If Antony did not actually believe himself to be the son of Jupiter, he was drunk with flattery and claimed some of the privileges of divine ancestry, chiefly that of being beyond the control of human laws. His caprices were limitless. He attired himself in silk and cloth of gold, had a chorus of dancers in continual attendance, and held his court with Olympian bearing.
But with all this he did not, for a moment, forget the selfish object of his journey. He was willing to be adored, but not to make the least sacrifice. The Ionians had put up a strong protest, but he did not lessen by a farthing the tax of two hundred thousand talents which he had levied upon them. All that they gained was an extension of the time of payment, and that only because the request came to him through the beautiful Corelia, who was, for the time being, in high favour.
Antony soon tired of travelling from one city to another and decided that it was more in keeping with his dignity to summon the kings, his vassals, to him, than to go to them. He chose Tarsus for his residence and announced that henceforth the sovereigns should seek him, and he made it quite clear that the continuance of their sovereignty depended on his pleasure.
None dared disobey his orders. Along the dusty roads, under the placid skies, cavalcades and litters, chariots drawn by oxen, by elephants with majestic tread, moved steadily on, followed by a long file of dromedaries, bearing the baggage with oriental pomp. As the caravans drew near lances flashed, armour gleamed, the standards bore curious devices, the swarm of men and beasts presented a motley appearance. On arriving at the city gates a herald went forward and, through a silver trumpet, announced the name of the august visitor. The kings of Antioch and Sysima, the satrap, Palemon, Herod, who reigned in Judea, and Adallas of Sidonia, were all duly announced, also the tetrarchs of Lycaonia and Pontus, the governor of Commagene, as well as the rulers of Thrace and Arabia.
Tanned by the hot sun of the East, many of them seemed sad and very weary. One and all they hated this conqueror, but as soon as they were in his presence they were animated by the hope of some reward to be obtained, some honour or promotion to be secured.
Luxuriously installed in a tent, which served as a tribunal, Antony received the various suppliants with great ceremony and dealt out his favours. The report got abroad that the personal attractiveness of the claimant influenced his decisions, and the princesses hastened to seek an audience. He received a visit from the noted beauty, Glaphyra, and her gracious charms secured the throne of Phrygia for her son; the young widow of Aristobulus was assured of the permanence of her crown; Herod's devoted wife, Mariamne, in spite of her reserve, succeeded in winning what she desired for her husband.
But the one whom, above all others, he desired and expected, the Queen of Egypt, had not come. Why was she so late? The command had been sent to her as to the others; perhaps the wish to see her had inspired the general edict. Cleopatra's failure to appear was all the more remarkable as she had certain affairs to settle with him. As an ally of Rome, her attitude during the late war had given grounds for criticism. When the avengers of Cæsar had asked the aid of her fleet she had urged the pretext of a tempest which prevented her from sending it. But this prudence could be interpreted as a desire to keep on good terms with both parties. So she had much to explain and should lose no time. Antony had written to her several times. The first letters had been official notes from a ruler to a queen, desiring her presence according to the prescribed form then in use. Her replies had been vague. He then wrote more urgently. Getting no satisfactory result from his efforts, his anger was aroused. Was this daughter of the Lagidæ trifling with him? Had she forgotten that her father owed the restoration of his throne to the gracious power of Rome? And her own position? To-morrow, if he so decreed.
One day he decided to send her a letter of command. But what could he say? After all he was only a man, tormented by his passions, who, unaccustomed to any resistance, felt his desire turning to exasperation. Like Jupiter with his thunderbolts, he imagined that the elements would obey him and that this coveted woman would come submissively if he frightened her sufficiently. When he found that his commands were disregarded, just as his advances had been ignored, he tried to forget her. He was rich in resources and had many mistresses. One succeeded the other with incredible speed, as though a constant change could give to each the power to efface the memory of Cleopatra. Each time that he clasped a new love to his breast he would, for the moment, feel free from the desire for her presence, would think that he had effectually rid himself of the craving for her. But these periods of oblivion passed quickly and the longing for the absent one returned, stronger than ever. Although there had never been any definite bond between them, he unconsciously nourished toward Cleopatra the kind of rancour that he would have felt toward a mistress who had betrayed and deserted him. He was beginning to hate her; and yet, he still longed for her coming.
Tarsus, like Antioch and Ephesus, was one of the principal cities of Asia Minor. Situated almost at the mouth of the Cydnus, that ice-cold river which, to the young Alexander, had felt like the first touch of death—it had the animated life of a port, while the neighbouring forests of myrtles lent it the glamour of romance. The temple of Apollo made it a shrine for men of letters, and it showed a tendency toward idealism which prepared the way for that apostle who was soon to be born there, and who was destined to preach the gospel of Christ within its walls. In the meantime it was the sanctuary of Aphrodite, and innumerable voluptuous statues, always laden with abundant offerings, bore witness to the fervent worship of this goddess. Thus associated with divinity and screened by the range of the Taurus mountains, watered by bubbling springs and swept by fragrant breezes, Tarsus was an ideal resting-place.
If satisfied ambition could content the human heart, Antony should have been perfectly happy, for each day brought him new homage and more complete submission. In his innermost being, however, uneasiness and discontent reigned. He was not altogether sensual and was, at times, overcome by a noble sadness. He craved an object for his ambition, an aim for the exuberance which carried him away. On the days when this discontent tormented him beyond endurance he sought a counter-irritant, not in commonplace pleasures—they no longer amused him—but in healthy physical exercise, which, while it lasted, drove away all irritating thought. He would fling himself on one of his Syrian steeds, under whose delicate skin the veins were clearly visible, whose nostrils seemed to breathe fire, and with bridle-rein hanging loose would ride headlong through torrents and down valleys. This exhilarating exercise restored at once that vitality and enthusiasm which his temporary depression had apparently crushed for ever. He seemed born again, full of fierce energy and joyousness, as though he had just gained a new victory, more glorious than any he had yet won.
These rides often took Antony to the Ægean shore. Perhaps unconsciously he felt the need of looking out upon the sea, of questioning its depths. It was full of peace and beauty, covered with the shining gold of the setting sun. Its rippling bosom seemed to breathe. Gazing steadily at it, hearing its murmur on the beach, feeling its soft breath, it became at last a living creature to him, the woman of his dreams. In his imagination he saw two women, each aiding the other against him, both seductive, both perfidious, each having the same sovereign power to make him the happiest of men, yet taking pleasure in leaving him on this shore, solitary and forlorn.
But the days went by and although he scanned the horizon to its uttermost limits, although the winds were favourable and the sea was covered with ships, he could never see that world-renowned galley with its purple sails, which travellers returning from Alexandria had so often described to him. At last his patience gave out. He was tired of hoping against hope; all his powers availed him nothing against that far-away indifference, whose cause baffled him. Impelled by that mysterious force which controls human destinies, he finally despatched an ambassador with orders to use all possible persuasions to induce Cleopatra to come to him.
Day was just breaking. Within its inlaid walls the bed-chamber was cool and shadowy. The rose-covered trellis outside the windows made a soft, dim light. At the farther end stood an ivory bed, its four feet fashioned like a leopard's paws. Cleopatra lay quiet on her pillow, her arms above her head, her eyes closed, but she was not sleeping. Still drowsy, she followed, waking, the happy dreams that had come to her in sleep. Ever since that first letter from Antony when, with her unfailing feminine instinct, she had read between the lines an appeal that was more than a request from the Triumvir of Rome to a subject, her thoughts had been full of him. He had not forgotten her, then! This mighty adventurer, this conqueror who was welcomed everywhere as a god, was willing to pay any price for the privilege of seeing her again. Not only was her pride flattered by this homage, but she felt that her position as a sovereign, which had been disturbed by continued tumults and uprisings, would be strengthened.
It must be remembered that Cleopatra was still in the restlessness of youth and her blood had all the heat of the tropics. Ardent passions bring profound depressions in their train. How could she suppress this tempest within her? She hungered after tender embraces, the warmth of declared love; the fierce delight of that passion which wounds and transports at the same time—and she had only her present empty existence, with its succession of lonely days, in which life seemed to slip away, vanishing drop by drop, like water falling from a fountain. If she had followed the natural impulse of her impetuous nature she would have accepted eagerly Antony's first invitation. Reflection, however, counselled her to wait. The more her coming was desired, the greater would be the stimulus of a delay. This scheme was well devised, but it nearly brought fatal disaster by arousing Antony's anger and his desire to show his authority, and submission was the last virtue of which Cleopatra was capable. The mere suggestion of restraint woke all her instinct of rebellion. This conqueror of the Orient should not imagine that because he had made vassals of a set of corrupt princes, he could compel her to appear before his tribunal, subdued and trembling. She would never come into his presence in that manner.
A step on the carpet interrupted her reveries. It was Charmian, her lady-in-waiting, her confidante and friend, who was privileged to approach the Queen at any time. She had been associated with Cleopatra from the latter's early childhood, when Ptolemy Auletes had chosen her from all the nobility of Athens, that his adored daughter might have always near her an agreeable and cultured companion; one who would speak to her in the language of the gods. Charmian, in addition, had the task of teaching the young princess the art of walking with ease, of dressing in taste, and of draping her form with those graceful linen folds which the women of Tanagra have immortalized. The pupil soon surpassed her instructor, but the changed relations in no way lessened their friendship. It resulted on the one side in a deep admiration and blind devotion lasting until death, and on the other, in a confidence without reserve.
If Charmian came earlier than usual this morning and seemed hurried, it was because she had important news. At dawn a Roman galley had entered the port, bringing Quintus Dellius, the ambassador of Mark Antony.
Cleopatra was much stirred by this announcement. If Antony had sent an ambassador it was because he had something in mind which letters were inadequate to explain. What could this be? Perhaps only a reiteration of his former invitation. But in what form would it come? Reproaches were inevitable. Her apparent indifference to his requests had merited them. The idea, however, brought a smile to her scornful lips. She knew how to manage her excuses. But there might be another explanation of this messenger, and the thought made her uneasy. What if the ambassador were a Roman magistrate? What if he brought papers giving him the power to question her and demand a reckoning? As a subject of Rome she must be cautious. How could she explain her failure to send assistance during the recent war, and that in the face of repeated and urgent demands?
But Charmian assured her that it was useless to torment herself with these questions. Let her go to Antony, as she had gone to Cæsar, and all would be well. Did she not possess the divine gift of fascination which stole men's reason and made them see everything through her eyes?
In her heart Cleopatra was of the same opinion, especially in regard to Antony. She understood how strongly he was influenced by the magnetism of a beautiful woman. But who was his messenger and what course should she take with him? For a moment she was perplexed, but only for a moment. She decided to treat this messenger in the same manner that she would have treated Antony, had he come in person. The first thing to do was to make herself beautiful, very beautiful; to select the apparel which would show her charms to the greatest advantage and make her irresistible. The other matters would adjust themselves in the course of conversation.
She rapped three times upon a brass plaque to summon her attendants. The blinds were raised and the fresh morning light poured into the room, while the servants, like a swarm of bees, set about their daily tasks. Cleopatra arose from her bed and passed on to the pool where a warm bath had been prepared. She went down the six steps into the marble basin, which was just deep enough for the water to cover her as she lay in its gentle embrace. A Nubian slave was always in readiness to give her a vigorous rubbing when she came out of her bath. This massage made her transparent skin glow, and then she was again rubbed softly with nard brought from Sidon. Other women came in their turn to contribute to the care of her precious body. One blanched her dainty hands with a lotion made of hyssop; another polished her rosy nails; still another, squatting on her heels, touched with carmine the extremities of her tiny feet, then put on the soft-lined sandals.
The hair-dresser stood in especially high favour. Her profession enjoyed various privileges, not the least being her right to have long and intimate audiences with the Queen, to be consulted, and, above all, to be allowed to place a flower, a feather, or the diadem, in the Queen's hair, thus having her chance to win royal approval. Iras, the Persian, had filled this office for the past three years. The fairy-lightness of her touch and her sweet breath were celebrated. Hearing them spoken of when the young girl was an attendant of Mariamne, Herod's wife, whose auburn hair reached to her knees, Cleopatra had elected to have her for her own service. This served the double purpose of securing a talented artist for herself, and of depriving a woman whom she detested of a cherished attendant.
Iras had been brought to the Egyptian court by a merchant of perfumes, who, under pretext of giving her a new essence to inhale, had put her to sleep and carried her off without resistance. Although the new court was far grander than that of Judea, even as the sun surpasses the moon, Iras wept floods of tears at the change. Her companions, who envied her good fortune, exclaimed: "What, you weep, when your hands have the distinguished honour of adorning the divine Cleopatra!" But Iras had a loving heart and the splendour of her new surroundings could not reconcile her to the separation from Queen Mariamne, to whom she was warmly attached. This, at least, was her feeling for the first few days when, still a novice, she assisted at the ceremony of the royal toilet.
One day, Cleopatra, noticing the pallor of her serving-woman, spoke to her. In her incomparably musical voice she inquired why the young girl was so sad. "Are you homesick? Is it regret at leaving your family, or your lover?" Iras replied that her mother was dead and that she had left no lover behind on the shores of the Aracus. She could not, however, cease to grieve for Jerusalem and Herod's palace, where the Queen had been so unfailingly kind to her.
However insignificant the feelings of a slave might be in the eyes of this world-famous beauty, Cleopatra was touched by the ardent sincerity of Iras. It was just at the time when she had returned from Rome, alone and full of grief. She had a sudden wish to make this young girl, who was practically in exile, grow fond of her. Nothing could be easier. A few kind words, some presents offered with tact, quickly warmed the poor little heart that distress had chilled. Giving her her freedom later completed the conquest and aroused in Iras as fervent an adoration as any divinity had ever been offered; a flame willing to consume itself at any moment for the Queen, and ready, too, to burn itself out the day that this adored mistress ceased to illuminate the world.
"Quick, Iras," Cleopatra said that morning, when she wished to be especially beautiful. "Take off my fillet and try to surpass yourself." She sat down before her dressing-table, which was covered with combs of different sizes, iridescent glass bottles, tiny jars filled with unguents, dainty puffs in boxes of powdered orris-root and other cosmetics; gold turtles, whose pierced shells held long hairpins. Cleopatra bent her head, and while the negro women, immobile as bronze statues, held a silver mirror that she might see her reflection, Iras passed a comb of amber tortoise-shell through the Queen's hair.
No one was more skilful than the young Persian girl in handling the Queen's flowing tresses. It was like play for her to spread them out, then turn and twist them, lift them up and arrange them in a different fashion each day. These changes of coiffure made an inexhaustible subject of conversation between the Queen and her attendant. They discussed them, pronounced them more or less becoming, tried new ornaments fit for varying occasions. Which was most suitable for to-day? There was no time to lose in experiments. They must decide without delay how Cleopatra would receive the messenger from Mark Antony. After a moment's thought she decided against the crown, the ancestral head-dress, the diadem; they were all too pretentious, too formal. It was as a woman, a beautiful woman, that she would appear before this ambassador. She chose the Athenian style: a simple cord attached by a ribbon above the nape of her neck, and, confining the thick waves of her hair, three bands outlined her delicate head.
Iras was no less expert in the use of rouge and perfumes. In Phoenicia she had become familiar with salves and ointments compounded from roses and lilies and the blossoms of the privet. Prepared by her these unguents had a marvellous effect in making limbs supple, and she alone knew how to make flesh shine like polished marble by rubbing it with a powder made of crushed mother-of-pearl. Cleopatra never allowed any one but her dear Iras to put the roses in her cheeks, to accentuate the arch of her splendid eyebrows, and to darken the natural shadows under her eyes by the skilful use of a swan's feather touched with sibium.
When Cleopatra was thus shod, coifed, and redolent from head to foot with sweet perfumes, the ladies in charge of the robes came in. They brought in great chests in which the robes lay without a crease to spoil their freshness. Raising the covers they laid out two, three, four, until the Queen had made her choice. She chose a saffron-coloured silk tunic, embroidered with narcissus blossoms. Fastened to her shoulders by two amber clasps the tunic left her arms and bosom bare. Above this a transparent drapery hung, woven by the women of Cos and made, so the legend went, of the condensed vapours of the morning mists of springtime, the tissue that is known to-day as "the Virgin's threads."
Cleopatra urged her attendants to make haste. She was impatient at their delay in fastening a fold, or arranging her girdle, those innumerable details of her toilet which usually entertained her. She was anxious to be ready, eager to meet this unknown man with whom she was planning such an exciting battle. When her string of pearls had been clasped around her neck, her arms and fingers adorned with bracelets and rings, she gave a final glance at her exquisite reflection in the mirrors and left the room.
Mark Antony had chosen for his ambassador Quintus Dellius, famous in the Odes of Horace, one of the most charming and well informed men of his day. A wit, a learned historian, as well as a poet from time to time, he had the adaptable disposition which real intelligence gives, and though quick at epigrams he could be, when it was to his advantage, considerate and gracious. The consistent policy which he had successfully followed through life had been to make friends with the man in command, to devote himself exclusively to forwarding his patron's interests, and invariably to quit his service on the instant that his star set, and to attach himself to the next one in power. Thus before the battle of Philippi he had been the friend of Cassius, after the battle of Actium he became the inseparable companion of Octavius. At present he thought that all the odds were in favour of Antony, and, deciding that the latter was likely to hold his own, his devotion to him was unmistakable. No one could have been better qualified for the delicate mission which led him to Alexandria than this practised go-between, who thoroughly understood the ways of women.
As the Queen, surrounded by her guard, mounted the throne, which stood before a tapestry of birds and flowers, the guest was summoned. He was a Roman, short of stature, with refined features, an alert, gracious expression, whose distinguished bearing marked him as an Aristocrat. He saluted her at the threshold with sword-point lowered and his left hand touching his shoulder. Instead of coming forward at once he remained motionless for a moment looking steadily at Cleopatra as though his amazement at her beauty had taken away his senses. Then he spoke:
"Before all else, O mighty Queen, my master, Mark Antony, whose mouthpiece I am, salutes you; he wishes you glory, happiness, and lasting prosperity."
"You will take him my good wishes in return," she replied, smiling; and added: "But his hopes have already been fulfilled in his victories."
The ambassador replied: "You are mistaken, O divine sovereign; Mark Antony's happiness will never be complete, he will never feel that he is truly great, until you honour him with your gracious presence."
This was surely an auspicious beginning; but how could Cleopatra be certain that these were not merely preliminary formulas. She must find out whether this envoy had not some other communication to make, some personal message which would indicate the real discontent of Mark Antony.
At her command the attendants withdrew, and their departure seemed to lighten the atmosphere, free it from all suggestion of restraint. The two now felt at ease, each eager to be agreeable to the other.
"Why have you come to see me?" asked the Queen in a tone of playful frankness, as though inviting his confidence. "Tell me all; keep nothing back. I must know the real reason for the Triumvir's desiring my presence; what intentions has he in regard to me?" and the expression of her eyes seemed to add: "If you do as I ask, if you speak sincerely, you shall have no cause to regret it."
When she had been assured that Antony had despatched his ambassador only because of his impatience to see her and renew their former friendly relations, her anxiety vanished. She had the sensation of breathing more freely, as though a window had been opened. Her calculations had not betrayed her. In deferring her visit to Antony she had whetted his desire to see her. But would he not make her pay for her coquetry? Was he not, perhaps, planning some revenge?
She made various excuses for her delay, which in no way deceived Dellius. He was still more skeptical when, under pretence of timidity, she said that she had put off her departure on account of current reports concerning the reception accorded to certain princesses on their arrival at Tarsus.
Judging it wise to reassure her he protested: "What! Glaphyra! Eutrope! Beggars already dethroned, or fearing to be! Vassals who threw themselves at the conqueror's feet with the most doubtful intentions! What comparison can there be between them and your gracious self?" Then, adopting the tone of a priest addressing an idol, he went on:
"O thou, the well-beloved of Osiris! August sovereign whose sceptre covers land and sea! Woman above all other women! Understand that your presence is expected with reverence as well as eagerness. From the moment that you set foot on Roman territory, gracious deeds will follow you and the whole people will pay you homage."
But this was not what interested Cleopatra. One word as to Antony's personal sentiments would have given her more satisfaction. How could she learn what these were? How was she to find out whether he was summoning her as a sovereign, with whom he wished to renew an alliance, or as a vassal who was already in his debt? Or simply because in his heart of hearts old memories of her still lingered?
As he watched her and talked with her, Dellius began to understand what an exceptional creature she was and why his master thought her worth the price he was paying. It was not alone her beauty which made her so wonderful. In gazing at her a vague uneasiness, an indefinable fear took possession of him. If her animation sometimes caused an uncontrollable tremor, her sensuous languor, at others, gave promise of untold delights. His keen insight told him the influence such a woman would have in the life of Antony, who was now nearly forty years old, that dangerous age in sensual natures. The gallant adventures of his youth no longer sufficed; he was now experiencing an actual sentimental hunger which comes to men who, without genuine passion, have lived a life of excess. An overwhelming love at this time would be his salvation. He would give himself up to it without reservation, and however unworthy the woman who inspired it might be, she would not fail to acquire a power whose limit it was impossible to foresee. Dellius felt that Cleopatra would be this ruler over Antony's destiny; so he decided that he would not only carry out his master's mission and persuade her to go to Tarsus, but that he would also make her his patron and friend. Later, when she had become the Egeria of Antony, perhaps she would recall the service he had rendered her and would help him to attain his own end, which was a consulship. From that moment the shrewd man set to work to interpret the sentiments of his master. He described him as deeply in love, which Antony certainly was not as yet, though he was ready to be; pretended that he was obsessed by the memory of Cleopatra; that for days at a time he did nothing but wait for her coming. He was often seen standing at the mouth of the Cydnus, beaten by the winds, watching the incoming ships. It would be inhuman to prolong his misery. One word from her would set his mind at rest. If she would only send him that word of promise Antony would be happier than if he had conquered fresh kingdoms.
"Is it possible," added Dellius, as though talking to himself, "is it possible to have been near the divine Cleopatra without experiencing on leaving her a regret which nothing but seeing her again can cure?"
An indescribable dread disturbed the Queen's mind. She felt that this was the decisive moment of her life, and a thrill went through her. She had a burning desire for the joys that the future might hold, and wanted to hurry on to them. She had the impulse to cry out: "I am going! I shall start to-morrow!" The attitude, however, which she had adopted from the beginning still held her captive. Even to the end she must play her part, seem to hesitate, to be difficult to win, and above all, let no one suspect the longing she had to be forced to go.
"Since it is necessary, since the Triumvir demands it, I will go to bear him my homage," she said.
But this did not satisfy Dellius. He had too little faith in women to trust to a vague promise made from a sense of duty. He wanted a definite statement, with no reservations. So he began to protest again. It was not as a sovereign that Antony would receive the Queen of Egypt. He longed for her coming and would welcome her with the reverence due a goddess.
Such words could not fail to win the consent which was already in her heart. Cleopatra's pride was safe, she had been sufficiently implored; so, with a smile, she promised to set out for Tarsus before the days began to shorten.
Although eager to announce the good tidings, Dellius accepted her invitation to stay a few days in Alexandria. It would not be a waste of time because, although his master's mission had been successfully accomplished, his own was not fulfilled. In bringing Cleopatra to Tarsus, where she would become the mistress of Antony, he had the secret hope that he would thereby win their double gratitude.
Each had his own end to gain and the two held long conversations, usually with Antony for the subject. Dellius made a point of dwelling on the Triumvir's various characteristics; his tastes, his qualities, for her information when opportunity offered. Undoubtedly Antony had always cared for display, but the incense which Asia had burned at his feet had so intoxicated him that he had become almost obsessed by the love of ostentation. Nothing was gorgeous enough, no banquet sufficiently resplendent, to satisfy him.
"How severe and gloomy Rome to-day would seem to him; on the other hand how enchanted he would be with the magnificence that reigns here," said Dellius.
Further persuasion was needless; Cleopatra understood. A plan was already forming in her mind. She saw in imagination the glorious vision she would present to Antony's astonished eyes.
The next day she began to make ready for the journey. Although she commanded all possible haste, for she was now really eager to go, the preparations took nearly a month. It would not have been possible to complete in less time the marvellous equipment for the voyage of this new Queen of Sheba.
The rising sun cast the soft light of one of those ideal summer days when all outlines are blurred and blend in the mysterious charm of woods and sky. Under a cluster of sycamore trees, which shaded the public square of Tarsus, Antony was holding court as Proconsul, assisted by petty rulers, magi, and prætors, and, governed by his somewhat rudimentary conscience, deciding the various cases according to the Roman law. He was besieged by a crowd, each having his own special petition, and each in turn being granted a hearing. The court was following the speech of one of the advocates in respectful silence when excited murmurs began to be heard. Men came running up from the shores of the Cydnus with strange tales. The agitation spread rapidly and Aphrodite's name was on all lips. The people had been carefully trained by the priests, and their religion had accustomed them to believe in the proximity of the gods and in their possible intervention. But this strange tale surpassed the most wonderful fables. It was reported that the daughter of Zeus was sailing up the river on a golden galley resounding with music. She had been recognized, not only by her supernatural beauty, but by those symbols with which painters and sculptors had always represented her. Reclining in an enormous shell, this goddess seemed to be rising from the sea. Purple sails adorned the galley and a troop of nereids hung in the rigging, waving fans, while tiny cupids scattered rose leaves at her feet. Every moment new messengers arrived with fresh details that surpassed all the preceding ones. The galley's sails were of silk; purple draperies covered the decks; fifty black men from Koursch rowed rhythmically, with oars tipped with silver; light smoke from the galley wafted the sweet perfume of cinnamon and of incense.
The public square was gradually deserted as curiosity overcame the people. Those who, the instant before, had been struggling for a place near the Tribunal, had suddenly vanished. The ever-growing crowd was now jostling each other on the banks of the Cydnus. Snouts and cries of admiration went up. The whole city of Tarsus was soon on the quais, and, in an ecstasy of enthusiasm, welcomed the approaching goddess and thanked Zeus for sending her.
On hearing these astounding reports Antony was as one distracted. He put his hand to his head; he struggled for breath. Beyond all doubt it was she! That goddess whom his impatient heart had so long craved! She had taken him by surprise!
As he could not permit himself to join the crowd and rush to meet her, he called Dellius.
"Go," he said, "receive Cleopatra with all honour. Put at her disposal all that she wishes, and ask her to sup with me at the palace this evening."
Antony was too much agitated to resume the interrupted hearings. Of what importance were individual interests, or even those of the Republic, in comparison with this overwhelming event? Assessors, registrars, witnesses were all dismissed, and in his ecstasy, wishing to share his joy with others, he granted all the petitions laid before him.
Dellius returned with the message that Cleopatra warmly appreciated the invitation from the Triumvir, but that this first evening she wished to have him as her guest. She would expect him on board her galley at the time appointed for supper.
Then it was really true! It was she! She had crossed the seas to come to him! In a few moments he would see her, be at the same table with her! How should he approach her; what words of greeting should he use? He was perplexed, for proper words never come in the moment of excitement. He tried to imagine the scene. His attitude would be courteous, certainly; how otherwise? But he must have a certain majesty of bearing. His title of Triumvir placed him above all other sovereigns. In the eyes of his colleagues it was important that he should maintain his prestige. Cleopatra had failed in her duty as an ally of Rome and it would be necessary to inquire the reasons. With all possible consideration, yet with firmness, he would ask: "What part did you take in the war? Why did you fail us?"
Full of these thoughts, he began his preparations. He chose his most beautiful silver breast-plate, the one by an Athenian artist representing Achilles being dipped in the Styx by his mother. He put perfume on his face, rubbed it in his hair, and, a superb martial figure, his head erect, every nerve alert, as though he were going into battle, set out on the avenue leading to the river. The plane trees cast darker shadows in the evening light. Between the trunks of the trees the setting sun was like burnished copper. When he reached the river banks the brilliant sunset light had faded, but before him shone the marvellous galley. From the tips of the masts to the water's edge it was a mass of draperies illuminated by torches. It was not possible to count them, but the shining whole was like a fire mounting almost to the sky.
That famous supper at Tarsus, that evening meeting between those two beings who were to stir the world and leave a path of fire across the centuries, is assuredly one of the enthralling moments of history. Putting aside the magnificence of the entertainment, the prodigal abundance of the feast which this daughter of the Lagidæ had planned to dazzle the most powerful of the Romans, to let him see that the luxury in which he lived was provincial compared with the customs and manners of her court, it was the force of the dramatic situation which appealed as these two approached each other. It was the climax of her long-planned design, the result of all her grace and wit, this taking possession of Antony's very soul, so to seduce and imprison him that he could find no escape from the binding circle of her charm. She brought to this plan all the skill of the experienced woman of the world and a heart as yet untouched by real passion.
In this meeting it was Antony who felt embarrassed and ill at ease. Although he was familiar with women's ways and accustomed to speaking freely with them, yet this charmer, with her seductive guile, the elaborate beauty of her costume, and her mysterious smile, which now mocked, now tempted him to kneel at her feet, daunted him.
"You!—at last!" ... he exclaimed as he approached her, and that was all he dared say by way of reproach.
This heart-felt cry was so filled with satisfied longing, showed such real joy, that Cleopatra knew that she had won him. She began to make excuses for not having come before. She had been bound by so many obligations. Egypt was the source of so much anxiety. For the past two years the wheat crop had failed and there was growing discontent among her people. It was highly important to attend to the needs of her country. For a long time she had doubted the possibility of being able to leave.
But Antony's eyes were fixed on Cleopatra. He ignored the flimsy excuses, which would not have stood in her way had she desired to overcome them. He could only whisper:
"You are more beautiful than ever!"
"Do you think so?" she answered, and her smile was that of a simple girl.
Then, taking her guest by the hand, she led him to the stern of the vessel, which had been converted into a grove. They took their places on the two purple couches beside the table; and enjoying the rare delicacies, drinking old wines from golden cups, they talked of many things, while the stringed instruments made sweet music. Memories of other days came back to them, days when, reclining around a sumptuous table in brilliantly lighted rooms, Antony had gazed on Cleopatra, eager to declare his love, yet held back by conditions which so often restrain the natural inclinations. He was baulked again this evening, not by the presence of others, as in former days, but by their mutual relations. A definite explanation was necessary to clear away the political clouds which enveloped them.
Cleopatra took the initiative. To run the risk of being accused, of having to defend herself was contrary to all her instincts. Besides, what was the danger? However much at fault she might be she was confident of having a lenient judge. Whatever stand she might take, of attack or defence, she felt that her tiny hand had the power to conquer. She preferred to attack, however, and began an account of the indignities which, to uphold a just course, she had suffered at the hands of Cassius. Three different times he had demanded recruits from her, and at each refusal she had been overwhelmed by a deluge of threats.
"The scoundrel!" muttered Antony.
She went on hurriedly: "But you, too, Antony, you counted on me, you expected my fleet to come to your aid, and you had a right to expect it! You could never have doubted my good intentions; I was your surest ally. All my prayers were with you, you, the avenger of Cæsar!"
The atmosphere was changed. The discussion was taking an entirely different turn from what Antony had expected. He was completely disarmed. He who had planned to question her sternly, to obtain a justification, or at least some excuse for her attitude, found himself quietly listening to the voice of an enchantress.
"You have been annoyed with me?" she said, in a caressing tone.
"I have never been angry with you," he answered.
"Yes, you have. I know very well. It was at Lacedæmon. You were put out at having waited for me in vain."
But here, too, Cleopatra was ready with an explanation. She related how the gods, whose designs are impenetrably concealed from men, had seemed determined to thwart her plans. Her squadron had scarcely set sail when it had been scattered by a tempest. Several of the ships had been sunk. She, herself, ill and exhausted, had been saved only by a fortunate chance. She had returned to Alexandria at grave peril in a boat which was leaking. And when the squadron had been put in condition again it was too late; the allies had just won the battle of Philippi.
Presented in this light her conduct as an ally of Rome was not only above reproach but worthy of all praise; and Antony was not sparing in his commendation. He was deeply moved at the thought of the dangers she had passed through. He called her sublime, heroic. He was almost at the point of making excuses on his own account. Had he not been a fool in so obstinately expecting her arrival? But, on the other hand, had he not suffered torment all the days since Fate had separated them? Everywhere, at every moment, he had sought her, had hoped to see her appear. Without her he knew only unhappiness. He loved her, he had always loved her. To be content without her was impossible. And now that she was with him his passion was too strong for him. It was a burning fire that would never be quenched.
Cleopatra listened to all this gravely, making no comment. His words stirred her innermost being, and she was thrilled at the thought: "The master of the world belongs to me!" Undoubtedly she understood the passionate tone of this hero, shared his intoxication. She felt how sweet it would be to yield, to let herself be carried away by this overwhelming emotion. But the time had gone by when she was ready to give herself up at the first asking, as when she had yielded to the desire of Cæsar. The innocent young girl of those days had grown rich in experience. The years, the events, the stay at Rome had taught her many things. She recognized the value of her favours. Although fully determined to grant them, that she might bind Antony to her, unite their destinies in order to begin once more with him the game that she had lost the first time, she intended to choose her own hour.
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?
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 finaldénouementcame 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.