parts of the town, where debauchery ran riot. It was filled with
houses of ill-repute; the alleys rang with barbarous music
accompanying revolting scenes in the fetid taverns. And here the
ruler of Rome and the descendant of Egyptian kings loved to spend
their nights. Antony was becoming brutalized, and Cleopatra, also,
was affected by this life. They quarrelled, passed cynical jests,
and, taking colour from their surroundings, nothing pleased Antony so
much as to watch the Queen of Egypt seated till morning before these
dirty booths, and to hear her ravishing voice, meant to make music
for the gods, singing vulgar songs, reciting obscene verses, or using
the phrases that he had formerly heard only between low soldiers and
women of the town.
One night there was a squabble between one of these women and some
sailors. Instantly a tumult of cries and blows began. Violent
fighting followed and knives glittered. Cleopatra was about to
faint. Her throat was parched, a cold sweat broke out on her
forehead. She had hardly strength enough to reach the exit. Eros
seized her just in time and carried her into the open air. She
revived, but unfortunately her veil had been pushed aside, and pale
and frightened appeared the young face that at other times was seen
crowned by the head-dress of the Egyptian kings.
What is more significant than the degradation of these lovers,
overtaken by Fate? From the crest of Fortune's hill they could have
looked down on the ugliness of the world at their feet and have said:
"We are safe!" But they were insatiable. Possessing all the best,
they coveted the worst as well. They wanted their wheel of
sensations to go on turning, turning. At the least sign of its
stopping they set it going again, and it dragged them into the depths
from which they came up irremediably stained.
This scandal of the street brawl had no immediate consequence,
however. The hour of Nemesis had not yet come. The people of
Alexandria were content with their reëstablished government, their
increased revenue, and attached but little importance to what they
called these frivolous pranks. Their own standards were low and
there was no actual laws that condemned Cleopatra's conduct. On the
contrary, it established a certain sympathy between the Queen and her
subjects. Since she, who had seemed so far above them, had descended
to the ranks of the street women, what concession might not be
expected from her, or what good fortune? Men who had long worshipped
her at a distance drew near to regard her with longing eyes. One of
these admirers wrote: "Any other woman would grow stale, but not
Cleopatra. The more you see her the greater her fascination. She
can transform even vice, cruelty, debauchery by her unspeakable
charm. In the midst of her excesses the very priests themselves can
only bless her!"
Antony also had been adopted by the Alexandrians. Cæsar's
aristocratic bearing, his stern expression, his austere habit of
mind, had overawed them; while their naturally frivolous temperament
was thoroughly at ease in the presence of the jovial Triumvir.
Whereas the one always kept them at a distance, whether on horseback
or in his litter, never mixing with the populace, the other enjoyed
the street shows, went about everywhere, stopped before the stalls,
sometimes buying a trifle for which he paid double price, and taking
it to Cleopatra. He talked with the men in the street, was not
afraid of passing jokes with them, or even of emptying an amphora of
wine in their company. He had discarded his military dress when
appearing in public, as it recalled the hated Roman rule. He
replaced the Roman officers by Egyptian guards, and the coats of mail
and helmets, surmounted by silver crests, were exchanged for silk
robes with oriental head-dresses.
This delicate flattery of the populace provoked much jesting
criticism. "He reserves his tragic role for the Romans; for us he
has always a smile," many said, recalling the part he had played at
the time of the proscriptions.
His intimate associates, who shared this lawless life, had even less
cause than the Alexandrians to find fault with him. Like Antony,
they were under the bewitching charm of Cleopatra. They loved her,
admired her, and to win her favour bore with good humour the
sarcastic thrusts of her jesting moods. To please and amuse her some
of them sacrificed all sense of dignity. Paterculus has left the
story of Munatius Plancus, former consul, and several members of
Antony's staff who, one evening during a fête, crowned themselves
with reeds, tied fish tails to their naked backs, and mimicked the
dance of Glaucus. It seemed as though the masters of the world,
those proud Romans who had formerly scorned the Queen of Egypt, had
now become her slaves.
VI
ANTONY'S WIVES
It was no time for play, for masquerading, or for parades. Threats
were in the air. The Parthian invasions were daily becoming bolder
and there were many uprisings in Italy. It was one of those feverish
crises of that malady which had stricken Italy for more than a
century and whose periodic return endangered her foundations. On one
hand the landowners were trying to regain their confiscated property;
on the other, the war veterans, to whom these estates had been
promised, were exacting the fulfilment of the promise. These latter,
reinforced by the standing army, which no longer received its pay
regularly, were the larger and stronger party. In fact, they were
the only remaining organized force of the Republic.
The man who could meet their just demands and enforce his own will
would have been master of the situation. With his countless legions
and his control over them Antony seemed to be the man. In his
absence, Octavius was next in line. But his puny personality and his
reputed cowardice and cruelty were grave handicaps. He made sundry
efforts to reconcile the opposing parties. On one occasion, at
Gabies, he had a meeting of the landowners and representatives of the
soldiers to discuss before a jury the relative interests of the
opponents. Some decision might have been reached, as both sides
desired it, had a hearing been possible; but two people purposely
absented themselves; two who were determined on war and had effective
means of bringing it about. These two were Fulvia, Antony's wife,
and his brother, Lucius.
For Antony was married, very much married. The day after the battle
of Pharsalus he had wedded Fulvia, who had already been twice
married; the first time to the demagogue Clodius, and, after his
tragic death, to Curion, Tribune of the people. In her association
with these violent men she had acquired the habit of meddling in
politics. Under their influence her mind had become emancipated and
masculine; she had lost the sweetness of her own sex without gaining
any qualities to make up for it. In spite of this, and although she
had no beauty, Fulvia had succeeded in laying hold of the Imperator,
perhaps even in making him love her. She had doubtless succeeded,
because it was the destiny of this great agitator to upset the hearts
of women and yet be subject to their will. Far-seeing and masterful,
she had discerned what could be drawn from the powerful instrument
that Antony was, provided a firm hand controlled him. The power
Fulvia had over him was such that at times he seemed to be nothing
more than a sword hung at her girdle.
Her detestable influence was responsible for most of the bloody deeds
which have sullied the name of Antony. The three hundred deserters
from Brindisi were executed at the instigation of this termagant;
their punishment afforded her such keen joy that she desired to be
present at the death, that her robe might be spattered with their
blood. It was she also who stirred up in her husband's heart his
hatred of Cicero.
It is well known with what vehemence Cicero, in his Philippics,
denounced the man who, though a Republican, stood for despotism. He
designated Antony as "a soldier lacking political genius, without
loftiness of soul, destitute of real distinction, lost by
debauchery." Divining whose influence impelled Antony to act, he
fearlessly accused her: "Is this man free," he demanded of the
citizens whom he was urging to quit the demagogic party, "is he free,
when controlled by a woman who imposes her laws upon him, prescribes,
commands, forbids, as she sees fit?"
Fulvia could never forgive. At the hour of reckoning she found in
her venomous heart the arrow that Cicero had planted there, and sent
it back with fatal effect. To have her assailant assassinated was
not sufficient, she desired to dishonour his remains. When the head
of the great orator was brought to Antony, she drew a long gold pin
from her hair and pierced the tongue which had defended justice from
one end of the world to the other.
Naturally such a woman would not let herself be robbed without
protest. When she heard what skilful hands were detaining her
husband, rage gnawed at her heart. How should she get him back?
Supplications and threats were sent in turn to the Bruchium. But
Antony was dwelling in paradise, oblivious to all that did not
concern his beautiful mistress. He was determined to remain ignorant
of any reason for leaving her and often did not even unroll the
scripts which the courier had brought him from his wife.
Fulvia, however, was capable of dire vengeance. To stir up civil war
appealed to her as an expedient worthy of consideration. In
consultation with her brother-in-law, Lucius, an intriguer who had
the dream of crushing Octavius and putting his own family in power,
she said: "When thousands of men are dying for his cause Antony will
be compelled to leave Cleopatra's arms."
At the instigation of the two conspirators several landowners roused
the rural population. There were skirmishes and combats. A large
number of towns declared themselves as opposed to Octavius. The
cries of death resounded as far as Rome. The statues of the
Triumvirs were broken. Lucius took advantage of these uprisings to
declare himself, in his brother's name, the defender of Republican
ideals. Antony himself, he affirmed, thought that the Triumvirate
had lasted long enough. He was ready to cancel his power and content
himself with being Consul.
These assertions gained many partisans for him among the men who
wished law and order restored. With things at such a pass it was
incredible that Antony would not come to assume the leadership.
Delegates sent to Alexandria to induce him to return were refused
admission to his presence. Cleopatra bade them depart without delay
on pain of imprisonment.
Hearing of this outrage, Fulvia, whom no crime appalled, conceived
the idea of combining with Antony's enemies. She made a proposal to
Octavius, and, as a proof of sincerity, suggested his marrying
Clodia, her daughter by Clodius. She was a charming young girl, not
yet seventeen years of age, and had already attracted Octavius's
fancy. But he was not to be ensnared; at no price would this
practical man have encumbered his career by having Fulvia for a
mother-in-law!
So the war went on.
Despite Antony's contempt for his adversary--"that beardless
blackguard," as he scornfully called him--he knew very well what the
ultimate issue would be, although Cleopatra took all possible means
to conceal the actual danger; but he persisted in his indifference.
His exasperated wife was in despair and, seeing the peril increase
from day to day, began to re-open negotiations. However difficult
these might be with such an elusive husband, still they offered the
only possible chance of rousing Antony to action. The chief thing
was to find an ambassador who could gain an audience.
She and Lucius finally selected Ahenobarbus, the Triumvir's old
comrade-in-arms, one of his bravest generals, who during all their
campaigns together had rendered most valuable aid, yet at the hour of
victory had always effaced himself before his chief. He, at least,
would be given a hearing.
When this Roman of the old school, fresh from the battlefield, whose
cuirass seemed to stick to his body as his flesh to his bones,
entered the luxurious perfumed quarters of the Bruchium, and saw
Antony in a flowing, embroidered robe, a scimitar in his girdle, his
head wrapped in a turban adorned with a shining carbuncle, he was
overcome. Was this the conqueror of Philippi, his comrade that he
had not seen since, clad in wild beasts' skins, he had endured
without complaint the bitter hardships of a Macedonian winter?
"Mark Antony!" he exclaimed, and that name alone expressed all the
astonishment and dismay that filled his soul.
Antony was far from callous to this appeal. When he understood what
his wife and brother had undertaken, his face reddened. He knew well
that personal interest and profit formed part of their zeal in
serving him; but the fact remained that Fulvia furnished a rare
example of wifely devotion, and Lucius was an intelligent man. For
the moment he had a sincere desire to join them.
"If you feel that way," said Ahenobarbus with the simplicity of a
heart accustomed to match deeds with words, "why hesitate? The men
who are fighting for your cause are imprisoned in the fort at
Perugia; they are in danger of starving to death. Take command of
your legions and go to their aid."
But things were not so simple as this brave soldier imagined.
Cleopatra undertook to enlighten him. Little versed as he was in the
ways of sentiment, he comprehended at the first sight of her, at the
sound of her charming voice, that Antony was no longer his own
master, that he belonged body and soul to this siren. And then he
tried to make her see reason.
He explained the situation without reserve. If Lucius and Fulvia
were dependent on their own resources, Octavius would probably have
the advantage, and Antony would lose the chance of overcoming an
enemy who, though cowardly now, might one day be formidable.
Cleopatra was too wise not to realize the justice of these arguments.
No one was more anxious than she for Antony's advancement, no one had
greater reason to dread the triumph of that legitimate nephew, who
disputed with Cæsarion the heritage of Cæsar. Undoubtedly if Lucius
had been alone in his struggle, she would have said: "For our mutual
glory, for the extension of our power, go to the front." But giving
Antony his liberty, permitting her cherished lover to set foot on
Italian soil, meant giving him up to Fulvia. Ugly, coarse, and
antipathetic though she was, better fitted to harangue troops than to
inspire passion, nevertheless this Bellona caused her a certain
uneasiness. She knew her ambitions and was perfectly conscious of
her despotic control of Antony. Under these conditions was it
prudent, even for a few days, to deliver this precious hostage into
her hands? Weighing all considerations, Love, that tyrant who knows
no will save his own, gained his end. Perugia, Rome, the whole of
Italy might be burning, Cleopatra would not give up her lover.
The day before Ahenobarbus, disappointed and disgusted, was to return
to Italy, a trifling incident changed the course of things. Antony
was depressed. His conscience troubled him; that conscience which he
had ignored so long, but which, at certain memories, disturbed his
peace. His old war comrade said nothing more, but his looks were
full of reproach.
"How shall I divert him?" thought Cleopatra. "What amusement can I
devise to protect him during this last day from the appeals of
Ahenobarbus?"
She proposed a fishing party.
Both men accepted and the boats across the canal which led to the
harbour of Eunostus, carried them to Lake Mareotis. The reeds were
rustling in the breeze, above the quiet water stretched a heaven of
radiant blue. The buildings along the shore made red reflections in
the lake as though they were on fire. The vessels anchored at the
further end of the lake where, remote from noise and excitement, the
carp had taken refuge in the quiet lapping of the waves.
Antony threw his line half a dozen times and caught nothing. This
bad luck, especially before Ahenobarbus, who was watching him with
folded arms, increased his ill-humour. Irritated and determined to
catch the fish, or at least to seem to catch them, he whispered a
word to Eros. What he told him was to fasten to his own hook one of
the largest fish that had been caught and to slip it skilfully under
the water so that no one would suspect the trick.
The Queen, however, was not long fooled. She, too, knew how to play
that game. She quickly concocted a plan that, unknown to Eros,
another attendant carried out.
Antony was again in high spirits. Every time he drew in his line a
large carp hung from his hook. He was overwhelmed with compliments
on his astounding skill. All at once, just as he drew out a huge
prize, there was a burst of laughter. The fish, this time, proved to
be one that had been kept in brine to serve as bait. Ordinarily
Antony would have been the first to join in the ridicule against
himself, but in the presence of the dignified Roman general he was
annoyed and mortified. The party went home in silence.
Thinking this a good chance for a final effort, Ahenobarbus waited
until everyone had gone to his own apartment and then sought Antony.
"Do you not realize that this is no place for you?" he demanded.
"This child's play is fit only for women and eunuchs; but you,
warrior, chief of the State, one of the three heads of the Republic,
when there are towns and continents waiting for your taking...."
With the gesture habitual to him in moments of perplexity, Antony put
his elbow on his knee, his chin resting in his right hand, and stared
at his friend. What was there to say? That fire that still burned
in his veins flamed up, showing him the glorious goal toward which
they had marched together.
"I wish I might follow you!" he cried.
"What is there to hinder you?"
"How can you ask!"
"Is love so mighty then," gasped the old soldier, "that once in its
thrall a man has no more power over himself?"
They continued to talk. Antony was ready to be persuaded. The light
wound to his vanity made him sensitive to appeals to his honour. The
future spread out before him. Where would the life of a love-sick
satrap lead him?
Suddenly he cried, grasping his friend's hand: "You are right;
to-morrow I will go with you." And with a firm step he turned toward
Cleopatra's bedchamber.
She was lying on a low couch, awaiting her lover, but she was more
than usually eager for his coming this evening. He had been morose
at supper. What had been the trouble? Was he annoyed at the joke
she had played on him?
Charmian was beside her, trying to comfort her. Surely Antony
understood a joke!
The soothing sound of the sea came in through the windows. Just
outside the curtain of her room Antony heard the question: "Do you
believe he will always love me?"
His heart was softened and he thought: "How can I hurt the most
tender of women?" Going in, he looked at her without speaking, and
she asked:
"What is it? Of what are you thinking?"
He hesitated. Then, suddenly, like one who takes his courage in both
hands, he cried:
"Beyond all question I must go away."
She looked at him, incredulous. This was worse than all her fears.
"Go away! You are saying it to frighten me, because I teased you."
"Child," he ejaculated, "as though such a thing counted! I owe it to
those who are fighting for me."
Cleopatra's heart sank.
"You wish to be with your wife!"
In spite of the gravity of the occasion Antony could not help
laughing.
"You! Jealous of Fulvia!"
After all, why should she not be jealous? The cause which this
deserted wife was heading was not led by an ordinary woman.
Beautiful or hideous, with their storms, their upheavals, their
tears, these passionate souls are the most dangerous rivals.
Cleopatra understood; she knew, better than any other woman, of what
the heart is capable to protect or regain its loved one. And
Antony's temperament did not reassure her. At a distance from her,
he would surely find in that other woman, that Amazon, the very
support that his wavering will unconsciously sought in all his
relations with women.
All these soul-torturing thoughts she put in her next demand:
"You want me to die, then?" And, as though she were already nearing
death, she fell back on her pillows, pale and sobbing.
That was enough to shake his new-born resolution. Antony was already
wavering. Bending over that dear face, which he had so often seen
flushed with happiness, his only thought was to repair the damage his
words had wrought. He would not leave her at once. He would get
Ahenobarbus to take his place and later, should it be necessary...
Cleopatra recovered immediately!
"If it were necessary," she whispered, still trembling, and pressing
his head against her bosom, "I should be the first to urge you to go.
I desire your well-being, your glory far more than you do. But,
believe me, your wife and your brother are fools. They are working
only for their own interest. Let them get out of this embarrassment,
which they have brought about themselves, without any aid from you."
Antony was more than content to believe her. And that night there
was no further question of their parting.
Other happy nights followed. The lovers were reunited, and behind
those protecting ramparts that love builds they were oblivious of
war, threats, everything. What matter if the world fell, so long as
they were together?
The gods, however, who favoured Antony, combined this time to save
him. At the moment when Perugia, exhausted, was on the point of
surrendering; when the army, headed by his brother and his wife,
seeing no chance of the Triumvir's coming, began to lose courage,
Fulvia suddenly fell ill and died. She had been the soul of the
resisting army. With this support gone Lucius was not strong enough
to continue the fight against such heavy odds, and he sheathed his
sword. Thus, by unforeseen events, Antony's absence, which had
seemed so fatal, brought most excellent results. He had taken no
part in the war and so could not be held responsible for it.
Consequently there would be no difficulty in making peace with
Octavius. He had only to disavow any political designs of his own.
But he must at least go to negotiate this affair in person.
With Fulvia dead there was no further reason for Cleopatra to oppose
Antony's temporary absence, or to feel any alarm in regard to it.
She had borne him one child and another was coming. They had decided
to celebrate their wedding in the spring and to legitimatize the
children, as Cæsar had done in the case of Cæsarion. As though,
however, the growlings of the crafty beast that lurks near perfect
happiness were heard from afar, Cleopatra still had certain
apprehensions. What did she dread? She could not have defined it.
The idea of consulting the oracles came to her. Perhaps they would
explain that mysterious danger against which her whole being rebelled.
Here, as at Rome, the long-bearded augurs sought to unravel the
secrets of the future by studying the sacred books, observing the
flight of birds and examining the entrails of the victims. As
Claros, Curnes, and Tibur had their sybils, Delphi her Pythian
priestess, so Alexandria had a college of celebrated astrologers.
These famous men not only gave their nights to the study of the
heavens (they knew the laws that governed the stars and they gave the
constellations the names that they bear to-day) but their science
pretended to be able to question these stars and to obtain
information from them. Each celestial body represented a divinity
who influenced the birth and life of mortals, and its vivid
brilliancy in the height of happiness was dimmed by the approach of
disaster.
After nightfall, when it was entirely dark, Cleopatra, accompanied by
a slave, climbed the one hundred and twenty steps which led to the
highest terrace.
Sisogenus, the great compiler of horoscopes, who had been advised of
her visit, was awaiting her. With outstretched arms and his forehead
in the dust he saluted her three times.
"What does the daughter of Amoun-Ra seek of an insignificant being?"
She explained her wish to know the destiny of Mark Antony. In a few
days the Triumvir would be in Latin territory once more. What fate
awaited him there? Was there anything to fear in regard to him?