forgotten; but she made no protest. There is distinction in sharing
honours with a goddess. She only asked to be allowed to come and
play her part in the comedy. The Athenians were no fools. They
received her enthusiastically, and pretended to honour her as the
living image of Athene. There were festivals, entertainments,
banquets, and in order to make them as gorgeous as he desired Antony
had only to copy those that he had revelled in at Alexandria. Once
again he was living the life of an Oriental sovereign and, robed in
purple, shod with sandals of gold, his forehead bound with fillets,
he employed his leisure time in presiding over the athletic games,
watching the races and wrestling matches, the lance- and
disc-throwing. Octavia awarded the prizes, and happy, united, with
no thought of the morrow, they both enjoyed their gracious
sovereignty.
Spring had come again. Antony watched the budding branches of the
sacred laurel and drank of the fountain of Clepsydra. The oracles
that he had consulted had promised him a triumph. He was eager to
take his place at the head of the troops, who, under the command of
Ventidius, were awaiting him in Epirus.
The campaign opened brilliantly. A succession of uninterrupted
victories by the advance-guard seemed to indicate that the invasion
of Persia would be simply a military procession. Success at this
time meant all the more because Octavius was then fighting his own
battles on the shores of Sicily.
These were golden hours for Antony; hours when the thought "The world
with its kingdoms will be mine," came to him repeatedly. This
illusion made him careless in replying to messages from his
brother-in-law. Secure himself, he was rejoicing in the difficulties
of Octavius and had no desire whatever to send to his assistance the
noble Rhodian fleet for which he was clamouring.
Octavia felt very differently. If her passionate love had thrown her
into Antony's arms, it had in no way lessened her warm affection for
her brother. Her loyalty, even had she not cared for Octavius, would
have made her remember that one of the chief reasons for her marriage
with Antony had been to forward the interests of both. Up to the
present time she had only been called upon to adjust slight
disagreements between them. To-day, however, conditions were
different; indeed, the very supremacy of the two rulers was at stake.
They envied each other, they hated each other, and between these
opposing forces her gentle personality was in imminent danger of
being crushed. Why had the gods so cruelly put this grain of wheat
between two millstones?
After driving out Antiochus, Antony returned from Syria. He was
drunk with the exultation of victory and his wife decided that this
would be a propitious moment to present her petition to him. She
went to Ephesus to meet him, accompanied by Ahenobarbus, who deplored
the dissension between the Triumvirs and predicted dire consequences.
Antony's first greeting was so full of affection that she was led to
believe that her influence over the conqueror was not wholly lost.
With the tenderest caution, but firmly, as her conscience demanded,
she asked why he still kept the fleet in the harbour instead of
despatching it to her brother's assistance. Quite apart from their
signed contract, was he unmindful of the fact that he might have need
of reinforcements in the heart of Asia, even as Octavius was needing
these ships? This refusal to send one might later cut him off from
the other. Why did they not coöperate?
Her eminently rational appeal made little impression on Antony, for
he felt himself invincible. He knew that a rupture was inevitable,
and left to himself he probably would have brought it about at once,
but he was touched by Octavia's tears. He had always been easily
moved by women, and after yielding to those who made tempestuous
demands upon him, it seemed only fair that, for once in his life, he
should heed this messenger of peace.
"Go," he commanded, "make terms with Octavius, but remember, before
all else, that you are the wife of Antony!"
Greater difficulties than she had looked for awaited her in arranging
matters with her brother. Exasperated by the evidently evil
intentions of Antony, he decided that such an ally was as dangerous
as an enemy, and that while awaiting the supreme decision it was as
well to learn to be independent. Aided by Agrippa, who was showing
his authority on all maritime matters, he commenced to build a fleet.
The port of Tarentum was full of excitement. Well-paid carpenters
and caulkers were busy night and day, singing as they worked. The
noise of hammers and hatchets resounded. The rhythmic ringing of the
anvil was broken by the cries of the fishmongers and bargemen.
It was in the midst of this strenuous labour that Octavia arrived to
hold conference with her brother. As she drew near, he was
surrounded by engineers to whom he was giving endless orders, and the
welcome he accorded her was, unlike his usual greeting, defiant
rather than cordial.
"What do you wish? Why are you here?"
"I am only a little ahead of the fleet which Antony has put at your
disposal."
"It is too late," replied Octavius curtly, "in three months my own
ships will be on the high seas."
That first repulse was hard to bear. It killed the hope of bringing
about a reconciliation which Octavia had built on her brother's
embarrassments. But she was not a woman to be easily baulked. The
mission that she had undertaken filled her with invincible courage
and tenacity. Through life and death she would carry it out. She
now defended her husband's actions as valiantly as she had those of
her brother when pleading with her husband. If Antony had delayed,
it was because he had been surrounded by such countless difficulties
that he had lost count of time. The moment that she had reminded him
of the need for action he had answered: "I am ready to go." He would
be there in a few days.
But the deeply furrowed brow of Octavius, marked with premature
wrinkles between his black eyebrows, was not so easily smoothed as
Antony's had been. The masterful will which enveloped them both like
a cuirass had no fissure in his case. Octavia saw that her efforts
to defend her husband were futile, and as her excuses had really
little foundation she began to plead her own cause.
"If you give way to anger," she said, looking tenderly at her
brother, "if sword and lance cross, no one can tell who will be the
victor. There is only one certainty and that is that I, wife or
sister of the vanquished, will spend the rest of my life in tears!"
Was he touched by this woman's gentle plea? Or did he in the bottom
of his heart feel that if he repulsed Antony's advances the latter
would ally himself with their mutual enemy Sextus Pompey? Be that as
it may, urged by his two good geniuses, Agrippa and Mæcenas, Octavius
yielded and consented to an agreement.
Anchored in the bay of Piræus, Antony was awaiting his
brother-in-law's decision. As soon as he got the report from
Ahenabarbus he set sail with the two hundred and twenty triremes
which were his pride and his strength. Their arrival at Tarentum had
a tremendous effect. When Octavius first caught sight of them in the
distance, their snowy sails seeming to cover the face of the waters,
enveloped in the silvery foam splashed up by the oars, he had the
conviction that however numerous and powerful his own future fleet
might be, these splendid ships, all new, well equipped, and well
armed, would be a most valuable addition to his navy.
But he could not foresee that those same ships, those slender craft,
would one day turn against Antony and decide the victory of Actium.
And Antony, still wrapped in his own illusions, had no power to look
so far into the future. In his ardour to begin that famous campaign
through which he expected to be the master of the world, he was
absorbed in his dreams of the six Gallic legions, made up of expert
archers, trained foot-soldiers, strong cavalrymen, that he was to
obtain in exchange for part of his fleet.
The negotiations were long and complicated, as each side desired to
secure the greatest possible benefit from the arrangement and accord
a minimum in return. Unaided by the gentle Octavia, who went back
and forth bearing the olive branch, it is doubtful if they would ever
have come to an understanding. While Agrippa and Mæcenas on one
side, and Ahenobarbus and Pollion on the other, discussed, dissected,
picked over, one by one, the ships and soldiers that constituted the
coin of that terrible market, a plaintive refrain could be heard.
"War, more war!" groaned Octavia, "will you transform me from the
happiest woman in the world to the most miserable?" And regularly
every morning she went to the temple of Vesta, where she lighted at
the sacred candelabra as many tapers as there were prayers in her
heart.
In granting the prayers of the loving sister and faithful wife, the
goddess softened the hearts of the two adversaries. Each having
weighed the relative advantage that he would gain by certain
concessions, they both assumed a grand air of magnanimity. They
pretended that neither of them wanted to grieve the one who formed
such a close bond between them and that her little hand should disarm
them. A new agreement was made, prolonging the Triumvirate for five
years. This modern Sabine woman in raising the golden cup to drink
to them that evening, might truthfully have said: "I have preserved
the peace of the world!"
VII
THE MARRIAGE AT ANTIOCH
Leaning on the parapet, within sound of the waves that lapped against
the quai, Cleopatra watched the ship that was carrying off her lover
grow smaller in the distance. When the highest mast had disappeared
beneath the horizon, she let her hand fall; the hand that had been
waving a handkerchief since the ship had weighed anchor. Her throat
contracted and the tears ran down her cheeks. The sea, in shades of
green and amethyst, spread out before her like a piece of silk
unrolled. It was perfectly calm, yet that wide gulf which separated
her from Antony was full of terror for her. She turned to Charmian:
"What does life hold for me now? He who meant all my happiness has
gone. Without his loving glance, the sound of his merry laughter, I
shall have no joy in living."
The ideal confidante is one who makes her friend's grief her own.
Although Charmian had deplored her mistress's relations with Antony
and had felt, from the outset, that he would bring only misery to her
beloved lady, yet she now feigned deep sorrow.
"The Triumvir's absence will make the Bruchium seem an empty palace,
but he will not tarry long away from you, my Queen. Even as he
stepped on board the ship I heard him promise to return before the
year is ended."
Cleopatra did not doubt his prompt return, for hope filled her veins,
as the sap runs strong in the young tree in full leaf. But summer
had barely begun, the days would drag along very slowly. Thus
talking, under the protecting shade of ivory-handled fans held over
them by two negro slaves, they went back to the terrace. The Queen
stopped every few steps, for there were memories of Antony at each
turn. There was the rose-coloured ibis, one leg tucked out of sight,
who, motionless and quite tame, was standing on the grass, apparently
lost in thought. The aromatic perfume of the carnations made her
sigh, remembering that each night Antony had plucked one in passing,
touched it to his lips, and put it in her bosom, saying: "I give you
all my heart." And when he was not near to embrace her she always
felt the warm fragrance of the flower as she breathed, like lips
pressing against her breast. Nothing is more cruel in the absence of
a loved one than the constant reminders of shared joys.
"Antony, come back to me, my beloved!" she cried in a sudden spasm of
loneliness.
"You care too much, Madame. No living man is worthy of such love."
"It is easy to see, Charmian, that nothing has troubled the calm
waters of your soul! Do you imagine that love is measured by the
worthiness of the beloved? If that were true I could have loved no
one so much as Cæsar; yet, as you know, Antony is the only one who
has filled my whole soul."
She approached the fountain, where the water ran like living crystal
and broke into foam at the basin's edge. The falling water brought
the thought of the flying time that was taking away her happiness.
Would those blissful days ever come again, or were they, like
yesterday's flow of water, lost for ever?
Anxious to divert her from things which by their very charm were
depressing, Charmian said gently:
"Will you not come now and try to sleep, Madame? To-morrow surely
will bring you fresh courage."
Cleopatra had her royal robes laid aside, swallowed a draught of
nepenthes to induce slumber, and said, as she closed her eyes:
"If I could only sleep on until he comes again!"
Life had to go on, however; four, five, six months, or more, would
pass before Antony's return and Cleopatra was not the woman to give
herself up to idle lamentations. Leaving the mourning veil and ashes
to Dido of old, she resumed her sumptuous life and the royal routine
of her daily duties.
Many things which had been neglected during those months of
infatuation with her lover now claimed her attention. She took note
of all the buildings, ships, and gardens in need of repair and saw
that they were thoroughly overhauled and set in order. Her ministers
were astonished to see how altogether conversant she was with the
problems of state, and those who had thought her given over to
frivolity were amazed with the way she handled the finances of the
Government. She was equally proficient in reorganizing the army
after the model of the legions which Antony had left with her; in
adding to the marine service and in improving the administration
generally.
As reigning sovereign, she set to work to improve the condition of
her people; guarded against famine by irrigating the lands with
fertilizing floods from the Nile; drove off the Nabathæan tribes who
were threatening the Arabian frontier, showing that the ruler of
Egypt, woman though she was, was the equal of the great kings of the
world.
Like all her ancestors she had a love for building. She went from
city to city with a host of architects, engineers, and artists, to
see that the old temples were kept in proper repair. Those at Edfu,
Hermonthis, and Coptis were rebuilt under her direction. The one at
Dendera, which she enlarged, still shows her portrait carved on its
tablets. She restored the Library at Alexandria and began the
Cæsarium, whose excavated ruins reveal her admiration for Greek art.
The last of the obelisks was erected during her reign: that
Cleopatra's Needle, which, two thousand years later, was transported
to the borders of the Thames, and now mournfully lifts its once rosy
sides to the sooty skies of the British metropolis.
All these activities, however, could not make Cleopatra forget the
aching void in her heart. In the midst of ceremonials, festivals,
travels, she was continually asking herself: "What has become of
Antony? Where is he? Has he forgotten me?"
Separation between lovers is endurable only if there is a steady
interchange of letters. When Antony first left Egypt a galley came
from Brindisi every ten days bringing long letters. In the beginning
these were infinitely tender, filled with the solicitous grief that
showed his anxiety in his absence. They reëchoed every expression of
devotion which Cleopatra's letters contained. "Waking and sleeping
you are always with me. I seek your presence everywhere and I feel
that you are near," he wrote repeatedly. He said that public affairs
were going forward satisfactorily and announced that, in order to
hasten his return, he intended to put these in Pollion's care, as he
understood all the details concerning them, while he himself was
going at once to Syria and Palestine to reëstablish the authority
which his long absence had compromised.
Since he could not be with her, Cleopatra much preferred having her
lover in Asia Minor. That was where they were to come together
again, in that country so like her own in climate, customs, habits of
dress and tastes. There he would be reminded of her at every turn,
whereas in Italy everything was different. By one of those unfailing
feminine instincts, she felt that in Rome some unlooked-for turn of
events would bring her disaster. She had never seen Octavius, but
the fact that he was Cæsar's heir made him the rival and enemy of her
little Cæsarion. Anything that occurred in Italy aroused her
suspicion, and she could only hope that Antony, easily led and
trustful as he was, would never fail to be on his guard.
Cleopatra's various enterprises were interrupted, for the time being,
by the birth of twins, to whom she gave the somewhat pretentious
names of Helios and Selene. It seemed the propitious moment to
remind Antony of the projected marriage which they had planned
together and which was essential for the future protection of these
children.
He responded by joyous and elaborate felicitations, saying that he
was eager to legitimatize his claim to fatherhood as soon as
possible. In confirmation of this assurance his messenger brought
the young mother a coffer of carved gold, containing two pearls of
perfect shape and wonderful orient, with the written words: "My lips
have covered these with kisses, as I should love to cover your
beautiful breasts, which are moulded in their likeness."
Such demonstrations made Cleopatra very happy. She loved--she was
loved. That was enough for the present, and the future stretched
before her like a flaming torch.
Then Antony's letters began to come less frequently. But what of
that? He had left the coast; he was in the interior of the country,
absorbed in necessary military details which left him little leisure
for writing. Besides, he was remote from cities and consequently not
exposed to the temptations of town life; why should she have any
fears?
Her confidence that all was well was confirmed by the arrival of a
Roman galley, sent from Asia, about the middle of the autumn. It
brought neither gifts nor the customary sealed roll which the Queen
was in the habit of seeing in the messenger's hand long before he
reached her side. This time a courier came, requesting an audience
with her. Cleopatra's heart throbbed with hope and fear. Her eyes
sought those of the man who had so recently looked on her lover.
"How long since you have seen the Imperator?" she demanded.
"Twenty days, Madame."
"Where was he then?"
"At Samosata, on the border of the Commagene."
Her eager questions followed each other breathlessly. "How did he
look? Was he sad or gay? What did he say to you? What message has
he sent to me?"
This courier, Menecratus, was a freedman who had Antony's confidence,
and whom long association with the Imperator had trained in the art
of making a pleasing impression. He had abundant tact and
discretion, an ideal interpreter for his master. He gave the
following account to the Queen:
"When I went to receive the Imperator's orders he was neither sad nor
gay. His face was radiant with that divine energy which is seen in
the visage of Mars. The country all around him showed the marks of
war. There were chariots, mules, troops of soldiers, shields
glittering in the sun. He was holding the bridle of his fierce
charger, which he was about to mount, in one hand; the other was on
the pommel of his saddle. 'By the sacred geese which fly over the
Capitol,' he said, 'go and report what you have seen. Tell Cleopatra
that Mark Antony goes forth to conquer new kingdoms that he will soon
lay at her feet.'"
So once again Cleopatra was comforted. Her lover was fighting for
her sake; he was preparing for their future. Victory was in his
path, and soon he would come back to her, so crowned with glory, so
powerful in his conquests, that nothing, no one, could prevent the
fulfilment of their magnificent plans.
The winter mists, however, were now obscuring the sea; all navigation
was suspended. For more than three months there had been no tidings
from Antony. The faith of Cleopatra was woven of a tissue so fragile
that constant renewing was needed to keep the fabric whole. She was
overwhelmed by a melancholy dread of possible disaster. The final
date of his return was approaching. If he were not there! As she
had no actual reasons to explain this persistent silence she
tormented herself with the most rueful theories. He was the victim
of poisoned arrows, a fatal fall, shipwreck; all these filled her
imagination with depressing visions. She could not bear to be alone
for a moment. Either Iras or Charmian was required to be in constant
attendance. She kept them under a perpetual fire of questions, as an
outlet for her own fears.
"The end of the year is close at hand, my Charmian. Why have I no
word of his return?"
"Without doubt, Madame, he is planning to give you a happy surprise."
The beautiful young Athenian girl spent hours at the feet of her
mistress, her violet eyes fixed upon the Queen's anxious face, trying
to reassure her.
But as the weary days dragged on and no news came, the ominous
menace, that seemed to threaten her from afar, drew nearer and the
Queen was more difficult to comfort. One day she caught at Iras's
hand, as though a sudden fear had come to her: "Can he have ceased to
care for me? Has he put another woman in my place?"
"But Madame, he has known Cleopatra, what other woman could he find
to take your place?" replied the Persian girl.
These fancies, vague at first, were now becoming cruel certainties.
Travellers from Rome reported that Antony had returned from Asia,
made his peace with Octavius, and the price of that peace was also
known!
The tragic scene in which Cleopatra learns of her lover's marriage;
the tears and passion which Shakespeare describes in words that make
his stage a living world, leave nothing more to be told. By the
silence, that interminable silence, which surrounded her, the Queen
at last comprehended that dire misfortune had come to her. Her
attendants tried to keep the truth back. No one of them could muster
courage to speak. Was the news so horrible? Her mind leaped to the
most terrible thing of all: "Is he dead? Has death frozen the
warmest heart that ever throbbed?"
"No, no, Madame," Charmian cried, "Antony is alive, he is well." The
Queen breathed again, but the dreaded disaster rushed to her mind.
He had deserted her, then. Her agonized eyes put the question that
her lips could not frame. No one answered. Everyone turned away and
Charmian stammered incoherently.
"Iras, tell me, what is it?"
"There is nothing known definitely, Madame."
"But I insist on knowing definitely and at once," said Cleopatra, in
a tone that suffered no denial.
The man who had brought the tidings was summoned. He proved to be a
merchant, in Alexandria on his own business. He had gossiped, as all
travellers do, bringing news from one town to the next. He was
puzzled at being called to the palace.
"What is this tale? Speak out," commanded the Queen. Her look was
terrifying. But the man had no sense of responsibility in repeating
a story which was the subject of general discussion in Rome.
"Antony is married?" On hearing of this wedding with Octavia, which
had been celebrated with the utmost pomp and magnificence, Cleopatra
was beside herself with rage. Her pride, her dignity, her position,
were as nothing. She was practically delirious with fury. She
looked wildly around for someone on whom to wreak her vengeance.
Those who were nearest to her shrank back in terror. It was the
unfortunate wretch, whose only crime had been to bear ill-tidings, on
whom her wrath fell. He was cursed, beaten, threatened with death.
It was the natural outburst of her passionate nature, accustomed to
command all, and who, for the first time, was confronted by
overpowering misfortune and injury.
Was there no refuge from her torment? Could not the laws of the
universe be altered? The first moments were horrible; a burst of
tears followed her access of rage and she fainted. The servants
fled, filling the whole palace with wailings. The doctors pressed
forward, as though to aid someone in mortal need. Charmian was at
her side.
"For the love of the gods, Madame, do not give your enemies the joy
of seeing you crushed by this sorrow. Do not let them know how this
blow has pierced your heart!"