the Queen commanded silence. She had not yet finished speaking.
"The goodness of Serapis," she said, "surpasses our hopes. He loves
Egypt; he wishes for it greatness and prosperity. From him will come
a warrior whose sword cannot know defeat."
A new burst of enthusiasm arose, which this time nothing could
suppress. It was a general delirium, a reaching out toward joy,
toward that great unknown happiness which the mass as well as the
individual expects from the future.
The shield was again lowered. The Queen climbed up lightly, barely
touching the three ivory steps of the wooden stool, then, with the
fans waving above her head, the panther crouching at her feet, she
took again the road leading to the palace. Shouts, flowers, and
palms greeted her on every side, but she did not seem to see any of
these things.
Lost in a world of thought, she was dreaming her own dreams. However
skeptical she might have felt, she had been impressed by the words of
the High Priest. Would a warrior really come? And if he did, who
would he be? A name came to her mind. With curious persistence,
past memories began to fill her fancy. Some details, almost
forgotten, came back to her. One evening, nearly three years before,
in the villa on the banks of the Tiber; the conversation between
Cæsar and Trebonius had grown dull. The question had come up as to
whether the committees would meet again or be abolished from the
concourse. Suddenly the door was flung open and Mark Antony entered.
It was a new life that came in. He was laughing; his hair fell over
his forehead; his shoulders, cut like those of his ancestor,
Hercules, were strong enough to carry the Nemean lion. His presence
impregnated the atmosphere of the room with youth, with warm, glowing
exuberance, and straightway Cleopatra had felt his covetous eyes fall
on her, with that look which a woman always understands. How often
since that first evening she had felt that same look, that frank
admission on the part of the man that he was no longer master of
himself. And another evening, when they had been left alone for a
moment, she had felt the warm touch of his lips on her shoulder. Her
surprise and embarrassment had been so great that, wishing to conceal
them, she had sought refuge in flight. Since then he had been more
reserved; but if he did not speak, if his manner were constrained, it
was because his loyalty to Cæsar had put a seal upon his lips. How
would he have dared do otherwise? And Cleopatra, though fully aware
of his feeling, how would she have received an avowal of his love?
Undoubtedly Cæsar's exalted position restrained his inferior officer,
who owed everything to him, from trespassing on forbidden ground;
just as it prevented Cleopatra from yielding to any passing fancy.
However tempting the athletic beauty of Mark Antony, glory was her
chief ambition. She would let nothing stand in the way of that. But
to-day death had changed everything. Mark Antony stood in Cæsar's
place; he had no master for a rival. Could it be that he was the
saviour whom the god had promised?
Weary of her widowhood, a flood of hope, at this thought, swept over
her heart. She wanted to be alone to give herself up to these dreams.
The sun had just set, and a crescent of silver was visible in the
evening sky. One by one the high lamps, planted like trees along the
avenues, shone out. Delicate, rose-coloured illuminations began to
sparkle along the edges of the houses, where they hung like fruit
among the thin branches of the plane trees. If the festivals of the
daylight had been rich and attractive, the evening decorations
satisfied the sensuous taste. The Queen had given orders that no
expense be spared to give general pleasure. The fountains at the
palace doors ran red with wine, and on the long tables in the inner
courts, which led from the stables to the kitchen, meats, pastries,
and cheese were served to the public. Order was carefully preserved
and, after getting their portions, the people were compelled to move
on. Many went to the theatres, where free performances were given;
others preferred to linger by the street-shows, watching the farces;
others wound up the evening's entertainment in some of the notorious
resorts of the Rhakotis.
While the common people amused themselves thus, herded together in an
atmosphere of dust and sweat, the rich people, to whom every day was
a holiday, entertained themselves in a less vulgar manner. Many, at
the hour of supper, left the crowded part of the city to linger along
the aristocratic avenues on the west side of the great capital, which
seemed half asleep among their silent gardens. A group of perfumed
dandies stopped before a dwelling, small, but of charming
proportions, surrounded by pine trees. A slave came out to open the
gate. Crossing the vestibule, where a fountain was playing, they
were introduced into a hall lined from floor to ceiling by thousands
of rolls of papyrus. It was the library where Polydemus, who had
made a fortune in perfumes, delighted to receive his guests. Those
whom he had invited this evening belonged to various circles of
society; for it was his pleasure that in his home all subjects should
be discussed and all the topics of the day be passed upon freely.
Except in art, where he had a preference for the Greek style, he was
liberal-minded, and so unprejudiced that he did not hesitate to bring
together men of opposing views. Consequently he numbered among his
guests Apollodorus, the secretary of the Queen, whose devotion to her
was well known; Demetrius, the lieutenant, who had fought him under
Achillas; Sati, a Theban of ancient family, who was wedded to the old
traditions and objected to all foreign influence; rhetoricians, noted
for their Athenian culture; financiers and artists; philosophers, as
little likely to hold the same views on any one subject as are men of
political bent.
Behind drawn curtains the hall was brilliantly lighted. Between the
delicate columns, busts of Homer, Pindar, Zeno, and Epicurus rested
on bronze pedestals; and, alternating with them, as though to thank
these great men for their indulgence, stood graceful statues of women.
The guests reclined on couches, placed around a table which was
adorned with silver and painted pottery. In the middle stood an
alabaster bowl, surrounded by branches of rose-bushes, some of which,
as though too heavy to bear their own weight, fell in garlands on the
snow-white table-cover. As soon as the banqueters were comfortably
settled the first course was served. Eels from Lake Mareotis, just
outside Alexandria, covered with a sauce flavoured with caraway seed;
congers, fried in butter; roe, in tiny casseroles.
Then began the general conversation, trivial at first, turning on the
happenings of the day. One guest commented on the passing
processions, which had never been better managed; another on the
sumptuous banquets which were being served at the Bruchium; this one
praised the marvellous circus, where two hundred beasts and twenty
gladiators had been slaughtered; that one called the attention of the
guests to the wonderful illuminations which, seen through the open
windows, were reddening the skies above the city.
Apollodorus took advantage of these various comments to dwell upon
the gracious generosity of the Queen, who was always eager to afford
happiness to her people.
"Hail to Cleopatra!" responded the artists, who were being
entertained in the halls of the Paneum.
"Hail to the beloved of the gods!"
"Glory to her who is a delight to our eyes!"
"Drink to her who brings light to our minds!"
But, as always, this very praise aroused controversy. If the young
Queen had passionate admirers, especially among the younger men who,
impressed by her beauty and intelligence, were led to expect great
things, there were others, grave and sedate men, who were shocked by
her audacity. From the time of her liaison with Cæsar they had
criticized her lack of dignity. There were even suspicions in regard
to the recent death of her young brother, and hostile queries as to
what part she might have had in it.
This evening the wanton extravagance of the present fêtes came under
discussion, and the air was full of unfriendly criticism. It was no
time to spend money recklessly when a severe famine was devastating
the land. Some, who had noticed certain affectations of taste and
manner, which Cleopatra had shown since her return from Italy, were
here, in their condemnation of her.
That very day, disdainful of the old ceremony with the Pschent,
surmounted by the sacred Uræus, a ceremony at which kings and queens
from time immemorial had covered their hair with the ancient
headdress, Cleopatra had substituted a diadem! And on that ornament,
which concealed her temples and forehead, the respecters of the old
Egyptian tradition had been horrified to see the image of Minerva
instead of that of Isis, worn by her who was supposed to be the
priestess of Isis.
Sati deplored these conditions. "It is the first time that a
sovereign of ours has treated an ancient custom with contempt!"
When the sculptor Nicias remarked that this diadem, which revealed
the nape of her neck, was most becoming to her delicate profile, the
venerable Theban rebuked him:
"So far from favouring them the Queen should be the first to
discourage these foreign fashions."
This objection was not surprising from a man who still wore the old
national tunic, held in place by a belt with floating ends, and whose
curled beard reached nearly to his waist.
Apollodorus observed smilingly that it seemed scarcely worth while to
lay so much stress on the matter of a coiffure.
The subject, unluckily, was not so trivial as the devoted secretary
wished to represent. He was not unaware of the state of things, and
in these criticisms he saw plainly the attitude of those who, having
suffered from the effects of the Roman invasion, were all too ready
to reproach the Queen for having brought it about. He desired in
every way to lay stress on her loyalty to her people.
Unfortunately, the former lieutenant of Achillas chose that moment to
recall all that the invasion had cost Egypt: two years of war, the
destruction of the fleet, a great part of their priceless library
wiped out by fire.
The latter memory was particularly painful to the thoughtful men, for
they loved books and naturally deplored the irreparable loss of their
country's treasures. Was this splendid banquet to turn to vinegar in
their mouths?
As though pricked by a spur Polydemus turned the talk to other
subjects. Pointing to the satinwood shelves, where lay thousands of
rolls of papyrus, he announced that he was leaving them in his will
to the city of Alexandria, and that there were many rare copies among
them of which he was the sole possessor, and that these would replace
the specimens which had been so unfortunately destroyed by fire.
This generous gift was warmly appreciated. The friends of this good
citizen congratulated him on his public spirit, and unanimously
expressed the hope that the promised legacy would not come to them
for many years.
The second course of the banquet was now served. A huge copper basin
was brought in, containing a whole sheep, whose flesh was still
crackling; then come a platter, embellished with various dressings,
on which was a giant goose still decked in his coat of feathers,
whose stomach was stuffed with snipe. These delicacies were carved
in the twinkling of an eye, the guests who were nearest the host
being served first. They used silver spatula and chiselled spoons.
The light from the flaring torches made the table shine like gold.
The perfume of the roses was so strong that the food seemed flavoured
with it. For a few moments the guests were absorbed in the
consumption of the epicurean delicacies and silence reigned. There
was no sound save the flitting steps of the slaves as they passed to
and fro.
Suddenly one of the slaves announced that a vessel had just entered
the harbour, with an important messenger on board. Just what his
errand was no one as yet knew, in fact, nothing would be known until
the next day. There were, however, grave rumours, and serious
happenings were said to be going on at Rome. A shiver ran around the
table. The Egyptians, always suspicious concerning Rome and her
schemes, already felt the entangling meshes of the net which perhaps
in another twenty-four hours would hold them captives. What might
this news be? What horrors, what scandals, were yet in store? For
the past two years the Forum had been nothing more than a nest of
bandits, and the echo of its evil brawls was constantly in their ears.
Polydemus, anxious that there should be no second disturbance at his
supper, expressed the hope that with the triumph of the Cæsarian
party an era of peace and order would be established. But there was
an outcry from his guests. What order, what justice could be
expected from people who, although fighting for the same cause, had
never ceased to destroy each other? No one referred to Lepidus; his
very mediocrity protected him from criticism. But what of Antony?
Of Octavius? Which of these was the greater villain? In the hubbub
of noisy speeches each gave himself up to reciting the various
sensational acts which witnesses, or writers, had handed on to him.
"While performing his sacred duties a priest was told he was to be
banished and sought refuge," said Eudoxos. "Too late! Before he
could cross the sill of the Tribunal, a centurion stabbed him."
Lycon declared that mothers, to save themselves, shut their doors
against their own sons who were suspected of treason; that daughters
did not hesitate to tell where their fathers were concealed.
Even little children, according to another, were no longer safe. One
child, on its way to school, had been seized by an executioner and
slaughtered before the eyes of its parents.
"Remember, above all else, the brutal assassination of Cicero," cried
the rhetorician, Antipus, who had made a journey to Rome expressly to
hear the voice of that great orator.
"That was an unpardonable crime," agreed one of his colleagues, "and
it will leave a lasting stain on the name of Mark Antony!"
Apollodorus, who the moment before had been praising the latter, in
order to protect the Queen, now tried to throw the odium of this
assassination on Octavius. He was chiefly to blame; the friend of
Cicero, he, like a white-livered coward, and without a single qualm,
had given Cicero into the hands of the murderers. He whom, only a
few days before, Cicero had pressed to his heart and called his son!
A shiver of disgust ran around the table as though a serpent had
appeared in the room. Again the talk turned on Mark Antony. In
spite of his misdoings, he at least, with the coarse tunic that he
put on when he went to drink with the soldiers and the women of the
town, with his sword slung over his shoulder and his chariot drawn by
lions, accompanied by the courtesan Cytheris, was amusing. A voice
was even heard praising him, for a brave man will always find someone
to stand up for him.
The philosopher, Lycon, though a professed cynic, recalled that at
the moment when the conspirators were still waving their swords, when
Octavius was in hiding, and when terror prevailed throughout Rome,
Mark Antony had had the courage to insist on a proper funeral for
Cæsar and had stood before the body of his benefactor and fearlessly
proclaimed his virtues.
But this praise aroused little enthusiasm. The group of
distinguished men of letters had no interest in a boor like Antony
whose valour was simply that of the battle-field.
The diatribe that the sculptor Nicias hurled against the Romans met
the popular sentiment. If the invasion of these barbarians
continued, what would become of the present civilization? He had
just come from Corinth and knew that many of the splendid buildings
had already been destroyed. Greece was a mass of ruins. What was to
be expected if these things continued?
The supper was over at last. The creams and pastries gave forth a
delicious odour of wild honey. The citrons were all the more
refreshing after the highly spiced dishes of the repast. The rare
wines had increased in exquisite bouquet with each course. After the
cider and mead, the delicate, violet-flavoured wines of Phoenicia
were served, then the warm liqueurs of Spain. There were also the
celebrated Gallic wines, clear and sparkling, well calculated to
drive away all manner of depression.
The conversation turned on women. It was not usual for them to be
absent from the banquets at Polydemus's house; but this evening,
those that he had invited, chiefly celebrated courtesans, for he was
unmarried, had had engagements elsewhere. The younger men, who were
devoted to horse-racing, had taken Faustina and Leah to the stadium
to see their horses run. Chloris could not leave Naudres, that noted
actor, on the evening when, shod with buskins and with trumpet-like
voice, he played his famous role of Orestes; a banquet at Gauthene's
had attracted Moussana and Trophena, for they knew that the two sons
of the banker Rupin would be there as well as the heir of the richest
ship-owner of Ephesus. A number had preferred to keep their evening
free that they might stroll along the Heptastadium, for a night such
as this afforded every chance of meeting open-handed gallants.
The older men agreed that a supper was fully as agreeable without
women, and Sati declared that their presence was often a drawback to
interesting conversation.
"Is that on account of their modesty?" inquired Lycias, who loved his
joke.
"They cannot talk of anything but love," sighed the banker in a bored
tone.
The poet, Melanis, who up to then had said nothing, raised his voice
in protest. "Even though the hour and place were not especially
consecrated to love, was it not permissible to evoke its charming
images?" he demanded.
"For my part," declared the lieutenant, "I don't think there's any
sense in discussing such things."
Just at that moment, the cup-bearer appeared, bringing, with great
care, an amphora. It contained a marvellous Cyprian wine, one of
those rare vintages which the lips approach with reverence. Many of
the men declared that nothing so delicious had ever tickled their
palates.
"O wine! Golden fountain that reflects the sun! Flagon that the
generous gods have spilled on the earth to rejoice the hearts of
men!" exclaimed the young Melanis, in a burst of improvisation.
Taking advantage of the general good humour that the wine had
created, Apollodorus reminded the company that if Cyprus were once
more a province of Egypt, and if its wines came into Alexandria free
of duty, it was to Cleopatra that they owed the credit.
"That is very true," said Polydemus. "The restoration of this
province was really a gift from Cæsar to the Queen."
This reference to the wine produced a spirit of good-will, and those
who had been criticizing Cleopatra most severely now raised their
glasses in her honour, and the master of the house was pleased to see
the supper, which angry arguments had several times threatened to
spoil, end in good humour.
About eleven o'clock the slaves withdrew and the dancers, with
attendant musicians, appeared under the peristyle. They were twelve
young girls of pure Egyptian descent, whose type is still preserved
and known to us to-day as the Gypsy.
At the sound of the five-stringed lyre their lithe bodies began to
sway. The figures that they formed, first approaching, then
retreating, turning to join hands and then withdraw again, were not
so much a dance, as a game between nymphs and their pursuing satyrs.
This first movement was soon succeeded by livelier frolics.
Tambourines and castanets resounded. The legs of the dancers, which
until then had only bent and moved gracefully, had an irresistible
impetus. At the same moment black eyes shot lightning glances from
under blue-white lids; there was a wave of sound, heels clicked, and
rings clanged together. A whirl of bare flesh was visible through
the slit tunics, bent-over backs straightened up, arms, interlaced
like branches, unwound themselves abruptly.
Now delightfully voluptuous, now urged on by the wild music, the
dancing continued far into the night. The older men, stupefied by
the heavy meal and the abundant flow of wine, soon grew drowsy; but
the younger ones, who had been somewhat bored during the
long-drawn-out repast, were now waked to feverish excitement. With a
kind of intoxication they followed the women's gestures, which seemed
to parody love before their eyes, making it waver, come forward,
then, in a flash, rise and triumph in an ecstatic embrace.
The roses were fading in the alabaster vases. The torches, one by
one, flickered and went out The pale dawn was creeping through the
parted curtains, as the banqueters took leave of their gracious host,
expressing appreciation of his kindly hospitality.
Apollodorus, whose duties at the Bruchium began very early, had no
time to return to his own home, which was far out on the road toward
Sais. There was a chance, however, for him to walk off the last
fumes of the Cyprian wine.
The city was deserted. Silence reigned, but the flagstones seemed
still vibrating from the tread of countless feet. Here and there lay
withered garlands, side by side with various lost objects, bits of
draggled silk and other débris, which had been part of the evening's
vanities. The abandoned halls, these cast-off trifles, brought a
certain sadness to Apollodorus as he recalled the discussions at
Polydemus's table. They were rebellious, dissatisfied, hard to
control, these subjects of Cleopatra, and how evident was the feeling
of enmity against her. There were parties ready at any moment to
band together and bring about one of those revolutions which her
ancestors had ceaselessly combated; and what countless traps had
already been set for her! He remembered the day when he sailed in a
fishing boat to seek her on the beach at Canopus. But then a mighty
power sheltered her, worked for her. To-day, alone, criticized on
every side, opposed, would she have sufficient strength?
His mind filled with these misgivings, Apollodorus found himself at
the door of the palace. In the misty morning light, the delicate
architecture, with its multitude of supporting columns, seemed almost
aerial. He was astounded to see the Queen standing on one of the
terraces. Her hair was loosened and her scarf was waving in the
breeze. He learned that just as her women were preparing her for bed
a courier had arrived and she had had a long conference with him. At
its close she had shown keen delight. "There are times when life is
too beautiful to lose any moment of it in sleep," she had said when
her attendants had begged her to rest for a while. Left alone, she
had unrolled the script which confirmed the message that had just
come to her.
The tidings recorded were so many and so unexpected that she was
compelled to go over them two or three times, and then to repeat them
to herself. This much, at least, was true: reconciled by their
victory, the avengers of Cæsar had formed a new Triumvirate. The
world was in their hands. They had divided it, or rather, Mark
Antony, the only champion to fight and conquer Octavius (who, ill and
quaking in his tent, had awaited him with chattering teeth) had
divided it, according to his own liking. He gave the control of
barbarous Gaul and a part of Italy, ruined and still racked by
threats of revolution, to his wretched associate; Lepidus, who had
not even taken any part in the war, had Spain (which was always on
the eye of insurrection) and the African provinces assigned to him;
and Mark Antony, supreme arbitrator and the worshipped leader of
thirty-two legions, the hero before whom all knees were bent, claimed
for his share of the spoils the mighty Orient, always desired, always
coveted on account of its riches.
So, the words of the god had not been in vain. The sacred promise
had been fully carried out. She, Cleopatra, would have an ally as
powerful as Cæsar and one whom she would have chosen above all others.