personally, was not agreeable to him. Before publicly denouncing
Antony he believed that he should first separate his wife from him,
and make her an ally against the rival whom he wished to annihilate.
He recounted Antony's shameful submission to the Egyptian, and dwelt
upon the scandalous records of his life in Alexandria. How could he
be so brutal? Why did not Octavia's sensitive face, reddening at the
vile details, turning away, tortured, disarm this executioner?
Pitilessly he went on. He wanted to search the very depths of her
heart to find its tenderest spot. One day, on the parade grounds,
with officers and soldiers bearing arms, the staff surmounted by the
golden eagle in his hand, the Imperator was reviewing the troops.
Suddenly a messenger approached and said a few words. Immediately,
disregarding the military display arranged by his order, he left the
grounds to rejoin Cleopatra, who had summoned him from no other
motive than the caprice of being obeyed by one who was commanding so
many men! Another time he was in the prætorium. The Tetrarch of
Judea was bringing up some important questions in litigation. Antony
alone was able to decide these, but he heard the royal litter coming
and it acted like a wave of madness. Without listening to another
word he fled from the assembled judges and was seen no more that day.
Octavius would have gone on indefinitely, for the list, more or less
true, of Antony's misdeeds in Egypt was a long one, but his sister
stopped him.
"It is enough; he has grave faults but he is my husband. He only has
the right to break the tie that unites us. As long as he does not
break it I will wait and hope." And though her voice trembled, her
expression showed that her determination was not to be shaken.
A few days later this noble woman heard that Cleopatra's lover had
repudiated his lawful wife! Nothing had availed; neither her
generous goodness, her patience under indignities, nor that hope
which is the heart's armour against the menace of destiny, nothing
had prevented the fatal blow!
Poor Octavia! The home which her marriage had made her own, the room
where in Antony's arms she had known happiness, the table where his
deep laughter had made good cheer, the garden where they had breathed
together the rich fragrance of summer evenings, she had to leave them
all, to part with them for ever. The overwhelming sorrow left her
listless, inert, like an instrument whose string is broken.
Octavius, who lost no chance to forward his own interest, and for
whose personal advantage each insult inflicted on his sister made
capital, had summoned the crowd. Notified as to the day and hour
that Octavia was to leave the palace, the throngs filled the
entrances. When they saw her, surrounded by her children, her own as
well as the son and daughter of Fulvia who had been left in her care,
there was a great clamour. Her wrongs stirred their indignation, and
scornful epithets were heard concerning the libertine who, for the
sake of the Egyptian sorceress, had abandoned a wife of illustrious
blood and noble character.
Octavia kept silence. She did not want Antony's name to be cursed on
her account. With the idea of appeasing the crowd she held up her
youngest son, who was the living image of his father. The unhappy
woman hoped that the sight of this beautiful, innocent child might
arouse some affection for the father.
Antony's divorcing the sister of Octavius was equivalent to a
declaration of war. In spite of the totally different natures of the
two Triumvirs, their rivalries, deceptions, the tricks they had
played on each other, this gentle woman had been a powerful bond
between them. With her and through her there had always been the
hope of maintaining a balance. Now everything was upset. The
violent shock had dislodged the masks and the bare faces showed fear.
Which would be master? Although the real cause of the quarrel was
the desire for supremacy, there was now great pretence of its being a
struggle for ideals. The words "honour," "patriotism," a "return to
republican institutions," were in the mouths of the people. It was
difficult to choose between two competitors when each claimed to be
fighting to save the honour of the country. Octavius lied when he
declared that he was ready to lay aside his power; and Antony was not
honest when he stood forth as the champion of liberty. As in the
great contentions between Cæsar and Pompey, the public was divided,
each voter selecting the chief who seemed most likely to advance his
interests. The feeling was such that even the children had their
share in it. Athenodorus tells of seeing two little street urchins
in a vigorous fisticuff. "Why are you beating each other like that?"
he asked. "We are playing; I am Octavius," replied one, who had just
been chased to the edge of a ditch. "And I am Antony," joined in the
other, tilting his little chin proudly.
Although the divorce had produced a most unfavourable impression and
had lessened the number of Antony's partisans, yet public opinion was
not altogether against him. His glorious past, his strength, his
riches, made him an adversary to be feared, and one to be attacked
only on ground that was wholly unprepared. To destroy his good name
and to vilify him as the slave of Egypt's Queen was Octavius's policy.
However patient he had sworn to be, Octavius was growing tired of
working underground like a mole, when suddenly the gods, who seemed
on his side, sent him an unexpected assistant. Munatius Plancus, who
in the Egyptian celebrations, clad in green silk and crowned with
reeds, had played the role of Glaucus, "the handy man" as Cleopatra
had scornfully called him, had just arrived in Rome. Whether from a
desire to avenge his wounded vanity, or a capacity for seeing which
way the wind was turning, this contemptible creature, suddenly
separated from his former companions, told vile tales about them
which made him a welcome guest in the halls of Rome. But this social
success was not sufficient for a man as poverty-stricken as he was
vulgar. He knew that a discovered treason would mean money to him,
so he gained the ear of Octavius and told him about a document of
great importance. It was the will which Antony had revised on the
eve of his departure for Persia, a will making Cleopatra his sole
heir, dividing the Oriental empire between her and her children, and,
infatuated even in death, commanding that in whatever land he should
die his body be transported to rest near his beloved mistress.
Plancus did not have the actual document in his possession, for,
faithful to his mission three years before, he had deposited it
safely in the hands of the Vestal Virgins; but he knew every word of
it and could reproduce it to the letter.
The Romans attached great importance to the ceremony of burial. It
was their universal desire to rest near their own people, in the
sacred ground of their ancestors, and where their children would lie
in their turn. The thought of dying and of having their graves in
foreign lands was horrible to all soldiers, and every one who could
afford it left directions for his body to be brought back to Italy.
Of all Antony's follies through his mad love for Cleopatra, this
desire to be buried in Egypt was the most detestable, and the one
that influenced public opinion most bitterly. Octavius felt that if
it were moved by this sacrilege he could count on rousing the wrath
of the Senate and turning the vote against the author of such a
crime. The difficulty was to procure the proof.
The Temple of Vesta, modelled after the one at Delphi, stood near the
Forum, at the foot of the Palatine hill. Octavius had only to cross
the Via Sacra to be at its doors. He set forth with an escort and
preceded by twelve lictors, resplendent with the insignia of the
Government. On reaching the entrance he signalled for them to remain
without, and wrapped in his purple toga he mounted the sacred steps
unattended.
The priestesses of Vesta lived in the shadow of the altars. They
were young girls of noble birth, clad in snow-white robes with veils
over their heads. They had profound reverence for their different
duties. These consisted in keeping a perpetual flame burning before
the altar, and guarding the Palladium, that sacred statue of Pallas
Athene saved from burning Troy. They were held in such high esteem
that whenever any of the Roman Pontiffs, Proconsuls, or Generals were
called away from Rome, they confided their most precious treasures
and priceless papers to their care, rather than risk the chances of
travelling with them. For what safer place could be found than this
temple whose guardians had for their motto the words: "_Die rather
than break your oath._"
When Octavius made known the object of his visit these noble women
were filled with righteous indignation. What! Give up anything left
in their care! Be false to their faith! Betray the confidence which
had relied on their word!
The wily visitor pleaded that in a case of service to one's country
such scruples were absurd; but the Vestal Virgins were not to be
persuaded. Force alone could drag from them what they had sworn to
guard.
Octavius was cautious. His instincts were against using force, and
besides, he feared the criticism which any abuse of his power might
bring down on his head. Sometimes, however, necessity compels. The
lictors outside the temple were called in; a few blows of a mallet,
and the coffer that a warrior had trusted to guard his treasure gave
up its secret.
In the Senate the reading of Antony's will produced the effect that
Octavius had counted on. For his side it was a triumph. But
Antony's friends were speechless with consternation. Was he so
faithless to his country that he did not even wish to be buried
there? Had he, in truth, ceased to be a Roman? Octavius, however,
was severely criticized for his conduct. Caius Sossius laid stress
on the shameful act. A will was sacred. No one had the right to
question what a man ordered done after his death. Such interference
was illegal; besides, a will could be changed at any time! Some
Senators, faithful to the old traditions, held this view and were
incensed at the outrage offered to the Vestal Virgins. The thing had
been done, however, and its consequences were serious.
It was the moment to drive the dagger to the hilt. Octavius brought
up all the old grievances. He emphasized the proof of Antony's
disloyalty. There were additional charges. One of the surest means
of transforming the rich Patricians who sat in the Senate into
pitiless judges was to bring up any injustice done to Rome in regard
to art. He held up Antony as a collector for the Queen of Egypt, who
had robbed Greece and Asia of their rarest treasures in order to
offer them to his mistress. The famous statue of Diana, once the
glory of Ephesus, now adorned the portico of the Bruchium. The two
hundred thousand volumes from the library of Pergamus, intended to
enrich the Roman collection, had they not been shipped to Alexandria?
A murmur ran around the Senate chamber. Ominous frowns were visible.
All these men whose dwellings were enriched with books, rare
furniture, beautiful marbles, collected in their travels or during
their rule over various countries, were as indignant as though
Antony's offence were without precedent. In hypocritical anger they
demanded that a vote on his actions be taken without delay. The urns
were passed, and flouted, scorned, pronounced unworthy of office,
Antony was deprived of all the functions that the Republic had given
into his keeping.
Complete as was the victory, it did not satisfy Octavius. These
assemblies, as he well knew, were subject to quick and complete
changes of attitude. What this wily tactician wanted was to give his
adversary a killing blow from which he would never recover. A
military victory was the only certain means of putting this conqueror
of the Parthians definitely out of the running. But how could his
compatriots be induced to take arms against him? They were tired of
civil wars and nothing would be more distasteful than to rise against
Mark Antony, the only great citizen who, since Cæsar, had made the
Roman flag fly over new territories.
The same old subterfuge which had succeeded before was once more
adroitly employed by Octavius. A few days later, leaving out any
allusion to Antony in his address, not even mentioning that name
which was always likely to create enthusiasm, he spoke of the
indisputable enemy, the one that was certain to rouse public
sentiment. The tiresome repetition of Cleopatra's ambition, her
persistent intention of attacking Rome, these weapons had lost none
of their power. The mere mention of her name created almost
ferocious excitement. In a second the whole Senate was standing up,
hurling curses on the hated Egyptian.
At last war was declared. Faithful to the custom consecrated by his
ancestors, Octavius repaired to the square just beyond the Pomoerium,
where the temple of Bellona, majestic and radiant, stood out against
the clear blue of the sky. Amidst the acclamations of the wrought-up
crowd the Dictator threw a gold javelin whose point sunk in the
pedestal at the feet of the goddess. This ceremony was to place the
army under her divine protection while declaring at the same time the
righteousness of the campaign that had just begun.
Nominally the war was directed against foreign forces, but who could
mistake its import? Antony was the protector of Cleopatra, and on
both sides Roman blood would stain the battlefield.
Antony, however, had not awaited the challenge from Rome. Like the
good captain that he was he had planned to forestall the enemy and
take the offensive. Sixteen legions commanded by Canidius were
ordered to the coast of Asia Minor, and he was on his way to join
them. A sure means of refuting the libellous statements of Octavius
occurred to him. He would put aside his mistress and appear alone at
the head of his troops. That would show whom they had to fight.
But Cleopatra objected to this device. She had never forgotten what
had happened when Antony left her once before. She would take no
chance of having her lover caught a second time in a Roman trap.
With his impressionable character it was necessary literally to keep
him in full view, to perform continual incantations over him. So she
refused to be separated from him. Where he went she went. He should
plan no undertaking, no negotiation, without her knowledge and
supervision. In vain the Imperator dwelt on the inconvenience of
having a woman present in the camps. In vain Ahenobarbus, with
characteristic rudeness, declared that if they were to be encumbered
with a court he would retire. Through everything Cleopatra held to
her resolution. "Whatever happens," she replied to the malcontents,
"nothing shall separate me from Antony!"
A secret understanding between them doubtless enabled her to take
this stand. In any case she acted with the unquestionable authority
of one who supplied the ways and means. It was her unlimited wealth
that paid the expenses of the campaign. It was her fleet of two
hundred brave ships, well-armed and equipped, that prevented the
enemy's attack in the Mediterranean. Whatever was behind it, her
decision prevailed, and in the first days of spring, on board the
galley _Antoniad_, which was decorated as for a fête, the enamoured
pair embarked for the final stage of their destiny.
Never had the treacherous Mediterranean been clearer or more
tranquil. The blue of sea and sky were blended in soft tones of
azure. At sunset amber-coloured ripples passed over its surface,
mingled with waves of rose. The sound of the wind in the sails toned
in with the music from lyres and flutes. Nights of love followed the
joyous days, and there was no hint of the fierce storm that was
advancing toward the frail vessel.
This was only a prelude. At Samos, where they landed, at Ephesus,
where they remained for some time, the lovers took up again the pomp
and festivals of Alexandria. The old Asiatic town, accustomed though
it was to luxury, had never seen such displays as these. Cortèges of
kings, crowned with tiaras and clad in embroidered robes, came every
day to Antony, bringing soldiers, horses, provisions, everything that
could contribute to the success of his campaign. Desirous that they
should carry back to their own countries an exalted impression of
their sovereign, Cleopatra made every effort to outshine them. Each
new arrival served as a pretext for a sumptuous display. Spectacle
followed spectacle, and princes coming from distant lands to do
battle were astonished to find, side by side with the iron-covered
chests, brass chariots, and death-dealing engines, troops of
acrobats, mountebanks, and their paraphernalia, totally out of place
in camp life.
At the hour when the whole world was straining under the weight of
armaments, when masses of people were on the point of collapse, when
the fate of empires was in the balance, this was the way that the
mistress of Mark Antony chose to flaunt her overweening faith that
the victory would be hers.
Antony was far from sharing her confidence. The time for frivolity
was over. He recognized the perils of his position. Divided between
the urgent pleas of his comrades-in-arms, urging him to carry the war
at once into Italy and give battle there before Octavius had time to
concentrate his forces, and the fair sorceress who was coaxing him to
dally, he was pulled both ways. It was a tremendous game and the
chances were not in his favour. To play it successfully cool
judgment was essential; and that had never been his strong point.
The nervous excitement of his life with Cleopatra and the amorous
demands of her jealous despotism had robbed him of what little he
possessed. His generals added to his perplexities. They were
convinced that their Imperator would never lead them to victory as
long as he was under the malign influence of this woman, and they
determined to compel her to leave the camp.
Ahenobarbus, as always, had the most courage and he took the
initiative. He had an interview with the Queen, and, knowing the
value of his disinterested services, he made no pretence of flattery,
but declared brusquely that the confusion which her presence and that
of the court was creating exceeded even his worst fears, and that her
proper place was at Alexandria, where her ministers were calling for
her. Although Antony was of the same mind, he was powerless against
the beguilements of a mistress who responded to his most earnest
arguments by embraces, kisses, and tears.
Cleopatra was more unwilling than ever to leave Antony exposed to the
reproaches of those austere Romans who surrounded him. Harrowed by
their insistence, would he be able to resist that reconciliation with
Octavius which she knew many of them desired to bring about? In
order to go on with her role of the warlike Egeria, some support was
necessary. This she obtained, by promises and cajolings, from
Canidius, the general who had most influence with Antony. He took
the opposite side from that of Ahenobarbus, declaring that it was
neither just nor wise to banish an ally whose gold, ships, and
soldiers formed such an important part of their army; and, with the
suavity of a courtier, added that he could not see how the counsels
of a great Queen, who was as noble and brave as she was beautiful,
could possibly harm an army whose courage she upheld by her own.
The opposing party was not beaten. The most ardent among them was
Quintus Dellius, for he had all of Antony's interests at heart. This
wise old juggler in politics had seen very quickly the schemes of the
Egyptian and had realized that they were entirely contrary to his own
advantage and that of his fellow Romans. He decided that at all
hazards he would save his chief from his present peril, and without
circumlocution he said:
"Cleopatra is leading us to ruin!"
Enraged at this accusation of the woman who held his heart as well as
his reason in her hands, Antony cried:
"What are you saying? What right have you to make such an assertion?"
Dellius was ready with explanations which were summed up in his next
speech:
"I tell you that this daughter of the Lagidæ does not bring, cannot
bring the same soul to this war that we Romans have!"
"Cleopatra's interests and mine are one and the same," answered
Antony, haughtily.
Dellius could not let that assertion pass.
"You are mistaken. Cleopatra is Egypt's sovereign. As long as her
crown is secure, provided she preserves the supremacy of the Orient,
and the commerce which fills her coffers with gold----"
A gesture from Antony cut him short. The shrewd diplomat realized
that while arousing the Imperator it might not be bad policy to
reassure the lover.
"Cleopatra loves you. Your precious body is more than all the world
to her. But can she protect your power as we, your friends,
can?--the defenders of your cause who have left everything to follow
your standards? If this power is lost what will become of all of us?
Ruined, hunted, condemned to flee from the vengeance of Octavius,
what remains for us all but exile?"
The Imperator strode up and down his tent. He breathed heavily; his
emotions seemed to choke him. Without having put them in actual
words these truths perhaps had been already in his mind. Now, as
they were laid definitely before him, he had a sudden desire to see
clearly, even to the foundations of the situation.
"Speak!" he commanded. "What reason have you for thinking that the
Queen has given up her ambition to reign with me in the Capitol at
Rome?"
"The advice she is giving you!"
"You know what she advises?"
Dellius promptly recalled the number of times that the Queen had
opposed their going forward to battle. Only a few days before at
Corcyra, at Leucadia, when all the conditions were propitious, she
had invented excuses for deferring action.
"It makes me believe that Cleopatra fears defeat less than she dreads
a victory which would make you master of Rome!"
Antony made a signal for his officer to leave him. He needed to be
alone. His tent, but feebly lighted by a smoking lamp, was very dim.
He dropped on the couch, on which a lion's skin was spread. A storm
was near. He felt the earth tremble, and rumbling thunder filled the
air. It seemed as though everything most precious to him had
received a sudden shock and were whirling around him. Could it be
true that Cleopatra no longer coveted for him the rank of master of
the world?
In reality Cleopatra had not ceased to desire victory for her lover,
but she desired it in a manner which, as Dellius had pointed out,
differed from that of the Romans. They, eager to return to their
homes and enjoy the rewards that they felt they deserved, urged on
the Imperator a war to the finish; she did all in her power to hold
him back. Whether she had lost confidence in those warlike virtues
that she herself had helped to weaken, and foresaw the possibility,
if she risked all, of losing the heritage of her fathers; whether she
dreaded that complete triumph which would lead Antony to Rome, she
had given up her boundless ambitions and was now content with a
policy of division. If the dominion of the Orient, commanded by
Antony, were assured to her, she would cheerfully have abandoned
Italy and its barbarous provinces, Gaul, Spain, and Mauritania, to
Octavius and the Republic. Was this unexpected and complete change
of purpose caprice or inconsistency?
To understand these vacillations, Cleopatra's career should be
followed step by step from its beginning to the struggles which now
racked her heart and soul. The young girl who was mistress of the
middle-aged Cæsar had no thought but to use her powerful lover for
her own best advantage; to obtain the security of her throne and the
restoration of her sovereign rights. The meeting with Antony at
Tarsus had made another woman of her. This bold son of Hercules
roused all her passions and the axis of her life was out of place.
Tender love-making replaced former ambitious desires. Jealousy and
hatred entered into her soul and the peace of the world was in
danger. If when with Antony she had kept the level head and wise
reasoning of her youth; if she had let the conqueror of the Parthians
carry out his ambitious plans, their interlaced names, instead of
that of Octavius, might have been inscribed on the Pantheon of
history.
But love had taken possession of her and its perpetual suspicions
left her no peace. If Antony entered Rome as victor, what would
become of her? And how could she combat that Aristocracy that hated
her, as she had been able to do when she was sixteen? What Cæsar
could not accomplish, how could this lover bring about? He was no
longer young, and she knew that he was weak. These thoughts
tormented her. In the midst of new and varied interests of his own
would he still belong to her? Would he have the authority to impose
her as Queen on his people; she, a foreigner, whom the voices of the
gods and the people had alike rejected?