Front matter (continued 3)

The supper was over. Leaning back on her cushions she seemed the very image of sensual delight. She regarded Antony.

"I love you," he whispered.

"Hush," she said in the gentlest way, as though correcting a cherished child; "you must not say such things."

With a sudden frenzy and before she had time to draw back Antony pressed his passionate lips to hers. He would not be silent. He had already waited too long, had suffered too much from her delay. All hope of happiness seemed to have slipped away and he had been on the verge of despair. And now that she was really with him, she the adored idol of his heart, she told him not to speak, not to tell her of this love which meant life itself to him!

The young Queen stood up. The dying light of the candles and torches transformed her into a statuette of gold, one of those deities who are worshipped surrounded by a flashing circle of fire. She looked at Antony. A little dismayed by his ardour she asked herself whether, in spite of her ambition, she really could endure such a passionate lover.

"Wait," she said, "it grows late. I am very tired. Let me have this evening to rest."

But Antony did not stir. Leaning on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, he stared distractedly at this exquisite creature. He could have remained there for ever, under those shining stars which, hour by hour increasing in brilliancy as the light of the torches faded, seemed to draw nearer, as though to share his happiness.

"Let us go," she murmured, "it is time to say good-night."

His longing eyes implored her: "Do not send me from you without a promise."

With her maddening smile, she replied, "To-morrow I will come to have supper with you."

"Until to-morrow, then," signed Antony. Then, disappointed and baffled, his whole being tortured by visions of a joy which had seemed within his grasp and which for the moment had escaped him, he left the barge and went back to the shore.

For the next few days Cleopatra and Antony were inseparable. It was the beginning of that passion which was gradually to absorb their whole being and consume them like a fire.

If Antony had from that first evening completely lost his reason, Cleopatra had kept hers. Her mind was stronger than her emotions. Shrewd and clear-sighted, she looked into the future. With her mind's eye she saw the old dreams come back, her cherished plans of long ago. If Antony, as ruler of Rome, lacked the strength of Cæsar, his power was as far-reaching; and, if his character lacked the force, his mind the breadth of the other, she would have all the more chance of supremacy, all the greater opportunity of controlling the government.

She was seized with the desire to try the experiment without delay. A great bitterness, an ever-growing rancour was in her heart against her sister who had disputed her right to the throne and who had failed in the contest. Fleeing from her vengeance, this sister, Arsinoë, had taken refuge in the temple of Diana, at Ephesus, and, under the protection of the high priest, Megabyzus, had assumed the role of a sovereign. This insult to Cleopatra fell directly within the jurisdiction of the Triumvir. He alone could put a stop to it. She asked that the Princess be put to death, and also the minister, Serapion, who had upheld her in the rebellion and flight to Ephesus.

Such severities were not at all to Antony's taste. The happy hours spent at Ephesus were still fresh in his memory. Should he forfeit those for a woman's caprice? Should he thus discredit his reputation as a genial Proconsul? Besides, in violating the religious privileges he would incur the risk of making many enemies. He tried to argue, not in favour of the guilty ones, but to save his own standing. How would it look if, having shown mercy to the vanquished of his own country, he should prove pitiless to people who were subjects of Rome, and against whom he had no just complaint?

The plea had no effect. There was something in Cleopatra's character, not so much of cruelty as of a desire for domination, which would not endure resistance. Arsinoe had attacked her authority; consequently, as long as Arsinoe lived Cleopatra would not be happy. Was not she constantly in danger of some new attempt against her crown on the part of this rebel?

Antony suggested imprisonment. But no, it was Arsinoe's head that she demanded from him. He finally succeeded in rescuing the priest Megabyzus, thanks to the intervention of the Ephesians, who threatened to put the town in a state of siege rather than allow any indignity to their revered High Priest.

This was the beginning of a succession of trivial discussions. Cleopatra always succeeded in having her own way, gradually substituting her own wishes for the authority of Antony. His will was completely dominated by her, for she held him by the magic force of love. What did she give him in exchange for her first victory? Her method of evasion had succeeded too well for her to renounce it readily. Before giving herself to Antony, her instinct, a curious compound of ambition and coquetry, told her to lead him by slow degrees to the point where a whole lifetime of delight would be needed to quench his burning thirst to possess her. Prudence whispered also that, while granting him certain privileges, it would be wise to reserve the fulfilment of his happiness until they had arrived in Alexandria. Would not this be the surest means of attracting him to that city where she needed him to stabilize her power? And as to keeping him there, was not the enchanted court of the Bruchium, the prestige of her palace, its festivals, the bed of roses where Cæsar had lingered, the place where she would have the greatest chance of playing the part of the bewitching sorceress, from whose spell he would never escape?

V THE INIMITABLES

When Antony and Cleopatra separated they planned to be together again for the winter. Antony applied himself to his affairs in Asia Minor with an unexpected industry. From early morning until late in the evening he was busy, often receiving delegates and signing papers after his supper had been served. At this rate he quickly settled the disputes between Herod and the adjoining rulers concerning frontiers, assigned to each legion the territory belonging to it, chose the governors, and, in a word, put everything in such order that he could absent himself with safety. He decided to set sail the latter part of November. The heavens were ominously dark, the sea was gray and rough, but what matter? The wind blew from the north and would drive him straight to Alexandria.

In Alexandria the presence of the Triumvir was expected with varied feelings. Those who had faith in Egypt's power and her ability for self-government deplored the arrival of the Roman ruler. To them he meant merely a new lover for the Queen, a master less gracious and perhaps more covetous than Cæsar. Others, recalling the promise of the god, regarded the hero of Philippi as a possible ally, who would restore the ancient grandeur of the kingdom. When it was announced that Antony would disembark unpretentiously, unescorted by either troops or squadron, simply as a nobleman returning the visit of a great lady, these dissensions ceased. All agreed that, as this was merely a visit of courtesy, it was necessary to welcome him warmly. Besides, the Queen's orders were explicit. She had not forgotten the lessons that Dellius had taught her. The insignificant specimen of splendour that she had displayed at Tarsus had been so much appreciated that she wanted now to show the whole wealth of her resources. She had made up her mind that Antony's reception here should entirely efface the memory of those accorded him at Ephesus and at Tarsus. She spent gold lavishly and offered prizes to those who should invent some new decoration, some spectacle which would be sure to win universal admiration.

However brilliantly decked with flags the fort, with its banners blazing from one end to the other like bonfires, however magnificent the pageants, and numerous the gateways, carpets, triumphal arches, which lined the streets where the procession passed, they made little impression on Antony; or rather, these external trappings seemed but the natural setting for his own happiness. Even the shouts of welcome were but echoes of his own exaltation. One thought alone absorbed his mind. In a moment now he would see hen, would hold her in his arms. Her image obliterated everything else. His desire to possess her was the rhythm to which the whole world moved.

Four galloping horses were speeding him along the Royal Way. The pink façade of the Bruchium rose above its terraces. He was getting nearer, nearer; in another instant he would be face to face with Cleopatra.

"Will she be mine at last?" he asked himself, breathlessly. She had sworn it and it was on this understanding that they had parted. But with women, with this woman especially, with her subtle, sinuous ways, one could never tell. The uncertainty made his heart beat fast. The horses galloped steadily on, made the last slope, and Antony was at the door of the palace.

Above, on the first step, surrounded by white-mitred priests swinging censers, and by officers in rich array, Cleopatra was awaiting him. She evidently wished to remind him of the days at Tarsus, for she was draped in a sea-green robe which made her look like a nereid. Necklaces of pale green chalcedony fell over her bosom like ocean spray, and on the turquoise clasp of her belt mysterious symbols were engraved.

As Antony approached she cast a laurel branch toward him and came down to greet him. On bended knees, with outstretched arms, he saluted her with a gesture of adoration. They grasped each other's hands and spoke for a moment in low tones. Then they went up the steps of the grand stairway together in silence. They were smiling, and their expression was that of perfect, exquisite understanding.

From that day serene happiness encompassed them. The calculations, the coquetry, vanished. There was no further anxiety save that which comes to those accustomed to a life of pleasure, when they ask themselves: "Will it last, shall I still be happy to-morrow?" This was real, absolute, supreme love. Many people, resenting the glamour of romance, have not seen, have not wished to see in this famous adventure anything but a selfish scheme, and in Cleopatra an ambitious courtesan. It is true that the persecutions of her youth had caused her to look on love as a means, had made her regard Cæsar as a protector from whom she could expect, primarily, the restoration of her kingdom, and later, if death had not come so suddenly, the crown of an empress. But with Antony it was different. At the outset, perhaps, in her dreary solitude she had certain plans in mind by which she could use him to carry out her ambitious schemes. Bereft of the great ruler by whose power she had built up her fortune, she probably dreamed of replacing him with Antony and continuing with him those bonds that the fatal poignard of Brutus had severed. But she had not reckoned on the hot blood of youth. If that voyage to Tarsus had been a snare Cleopatra was caught in her own trap. She had set out as a conqueror, sure of enforcing her will, and she had found love awaiting her to lead her captive. However attractive Antony's possessions might be, his personal charm outweighed them all. He had in a rare degree those gifts which win affection, and, in spite of all her premeditated schemes and plots, in spite of the endless intrigues which may have been combined with her feeling for him, Cleopatra undoubtedly gave him her whole heart. What is more convincing than the final tragedy? When a love affair ends with the voluntary death of the lovers, when they both kill themselves rather than live on alone, any preceding faults or failings are of small account. That last hour is the only one to be marked on the dial of history.

But at this time there was no thought of death. Day followed day, wholly given over to the joy of living. Every moment spent together created new dreams to be carried out; each desire gratified gave birth to a new desire. They seemed to have within them an inexhaustible spring from which they drank without ever quenching their thirst. The only perfect love is that where flesh and spirit are satisfied in turn, where heart and soul share in the ecstasy. To Cleopatra, who had never loved before, this feeling was a new experience. To Antony it was a surprise which plunged him in unspeakable delight. After his life of excess it would have seemed impossible for him to be thrilled by this new joy. But all other experiences were wiped out, and in this love he was born again. Like to the fire which rises, impervious to corruption, his passion for Cleopatra had burned away all stains of the past.

Their mutual happiness seemed to affect all their environment. The Queen took an exquisite pleasure in pointing out the charms of the Bruchium, that incomparable museum of art and nature. She wanted to share all its wonders with her lover. Even if she picked a rose she wanted him to inhale its fragrance as though it were an ethereal fragment of herself, and its perfume were her own breath. In showing him a marble statue from the chisel of Praxiteles, the bronze Hercules that Ptolemy VII had brought from Corinth, a bas-relief covered with figures from the Iliad; in music, or some page from a Greek drama, she sought that close contact of mind and spirit which should make them one being.

But if Antony yielded at times to the refining influence of the daughter of the Lagidæ, at other moments his own virile nature had the mastery and controlled them both.

The orgies of the Bruchium are matters of history. The moderation of modern life, with its democratic views, its lesser fortunes, its law-restricted vices, gives no hint of the extravagant living of the ancients. The scale is entirely different. There is no comparison between the provincial fêtes of to-day and the saturnalian revelries of the Romans. Our hygienic repasts offer no idea of the gluttonous feasts of Balthazar. Modern monuments, modern buildings, how pitifully poor they are compared with those colossal structures that Rameses or Darius employed thirty years of their reign in completing, and which have survived them for as many centuries! What a contrast between our richest palaces and those massive retreats of ancient kings, with their stupendous ramparts, their avenues of obelisks, the forest of columns which surrounded them! The most magnificent court of Europe would seem paltry set by the side of one of any satrap or Roman proconsul.

The world in those days belonged to the privileged few who had the entire control. The lower classes were content to look on at their revels. There were giants in those days compared with the less virile physique of modern men. The suns which shone on their joys have set. A certain sadness depresses the modern mind, inoculated with the virus of the ideal.

Antony and Cleopatra lived at a time when they could watch life roll by like a mighty torrent. The vigour of the young world boiled in their veins with no thought of sin. To be happy was the only wisdom. They were like the followers of Epicurus, whose sole aim was to enjoy to the full the passing hour. In that wonderful city, where everything seemed planned for their delight, they spent indescribable days, days in which nothing seemed too high or too low to add to their enjoyment. As fearless in planning pleasures as in carrying them out, they were truly inimitable.

Cleopatra wished to shower every possible luxury on her guest, and she commanded that the habitual magnificence of the court life be increased in every way. A story is told by Philotas, who had come from Amphissus to finish his studies at the Serapium, of having made the acquaintance of a steward of the royal kitchens. There he saw eight wild boars waiting to be roasted before a huge brazier. "Is the Queen having a banquet this evening?" he asked. He was much astonished to learn that only the usual court was to be present, not more than a dozen guests at the outside.

"What," he cried, "eight wild boars for twelve stomachs?"

"Don't you know," answered the steward, "that only at a certain stage is a roast fit to eat? Now it is not possible to know at what moment the food must be served here, for the Triumvir may dally over a game of chess, or take a sudden fancy for a gallop to Canopus. Then there is nothing to do but to put out the fires and wait. At other times he says he is famished and must be served before the regular time. So one boar, one quarter of beef, a few geese or guinea fowls are not enough; there must be an unlimited supply!"

This is one anecdote among many which shows not only the wastefulness but the happy carelessness which surrounded this great spoiled child, Antony. Everything gave way to his capricious fancy. Cleopatra lived but to please him. Leaning on the breast of her hero, she saw life only through his eyes. At times their caresses made a paradise for both; at others she was occupied in inventing some new form of amusement to divert her lover and herself.

This constant effort was a drain on her physically and mentally and led to all kinds of follies. One of these, which happened at a banquet, is famous.

The vast hall where the guests were assembled was proportioned to conceal its height. It was encircled by arcades. In each of these a great-pawed sphinx of porphyry bore the image of a woman in Egyptian head-dress. Light poured out from torches supported by brass arms, from high candelabra spread out like sheaves, from silver tripods, these latter spouting great flames.

A hundred guests stood expectantly around the table looking at the marvellous display of golden platters, cups, and bowls. They were awaiting the arrival of Antony and Cleopatra. Presently, to the sound of music, the royal couple appeared, he, superb, god-like, in his star-covered tunic, she, adjusting her floating scarf and playing with the bracelets on her arms.

At the head of the table stood a couch supported by four crouching griffins. The royal hosts reclined there, side by side, and motioned to the guests to take their places around the table. This evening the special feature was a dance, or rather, a series of emblematic figures invented by Clitias, the celebrated Sicilian comedian. A group of twenty-four dancing girls appeared, each representing an hour; some black as night, some rosy as the dawn, others, again, the colour of broad daylight, and the different shades of dusk. These, slowly or quickly, called up in turn the image of earthly joys which come with the passing day. As each Hour gave place to the succeeding one she came to kiss the feet of the Queen.

Although this charming spectacle roused great enthusiasm and so delighted Antony that it was repeated several times, Cleopatra seemed absent-minded. She was wondering what novelty she could provide for the next evening. It was essential to set before her beloved guest something which he had never before seen. A sudden light came into her eyes; again she had found it.

"I invite you to come to-morrow to a feast which will surpass all that your eyes have ever beheld!"

And as Antony, with his generous smile, said that such a thing could not be possible, she replied, briefly:

"The supper alone will cost ten million sesterces."

Antony continued incredulous. This was not the first time that his beloved one had made extravagant statements.

"Let us lay a wager," she cried.

He agreed. "If I lose what shall I give you?"

She needed no time to consider. The word came to her lips as though she had often used it:

"A kingdom."

Had the wine gone to his head? Did he regard the Roman provinces merely as stakes to gamble with? He suggested Phoenicia.

Phoenicia, on whose coast lay Tyre, Gebel, Sidon, Berytus, all manufacturing towns, with their dyes, their carpets, their valuable carved furniture made from the cedars of Lebanon; and all sorts of other rich possessions! For the moment Cleopatra did not believe her ears. She thought he was jesting. But Antony's expression was serious. She saw that the offer was made in good faith. They touched their fingertips in token of agreement.

The report of the wager soon spread. Nothing was talked of in the city but the mysterious plan for the coming night when the Bruchium would see all its former splendours surpassed. Reasonable men shrugged their shoulders. Ten million sesterces for a single repast! It was not possible! Others crowded together to discuss among themselves what new extravagance the Queen was concocting to shake the finances of the kingdom.

The next evening the same guests assembled in the vast hall of the arcades. They were alive with curiosity. What were they gathered together to witness? What spectacle could justify the enormous expense that had been announced? But on entering the hall they saw nothing out of the ordinary. There were the same brilliant illuminations, the same gorgeous display of flowers and gold plate; all the exquisite details were just the same.

With their customary ceremony the sovereigns entered. The Queen was so simply dressed that only her jewels attracted attention. Her passion for them was well known and she had continually added to the countless treasures of the Lagidæ. Wherever she went she had acquired the rarest stones. While at Rome the Etruscan workers had given their entire time to making jewellery of her own designing. Her preference had always been for pearls. She had collected them from the Persian gulf, from Ceylon, from Malaysia, and whenever a ship-owner went to India he had orders to bring back any exceptional pearls that he found there, regardless of their cost. She wore them everywhere, around her neck, about her arms, fastened in her belt, of every shape and tint.

This evening, however, she wore only two. But such pearls! Their size, their beauty of outline, were beyond all estimate. Suspended by an invisible thread of gold, they gleamed in her ears like drops of dew on the petals of a rose. The marvel was that nature had twice produced such perfect pearls, identical in form and sheen, and that twice they had been found by man, although centuries apart. The first had been sent to Olympias from Ophir, by her son Alexander, and the second had only recently been discovered near the coast of Malay after exhaustive searching. Did they reflect her shining eyes, were they tinted with the roses on her young cheeks; or were they, as legend says, living creatures who are affected when their fate is in the balance?

The banquet went on, lavish, but a little dull, as when an expected diversion fails. Dessert was served, and still nothing had happened. There was a general air of disappointment. Antony alone was in high spirits. He looked on himself as the winner of the wager and was amusing himself by imagining the prize he could demand. His joking became flippant:

"By Bacchus, your supper is not worth the ten million sesterces that you promised," he cried, impatiently, as he leaned toward Cleopatra.

"Don't be so certain," she replied: "you have not won yet."

She called the cup-bearer, who stood always near, and signalled to him to re-fill her cup. This golden cup, a marvel of workmanship, was supposed to have belonged to Pericles. In any case it had been carved by one of the best artists of his epoch. A troop of archers adorned it, and the handle was in the form of a beautiful woman.

All eyes were fixed on Cleopatra. What was she about to do? What miracle was to happen? For astonishing things were always expected of her.

Turning toward Antony she raised the cup to her lips, and with an expression half humorous, half solemn, said:

"Look carefully. When I have drunk this, my wager will be won." At the same time she fastened one of the pearls and let it fall to the bottom of the foaming cup, where it was quickly dissolved.

Cries of horror went up, as in the face of an irreparable disaster.

Having emptied the cup, Cleopatra made ready, for a second sacrifice.

Antony seized her wrist.

"Spare your jewels," he cried; "I acknowledge my defeat."

The Queen hesitated; and he added, "Phoenicia is yours!"

What was the use of doubling the sacrifice? It was said that in memory of that evening Cleopatra always wore the odd pearl in her bosom. Octavius found it there after her death. It was in the shape of a tear, an enormous tear, as though all the tears that those beautiful, closed eyes had shed were gathered together in it. Thinking that no woman, not even Livia, was worthy of such a jewel, or fearing that it would bring him misfortune, the conqueror of Actium carried it off as an offering to Venus. "Thus," says Pliny, in melancholy vein, as he was dreaming one day in the temple, "the half of one of those suppers at Alexandria is to-day the ornament of a goddess."

Had Antony forgotten that he was Triumvir? Did he not remember that the life of all men, especially that of a ruler, is a hard and continuous struggle? Not altogether; but, without questioning whether the moment was propitious, unmindful of the disturbing news of troubles in Italy, and of the incursions of the Parthians into Asia Minor, led by the traitor Labismus, he still dallied. He knew that some day he would be forced to take command of his troops, but the life of a conqueror slips by very quickly when he is in the arms of a beautiful woman. While waiting, enmeshed, entangled, like a prey, he was verily a captive; but the bands that held him were too delightful for him to make the slightest effort to break them. When stung by conscience he comforted himself with the reflection that he would know how to get away when it was actually necessary.

In order to have a pretext that would justify his prolonged stay in Alexandria he took up some governmental work, chiefly the revision of the treaty of alliance between the Roman Republic and Cleopatra. All its clauses were arranged in accordance with her wishes and, at her instigation, he sealed it by recognizing Cæsarion as the legitimate son of Cæsar, the heir-presumptive to the throne of Egypt.

The understanding between the two countries being arranged, he summoned the best equipped divisions of his army and had them placed along the borders of the Nile. This military display restored order generally. It was universally recognized that the Queen had a powerful support, and that obedience to her was necessary. Finally, to confirm her authority over these troops, and to show that they were hers to command, the hawk-crest of the Lagidæ was engraved on their shields by the side of the Roman eagle. Armed with helmet and cuirass Cleopatra, riding at Antony's side, reviewed them on the parade ground.

As she was now convinced of the solidity of her throne, and had no longer any uneasiness save the dread of seeing her lover take leave, Cleopatra put her wits to work to keep all disquieting outside cares away from him. Constantly with him, seeing everyone who came near him, she arranged their daily programmes in such fashion that there was no chance for idleness. Their life was a veritable whirlwind. They went for long rides along the sandy roads, taking such unreasonable routes that they returned with their horses foundered. They sought recreation in hunting deer and gazelles, and risked life and limb in pursuit of the wild faun. Danger exhilarated them, and it, in turn, gave them keener appreciation of the hours spent in the privacy of their apartment.

Gradually, however, their sense of enjoyment lost its flavour. The need for perpetual novelty, the desire for sharper sensations, made them seek experiences which were inevitably degrading. In their quest of these new adventures they went, at first secretly, then without disguise, to mix with the disorderly pleasure seekers who nightly frequented the gardens of the Ceramicus.

Many goddesses had temples at Alexandria but none was worshipped more persistently and fervently than Venus. Under the different names of Urania, Astarte, Acidalia, Callypige, and Cypris, each inhabitant, each young girl, recognized her power, and brought her offerings.

In a sycamore grove, opposite the celebrated wall, more than fifteen hundred courtesans trafficked openly in their wares, unhampered by the hypocrisy which restrains modern civilization. Here, also, was the school where expert matrons instructed a hundred young girls in the intricate art of pleasing the goddess of Love. Taken from their parents, either with their consent, or for money, these girls came sometimes from the most remote countries, for the variety of types found at the Ceramicus formed one of its chief attractions. Some were fair, with light eyes and hair like silk; others were of olive complexion, and others again had dark skins. They were not all equally beautiful, that is, according to the Greek ideal, but they all had plump arms and firm breasts, all understood the art of smiling, and of perfuming their bodies.

What did these royal lovers, who had all possible means of gratifying every kind of caprice without leaving their palace walls, what did these misguided beings seek in the dim shade of those trees, among a crowd of loose women?

Unluckily, these expeditions could not be concealed indefinitely. Although Antony wore a mask, and Cleopatra was draped from head to foot in a sombre veil, more than one passer-by, because of the presence of Eros, a devoted satellite of Antony who went everywhere with them, suspected the presence of these sovereigns in places where they had no right to be. The final dénouement came as the result of a brawl in which they were hopelessly entangled.

It happened in the Rhakotis quarter, one of the most disreputable parts of the town, where debauchery ran riot. It was filled with houses of ill-repute; the alleys rang with barbarous music accompanying revolting scenes in the fetid taverns. And here the ruler of Rome and the descendant of Egyptian kings loved to spend their nights. Antony was becoming brutalized, and Cleopatra, also, was affected by this life. They quarrelled, passed cynical jests, and, taking colour from their surroundings, nothing pleased Antony so much as to watch the Queen of Egypt seated till morning before these dirty booths, and to hear her ravishing voice, meant to make music for the gods, singing vulgar songs, reciting obscene verses, or using the phrases that he had formerly heard only between low soldiers and women of the town.

One night there was a squabble between one of these women and some sailors. Instantly a tumult of cries and blows began. Violent fighting followed and knives glittered. Cleopatra was about to faint. Her throat was parched, a cold sweat broke out on her forehead. She had hardly strength enough to reach the exit. Eros seized her just in time and carried her into the open air. She revived, but unfortunately her veil had been pushed aside, and pale and frightened appeared the young face that at other times was seen crowned by the head-dress of the Egyptian kings.

What is more significant than the degradation of these lovers, overtaken by Fate? From the crest of Fortune's hill they could have looked down on the ugliness of the world at their feet and have said: "We are safe!" But they were insatiable. Possessing all the best, they coveted the worst as well. They wanted their wheel of sensations to go on turning, turning. At the least sign of its stopping they set it going again, and it dragged them into the depths from which they came up irremediably stained.

This scandal of the street brawl had no immediate consequence, however. The hour of Nemesis had not yet come. The people of Alexandria were content with their reëstablished government, their increased revenue, and attached but little importance to what they called these frivolous pranks. Their own standards were low and there was no actual laws that condemned Cleopatra's conduct. On the contrary, it established a certain sympathy between the Queen and her subjects. Since she, who had seemed so far above them, had descended to the ranks of the street women, what concession might not be expected from her, or what good fortune? Men who had long worshipped her at a distance drew near to regard her with longing eyes. One of these admirers wrote: "Any other woman would grow stale, but not Cleopatra. The more you see her the greater her fascination. She can transform even vice, cruelty, debauchery by her unspeakable charm. In the midst of her excesses the very priests themselves can only bless her!"

Antony also had been adopted by the Alexandrians. Cæsar's aristocratic bearing, his stern expression, his austere habit of mind, had overawed them; while their naturally frivolous temperament was thoroughly at ease in the presence of the jovial Triumvir. Whereas the one always kept them at a distance, whether on horseback or in his litter, never mixing with the populace, the other enjoyed the street shows, went about everywhere, stopped before the stalls, sometimes buying a trifle for which he paid double price, and taking it to Cleopatra. He talked with the men in the street, was not afraid of passing jokes with them, or even of emptying an amphora of wine in their company. He had discarded his military dress when appearing in public, as it recalled the hated Roman rule. He replaced the Roman officers by Egyptian guards, and the coats of mail and helmets, surmounted by silver crests, were exchanged for silk robes with oriental head-dresses.

This delicate flattery of the populace provoked much jesting criticism. "He reserves his tragic role for the Romans; for us he has always a smile," many said, recalling the part he had played at the time of the proscriptions.

His intimate associates, who shared this lawless life, had even less cause than the Alexandrians to find fault with him. Like Antony, they were under the bewitching charm of Cleopatra. They loved her, admired her, and to win her favour bore with good humour the sarcastic thrusts of her jesting moods. To please and amuse her some of them sacrificed all sense of dignity. Paterculus has left the story of Munatius Plancus, former consul, and several members of Antony's staff who, one evening during a fête, crowned themselves with reeds, tied fish tails to their naked backs, and mimicked the dance of Glaucus. It seemed as though the masters of the world, those proud Romans who had formerly scorned the Queen of Egypt, had now become her slaves.

VI ANTONY'S WIVES

It was no time for play, for masquerading, or for parades. Threats were in the air. The Parthian invasions were daily becoming bolder and there were many uprisings in Italy. It was one of those feverish crises of that malady which had stricken Italy for more than a century and whose periodic return endangered her foundations. On one hand the landowners were trying to regain their confiscated property; on the other, the war veterans, to whom these estates had been promised, were exacting the fulfilment of the promise. These latter, reinforced by the standing army, which no longer received its pay regularly, were the larger and stronger party. In fact, they were the only remaining organized force of the Republic.

The man who could meet their just demands and enforce his own will would have been master of the situation. With his countless legions and his control over them Antony seemed to be the man. In his absence, Octavius was next in line. But his puny personality and his reputed cowardice and cruelty were grave handicaps. He made sundry efforts to reconcile the opposing parties. On one occasion, at Gabies, he had a meeting of the landowners and representatives of the soldiers to discuss before a jury the relative interests of the opponents. Some decision might have been reached, as both sides desired it, had a hearing been possible; but two people purposely absented themselves; two who were determined on war and had effective means of bringing it about. These two were Fulvia, Antony's wife, and his brother, Lucius.

For Antony was married, very much married. The day after the battle of Pharsalus he had wedded Fulvia, who had already been twice married; the first time to the demagogue Clodius, and, after his tragic death, to Curion, Tribune of the people. In her association with these violent men she had acquired the habit of meddling in politics. Under their influence her mind had become emancipated and masculine; she had lost the sweetness of her own sex without gaining any qualities to make up for it. In spite of this, and although she had no beauty, Fulvia had succeeded in laying hold of the Imperator, perhaps even in making him love her. She had doubtless succeeded, because it was the destiny of this great agitator to upset the hearts of women and yet be subject to their will. Far-seeing and masterful, she had discerned what could be drawn from the powerful instrument that Antony was, provided a firm hand controlled him. The power Fulvia had over him was such that at times he seemed to be nothing more than a sword hung at her girdle.

Her detestable influence was responsible for most of the bloody deeds which have sullied the name of Antony. The three hundred deserters from Brindisi were executed at the instigation of this termagant; their punishment afforded her such keen joy that she desired to be present at the death, that her robe might be spattered with their blood. It was she also who stirred up in her husband's heart his hatred of Cicero.

It is well known with what vehemence Cicero, in his Philippics, denounced the man who, though a Republican, stood for despotism. He designated Antony as "a soldier lacking political genius, without loftiness of soul, destitute of real distinction, lost by debauchery." Divining whose influence impelled Antony to act, he fearlessly accused her: "Is this man free," he demanded of the citizens whom he was urging to quit the demagogic party, "is he free, when controlled by a woman who imposes her laws upon him, prescribes, commands, forbids, as she sees fit?"

Fulvia could never forgive. At the hour of reckoning she found in her venomous heart the arrow that Cicero had planted there, and sent it back with fatal effect. To have her assailant assassinated was not sufficient, she desired to dishonour his remains. When the head of the great orator was brought to Antony, she drew a long gold pin from her hair and pierced the tongue which had defended justice from one end of the world to the other.

Naturally such a woman would not let herself be robbed without protest. When she heard what skilful hands were detaining her husband, rage gnawed at her heart. How should she get him back? Supplications and threats were sent in turn to the Bruchium. But Antony was dwelling in paradise, oblivious to all that did not concern his beautiful mistress. He was determined to remain ignorant of any reason for leaving her and often did not even unroll the scripts which the courier had brought him from his wife.

Fulvia, however, was capable of dire vengeance. To stir up civil war appealed to her as an expedient worthy of consideration. In consultation with her brother-in-law, Lucius, an intriguer who had the dream of crushing Octavius and putting his own family in power, she said: "When thousands of men are dying for his cause Antony will be compelled to leave Cleopatra's arms."

At the instigation of the two conspirators several landowners roused the rural population. There were skirmishes and combats. A large number of towns declared themselves as opposed to Octavius. The cries of death resounded as far as Rome. The statues of the Triumvirs were broken. Lucius took advantage of these uprisings to declare himself, in his brother's name, the defender of Republican ideals. Antony himself, he affirmed, thought that the Triumvirate had lasted long enough. He was ready to cancel his power and content himself with being Consul.

These assertions gained many partisans for him among the men who wished law and order restored. With things at such a pass it was incredible that Antony would not come to assume the leadership. Delegates sent to Alexandria to induce him to return were refused admission to his presence. Cleopatra bade them depart without delay on pain of imprisonment.

Hearing of this outrage, Fulvia, whom no crime appalled, conceived the idea of combining with Antony's enemies. She made a proposal to Octavius, and, as a proof of sincerity, suggested his marrying Clodia, her daughter by Clodius. She was a charming young girl, not yet seventeen years of age, and had already attracted Octavius's fancy. But he was not to be ensnared; at no price would this practical man have encumbered his career by having Fulvia for a mother-in-law!

So the war went on.

Despite Antony's contempt for his adversary—"that beardless blackguard," as he scornfully called him—he knew very well what the ultimate issue would be, although Cleopatra took all possible means to conceal the actual danger; but he persisted in his indifference. His exasperated wife was in despair and, seeing the peril increase from day to day, began to re-open negotiations. However difficult these might be with such an elusive husband, still they offered the only possible chance of rousing Antony to action. The chief thing was to find an ambassador who could gain an audience.

She and Lucius finally selected Ahenobarbus, the Triumvir's old comrade-in-arms, one of his bravest generals, who during all their campaigns together had rendered most valuable aid, yet at the hour of victory had always effaced himself before his chief. He, at least, would be given a hearing.

When this Roman of the old school, fresh from the battlefield, whose cuirass seemed to stick to his body as his flesh to his bones, entered the luxurious perfumed quarters of the Bruchium, and saw Antony in a flowing, embroidered robe, a scimitar in his girdle, his head wrapped in a turban adorned with a shining carbuncle, he was overcome. Was this the conqueror of Philippi, his comrade that he had not seen since, clad in wild beasts' skins, he had endured without complaint the bitter hardships of a Macedonian winter?

"Mark Antony!" he exclaimed, and that name alone expressed all the astonishment and dismay that filled his soul.

Antony was far from callous to this appeal. When he understood what his wife and brother had undertaken, his face reddened. He knew well that personal interest and profit formed part of their zeal in serving him; but the fact remained that Fulvia furnished a rare example of wifely devotion, and Lucius was an intelligent man. For the moment he had a sincere desire to join them.

"If you feel that way," said Ahenobarbus with the simplicity of a heart accustomed to match deeds with words, "why hesitate? The men who are fighting for your cause are imprisoned in the fort at Perugia; they are in danger of starving to death. Take command of your legions and go to their aid."

But things were not so simple as this brave soldier imagined. Cleopatra undertook to enlighten him. Little versed as he was in the ways of sentiment, he comprehended at the first sight of her, at the sound of her charming voice, that Antony was no longer his own master, that he belonged body and soul to this siren. And then he tried to make her see reason.

He explained the situation without reserve. If Lucius and Fulvia were dependent on their own resources, Octavius would probably have the advantage, and Antony would lose the chance of overcoming an enemy who, though cowardly now, might one day be formidable.

Cleopatra was too wise not to realize the justice of these arguments. No one was more anxious than she for Antony's advancement, no one had greater reason to dread the triumph of that legitimate nephew, who disputed with Cæsarion the heritage of Cæsar. Undoubtedly if Lucius had been alone in his struggle, she would have said: "For our mutual glory, for the extension of our power, go to the front." But giving Antony his liberty, permitting her cherished lover to set foot on Italian soil, meant giving him up to Fulvia. Ugly, coarse, and antipathetic though she was, better fitted to harangue troops than to inspire passion, nevertheless this Bellona caused her a certain uneasiness. She knew her ambitions and was perfectly conscious of her despotic control of Antony. Under these conditions was it prudent, even for a few days, to deliver this precious hostage into her hands? Weighing all considerations, Love, that tyrant who knows no will save his own, gained his end. Perugia, Rome, the whole of Italy might be burning, Cleopatra would not give up her lover.

The day before Ahenobarbus, disappointed and disgusted, was to return to Italy, a trifling incident changed the course of things. Antony was depressed. His conscience troubled him; that conscience which he had ignored so long, but which, at certain memories, disturbed his peace. His old war comrade said nothing more, but his looks were full of reproach.

"How shall I divert him?" thought Cleopatra. "What amusement can I devise to protect him during this last day from the appeals of Ahenobarbus?"

She proposed a fishing party.

Both men accepted and the boats across the canal which led to the harbour of Eunostus, carried them to Lake Mareotis. The reeds were rustling in the breeze, above the quiet water stretched a heaven of radiant blue. The buildings along the shore made red reflections in the lake as though they were on fire. The vessels anchored at the further end of the lake where, remote from noise and excitement, the carp had taken refuge in the quiet lapping of the waves.

Antony threw his line half a dozen times and caught nothing. This bad luck, especially before Ahenobarbus, who was watching him with folded arms, increased his ill-humour. Irritated and determined to catch the fish, or at least to seem to catch them, he whispered a word to Eros. What he told him was to fasten to his own hook one of the largest fish that had been caught and to slip it skilfully under the water so that no one would suspect the trick.

The Queen, however, was not long fooled. She, too, knew how to play that game. She quickly concocted a plan that, unknown to Eros, another attendant carried out.

Antony was again in high spirits. Every time he drew in his line a large carp hung from his hook. He was overwhelmed with compliments on his astounding skill. All at once, just as he drew out a huge prize, there was a burst of laughter. The fish, this time, proved to be one that had been kept in brine to serve as bait. Ordinarily Antony would have been the first to join in the ridicule against himself, but in the presence of the dignified Roman general he was annoyed and mortified. The party went home in silence.

Thinking this a good chance for a final effort, Ahenobarbus waited until everyone had gone to his own apartment and then sought Antony.

"Do you not realize that this is no place for you?" he demanded. "This child's play is fit only for women and eunuchs; but you, warrior, chief of the State, one of the three heads of the Republic, when there are towns and continents waiting for your taking...."

With the gesture habitual to him in moments of perplexity, Antony put his elbow on his knee, his chin resting in his right hand, and stared at his friend. What was there to say? That fire that still burned in his veins flamed up, showing him the glorious goal toward which they had marched together.

"I wish I might follow you!" he cried.

"What is there to hinder you?"

"How can you ask!"

"Is love so mighty then," gasped the old soldier, "that once in its thrall a man has no more power over himself?"

They continued to talk. Antony was ready to be persuaded. The light wound to his vanity made him sensitive to appeals to his honour. The future spread out before him. Where would the life of a love-sick satrap lead him?

Suddenly he cried, grasping his friend's hand: "You are right; to-morrow I will go with you." And with a firm step he turned toward Cleopatra's bedchamber.

She was lying on a low couch, awaiting her lover, but she was more than usually eager for his coming this evening. He had been morose at supper. What had been the trouble? Was he annoyed at the joke she had played on him?

Charmian was beside her, trying to comfort her. Surely Antony understood a joke!

The soothing sound of the sea came in through the windows. Just outside the curtain of her room Antony heard the question: "Do you believe he will always love me?"

His heart was softened and he thought: "How can I hurt the most tender of women?" Going in, he looked at her without speaking, and she asked:

"What is it? Of what are you thinking?"

He hesitated. Then, suddenly, like one who takes his courage in both hands, he cried:

"Beyond all question I must go away."

She looked at him, incredulous. This was worse than all her fears.

"Go away! You are saying it to frighten me, because I teased you."

"Child," he ejaculated, "as though such a thing counted! I owe it to those who are fighting for me."

Cleopatra's heart sank.

"You wish to be with your wife!"

In spite of the gravity of the occasion Antony could not help laughing.

"You! Jealous of Fulvia!"

After all, why should she not be jealous? The cause which this deserted wife was heading was not led by an ordinary woman. Beautiful or hideous, with their storms, their upheavals, their tears, these passionate souls are the most dangerous rivals. Cleopatra understood; she knew, better than any other woman, of what the heart is capable to protect or regain its loved one. And Antony's temperament did not reassure her. At a distance from her, he would surely find in that other woman, that Amazon, the very support that his wavering will unconsciously sought in all his relations with women.

All these soul-torturing thoughts she put in her next demand:

"You want me to die, then?" And, as though she were already nearing death, she fell back on her pillows, pale and sobbing.

That was enough to shake his new-born resolution. Antony was already wavering. Bending over that dear face, which he had so often seen flushed with happiness, his only thought was to repair the damage his words had wrought. He would not leave her at once. He would get Ahenobarbus to take his place and later, should it be necessary...

Cleopatra recovered immediately!

"If it were necessary," she whispered, still trembling, and pressing his head against her bosom, "I should be the first to urge you to go. I desire your well-being, your glory far more than you do. But, believe me, your wife and your brother are fools. They are working only for their own interest. Let them get out of this embarrassment, which they have brought about themselves, without any aid from you."

Antony was more than content to believe her. And that night there was no further question of their parting.

Other happy nights followed. The lovers were reunited, and behind those protecting ramparts that love builds they were oblivious of war, threats, everything. What matter if the world fell, so long as they were together?

The gods, however, who favoured Antony, combined this time to save him. At the moment when Perugia, exhausted, was on the point of surrendering; when the army, headed by his brother and his wife, seeing no chance of the Triumvir's coming, began to lose courage, Fulvia suddenly fell ill and died. She had been the soul of the resisting army. With this support gone Lucius was not strong enough to continue the fight against such heavy odds, and he sheathed his sword. Thus, by unforeseen events, Antony's absence, which had seemed so fatal, brought most excellent results. He had taken no part in the war and so could not be held responsible for it. Consequently there would be no difficulty in making peace with Octavius. He had only to disavow any political designs of his own. But he must at least go to negotiate this affair in person.

With Fulvia dead there was no further reason for Cleopatra to oppose Antony's temporary absence, or to feel any alarm in regard to it. She had borne him one child and another was coming. They had decided to celebrate their wedding in the spring and to legitimatize the children, as Cæsar had done in the case of Cæsarion. As though, however, the growlings of the crafty beast that lurks near perfect happiness were heard from afar, Cleopatra still had certain apprehensions. What did she dread? She could not have defined it. The idea of consulting the oracles came to her. Perhaps they would explain that mysterious danger against which her whole being rebelled.

Here, as at Rome, the long-bearded augurs sought to unravel the secrets of the future by studying the sacred books, observing the flight of birds and examining the entrails of the victims. As Claros, Curnes, and Tibur had their sybils, Delphi her Pythian priestess, so Alexandria had a college of celebrated astrologers. These famous men not only gave their nights to the study of the heavens (they knew the laws that governed the stars and they gave the constellations the names that they bear to-day) but their science pretended to be able to question these stars and to obtain information from them. Each celestial body represented a divinity who influenced the birth and life of mortals, and its vivid brilliancy in the height of happiness was dimmed by the approach of disaster.

After nightfall, when it was entirely dark, Cleopatra, accompanied by a slave, climbed the one hundred and twenty steps which led to the highest terrace.

Sisogenus, the great compiler of horoscopes, who had been advised of her visit, was awaiting her. With outstretched arms and his forehead in the dust he saluted her three times.

"What does the daughter of Amoun-Ra seek of an insignificant being?"

She explained her wish to know the destiny of Mark Antony. In a few days the Triumvir would be in Latin territory once more. What fate awaited him there? Was there anything to fear in regard to him?

Before replying, the sage, draped in yellow, his sleeves and high cap adorned with a row of bells which rang as he moved, traced some signs on the sand of the terrace; then, in an attitude of ecstasy, his body bent back, his palms outspread, he searched the starry vault. Myriads of golden points pricked the sombre blue, and their reflections in the sea were like a shower of diamonds.

Sisogenus suddenly seized his wand and pointed to a star. He had recognized the planet under which Antony was born.

"There!" he cried, "clear and brilliant it is approaching its zenith."

But presently the star grew dim. It drew near another star. A moment later the latter seemed to fade away and the first shone again in its original, magnificent splendour.

Cleopatra was much impressed by this phenomenon, the more so on hearing that it was Octavius's star which had made Antony's pale. This experience was conclusive. It was undeniably true that by their natures these two men were opposed to each other, and that Antony should, in all matters, distrust his colleague and avoid him.

When she brought him the horoscope Antony was the more impressed by it because of a vision which had disturbed his slumber. In his dream he had been walking in a field of flowers. All at once he had a sensation of resistance, as though a barrier had been placed in his path. After a hard struggle he waked suddenly, covered with sweat, as though he had just escaped some grave peril.

Antony would not have been of his age and country if he had ignored such a warning. No Latin was indifferent to these things. A sneeze, a burning of the ears, had their meaning. A fall, the swelling of the little finger, were regarded as evil omens. If he saw a flight of crows on leaving the house, the prudent man returned home and carried out no business that day. If, on the contrary, a swarm of bees welcomed him as he stepped out into the golden sunshine, he was safe in any undertaking, for they brought good luck!

Naturally, when such importance was attached to insignificant things, the signs of the heavens were pregnant with meaning. If Antony had deferred his going it would have brought only unhappiness to Cleopatra and himself, for stronger than all dreams was a voice which warned them that the better part of their romance was over. Would they ever again find time to give themselves up entirely to the joys of love? That careless rapture which passionate youth brings was ended. Different obligations would separate them, perhaps indefinitely. Antony's position called him back to his duty. That peace with Octavius, if it were accomplished, would solve only one of the new difficulties which had arisen. The Parthians had to be subdued, order must be established in Asia Minor; many things demanded his attention. Already, with the putting on of his armour, the Imperator felt like his old self; he heard the clarion call with pleasure and his gay, child-like smile had vanished. He left his cup half filled with wine.

Cleopatra was unhappy; she had more to dread from the coming separation. A sorrowful expression came into her eyes when she looked at her lover, and, in spite of herself, in spite of his repeated promises that he would return before the end of the year, bitter grief wrung her heart.

When the day came, although she was faint from weeping, she insisted on going down to the ship with him. A fresh wind was coming up from the east. The ruffled sea was covered with long white wings, wings which would carry off her happiness. If she could only keep him with her! But poor human desires have never for a single moment deferred the coming disaster. The ship's sails were set; the three ranks of rowers had taken their places, and fifty ebony arms were about to strike the water. Leaning over the edge of the rampart, which ran along the side of the Heptastadium, Cleopatra was repeating softly the tender farewells which her hand waved to Antony. Just as the ship left the quay she cried:

"Remember the stars!"

If Antony had been torn at this time by the revengeful passion which inflamed him the day after the Ides of March, or by the hate which possessed him later—too late—and which was to set him, weakened, against an enemy who had grown powerful, he would undoubtedly have gained the mastery of Octavius, and the fate of the world would have been changed. But the time that he had spent at Alexandria had sapped his primitive instincts, and the fighting power that was one of the savage beauties of his nature had lost its freshness. Instead of returning to Italy with the fierce enthusiasm essential to victory, his mind was absorbed in Egyptian magic; his chief idea was to bring about peace as quickly as possible so that he might be free to go back.

Octavius, also, wanted an amicable adjustment of the disturbances which the family Antonius had brought about, but from totally different motives. He was occupied with more serious things. Pompey was in command of several legions who were bound to him through loyalty to the glorious memory of his father. He had taken these to Sardinia and was superintending the piracy of a fleet whose object was to starve out the Latin coasts. If Antony, with the sixteen legions which he had in Macedonia, and the fast fleet which the Rhodians had built for him, were to form an alliance with this new antagonist, Octavius would inevitably be defeated.

It is a truism that fear makes men both cruel and cowardly. In the present instance it caused Octavius to take outrageous reprisals from the vanquished Perugians and made him a lamb in the presence of Antony. He had never been really at ease with his herculean colleague. All that Antony stood for in beauty, pride, and happiness was secret gall and bitterness to him. Though quite as well versed in debauchery, his weakness made him despair of ever attaining the graceful, easy bearing which made Antony so attractive. He felt, too, the indifference of his soldiers toward him, compared with the feeling that his opponent inspired among his men; their devotion was such that they preferred serving under him without pay to being well paid for marching against him. Feeling the scantiness of his ammunition, compared with Antony's abundant resources, he had concluded at the outset that it would be wiser to have Antony for a friend than an enemy, and to-day again he said to himself: "Though it cost me the one hundred million sesterces that he has stolen from the heritage of Cæsar, yet I will make this man my ally."

Both sides then were ready to come to terms. Their followers were as eager for it as the chief combatants themselves, for after so much grief, agitation, and bloodshed, all the world thirsted for peace.

Antony's friends were awaiting him at Brindisi. They had no difficulty in persuading him to repulse the revolutionary proposals of Pompey and to come to an understanding with Octavius. This latter offered Cyrenaica, which had been included in Lepidus's share, in exchange for Gaul, which originally had been allotted to Antony in the division of territory.

Anxious to go to Asia, where his most important interests lay, Antony selected Asinius Pollion to look after his affairs in Italy. The latter's tact and knowledge qualified him to deal with Mæcenas, Octavius's delegate, and Antony gave him full power. It would be time to sign the papers when he returned from Asia.

Antony's haste to plant his eagles in the Orient was because Cleopatra had persuaded him to regard these provinces as their common property, the rich area that was destined to supplant ancient, impoverished Europe and to become that world-empire which they had planned to establish together. To drive out the Parthians and procure the gold necessary to content his soldiers, who were his chief support, was of infinitely greater importance than to dispute fragments of territory with Octavius and Lepidus. Antony, as always when impelled by his strong instinct as a leader, showed his usual masterful decision, quickness, and courage. He immediately took Palestine from Pacoros and reëstablished Herod there; punished the towns which had massacred their garrisons, put Labienus to flight, destroyed the gates of Lamanos, and took possession of Syria. These victories recalled the days of his untrammelled youth, and roused that enthusiastic energy which so often followed his periods of inertia.

His friends, knowing this complete metamorphosis, had reckoned accordingly. They persuaded him to put on his Imperator's cuirass while they were laying the cornerstone of a new Triumvirate, saying among themselves: "We shall gain time in this way"; for they had their own plans. They thought that a marriage would serve the double purpose of making the desired treaty binding and also would keep him from going back to his mistress; so they had arranged to bring about a union between him and the sister of Octavius. They knew that although death had fortunately taken away Fulvia, the main obstacle had not gone with her. They understood perfectly that "the courtesan of the Nile," as in their hate and scorn they designated Cleopatra, was still there, beguiling, regal, clothed with her indescribable charm. But absence, for the time being, lessened her power, and by this absence they were determined to profit.

Antony's return was the propitious moment to bring about the union of the two Triumvirs by means of the most pleasing of women. The important thing was to arrange this skilfully and without undue haste. The sun on that day shone over Rome not with the metallic brilliance which cut hard outlines in the Levantine landscape, but gently, delicately, with fleece-like clouds that softened the light. Among its flowery hills the ancient city lay in quiet dignity; its low houses clustered around its temples seemed like a family group.

From the first moment that Antony trod the streets, filled with sacred memories; when, on the border of the river, he looked again at the place where he had gathered the ashes of Cæsar from the funeral pyre; when he heard the great voices of the Forum welcoming him—his heart quivered with an emotion that he had not felt for a long time. Whatever joys might thrill him elsewhere, no other place in the world could give him the inexpressible happiness of feeling that he was at home. Rome, it was the birthplace of his fathers; the air that he breathed there stirred and exhilarated him like that on a mountain top. The blood ran through his veins richer, fuller, as though all that of his forebears had joined the flood.

In this frame of mind Octavia's attractions were naturally very powerful. Although not radiantly beautiful, her modest, winning carriage represented all that to the Latin mind signified the guardian of the home. Her face was oval, rather long, the type which the artists of the Renaissance chose in painting their Madonnas. Her dreamy eyes were shaded by long lashes, and her masses of hair, whose regular braids encircled her forehead, rested there like a crown.

No more striking contrast could have been found than that between this sweet, gracious woman and the implacable Fulvia; unless in comparing the warm seductions of Cleopatra with the diaphanous delicacy, the sensitive shadows, which enveloped the sister of Octavius.

The young woman had been married once. The short time that she had lived with Marcellus, for whom she still wore a widow's veil, had been filled with love, peace, and fruitfulness, and was indicative of what life would be at her side. It was on her discretion and deep-seated kindliness that the friends of Antony and Octavius alike had relied, hoping to make of her arms an arch of peace which would unite the two columns of the world. Her domestic virtues alone would have insured its solidity. At a time when baseness was rampant, when selfish fear engendered cowardice, when treason entered even into the heart of family life, she had many times shown her intrinsic qualities, her generous, human, kindly soul. Her gentle influence over her brother had frequently saved the victims of his wrath. Her friend, Tullia, owed the life of Thoranius, her idolized husband, to her intervention. He had been sentenced to death more than a month and was awaiting the hour of his execution. All Tullia's prayers had been in vain and the time was at hand. What could be done to save the unfortunate man? Public opinion was not in favour of his condemnation, but, debased as it was, what means could it take to express its disapproval? Octavia was fearless. One evening when the Imperator was expected at the theatre, she prepared a device. At the moment when he entered his box, dressed in purple and surrounded by lictors, a curtain rose and by the side of a young woman weeping there appeared a phantom loaded with chains. Cries of "Mercy, mercy," resounded on every side. What each individual would have feared to ask, the crowd demanded. The future Augustus was too weak to go counter to the voice of the people. He raised his right hand. The cause was won!

Octavia's presence had the effect on Antony of grateful shade. Never since childhood had he been associated with such a wholesome, comforting personality. The idea of making his home with her gave him a qualm of conscience. If only he had met her earlier he would undoubtedly have been a different man. His way of living would not have become so debased. But, as he was to-day, how could he change his habits? How reach her level? Deluded by an apparently newly gained liberty, he said to himself: "Who knows, it may not be too late!" The next moment the image of the Egyptian sorceress came to him, forbidding any happiness save with her in the alternate fever and ecstasy which her love created.

Octavia was thoroughly familiar with Mark Antony's past life. Desirous, as he was, of combining their political interests, her brother, who was devoted to her, had not concealed from her the risks involved in a marriage with Cleopatra's lover. He could not bring himself to praise a man so entirely opposite in character to himself. Fundamentally honest and careful of her future as Octavia was, she might, by these warnings, have been spared such a perilous adventure; but she had a brave heart under her outward shyness. Her youth longed to taste the sweets of passion as well as the quiet joys of life. From their very first interview she had been irresistibly drawn toward the tyrant that Antony was to be in her life. It would not be possible, she thought while admiring his splendid contour and his bright smile, for such a man to be false. If he had yielded to temptations it was because those near him had failed to bind him with that cord of tenderness which can restrain the lion. This was the pathetic mistake of virtue, confident of its own power; that fatal attraction which makes gentle hearts the prey of strong, full-blooded men, and impels them to yield to those who will become their masters and their ruin.

Octavia's illusion continued for some time. The marriage began auspiciously with that real happiness which was unknown to Antony and afforded him pleasure by its novelty. In his wife's eyes, he was a traveller who had seen many countries, destroyed many forests, and whose wounded feet were grateful for repose. He had exchanged his flaming paradise for this innocent love in which he was a novice, and for some time he was happy in the new experience. As to his young wife, she felt that the charm of completed cycles was hers, and that she had found the secret which makes the spring sweet and gives fragrance to the flowers. Her heart was full to overflowing and she had no other desire than to fulfil her husband's lightest wish. With instinctive knowledge, she divined his thought and carried out his fancy before he had time even to stretch out his hand. One day when they were walking together he admired the palace that Pompey had built on the Appian Way and expressed regret that so beautiful a place remained empty. She immediately obtained permission from her brother to have the ban lifted and offered the palace, filled with its wonderful treasures, to Antony. Although her own tastes up to the present moment had been simple, she thought no frame too spacious or too rich for her husband. How could this Omphale, consumed with faithful devotion, foresee that this palace would seem a prison to Antony before the first year of their marriage had gone by?

Her tenderness and devotion were so all-absorbing that the atmosphere soon became stifling to Antony, who felt that his arms were wide enough to embrace an infinity of delights. Full of strength and imagination, this grandson of Hercules felt cramped in the network of tradition, and Rome, which had looked so magnificent on the day of his triumphal return, had taken again its real proportions, which, in comparison with the magnificence of Alexandria's sumptuous buildings, obelisks, and columns, seemed like those of a market town. Its austere customs, narrow views, and prejudices irritated him. Antony was bored. What had become of those joyous songs whose golden-winged fancies had cradled his life in the past two years?

The association with Octavius was intolerable. Whereas the men who had brought about their reconciliation were delighted at seeing them apparently working together in harmony, issuing decrees, reviewing troops, or united at the family table, they themselves were conscious of a fermenting mutual hatred. It was inevitable between two men equal in rank, sharing an authority which caused perpetual friction. Whether acting for the State, or in the smallest detail of private life, everything was a subject of dispute. When the Roman people, emotional and easily excited, applauded one or the other of the Triumvirs, or showed the least sign of approval of his acts, the demon of jealousy arose. Even the games, in which they sometimes sought diversion, led to disagreements, for neither of the two could stand having the other one win. The dice on several occasions having been favourable to Antony, Octavius claimed that they were loaded. One evening they entertained their guests with a pair of fighting cocks, and the customary stakes were laid. Once, twice, three times Octavius's cock won. Antony was white with rage. He left the room abruptly and even Octavia's pleading was powerless to bring him back that evening.

Trifling as such wounds were, their daily occurrence was like mosquito bites which finally poison the entire system. Their relations, never cordial, grew definitely worse. Antony showed always the more decided enmity. Confident, as he was, that the first place should belong to him, he was irritated by any interference, especially when Octavius was given precedence over him. Upon the least pretext the words of the Egyptian oracle would come back to him: "Keep away from your rival. Whenever you come together your star will be eclipsed by his. In the Orient alone will your star have its full radiance."

Even had he tried to forget these ominous words, the diviners, astrologers, all the clique with which Cleopatra had secretly surrounded him, kept them constantly in his mind. The longing to get away from this annoying comparison haunted him. His one object was to leave Rome and return to the land where he could find that preëminence so indispensable to his masterful nature. To be the chief, the one whose commands all the world obeyed! To look out on unlimited space and to say to himself: "No one can contend with me for the tiniest morsel of it!" Those dreams which pride evolves to tempt the covetous mind!

Only a great victory could upset the equality of power and exalt one of the Triumvirs above the other two. This Antony determined to win. The colossal vision of making the Orient his military and political centre, and of founding an immense empire of which he would be the sole sovereign, appealed to him more than ever. It was reviving Cæsar's chimera, that chimera which, in an age where venality reigned, would supply him gold in abundance. But could he carry it out to a glorious victory? To begin with, he must expel the Parthian invaders who infested the frontiers, then establish himself beyond the Euphrates and gain the mastery of Persia.

The plans for this daring campaign were already drawn; they had been laid out in the minutest details by the conqueror of Gaul. Antony, who had been in Cæsar's confidence during his latter days, had only to take possession of them. The only change that he needed to make was in the choice of a city to supplant Rome. Alexandria apparently had been selected by Cæsar, who on the eve of this great enterprise had been wholly absorbed in Cleopatra. This same Alexandria had shone in Antony's eyes as his future capital while he was with Cleopatra and they were elaborating their plans. But to-day, in the house ruled by the virtuous Octavia, even the name of Egypt was abhorrent. He thought of Athens.

Like all women really in love, Octavia would rather have kept her husband at her side. To lean on his breast was happiness enough for her tender heart. When Antony unfolded his ambitious projects she felt as though joy were about to leave her fireside for ever, and that the future held for her only sorrow and disappointment. But she was too sensible not to realize that action is the law of great lives, and that to love a conqueror entails lonely melancholy.

Even her brother, enamoured as he was of his bride, Livia, pricked by this spur of supremacy, had just left to do battle with the pirates of Sextus Pompey. Octavia accepted Antony's departure like a submissive wife, but exacted a promise that after the birth of her child he would allow her to join him in Greece.

A sensation of escape, such as a ship feels when freed from her moorings, thrilled Antony's heart the moment he passed the mole and saw the port of Ostia growing fainter in the distance. He was free. In vain he tried to repress this feeling of exultation. It was useless. He remembered his wife's gracious goodness, the love she showered on him, the real affection that he had for her, and he was filled with self-reproach. But he could not control his delight; he was enchanted to have loosed his shackles. To be back again in the fight, to be working out his own destiny, was like waking up after a long spell of drowsiness.

Athens afforded him the exquisite pleasure of being the cynosure of all eyes; the delight of receiving, without having to share them, the keys of power; its submission, its homage. The Greeks had preserved an indelible memory of his personality. They admired his beauty, his military genius, his strength. A warrior primarily, they knew him also as a patron of art who respected their traditions. His pilgrimage to the summit of the Acropolis, made on foot and clothed in the national pallium, had endeared him to all hearts. Whatever reports had come to them since, their original conviction was unaltered: Mark Antony was a demigod. They lavished titles and honours upon him. A chorus of dancing girls offered him the thyrsus of Bacchus crowned with leaves, and fêtes were held everywhere, as at the celebration of the Nabathæans. This delirium of flattery passed all bounds and ended in absurdity. They offered this new Bacchus the hand of the virgin Athene who stood before the Parthenon, armed with the gold helmet and lance of the Olympian games.

Antony, secretly amused, pretended to take this seriously.

"I will accept this offer of marriage," he said, "provided my spouse brings me a million drachmas."

The sycophants were caught in the trap. They carried on the game. It was a severe lesson, however, and one of them, the High Priest charged with supplying this money from the treasury of the temple, could not restrain himself from saying: "Zeus himself did not demand so much to become the lover of your mother, Semele!"

In the whirl of these extravagant espousals Octavia was apparently forgotten; but she made no protest. There is distinction in sharing honours with a goddess. She only asked to be allowed to come and play her part in the comedy. The Athenians were no fools. They received her enthusiastically, and pretended to honour her as the living image of Athene. There were festivals, entertainments, banquets, and in order to make them as gorgeous as he desired Antony had only to copy those that he had revelled in at Alexandria. Once again he was living the life of an Oriental sovereign and, robed in purple, shod with sandals of gold, his forehead bound with fillets, he employed his leisure time in presiding over the athletic games, watching the races and wrestling matches, the lance- and disc-throwing. Octavia awarded the prizes, and happy, united, with no thought of the morrow, they both enjoyed their gracious sovereignty.

Spring had come again. Antony watched the budding branches of the sacred laurel and drank of the fountain of Clepsydra. The oracles that he had consulted had promised him a triumph. He was eager to take his place at the head of the troops, who, under the command of Ventidius, were awaiting him in Epirus.

The campaign opened brilliantly. A succession of uninterrupted victories by the advance-guard seemed to indicate that the invasion of Persia would be simply a military procession. Success at this time meant all the more because Octavius was then fighting his own battles on the shores of Sicily.

These were golden hours for Antony; hours when the thought "The world with its kingdoms will be mine," came to him repeatedly. This illusion made him careless in replying to messages from his brother-in-law. Secure himself, he was rejoicing in the difficulties of Octavius and had no desire whatever to send to his assistance the noble Rhodian fleet for which he was clamouring.

Octavia felt very differently. If her passionate love had thrown her into Antony's arms, it had in no way lessened her warm affection for her brother. Her loyalty, even had she not cared for Octavius, would have made her remember that one of the chief reasons for her marriage with Antony had been to forward the interests of both. Up to the present time she had only been called upon to adjust slight disagreements between them. To-day, however, conditions were different; indeed, the very supremacy of the two rulers was at stake. They envied each other, they hated each other, and between these opposing forces her gentle personality was in imminent danger of being crushed. Why had the gods so cruelly put this grain of wheat between two millstones?

After driving out Antiochus, Antony returned from Syria. He was drunk with the exultation of victory and his wife decided that this would be a propitious moment to present her petition to him. She went to Ephesus to meet him, accompanied by Ahenobarbus, who deplored the dissension between the Triumvirs and predicted dire consequences. Antony's first greeting was so full of affection that she was led to believe that her influence over the conqueror was not wholly lost. With the tenderest caution, but firmly, as her conscience demanded, she asked why he still kept the fleet in the harbour instead of despatching it to her brother's assistance. Quite apart from their signed contract, was he unmindful of the fact that he might have need of reinforcements in the heart of Asia, even as Octavius was needing these ships? This refusal to send one might later cut him off from the other. Why did they not coöperate?

Her eminently rational appeal made little impression on Antony, for he felt himself invincible. He knew that a rupture was inevitable, and left to himself he probably would have brought it about at once, but he was touched by Octavia's tears. He had always been easily moved by women, and after yielding to those who made tempestuous demands upon him, it seemed only fair that, for once in his life, he should heed this messenger of peace.

"Go," he commanded, "make terms with Octavius, but remember, before all else, that you are the wife of Antony!"

Greater difficulties than she had looked for awaited her in arranging matters with her brother. Exasperated by the evidently evil intentions of Antony, he decided that such an ally was as dangerous as an enemy, and that while awaiting the supreme decision it was as well to learn to be independent. Aided by Agrippa, who was showing his authority on all maritime matters, he commenced to build a fleet. The port of Tarentum was full of excitement. Well-paid carpenters and caulkers were busy night and day, singing as they worked. The noise of hammers and hatchets resounded. The rhythmic ringing of the anvil was broken by the cries of the fishmongers and bargemen.

It was in the midst of this strenuous labour that Octavia arrived to hold conference with her brother. As she drew near, he was surrounded by engineers to whom he was giving endless orders, and the welcome he accorded her was, unlike his usual greeting, defiant rather than cordial.

"What do you wish? Why are you here?"

"I am only a little ahead of the fleet which Antony has put at your disposal."

"It is too late," replied Octavius curtly, "in three months my own ships will be on the high seas."

That first repulse was hard to bear. It killed the hope of bringing about a reconciliation which Octavia had built on her brother's embarrassments. But she was not a woman to be easily baulked. The mission that she had undertaken filled her with invincible courage and tenacity. Through life and death she would carry it out. She now defended her husband's actions as valiantly as she had those of her brother when pleading with her husband. If Antony had delayed, it was because he had been surrounded by such countless difficulties that he had lost count of time. The moment that she had reminded him of the need for action he had answered: "I am ready to go." He would be there in a few days.

But the deeply furrowed brow of Octavius, marked with premature wrinkles between his black eyebrows, was not so easily smoothed as Antony's had been. The masterful will which enveloped them both like a cuirass had no fissure in his case. Octavia saw that her efforts to defend her husband were futile, and as her excuses had really little foundation she began to plead her own cause.

"If you give way to anger," she said, looking tenderly at her brother, "if sword and lance cross, no one can tell who will be the victor. There is only one certainty and that is that I, wife or sister of the vanquished, will spend the rest of my life in tears!"

Was he touched by this woman's gentle plea? Or did he in the bottom of his heart feel that if he repulsed Antony's advances the latter would ally himself with their mutual enemy Sextus Pompey? Be that as it may, urged by his two good geniuses, Agrippa and Mæcenas, Octavius yielded and consented to an agreement.

Anchored in the bay of Piræus, Antony was awaiting his brother-in-law's decision. As soon as he got the report from Ahenabarbus he set sail with the two hundred and twenty triremes which were his pride and his strength. Their arrival at Tarentum had a tremendous effect. When Octavius first caught sight of them in the distance, their snowy sails seeming to cover the face of the waters, enveloped in the silvery foam splashed up by the oars, he had the conviction that however numerous and powerful his own future fleet might be, these splendid ships, all new, well equipped, and well armed, would be a most valuable addition to his navy.

But he could not foresee that those same ships, those slender craft, would one day turn against Antony and decide the victory of Actium. And Antony, still wrapped in his own illusions, had no power to look so far into the future. In his ardour to begin that famous campaign through which he expected to be the master of the world, he was absorbed in his dreams of the six Gallic legions, made up of expert archers, trained foot-soldiers, strong cavalrymen, that he was to obtain in exchange for part of his fleet.

The negotiations were long and complicated, as each side desired to secure the greatest possible benefit from the arrangement and accord a minimum in return. Unaided by the gentle Octavia, who went back and forth bearing the olive branch, it is doubtful if they would ever have come to an understanding. While Agrippa and Mæcenas on one side, and Ahenobarbus and Pollion on the other, discussed, dissected, picked over, one by one, the ships and soldiers that constituted the coin of that terrible market, a plaintive refrain could be heard.

"War, more war!" groaned Octavia, "will you transform me from the happiest woman in the world to the most miserable?" And regularly every morning she went to the temple of Vesta, where she lighted at the sacred candelabra as many tapers as there were prayers in her heart.

In granting the prayers of the loving sister and faithful wife, the goddess softened the hearts of the two adversaries. Each having weighed the relative advantage that he would gain by certain concessions, they both assumed a grand air of magnanimity. They pretended that neither of them wanted to grieve the one who formed such a close bond between them and that her little hand should disarm them. A new agreement was made, prolonging the Triumvirate for five years. This modern Sabine woman in raising the golden cup to drink to them that evening, might truthfully have said: "I have preserved the peace of the world!"

VII THE MARRIAGE AT ANTIOCH

Leaning on the parapet, within sound of the waves that lapped against the quai, Cleopatra watched the ship that was carrying off her lover grow smaller in the distance. When the highest mast had disappeared beneath the horizon, she let her hand fall; the hand that had been waving a handkerchief since the ship had weighed anchor. Her throat contracted and the tears ran down her cheeks. The sea, in shades of green and amethyst, spread out before her like a piece of silk unrolled. It was perfectly calm, yet that wide gulf which separated her from Antony was full of terror for her. She turned to Charmian:

"What does life hold for me now? He who meant all my happiness has gone. Without his loving glance, the sound of his merry laughter, I shall have no joy in living."

The ideal confidante is one who makes her friend's grief her own. Although Charmian had deplored her mistress's relations with Antony and had felt, from the outset, that he would bring only misery to her beloved lady, yet she now feigned deep sorrow.

"The Triumvir's absence will make the Bruchium seem an empty palace, but he will not tarry long away from you, my Queen. Even as he stepped on board the ship I heard him promise to return before the year is ended."

Cleopatra did not doubt his prompt return, for hope filled her veins, as the sap runs strong in the young tree in full leaf. But summer had barely begun, the days would drag along very slowly. Thus talking, under the protecting shade of ivory-handled fans held over them by two negro slaves, they went back to the terrace. The Queen stopped every few steps, for there were memories of Antony at each turn. There was the rose-coloured ibis, one leg tucked out of sight, who, motionless and quite tame, was standing on the grass, apparently lost in thought. The aromatic perfume of the carnations made her sigh, remembering that each night Antony had plucked one in passing, touched it to his lips, and put it in her bosom, saying: "I give you all my heart." And when he was not near to embrace her she always felt the warm fragrance of the flower as she breathed, like lips pressing against her breast. Nothing is more cruel in the absence of a loved one than the constant reminders of shared joys.

"Antony, come back to me, my beloved!" she cried in a sudden spasm of loneliness.

"You care too much, Madame. No living man is worthy of such love."

"It is easy to see, Charmian, that nothing has troubled the calm waters of your soul! Do you imagine that love is measured by the worthiness of the beloved? If that were true I could have loved no one so much as Cæsar; yet, as you know, Antony is the only one who has filled my whole soul."

She approached the fountain, where the water ran like living crystal and broke into foam at the basin's edge. The falling water brought the thought of the flying time that was taking away her happiness. Would those blissful days ever come again, or were they, like yesterday's flow of water, lost for ever?

Anxious to divert her from things which by their very charm were depressing, Charmian said gently:

"Will you not come now and try to sleep, Madame? To-morrow surely will bring you fresh courage."

Cleopatra had her royal robes laid aside, swallowed a draught of nepenthes to induce slumber, and said, as she closed her eyes:

"If I could only sleep on until he comes again!"

Life had to go on, however; four, five, six months, or more, would pass before Antony's return and Cleopatra was not the woman to give herself up to idle lamentations. Leaving the mourning veil and ashes to Dido of old, she resumed her sumptuous life and the royal routine of her daily duties.

Many things which had been neglected during those months of infatuation with her lover now claimed her attention. She took note of all the buildings, ships, and gardens in need of repair and saw that they were thoroughly overhauled and set in order. Her ministers were astonished to see how altogether conversant she was with the problems of state, and those who had thought her given over to frivolity were amazed with the way she handled the finances of the Government. She was equally proficient in reorganizing the army after the model of the legions which Antony had left with her; in adding to the marine service and in improving the administration generally.

As reigning sovereign, she set to work to improve the condition of her people; guarded against famine by irrigating the lands with fertilizing floods from the Nile; drove off the Nabathæan tribes who were threatening the Arabian frontier, showing that the ruler of Egypt, woman though she was, was the equal of the great kings of the world.

Like all her ancestors she had a love for building. She went from city to city with a host of architects, engineers, and artists, to see that the old temples were kept in proper repair. Those at Edfu, Hermonthis, and Coptis were rebuilt under her direction. The one at Dendera, which she enlarged, still shows her portrait carved on its tablets. She restored the Library at Alexandria and began the Cæsarium, whose excavated ruins reveal her admiration for Greek art. The last of the obelisks was erected during her reign: that Cleopatra's Needle, which, two thousand years later, was transported to the borders of the Thames, and now mournfully lifts its once rosy sides to the sooty skies of the British metropolis.