he was drunk with flattery and claimed some of the privileges of
divine ancestry, chiefly that of being beyond the control of human
laws. His caprices were limitless. He attired himself in silk and
cloth of gold, had a chorus of dancers in continual attendance, and
held his court with Olympian bearing.
But with all this he did not, for a moment, forget the selfish object
of his journey. He was willing to be adored, but not to make the
least sacrifice. The Ionians had put up a strong protest, but he did
not lessen by a farthing the tax of two hundred thousand talents
which he had levied upon them. All that they gained was an extension
of the time of payment, and that only because the request came to him
through the beautiful Corelia, who was, for the time being, in high
favour.
Antony soon tired of travelling from one city to another and decided
that it was more in keeping with his dignity to summon the kings, his
vassals, to him, than to go to them. He chose Tarsus for his
residence and announced that henceforth the sovereigns should seek
him, and he made it quite clear that the continuance of their
sovereignty depended on his pleasure.
None dared disobey his orders. Along the dusty roads, under the
placid skies, cavalcades and litters, chariots drawn by oxen, by
elephants with majestic tread, moved steadily on, followed by a long
file of dromedaries, bearing the baggage with oriental pomp. As the
caravans drew near lances flashed, armour gleamed, the standards bore
curious devices, the swarm of men and beasts presented a motley
appearance. On arriving at the city gates a herald went forward and,
through a silver trumpet, announced the name of the august visitor.
The kings of Antioch and Sysima, the satrap, Palemon, Herod, who
reigned in Judea, and Adallas of Sidonia, were all duly announced,
also the tetrarchs of Lycaonia and Pontus, the governor of Commagene,
as well as the rulers of Thrace and Arabia.
Tanned by the hot sun of the East, many of them seemed sad and very
weary. One and all they hated this conqueror, but as soon as they
were in his presence they were animated by the hope of some reward to
be obtained, some honour or promotion to be secured.
Luxuriously installed in a tent, which served as a tribunal, Antony
received the various suppliants with great ceremony and dealt out his
favours. The report got abroad that the personal attractiveness of
the claimant influenced his decisions, and the princesses hastened to
seek an audience. He received a visit from the noted beauty,
Glaphyra, and her gracious charms secured the throne of Phrygia for
her son; the young widow of Aristobulus was assured of the permanence
of her crown; Herod's devoted wife, Mariamne, in spite of her
reserve, succeeded in winning what she desired for her husband.
But the one whom, above all others, he desired and expected, the
Queen of Egypt, had not come. Why was she so late? The command had
been sent to her as to the others; perhaps the wish to see her had
inspired the general edict. Cleopatra's failure to appear was all
the more remarkable as she had certain affairs to settle with him.
As an ally of Rome, her attitude during the late war had given
grounds for criticism. When the avengers of Cæsar had asked the aid
of her fleet she had urged the pretext of a tempest which prevented
her from sending it. But this prudence could be interpreted as a
desire to keep on good terms with both parties. So she had much to
explain and should lose no time. Antony had written to her several
times. The first letters had been official notes from a ruler to a
queen, desiring her presence according to the prescribed form then in
use. Her replies had been vague. He then wrote more urgently.
Getting no satisfactory result from his efforts, his anger was
aroused. Was this daughter of the Lagidæ trifling with him? Had she
forgotten that her father owed the restoration of his throne to the
gracious power of Rome? And her own position? To-morrow, if he so
decreed.
One day he decided to send her a letter of command. But what could
he say? After all he was only a man, tormented by his passions, who,
unaccustomed to any resistance, felt his desire turning to
exasperation. Like Jupiter with his thunderbolts, he imagined that
the elements would obey him and that this coveted woman would come
submissively if he frightened her sufficiently. When he found that
his commands were disregarded, just as his advances had been ignored,
he tried to forget her. He was rich in resources and had many
mistresses. One succeeded the other with incredible speed, as though
a constant change could give to each the power to efface the memory
of Cleopatra. Each time that he clasped a new love to his breast he
would, for the moment, feel free from the desire for her presence,
would think that he had effectually rid himself of the craving for
her. But these periods of oblivion passed quickly and the longing
for the absent one returned, stronger than ever. Although there had
never been any definite bond between them, he unconsciously nourished
toward Cleopatra the kind of rancour that he would have felt toward a
mistress who had betrayed and deserted him. He was beginning to hate
her; and yet, he still longed for her coming.
Tarsus, like Antioch and Ephesus, was one of the principal cities of
Asia Minor. Situated almost at the mouth of the Cydnus, that
ice-cold river which, to the young Alexander, had felt like the first
touch of death--it had the animated life of a port, while the
neighbouring forests of myrtles lent it the glamour of romance. The
temple of Apollo made it a shrine for men of letters, and it showed a
tendency toward idealism which prepared the way for that apostle who
was soon to be born there, and who was destined to preach the gospel
of Christ within its walls. In the meantime it was the sanctuary of
Aphrodite, and innumerable voluptuous statues, always laden with
abundant offerings, bore witness to the fervent worship of this
goddess. Thus associated with divinity and screened by the range of
the Taurus mountains, watered by bubbling springs and swept by
fragrant breezes, Tarsus was an ideal resting-place.
If satisfied ambition could content the human heart, Antony should
have been perfectly happy, for each day brought him new homage and
more complete submission. In his innermost being, however,
uneasiness and discontent reigned. He was not altogether sensual and
was, at times, overcome by a noble sadness. He craved an object for
his ambition, an aim for the exuberance which carried him away. On
the days when this discontent tormented him beyond endurance he
sought a counter-irritant, not in commonplace pleasures--they no
longer amused him--but in healthy physical exercise, which, while it
lasted, drove away all irritating thought. He would fling himself on
one of his Syrian steeds, under whose delicate skin the veins were
clearly visible, whose nostrils seemed to breathe fire, and with
bridle-rein hanging loose would ride headlong through torrents and
down valleys. This exhilarating exercise restored at once that
vitality and enthusiasm which his temporary depression had apparently
crushed for ever. He seemed born again, full of fierce energy and
joyousness, as though he had just gained a new victory, more glorious
than any he had yet won.
These rides often took Antony to the Ægean shore. Perhaps
unconsciously he felt the need of looking out upon the sea, of
questioning its depths. It was full of peace and beauty, covered
with the shining gold of the setting sun. Its rippling bosom seemed
to breathe. Gazing steadily at it, hearing its murmur on the beach,
feeling its soft breath, it became at last a living creature to him,
the woman of his dreams. In his imagination he saw two women, each
aiding the other against him, both seductive, both perfidious, each
having the same sovereign power to make him the happiest of men, yet
taking pleasure in leaving him on this shore, solitary and forlorn.
But the days went by and although he scanned the horizon to its
uttermost limits, although the winds were favourable and the sea was
covered with ships, he could never see that world-renowned galley
with its purple sails, which travellers returning from Alexandria had
so often described to him. At last his patience gave out. He was
tired of hoping against hope; all his powers availed him nothing
against that far-away indifference, whose cause baffled him.
Impelled by that mysterious force which controls human destinies, he
finally despatched an ambassador with orders to use all possible
persuasions to induce Cleopatra to come to him.
IV
CLEOPATRA
Day was just breaking. Within its inlaid walls the bed-chamber was
cool and shadowy. The rose-covered trellis outside the windows made
a soft, dim light. At the farther end stood an ivory bed, its four
feet fashioned like a leopard's paws. Cleopatra lay quiet on her
pillow, her arms above her head, her eyes closed, but she was not
sleeping. Still drowsy, she followed, waking, the happy dreams that
had come to her in sleep. Ever since that first letter from Antony
when, with her unfailing feminine instinct, she had read between the
lines an appeal that was more than a request from the Triumvir of
Rome to a subject, her thoughts had been full of him. He had not
forgotten her, then! This mighty adventurer, this conqueror who was
welcomed everywhere as a god, was willing to pay any price for the
privilege of seeing her again. Not only was her pride flattered by
this homage, but she felt that her position as a sovereign, which had
been disturbed by continued tumults and uprisings, would be
strengthened.
It must be remembered that Cleopatra was still in the restlessness of
youth and her blood had all the heat of the tropics. Ardent passions
bring profound depressions in their train. How could she suppress
this tempest within her? She hungered after tender embraces, the
warmth of declared love; the fierce delight of that passion which
wounds and transports at the same time--and she had only her present
empty existence, with its succession of lonely days, in which life
seemed to slip away, vanishing drop by drop, like water falling from
a fountain. If she had followed the natural impulse of her impetuous
nature she would have accepted eagerly Antony's first invitation.
Reflection, however, counselled her to wait. The more her coming was
desired, the greater would be the stimulus of a delay. This scheme
was well devised, but it nearly brought fatal disaster by arousing
Antony's anger and his desire to show his authority, and submission
was the last virtue of which Cleopatra was capable. The mere
suggestion of restraint woke all her instinct of rebellion. This
conqueror of the Orient should not imagine that because he had made
vassals of a set of corrupt princes, he could compel her to appear
before his tribunal, subdued and trembling. She would never come
into his presence in that manner.
A step on the carpet interrupted her reveries. It was Charmian, her
lady-in-waiting, her confidante and friend, who was privileged to
approach the Queen at any time. She had been associated with
Cleopatra from the latter's early childhood, when Ptolemy Auletes had
chosen her from all the nobility of Athens, that his adored daughter
might have always near her an agreeable and cultured companion; one
who would speak to her in the language of the gods. Charmian, in
addition, had the task of teaching the young princess the art of
walking with ease, of dressing in taste, and of draping her form with
those graceful linen folds which the women of Tanagra have
immortalized. The pupil soon surpassed her instructor, but the
changed relations in no way lessened their friendship. It resulted
on the one side in a deep admiration and blind devotion lasting until
death, and on the other, in a confidence without reserve.
If Charmian came earlier than usual this morning and seemed hurried,
it was because she had important news. At dawn a Roman galley had
entered the port, bringing Quintus Dellius, the ambassador of Mark
Antony.
Cleopatra was much stirred by this announcement. If Antony had sent
an ambassador it was because he had something in mind which letters
were inadequate to explain. What could this be? Perhaps only a
reiteration of his former invitation. But in what form would it
come? Reproaches were inevitable. Her apparent indifference to his
requests had merited them. The idea, however, brought a smile to her
scornful lips. She knew how to manage her excuses. But there might
be another explanation of this messenger, and the thought made her
uneasy. What if the ambassador were a Roman magistrate? What if he
brought papers giving him the power to question her and demand a
reckoning? As a subject of Rome she must be cautious. How could she
explain her failure to send assistance during the recent war, and
that in the face of repeated and urgent demands?
But Charmian assured her that it was useless to torment herself with
these questions. Let her go to Antony, as she had gone to Cæsar, and
all would be well. Did she not possess the divine gift of
fascination which stole men's reason and made them see everything
through her eyes?
In her heart Cleopatra was of the same opinion, especially in regard
to Antony. She understood how strongly he was influenced by the
magnetism of a beautiful woman. But who was his messenger and what
course should she take with him? For a moment she was perplexed, but
only for a moment. She decided to treat this messenger in the same
manner that she would have treated Antony, had he come in person.
The first thing to do was to make herself beautiful, very beautiful;
to select the apparel which would show her charms to the greatest
advantage and make her irresistible. The other matters would adjust
themselves in the course of conversation.
She rapped three times upon a brass plaque to summon her attendants.
The blinds were raised and the fresh morning light poured into the
room, while the servants, like a swarm of bees, set about their daily
tasks. Cleopatra arose from her bed and passed on to the pool where
a warm bath had been prepared. She went down the six steps into the
marble basin, which was just deep enough for the water to cover her
as she lay in its gentle embrace. A Nubian slave was always in
readiness to give her a vigorous rubbing when she came out of her
bath. This massage made her transparent skin glow, and then she was
again rubbed softly with nard brought from Sidon. Other women came
in their turn to contribute to the care of her precious body. One
blanched her dainty hands with a lotion made of hyssop; another
polished her rosy nails; still another, squatting on her heels,
touched with carmine the extremities of her tiny feet, then put on
the soft-lined sandals.
The hair-dresser stood in especially high favour. Her profession
enjoyed various privileges, not the least being her right to have
long and intimate audiences with the Queen, to be consulted, and,
above all, to be allowed to place a flower, a feather, or the diadem,
in the Queen's hair, thus having her chance to win royal approval.
Iras, the Persian, had filled this office for the past three years.
The fairy-lightness of her touch and her sweet breath were
celebrated. Hearing them spoken of when the young girl was an
attendant of Mariamne, Herod's wife, whose auburn hair reached to her
knees, Cleopatra had elected to have her for her own service. This
served the double purpose of securing a talented artist for herself,
and of depriving a woman whom she detested of a cherished attendant.
Iras had been brought to the Egyptian court by a merchant of
perfumes, who, under pretext of giving her a new essence to inhale,
had put her to sleep and carried her off without resistance.
Although the new court was far grander than that of Judea, even as
the sun surpasses the moon, Iras wept floods of tears at the change.
Her companions, who envied her good fortune, exclaimed: "What, you
weep, when your hands have the distinguished honour of adorning the
divine Cleopatra!" But Iras had a loving heart and the splendour of
her new surroundings could not reconcile her to the separation from
Queen Mariamne, to whom she was warmly attached. This, at least, was
her feeling for the first few days when, still a novice, she assisted
at the ceremony of the royal toilet.
One day, Cleopatra, noticing the pallor of her serving-woman, spoke
to her. In her incomparably musical voice she inquired why the young
girl was so sad. "Are you homesick? Is it regret at leaving your
family, or your lover?" Iras replied that her mother was dead and
that she had left no lover behind on the shores of the Aracus. She
could not, however, cease to grieve for Jerusalem and Herod's palace,
where the Queen had been so unfailingly kind to her.
However insignificant the feelings of a slave might be in the eyes of
this world-famous beauty, Cleopatra was touched by the ardent
sincerity of Iras. It was just at the time when she had returned
from Rome, alone and full of grief. She had a sudden wish to make
this young girl, who was practically in exile, grow fond of her.
Nothing could be easier. A few kind words, some presents offered
with tact, quickly warmed the poor little heart that distress had
chilled. Giving her her freedom later completed the conquest and
aroused in Iras as fervent an adoration as any divinity had ever been
offered; a flame willing to consume itself at any moment for the
Queen, and ready, too, to burn itself out the day that this adored
mistress ceased to illuminate the world.
"Quick, Iras," Cleopatra said that morning, when she wished to be
especially beautiful. "Take off my fillet and try to surpass
yourself." She sat down before her dressing-table, which was covered
with combs of different sizes, iridescent glass bottles, tiny jars
filled with unguents, dainty puffs in boxes of powdered orris-root
and other cosmetics; gold turtles, whose pierced shells held long
hairpins. Cleopatra bent her head, and while the negro women,
immobile as bronze statues, held a silver mirror that she might see
her reflection, Iras passed a comb of amber tortoise-shell through
the Queen's hair.
No one was more skilful than the young Persian girl in handling the
Queen's flowing tresses. It was like play for her to spread them
out, then turn and twist them, lift them up and arrange them in a
different fashion each day. These changes of coiffure made an
inexhaustible subject of conversation between the Queen and her
attendant. They discussed them, pronounced them more or less
becoming, tried new ornaments fit for varying occasions. Which was
most suitable for to-day? There was no time to lose in experiments.
They must decide without delay how Cleopatra would receive the
messenger from Mark Antony. After a moment's thought she decided
against the crown, the ancestral head-dress, the diadem; they were
all too pretentious, too formal. It was as a woman, a beautiful
woman, that she would appear before this ambassador. She chose the
Athenian style: a simple cord attached by a ribbon above the nape of
her neck, and, confining the thick waves of her hair, three bands
outlined her delicate head.
Iras was no less expert in the use of rouge and perfumes. In
Phoenicia she had become familiar with salves and ointments
compounded from roses and lilies and the blossoms of the privet.
Prepared by her these unguents had a marvellous effect in making
limbs supple, and she alone knew how to make flesh shine like
polished marble by rubbing it with a powder made of crushed
mother-of-pearl. Cleopatra never allowed any one but her dear Iras
to put the roses in her cheeks, to accentuate the arch of her
splendid eyebrows, and to darken the natural shadows under her eyes
by the skilful use of a swan's feather touched with sibium.
When Cleopatra was thus shod, coifed, and redolent from head to foot
with sweet perfumes, the ladies in charge of the robes came in. They
brought in great chests in which the robes lay without a crease to
spoil their freshness. Raising the covers they laid out two, three,
four, until the Queen had made her choice. She chose a
saffron-coloured silk tunic, embroidered with narcissus blossoms.
Fastened to her shoulders by two amber clasps the tunic left her arms
and bosom bare. Above this a transparent drapery hung, woven by the
women of Cos and made, so the legend went, of the condensed vapours
of the morning mists of springtime, the tissue that is known to-day
as "the Virgin's threads."
Cleopatra urged her attendants to make haste. She was impatient at
their delay in fastening a fold, or arranging her girdle, those
innumerable details of her toilet which usually entertained her. She
was anxious to be ready, eager to meet this unknown man with whom she
was planning such an exciting battle. When her string of pearls had
been clasped around her neck, her arms and fingers adorned with
bracelets and rings, she gave a final glance at her exquisite
reflection in the mirrors and left the room.
Mark Antony had chosen for his ambassador Quintus Dellius, famous in
the Odes of Horace, one of the most charming and well informed men of
his day. A wit, a learned historian, as well as a poet from time to
time, he had the adaptable disposition which real intelligence gives,
and though quick at epigrams he could be, when it was to his
advantage, considerate and gracious. The consistent policy which he
had successfully followed through life had been to make friends with
the man in command, to devote himself exclusively to forwarding his
patron's interests, and invariably to quit his service on the instant
that his star set, and to attach himself to the next one in power.
Thus before the battle of Philippi he had been the friend of Cassius,
after the battle of Actium he became the inseparable companion of
Octavius. At present he thought that all the odds were in favour of
Antony, and, deciding that the latter was likely to hold his own, his
devotion to him was unmistakable. No one could have been better
qualified for the delicate mission which led him to Alexandria than
this practised go-between, who thoroughly understood the ways of
women.
As the Queen, surrounded by her guard, mounted the throne, which
stood before a tapestry of birds and flowers, the guest was summoned.
He was a Roman, short of stature, with refined features, an alert,
gracious expression, whose distinguished bearing marked him as an
Aristocrat. He saluted her at the threshold with sword-point lowered
and his left hand touching his shoulder. Instead of coming forward
at once he remained motionless for a moment looking steadily at
Cleopatra as though his amazement at her beauty had taken away his
senses. Then he spoke:
"Before all else, O mighty Queen, my master, Mark Antony, whose
mouthpiece I am, salutes you; he wishes you glory, happiness, and
lasting prosperity."
"You will take him my good wishes in return," she replied, smiling;
and added: "But his hopes have already been fulfilled in his
victories."
The ambassador replied: "You are mistaken, O divine sovereign; Mark
Antony's happiness will never be complete, he will never feel that he
is truly great, until you honour him with your gracious presence."
This was surely an auspicious beginning; but how could Cleopatra be
certain that these were not merely preliminary formulas. She must
find out whether this envoy had not some other communication to make,
some personal message which would indicate the real discontent of
Mark Antony.
At her command the attendants withdrew, and their departure seemed to
lighten the atmosphere, free it from all suggestion of restraint.
The two now felt at ease, each eager to be agreeable to the other.
"Why have you come to see me?" asked the Queen in a tone of playful
frankness, as though inviting his confidence. "Tell me all; keep
nothing back. I must know the real reason for the Triumvir's
desiring my presence; what intentions has he in regard to me?" and
the expression of her eyes seemed to add: "If you do as I ask, if you
speak sincerely, you shall have no cause to regret it."