adorned with a row of bells which rang as he moved, traced some signs
on the sand of the terrace; then, in an attitude of ecstasy, his body
bent back, his palms outspread, he searched the starry vault.
Myriads of golden points pricked the sombre blue, and their
reflections in the sea were like a shower of diamonds.
Sisogenus suddenly seized his wand and pointed to a star. He had
recognized the planet under which Antony was born.
"There!" he cried, "clear and brilliant it is approaching its zenith."
But presently the star grew dim. It drew near another star. A
moment later the latter seemed to fade away and the first shone again
in its original, magnificent splendour.
Cleopatra was much impressed by this phenomenon, the more so on
hearing that it was Octavius's star which had made Antony's pale.
This experience was conclusive. It was undeniably true that by their
natures these two men were opposed to each other, and that Antony
should, in all matters, distrust his colleague and avoid him.
When she brought him the horoscope Antony was the more impressed by
it because of a vision which had disturbed his slumber. In his dream
he had been walking in a field of flowers. All at once he had a
sensation of resistance, as though a barrier had been placed in his
path. After a hard struggle he waked suddenly, covered with sweat,
as though he had just escaped some grave peril.
Antony would not have been of his age and country if he had ignored
such a warning. No Latin was indifferent to these things. A sneeze,
a burning of the ears, had their meaning. A fall, the swelling of
the little finger, were regarded as evil omens. If he saw a flight
of crows on leaving the house, the prudent man returned home and
carried out no business that day. If, on the contrary, a swarm of
bees welcomed him as he stepped out into the golden sunshine, he was
safe in any undertaking, for they brought good luck!
Naturally, when such importance was attached to insignificant things,
the signs of the heavens were pregnant with meaning. If Antony had
deferred his going it would have brought only unhappiness to
Cleopatra and himself, for stronger than all dreams was a voice which
warned them that the better part of their romance was over. Would
they ever again find time to give themselves up entirely to the joys
of love? That careless rapture which passionate youth brings was
ended. Different obligations would separate them, perhaps
indefinitely. Antony's position called him back to his duty. That
peace with Octavius, if it were accomplished, would solve only one of
the new difficulties which had arisen. The Parthians had to be
subdued, order must be established in Asia Minor; many things
demanded his attention. Already, with the putting on of his armour,
the Imperator felt like his old self; he heard the clarion call with
pleasure and his gay, child-like smile had vanished. He left his cup
half filled with wine.
Cleopatra was unhappy; she had more to dread from the coming
separation. A sorrowful expression came into her eyes when she
looked at her lover, and, in spite of herself, in spite of his
repeated promises that he would return before the end of the year,
bitter grief wrung her heart.
When the day came, although she was faint from weeping, she insisted
on going down to the ship with him. A fresh wind was coming up from
the east. The ruffled sea was covered with long white wings, wings
which would carry off her happiness. If she could only keep him with
her! But poor human desires have never for a single moment deferred
the coming disaster. The ship's sails were set; the three ranks of
rowers had taken their places, and fifty ebony arms were about to
strike the water. Leaning over the edge of the rampart, which ran
along the side of the _Heptastadium_, Cleopatra was repeating softly
the tender farewells which her hand waved to Antony. Just as the
ship left the quay she cried:
"Remember the stars!"
If Antony had been torn at this time by the revengeful passion which
inflamed him the day after the Ides of March, or by the hate which
possessed him later--too late--and which was to set him, weakened,
against an enemy who had grown powerful, he would undoubtedly have
gained the mastery of Octavius, and the fate of the world would have
been changed. But the time that he had spent at Alexandria had
sapped his primitive instincts, and the fighting power that was one
of the savage beauties of his nature had lost its freshness. Instead
of returning to Italy with the fierce enthusiasm essential to
victory, his mind was absorbed in Egyptian magic; his chief idea was
to bring about peace as quickly as possible so that he might be free
to go back.
Octavius, also, wanted an amicable adjustment of the disturbances
which the family Antonius had brought about, but from totally
different motives. He was occupied with more serious things. Pompey
was in command of several legions who were bound to him through
loyalty to the glorious memory of his father. He had taken these to
Sardinia and was superintending the piracy of a fleet whose object
was to starve out the Latin coasts. If Antony, with the sixteen
legions which he had in Macedonia, and the fast fleet which the
Rhodians had built for him, were to form an alliance with this new
antagonist, Octavius would inevitably be defeated.
It is a truism that fear makes men both cruel and cowardly. In the
present instance it caused Octavius to take outrageous reprisals from
the vanquished Perugians and made him a lamb in the presence of
Antony. He had never been really at ease with his herculean
colleague. All that Antony stood for in beauty, pride, and happiness
was secret gall and bitterness to him. Though quite as well versed
in debauchery, his weakness made him despair of ever attaining the
graceful, easy bearing which made Antony so attractive. He felt,
too, the indifference of his soldiers toward him, compared with the
feeling that his opponent inspired among his men; their devotion was
such that they preferred serving under him without pay to being well
paid for marching against him. Feeling the scantiness of his
ammunition, compared with Antony's abundant resources, he had
concluded at the outset that it would be wiser to have Antony for a
friend than an enemy, and to-day again he said to himself: "Though it
cost me the one hundred million sesterces that he has stolen from the
heritage of Cæsar, yet I will make this man my ally."
Both sides then were ready to come to terms. Their followers were as
eager for it as the chief combatants themselves, for after so much
grief, agitation, and bloodshed, all the world thirsted for peace.
Antony's friends were awaiting him at Brindisi. They had no
difficulty in persuading him to repulse the revolutionary proposals
of Pompey and to come to an understanding with Octavius. This latter
offered Cyrenaica, which had been included in Lepidus's share, in
exchange for Gaul, which originally had been allotted to Antony in
the division of territory.
Anxious to go to Asia, where his most important interests lay, Antony
selected Asinius Pollion to look after his affairs in Italy. The
latter's tact and knowledge qualified him to deal with Mæcenas,
Octavius's delegate, and Antony gave him full power. It would be
time to sign the papers when he returned from Asia.
Antony's haste to plant his eagles in the Orient was because
Cleopatra had persuaded him to regard these provinces as their common
property, the rich area that was destined to supplant ancient,
impoverished Europe and to become that world-empire which they had
planned to establish together. To drive out the Parthians and
procure the gold necessary to content his soldiers, who were his
chief support, was of infinitely greater importance than to dispute
fragments of territory with Octavius and Lepidus. Antony, as always
when impelled by his strong instinct as a leader, showed his usual
masterful decision, quickness, and courage. He immediately took
Palestine from Pacoros and reëstablished Herod there; punished the
towns which had massacred their garrisons, put Labienus to flight,
destroyed the gates of Lamanos, and took possession of Syria. These
victories recalled the days of his untrammelled youth, and roused
that enthusiastic energy which so often followed his periods of
inertia.
His friends, knowing this complete metamorphosis, had reckoned
accordingly. They persuaded him to put on his Imperator's cuirass
while they were laying the cornerstone of a new Triumvirate, saying
among themselves: "We shall gain time in this way"; for they had
their own plans. They thought that a marriage would serve the double
purpose of making the desired treaty binding and also would keep him
from going back to his mistress; so they had arranged to bring about
a union between him and the sister of Octavius. They knew that
although death had fortunately taken away Fulvia, the main obstacle
had not gone with her. They understood perfectly that "the courtesan
of the Nile," as in their hate and scorn they designated Cleopatra,
was still there, beguiling, regal, clothed with her indescribable
charm. But absence, for the time being, lessened her power, and by
this absence they were determined to profit.
Antony's return was the propitious moment to bring about the union of
the two Triumvirs by means of the most pleasing of women. The
important thing was to arrange this skilfully and without undue
haste. The sun on that day shone over Rome not with the metallic
brilliance which cut hard outlines in the Levantine landscape, but
gently, delicately, with fleece-like clouds that softened the light.
Among its flowery hills the ancient city lay in quiet dignity; its
low houses clustered around its temples seemed like a family group.
From the first moment that Antony trod the streets, filled with
sacred memories; when, on the border of the river, he looked again at
the place where he had gathered the ashes of Cæsar from the funeral
pyre; when he heard the great voices of the Forum welcoming him--his
heart quivered with an emotion that he had not felt for a long time.
Whatever joys might thrill him elsewhere, no other place in the world
could give him the inexpressible happiness of feeling that he was at
home. Rome, it was the birthplace of his fathers; the air that he
breathed there stirred and exhilarated him like that on a mountain
top. The blood ran through his veins richer, fuller, as though all
that of his forebears had joined the flood.
In this frame of mind Octavia's attractions were naturally very
powerful. Although not radiantly beautiful, her modest, winning
carriage represented all that to the Latin mind signified the
guardian of the home. Her face was oval, rather long, the type which
the artists of the Renaissance chose in painting their Madonnas. Her
dreamy eyes were shaded by long lashes, and her masses of hair, whose
regular braids encircled her forehead, rested there like a crown.
No more striking contrast could have been found than that between
this sweet, gracious woman and the implacable Fulvia; unless in
comparing the warm seductions of Cleopatra with the diaphanous
delicacy, the sensitive shadows, which enveloped the sister of
Octavius.
The young woman had been married once. The short time that she had
lived with Marcellus, for whom she still wore a widow's veil, had
been filled with love, peace, and fruitfulness, and was indicative of
what life would be at her side. It was on her discretion and
deep-seated kindliness that the friends of Antony and Octavius alike
had relied, hoping to make of her arms an arch of peace which would
unite the two columns of the world. Her domestic virtues alone would
have insured its solidity. At a time when baseness was rampant, when
selfish fear engendered cowardice, when treason entered even into the
heart of family life, she had many times shown her intrinsic
qualities, her generous, human, kindly soul. Her gentle influence
over her brother had frequently saved the victims of his wrath. Her
friend, Tullia, owed the life of Thoranius, her idolized husband, to
her intervention. He had been sentenced to death more than a month
and was awaiting the hour of his execution. All Tullia's prayers had
been in vain and the time was at hand. What could be done to save
the unfortunate man? Public opinion was not in favour of his
condemnation, but, debased as it was, what means could it take to
express its disapproval? Octavia was fearless. One evening when the
Imperator was expected at the theatre, she prepared a device. At the
moment when he entered his box, dressed in purple and surrounded by
lictors, a curtain rose and by the side of a young woman weeping
there appeared a phantom loaded with chains. Cries of "Mercy,
mercy," resounded on every side. What each individual would have
feared to ask, the crowd demanded. The future Augustus was too weak
to go counter to the voice of the people. He raised his right hand.
The cause was won!
Octavia's presence had the effect on Antony of grateful shade. Never
since childhood had he been associated with such a wholesome,
comforting personality. The idea of making his home with her gave
him a qualm of conscience. If only he had met her earlier he would
undoubtedly have been a different man. His way of living would not
have become so debased. But, as he was to-day, how could he change
his habits? How reach her level? Deluded by an apparently newly
gained liberty, he said to himself: "Who knows, it may not be too
late!" The next moment the image of the Egyptian sorceress came to
him, forbidding any happiness save with her in the alternate fever
and ecstasy which her love created.
Octavia was thoroughly familiar with Mark Antony's past life.
Desirous, as he was, of combining their political interests, her
brother, who was devoted to her, had not concealed from her the risks
involved in a marriage with Cleopatra's lover. He could not bring
himself to praise a man so entirely opposite in character to himself.
Fundamentally honest and careful of her future as Octavia was, she
might, by these warnings, have been spared such a perilous adventure;
but she had a brave heart under her outward shyness. Her youth
longed to taste the sweets of passion as well as the quiet joys of
life. From their very first interview she had been irresistibly
drawn toward the tyrant that Antony was to be in her life. It would
not be possible, she thought while admiring his splendid contour and
his bright smile, for such a man to be false. If he had yielded to
temptations it was because those near him had failed to bind him with
that cord of tenderness which can restrain the lion. This was the
pathetic mistake of virtue, confident of its own power; that fatal
attraction which makes gentle hearts the prey of strong, full-blooded
men, and impels them to yield to those who will become their masters
and their ruin.
Octavia's illusion continued for some time. The marriage began
auspiciously with that real happiness which was unknown to Antony and
afforded him pleasure by its novelty. In his wife's eyes, he was a
traveller who had seen many countries, destroyed many forests, and
whose wounded feet were grateful for repose. He had exchanged his
flaming paradise for this innocent love in which he was a novice, and
for some time he was happy in the new experience. As to his young
wife, she felt that the charm of completed cycles was hers, and that
she had found the secret which makes the spring sweet and gives
fragrance to the flowers. Her heart was full to overflowing and she
had no other desire than to fulfil her husband's lightest wish. With
instinctive knowledge, she divined his thought and carried out his
fancy before he had time even to stretch out his hand. One day when
they were walking together he admired the palace that Pompey had
built on the Appian Way and expressed regret that so beautiful a
place remained empty. She immediately obtained permission from her
brother to have the ban lifted and offered the palace, filled with
its wonderful treasures, to Antony. Although her own tastes up to
the present moment had been simple, she thought no frame too spacious
or too rich for her husband. How could this Omphale, consumed with
faithful devotion, foresee that this palace would seem a prison to
Antony before the first year of their marriage had gone by?
Her tenderness and devotion were so all-absorbing that the atmosphere
soon became stifling to Antony, who felt that his arms were wide
enough to embrace an infinity of delights. Full of strength and
imagination, this grandson of Hercules felt cramped in the network of
tradition, and Rome, which had looked so magnificent on the day of
his triumphal return, had taken again its real proportions, which, in
comparison with the magnificence of Alexandria's sumptuous buildings,
obelisks, and columns, seemed like those of a market town. Its
austere customs, narrow views, and prejudices irritated him. Antony
was bored. What had become of those joyous songs whose golden-winged
fancies had cradled his life in the past two years?
The association with Octavius was intolerable. Whereas the men who
had brought about their reconciliation were delighted at seeing them
apparently working together in harmony, issuing decrees, reviewing
troops, or united at the family table, they themselves were conscious
of a fermenting mutual hatred. It was inevitable between two men
equal in rank, sharing an authority which caused perpetual friction.
Whether acting for the State, or in the smallest detail of private
life, everything was a subject of dispute. When the Roman people,
emotional and easily excited, applauded one or the other of the
Triumvirs, or showed the least sign of approval of his acts, the
demon of jealousy arose. Even the games, in which they sometimes
sought diversion, led to disagreements, for neither of the two could
stand having the other one win. The dice on several occasions having
been favourable to Antony, Octavius claimed that they were loaded.
One evening they entertained their guests with a pair of fighting
cocks, and the customary stakes were laid. Once, twice, three times
Octavius's cock won. Antony was white with rage. He left the room
abruptly and even Octavia's pleading was powerless to bring him back
that evening.
Trifling as such wounds were, their daily occurrence was like
mosquito bites which finally poison the entire system. Their
relations, never cordial, grew definitely worse. Antony showed
always the more decided enmity. Confident, as he was, that the first
place should belong to him, he was irritated by any interference,
especially when Octavius was given precedence over him. Upon the
least pretext the words of the Egyptian oracle would come back to
him: "Keep away from your rival. Whenever you come together your
star will be eclipsed by his. In the Orient alone will your star
have its full radiance."
Even had he tried to forget these ominous words, the diviners,
astrologers, all the clique with which Cleopatra had secretly
surrounded him, kept them constantly in his mind. The longing to get
away from this annoying comparison haunted him. His one object was
to leave Rome and return to the land where he could find that
preëminence so indispensable to his masterful nature. To be the
chief, the one whose commands all the world obeyed! To look out on
unlimited space and to say to himself: "No one can contend with me
for the tiniest morsel of it!" Those dreams which pride evolves to
tempt the covetous mind!
Only a great victory could upset the equality of power and exalt one
of the Triumvirs above the other two. This Antony determined to win.
The colossal vision of making the Orient his military and political
centre, and of founding an immense empire of which he would be the
sole sovereign, appealed to him more than ever. It was reviving
Cæsar's chimera, that chimera which, in an age where venality
reigned, would supply him gold in abundance. But could he carry it
out to a glorious victory? To begin with, he must expel the Parthian
invaders who infested the frontiers, then establish himself beyond
the Euphrates and gain the mastery of Persia.
The plans for this daring campaign were already drawn; they had been
laid out in the minutest details by the conqueror of Gaul. Antony,
who had been in Cæsar's confidence during his latter days, had only
to take possession of them. The only change that he needed to make
was in the choice of a city to supplant Rome. Alexandria apparently
had been selected by Cæsar, who on the eve of this great enterprise
had been wholly absorbed in Cleopatra. This same Alexandria had
shone in Antony's eyes as his future capital while he was with
Cleopatra and they were elaborating their plans. But to-day, in the
house ruled by the virtuous Octavia, even the name of Egypt was
abhorrent. He thought of Athens.
Like all women really in love, Octavia would rather have kept her
husband at her side. To lean on his breast was happiness enough for
her tender heart. When Antony unfolded his ambitious projects she
felt as though joy were about to leave her fireside for ever, and
that the future held for her only sorrow and disappointment. But she
was too sensible not to realize that action is the law of great
lives, and that to love a conqueror entails lonely melancholy.
Even her brother, enamoured as he was of his bride, Livia, pricked by
this spur of supremacy, had just left to do battle with the pirates
of Sextus Pompey. Octavia accepted Antony's departure like a
submissive wife, but exacted a promise that after the birth of her
child he would allow her to join him in Greece.
A sensation of escape, such as a ship feels when freed from her
moorings, thrilled Antony's heart the moment he passed the mole and
saw the port of Ostia growing fainter in the distance. He was free.
In vain he tried to repress this feeling of exultation. It was
useless. He remembered his wife's gracious goodness, the love she
showered on him, the real affection that he had for her, and he was
filled with self-reproach. But he could not control his delight; he
was enchanted to have loosed his shackles. To be back again in the
fight, to be working out his own destiny, was like waking up after a
long spell of drowsiness.
Athens afforded him the exquisite pleasure of being the cynosure of
all eyes; the delight of receiving, without having to share them, the
keys of power; its submission, its homage. The Greeks had preserved
an indelible memory of his personality. They admired his beauty, his
military genius, his strength. A warrior primarily, they knew him
also as a patron of art who respected their traditions. His
pilgrimage to the summit of the Acropolis, made on foot and clothed
in the national pallium, had endeared him to all hearts. Whatever
reports had come to them since, their original conviction was
unaltered: Mark Antony was a demigod. They lavished titles and
honours upon him. A chorus of dancing girls offered him the thyrsus
of Bacchus crowned with leaves, and fêtes were held everywhere, as at
the celebration of the Nabathæans. This delirium of flattery passed
all bounds and ended in absurdity. They offered this new Bacchus the
hand of the virgin Athene who stood before the Parthenon, armed with
the gold helmet and lance of the Olympian games.
Antony, secretly amused, pretended to take this seriously.
"I will accept this offer of marriage," he said, "provided my spouse
brings me a million drachmas."
The sycophants were caught in the trap. They carried on the game.
It was a severe lesson, however, and one of them, the High Priest
charged with supplying this money from the treasury of the temple,
could not restrain himself from saying: "Zeus himself did not demand
so much to become the lover of your mother, Semele!"