wish to answer

questions, thus I took farewell of my humble hosts. First I placed some

pieces of gold on the well-cleaned table of wood, and then taking a pot

of flour I strewed it in the form of letters, writing:

“This gift from Olympus, the Egyptian, who returns into the sea.”

Then I went, and on the third day I came to the great city of Salamis,

that is also on the sea. Here I abode in the fishermen’s quarters till

a vessel was about to sail for Alexandria, and to the captain of this

vessel, a man of Paphos, I hired myself as a sailor. We sailed with a

favouring wind, and on the fifth day I came to Alexandria, that hateful

city, and saw the light dancing on its golden domes.

Here I might not abide. So again I hired myself out as a sailor, giving

my labour in return for passage, and we passed up the Nile. And I

learned from the talk of men that Cleopatra had come back to Alexandria,

drawing Antony with her and that they lived together with royal state

in the palace on the Lochias. Indeed, the boatmen already had a song

thereon, which they sang as they laboured at the oar. Also I heard how

the galley that was sent to search for the vessel which carried the

Syrian merchant had foundered with all her crew, and the tale that the

Queen’s astronomer, Harmachis, had flown to Heaven from the roof of the

house at Tarsus. And the sailors wondered because I sat and laboured and

would not sing their ribald song of the loves of Cleopatra. For they,

too, began to fear me, and mutter concerning me among themselves. Then

I knew that I was a man accursed and set apart--a man whom none might

love.

On the sixth day we drew nigh to Abouthis, where I left the craft, and

the sailors were right glad to see me go. And, with a breaking heart, I

walked through the fertile fields, seeing faces that I knew well. But in

my rough disguise and limping gait none knew me. At length, as the sun

sank, I came near to the great outer pylon of the temple; and here I

crouched down in the ruins of a house, not knowing why I had come or

what I was about to do. Like a lost ox I had strayed from far, back to

the fields of my birth, and for what? If my father, Amenemhat, still

lived, surely he would turn his face from me. I dared not go into the

presence of my father. I sat hidden there among the broken rafters, and

idly watched the pylon gates, to see if, perchance, a face I knew should

issue from them. But none came forth or entered in, though the great

gates stood wide; and then I saw that herbs were growing between the

stones, where no herbs had grown for ages. What could this be? Was the

temple deserted? Nay; how could the worship of the eternal Gods have

ceased, that for thousands of years had, day by day, been offered in the

holy place? Was, then, my father dead? It well might be. And yet, why

this silence? Where were the priests: where the worshippers?

I could bear the doubt no more, but as the sun sank red I crept like a

hunted jackal through the open gates, and on till I reached the first

great Hall of Pillars. Here I paused and gazed around me--not a sight,

not a sound, in the dim and holy place! I went on with a beating heart

to the second great hall, the hall of six-and-thirty pillars where I

had been crowned Lord of all the Lands: still not a sight or a sound!

Thence, half fearful of my own footfall, so terribly did it echo in the

silence of the deserted Holies, I passed down the passage of the names

of the Pharaohs towards my father’s chamber. The curtain still swung

over the doorway; but what would there be within?--also emptiness? I

lifted it, and noiselessly passed in, and there in his carven chair

at the table on which his long white beard flowed, sat my father,

Amenemhat, clad in his priestly robes. At first I thought that he was

dead, he sat so still; but at length he turned his head, and I saw that

his eyes were white and sightless. He was blind, and his face was thin

as the face of a dead man, and woeful with age and grief.

I stood still and felt the blind eyes wandering over me. I could not

speak to him--I dared not speak to him; I would go and hide myself

afresh.

I had already turned and grasped the curtain, when my father spoke in a

deep, slow voice:

“Come hither, thou who wast my son and art a traitor. Come hither, thou

Harmachis, on whom Khem builded up her hope. Not in vain, then, have I

drawn thee from far away! Not in vain have I held my life in me till I

heard thy footfall creeping down these empty Holies, like the footfall

of a thief!”

“Oh! my father,” I gasped, astonished. “Thou art blind: how knowest thou

me?”

“How do I know thee?--and askest thou that who hast learned of our lore?

Enough, I know thee and I brought thee hither. Would, Harmachis, that I

knew thee not! Would that I had been blasted of the Invisible ere I drew

thee down from the womb of Nout, to be my curse and shame, and the last

woe of Khem!”

“Oh, speak not thus!” I moaned; “is not my burden already more than I

can bear? Am I not myself betrayed and utterly outcast? Be pitiful, my

father!”

“Be pitiful!--be pitiful to thee who hast shown so great pity? It

was thy pity which gave up noble Sepa to die beneath the hands of the

tormentors!”

“Oh, not that--not that!” I cried.

“Ay, traitor, that!--to die in agony, with his last poor breath

proclaiming thee, his murderer, honest and innocent! Be pitiful to

thee, who gavest all the flower of Khem as the price of a wanton’s

arms!--thinkest thou that, labouring in the darksome desert mines, those

noble ones in thought are pitiful to thee, Harmachis? Be pitiful to

thee, by whom this Holy Temple of Abouthis hath been ravaged, its lands

seized, its priests scattered, and I alone, old and withered, left to

count out its ruin--to thee, who hast poured the treasures of _Her_ into

thy leman’s lap, who hast forsworn Thyself, thy Country, thy Birthright,

and thy Gods! Yea, thus am I pitiful: Accursed be thou, fruit of my

loins!--Shame be thy portion, Agony thy end, and Hell receive thee at

the last! Where art thou? Yea, I grew blind with weeping when I heard

the truth--sure, they strove to hide it from me. Let me find thee that I

may spit upon thee, thou Renegade! thou Apostate! thou Outcast!”--and he

rose from his seat and staggered like a living Wrath toward me, smiting

the air with his wand. And as he came with outstretched arms, awful to

see, suddenly his end found him, and with a cry he sank down upon the

ground, the red blood streaming from his lips. I ran to him and lifted

him; and as he died, he babbled:

“He was my son, a bright-eyed lovely boy, and full of promise as the

Spring; and now--and now--oh, would that he were dead!”

Then came a pause and the breath rattled in his throat.

“Harmachis,” he gasped, “art there?”

“Yea, father.”

“Harmachis, atone!--atone! Vengeance can still be wreaked--forgiveness

may still be won. There’s gold; I’ve hidden it--Atoua--she can tell

thee--ah, this pain! Farewell!”

And he struggled faintly in my arms and was dead.

Thus, then, did I and my holy father, the Prince Amenemhat, meet

together for the last time in the flesh, and for the last time part.

CHAPTER II

OF THE LAST MISERY OF HARMACHIS; OF THE CALLING DOWN OF THE HOLY ISIS BY

THE WORD OF FEAR; OF THE PROMISE OF ISIS; OF THE COMING OF ATOUA, AND OF

THE WORDS OF ATOUA

I crouched upon the floor gazing at the dead body of my father, who had

lived to curse me, the utterly accursed, while the darkness crept and

gathered round us, till at length the dead and I were alone in the black

silence. Oh, how tell the misery of that hour! Imagination cannot dream

it, nor words paint it forth. Once more in my wretchedness I bethought

me of death. A knife was at my girdle, with which I might cut the thread

of sorrow and set my spirit free. Free? ay, free to fly and face the

last vengeance of the Holy Gods! Alas! and alas! I did not dare to die.

Better the earth with all its woes than the quick approach of those

unimagined terrors that, hovering in dim Amenti, wait the advent of the

fallen.

I grovelled on the ground and wept tears of agony for the lost

unchanging past--wept till I could weep no more; but no answer came from

the silence--no answer but the echoes of my grief. Not a ray of hope! My

soul wandered in a darkness more utter than that which was about me--I

was forsaken of the Gods and cast out of men. Terror took hold upon me

crouching in that lonely place hard by the majesty of the awful Dead. I

rose to fly. How could I fly in this gloom?--And where should I fly who

had no place of refuge? Once more I crouched down, and the great fear

grew on me till the cold sweat ran from my brow and my soul was faint

within me. Then, in my last despair, I prayed aloud to Isis, to whom I

had not dared to pray for many days.

“O Isis! Holy Mother!” I cried; “put away Thy wrath, and of Thine

infinite pity, O Thou all-pitiful, hearken to the voice of the anguish

of him who was Thy son and servant, but who by sin hath fallen from the

vision of Thy love. O throned Glory, who, being in all things, hast of

all things understanding and of all griefs knowledge, cast the weight

of Thy mercy against the scale of my evil-doing, and make the balance

equal. Look down upon my woe, and measure it; count up the sum of my

repentance and take Thou note of the flood of sorrow that sweeps my soul

away. O Thou Holy, whom it was given to me to look upon face to face,

by that dread hour of commune I summon Thee; I summon Thee by the mystic

word. Come, then, in mercy, to save me; or, in anger, to make an end of

that which can no more be borne.”

And, rising from my knees, I stretched out my arms and dared to cry

aloud the Word of Fear, to use which unworthily is death.

Swiftly the answer came. For in the silence I heard the sound of the

shaken sistra heralding the coming of the Glory. Then, at the far end of

the chamber, grew the semblance of the horned moon, gleaming faintly in

the darkness, and betwixt the golden horns rested a small dark cloud, in

and out of which the fiery serpent climbed.

My knees waxed loose in the presence of the Glory, and I sank down

before it.

Then spake the small, sweet Voice within the cloud:

“Harmachis, who wast my servant and my son, I have heard thy prayer, and

the summons that thou hast dared to utter, which on the lips of one with

whom I have communed, hath power to draw Me from the Uttermost. No more,

Harmachis, may we be one in the bond of Love Divine, for thou hast put

Me away of thine own act. Therefore, after this long silence I come,

Harmachis, clothed in terrors, and, perchance, ready for vengeance, for

not lightly can Isis be drawn from the halls of Her Divinity.”

“Smite, Goddess!” I answered. “Smite, and give me over to those who

wreak Thy vengeance; for I can no longer bear the burden of my woe!”

“And if thou canst not bear thy burden here, upon this upper earth,”

came the soft reply, “how then shalt thou bear the greater burden that

shall be laid upon thee there, coming defiled and yet unpurified into my

dim realm of Death, that is Life and Change unending? Nay, Harmachis, I

smite thee not, for not all am I wroth that thou hast dared to utter

the awful Word which calls Me down to thee. Hearken, Harmachis; I praise

not, and I reproach not, for I am the Minister of Reward and Punishment

and the Executrix of Decrees; and if I give, I give in silence; and if I

smite, in silence do I smite. Therefore, I will add naught to thy burden

by the weight of heavy words, though through thee it has come to pass

that soon shall Isis, the Mother-Mystery, be but a memory in Egypt. Thou

hast sinned, and heavy shall be thy punishment, as I did warn thee, both

in the flesh and in my kingdom of Amenti. But I told thee that there is

a road of repentance, and surely thy feet are set thereon, and therein

must thou walk with a humble heart, eating of the bread of bitterness,

till such time as thy doom be measured.”

“Have I, then, no hope, O holy?”

“That which is done, Harmachis, is done, nor can its issues be altered.

Khem shall no more be free till all its temples are as the desert dust;

strange Peoples shall, from age to age, hold her hostage and in bonds;

new Religions shall arise and wither within the shadow of her pyramids,

for to every World, Race, and Age the countenances of the Gods are

changed. This is the tree that shall spring from thy seed of sin,

Harmachis, and from the sin of those who tempted thee!”

“Alas! I am undone!” I cried.

“Yea, thou art undone; and yet shall this be given to thee: thy

Destroyer thou shalt destroy--for so, in the purpose of my justice, it

is ordained. When the sign comes to thee, arise, go to Cleopatra, and

in such manner as I shall put into thy heart do Heaven’s vengeance

upon her! And now for thyself one word, for thou hast put Me from thee,

Harmachis, and no more shall I come face to face with thee till, cycles

hence, the last fruit of thy sin hath ceased to be upon this earth! Yet,

through the vastness of the unnumbered years, remember thou this: the

Love Divine is Love Eternal, which cannot be extinguished, though it be

everlastingly estranged. Repent, my son; repent and do well while

there is yet time, that at the dim end of ages thou mayest once more

be gathered unto Me. Still, Harmachis, though thou seest Me not; still,

when the very name by which thou knowest Me has become a meaningless

mystery to those who shall be after thee; still I, whose hours are

eternal--I, who have watched Universes wither, wane, and, beneath the

breath of Time, melt into nothingness; again to gather, and, re-born,

thread the maze of space--still, I say, I shall companion thee. Wherever

thou goest, in whatever form of life thou livest, there I shall be! Art

thou wafted to the farthest star, art thou buried in Amenti’s lowest

deep--in lives, in deaths, in sleeps, in wakings, in remembrances, in

oblivions, in all the fevers of the outer Life, in all the changes of

the Spirit--still, if thou wilt but atone and forget Me no more, I shall

be with thee, waiting thine hour of redemption. For this is the nature

of Love Divine, wherewith it loves that which partakes of its divinity

and by the holy tie hath once been bound to it. Judge then, Harmachis:

was it well to put this from thee to win the dust of earthly woman? And,

now, dare not again to utter the Word of Power till these things are

done! Harmachis, for this season, fare thee well!”

As the last note of the sweet Voice died away, the fiery snake climbed

into the heart of the cloud. Now the cloud rolled from the horns of

light, and was gathered into the blackness. The vision of the crescent

moon grew dim and vanished. Then, as the Goddess passed, once more came

the faint and dreadful music of the shaken sistra, and all was still.

I hid my face in my robe, and even then, though my outstretched hand

could touch the chill corpse of that father who had died cursing me,

I felt hope come back into my heart, knowing that I was not altogether

lost nor utterly rejected of Her whom I had forsaken, but whom I yet

loved. And then weariness overpowered me, and I slept.

I woke, the faint lights of dawn were creeping from the opening in the

roof. Ghastly they lay upon the shadowy sculptured walls and ghastly

upon the dead face and white beard of my father, the gathered to Osiris.

I started up, remembering all things, and wondering in my heart what

I should do, and as I rose I heard a faint footfall creeping down the

passage of the names of the Pharaohs.

“_La! La! La!_” mumbled a voice that I knew for the voice of the old

wife, Atoua. “Why, ‘tis dark as the House of the Dead! The Holy Ones

who built this Temple loved not the blessed sun, however much they

worshipped him. Now, where’s the curtain?”

Presently it was drawn, and Atoua entered, a stick in one hand and a

basket in the other. Her face was somewhat more wrinkled, and her scanty

locks were somewhat whiter than aforetime, but for the rest she was

as she had ever been. She stood and peered around with her sharp black

eyes, for as yet she could see nothing because of the shadows.

“Now where is he?” she muttered. “Osiris--glory to His name--send that

he has not wandered in the night, and he blind! Alack! that I could not

return before the dark. Alack! and alack! what times have we fallen on,

when the Holy High Priest and the Governor, by descent, of Abouthis, is

left with one aged crone to minister to his infirmity! O Harmachis, my

poor boy, thou hast laid trouble at our doors! Why, what’s this? Surely

he sleeps not, there upon the ground?--‘twill be his death! Prince! Holy

Father! Amenemhat! awake, arise!” and she hobbled towards the

corpse. “Why, how is it! By Him who sleeps, he’s dead! untended and

alone--_dead! dead!_” and she sent her long wail of grief ringing up the

sculptured walls.

“Hush! woman, be still!” I said, gliding from the shadows.

“Oh, what art thou?” she cried, casting down her basket. “Wicked man,

hast thou murdered this Holy One, the only Holy One in Egypt? Surely the

curse will fall on thee, for though the Gods do seem to have forsaken us

now in our hour of trial, yet is their arm long, and certainly they will

be avenged on him who hath slain their anointed!”

“Look on me, Atoua,” I cried.

“Look! ay, I look--thou wicked wanderer who hast dared this cruel deed!

Harmachis is a traitor and lost far away, and Amenemhat his holy father

is murdered, and now I’m all alone without kith or kin. I gave them for

him. I gave them for Harmachis, the traitor! Come, slay me also, thou

wicked one!”

I took a step toward her, and she, thinking that I was about to smite

her, cried out in fear:

“Nay, good Sir, spare me! Eighty and six, by the Holy Ones, eighty and

six, come next flood of Nile, and yet I would not die, though Osiris is

merciful to the old who served him! Come no nearer--help! help!”

“Thou fool, be silent,” I said; “knowest thou me not?”

“Know thee? Can I know every wandering boatman to whom Sebek grants

to earn a livelihood till Typhon claims his own? And yet--why, ‘tis

strange--that changed countenance!--that scar!--that stumbling gait! It

is thou, Harmachis!--‘tis thou, O my boy! Art come back to glad mine old

eyes? I hoped thee dead! Let me kiss thee?--nay, I forget. Harmachis is

a traitor, ay, and a murderer! Here lies the holy Amenemhat, murdered by

the traitor, Harmachis! Get thee gone! I’ll have none of traitors and of

parricides! Get thee to thy wanton!--it is not thou whom I did nurse.”

“Peace! woman; peace! I slew not my father--he died, alas!--he died even

in my arms.”

“Ay, surely, and cursing thee, Harmachis! Thou hast given death to him

who gave thee life! _La! la!_ I am old, and I’ve seen many a trouble;

but this is the heaviest of them all! I never liked the looks of

mummies; but I would I were one this hour! Get thee gone, I pray thee!”

“Old nurse, reproach me not! Have I not enough to bear?”

“Ah! yes, yes!--I did forget! Well; and what is thy sin? A woman was

thy bane, as women have been to those before thee, and shall be to those

after thee. And what a woman! _La! la!_ I saw her, a beauty such as

never was--an arrow pointed by the evil Gods for destruction! And thou,

a young man bred as a priest--an ill training--a very ill training!

‘Twas no fair match. Who can wonder that she mastered thee? Come,

Harmachis; let me kiss thee! It is not for a woman to be hard on a man

because he loved our sex too much. Why, that is but nature; and Nature

knows her business, else she had made us otherwise. But here is an evil

case. Knowest thou that this Macedonian Queen of thine hath seized the

temple lands and revenues, and driven away the priests--all, save the

holy Amenemhat, who lies here, and whom she left, I know not why; ay,

and caused the worship of the Gods to cease within these walls. Well,

he’s gone!--he’s gone! and indeed he is better with Osiris, for his life

was a sore burden to him. And hark thou, Harmachis: he hath not left

thee empty-handed; for, so soon as the plot failed, he gathered all his

wealth, and it is large, and hid it--where, I can show thee--and it is

thine by right of descent.”

“Talk not to me of wealth, Atoua. Where shall I go and how shall I hide

my shame?”

“Ah! true, true; here mayst thou not abide, for if they found thee,

surely they would put thee to the dreadful death--ay, to the death by

the waxen cloth. Nay, I will hide thee, and, when the funeral rites of

the holy Amenemhat have been performed, we will fly hence, and cover us

from the eyes of men till these sorrows are forgotten. _La! la!_ it is a

sad world, and full of trouble as the Nile mud is full of beetles. Come,

Harmachis, come.”

CHAPTER III

OF THE LIFE OF HIM WHO WAS NAMED THE LEARNED OLYMPUS, IN THE TOMB OF THE

HARPERS THAT IS BY TÁPÉ; OF HIS COUNSEL TO CLEOPATRA; OF THE MESSAGE OF

CHARMION; AND OF THE PASSING OF OLYMPUS DOWN TO ALEXANDRIA

These things then came to pass. For eighty days I was hidden of the old

wife, Atoua, while the body of the Prince, my father, was made ready for

burial by those skilled in the arts of embalming. And when at last

all things were done in order, I crept from my hiding-place and made

offerings to the spirit of my father, and placing lotus-flowers on his

breast went thence sorrowing. And on the following day, from where I lay

hid, I saw the Priests of the Temple of Osiris and of the holy shrine of

Isis come forth, and in slow procession bear his painted coffin to the

sacred lake and lay it beneath the funeral tent in the consecrated boat.

I saw them celebrate the symbol of the trial of the dead, and name him

above all men just, and then bear him thence to lay him by his wife,

my mother, in the deep tomb that he had hewn in the rock near to the

resting-place of the Holy Osiris, where, notwithstanding my sins, I,

too, hope to sleep ere long. And when all these things were done and the

deep tomb sealed, the wealth of my father having been removed from the

hidden treasury and placed in safety, I fled, disguised, with the old

wife, Atoua, up the Nile till we came to Tápé,[*] and here in this great

city I lay a while, till a place could be found where I should hide

myself.

[*] Thebes.--Editor.

And such a place I found. For to the north of the great city are brown

and rugged hills, and desert valley blasted of the sun, and in this

place of desolation the Divine Pharaohs, my forefathers, hollowed out

their tombs in the solid rock, the most part of which are lost to this

day, so cunningly have they been hidden. But some are open, for the

accursed Persians and other thieves broke into them in search

of treasure. And one night--for by night only did I leave my

hiding-place--just as the dawn was breaking on the mountain tops, I

wandered alone in this sad valley of death, like to which there is

no other, and presently came to the mouth of a tomb hidden amid great

rocks, which afterwards I knew for the place of the burying of the

Divine Rameses, the third of that name, now long gathered to Osiris. And

by the faint light of the dawn creeping through the entrance I saw that

it was spacious and that within were chambers.

On the following night, therefore, I returned, bearing lights, with

Atoua, my nurse, who ever ministered faithfully to me as when I was

little and without discretion. And we searched the mighty tomb and came

to the great Hall of the Sarcophagus of granite, in which the Divine

Rameses sleeps, and saw the mystic paintings on the walls: the symbol

of the Snake unending, the symbol of Ra resting upon the Scarabæus, the

symbol of Ra resting upon Nout, the symbol of the Headless men, and many

others, whereof, being initiated, well I read the mysteries. And

opening from the long descending passage I found chambers in which were

paintings beautiful to behold, and of all manner of things. For beneath

each chamber is entombed the master of the craft of which the paintings

tell, he who was the chief of the servants of that craft in the house

of this Divine Rameses. And on the walls of the last chamber--on

the left-hand side, looking toward the Hall of the Sarcophagus--are

paintings exceedingly beautiful, and two blind harpers playing upon

their bent harps before the God Mou; and beneath the flooring these

harpers, who harp no more, are soft at sleep. Here, then, in this gloomy

place, even in the tomb of the Harpers and the company of the dead, I

took up my abode; and here for eight long years I worked out my penance

and made atonement for my sin. But Atoua, because she loved to be near

the light, abode in the chamber of the Boats--that is, the first chamber

on the right-hand side of the gallery looking toward the Hall of the

Sarcophagus.

And this was the manner of my life. On every second day the old wife,

Atoua, went forth and brought water from the city and such food as is

necessary to keep the life from failing, and also tapers made from fat.

And one hour at the time of sunrise and one hour at the time of sunset

I did go forth also to wander in the valley for my health’s sake and to

save my sight from failing in the great darkness of the tomb. But the

other hours of the day and night, except when I climbed the mountain

to watch the course of the stars, I spent in prayer and meditation and

sleep, till the cloud of sin lifted from my heart and once more I drew

near to the Gods, though with Isis, my heavenly Mother, I might speak no

more. And I grew exceedingly wise also, pondering on all those mysteries

to which I held the key. For abstinence and prayer and sorrowful

solitude wore away the grossness of my flesh, and with the eyes of the

Spirit I learned to look deep into the heart of things till the joy of

Wisdom fell like dew upon my soul.

Soon the rumour was wafted about the city that a certain holy man named

Olympus abode in solitude in the tombs of the awful Valley of the Dead;

and hither came people bearing sick that I might cure them. And I gave

my mind to the study of simples, in which Atoua instructed me; and by

lore and the weight of my thought I gained great skill in medicine, and

healed many sick. And thus ever, as time went on, my fame was noised

abroad; for it was said that I was also a magician and that in the

tombs I had commune with the Spirits of the Dead. And this, indeed, I

did--though it is not lawful for me to speak of these matters. Thus,

then, it came to pass that no more need Atoua go forth to seek food and

water, for the people brought it--more than was needful, for I would

receive no fee. Now at first, fearing lest some in the hermit Olympus

might know the lost Harmachis, I would only meet those who came in the

darkness of the tomb. But afterwards, when I learned how it was held

through all the land that Harmachis was certainly no more, I came forth

and sat in the mouth of the tomb, and ministered to the sick, and

at times calculated nativities for the great. And thus my fame grew

continually, till at length folk journeyed even from Memphis and

Alexandria to visit me; and from them I learned how Antony had left

Cleopatra for a while, and, Fulvia being dead, had married Octavia, the

sister of Cæsar. Many other things I learned also.

And in the second year I did this: I despatched the old wife, Atoua,

disguised as a seller of simples, to Alexandria, bidding her seek out

Charmion, and, if yet she found her faithful, reveal to her the secret

of my way of life. So she went, and in the fifth month from her sailing

returned, bearing Charmion’s greetings and a token. And she told me that

she had found means to see Charmion, and, in talk, had let fall the name

of Harmachis, speaking of me as one dead; at which Charmion, unable to

control her grief, wept aloud. Then, reading her heart--for the old

wife was very clever, and held the key of knowledge--she told her that

Harmachis yet lived, and sent her greetings. Thereon Charmion wept yet

more with joy, and kissed the old wife, and made her gifts, bidding her

tell me that she had kept her vow, and waited for my coming and the hour

of vengeance. So, having learned many secrets, Atoua returned again to

Tápé.

And in the following year messengers came to me from Cleopatra, bearing

a sealed roll and great gifts. I opened the roll, and read this in it:

“Cleopatra to Olympus, the learned Egyptian who dwells in the Valley of

Death by Tápé--

“The fame of thy renown, O learned Olympus, hath reached our ears. Tell

thou, then, this to us, and if thou tellest aright greater honour and

wealth shalt thou have than any in Egypt: How shall we win back the love

of noble Antony, who is bewitched of cunning Octavia, and tarries long

from us?”

Now, in this I saw the hand of Charmion, who had made my renown known to

Cleopatra.

All that night I took counsel with my wisdom, and on the morrow wrote my

answer as it was put into my heart to the destruction of Cleopatra and

Antony. And thus I wrote:

“Olympus the Egyptian to Cleopatra the Queen--

“Go forth into Syria with one who shall be sent to lead thee; thus shalt

thou win Antony to thy arms again, and with him gifts more great than

thou canst dream.”

And with this letter I dismissed the messengers, bidding them share the

presents sent by Cleopatra among their company.

So they went wondering.

But Cleopatra, seizing on the advice to which her passion prompted her,

departed straightway with Fonteius Capito into Syria, and there the

thing came about as I had foretold, for Antony was subdued of her

and gave her the greater part of Cilicia, the ocean shore of Arabia

Nabathæa, the balm-bearing provinces of Judæa, the province of Phoenicia,

the province of Coele-Syria, the rich isle of Cyprus, and all the library

of Pergamus. And to the twin children that, with the son Ptolemy,

Cleopatra had borne to Antony, he impiously gave the names of “Kings,

the Children of Kings”--of Alexander Helios, as the Greeks name the sun,

and of Cleopatra Selene, the moon, the long-winged.

These things then came to pass.

Now on her return to Alexandria Cleopatra sent me great gifts, of which

I would have none, and prayed me, the learned Olympus, to come to her at

Alexandria; but it was not yet time, and I would not. But thereafter she

and Antony sent many times to me for counsel, and I ever counselled them

to their ruin, nor did my prophecies fail.

Thus the long years rolled away, and I, the hermit Olympus, the dweller

in a tomb, the eater of bread and the drinker of water, by strength of

the wisdom that was given me of the avenging Power, became once more

great in Khem. For I grew ever wiser as I trampled the desires of the

flesh beneath my feet and turned my eyes to heaven.

At length eight full years were accomplished. The war with the Parthians

had come and gone, and Artavasdes, King of Armenia, had been led in

triumph through the streets of Alexandria. Cleopatra had visited Samos

and Athens; and, by her counselling, the noble Octavia had been driven,

like some discarded concubine, from the house of Antony at Rome. And

now, at the last, the measure of the folly of Antony was full even to

the brim. For this Master of the World had no longer the good gift of

reason; he was lost in Cleopatra as I had been lost. Therefore, in the

event, Octavianus declared war against him.

And as I slept upon a certain day in the chamber of the Harpers, in the

tomb of Pharaoh that is by Tápé, there came to me a vision of my father,

the aged Amenemhat, and he stood over me, leaning on his staff, and

spoke, saying:

“Look forth, my son.”

Then I looked forth, and with the eyes of my spirit saw the sea, and

two great fleets grappling in war hard by a rocky coast. And the emblems

were those of Octavian, and of the other those of Cleopatra and Antony.

The ships of Antony and Cleopatra bore down upon the ships of Cæsar, and

drove them on, for victory inclined to Antony.

I looked again. There sat Cleopatra in a gold-decked galley watching the

fight with eager eyes. Then I cast my Spirit on her so that she seemed

to hear the voice of dead Harmachis crying in her ear.

“_Fly, Cleopatra,_” it seemed to say, “_fly or perish!_”

She looked up wildly, and again she heard my Spirit’s cry. Now a mighty

fear took hold of her. She called aloud to the sailors to hoist the

sails and make signal to her fleet to put about. This they did wondering

but little loath, and fled in haste from the battle.

Then a great roar went up from friend and foe.

“Cleopatra is fled! Cleopatra is fled!” And I saw wreck and red ruin

fall upon the fleet of Antony and awoke from my trance.

The days passed, and again a vision of my father came to me and spoke,

saying:

“Arise, my son!--the hour of vengeance is at hand! Thy plots have not

failed; thy prayers have been heard. By the bidding of the Gods, as she

sat in her galley at the fight of Actium, the heart of Cleopatra was

filled with fears, so that, deeming she heard thy voice bidding her fly

or perish, she fled with all her fleet. Now the strength of Actium is

broken on the sea. Go forth, and as it shall be put into thy mind, so do

thou.”

In the morning I awoke, wondering, and went to the mouth of the tomb,

and there, coming up the valley, I saw the messengers of Cleopatra, and

with them a Roman guard.

“What will ye with me now?” I asked, sternly.

“This is the message of the Queen and of great Antony,” answered the

Captain, bowing low before me, for I was much feared by all men. “The

Queen commands thy presence at Alexandria. Many times has she sent, and

thou wouldst not come; now she bids thee to come, and that swiftly, for

she has need of thy counsel.”

“And if I say Nay, soldier, what then?”

“These are my orders, most holy Olympus; that I bring thee by force.”

I laughed aloud. “By force, thou fool! Use not such talk to me, lest I

smite thee where thou art. Know, then, that I can kill as well as cure!”

“Pardon, I beseech thee!” he answered, shrinking. “I say but those

things that I am bid.”

“Well, I know it, Captain. Fear not; I come.”

So on that very day I departed, together with the aged Atoua. Ay, I went

as secretly as I had come; and the tomb of the Divine Rameses knew me no

more. And with me I took all the treasures of my father, Amenemhat, for

I was not minded to go to Alexandria empty-handed and as a suppliant,

but rather as a man of much wealth and condition. Now, as I went, I

learned that Antony, following Cleopatra, had, indeed, fled from Actium,

and knew that the end drew nigh. For this and many other things had

I foreseen in the darkness of the tomb of Tápé, and planned to bring

about.

Thus, then, I came to Alexandria, and entered into a house which had

been made ready for me at the palace gates.

And that very night Charmion came to me--Charmion whom I had not seen

for nine long years.

CHAPTER IV

OF THE MEETING OF CHARMION WITH THE LEARNED OLYMPUS; OF HER SPEECH WITH

HIM; OF THE COMING OF OLYMPUS INTO THE PRESENCE OF CLEOPATRA; AND OF THE

COMMANDS OF CLEOPATRA.

Clad in my plain black robe, I sat in the guest-chamber of the house

that had been made ready for me. I sat in a carven lion-footed chair,

and looked upon the swinging lamps of scented oil, the pictured

tapestries, the rich Syrian rugs--and, amidst all this luxury, bethought

me of that tomb of the Harpers which is at Tápé, and of the nine long

years of dark loneliness and preparation. I sat; and crouched upon a rug

near to the door, lay the aged Atoua. Her hair was white as snow, and

shrivelled with age was the wrinkled countenance of the woman who, when

all deserted me, had yet clung to me, in her great love forgetting my

great sins. Nine years! nine long years! and now, once again, I set my

foot in Alexandria! Once again in the appointed circle of things I came

forth from the solitude of preparation to be a fate to Cleopatra; and

this second time I came not forth to fail.

And yet how changed the circumstance! I was out of the story: my part

now was but the part of the sword in the hands of Justice; I might no

more hope to make Egypt free and great and sit upon my lawful throne.

Khem was lost, and lost was I, Harmachis. In the rush and turmoil of

events, the great plot of which I had been the pivot was covered up and

forgotten; scarce a memory of it remained. The curtain of dark night

was closing in upon the history of my ancient Race; its very Gods were

tottering to their fall; I could already, in the spirit, hear the shriek

of the Roman eagles as they flapped their wings above the furthest banks

of Sihor.

Presently I roused myself and bade Atoua go seek a mirror and bring it

to me, that I might look therein.

And I saw this: a face shrunken and pallid, on which no smile came;

great eyes grown wan with gazing into darkness looking out beneath

the shaven head, emptily, as the hollow eye-pits of a skull; a wizened

halting form wasted by abstinence, sorrow, and prayer; a long wild beard

of iron grey; thin blue-veined hands that ever trembled like a leaf;

bowed shoulders and lessened limbs. Time and grief had done their

work indeed; scarce could I think myself the same as when, the royal

Harmachis--in all the splendour of my strength and youthful beauty--I

first had looked upon the woman’s loveliness that did destroy me. And

yet within me burned the same fire as of yore; yet I was not changed,

for time and grief have no power to alter the immortal spirit of man.

Seasons may come and go; Hope, like a bird, may fly away; Passion may

break its wings against the iron bars of Fate; Illusions may crumble

as the cloudy towers of sunset flame; Faith, as running water, may slip

from beneath our feet; Solitude may stretch itself around us like the

measureless desert sand; Old Age may creep as the gathering night over

our bowed heads grown hoary in their shame--yea, bound to Fortune’s

wheel, we may taste of every turn of chance--now rule as Kings, now

serve as Slaves; now love, now hate; now prosper, and now perish. But

still, through all, we are the same; for this is the marvel of Identity.

And as I sat and thought these things in bitterness of heart, there came

a knocking at the door.

“Open, Atoua!” I said.

She rose and did my bidding; and a woman entered, clad in Grecian robes.

It was Charmion, still beautiful as of old, but sad faced now and very

sweet to see, with a patient fire slumbering in her downcast eyes.

She entered unattended; and, speaking no word, the old wife pointed to

where I sat, and went.

“Old man,” she said, addressing me, “lead me to the learned Olympus. I

come upon the Queen’s business.”

I rose, and, lifting my head, looked upon her.

She gazed, and gave a little cry.

“Surely,” she whispered, glancing round, “surely thou art not that----”

And she paused.

“That Harmachis whom once thy foolish heart did love, O Charmion? Yes,

I am he and what thou seest, most fair lady. Yet is Harmachis dead

whom thou didst love; but Olympus, the skilled Egyptian, waits upon thy

words!”

“Cease!” she said, “and of the past but one word, and then--why, let

it lie. Not well, with all thy wisdom, canst thou know a true woman’s

heart, if thou dost believe, Harmachis, that it can change with the

changes of the outer form, for then assuredly could no love follow its

beloved to that last place of change--the Grave. Know thou, learned

Physician, I am of that sort who, loving once, love always, and being

not beloved again, go virgin to the death.”

She ceased, and having naught to say, I bowed my head in answer. Yet

though I said nothing and though this woman’s passionate folly had been

the cause of all our ruin, to speak truth, in secret I was thankful

to her who, wooed of all and living in this shameless Court, had still

through the long years poured out her unreturned love upon an outcast,

and who, when that poor broken slave of Fortune came back in such

unlovely guise, held him yet dear at heart. For what man is there who

does not prize that gift most rare and beautiful, that one perfect thing

which no gold can buy--a woman’s unfeigned love?

“I thank thee that thou dost not answer,” she said; “for the bitter

words which thou didst pour upon me in those days that long are dead,

and far away in Tarsus, have not lost their poisonous sting, and in my

heart is no more place for the arrows of thy scorn, new venomed through

thy solitary years. So let it be. Behold! I put it from me, that wild

passion of my soul,” and she looked up and stretched out her hands as

though to press some unseen presence back, “I put it from me--though

forget it I may not! There, ‘tis done, Harmachis; no more shall my love

trouble thee. Enough for me that once more my eyes behold thee, before

sleep seals thee from their sight. Dost remember how, when I would have

died by thy dear hand, thou wouldst not slay, but didst bid me live to

pluck the bitter fruit of crime, and be accursed by visions of the evil

I had wrought and memories of thee whom I have ruined?”

“Ay, Charmion, I remember well.”

“Surely the cup of punishment has been filled. Oh! couldst thou see

into the record of my heart, and read in it the suffering that I

have borne--borne with a smiling face--thy justice would be satisfied

indeed!”

“And yet, if report be true, Charmion, thou art the first of all the

Court, and therein the most powerful and beloved. Does not Octavianus

give it out that he makes war, not on Antony, nor even on his mistress,

Cleopatra, but on Charmion and Iras?”

“Yes, Harmachis, and think what it has been to me thus, because of my

oath to thee, to be forced to eat the bread and do the tasks of one whom

so bitterly I hate!--one who robbed me of thee, and who, through the

workings of my jealousy, brought me to be that which I am, brought

thee to shame, and all Egypt to its ruin! Can jewels and riches and the

flattery of princes and nobles bring happiness to such a one as I, who

am more wretched than the meanest scullion wench? Oh, I have often wept

till I was blind; and then, when the hour came, I must arise and tire

me, and, with a smile, go do the bidding of the Queen and that heavy

Antony. May the Gods grant me to see them dead--ay, the twain of

them!--then myself I shall be content to die! Thy lot has been hard,

Harmachis; but at least thou have been free, and many is the time that I

have envied thee the quiet of thy haunted cave.”

“I do perceive, O Charmion, that thou art mindful of thy oaths; and it

is well, for the hour of vengeance is at hand.”

“I am mindful, and in all things I have worked for thee in secret--for

thee, and for the utter ruin of Cleopatra and the Roman. I have fanned

his passion and her jealousy, I have egged her on to wickedness and

him to folly, and of all have I caused report to be brought to Cæsar.

Listen! thus stands the matter. Thou knowest how went the fight at

Actium. Thither went Cleopatra with her fleet, sorely against the will

of Antony. But, as thou sentest me word, I entreated him for the Queen,

vowing to him, with tears, that, did he leave her, she would die of

grief; and he, poor slave, believed me. And so she went, and in the

thick of the fight, for what cause I know not, though perchance thou

knowest, Harmachis, she made signal to her squadron, and, putting about

fled from the battle, sailing for Peloponnesus. And now, mark the end!

When Antony saw that she was gone, he, in his madness, took a galley,

and deserting all, followed hard after her, leaving his fleet to be

shattered and sunk, and his great army in Greece, of twenty legions

and twelve thousand horse, without a leader. And all this no man would

believe, that Antony, the smitten of the Gods, had fallen so deep in

shame. Therefore for a while the army tarried, and but now to-night

comes news brought by Canidius, the General, that, worn with doubt and

being at length sure that Antony had deserted them, the whole of his

great force has yielded to Cæsar.”

“And where, then, is Antony?”

“He has built him a habitation on a little isle in the Great Harbour and

named it Timonium; because, forsooth, like Timon, he cries out at the

ingratitude of mankind that has forsaken him. And there he lies smitten

by a fever of the mind, and thither thou must go at dawn, so wills the

Queen, to cure him of his ills and draw him to her arms; for he will

not see her, nor knows he yet the full measure of his woe. But first

my bidding is to lead thee instantly to Cleopatra, who would ask thy

counsel.”

“I come,” I answered, rising. “Lead thou on.”

And so we passed the palace gates and along the Alabaster Hall, and

presently once again I stood before the door of Cleopatra’s chamber, and

once again Charmion left me to warn her of my coming.

Presently she came back and beckoned to me. “Make strong thy heart,” she

whispered, “and see that thou dost not betray thyself, for still are the

eyes of Cleopatra keen. Enter!”

“Keen, indeed, must they be to find Harmachis in the learned Olympus!

Had I not willed it, thyself thou hadst not known me, Charmion,” I made

answer.

Then I entered that remembered place and listened once more to the plash

of the fountain, the song of the nightingale, and the murmur of the

summer sea. With bowed head and halting gait I came, till at length I

stood before the couch of Cleopatra--that same golden couch on which

she had sat the night she overcame me. Then I gathered my strength, and

looked up. There before me was Cleopatra, glorious as of old, but, oh!

how changed since that night when I saw Antony clasp her in his arms at

Tarsus! Her beauty still clothed her like a garment; the eyes were yet

deep and unfathomable as the blue sea, the face still splendid in its

great loveliness. And yet all was changed. Time, that could not touch

her charms, had stamped upon her presence such a look of weary grief as

may not be written. Passion, beating ever in that fierce heart of hers,

had written his record on her brow, and in her eyes shone the sad lights

of sorrow.

I bowed low before this most royal woman, who once had been my love and

destruction, and yet knew me not.

She looked up wearily, and spoke in her slow, well remembered voice:

“So thou art come at length, Physician. How callest thou

thyself?--Olympus? ‘Tis a name of promise, for surely now that the Gods

of Egypt have deserted us, we do need aid from Olympus. Well, thou hast

a learned air, for learning goes not with beauty. Strange, too, there is

that about thee which recalls what I know not. Say, Olympus, have we met

before?”

“Never, O Queen, have my eyes fallen on thee in the body,” I answered

in a feigned voice. “Never till this hour, when I come forth from my

solitude to do thy bidding and cure thee of thy ills!”

“Strange! and even in the voice--Pshaw! ‘tis some memory that I cannot

catch. In the body, thou sayest? then, perchance, I knew thee in a

dream?”

“Ay, O Queen; we have met in dreams.”

“Thou art a strange man, who talkest thus, but, if what I hear be true,

one well learned; and, indeed, I mind me of thy counsel when thou didst

bid me join my Lord Antony in Syria, and how things befell according to

thy word. Skilled must thou be in the casting of nativities and in the

law of auguries, of which these Alexandrian fools have little knowledge.

Once I knew such another man, one Harmachis,” and she sighed: “but he is

long dead--as I would I were also!--and at times I sorrow for him.”

She paused, while I sank my head upon my breast and stood silent.

“Interpret me this, Olympus. In the battle at that accursed Actium, just

as the fight raged thickest and Victory began to smile upon us, a great

terror seized my heart, and thick darkness seemed to fall before

my eyes, while in my ears a voice, ay, the voice of that long dead

Harmachis, cried ‘_Fly! fly, or perish!_’ and I fled. But from my heart

the terror leapt to the heart of Antony, and he followed after me, and

thus was the battle lost. Say, then, what God brought this evil thing

about?”

“Nay, O Queen,” I answered, “it was no God--for wherein hast thou

angered the Gods of Egypt? Hast thou robbed the temples of their Faith?

Hast thou betrayed the trust of Egypt? Having done none of these things,

how, then, can the Gods of Egypt be wroth with thee? Fear not, it was

nothing but some natural vapour of the mind that overcame thy gentle

soul, made sick with the sight and sound of slaughter; and as for the

noble Antony, where thou didst go needs must that he should follow.”

And as I spoke, Cleopatra turned white and trembled, glancing at me

the while to find my meaning. But I well knew that the thing was of the

avenging Gods, working through me, their instrument.

“Learned Olympus,” she said, not answering my words; “my Lord Antony is

sick and crazed with grief. Like some poor hunted slave he hides himself

in yonder sea-girt Tower and shuns mankind--yes, he shuns even me, who,

for his sake, endure so many woes. Now, this is my bidding to thee.

To-morrow, at the coming of the light, do thou, led by Charmion, my

waiting-lady, take boat and row thee to the Tower and there crave entry,

saying that ye bring tidings from the army. Then he will cause you to

be let in, and thou, Charmion, must break this heavy news that Canidius

bears; for Canidius himself I dare not send. And when his grief is past,

do thou, Olympus, soothe his fevered frame with thy draughts of value,

and his soul with honeyed words, and draw him back to me, and all will

yet be well. Do thou this, and thou shalt have gifts more than thou

canst count, for I am yet a Queen and yet can pay back those who serve

my will.”

“Fear not, O Queen,” I answered, “this thing shall be done, and I ask no

reward, who have come hither to do thy bidding to the end.”

So I bowed and went and, summoning Atoua, made ready a certain potion.

CHAPTER V

OF THE DRAWING FORTH OF ANTONY FROM THE TIMONIUM BACK TO CLEOPATRA; OF

THE FEAST MADE BY CLEOPATRA; AND OF THE MANNER OF THE DEATH OF EUDOSIUS

THE STEWARD

Ere it was yet dawn Charmion came again, and we walked to the private

harbour of the palace. There, taking boat, we rowed to the island mount

on which stands the Timonium, a vaulted tower, strong, small, and round.

And, having landed, we twain came to the door and knocked, till at

length a grating was thrown open in the door, and an aged eunuch,

looking forth, roughly asked our business.

“Our business is with the Lord Antony,” said Charmion.

“Then it is no business, for Antony, my master, sees neither man nor

woman.”

“Yet will he see us, for we bring tidings. Go tell him that the Lady

Charmion brings tidings from the army.”

The man went, and presently returned.

“The Lord Antony would know if the tidings be good or ill, for, if ill,

then will he none of it, for with evil tidings he has been overfed of

late.”

“Why--why, it is both good and ill. Open, slave, I will make answer to

thy master!” and she slipped a purse of gold through the bars.

“Well, well,” he grumbled, as he took the purse, “the times are hard,

and likely to be harder; for when the lion’s down who will feed the

jackal? Give thy news thyself, and if it do but draw the noble Antony

out of this hall of Groans, I care not what it be. Now the palace door

is open, and there’s the road to the banqueting-chamber.”

We passed on, to find ourselves in a narrow passage, and, leaving the

eunuch to bar the door, advanced till we came to a curtain. Through this

entrance we went, and found ourselves in a vaulted chamber, ill-lighted

from the roof. On the further side of this rude chamber was a bed of

rugs, and on them crouched the figure of a man, his face hidden in the

folds of his toga.

“Most noble Antony,” said Charmion drawing near, “unwrap thy face and

hearken to me, for I bring thee tidings.”

Then he lifted up his head. His face was marred by sorrow; his tangled

hair, grizzled with years, hung about his hollow eyes, and white on his

chin was the stubble of an unshaven beard. His robe was squalid, and

his aspect more wretched than that of the poorest beggar at the temple

gates. To this, then, had the love of Cleopatra brought the glorious and

renowned Antony, aforetime Master of half the World!

“What will ye with me, Lady,” he asked, “who would perish here alone?

And who is this man who comes to gaze on fallen and forsaken Antony?”

“This is Olympus, noble Antony, that wise physician, the skilled in

auguries, of whom thou hast heard much, and whom Cleopatra, ever mindful

of thy welfare, though but little thou dost think of hers, has sent to

minister to thee.”

“And, can thy physician minister to a grief such as my grief? Can his

drugs give me back my galleys, my honour, and my peace? Nay! Away

with thy physician! What are thy tidings?--quick!--out with it! Hath

Canidius, perchance, conquered Cæsar? Tell me but that, and thou shalt

have a province for thy guerdon--ay! and if Octavianus be dead, twenty

thousand sestertia to fill its treasury. Speak--nay--speak not! I fear

the opening of thy lips as never I feared an earthly thing. Surely the

wheel of fortune has gone round and Canidius has conquered? Is it not

so? Nay--out with it! I can no more!”

“O noble Antony,” she said, “steel thy heart to hear that which I needs

must tell thee! Canidius is in Alexandria. He has fled far and fast, and

this is his report. For seven whole days did the legions wait the coming

of Antony, to lead them to victory, as aforetime, putting aside the

offers of the envoys of Cæsar. But Antony came not. And then it was

rumoured that Antony had fled to Tænarus, drawn thither by Cleopatra.

The man who first brought that tale to the camp the legionaries cried

shame on--ay, and beat him to the death! But ever it grew, until at

length there was no more room to doubt; and then, O Antony, thy officers

slipped one by one away to Cæsar, and where the officers go there

the men follow. Nor is this all the story; for thy allies--Bocchus of

Africa, Tarcondimotus of Cilicia, Mithridates of Commagene, Adallas of

Thrace, Philadelphus of Paphlagonia, Archelaus of Cappadocia, Herod

of Judæa, Amyntas of Galatia, Polemon of Pontus, and Malchus of

Arabia--all, all have fled or bid their generals fly back to whence they

came; and already their ambassadors crave cold Cæsar’s clemency.”

“Hast done thy croakings, thou raven in a peacock’s dress, or is there

more to come?” asked the smitten man, lifting his white and trembling

face from the shelter of his hands. “Tell me more; say that Egypt’s dead

in all her beauty; say that Octavianus lowers at the Canopic gate; and

that, headed by dead Cicero, all the ghosts of Hell do audibly shriek

out the fall of Antony! Yea, gather up every woe that can o’erwhelm

those who once were great, and loose them on the hoary head of him

whom--in thy gentleness--thou art still pleased to name ‘the noble

Antony’!”

“Nay, my Lord, I have done.”

“Ay, and so have I done--done, quite done! It is altogether finished,

and thus I seal the end,” and snatching a sword from the couch, he

would, indeed, have slain himself had I not sprung forward and grasped

his hand. For it was not my purpose that he should die as yet; since had

he died at that hour Cleopatra had made her peace with Cæsar, who rather

wished the death of Antony than the ruin of Egypt.

“Art mad, Antony? Art, indeed, a coward?” cried Charmion, “that thou

wouldst thus escape thy woes, and leave thy partner to face the sorrow

out alone?”

“Why not, woman? Why not? She would not be long alone. There’s Cæsar

to keep her company. Octavianus loves a fair woman in his cold way, and

still is Cleopatra fair. Come now, thou Olympus! thou hast held my hand

from dealing death upon myself, advise me of thy wisdom. Shall I, then,

submit myself to Cæsar, and I, Triumvir, twice Consul, and aforetime

absolute Monarch of all the East, endure to follow in his triumph along

those Roman ways where I myself have passed in triumph?”