at the critical moment, the resources of her energy were boundless.
Whenever she seemed in the lowest depths of misery unlooked-for
strength enabled her to rise again. Her strong love of life
compelled her, in the face of all misfortunes and disappointments, to
look toward the future. In his despair this buoyancy irritated
Antony. He could not understand it. Her attitude, in contrast to
his own, exasperated him. Seeing her now as the sole cause of his
downfall, he wanted to get away from her. Many times he prepared to
leave her, but always her beautiful arms were about his neck and held
him back.
One day, however, in one of their frequent controversies, she
reproved him sharply for his inertia, and his old pride rose up. It
was too much for him to have to submit to reproaches from her who had
been his undoing. Since his ways no longer pleased her he would put
a wall between them. An old tower of the Pharaohs stood on the edge
of the river; in memory of Timon of Athens he called it his Timonium,
and shut himself up there, with the intention of spending the rest of
his life alone.
Accustomed as she was to his violent changes of temper, Cleopatra was
not seriously alarmed. "Antony a morose hermit-philosopher; it is
too absurd!" she cried, a smile of incredulity on her lips. "I will
give him just two weeks to be back at my feet."
In the meantime what should she do? Her active imagination was busy.
She thought that should ill fortune decree that the conqueror of
Actium be one day the master of Egypt, she must find a way to escape
him. The far-off Indies offered ideal conditions. Travellers to
that country had brought back fascinating accounts of it. If she and
Antony had to seek a refuge, why not find it in that land of
enchantment, where delicious visions filled the air, where the
perfume of the flowers induced blissful slumber, where the
constellations of the heavens, surpassing in brilliancy Orion, the
Swan, and Cassiopeia, were reflected in the mirror-like waters? How
was she to reach this magic land? It was useless to think of going
by the Mediterranean and passing the Pillars of Hercules, which were
guarded by Roman sentinels; but the Red Sea was there, then Gidda,
then the Ganges! She need only move her fleet across the Isthmus of
Suez and embark with all her treasures.
This romantic flight appealed to her adventurous spirit. She would
not run the risk of being enslaved for lack of taking a short step.
And she threw herself body and soul into this new enterprise. An
army of workmen were sent to Pelusium. Enormous chariots, like those
that formerly transported the stones of the Pyramids, were built, to
be drawn by oxen.
Everything went on at great speed. Several ships had already crossed
the sandy desert and were launched in the Gulf of Arabia when--she
had not counted on this--agents of Octavius landed at Alexandria!
Treason had done its work. All was destroyed, given over to pillage.
What could not be carried off was cast to the bottom of the sea.
It was a cruel blow. Was she no longer to be that creature blest of
the gods, before whom the elements yielded, like subjects to a queen?
She had the feeling that henceforth, whatever she undertook,
ill-fortune held her in its grip and would never loose its hold.
But it was not in her nature to yield. Since flight was impossible
she would arrange for resistance. With redoubled energy she
recruited fresh troops, equipped new ships, and negotiated alliances.
Alexandria was fortified. In order to rouse the inhabitants to the
defence of their city, she put Cæsarion's name on the list of the
militia.
Cæsar's son was just eighteen years of age. Clad in his first
armour, standing in his stirrups, this young man, who was meant to
persuade rather than command, recalled the memory of his father.
In a clear voice he cried:
"Soldiers and citizens, your future king goes out to fight with you.
Together we will use our swords against the usurper of Cæsar's name."
Applause broke out.
"Octavius shall not enter these gates," screamed a thousand voices
that rang out like cymbals.
Cleopatra stepped out of her litter, from which she had been looking
on at the scene. Many who had been applauding her son now prostrated
themselves before her. Beautiful always, whether under the helmet
that she wore in camp, or enveloped in the veil of Isis, she never
failed to inspire admiration.
When he saw how much loyal devotion the Queen could still command,
Antony was ashamed of his inaction. Besides, he could no longer stay
away from her. Although his feeling for her was sometimes more like
hate than love, she was necessary to him. One day, when his heart
was heavier than usual, he realized how futile it was to try to
endure life without her, and, full of repentance, he quitted his
lonely retreat which had failed to bring him the coveted peace of
mind.
Cleopatra was not surprised. She had known well that Antony, who in
order to follow her had abandoned his post in battle, could not
persist in his solitary confinement.
She welcomed him with open arms.
"Come to me! We have never needed each other as we do now!"
It was true; in their misfortune they had only each other. But their
love had received a mortal wound. What each had done had placed an
indelible shadow between them. Carried away by their violent natures
they took up again the disputes and recriminations which had formerly
forced them to separate.
Antony, especially, was incapable of hiding his rancour. At every
turn he brought up the subject of the fatal day at Actium, which had
marked him with dishonour like the brand of a red-hot iron. At other
times their mutual sufferings drew these unhappy beings closer
together. It made an indestructible bond. The hot breath of their
guilt passed over them and they felt the irresistible need of uniting
their forces.
They tried to go back to happier days and gather some of their old
associates about them. With these old companions of their
dissipations they formed a society, no less magnificent than The
Inimitables, but with another name. This, which was called
"Synapothanumenes"--inseparable in death--showed the state of mind of
the two lovers. They had the same idea. They knew the god to whom
their future libations would be consecrated. Their companions knew,
also. Their feasts were as gorgeous as those of former days. They
meant to rise above the common herd and show that they were
determined not to endure a degrading lot, but to enjoy the days that
remained to them.
Suicide was a virtue among the ancients; the final act imposed on
them by misfortune. When life was no longer the distaff from which
Clotho spun days of silk and gold, they gave it up, simply, as a
useless thing. To put an end to himself Antony had the soldier's
recourse, his sword, which, like that of Cato and of Brutus, was
always at hand against the moment when he saw that the game was
finally lost. Cleopatra's death would be more difficult. For those
whose path through life has been strewn with flowers, whom youth
still holds with magic arms, that last leap in the dark is a rude
shock. To die was easy, but it must be done so that the accustomed
harmony of life be not disturbed. How could she manage so that her
lovely features, her fragrant body, should not be marred? As an
artist who wanted to keep her place before the coming ages,
pretending that her death had been a glorious one, Cleopatra had
given much thought to this subject. She was prejudiced against using
the ordinary poisons of the time. Perfectly familiar with the method
employed to punish a conspirator, to get rid of an unworthy minister,
or of an undesirable husband, she preferred the knife which left its
deadly mark. The result of the usual poisons left her indifferent.
What matter how many convulsions a dying enemy had? But for herself
she wanted to study the matter carefully. She summoned Olympus, the
celebrated physician.
He was versed in all branches of his art, having studied the effects
of certain plants in Assyria, such as henbane and belladonna, which
latter caused death or recovery, according to the strength of the
dose.
In making her desire known to him the Queen said:
"Your fortune is made if you give me the means of quitting life
painlessly and with no risk of spoiling my beauty."
Olympus was thoughtful. The Queen's demand was beyond his power; but
he would do his best. He got together a group of physicians and they
set to work. From the mysterious laboratory in a retired corner of
the palace which had been set aside for them, red lights burned at
night and sickly, bitter odours went up.
Experiments soon began. They were made on criminals who were
condemned to punishment. The first results were terrifying. Forced
to drink the deadly liquid, the unfortunate men writhed, their
twisted limbs beat against the air, their distorted faces took on a
greenish hue, and a hissing sound came from their dry throats. And
this went on and on--prolonged indefinitely.
New combinations gave better results. The patients had a burning
sensation, but the poison devoured them quickly and they fell,
asphyxiated.
"Try again, again," commanded Cleopatra. "Your reward will be in
proportion to your success."
One morning, Olympus requested an audience. His eyes shone under his
bushy brows. At last he had found the right thing.
Accompanied by the devoted attendants who had sworn to die with her,
Cleopatra went down into the bottom of the prison where the
executions took place. She would judge with her own eyes.
A door opened and two colossal Egyptians entered, leading in chains a
slave who had struck his master. He was a strong man and made a
vigorous attempt to resist; but a funnel was placed in his upturned
throat and the liquid ran down in spite of him. The effect was
almost immediate; some convulsive starts, then a swoon. The man
dropped between the arms that held him; he was dead.
A cold shiver ran over Cleopatra. Rapid as it had been, the scene
left a horrible impression on her. Iras had not been able to stand
it and was carried out fainting.
"Can you find nothing gentler?" asked Charmian, her face pale with
fear.
"Not in the vegetable kingdom," said Olympus; "but there is the venom
of serpents. You will see now."
At the same moment the door was opened to admit a young woman who had
been condemned to death for killing her child. She was very
beautiful and her tears made her all the more appealing. She fell at
the Queen's feet, begging to be spared. The Ethiopians lifted her up.
"Have no fear," said Olympus. "You will feel no pain."
But she still implored pardon.
"Let me live, I want to live!" she cried.
There was a sudden silence. Without her knowing it the puncture had
been made. Her lids closed, her limbs were heavy, she seemed asleep.
Her heart had ceased to beat. Her face gradually relaxed, but lost
none of its beauty.
Thus, painlessly, as though sleep had come, life had gone out. From
that time Cleopatra was content. Her way of escape had been found.
The conqueror of Actium would never carry her off alive.
But catastrophe was coming quickly. Pelusium had been captured and
razed to the ground. Octavius's troops were camping under the walls
of the Parsetonium. In this crisis what was to be done? Two hundred
years before the days of knight-errantry Antony had a vision of
knighthood. He would challenge his enemy to single combat. If he
might only decide this mighty war in a tilting match and show the
world, in full view of his lady and before the united armies, what a
hero he was at heart!
Vain hope! When Octavius, without any risk whatever, had won the
victory, why should he, coward that he was, expose himself to a fatal
thrust?
"Go tell your master," he said to the officer who brought him the
challenge, "that Antony can find several other ways to end his life!"
Before beginning the struggle which would settle Egypt's fate, and in
spite of the humiliation of making any further request of a rival who
had treated him so insolently, Antony tried, by generous
self-sacrifice, to save Cleopatra's throne. If Octavius would
promise to insure her sovereignty he offered to live near her,
without arms, without titles, like an ordinary citizen.
Octavius did not even condescend to make any reply.
Several matters, however, were distracting his mind. Traitors and
spies were not lacking in Alexandria and they reported that the Queen
was experimenting with poisons and that, before her death, she had
determined to set fire to her vast treasures. Now Octavius coveted
these riches. The person of Cleopatra herself, which he regarded as
the most brilliant trophy of his triumph, was scarcely more precious
in his eyes. How was he to save these two treasures? Like the
scheming man that he was, he consoled himself with the idea that all
women, however arrogant when in power, are rarely so in adversity,
and that undoubtedly terror, and the hope of gaining something from
the present conditions, would make his beautiful enemy gracious. The
main thing was to deceive her.
Consequently it was with her, and with her only, that he consented to
enter into negotiations. He sent an ambassador to the Bruchium to
represent him as inflexible; while, at the same time, Thyreus, a
secret agent, slily, like all who do dirty work, intimated to the
Queen that a reconcilation was by no means impossible. Fascinated by
her charms, as all the great Roman leaders had been, Octavius wanted
her to know that far from treating her cruelly he only asked the
honour of serving her!
It is seldom that a woman fails to believe such flattery. Cleopatra,
whose life had been a succession of conquests, to whom all the world
had burned incense, was easily persuaded that she had a new
worshipper. In spite of her experience of the world she might have
been deceived by this mirage if one brutal condition had not
accompanied the proposition. The demand was nothing less than the
betrayal of Antony.
What Octavius really wanted was to get him out of the way. His
great, humiliated rival annoyed him. A Roman general could not be
chained to his chariot as Artabazes or Vercingetorix. Besides, with
even a broken sword, his high-spirited enemy, defeated though he was,
could dispute every inch of ground with him, and retard the final
victory; and the Dictator was anxious to end his combat definitely
and return to enjoy his triumph in Italy.
Unhappy Cleopatra! "How he must despise me to suggest such a
bargain!" she groaned. Although her feeling for Antony was not what
it once was; although the fugitive from Actium and the hermit of the
Timonium had shown a weakness which was fatal to her woman's passion,
yet she was indignant at the idea of such baseness. Too cunning not
to take advantage of any possible chance of gain for herself,
however, she took part in the exchange of trickery and, without
refusing the proffered negotiations, asked time to consider them.
Spies, as has been said, infested the halls of the Bruchium, and one
of them, the same, probably, who had brought word to Octavius,
notified Antony that Octavius desired his death and that Cleopatra
had promised to give him up to Thyreus.
At this news Antony had one of his outbursts of fury which swept over
him like a hurricane. Betrayed! Sold by the woman for whom he had
sacrificed everything! He thought of revenge. Should he slay her?
He would rather put a dagger through his own heart. Should he kill
himself? No, for his rival was waiting for her. Jealousy devoured
him. Like his mighty ancestor, Hercules, he wore the shirt of Nessus
and its poison tortured him. To love and to see in his beloved his
bitterest enemy! His suspicions reached such a point that he would
touch no dish until Cleopatra had tasted it, for fear of her
poisoning him.
Justly indignant at such outrageous distrust, Cleopatra decided to
inflict a lesson on the ingrate. It was toward the end of the
supper. They were reclining side by side on the purple couch. She
had amiably gratified the demands of the new order which required her
to be served first. For a final libation she half emptied a cup of
clear wine. A rose was in her hair. She drew it out, dipped it in
the wine and, turning to Antony, said:
"Will you drink to our love in this cup?"
He agreed and put the cup to his lips.
With a quick motion she restrained him.
"Stop! See how silly your suspicions are. If I had any of the
horrible intentions that you credit me with there are countless ways
for me to carry them out. That flower was saturated with poison!"
Embarrassed, and not daring to meet her eyes, Antony fell at his
mistress's feet. Would she forgive him? The little time he had left
to live was not long enough to expiate the crime of which he had been
guilty.
He prophesied better than he knew. There was only one day between
him and the one when all would be settled. In that day, at least, he
would accomplish wonders. It was the lion reawakening. The
brilliancy of his warrior instinct would blaze out for the last time
and show that, left to his own genius, he would have been a mighty
hero.
The enemy's army was only a few furlongs from Alexandria. A hostile
populace, on the point of treason, was not eager to defend it. The
Imperator got some troops together, those who had been faithful to
him through everything, and by a surprise attack, which there was no
time to return, he fell on the cavalry of Octavius. Routed, pursued,
the latter crossed the Nile in disorder and went back to the old
intrenchments. For that day, at least, Alexandria was saved.
Drunk with a happiness that he had despaired of ever feeling again,
Antony cried, "Victory, Victory," continually. Yes, for a last
farewell Victory had come again and placed a crown on the forehead of
the master who had won it so many times in vain. The old passionate
love flamed in Cleopatra's heart, and her Antony was the magnificent,
intrepid hero of former days. Seeing him in the distance, surrounded
by banners, she left her window and ran down to welcome him.
In a transport of joy he leaped off his horse to press her to him,
and these two, whom adversity had divided, were united again in the
glory which was their native element. In the delight of being
together all their past grief and bitterness were forgotten.
There was great rejoicing that evening in the old palace of the
Lagidæ. The bravest soldier had a shower of gold. One of them was
honoured by an antique golden armour, with the sparrow-hawk of the
Ptolemys. The citterns and pipes resounded and the national songs
were sung. It seemed like a revival of the days when the Imperator
was distributing kingdoms.
Feeling that the hours were few and precious, the lovers grudged
wasting any in sleep. It was a clear, mild night, when the soul is
conscious of its own insignificance under the overwhelming vastness
of the Oriental heavens. They wandered about the gardens until they
reached the farther end, the place where Cleopatra had watched Antony
disappear in the distance at their first parting. The rhythmic swell
of the waters against the parapet sounded like their own heart-beats.
To the right, the seven-storied beacon seemed to defy the stars; and
above shone the crescent moon, whose silver reflections were like
scattered petals in the sea.
This scene that they had so often looked on together carried them
into the past. Standing there in silence, the exquisite joy of their
former happiness was born anew, and tender memories of passing words,
trifling incidents came back. They recalled those days at Tarsus,
when in the first flush of youth they had embarked on their
life-voyage with no thought of possible storms.
"Do you remember that first evening?" she whispered.
"Yes, your robe was clinging, iridescent, like the burnished breasts
of doves."
There were other memories, hours of grief as well as joy; but they
agreed that the most precious moments were those when they had each
forgiven the other for some wrong. The present hour crowned them
all. They felt as though they had traversed vast distances to find
each other, and the certainty of faithful love from then until death
obliterated all memory of rancour, suspicion, jealousy which had
marred their life in the past. They were beginning a new existence
here, surrounded by the bridal fragrance of the orange blossoms.
The wind arose. The sky changed from deep, tender blue to lead
colour. A huge winding-sheet seemed suddenly spread over the face of
the waters.
Trembling with terror, Cleopatra clung to Antony.
"Are you cold?" he said.
"Yes! No! I do not know. I feel as though darkness had entered
into my soul!"
He smiled at her fancies. Although more easily discouraged than she,
and more inclined to melancholy, he attached an exaggerated
importance to the skirmish of the day before.
"Fear nothing," he cried, "I am strong again, and good fortune is
ours once more!"
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when they heard a cawing
above their heads. The crows were predicting evil things. It was
Antony's turn to tremble. He looked at the horizon. The coming dawn
revealed a monstrous fleet of ships crowded together opposite the
channel. He recognized the same vessels which had faced him at
Actium, and his quivering hand grasped Cleopatra's.
Pressed close together, like those who are terrified on a dark road
at night, they retraced their way. The steps showed white between
the dark masses of the trees. They climbed up them slowly, as though
weighed down by fatigue. On the last terrace they stopped. Never
had the moment of leave-taking seemed so ominous. They were facing
the fatal day. Their lips met.
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye"--and their voices died out in space.
The attack of the day before had put Octavius on his guard and he had
passed a sleepless night. He had exhorted his men to take a firmer
stand, reproached them for being put to flight by a few companies of
soldiers.
"And that," he added, "at the very gates of Alexandria! At the
moment when you were within reach of enough booty to have secured a
home for every one of you!"
No further stimulus was needed. At the same time emissaries were
sowing corruption in Antony's camp. They threatened to punish with
reprisals from Rome the men who remained loyal to Antony; to the
others they promised an amnesty.
Under these conditions the battle began.
Antony's new-born hope soon fell to the ground. In the very first
attack the desertions began. Seized with panic, the brave men of
yesterday became the fugitives of to-day; and among them, by a cruel
irony of fate, he recognized the hero on whose shoulders Cleopatra
had placed the golden armour. To have thought that he could move the
world according to his wish, and to look on at this!
In despair Antony cast aside his buckler and exposed his bare breast
to the blows. If a sword would only put an end to him! But the hour
was not yet. The right to die is given only when the last effort has
been made. And first, he must prevent a complete rout. Alone he
undertook the titanic task. He was all over the field; on every side
his wrathful gestures were seen. With the flat of his sword he
threatened, he struck. His fierce voice resounded:
"Miserable traitors who change masters at a word!"
But his imprecations were not heard. The confusion was universal and
the city fell quickly. Octavius passed the gates on horseback, all
the legions following him.
There was one more chance: the fleet. But there, again, treason was
rampant. The men stubbornly refused to fight. Oars in hand, they
welcomed as comrades the men whom yesterday they had regarded as
enemies.
All was lost. No heroic effort could have saved the day. Antony
realized it and the roar of the blood in his ears deafened him. He
went on like a demented man, surrounded by threatening fists and
curses. Instinct led him to the Bruchium. The approach to it was in
wild disorder. His heart stood still.
"The Queen! Where is the Queen?" he demanded.
An agonized silence was his answer. All the javelins of presentiment
were at his heart.
"Cleopatra!" he cried loudly.
He was heard. An officer came from the royal apartments. His face
was sad. Before he could speak the lover understood.
"Dead?"
"Yes, with your name on her lips!"
At first the dread word had no meaning. Dead! She who filled the
world. Dead! Had the daylight died, could heaven or earth die?
Little by little the frightful truth dawned on him. He understood
that he would see her no more. It was like a command given, as
though he had heard the long-expected hour strike. He went back to
his tent.
In these days of cowardice and treason Eros had never left his side.
His brave arm had often warded off the blows aimed at the Imperator.
Seeing him stagger at times, he had brought him reviving draughts.
Now they were alone together. Antony controlled himself.