away from Italy; to oppose any decisive action, and gradually bring
about a battle on the sea where, in case of defeat, there was always
Egypt as a refuge.
Antony's friends were only too conscious of the difficulties which
beset him. They had no longer that faith which, on the eve of
battle, is a stimulus to those who are to go forth, perhaps to meet
death. His generals, too, seeing him so absolutely under the control
of the hated Egyptian, began to lose confidence in him. They
wondered whether the two might not betray them. The idea of a
conspiracy against him began to grow. Since their leader refused to
uphold the sacred memory of Pharsalus, of Philippi; since he was
being turned aside from the goal for which they had risked
everything, let another take his place, let a true Roman take his
place! And by common consent they offered it to Ahenobarbus.
Through anxiety and distress this noble soldier had fallen ill. When
his comrades came to seek him they found him stretched on a hard
couch of palm leaves which served him for a bed. His teeth were
chattering with ague. At their first words he turned away his head.
"I will not listen to you."
"Have you no longer any faith in our victory?" asked Dellius.
The old soldier's heart gave a leap. He knew that the troops,
heedless of the orders which restrained them, were eager to draw
their swords. With him at their head what glory might be theirs?
But to take command of the army meant betraying Antony, his
brother-in-arms, the close friend of his youth, the Imperator to whom
he had sworn allegiance.
Dellius sat near him and reasoned with him:
"If you refuse, what will happen? The Egyptian will be our
destruction. You cannot let us perish!"
With his burning hand Ahenobarbus grasped that of Dellius:
"Let me sleep now. I will give you an answer to-morrow."
Before dawn the next morning a ship set sail for Peloponnesus.
Ahenobarbus left a letter on his table explaining the reason of his
going. Everything around him was too distressing, too disturbing.
In a question of remaining inactive, or of supplanting Antony as
commander of the army, he preferred to retire.
This move was bitterly resented by his companions who had put their
hopes in his leadership. All day they waited, thinking that he would
regret his decision. When the sun set their eyes were still scanning
the horizon. On the morrow, when it was certain that the best and
worthiest among them would not come back, Dellius and Amyntas decided
to join him.
When Antony heard that three of his generals had abandoned him, his
brow was covered with icy sweat. His legs trembled; he leaned
against the wall to keep from falling.
"The best of all," he whispered, and his eyes filled.
Before others he knew that he must control himself, and, to prevent
their example being followed, he invented a tale to explain the
departure. According to this falsehood, all three of these men were
debauchees, who, unable to remain longer away from their mistresses,
had gone to rejoin them. Other cases of desertion occurred, however.
It was like an epidemic in which the poison spreads quickly.
After a scene with Cleopatra, who accused him of abusing her to
Antony, Fortunius resolved to quit the nest of hate and intrigue
which the headquarters had become. A boat, his baggage, everything
was in readiness the following night when, before setting foot on the
quay, the Senator was seized and put to death. Other executions
followed and terror was widespread through the camp.
Antony was a changed man. He had completely lost his old, genial
manner. The least annoyance upset him. A storm at sea served to
convince him that all the vessels which had preceded him in the Gulf
of Ambracia had gone to the bottom. A prey to a kind of vertigo, he
was suspicious of his most devoted friends. He even accused Caius
Sossius, the man who had given endless proofs of his friendship, of
having delivered into the enemy's hands a detachment of troops in the
passes of Epirus.
Like all his contemporaries, Antony had great faith in presentiments.
They made an indelible impression on his mind. He saw the will of
the gods revealed in them. He never failed to put on his right boot
first; he kept silence in the dark; he always left a gathering if a
mouse were heard; he never undertook anything without consulting the
soothsayers, and only decided when they pronounced the comforting
words: "Go, the blood of the victims speaks in your behalf." During
the last summer that he spent at Athens, that summer of the year 31,
when men's minds were seething like liquids in a vat, his statue, put
up by the populace in his honour, had been overthrown in a
thunderstorm. His terror was such that, while awaiting the doctors,
his faithful Eros had to rub him vigorously with a strong ointment of
warm oil and ammonia to revive him.
In the last days of the month of August his deep depression
increased. As the inevitable day drew near, in place of the
exhilaration, which formerly on the eve of battle had made him like a
flashing god, he was sad, exhausted. It seemed as though all his
muscular force had been suddenly taken away. For hours he sat
motionless, as though the slightest movement would overwhelm him.
One morning, however, he came out of his torpor and went on board the
_Antoniad_ to review the fleet which lay in the Bay of Actium. It
was there that Octavius, with his two hundred and fifty triremes with
their curved prows, his hundred rapid despatch-boats, awaited him.
Antony's fleet was much the larger. Well armed and equipped with
formidable engines, it should have inspired him with confidence. He
was cheered when his lieutenant, Alexas, called his attention to the
good luck presaged by the swallows' nest in the rigging. His face
lighted up; he jested.
"Before another moon the tiny galleys of Octavius will have fled
before our ships, scattered like a pack of hounds."
At last his soldiers recognized their old leader. They gave him an
ovation. But the next day other swallows flew in, killed the first
and destroyed their young ones. And no sign brought such evil
fortune as that!
Cleopatra, a true Greek, had the characteristic Grecian philosophy
and did not share her lover's superstitions. To be convinced that
she had taken all proper measures to insure success seemed more
important to her than considering the blood of the victims! She had
also that confidence in destiny which is natural to all beautiful
women, who imagine that the gods, like men, will obey their wishes.
Consequently she made her plans carefully, sure that they would
succeed.
For several days the opposing armies had faced each other. Both
sides hesitated. Confident in the equipment of Agrippa's fleet,
Octavius wanted to force his enemy to a sea battle. Perplexed,
uncertain, Antony could come to no decision. The sea was a new
element for his war spirit; he had never won a victory on it, and his
officers insisted that he should choose solid ground, the ground of
Macedonia, rich in glorious memories.
The other influence, however, carried the day, for Cleopatra had so
willed it. She knew that the results of a naval battle are rarely
decisive and, in any event, retreat would be easier. It is not
certain that she really preferred retreat to victory. Its results
were hazardous, but the precautions taken showed that she was
expecting it. If she did not, why had she arranged those relays
between Greece and Egypt, why had she sent to places of safety the
ships laden with gold and precious stones from which she was never
separated? And why, above all, had she, on the very eve of battle,
had the sails rolled up at the foot of the masts like sleeping
sorceresses who would know how to wake themselves when the order for
flight rang out? Thus all had been foreseen, prepared, made ready.
She had only to be sure of that most uncertain and fragile of all
things: the heart of a man.
The tie which bound Antony to his mistress, the fleshly bond that
habit had, day by day, made stronger, was of the kind that rarely
breaks. She had often had occasion to try its strength. In those
latter days, especially, the necessity of having her beloved presence
continually near him had become almost an obsession. The more uneasy
and anxious he felt, the greater was his need of her. Nevertheless,
Cleopatra was alarmed. It was never possible to know where the
intoxication of victory, or the despair of a lost cause, might drag a
leader. She knew that his will bent so easily that sometimes the
giant became like a little child.
The night before the decisive day, the last day of August, which
seemed in its splendour to have concentrated all the sunlight of the
summer, the lovers spent the evening on board the _Antoniad_. Around
them the brass-bound ships of the Egyptian squadron, like floating
citadels with their stone towers, swung at anchor. Countless stars
pricked the dark blue tent of night above them. For an endless
moment they stood without exchanging a word. They heard the waves
lapping against the side of the boat. It was a continuous sound,
prolonged indefinitely, which seemed to express their thoughts before
they had time to put them into words.
Antony sighed: "What will to-morrow bring forth?"
"Whatever happens, we have the invincible strength of being together."
Instinctively they grasped each other's hands in the darkness.
"Yes, our destinies are for ever bound together," Antony replied.
Then, after a moment's hesitation: "If any disaster should occur, if
either of us should ... the projectiles will rain down..."
She had imagined many possible calamities, but not that a chance blow
might kill her lover. At the suggestion, she shivered.
"Antony, my beloved, do you not know that I could not live without
you? I have guarded against that horror. If you die, this dagger,
hidden in my girdle, will quickly put an end to me!"
In an ecstasy of almost fanatic ardour he pressed her to his heart.
He kissed her hair, her mouth.
"I love you, I love you," he repeated over and over again, as though
the magic words could save her from harm.
"And if I am killed, what will you do?"
"Killed! You! But that is not possible. On the _Antoniad_ you will
be out of range of the battle!"
She looked at him dreamily.
"One never knows--we could be separated."
He could not imagine anything but death separating them. How could
he live without his adored mistress, without her voice, her look? If
she had her dagger ready, he had his sword!
She diverted him gently to less tragic possibilities.
"It is not only my death. One never knows what may happen to divide
us."
But Antony was too wrought up to consider things calmly.
"Wherever you may be I will make a way to join you."
"You swear it?"
"I swear it!"
At last she had gained what she most desired. Let the worst come,
they had exchanged vows, and she knew that at her signal her
submissive lover would obey. Leave the rest to fate.
They listened silently, as though in the hope of catching some sign.
Nothing, always nothing but the monotonous lapping of the waves
against the keel. The stars began to grow dim. A rosy tint
illumined the summit of the Othrys. Stirred by the first September
breezes, the points of the great masts seemed to trace mysterious
signs upon the sky. Dawn had come and the lovers must part.
"Good-bye, my beloved, until this evening," and they turned to their
final preparations.
An hour later, as Antony was walking on the shore, he saw a centurion
approaching, covered with scars.
"What can I do for you?" he asked, kindly.
"Oh, my Imperator, is it because you scorn us, our swords, our
lances, that you are putting faith in those rotten planks?" said the
man, pointing to the ships. "For the love of the gods leave the
Egyptians and Phoenicians to paddle in water, since that is their
vocation, and trust only in us, your old soldiers, who on solid
ground will know how to conquer or to die!"
More moved than he cared to show, Antony put his hand on the brave
soldier's shoulder and went on without reply.
It is said that at the very same hour Octavius met a man driving an
ass, and asked his name.
"Fortune," answered the man, merrily, "and my beast is called
Victory."
The coincidence is curious.
All possible suggestions and explanations have been offered
concerning the battle of Actium. Nevertheless this famous day will
always be an enigma, and the reason for the defeat will remain, for
all time, a mystery.
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon. Since early morning the
two fleets had been engaged in a fierce battle. As the bronze
trumpets shook the roadstead, the galleys, like huge monsters, were
rushing at each other. Missiles, arrows, balls of burning resin,
whistled through the air. The steel prows of Octavius's fleet grazed
the Egyptian mastodons. From their high towers these hurled showers
of iron, which struck the enemy squarely. Both sides fought with
equal ferocity and their blows were deadly. Limbs were scattered and
heads fell, leaving only bloody masks in sight. No one could have
predicted whose powerful machines would win, as they ruffled the
surface of the water, a busy swarm that attacked, tormented,
recoiled, and returned to the charge.
There was a sudden movement, an abrupt lunge, and the _Antoniad_,
pushing her way through the surrounding ships, made for the open sea
at full speed, followed by the royal squadron.
What incomprehensible motive had made the Queen act in this way?
Why, with nothing as yet lost, or even compromised, had she given up
the battle? Many have alleged that it was a deliberate plot with
Antony. But why should they declare themselves defeated when they
were not? No, Antony had no part in this premeditated flight. At
first he was surprised, confounded. It could not be treason on
Cleopatra's part! If from a variety of motives she did not want
Antony to have the final victory, if she acted in a way to make it
impossible, she surely did not wish Octavius to conquer? The avenger
of Octavia, the representative of the Roman people from whom she had
everything to fear? In the face of such astonishing contradictions
the only answer is that human actions are not always logical,
especially those of women!
From early morning Cleopatra had been watching the terrible battle.
The unspeakable horrors had been too much for her overstrained
nerves. For a moment the wing which protected her shifted. The
danger of being surrounded, imprisoned, separated from Antony,
threatened her. She was frightened. The assailants were very near,
and her courage suddenly gave way. Standing on the bridge, like a
frightened bird, she took her bearings. The wind blew from the
north. It was favourable, and she took flight. Did she think of
Antony and realize that in flying she condemned him? No, she
remembered his promise to follow her, and her heart was comforted.
Unluckily she had divined only too well. At the first sight of the
fleeing galleys Antony was puzzled. Was it a feint, a trap? Would
their prows sweep around again and return to the battle more fiercely
than ever? Then the truth flashed on him. His beloved was leaving
him. Reason fled, and Cleopatra alone filled his heart and brain.
Forgetting who he was and what was expected of him, losing all
thought of those who were dying in his defence, he abandoned his
post. A trireme was in waiting, all prepared for his flight, it is
said. He threw himself on board and went after the woman who was
leading him to ruin.
It was evening. A heavy silence weighed upon the sobbing waves. The
_Antoniad_ had stopped. At her stern Cleopatra was awaiting with
palpitating heart the life or death issue of the day.
At last a light appeared and a boat approached. Antony came aboard;
but no one would have recognized him. His head was bent and his
shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the world. Without raising
his eyes he crossed the bridge, followed by Eros, and reached the
farther end of the ship. He dropped on a bench and buried his head
in his hands. He felt as though he were at the bottom of an abyss.
What had he done? What power, stronger than his will, had brought
him there? For a soldier like himself to act as he had done! Was he
a hero or a coward? A man with such triumphs behind him--and now he
was praying for the darkness to hide him! What misfortune could be
like his?
Cleopatra, leaning on the arms of Charmian and Iras to keep her from
falling, watched him at a distance. He looked so morose that she did
not dare to approach him. Was this the result of all her scheming?
And then she saw the horrible blunder that she had committed in the
name of love. If she had cared for Antony less, or loved him
differently; if, from the outset of this unhappy campaign, she had
only left him to follow his instincts as a warrior, he would not have
been sitting there, a desperate man, his head bowed in shame! What a
fool she had been! Why had she urged him to this battle against the
will of all his counsellors? Why, above all, had she led this
retreat ... this flight, which she herself could not understand, so
quick and irresistible had been her impulse? She asked herself
whether, if she had had any doubt as to Antony's following her, she
would have sailed away as she had done. And she knew that if she had
not had the certainty that wherever Fate took her he would come, she
would have had greater strength to carry on the struggle; that she
would have been braver in the face of danger. She had slipped away
because of her selfish confidence that in Egypt she would have him
for ever. And now, before this broken-down man, who had no further
feeling for her, all her wild folly was borne in on her. How could
she imagine that Antony could live when his honour was gone from him?
She turned her tear-stained face to Charmian.
"Do you think he can ever forgive me?"
Worn out with the horrors of the long day, the Greek girl was
trembling. The carnage had frozen her blood. At the moment of the
Queen's flight, although her terror was abated, she had felt that
disaster, greater than any that had yet come, was close upon them.
Now she could only say:
"Antony is a ruined man!"
Iras was younger and had more faith in the power of love.
"Go to him, Madame, see how he suffers! Your presence will comfort
him!"
Cleopatra took two or three steps toward him, but Eros warned his
master, and Antony, clinging to his despair as to, a saving grace,
shook his head as a sign that he wished to be left alone.
For three days and three nights he stayed there, without consolation.
All his limbs seemed dead. He refused all food and was unconscious
of the thirst that dried his tongue; but his mind was keenly awake to
torture him.
His slave knew his humiliation of grief and said at last:
"Will you destroy the life that is so precious to us?"
"My life has no longer any value; glory was its only excuse for
being. I am now like a man robbed and left naked by the roadside,"
replied Antony.
"But all is not lost; your friends..."
"I have no friends. Who stays by you in adversity? Foreseeing my
defeat, no doubt those on whom I most counted have already deserted."
Crouching before the man whom he had always looked on as a demigod,
Eros embraced his knees.
"Others are faithful. I know those who would shed their last drop of
blood to save you."
"Yes, you, my poor Eros, I know it well. But it is not your blood
that I need now, but a promise."
Eros looked at him lovingly, submissively.
"Swear that the instant I command you to do it, you will deliver me
from the curse of existence!"
Startled by these words, the slave jumped up, rebellious.
"I will never swear that."
Antony turned away.
"Go away and let me hear no more of your devotion!"
It was brutal treatment to the slave who had just offered his life
and would have given it willingly. He protested, stifling a sob:
"My sword, my hands, my life, all are yours, my master. But as to
the oath that you demand, if I tried to execute it, the hand that
seized the weapon would, in spite of all that I could do, pierce my
heart rather than yours!"
Left to herself, now burning, now shivering with fever, Cleopatra was
forlorn. Was Antony going to die? Did he no longer love her? She
went over in memory the days when, at the least sign from her, he was
ready to crush her to his heart. How many messages she had written
him in these last three days that he had not taken the trouble to
open; and again she had the torturing thought that she herself had
destroyed her own happiness.
But grief is not endless, and passion, however shameful, is stronger
than remorse. Days passed, and then Antony turned toward Cleopatra.
They rested side by side, not daring to look into each other's eyes.
The language of silence was sufficient. Words had no power to
express their thoughts. There was no need to speak of their
shattered hopes, to allude to that one fatal instant which had put
them among the vanquished.
Deeper than their anguish, keener than the mortification to their
pride, which had had no limits, was the intoxicating joy of being
once more together. It wiped out all other feeling. It was
irresistible, and their passionate love seemed all-sufficient,
obliterating all other claims.
"Forgive me! I love you so!" his mistress pleaded, and Antony took
her in his arms. Free for the moment from that remorse which was to
poison all the rest of his life, he rested his head on the breast for
which he had renounced the world. A kiss from Cleopatra was worth
more than all the kingdoms of the earth!
X
THE DEATH OF CLEOPATRA
They were again in Alexandria. The people, deceived by the couriers
that Cleopatra, for fear of an insurrection, despatched in advance,
had welcomed them as returning conquerors. The city, from one end to
the other, was hung with garlands; waving palms and arches of flowers
made a triumphal way for them.
But this joy was short-lived. When the tragic collapse at Actium was
made public the people were stupefied. The defeats on land were
equally appalling. Each day fresh details of the downfall were
brought in by the arriving vessels. Then came the news of the
surrender, practically without a struggle, of the legions of
Canidius; then of the Oriental commands, which, one by one, had
withdrawn from the lost cause, and by bribery and treachery were
seeking the good graces of their new master. Last came the tidings
that Italy, as one body, had turned against her former idol, and with
the fury of a trust betrayed, was clamouring for his death.
For the first few days Antony still kept some illusions. With the
remains of his scattered troops he imagined he might be able to save,
if not the vast empire which his former victories had created, at
least the portions of it which belonged to Cleopatra. When he knew
that his troops at Arcamia had fled; that the army at Cyrenaica, the
best protected point in Egypt, had gone over to Octavius; when he
heard of the treason of Alexas, his lieutenant, who owed everything
to him, and also that of Herod, whom he had made King of the Jews and
showered with gifts--he felt as though the end of the world had come.
So these were the men he had trusted! In his prosperity he had seen
only their flattering faces and had been blind to their possible
perfidy. With such an outlook he gave way to overwhelming
depression. He went over the past with vain self-reproach and
accusations. And above all he condemned his over-confidence and his
lack of recognition of his adversary's forces.
The thought of Cleopatra only aggravated his anguish and remorse.
With that terrible clearness which follows disaster he beheld her as
his blinded eyes had never before seen her. All the mistakes he had
made at her command vanished like phantoms in the distance. To-day
she was the one to rally quickly to retrieve their failure, to build
anew their cherished plans.