When Cleopatra left the temple, Iras marvelled at the change in her
appearance. The severe tension which had given her beautiful face a
shade of harshness had yielded to an expression of gentle sadness that
enhanced its charm, yet her features quickly brightened as her attendant
pointed to the procession which was just entering the forecourt of the
palace.
In Alexandria and throughout Egypt birthdays were celebrated as far as
possible. Therefore, to do honour to the twins, the children of the city
had been sent to offer their congratulations, and at the same time to
assure their royal mother of the love and devotion of the citizens.
The return to the palace occupied only a few minutes, and as Cleopatra,
hastily donning festal garments, gazed down at the bands of children, it
seemed as if Fate by this fair spectacle had given her a sign of
approval of her design.
She was soon standing hand in hand with the twins upon the balcony
before which the procession had halted. Hundreds of boys and girls of
the same age as the prince and princess had flocked thither, the former
bearing bouquets, the latter small baskets filled with lilies and roses.
Every head was crowned with a wreath, and many of the girls wore
garlands of flowers. A chorus of youths and maidens sang a festal hymn,
beseeching the gods to grant the royal mother and children every
happiness; the leader of the chorus of girls made a short address in the
name of the city, and during this speech the children formed in ranks,
the tallest in the rear, the smallest in the front, and the others
between according to their height. The scene resembled a living garden,
in which rosy faces were the beautiful flowers.
Cleopatra thanked the citizens for the charming greeting sent to her by
those whom they held dearest, and assured them that she returned their
love. Her eyes grew dim with tears as she went with her three children
to the throng who offered their congratulations, and an unusually pretty
little girl whom she kissed threw her arms around her as tenderly as if
she were her own mother. And how beautiful was the scene when the girls
strewed the contents of their little baskets on the ground before her,
and the boys, with many a ringing shout and loving wish, offered the
bouquets to her and the twins!
Charmian had not forgotten to provide the gifts; and when the
chamberlains and waiting-women led the children into a large hall to
offer them refreshments, the Queen's eyes sparkled so brightly that the
companion of her childhood ventured to make her difficult confession.
And, as so often happens, the event we most dread shows, when it
actually occurs, a friendly or indifferent aspect; this was the case
now. Nothing in life is either great or small--the one may be
transformed to the other, according to the things with which it is
compared. The tallest man becomes a dwarf beside a rocky giant of the
mountain chain, the smallest is a Titan to the swarming ants in the
forest. The beggar seizes as a treasure what the rich man scornfully
casts aside. That which the day before yesterday seemed to Cleopatra
unendurable, roused her keenest anxiety, robbed her of part of her
night's repose, and induced her to adopt strenuous measures, now
appeared trivial and scarcely worthy of consideration.
Yesterday and to-day had brought events and called up questions which
forced Barine's disappearance into the realm of unimportant matters.
Charmian's confession was preceded by the statement that she longed for
rest yet, nevertheless, was ready to remain with her royal friend, in
every situation, until she no longer desired her services and sent her
away. But she feared that this moment had come.
Cleopatra interrupted her with the assurance that she was speaking of
something utterly impossible; and when Charmian disclosed Barine's
escape, and admitted that it was she who had aided the flight of the
innocent and sorely threatened granddaughter of Didymus, the Queen
started up angrily and frowned, but it was only for a moment. Then, with
a smile, she shook her finger at her friend, embraced her, and gravely
but kindly assured her that, of all vices, ingratitude was most alien to
her nature. The companion of her childhood had bestowed so many proofs
of faithfulness, love, self-sacrifice, and laborious service in her
behalf that they could not be long outweighed by a single act of wilful
disobedience. An abundant supply would still remain, by virtue of which
she might continue to sin without fearing that Cleopatra would ever part
from her Charmian.
The latter again perceived that nothing on earth could be hostile or
sharp enough to sever the bond which united her to this woman. When her
lips overflowed with the gratitude which filled her heart, Cleopatra
admitted that it seemed as if, in aiding Barine's escape, she had
rendered her a service. The caution with which Charmian had concealed
Barine's refuge had not escaped her notice, and she did not ask to learn
it. It was enough for her that the dangerous beauty was out of
Cæsarion's reach. As for Antony, a wall now separated him from the
world, and consequently from the woman who, spite of Alexas's
accusations, had probably never stood closer to his heart.
Charmian now eagerly strove to show the Queen what had induced the
Syrian to pursue Barine so vindictively. It was evident--and scarcely
needed proof--that Mark Antony's whole acquaintanceship with the old
scholar's granddaughter had been far from leading to any tender
relation. But Cleopatra gave only partial attention. The man whom she
had loved with every pulsation of her heart already seemed to her only a
dear memory. She did not forget the happiness enjoyed with and through
him, or the wrong she had done by the use of the magic goblet; yet with
the wall on the Choma, which divided him from her and the rest of the
world, and her command to have the mausoleum built, she imagined that
the season of love was over. Any new additions to this chapter of the
life of her heart were but the close. Even the jealousy which had
clouded the happiness of her love like a fleeting, rapidly changing
shadow, she believed she had now renounced forever.
While Charmian protested that no one save Dion had ever been heard with
favour by Barine, and related many incidents of her former life,
Cleopatra's thoughts were with Antony. Like the image of the beloved
dead, the towering figure of the Roman hero rose before her mind, but
she recalled him only as he was prior to the battle of Actium. She
desired and expected nothing more from the broken-spirited man, whose
condition was perhaps her own fault. But she had resolved to atone for
her guilt, and would do so at the cost of throne and life. This settled
the account. Whatever her remaining span of existence might add or
subtract, was part of the bargain.
The entrance of Alexas interrupted her. With fiery passion he expressed
his regret that he had been defrauded by base intrigues of the right
bestowed upon him to pass sentence upon a guilty woman. This was the
more difficult to bear because he was deprived of the possibility of
providing for the pursuit of the fugitive. Antony had honoured him with
the commission to win Herod back to his cause. He was to leave
Alexandria that very night. As nothing could be expected in this matter
from the misanthropic Imperator, he hoped that the Queen would avenge
such an offence to her dignity, and adopt severe measures towards the
singer and her last lover, Dion, who with sacrilegious hands had wounded
the son of Cæsar.
But Cleopatra, with royal dignity, kept him within the limits of his
position, commanded him not to mention the affair to her again, and
then, with a sorrowful smile, wished him success with Herod, in whose
return to the lost cause of Antony, however, much as she prized the
skill of the mediator, she did not believe.
When he had retired, she exclaimed to Charmian: "Was I blind? This man
is a traitor! We shall discover it. Wherever Dion has taken his young
wife, let her be carefully concealed, not from me, but from this Syrian.
It is easier to defend one's self against the lion than the scorpion.
You, my friend, will see that Archibius seeks me this very day. I must
talk with him, and--you no longer have any thought of a parting? Another
will come soon enough, which will forever forbid these lips from kissing
your dear face."
As she spoke, she again clasped the companion of her childhood in her
arms, and when Iras entered to request an audience for Lucilius,
Antony's most faithful friend, Cleopatra, who had noticed the younger
woman's envious glance at the embrace, said: "Was I mistaken in fancying
that you imagined yourself slighted for Charmian, who is an older
friend? That would be wrong; for I love and need you both. You are her
niece, and indebted to her for much kindness from your earliest
childhood. So, even though you will lose the joy of revenge upon a hated
enemy, forget what has happened, as I did, and maintain your former
affectionate companionship. I will reward you for it with the only thing
that the daughter of the wealthy Krates cannot purchase, yet which she
probably rates at no low value--the love of her royal friend."
With these words she clasped Iras also in a close embrace, and when the
latter left the room to summon Lucilius, she thought: "No woman has ever
won so much love; perhaps that is why she possesses so great a treasure
of it, and can afford such unspeakable happiness by its bestowal. Or is
she so much beloved because she entered the world full of its wealth,
and dispenses it as the sun diffuses light? Surely that must be the
case. I have reason to believe it, for whom did I ever love save the
Queen? No one, not even myself, and I know no one in whose love for me I
can believe. But why did Dion, whom I loved so fervently, disdain me?
Fool! Why did Mark Antony prefer Cleopatra to Octavia, who was not less
fair, whose heart was his, and whose hand held the sovereignty of half
the world?"
Passing on as she spoke, she soon returned, ushering the Roman Lucilius
into the presence of the Queen. A gallant deed had bound this man to
Antony. After the battle of Philippi, when the army of the republicans
fled, Brutus had been on the point of being seized by the enemy's
horsemen; but Lucilius, at the risk of being cut down, had personated
him, and thereby, though but for a short time, rescued him. This had
seemed to Antony unusual and noble and, in his generous manner, he had
not only forgiven him, but bestowed his favour upon him. Lucilius was
grateful, and gave him the same fidelity he had showed to Brutus. At
Actium he had risked Antony's favour to prevent his deserting Cleopatra
after the battle, and then accompanied him in his flight. Now he was
bearing him company in his seclusion on the Choma.
The grey-haired man who, but a short time before, had retained all the
vigour of youth, approached the Queen with bowed head and saddened
heart. His face, so regular in its contours, had undergone a marked
change within the past few weeks. The cheeks were sunken, the features
had grown sharper, and there was a sorrowful expression in the eyes,
which, when informing Cleopatra of his friend's condition, glittered
with tears.
Before the hapless battle he was one of Cleopatra's most enthusiastic
admirers; but since he had been forced to see his friend and benefactor
risk fame, happiness, and honour to follow the Queen, he had cherished a
feeling of bitter resentment towards her. He would certainly have spared
himself this mission, had he not been sure that she who had brought her
lover to ruin was the only person who could rouse him from spiritless
languor to fresh energy and interest in life.
From motives of friendship, urged by no one, he came unbidden to the
woman whom he had formerly so sincerely admired, to entreat her to cheer
the unfortunate man, rouse him, and remind him of his duty. He had
little news to impart; for on the voyage she had herself witnessed long
enough the pitiable condition of her husband. Now Antony was beginning
to be content in it, and this was what most sorely troubled the faithful
friend.
The Imperator had called the little palace which he occupied on the
Choma his Timonium, because he compared himself with the famous Athenian
misanthrope who, after fortune abandoned him, had also been betrayed by
many of his former friends. Even at Tænarum he had thought of returning
to the Choma, and by means of a wall, which would separate it from the
mainland, rendering it as inaccessible as--according to rumour--the
grave of Timon at Halæ near Athens. Gorgias had erected it, and whoever
wished to visit the hermit was forced to go by sea and request
admittance, which was granted to few.
Cleopatra listened to Lucilius with sympathy, and then asked whether
there was no way of cheering or comforting the wretched man.
"No, your Majesty," he replied. "His favourite occupation is to recall
what he once possessed, but only to show the uselessness of these
memories. 'What joys has life not offered me?' he asks, and then adds:
'But they were repeated again and again, and after being enjoyed for the
tenth time they became monotonous and lost their charm. Then they caused
satiety to the verge of loathing.' Only necessary things, such as bread
and water, he says, possess real value; but he desires neither, because
he has even less taste for them than for the dainties which spoil a
man's morrow. Yesterday in a specially gloomy hour, he spoke of gold.
This was perhaps most worthy of desire. The mere sight of it awakened
pleasant hopes, because it might afford so many gratifications. Then he
laughed bitterly, exclaiming that those joys were the very ones which
produced the most disagreeable satiety. Even gold was not worth the
trouble of stretching out one's hand.
"He is fond of enlarging upon such fancies, and finds images to make his
meaning clear.
"'In the snow upon the highest mountain-peak the feet grow cold,' he
said. 'In the mire they are warm, but the dark mud is ugly and clings to
them.'
"Then I remarked that between the morass and the mountain-snows lie
sunny valleys where life would be pleasant; but he flew into a rage,
vehemently protesting that he would never be content with the pitiable
middle course of Horace. Then he exclaimed: 'Ay, I am vanquished.
Octavianus and his Agrippa are the conquerors; but if a rock mutilates
or an elephant's clumsy foot crushes me, I am nevertheless of a higher
quality than either.'"
"There spoke the old Mark Antony!" cried Cleopatra; but again Lucilius's
loyal heart throbbed with resentment against the woman who had fostered
the recklessness which had brought his powerful friend to ruin, and he
continued:
"But he often sees himself in a different light. 'No writer could invent
a more unworthy life than mine,' he exclaimed recently. 'A farce ending
in a tragedy.'"
Lucilius might have added still harsher sayings, but the sorrowful
expression in the tearful eyes of the afflicted Queen silenced them upon
his lips.
Yet Cleopatra's name blended with most of the words uttered by the
broken-spirited man. Sometimes it was associated with the most furious
reproaches, but more frequently with expressions of boundless delight
and wild outbursts of fervent longing, and this was what inspired
Lucilius with the hope that the Queen's influence would be effectual
with his friend. Therefore he repeated some especially ardent words, to
which Cleopatra listened with grateful joy.
Yet, when Lucilius paused, she remarked that doubtless the misanthropist
had spoken of her, and probably of Octavia also, in quite a different
way. She was prepared for the worst, for she was one of the rocks
against which his greatness had been shattered.
This reminded Lucilius of the comment Antony had made upon the three
women whom he had wedded, and he answered reluctantly: "Fulvia, the wife
of his youth--I knew the bold, hot-blooded woman, the former wife of
Clodius--he called the tempest which swelled his sails."
"Yes, Yes!" cried Cleopatra. "So she did. He owes her much; but I, too,
am indebted to the dead Fulvia. She taught him to recognize and yield to
woman's power."
"Not always to his advantage," retorted Lucilius, whose resentment was
revived by the last sentence and, without heeding the faint flush on the
Queen's cheek, he added: "Of Octavia he said that she was the straight
path which leads to happiness, and those who are content to walk in it
are acceptable to gods and men."
"Then why did he not suffer it to content him?" cried Cleopatra
wrathfully.
"Fulvia's school," replied the Roman, "was probably the last where he
would learn the moderation which--as you know--is so alien to his
nature. His opinion of the quiet valleys and middle course you have just
heard."
"But I, what have _I_ been to him?" urged the Queen.
Lucilius bent his gaze for a short time on the floor, then answered
hesitatingly:
"You asked to hear, and the Queen's command must be obeyed. He compared
your Majesty to a delicious banquet given to celebrate a victory, at
which the guests, crowned with garlands, revel _before_ the battle----"
"Which is lost," said the Queen hurriedly, in a muffled voice. "The
comparison is apt. Now, after the defeat, it would be absurd to prepare
another feast. The tragedy is closing, so the play (doubtless he said
so) which preceded it would be but a wearisome repetition if performed a
second time. One thing, it is true, seems desirable--a closing act of
reconciliation. If you think it is in my power to recall my husband to
active life, rely upon me. The banquet of which he spoke occupied long
years. The dessert will consume little time, but I am ready to serve it.
When I asked permission to visit him he refused. What plan of meeting
have you arranged?"
"That I will leave to your feminine delicacy of feeling," replied
Lucilius. "Yet I have come with a request whose fulfilment will perhaps
contain the answer. Eros, Mark Antony's faithful body-slave, humbly
petitions your Majesty to grant him a few minutes' audience. You know
the worthy fellow. He would die for you and his master, and he--I once
heard from your lips the remark of King Antiochus, that no man was great
to his body-slave--thus Eros sees his master's weaknesses and lofty
qualities from a nearer point of view than we, and he is shrewd. Antony
gave him his freedom long ago, and if your Majesty does not object to
receiving a man so low in station----"
"Let him come," replied Cleopatra. "Your demand upon me is just.
Unhappily, I am but too well aware of the atonement due your friend.
Before you came, I was engaged in making preparations for the fulfilment
of one of his warmest wishes."
With these words she dismissed the Roman. Her feelings as she watched
his departure were of very mingled character. The yearning for the
happiness of which she had been so long deprived had again awaked, while
the unkind words which he had applied to her still rankled in her heart.
But the door had scarcely closed behind Lucilius when the usher
announced a deputation of the members of the museum.
The learned gentlemen came to complain of the wrong which had been done
to their colleague, Didymus, and also to express their loyalty during
these trying times. Cleopatra assured them of her favour, and said that
she had already offered ample compensation to the old philosopher. In a
certain sense she was one of themselves. They all knew that, from early
youth, she had honoured and shared their labours. In proof of this, she
would present to the library of the museum the two hundred thousand
volumes from Pergamus, one of the most valuable gifts Mark Antony had
ever bestowed upon her, and which she had hitherto regarded merely as a
loan. This she hoped would repay Didymus for the injury which, to her
deep regret, had been inflicted upon him, and at least partially repair
the loss sustained by the former library of the museum during the
conflagration in the Bruchium.
The sages, eagerly assuring her of their gratitude and devotion,
retired. Most of them were personally known to Cleopatra who, to their
mutual pleasure and advantage, had measured her intellectual powers with
the most brilliant minds of their body.
The sun had already set, when a procession of the priests of Serapis,
the chief god of the city, whose coming had been announced the day
before, appeared at Lochias. Accompanied by torch and lantern bearers,
it moved forward with slow and solemn majesty. In harmony with the
nature of Serapis, there were many reminders of death.
The meaning of every image, every standard, every shrine, every
peculiarity of the music and singing, was familiar to the Queen. Even
the changing colours of the lights referred to the course of growth and
decay in the universe and in human life, and the magnificent close of
the chant of homage which represented the reception of the royal soul
into the essence of the deity, the apotheosis of the sovereign, was well
suited to stir the heart; for a sea of light unexpectedly flooded the
whole procession and, while its glow irradiated the huge pile of the
palace, the sea with its forest of ships and masts, and the shore with
its temples, pylons, obelisks, and superb buildings, all the choruses,
accompanied by the music of sackbuts, cymbals, and lutes, blended in a
mighty hymn, whose waves of sound rose to the star-strewn sky and
reached the open sea beyond the Pharos.
Many a symbolical image suggested death and the resurrection, defeat and
a victory following it by the aid of great Serapis; and when the torches
retired, vanishing in the darkness, with the last, notes of the chanting
of the priests, Cleopatra, raised her head, feeling as if the vow she
had made during the gloomy singing of the aged men and the extinguishing
of the torches had received the approval of the deity brought by her
forefathers to Alexandria and enthroned there to unite in his own person
the nature of the Greek and the Egyptian gods.
Her tomb was to be built and, if destiny was fulfilled, to receive her
lover and herself. She had perceived from Antony's bitter words, as well
as the looks and tones of Lucilius, that he, as well as the man to whom
her heart still clung with indissoluble bonds, held her responsible for
Actium and the fall of his greatness.
The world, she knew, would imitate them, but it should learn that if
love had robbed the greatest man of his day of fame and sovereignty,
that love had been worthy of the highest price.
The belief which had just been symbolically represented to her--that it
was allotted to the vanishing light to rise again in new and radiant
splendour--she would maintain for the present, though the best success
could scarcely lead to anything more than merely fanning the glimmering
spark and deferring its extinction.
For herself there was no longer any great victory to win which would be
worth the conflict. Yet the weapons must not rest until the end. Antony
must not perish, growling, like a second Timon, or a wild beast caught
in a snare. She would rekindle, though but for the last blaze, the fire
of his hero-nature, which blind love for her and the magic spell that
had enabled her to bind his will had covered for a time with ashes.
While listening to the resurrection hymn of the priests of Serapis, she
had asked herself if it might not be possible to give Antony, when he
had been roused to fresh energy, the son of Cæsar as a companion in
arms. True, she had found the boy in a mood far different from the one
for which she had hoped. If he had once been carried on to a bold deed,
it seemed to have exhausted his energy; for he remained absorbed in the
most pitiable love-sickness. Yet he had not recovered from his illness.
When he was better he would surely wake to active interest in the events
which threatened to exert so great an influence on his own existence
and, like the humblest slave, lament the defeat of Actium. Hitherto he
had listened to the tidings of battle which had reached his ears with an
indifference that seemed intelligible and pardonable only when
attributed to his wound.
His tutor Rhodon had just requested a leave of absence, remarking that
Cæsarion would not lack companions, since he was expecting Antyllus and
other youths of his own age. A flood of light streamed from the windows
of the reception hall of the "King of kings." There was still time to
seek him and make him understand what was at stake. Ah! if she could but
succeed in awaking his father's spirit! If that culpable attack should
prove the harbinger of future deeds of manly daring!
No interview with him as yet had encouraged this expectation, but a
mother's heart easily sees, even in disappointment, a step which leads
to a new hope. When Charmian entered to announce Antony's body-slave,
she sent word to him to wait, and requested her friend to accompany her
to her son.
As they approached the apartments occupied by Cæsarion, Antyllus's loud
voice reached them through the open door, whose curtain was only half
drawn. The first word which the Queen distinguished was her own name;
so, motioning to her companion, she stood still. Barine was again the
subject of conversation.
Antony's son was relating what Alexas had told him. Cleopatra, the
Syrian had asserted, intended to send the young beauty to the mines or
into exile, and severely punish Dion; but both had made their escape.
The Ephebi had behaved treacherously by taking sides with their foe. But
this was because they were not yet invested with their robes. He hoped
to induce his father to do this as soon as he shook off his pitiable
misanthropy. And he must also be persuaded to direct the pursuit of the
fugitives. "This will not be difficult," he cried insolently, "for the
old man appreciates beauty, and has himself cast an eye on the singer.
If they capture her, I'll guarantee nothing, you 'King of kings!' for,
spite of his grey beard, he can cut us all out with the women, and
Barine--as we have heard--doesn't think a man of much importance until
his locks begin to grow thin. I gave Derketæus orders to send all his
men in pursuit. He's as cunning as a fox, and the police are compelled
to obey him."
"If I were not forced to lie here like a dead donkey, I would soon find
her," sighed Cæsarion. "Night or day, she is never out of my mind. I
have already spent everything I possessed in the search. Yesterday I
sent for the steward Seleukus. What is the use of being my mother's son,
and the fat little fellow isn't specially scrupulous! He will do
nothing, yet there must be gold enough. The Queen has sunk millions in
the sand on the Syrian frontier of the Delta. There is to be a square
hole or something of the sort dug there to hide the fleet. I only half
understand the absurd plan. The money might have paid hundreds of spies.
So talents are thrown away, and the strong-box is locked against the
son. But I'll find one that will open to me. I must have her, though I
risk the crown. It always sounds like a jeer when they call me the King
of kings. I am not fit for sovereignty. Besides, the throne will be
seized ere I really ascend it. We are conquered, and if we succeed in
concluding a peace, which will secure us life and a little more, we must
be content. For my part, I shall be satisfied with a country estate on
the water, a sufficient supply of money and, above all, Barine. What do
I care for Egypt? As Cæsar's son I ought to have ruled Rome; but the
immortals knew what they were doing when they prompted my father to
disinherit me. To govern the world one must have less need of sleep.
Really--you know it--I always feel tired, even when I am well. People
must let me alone! Your father, too, Antyllus, is laying down his arms
and letting things go as they will."
"Ah, so he is!" cried Antony's son indignantly. "But just wait! The
sleeping lion will wake again, and, when he uses his teeth and paws----"
"My mother will run away, and your father will follow her," replied
Cæsarion with a melancholy smile, wholly untinged by scorn. "All is
lost. But conquered kings and queens are permitted to live. Cæsar's son
will not be exhibited to the Quirites in the triumphal procession.
Rhodon says that there would be an insurrection if I appeared in the
Forum. If I go there again, it certainly will not be in Octavianus's
train. I am not suited for that kind of ignominy. It would stifle me
and, ere I would grant any man the pleasure of dragging the son of
Cæsar behind him to increase his own renown, I would put an end--ten,
nay, a hundred times over, in the good old Roman fashion, to my life,
which is by no means especially attractive. What is sweeter than sound
sleep, and who will disturb and rouse me when Death has lowered his
torch before me? But now I think I shall be spared this extreme.
Whatever else they may inflict upon me will scarcely exceed my powers of
endurance. If any one has learned contentment it is I. The King of kings
and Co-Regent of the Great Queen has been trained persistently, and with
excellent success, to be content. What should I be, and what _am_ I? Yet
I do not complain, and wish to accuse no one. We need not summon
Octavianus, and when he is here let him take what he will if he only
spares the lives of my mother, the twins, and little Alexander, whom I
love, and bestows on me the estate--the main thing is that it must be
full of fishponds--of which I spoke. The private citizen Cæsarion, who
devotes his time to fishing and the books he likes to read, will gladly
be allowed to choose a wife to suit his own taste. The more humble her
origin, the more easily I shall win the consent of the Roman guardian."
"Do you know, Cæsarion," interrupted Antony's unruly son, leaning back
on the cushions and stretching his feet farther in front of him, "if you
were not the King of kings I should be inclined to call you a base,
mean-natured fellow! One who has the good fortune to be the son of
Julius Cæsar ought not to forget it so disgracefully. My gall overflows
at your whimpering. By the dog! It was one of my most senseless pranks
to take you to the singer. I should think there would be other things to
occupy the mind of the King of kings. Besides, Barine cares no more for
you than the last fish you caught. She showed that plainly enough. I say
once more, if Derketæus's men succeed in capturing the beauty who has
robbed you of your senses, she won't go with you to your miserable
estate to cook the fish you catch, for if we have her again, and my
father holds out his hand to her, all your labour will be in vain. He
saw the fair enchantress only twice, and had no time to become better
acquainted, but she captured his fancy and, if I remind him of her, who
knows what will happen?"
Here Cleopatra beckoned to her companion and returned to her apartments
with drooping head. On reaching them, she broke the silence, saying:
"Listening, Charmian, is unworthy of a Queen; but if all listeners heard
things so painful, one need no longer guard keyholes and chinks of
doors. I must recover my calmness ere I receive Eros. One thing more. Is
Barine's hiding-place secure?"
"I don't know--Archibius says so."
"Very well. They are searching for her zealously enough, as you heard,
and she must not be found. I am glad that she did not set a snare for
the boy. How a jealous heart leads us astray! Were she here, I would
grant her anything to make amends for my unjust suspicion of her and
Antony. And to think that Alexas--but for your interposition he would
have succeeded--meant to send her to the mines! It is a terrible warning
to be on my guard. Against whom? First of all, my own weakness. This is
a day of recognition. A noble aim, but on the way the feet bleed, and
the heart--ah! Charmian, the poor, weak, disappointed heart!"
She sighed heavily, and supported her head on the arm resting upon the
table at her side. The polished, exquisitely grained surface of
thya-wood was worth a large estate; the gems in the rings and bracelets
which glittered on her hand and arm would have purchased a principality.
This thought entered her mind and, overpowered by a feeling of angry
disgust, she would fain have cast all the costly rubbish into the sea or
the destroying flames.
She would gladly have been a beggar, content with the barley bread of
Epicurus, she said to herself, if in return she could but have inspired
her son even with the views of the reckless blusterer Antyllus. Her
worst fears had not pictured Cæsarion so weak, so insignificant. She
could no longer rest upon her cushions; and while, with drooping head,
she gazed backward over the past, the accusing voice in her own breast
cried out that she was reaping what she had sowed. She had repressed,
curbed the boy's awakening will to secure his obedience; understood how
to prevent any exercise of his ability or efforts in wider circles.
True, it had been done on many a pretext. Why should not her son taste
the quiet happiness which she had enjoyed in the garden of Epicurus? And
was not the requirement that whoever is to command must first learn to
obey, based upon old experiences?
But this was a day of reckoning and insight, and for the first time she
found courage to confess that her own burning ambition had marked out
the course of Cæsarion's education. She had not repressed his talents
from cool calculation, but it had been pleasant to her to see him grow
up free from aspirations. She had granted the dreamer repose without
arousing him. How often she had rejoiced over the certainty that this
son, on whom Antony, after his victory over the Parthians, had bestowed
the title of Co-Regent, would never rebel against his mother's
guardianship! The welfare of the state had doubtless been better secured
in her trained hands than in those of an inexperienced boy. And the
proud consciousness of power! Her heart swelled. So long as she lived
she would remain Queen. To transfer the sovereignty to another, whatever
name he might bear, had seemed to her impossible. Now she knew how
little her son yearned for lofty things. Her heart contracted. The
saying "You reap what you sowed" gave her no peace, and wherever she
turned in her past life she perceived the fruit of the seeds which she
had buried in the ground. The field was sinking under the burden of the
ears of misfortune. The harvest was ripe for the reaper; but, ere he
raised the sickle, the owner's claim must be preserved. Gorgias must
hasten the building of the tomb; the end could not be long deferred. How
to shape this worthily, if the victor left her no other choice, had just
been pointed out by the son of whom she was ashamed. His father's noble
blood forbade him to bear the deepest ignominy with the patience his
mother had inculcated.
It had grown late ere she admitted Antony's body-slave, but for her the
business of the night was just commencing. After he had gone she would
be engaged for hours with the commanders of the army, the fleet, the
fortifications. The soliciting of allies, too, must be carried on by
means of letters containing the most stirring appeals to the heart.
Eros, Antony's body-slave, appeared. His kind eyes filled with tears at
the sight of the Queen. Grief had not lessened the roundness of his
handsome face, but the expression of mischievous, often insolent, gaiety
had given place to a sorrowful droop of the lips, and his fair hair had
begun to turn grey.
Lucilius's information that Cleopatra had consented to make advances to
Antony had seemed like the rising of the sun after a long period of
darkness. In his eyes, not only his master, but everything else, must
yield to the power of the Queen. He had heard Antony at Tarsus inveigh
against "the Egyptian serpent," protesting that he would make her pay so
dearly for her questionable conduct towards himself and the cause of
Cæsar that the treasure-houses on the Nile should be like an empty
wine-skin; yet, a few hours after, body and soul had been in her toils.
So it had continued till the battle of Actium. Now there was nothing
more to lose; but what might not Cleopatra bestow upon his master? He
thought of the delightful years during which his face had grown so
round, and every day fresh pleasures and spectacles, such as the world
would never again witness, had satiated eye and ear, palate and
nostril,--nay, even curiosity. If they could be repeated, even in a
simpler form, so much the better. His main--nay, almost his sole--desire
was to release his lord from this wretched solitude, this horrible
misanthropy, so ill suited to his nature.
Cleopatra had kept him waiting two hours, but he would willingly have
loitered in the anteroom thrice as long if she only determined to follow
his counsel. It was worth considering, and Eros did not hesitate to give
it. No one could foresee how Antony would greet Cleopatra herself, so he
proposed that she should send Charmian--not alone, but with her clever
hunch-backed maid, to whom the Imperator himself had given the name
"Aisopion." He liked Charmian, and could never see the dusky maid
without jesting with her. If his master could once be induced to show a
cheerful face to others besides himself, Eros, and perceived how much
better it was to laugh than to lapse into sullen reverie and anger, much
would be gained, and Charmian would do the rest, if she brought a loving
message from her royal mistress.
Hitherto Cleopatra had not interrupted him; but when she expressed the
opinion that a slave's nimble tongue would have little power to change
the deep despondency of a man overwhelmed by the most terrible disaster,
Eros waved his short, broad hand, saying:
"I trust your Majesty will pardon the frankness of a man so humble in
degree, but those in high station often permit us to see what they hide
from one another. Only the loftiest and the lowliest, the gods and the
slaves, behold the great without disguise. May my ears be cropped if the
Imperator's melancholy and misanthropy are so intense! All this is a
disguise which pleases him. You know how, in better days, he enjoyed
appearing as Dionysus, and with what wanton gaiety he played the part of
the god. Now he is hiding his real, cheerful face behind the mask of
unsocial melancholy, because he thinks the former does not suit this
time of misfortune. True, he often says things which make your skin
creep, and frequently broods mournfully over his own thoughts. But this
never lasts long when we are alone. If I come in with a very funny
story, and he doesn't silence me at once, you can rely on his surpassing
it with a still more comical one. A short time ago I reminded him of the
fishing party when your Majesty had a diver fasten a salted herring on
his hook. You ought to have heard him laugh, and exclaim what happy days
those were. The lady Charmian need only remind him of them, and Aisopion
spice the allusion with a jest. I'll give my nose--true, it's only a
small one, but everybody values that feature most--if they don't
persuade him to leave that horrible crow's nest in the middle of the
sea. They must remind him of the twins and little Alexander; for when he
permits me to talk about them his brow smooths most speedily. He still
speaks very often to Lucilius and his other friends of his great plans
of forming a powerful empire in the East, with Alexandria as its
principal city. His warrior blood is not yet calm. A short time ago I
was even ordered to sharpen the curved Persian scimitar he likes to
wield. One could not know what service it might be, he said. Then he
swung his mighty arm. By the dog! The grey-haired giant still has the
strength of three youths. When he is once more with you, among warriors
and battle chargers, all will be well."
"Let us hope so." replied Cleopatra kindly, and promised to follow his
advice.
When Iras, who had taken Charmian's place, accompanied the Queen to her
chamber after several hours of toil, she found her silent and sad. Lost
in thought, she accepted her attendant's aid, breaking her silence only
after she had gone to her couch. "This has been a hard day, Iras," she
said; "it brought nothing save the confirmation of an old saying,
perhaps the most ancient in the world: 'Every one wilt reap only what he
sows. The plant which grows from the seed you place in the earth may be
crushed, but no power in the world will compel the seed to develop
differently or produce fruit unlike what Nature has assigned to it.' My
seed was evil. This now appears in the time of harvest. But we will yet
bring a handful of good wheat to the storehouses. We will provide for
that while there is time. I will talk with Gorgias early to-morrow
morning. While we were building, you showed good taste and often
suggested new ideas. When Gorgias brings the plans for the mausoleum you
shall examine them with me. You have a right to do so, for, if I am not
mistaken, few will visit the finished structure more frequently than my
Iras."
The girl started up and, raising her hand as if taking a vow, exclaimed:
"Your tomb will vainly wait my visit; your end will be mine also."
"May the gods preserve your youth from it!" replied the Queen in a tone
of grave remonstrance. "We still live and will do battle."