This time the architect could spend only a few hours on the Serpent
Island, for affairs in the city were beginning to wear a very serious
aspect, and the building of the monument was pushed forward even during
the night. The interior of the first story was nearly completed and the
rough portion of the second was progressing. The mosaic workers, who
were making the floor of the great hall, had surpassed themselves. It
was impossible to wait longer for the sculptures which were to adorn the
walls. At present slabs of polished black marble were to occupy the
places intended for bronze reliefs; the utmost haste was necessary.
Octavianus had already reached Pelusium; even if Seleukus, the commander
of the garrison, held the strong fortress a long time, a part of the
hostile army might appear before Alexandria the following week.
A considerable force, however, was ready to meet him. The fleet seemed
equal to that of the enemy; the horsemen whom Antony had led before the
Queen would delight the eye of any one versed in military affairs; and
the Imperator hoped much from the veterans who had served under him in
former times, learned to know his generosity and open hand in the hour
of prosperity, and probably had scarcely forgotten the eventful days
when he had cheerfully and gaily shared their perils and privations.
Helena remained on the cliff, and her longing for the old couple had
materially diminished. Her hands moved nimbly, and her cheerful glance
showed that the lonely life on the island was beginning to unfold its
charms to her.
The young husband, however, had grown very uneasy. He concealed it
before the women, but old Pyrrhus often had much difficulty in
preventing his making a trip to the city which might imperil, on the eve
of the final decision, the result of their long endurance and privation.
Dion had often wished to set sail with his wife for a great city in
Syria or Greece, but fresh and mighty obstacles had deterred him. A
special danger lay in the fact that every large vessel was thoroughly
searched before it left the harbour, and it was impossible to escape
from it without passing through the narrow straits east of the Pharos or
the opening in the Heptastadium, both of which were easily guarded. The
calm moderation that usually distinguished the young counsellor had been
transformed into feverish restlessness, and the heart of his faithful
old monitor had also lost its poise; for an encounter between the fleet
in which his sons served and that of Octavianus was speedily expected.
One day he returned from the city greatly excited. Pelusium was said to
have fallen.
When he ascended the cliff he found everything quiet. No one, not even
Dione, came to meet him.
What had happened here?
Had the fugitives been discovered and dragged with his family to the
city to be thrown into prison, perhaps sent to the stone quarries?
Deadly pale, but erect and composed, he walked towards the house. He
owed to Dion and his father the greatest blessing in life, liberty, and
the foundation of everything else he possessed. But if his fears were
verified, if he was bereft of friends and property, even as a lonely
beggar he might continue to enjoy his freedom. If, for the sake of those
to whom he owed his best possession, he must surrender the rest, it was
his duty to bear fate patiently.
It was still light.
Even when he had approached very near the house he heard no sound save
the joyous barking of his wolf-hound, Argus, which leaped upon him.
He now laid his hand upon the lock of the door--but it was flung open
from the inside.
Dion had seen him coming and, enraptured by the new happiness with which
this day had blessed him, he flung himself impetuously on the breast of
his faithful friend, exclaiming: "A boy, a splendid boy! We will call
him Pyrrhus."
Bright tears of joy streamed down the freedman's face and fell on his
grey beard; and when his wife came towards him with her finger on her
lips, he whispered in a tremulous voice: "When I brought them here you
were afraid that the city people would drag us into ruin, but
nevertheless you received them as they deserved to be, and--he's going
to name him Pyrrhus--and now!--What has a poor fellow like me done to
have such great and beautiful blessings fall to my lot?"
"And I--I?" sobbed his wife. "And the child, the darling little
creature!"
This day of sunny happiness was followed by others of quiet joy, of the
purest pleasure, yet mingled with the deepest anxiety. They also brought
many an hour in which Helena found an opportunity to show her prudence,
while old Chloris and the fisherman's wife aided her by their
experience.
Every one, down to the greybeard whose name the little one bore,
declared that there had never been a lovelier young mother than Barine
or a handsomer child than the infant Pyrrhus; but Dion could no longer
endure to remain on the cliff.
A thousand things which he had hitherto deemed insignificant and allowed
to pass unheeded now seemed important and imperatively in need of his
personal attention. He was a father, and any negligence might be harmful
to his son.
With his bronzed complexion and long hair and beard he required little
aid to disguise him from his friends. In the garments shabby by long
use, and with his delicate hands calloused by work in the dock-yard, any
one would have taken him for a real fisherman.
Perhaps it was foolish, but the desire to show himself in the character
of a father to Barine's mother and grandparents and to Gorgias seemed
worth risking a slight danger; so, without informing Barine, who was now
able to walk about her room, he set out for the city after sunset on the
last day of July.
He knew that Octavianus was encamped in the Hippodrome east of
Alexandria. The white mounds which had risen there had been recognized
as tents, even from the Serpent Island. Pyrrhus had returned in the
afternoon with tidings that Antony's mounted troops had defeated those
of Octavianus. This time the news of victory could be trusted, for the
palace at Lochias was illuminated for a festival and when Dion landed
there was a great bustle on the quay. One shouted to another that all
would be well. Mark Antony was his old self again. He had fought like a
hero.
Many who yesterday had cursed him, to-day mingled their voices in the
shouts of "Evoë!" which rang out for the new Dionysus, who had again
proved his claim to godship.
The late visitor found the grandparents alone in the house of Gorgias.
They had been informed of Barine's new happiness long before. Now they
rejoiced with Dion, and wanted to send at once for their host and future
son-in-law, who was in the city attending a meeting of the Ephebi,
although he had ceased some time ago to be a member of their company.
But Dion wished to greet him among the youths who had invited the
architect to give them his aid in deciding the question of the course
they were to pursue in the impending battle.
Yet he did not leave the old couple immediately; he was expecting two
visitors--Barine's mother and Charmian's Nubian maid who, since the
birth of little Pyrrhus, had come to the philosopher's every evening.
The former's errand was to ask whether any news of the mother and child
had been received during the day; the latter, to get the letters which
she delivered the next morning at the fish-market to her friend Pyrrhus
or his sons.
Anukis was the first to appear. She relieved her sympathizing heart by a
brief expression of congratulations; but, gladly as she would have
listened to the most minute details concerning the beloved young mother
from the lips of Dion himself, she repressed her own wishes for her
mistress's sake, and returned to Charmian as quickly as possible to
inform her of the arrival of the unexpected guest.
Berenike bore her new dignity of grandmother with grateful joy, yet
to-night she came oppressed by a grave anxiety, which was not solely due
to her power of imagining gloomy events. Her brother Arius and his sons
were concealed in the house of a friend, for they seemed threatened by a
serious peril. Hitherto Antony had generously borne the philosopher no
ill-will on the score of his intimate relations with Octavianus; but now
that Octavianus was encamped outside the city, the house of the man who,
during the latter's years of education, had been his mentor and
counsellor, and later a greatly valued friend, was watched, by Mardion's
orders, by the Scythian guard. He and his family were forbidden to enter
the city, and his escape to his friend had been effected under cover of
the darkness and with great danger.
The anxious woman feared the worst for her brother if Mark Antony should
conquer, and yet, with her whole heart, she wished the Queen to gain the
victory. She, who always feared the worst, saw in imagination the
fortunes of war change--and there was reason for the belief. The bold
general who had gained so many victories, and whom the defeat of Actium
had only humbled, was said to have regained his former elasticity. He
had dashed forward at the head of his men with the heroic courage of
former days--nay, with reckless impetuosity. Rumour reported that, with
the huge sword he wielded, he had dealt from his powerful charger blows
as terrible as those inflicted five-and-twenty years before when, not
far from the same spot, he struck Archelaus on the head. The statement
that, in his golden armour, with the gold helmet framing his bearded
face, he resembled his ancestor Herakles, was confirmed by Charmian, who
had been borne quickly hither by a pair of the Queen's swift horses.
Cleopatra might need her soon, yet she had left the Lochias to question
the father about many things concerning the young mother and her boy,
who was already dear to her as the first grandson of the man whose suit,
it is true, she had rejected, but to whom she owed the delicious
consciousness of having loved and been loved in the springtime of life.
Dion found her changed. The trying months which she had described in her
letters to Barine had completely blanched her grey hair, her cheeks were
sunken, and a deep line between her mouth and nose gave her pleasant
face a sorrowful expression. Besides, she seemed to have been weeping
and, in fact, heart-rending events had just occurred.
She had stolen away from Lochias in the midst of a revel.
Antony's victory was being celebrated. He himself presided at the
banquet. Again his head and breast were wreathed with a wealth of fresh
leaves and superb flowers. At his side reclined Cleopatra, robed in
light-blue garments adorned with lotus-flowers which, like the little
coronet on her head, glittered with sapphires and pearls. Charmian said
she had rarely looked more beautiful. But she did not add that the Queen
had been obliged to have rouge applied to her pale, bloodless cheeks.
It was touching to see Antony after his return from the battle, still in
his suit of mail, clasp her in his arms as joyously as if he had won her
back, a prize of victory, and with his vanished heroic power regained
her and their mutual love. Her eyes, too, had been radiant with joy and,
in the elation of her heart, she had given the horseman who, for a deed
of special daring, was presented to her, a helmet and coat of mail of
solid gold.
Yet, even before the revel began, she had been forced to acknowledge to
herself that the commencement of the end was approaching; for, a few
hours after she had so generously rewarded the man, he had deserted to
the foe. Then Antony had challenged Octavianus to a duel, and received
the unfeeling reply that he would find many roads to death open.
This was the language of the cold-hearted foe, secure of superior power.
How sadly, too, she had been disappointed in the hope--that the veterans
who had served under Antony would desert their new commander at the
first summons and flock to his standard!--for all her husband's efforts
in this direction, spite of the bewitching power of his eloquence,
failed, while every hour brought tidings of the treacherous desertion
from his army of individual warriors and whole maniples. His foe deemed
his cause so weak that he did not even resist Mark Antony's attempts to
win the soldiers by promises.
From all these signs Cleopatra now saw plainly, in her lover's victory,
only the last flicker of a dying fire; but so long as it burned he
should see her follow its light.
Therefore she had entered the festal hall with the victor of the day.
She had witnessed a strange festival. It began with tears and reminded
Cleopatra of the saying that she herself resembled a banquet served to
celebrate a victory before the battle was won. The cup-bearers had
scarcely advanced to the guests with their golden vessels when Antony
turned to them, exclaiming: "Pour generously, men; perhaps to-morrow you
will serve another master!"
Then, unlike his usual self, he grew thoughtful and murmured under his
breath, "And I shall probably be lying outside a corpse, a miserable
nothing."
Loud sobs from the cup-bearers and servants followed these words; but he
addressed them calmly, assuring them that he would not take them into a
battle from which he expected an honourable death rather than rescue and
victory.
At this Cleopatra's tears flowed also. If this reckless man of pleasure,
this notorious spendthrift and disturber of the public peace, with his
insatiate desires, had inspired bitter hostility, few had gained the
warm love of so many hearts. One glance at his heroic figure; one memory
of the days when even his foes conceded that he was never greater than
in the presence of the most imminent peril, never more capable of
awakening in others the hope of brighter times than amid the sorest
privations; one tone of the orator's deep, resonant voice, which so
often came from the heart and therefore gained hearts with such
resistless power; the recollection of numberless instances of the bright
cheerfulness of his nature and his boundless generosity sufficiently
explained the lamentations which burst forth at that banquet, the tears
which flowed--tears of genuine feeling. They were also shed for the
beautiful Queen who, unmindful of the spectators, rested her noble brow,
with its coronal of pearls, upon his mighty shoulder.
But the grief did not last long, for Mark Antony, shouted: "Hence with
melancholy! We do not need the larva!* We know, without its aid, that
pleasure will soon be over!--Xuthus, a joyous festal song!--And you,
Metrodor, lead the dancers! The first beaker to the fairest, the best,
the wisest, the most cherished, the most fervently beloved of women!" As
he spoke he waved his goblet aloft, the flute-player, Xuthus, beckoned
to the chorus, and the dancer Metrodor, in the guise of a butterfly, led
forth a bevy of beautiful girls, who, in the cloud of ample robes of
transparent coloured bombyx which floated around them, executed the most
graceful figures and now hovered like mists, now flitted to and fro as
if borne on wings, affording the most charming variety to the delighted
spectators.
[* At the banquets of the Egyptians a small figure in the shape of a
mummy was passed around to remind the guests that they, too, would soon
be in the same condition, and have no more time to enjoy life and its
pleasures. The Romans imitated this custom by sending the larva, a
statuette in the form of a skeleton, to make the round of the revellers.
The Greek love of beauty converted this ugly scarecrow into a winged
genius.]
The "Comrades of Death" had again become companions in pleasure; and
when Charmian, who did not lose sight of her mistress, noticed the
sorrowful quiver of her lips and glided out of the circle of guests, the
faithful Nubian had approached to inform her of Dion's arrival.
Then--but this she concealed from her friends--she hastened to her own
apartments to prepare to go out, and when Iras opened the door to enter
her rooms she went to speak to her about the night attendance upon the
Queen. But her niece had not perceived her; shaken by convulsive sobs,
she had pressed her face among the cushions of a couch, and there
suffered the fierce anguish which had stirred the inmost depths of her
being to rave itself out with the full vehemence of her passionate
nature. Charmian called her name and, weeping herself, ripened her arms
to her, and for the first time since her return from Actium her sister's
daughter again sank upon her breast, and they held each other in a close
embrace until Charmian's exclamation, "With her, for her unto death!"
was answered by Iras's "To the tomb!"
This was a word which, in many an hour of the silent night, had stirred
the soul of the woman who had been the youthful playmate of the Queen
who, with bleeding heart, sat below among the revellers at the noisy
banquet and forced her to ask the question: "Is not your fate bound to
hers? What can life offer you without her?"
Now, this word was spoken by other lips, and, like an echo of Iras's
exclamation, came the answer: "Unto death, like you, if she precedes us
to the other world. Whatever may follow dying, nowhere shall she lack
Charmian's hand and heart."
"Nor the love and service of Iras," was the answering assurance.
So they had parted, and the agitation of this fateful moment was still
visible in the features of the woman who had formerly sacrificed to her
royal playfellow her love, and now offered her life.
When, ere leaving Gorgias's house, she bade her friend farewell, she
pressed Dion's hand with affectionate warmth and, as he accompanied her
to the carriage, she informed him that, before the first encounter of
the troops, Archibius had taken the royal children to his estate of
Irenia, where they were at present.
"Rarely has it been my fate to experience a more sorrowful hour than
when I beheld the Queen, her heart torn with anguish, bid them farewell.
What fate is impending over the dear ones, who are so worthy of the
greatest happiness? To see the twins and little Alexander recognized and
saved from death and insult, and your boy in Barine's arms, is the last
wish which I still cherish."
On returning to Lochias, Charmian had a long time to wait ere the Queen
retired. She dreaded the mood in which she would leave the banquet. For
months past Cleopatra had returned from the revels of the "Comrades of
Death" saddened to tears, or in a blaze of indignation. How must this
last banquet, which began so mournfully and continued with such reckless
mirth, affect her?
At last, the second hour after midnight, Cleopatra appeared.
Charmian believed that she must be the sport of some delusion, for the
Queen's eyes which, when she had left her, were full of tears, now
sparkled with the radiant light of joy and, as her friend took the crown
from her head, she exclaimed:
"Why did you depart from the banquet so early? Perhaps it was the last,
but I remember no festival more brilliant. It was like the springtime of
my love. Mark Antony would have touched the heart of a stone statue by
that blending of manly daring and humble devotion which no woman can
resist. As in former days, hours shrivelled into moments. We were again
young, once more united. We were together here at Lochias to-night, and
yet in distant years and other places. The notes of the singers, the
melodies of the musicians, the figures executed by the dancers, were
lost upon us. We soared back, hand in hand, to a magic world, and the
fairy drama in the realms of the blessed, which passed before us in
dazzling splendour and blissful joy, was the dream which I loved best
when a child, and at the same time the happiest portion of the life of
the Queen of Egypt.
"It began before the gate of the garden of Epicurus, and continued on
the river Cydnus. I again beheld myself on the golden barge, garlanded
with wreaths of flowers, reclining on the purple couch with roses strewn
around me and beneath my jewelled sandals. A gentle breeze swelled the
silken sails; my female companions raised their clear voices in song to
the accompaniment of lutes; the perfumes floating around us were borne
by the wind to the shore, conveying the tidings that the bliss believed
by mortals to be reserved for the gods alone was drawing near. And even
as his heart and his enraptured senses yielded to my sway, his mind, as
he himself confessed, was under the thrall of mine. We both felt happy,
united by ties which nothing, not even misfortune, could sever. He, the
ruler of the world, was conquered, and delighted to obey the behests of
the victor, because he felt that she before whom he bowed was his own
obedient slave. And no magic goblet effected all this. I breathed more
freely, as if relieved from the oppressive delusion--the fire had
consumed it also--which had burdened my soul until a few hours ago. No
magic spell, only the gifts of mind and soul which the vanquished
victor, the woman Cleopatra, owed to the favour of the immortals, had
compelled his lofty manhood to yield.
"From the Cydnus he brought me hither to the blissful days which we were
permitted to pass in my city of Alexandria. A thousand sunny hours,
musical, echoing surges which long since dashed down the stream of Time,
he recalled to life, and I--I did the same, and our memories blended
into one. What never-to-be-forgotten moments we experienced when, with
reckless mirth, we mingled unrecognized among the joyous throng! What
Olympic delight elated our hearts when the plaudits of thousands greeted
us! What joys satiated our minds and senses in our own apartments! What
pure, unalloyed nectar of the soul was bestowed upon us by our
children--bliss which we shared with and imparted to each other until
neither knew which was the giver and which the receiver! Everything sad
and painful seemed to be effaced from the book of memory; and the
child's dream, the fairy-tale woven by the power of imagination, stood
before my soul as a reality--the same reality, I repeat, which I call my
past life.
"And, Charmian, if death comes to-morrow, should I say that he appeared
too early--summoned me ere he permitted life to bestow all its best
gifts upon me? No, no, and again no! Whoever, in the last hour of
existence, can say that the fairest dreams of childhood were surpassed
by a long portion of actual life, may consider himself happy, even in
the deepest need and on the verge of the grave.
"The aspiration to be first and highest among the women of her own time,
which had already thrilled the young girl's heart, was fulfilled. The
ardent longing for love which, even at that period, pervaded my whole
being, was satisfied when I became a loving wife, mother, and Queen, and
friendship, through the favour of Destiny, also bestowed upon me its
greatest blessings by the hands of Archibius, Charmian, and Iras.
"Now I care not what may happen. This evening taught me that life had
fulfilled its pledges. But others, too, must be enabled to remember the
most brilliant of queens, who was also the most fervently beloved of
women. For this I will provide: the mausoleum which Gorgias is erecting
for me will stand like an indestructible wall between the Cleopatra who
to-day still proudly wears the crown and her approaching humiliation and
disgrace.
"Now I will go to sleep. If my awakening brings defeat, sorrow, and
death, I have no reason to accuse my fate. It denied me one thing only:
the painless peace which the child and the young girl recognized as the
chief good; yet Cleopatra will possess that also. The domain of death,
which, as the Egyptians say, loves silence, is opening its doors to me.
The most absolute peace begins upon its threshold--who knows where it
ends? The vision of the intellect does not extend far enough to discover
the boundary where, at the end of eternity--which in truth is
endless--it is replaced by something else."
While speaking, the Queen had motioned to her friend to accompany her
into her chamber, from which a door led into the children's room. An
irresistible impulse constrained her to open it and gaze into the dark,
empty apartment.
She felt an icy chill run through her veins. Taking a light from the
hand of one of the maids who attended her, she went to little
Alexander's couch. Like the others, it was empty, deserted. Her head
sank on her breast, the courageous calmness with which she had surveyed
her whole past life failed and, like the luxuriant riot in the sky of
the most brilliant hues, ere the glow of sunset suddenly yields to
darkness, Cleopatra's soul, after the lofty elation of the last few
hours, underwent a sudden transition and, overwhelmed by deep, sorrowful
depression, she threw herself down before the twins' bed, where she lay
weeping softly until Charmian, as day began to dawn, urged her to retire
to rest. Cleopatra slowly rose, dried her eyes, and said: "My past life
seemed to me just now like a magnificent garden, but how many serpents
suddenly stretched out their flat heads with glittering eyes and forked
tongues! Who tore away the flowers beneath which they lay concealed? I
think, Charmian, it was a mysterious power which here, in the children's
apartment, rules so strongly the most trivial as well as the strongest
emotions, it was--when did I last hear that ominous word?--it was
conscience. Here, in this abode of innocence and purity, whatever
resembles a spot stands forth distinctly before the eyes. Here, O
Charmian!--if the children were but here! If I could only--yet, no, no!
It is fortunate, very fortunate that they have gone. I must be strong;
and their sweet grace would rob me of my energy. But the light grows
brighter and brighter. Dress me for the day. It would be easier for me
to sleep in a falling house than with such a tumult in my heart."
While she was being attired in the dark robes she had ordered, loud
shouts arose from the royal harbour below, blended with the blasts of
the tuba and other signals directing the movements of the fleet and the
army, a large body of troops having been marched during the night to the
neighbouring hills overlooking the sea.
The notes sounded bold and warlike. The well-armed galleys presented a
stately appearance. How often Cleopatra had seen unexpected events
occur, apparent impossibilities become possible! Had not the victory of
Octavianus at Actium been a miracle? What if Fate, like a capricious
ruler, now changed from frowns to smiles? What if Antony proved himself
the hero of yesterday, the general he had been in days of yore?
She had refused to see him again before the battle, that she might not
divert his thoughts from the great task approaching. But now, as she
beheld him, clad in glittering armour like the god of war himself, ride
before the troops on his fiery Barbary charger, greeting them with the
gay salutation whose warmth sprung from the heart and which had so often
kindled the warriors to glowing enthusiasm, she was forced to do
violence to her own feelings to avoid calling him and saying that her
thoughts would follow his course. But she refrained, and when his purple
cloak vanished from her sight her head drooped again. How different in
former days were the cheers of the troops when he showed himself to
them! This lukewarm response to his gay, glad greeting was no omen of
victory.