It was one of the last days of the year 33 B.C. The sun went in and out amongst the flake-like clouds, making it impossible to know whether sunshine or cloud-drifts would prevail. Octavius studied the sky long and earnestly and finally decided that the way the birds were flying meant weather favourable for his undertaking. He started toward the Senate.
The crowd had begun to gather. There were beggars asking alms and slaves carrying provisions. Women were collected about the public market-places where beans, fish, and sausages were displayed. Half-naked children, brown as crickets, paddled in the gutters. Troops of donkeys, bearing wicker baskets, chariots, litters, blocked the streets. Twelve lictors ran before the Imperator to clear the way, but in spite of that his pallor and nervousness were noticed by the people in the street. He was under a strain, and as he took his seat in the chair of honour he felt beneath his toga for the poignard which he always carried there. Since the assassination of Cæsar asenatus consultehad forbidden the wearing of arms in the Senate chamber. But to-day, on the eve of a debate, the consequences of which no one could divine, all precautions were legal. At least so Octavius thought!
At the first instant the opposing parties gauged each other at a glance. Placing a heavy portfolio before him, filled with his various accusations against Antony, Octavius opened the discussion. Faithful to his former tactics, which had been so successful with the people, he launched his opening diatribes against Cleopatra:
"This incestuous daughter of Ptolemy the Piper, descendant of the Lagidæ, is our worst enemy. Threatened in her own country by those who abhor her loose ways and the dangers of her insecure government, she has made use of the power of Rome for her own protection. Intoxicated with her success, this mad woman has even dreamed of destroying our capital. She is preparing to attack us, I tell you, and with a shameful army of slaves and eunuchs is planning an invasion of Italy!"
The effect of this speech was instantaneous. The uproar that greeted it was deafening. Furious with rage, the Senators rose in a body, and with angry gestures raised their togas like the wings of gigantic, ferocious birds.
A direct attack on Antony required greater courage. Octavius felt that the least false step might result in an irreparable downfall. Confident, however, of the convincing force of his arguments, he commenced his address. He denounced Antony, not only for having taken for his own use the newly acquired provinces, but for having deliberately made over the greater part of them to the Queen of Egypt.
"Yes, not content with robbing and despoiling his own country, this infatuated lover of Cleopatra has offered to this alien woman Armenia and Media, the territories of Calcida, as well as Phoenicia, with Tyre and Sidon, and the enormous revenues from Palestine." Octavius paused between the name of each country in order to let the wrath of the people have ample time to seek expression. The protestations came with precipitate and overwhelming violence.
"The scoundrel! The traitor! Our beautiful lands! Our richest provinces!" Shouts of indignation filled the hall.
Until that moment Antony's staunch supporters had thought it wise to keep silence. When the first roars began to subside Caius Sossius commanded silence. He announced an important proclamation. That very morning he had received a notice that would give the lie direct to these attacks, which the conqueror of the Parthians had fully expected. In eloquent terms, the Consul recalled the recent brilliant deeds of Mark Antony. "And," he thundered, "it is he, the valiant hero of all these victories, whose life has been risked again and again for the glory of his country, for the safety of Rome, who is now being vilified because he is not here to defend himself!"
The tide changed on the instant. "It is cowardly! It is unworthy of us," cried a dozen voices. Encouraged by this evidence of sympathy, Sossius went on with greater emphasis. "These much decried donations to Alexandria, what are they but annexations of Rome? As Egypt is, or will be to-morrow, a Roman province, why is there any discontent? This wealth of the Orient, what is it used for? It is equipping the Roman army, feeding the soldiers of the Republic. It is building temples, it is erecting barracks, to make the name of our Capital revered throughout the world! Where is our loss?"
"Moreover," continued the friend of Antony, with a respectful inclination to the august assembly, "in regard to the rights of the Senate, the Imperator requests that you either ratify the measures that he has taken in the service of his country, or, if you disapprove of his action in the matter, to turn them down."
The tide had unmistakably turned in Antony's favour. Whatever errors he had committed in his infatuation for Cleopatra, he had been the dominant figure in Roman warfare during the past ten years; the only one who had accomplished great deeds and who had been, through all, a noble citizen of Rome.
Octavius felt the ground giving way beneath his feet. Pale as the statues around him, he felt as though after this first tilt he might probably end with his head in the dust. His swelling portfolio, however, was still full of accusations against Antony. His weapons were not yet exhausted. He took his courage in both hands and again began to speak. He went over the deeds of Antony and Cleopatra during the festivities at Alexandria, giving, in exaggerated and revolting detail, the experiences of those nights of debauchery in the streets of the great city. He dwelt on the investiture of Cleopatra's bastard children, especially the fact that Cæsarion was treated with the honour and ceremony belonging to a Roman prince in being presented to the Roman legions as the lawful heir of Cæsar.
Here there was an interruption. Why harp on an old grievance? The Republic was not a dynasty, there was no sense in taking umbrage at so-called heirs. All that was merely part of the masquerading. If Antony had joined in such frivolous amusements it was regrettable certainly, it showed a lack of dignity. But, on the other hand, the same thing had occurred at Rome, when he had had his chariot drawn by lions. Such puerile nonsense was ridiculous but scarcely deserving of severe reproof.
The current was propitious now and Sossius took advantage of it to remind the people that the policy of Octavius, at the time of Cæsar's death, had been reprehensible in the extreme. Here Tufius interposed with the comment that it was useless to recur to things so far in the past.
"I speak of the things of yesterday," retorted the Consul. He then explained briefly that in destroying the Triumvirate and altering it into a dictatorship for two, Octavius had appropriated for himself the share belonging to Lepidus. In seizing the African provinces, with, their ships, cavalry, infantry, and all their accessories; in confiscating for his personal use the Sicilian land wrested from Sextus Pompey; in dividing the best parts of Italy among his own soldiers, leaving no portions for the veterans of the other armies, had not Octavius offended justice and exceeded the limits of his power far more than Antony had ever done?
Another outburst, equalling the one provoked by the opening speech of Octavius, began. The assembly was completely won over to Antony's cause. Sweat stood in great drops on the forehead of Octavius. He felt the sheath of his hidden poignard press against his left side. For the moment he had the sensation of being trapped, and with clenched teeth and flaming eyes he glared about him defiantly. He was accused of aspiring to the office of supreme magistrate! How could he give irrefutable proof of his disinterestedness?
"I will resign every office that I hold; I will give up all public duties and go back to private life as a plain Roman citizen, on the sole condition that my colleague, Antony, does the same!" he cried.
This struck the right note. Every one was weary of the dictatorship and wanted to return to a republican form of government. But the issues then at stake were too grave to permit a hasty decision. Besides, Octavius did not have the confidence of the people. His former attitude had given good ground for suspicion. The very moment when he was ostensibly giving up his power might be precisely the instant when he was exploiting his position in order to retain it.
Undecided as to what was to be the next step, the Consuls declared that in Antony's absence immediate action was impossible. A conference with him was essential. Ahenobarbus proposed going to Alexandria to obtain his resignation. The majority endorsed this course and the vote was held over for a later meeting.
The situation was perplexing for Octavius. Again he realized how deep a hold Antony had on the affections of the people. It was the same old story. How could he hope to defeat a rival who had not only a formidable army at his back, but wealth and popularity in addition? He went to consult his friends, as he always did when in a quandary.
Mæcenas lived in a villa on the Esquiline hill, commanding a magnificent view. Rome lay in majestic state on the banks of her river below, and the soft beauty of the Campagna stretched out to the Sabine Hills along the horizon. As Octavius drew near Mæcenas went out to meet him with outstretched hands. His affection for the Imperator was sincere and loyal, as is shown in various letters from him. "I love you better than myself. Where you lead, I will follow. Whatever comes to you I will share, for my life is inseparably bound up in yours."
The two friends sat down near the brazier, which filled the hall with warmth and the fragrance of incense. Octavius recounted what had just happened in the Senate. Mæcenas admitted that there were grave difficulties, but he contended that these were only temporary and that they could be adjusted. In Antony's present state of over-excitement he would undoubtedly do something to rouse keen disapproval, if not a serious disturbance. In the meantime Agrippa should make secret preparations for war, while Octavius devised some means of turning the tide of public opinion once more in his favour. A policy of strict conservatism, as opposed to the wild Egyptian schemes of Antony, seemed the wise move at the moment. The oldest temple in Rome, that built in the time of Romulus in honour of Jupiter Feretrius, was falling into ruins. Octavius must give orders for its reconstruction. He must also complete the building of the Pantheon, begun by Cæsar to the glory of Mars.
While the two friends were planning for the future, Athenodorus came in. His practical mind confirmed these suggestions. He proposed that they consider something to please the Plebeians, for their opinion carried great weight as to popularity. During the summer months the Roman populace suffered cruelly from scarcity of water. It would be an excellent device to repair the aqueduct of Marcia, and to open cheap baths, in order that the working classes might have the same comfort and refreshment that the Patricians enjoyed in their luxurioussudatoria.
These constructive works met Octavius's entire approval. In the near future they might prove to be his strongest support. But the moment was not propitious for the carrying out of the plans. He had barely had time to summon the architects and go over their drawings, when a thunderbolt fell!
Unknown to Cleopatra, Antony had always kept up friendly relations with Octavia. In the first place, he was really grateful for all the assistance that this noble woman had rendered him. In the second, he had the more powerful motive of expecting further services! They exchanged letters frequently, and, as the sister of Octavius, she could keep her husband fully informed of all that was going on in Rome. She was, in addition, the most desirable of mediators, for her delicate hands held the thread of communication between the brothers-in-law and she was careful not to break it off. She also constantly entertained a set of Antony's friends in her house on the Palatine hill, and these were always ready to discuss the virtues of their hero and do honour to him in his absence. With warm affection she had looked after the education not only of her own children, but of those that Fulvia had borne Antony as well.
Unlucky chance, or one of those acts of treachery that often occur in the nests of intrigue which form in kings' palaces, had thrown one of Antony's letters to his wife into the hands of Cleopatra. Its affectionate tone and the promise of a visit in the near future precipitated a crisis which was bound to come. In the Queen's heart, uneasy always with memories and fears, the arrow of jealousy struck deep. "After all he has promised me!" she cried bitterly. Then came the inevitable reaction, natural to a highly strung, nervous nature that could endure no grief, and again she cried: "I will have my revenge!"
Charmian, who never left her side, lived in a perpetual state of terror. She was divided between love for the Queen and dread of her passionate temperament that was always courting dramatic situations. Had not an augur predicted that the love affair of Antony and Cleopatra would end in blood? She longed to divert her beloved mistress from the passion that threatened to drive her mad. Kneeling before her, she laid her head on the Queen's trembling knees. "Why should you suffer thus?" she said. The girl felt her shoulder warm from the Queen's feverish touch. "If I could only hold that cursed woman here in my hands and by a thousand tortures make her expiate the sufferings she has brought me!" Cleopatra's voice shook with rage. Charmian tried to calm her, but the wound was already festering and the venom of hate was spreading through her veins. With a sudden frenzy she included the whole world in her vengeance as she swore: "I will go to Rome itself. I will compel Octavius and his sister to go to war, and with bound hands she shall follow my chariot to the Capitol!"
This extravagant fancy was distressing to Charmian. As in a mist she saw the deadly whirlpool sucking them all down in its depths. But wise counsel is impotent in dealing with a mind wild with jealous desire to seize and rend its prey. Charmian's gentle words were not regarded.
The afternoon was nearly over. The air grew less stifling and fresh puffs of fragrance were wafted in from the magnolia trees. All the shades of the rainbow shone in the sunset light. It was the hour when Antony, refreshed and perfumed, after his daily siesta, came to seek Cleopatra. She was lying on her couch and, annoyed at his being a little late for their rendezvous, she put her elbow on the sumptuous cushions and held her head as though it were heavy with aching. His step made her tremble, and she had a sullen, troubled expression that indicated a coming storm.
Antony had no chance to escape. The fatal letter, unrolled from its mother-of-pearl rod, lay on the table. For this letter, for his crime of being friendly with his faithful wife, he would have to pay dearly. As he drew near she overwhelmed him with a flood of violent reproaches. He was a man who could not keep his word. While she, happy in their being together, and awaiting impatiently the coming announcement of their marriage, was full of trust in him, he was playing her false, planning to leave her. He listened silently, and when her first outburst had subsided he tried to plead with her. The political situation compelled him to maintain cordial relations with the sister of Octavius, as she was the most valuable and dependable intermediary in his connections with the Government at Rome. Her help was necessary for the protection of his interests there. If he severed this alliance it would entail a war for which he was not prepared. But Cleopatra paid no heed. She was burning with jealousy and a desire for vengeance. She would put an end, once and for all, to this rival who had alienated Antony's affections. She would require that Antony, by an official repudiation of Octavia, should break the last bond that held him to the Occident, and thenceforth he should belong to her alone.
Antony was fresh from an interview with Ahenobarbus, who had arrived at Alexandria the day before, bringing news of the active campaign against him that was going on in Italy and warning him of the consequence of his continued stay in Egypt. If the thunderbolts that had been let loose in the Senate had been turned aside it was solely due to the loyalty of his friends there, but they had defended him because they were counting on his speedy return to Rome, on his skill in handling the situation when he came. They would brook no insult to his noble wife. She had the entire sympathy of the State and he would offend public opinion if he dared to put the Egyptian woman in her place. No one would come to his defence a second time. Patricians and Plebeians alike would be on the side of Octavius and his sister, and their warm sentiments would be roused in behalf of the abandoned wife and her children.
In a gleam of reason, the last perhaps that this warrior-statesman ever knew, Antony saw clearly the dire results of his carrying out the demand of his fierce mistress. Quivering with excitement he tried to ward off the coming tragedy.
"We must be cautious. What demon of jealousy possesses you? The astounding rupture that you are asking me to make will in no way affect our mutual relations. All my life is yours, and only yours. I have no thought but to serve you!"
But Cleopatra was too enraged to listen to reason. With her long, snake-like eyes, her luscious scarlet mouth, her body curled in a corner of her divan, she seemed like an impregnable fortress.
"I will not yield. I have had enough of hearing the Romans call Octavia your wife and me your concubine. I desire that by a solemn, official deed you proclaim me, Cleopatra, as your only lawful wife."
The struggle this time was neither so long nor so violent as the one of three years before when Antony, moved by the tender devotion of Octavia, had defended her against his mistress. To-day, far away, given over to a life of uninteresting virtue, she had less power to hold his affection. Cleopatra's insatiable passion won the victory and led to that entire subjugation of will in which a man is no longer a man. His spirit as well as his flesh was conquered. He was as wax in her hands, and when she asserted that Octavia had always been the secret ally of her brother, and that both at Tarentum and at Rome Antony had been their plaything, he made no protest and his silence was like acquiescence. But that was not enough. To gain all she wanted it was necessary to rouse in Antony a passionate hatred, and as this would not have been possible against the tender, loving wife who had been so faithful to him, she brought up the name of Octavius to awaken all the fierce animosity in his soul. To a man of his temperament, impressionable, weak, but devoured with ambition, she held up the poltroon Octavius as the man who was seizing the supreme power.
"So you will be content with our little eastern kingdom," she sneered, "while he holds dominion over all the countries from Illyria to the Pillars of Hercules!"
Antony's cheeks blanched. This vision of his colleague's outranking him, possessing greater power, master of vaster territories than his own, sent a shiver through his whole being. Such hatred must have an outlet. Twice already these rivals had been at the point of flying at each other's throats; of destroying each other; twice the tiny hand of a woman had intervened. To-day it was again a woman's hand that slipped in between them, but this time to stir up anger, to corrupt, to embitter, and this time war was inevitable.
Octavius had just come, as he did every few days, to see his sister. Although there was always an affectionate intimacy between them, to-day their voices were raised in a manner that suggested a difference of opinion, if not a sharp disagreement. The subject under discussion was the usual one, and the more Octavius accused Antony the more Octavia defended him.
"Antony is not so much in the wrong as you say. I understand his motives. He writes often. I know how dear Rome is to him, that he adores his children. Besides, we shall soon see him here."
"How can you deceive yourself so? Are you blind, my sister, to the infamous way he has treated you? Have you forgotten that he sent you back from Athens like a servant, without honour, without escort, without even the thanks that your generosity toward him deserved?"
No, Octavia had forgotten nothing, but her loving heart was ready to excuse all rather than lose the one she loved.
But Octavius had come to-day to make clear to her a plan which, personally, was not agreeable to him. Before publicly denouncing Antony he believed that he should first separate his wife from him, and make her an ally against the rival whom he wished to annihilate. He recounted Antony's shameful submission to the Egyptian, and dwelt upon the scandalous records of his life in Alexandria. How could he be so brutal? Why did not Octavia's sensitive face, reddening at the vile details, turning away, tortured, disarm this executioner? Pitilessly he went on. He wanted to search the very depths of her heart to find its tenderest spot. One day, on the parade grounds, with officers and soldiers bearing arms, the staff surmounted by the golden eagle in his hand, the Imperator was reviewing the troops. Suddenly a messenger approached and said a few words. Immediately, disregarding the military display arranged by his order, he left the grounds to rejoin Cleopatra, who had summoned him from no other motive than the caprice of being obeyed by one who was commanding so many men! Another time he was in the prætorium. The Tetrarch of Judea was bringing up some important questions in litigation. Antony alone was able to decide these, but he heard the royal litter coming and it acted like a wave of madness. Without listening to another word he fled from the assembled judges and was seen no more that day.
Octavius would have gone on indefinitely, for the list, more or less true, of Antony's misdeeds in Egypt was a long one, but his sister stopped him.
"It is enough; he has grave faults but he is my husband. He only has the right to break the tie that unites us. As long as he does not break it I will wait and hope." And though her voice trembled, her expression showed that her determination was not to be shaken.
A few days later this noble woman heard that Cleopatra's lover had repudiated his lawful wife! Nothing had availed; neither her generous goodness, her patience under indignities, nor that hope which is the heart's armour against the menace of destiny, nothing had prevented the fatal blow!
Poor Octavia! The home which her marriage had made her own, the room where in Antony's arms she had known happiness, the table where his deep laughter had made good cheer, the garden where they had breathed together the rich fragrance of summer evenings, she had to leave them all, to part with them for ever. The overwhelming sorrow left her listless, inert, like an instrument whose string is broken.
Octavius, who lost no chance to forward his own interest, and for whose personal advantage each insult inflicted on his sister made capital, had summoned the crowd. Notified as to the day and hour that Octavia was to leave the palace, the throngs filled the entrances. When they saw her, surrounded by her children, her own as well as the son and daughter of Fulvia who had been left in her care, there was a great clamour. Her wrongs stirred their indignation, and scornful epithets were heard concerning the libertine who, for the sake of the Egyptian sorceress, had abandoned a wife of illustrious blood and noble character.
Octavia kept silence. She did not want Antony's name to be cursed on her account. With the idea of appeasing the crowd she held up her youngest son, who was the living image of his father. The unhappy woman hoped that the sight of this beautiful, innocent child might arouse some affection for the father.
Antony's divorcing the sister of Octavius was equivalent to a declaration of war. In spite of the totally different natures of the two Triumvirs, their rivalries, deceptions, the tricks they had played on each other, this gentle woman had been a powerful bond between them. With her and through her there had always been the hope of maintaining a balance. Now everything was upset. The violent shock had dislodged the masks and the bare faces showed fear.
Which would be master? Although the real cause of the quarrel was the desire for supremacy, there was now great pretence of its being a struggle for ideals. The words "honour," "patriotism," a "return to republican institutions," were in the mouths of the people. It was difficult to choose between two competitors when each claimed to be fighting to save the honour of the country. Octavius lied when he declared that he was ready to lay aside his power; and Antony was not honest when he stood forth as the champion of liberty. As in the great contentions between Cæsar and Pompey, the public was divided, each voter selecting the chief who seemed most likely to advance his interests. The feeling was such that even the children had their share in it. Athenodorus tells of seeing two little street urchins in a vigorous fisticuff. "Why are you beating each other like that?" he asked. "We are playing; I am Octavius," replied one, who had just been chased to the edge of a ditch. "And I am Antony," joined in the other, tilting his little chin proudly.
Although the divorce had produced a most unfavourable impression and had lessened the number of Antony's partisans, yet public opinion was not altogether against him. His glorious past, his strength, his riches, made him an adversary to be feared, and one to be attacked only on ground that was wholly unprepared. To destroy his good name and to vilify him as the slave of Egypt's Queen was Octavius's policy.
However patient he had sworn to be, Octavius was growing tired of working underground like a mole, when suddenly the gods, who seemed on his side, sent him an unexpected assistant. Munatius Plancus, who in the Egyptian celebrations, clad in green silk and crowned with reeds, had played the role of Glaucus, "the handy man" as Cleopatra had scornfully called him, had just arrived in Rome. Whether from a desire to avenge his wounded vanity, or a capacity for seeing which way the wind was turning, this contemptible creature, suddenly separated from his former companions, told vile tales about them which made him a welcome guest in the halls of Rome. But this social success was not sufficient for a man as poverty-stricken as he was vulgar. He knew that a discovered treason would mean money to him, so he gained the ear of Octavius and told him about a document of great importance. It was the will which Antony had revised on the eve of his departure for Persia, a will making Cleopatra his sole heir, dividing the Oriental empire between her and her children, and, infatuated even in death, commanding that in whatever land he should die his body be transported to rest near his beloved mistress. Plancus did not have the actual document in his possession, for, faithful to his mission three years before, he had deposited it safely in the hands of the Vestal Virgins; but he knew every word of it and could reproduce it to the letter.
The Romans attached great importance to the ceremony of burial. It was their universal desire to rest near their own people, in the sacred ground of their ancestors, and where their children would lie in their turn. The thought of dying and of having their graves in foreign lands was horrible to all soldiers, and every one who could afford it left directions for his body to be brought back to Italy.
Of all Antony's follies through his mad love for Cleopatra, this desire to be buried in Egypt was the most detestable, and the one that influenced public opinion most bitterly. Octavius felt that if it were moved by this sacrilege he could count on rousing the wrath of the Senate and turning the vote against the author of such a crime. The difficulty was to procure the proof.
The Temple of Vesta, modelled after the one at Delphi, stood near the Forum, at the foot of the Palatine hill. Octavius had only to cross the Via Sacra to be at its doors. He set forth with an escort and preceded by twelve lictors, resplendent with the insignia of the Government. On reaching the entrance he signalled for them to remain without, and wrapped in his purple toga he mounted the sacred steps unattended.
The priestesses of Vesta lived in the shadow of the altars. They were young girls of noble birth, clad in snow-white robes with veils over their heads. They had profound reverence for their different duties. These consisted in keeping a perpetual flame burning before the altar, and guarding the Palladium, that sacred statue of Pallas Athene saved from burning Troy. They were held in such high esteem that whenever any of the Roman Pontiffs, Proconsuls, or Generals were called away from Rome, they confided their most precious treasures and priceless papers to their care, rather than risk the chances of travelling with them. For what safer place could be found than this temple whose guardians had for their motto the words: "Die rather than break your oath."
When Octavius made known the object of his visit these noble women were filled with righteous indignation. What! Give up anything left in their care! Be false to their faith! Betray the confidence which had relied on their word!
The wily visitor pleaded that in a case of service to one's country such scruples were absurd; but the Vestal Virgins were not to be persuaded. Force alone could drag from them what they had sworn to guard.
Octavius was cautious. His instincts were against using force, and besides, he feared the criticism which any abuse of his power might bring down on his head. Sometimes, however, necessity compels. The lictors outside the temple were called in; a few blows of a mallet, and the coffer that a warrior had trusted to guard his treasure gave up its secret.
In the Senate the reading of Antony's will produced the effect that Octavius had counted on. For his side it was a triumph. But Antony's friends were speechless with consternation. Was he so faithless to his country that he did not even wish to be buried there? Had he, in truth, ceased to be a Roman? Octavius, however, was severely criticized for his conduct. Caius Sossius laid stress on the shameful act. A will was sacred. No one had the right to question what a man ordered done after his death. Such interference was illegal; besides, a will could be changed at any time! Some Senators, faithful to the old traditions, held this view and were incensed at the outrage offered to the Vestal Virgins. The thing had been done, however, and its consequences were serious.
It was the moment to drive the dagger to the hilt. Octavius brought up all the old grievances. He emphasized the proof of Antony's disloyalty. There were additional charges. One of the surest means of transforming the rich Patricians who sat in the Senate into pitiless judges was to bring up any injustice done to Rome in regard to art. He held up Antony as a collector for the Queen of Egypt, who had robbed Greece and Asia of their rarest treasures in order to offer them to his mistress. The famous statue of Diana, once the glory of Ephesus, now adorned the portico of the Bruchium. The two hundred thousand volumes from the library of Pergamus, intended to enrich the Roman collection, had they not been shipped to Alexandria? A murmur ran around the Senate chamber. Ominous frowns were visible. All these men whose dwellings were enriched with books, rare furniture, beautiful marbles, collected in their travels or during their rule over various countries, were as indignant as though Antony's offence were without precedent. In hypocritical anger they demanded that a vote on his actions be taken without delay. The urns were passed, and flouted, scorned, pronounced unworthy of office, Antony was deprived of all the functions that the Republic had given into his keeping.
Complete as was the victory, it did not satisfy Octavius. These assemblies, as he well knew, were subject to quick and complete changes of attitude. What this wily tactician wanted was to give his adversary a killing blow from which he would never recover. A military victory was the only certain means of putting this conqueror of the Parthians definitely out of the running. But how could his compatriots be induced to take arms against him? They were tired of civil wars and nothing would be more distasteful than to rise against Mark Antony, the only great citizen who, since Cæsar, had made the Roman flag fly over new territories.
The same old subterfuge which had succeeded before was once more adroitly employed by Octavius. A few days later, leaving out any allusion to Antony in his address, not even mentioning that name which was always likely to create enthusiasm, he spoke of the indisputable enemy, the one that was certain to rouse public sentiment. The tiresome repetition of Cleopatra's ambition, her persistent intention of attacking Rome, these weapons had lost none of their power. The mere mention of her name created almost ferocious excitement. In a second the whole Senate was standing up, hurling curses on the hated Egyptian.
At last war was declared. Faithful to the custom consecrated by his ancestors, Octavius repaired to the square just beyond the Pomoerium, where the temple of Bellona, majestic and radiant, stood out against the clear blue of the sky. Amidst the acclamations of the wrought-up crowd the Dictator threw a gold javelin whose point sunk in the pedestal at the feet of the goddess. This ceremony was to place the army under her divine protection while declaring at the same time the righteousness of the campaign that had just begun.
Nominally the war was directed against foreign forces, but who could mistake its import? Antony was the protector of Cleopatra, and on both sides Roman blood would stain the battlefield.
Antony, however, had not awaited the challenge from Rome. Like the good captain that he was he had planned to forestall the enemy and take the offensive. Sixteen legions commanded by Canidius were ordered to the coast of Asia Minor, and he was on his way to join them. A sure means of refuting the libellous statements of Octavius occurred to him. He would put aside his mistress and appear alone at the head of his troops. That would show whom they had to fight.
But Cleopatra objected to this device. She had never forgotten what had happened when Antony left her once before. She would take no chance of having her lover caught a second time in a Roman trap. With his impressionable character it was necessary literally to keep him in full view, to perform continual incantations over him. So she refused to be separated from him. Where he went she went. He should plan no undertaking, no negotiation, without her knowledge and supervision. In vain the Imperator dwelt on the inconvenience of having a woman present in the camps. In vain Ahenobarbus, with characteristic rudeness, declared that if they were to be encumbered with a court he would retire. Through everything Cleopatra held to her resolution. "Whatever happens," she replied to the malcontents, "nothing shall separate me from Antony!"
A secret understanding between them doubtless enabled her to take this stand. In any case she acted with the unquestionable authority of one who supplied the ways and means. It was her unlimited wealth that paid the expenses of the campaign. It was her fleet of two hundred brave ships, well-armed and equipped, that prevented the enemy's attack in the Mediterranean. Whatever was behind it, her decision prevailed, and in the first days of spring, on board the galleyAntoniad, which was decorated as for a fête, the enamoured pair embarked for the final stage of their destiny.
Never had the treacherous Mediterranean been clearer or more tranquil. The blue of sea and sky were blended in soft tones of azure. At sunset amber-coloured ripples passed over its surface, mingled with waves of rose. The sound of the wind in the sails toned in with the music from lyres and flutes. Nights of love followed the joyous days, and there was no hint of the fierce storm that was advancing toward the frail vessel.
This was only a prelude. At Samos, where they landed, at Ephesus, where they remained for some time, the lovers took up again the pomp and festivals of Alexandria. The old Asiatic town, accustomed though it was to luxury, had never seen such displays as these. Cortèges of kings, crowned with tiaras and clad in embroidered robes, came every day to Antony, bringing soldiers, horses, provisions, everything that could contribute to the success of his campaign. Desirous that they should carry back to their own countries an exalted impression of their sovereign, Cleopatra made every effort to outshine them. Each new arrival served as a pretext for a sumptuous display. Spectacle followed spectacle, and princes coming from distant lands to do battle were astonished to find, side by side with the iron-covered chests, brass chariots, and death-dealing engines, troops of acrobats, mountebanks, and their paraphernalia, totally out of place in camp life.
At the hour when the whole world was straining under the weight of armaments, when masses of people were on the point of collapse, when the fate of empires was in the balance, this was the way that the mistress of Mark Antony chose to flaunt her overweening faith that the victory would be hers.
Antony was far from sharing her confidence. The time for frivolity was over. He recognized the perils of his position. Divided between the urgent pleas of his comrades-in-arms, urging him to carry the war at once into Italy and give battle there before Octavius had time to concentrate his forces, and the fair sorceress who was coaxing him to dally, he was pulled both ways. It was a tremendous game and the chances were not in his favour. To play it successfully cool judgment was essential; and that had never been his strong point. The nervous excitement of his life with Cleopatra and the amorous demands of her jealous despotism had robbed him of what little he possessed. His generals added to his perplexities. They were convinced that their Imperator would never lead them to victory as long as he was under the malign influence of this woman, and they determined to compel her to leave the camp.
Ahenobarbus, as always, had the most courage and he took the initiative. He had an interview with the Queen, and, knowing the value of his disinterested services, he made no pretence of flattery, but declared brusquely that the confusion which her presence and that of the court was creating exceeded even his worst fears, and that her proper place was at Alexandria, where her ministers were calling for her. Although Antony was of the same mind, he was powerless against the beguilements of a mistress who responded to his most earnest arguments by embraces, kisses, and tears.
Cleopatra was more unwilling than ever to leave Antony exposed to the reproaches of those austere Romans who surrounded him. Harrowed by their insistence, would he be able to resist that reconciliation with Octavius which she knew many of them desired to bring about? In order to go on with her role of the warlike Egeria, some support was necessary. This she obtained, by promises and cajolings, from Canidius, the general who had most influence with Antony. He took the opposite side from that of Ahenobarbus, declaring that it was neither just nor wise to banish an ally whose gold, ships, and soldiers formed such an important part of their army; and, with the suavity of a courtier, added that he could not see how the counsels of a great Queen, who was as noble and brave as she was beautiful, could possibly harm an army whose courage she upheld by her own.
The opposing party was not beaten. The most ardent among them was Quintus Dellius, for he had all of Antony's interests at heart. This wise old juggler in politics had seen very quickly the schemes of the Egyptian and had realized that they were entirely contrary to his own advantage and that of his fellow Romans. He decided that at all hazards he would save his chief from his present peril, and without circumlocution he said:
"Cleopatra is leading us to ruin!"
Enraged at this accusation of the woman who held his heart as well as his reason in her hands, Antony cried:
"What are you saying? What right have you to make such an assertion?"
Dellius was ready with explanations which were summed up in his next speech:
"I tell you that this daughter of the Lagidæ does not bring, cannot bring the same soul to this war that we Romans have!"
"Cleopatra's interests and mine are one and the same," answered Antony, haughtily.
Dellius could not let that assertion pass.
"You are mistaken. Cleopatra is Egypt's sovereign. As long as her crown is secure, provided she preserves the supremacy of the Orient, and the commerce which fills her coffers with gold——"
A gesture from Antony cut him short. The shrewd diplomat realized that while arousing the Imperator it might not be bad policy to reassure the lover.
"Cleopatra loves you. Your precious body is more than all the world to her. But can she protect your power as we, your friends, can?—the defenders of your cause who have left everything to follow your standards? If this power is lost what will become of all of us? Ruined, hunted, condemned to flee from the vengeance of Octavius, what remains for us all but exile?"
The Imperator strode up and down his tent. He breathed heavily; his emotions seemed to choke him. Without having put them in actual words these truths perhaps had been already in his mind. Now, as they were laid definitely before him, he had a sudden desire to see clearly, even to the foundations of the situation.
"Speak!" he commanded. "What reason have you for thinking that the Queen has given up her ambition to reign with me in the Capitol at Rome?"
"The advice she is giving you!"
"You know what she advises?"
Dellius promptly recalled the number of times that the Queen had opposed their going forward to battle. Only a few days before at Corcyra, at Leucadia, when all the conditions were propitious, she had invented excuses for deferring action.
"It makes me believe that Cleopatra fears defeat less than she dreads a victory which would make you master of Rome!"
Antony made a signal for his officer to leave him. He needed to be alone. His tent, but feebly lighted by a smoking lamp, was very dim. He dropped on the couch, on which a lion's skin was spread. A storm was near. He felt the earth tremble, and rumbling thunder filled the air. It seemed as though everything most precious to him had received a sudden shock and were whirling around him. Could it be true that Cleopatra no longer coveted for him the rank of master of the world?
In reality Cleopatra had not ceased to desire victory for her lover, but she desired it in a manner which, as Dellius had pointed out, differed from that of the Romans. They, eager to return to their homes and enjoy the rewards that they felt they deserved, urged on the Imperator a war to the finish; she did all in her power to hold him back. Whether she had lost confidence in those warlike virtues that she herself had helped to weaken, and foresaw the possibility, if she risked all, of losing the heritage of her fathers; whether she dreaded that complete triumph which would lead Antony to Rome, she had given up her boundless ambitions and was now content with a policy of division. If the dominion of the Orient, commanded by Antony, were assured to her, she would cheerfully have abandoned Italy and its barbarous provinces, Gaul, Spain, and Mauritania, to Octavius and the Republic. Was this unexpected and complete change of purpose caprice or inconsistency?
To understand these vacillations, Cleopatra's career should be followed step by step from its beginning to the struggles which now racked her heart and soul. The young girl who was mistress of the middle-aged Cæsar had no thought but to use her powerful lover for her own best advantage; to obtain the security of her throne and the restoration of her sovereign rights. The meeting with Antony at Tarsus had made another woman of her. This bold son of Hercules roused all her passions and the axis of her life was out of place. Tender love-making replaced former ambitious desires. Jealousy and hatred entered into her soul and the peace of the world was in danger. If when with Antony she had kept the level head and wise reasoning of her youth; if she had let the conqueror of the Parthians carry out his ambitious plans, their interlaced names, instead of that of Octavius, might have been inscribed on the Pantheon of history.
But love had taken possession of her and its perpetual suspicions left her no peace. If Antony entered Rome as victor, what would become of her? And how could she combat that Aristocracy that hated her, as she had been able to do when she was sixteen? What Cæsar could not accomplish, how could this lover bring about? He was no longer young, and she knew that he was weak. These thoughts tormented her. In the midst of new and varied interests of his own would he still belong to her? Would he have the authority to impose her as Queen on his people; she, a foreigner, whom the voices of the gods and the people had alike rejected?
Her conduct can be traced to these fears. She planned to keep Antony away from Italy; to oppose any decisive action, and gradually bring about a battle on the sea where, in case of defeat, there was always Egypt as a refuge.
Antony's friends were only too conscious of the difficulties which beset him. They had no longer that faith which, on the eve of battle, is a stimulus to those who are to go forth, perhaps to meet death. His generals, too, seeing him so absolutely under the control of the hated Egyptian, began to lose confidence in him. They wondered whether the two might not betray them. The idea of a conspiracy against him began to grow. Since their leader refused to uphold the sacred memory of Pharsalus, of Philippi; since he was being turned aside from the goal for which they had risked everything, let another take his place, let a true Roman take his place! And by common consent they offered it to Ahenobarbus.
Through anxiety and distress this noble soldier had fallen ill. When his comrades came to seek him they found him stretched on a hard couch of palm leaves which served him for a bed. His teeth were chattering with ague. At their first words he turned away his head.
"I will not listen to you."
"Have you no longer any faith in our victory?" asked Dellius.
The old soldier's heart gave a leap. He knew that the troops, heedless of the orders which restrained them, were eager to draw their swords. With him at their head what glory might be theirs? But to take command of the army meant betraying Antony, his brother-in-arms, the close friend of his youth, the Imperator to whom he had sworn allegiance.
Dellius sat near him and reasoned with him:
"If you refuse, what will happen? The Egyptian will be our destruction. You cannot let us perish!"
With his burning hand Ahenobarbus grasped that of Dellius:
"Let me sleep now. I will give you an answer to-morrow."
Before dawn the next morning a ship set sail for Peloponnesus. Ahenobarbus left a letter on his table explaining the reason of his going. Everything around him was too distressing, too disturbing. In a question of remaining inactive, or of supplanting Antony as commander of the army, he preferred to retire.
This move was bitterly resented by his companions who had put their hopes in his leadership. All day they waited, thinking that he would regret his decision. When the sun set their eyes were still scanning the horizon. On the morrow, when it was certain that the best and worthiest among them would not come back, Dellius and Amyntas decided to join him.
When Antony heard that three of his generals had abandoned him, his brow was covered with icy sweat. His legs trembled; he leaned against the wall to keep from falling.
"The best of all," he whispered, and his eyes filled.
Before others he knew that he must control himself, and, to prevent their example being followed, he invented a tale to explain the departure. According to this falsehood, all three of these men were debauchees, who, unable to remain longer away from their mistresses, had gone to rejoin them. Other cases of desertion occurred, however. It was like an epidemic in which the poison spreads quickly.
After a scene with Cleopatra, who accused him of abusing her to Antony, Fortunius resolved to quit the nest of hate and intrigue which the headquarters had become. A boat, his baggage, everything was in readiness the following night when, before setting foot on the quay, the Senator was seized and put to death. Other executions followed and terror was widespread through the camp.
Antony was a changed man. He had completely lost his old, genial manner. The least annoyance upset him. A storm at sea served to convince him that all the vessels which had preceded him in the Gulf of Ambracia had gone to the bottom. A prey to a kind of vertigo, he was suspicious of his most devoted friends. He even accused Caius Sossius, the man who had given endless proofs of his friendship, of having delivered into the enemy's hands a detachment of troops in the passes of Epirus.
Like all his contemporaries, Antony had great faith in presentiments. They made an indelible impression on his mind. He saw the will of the gods revealed in them. He never failed to put on his right boot first; he kept silence in the dark; he always left a gathering if a mouse were heard; he never undertook anything without consulting the soothsayers, and only decided when they pronounced the comforting words: "Go, the blood of the victims speaks in your behalf." During the last summer that he spent at Athens, that summer of the year 31, when men's minds were seething like liquids in a vat, his statue, put up by the populace in his honour, had been overthrown in a thunderstorm. His terror was such that, while awaiting the doctors, his faithful Eros had to rub him vigorously with a strong ointment of warm oil and ammonia to revive him.
In the last days of the month of August his deep depression increased. As the inevitable day drew near, in place of the exhilaration, which formerly on the eve of battle had made him like a flashing god, he was sad, exhausted. It seemed as though all his muscular force had been suddenly taken away. For hours he sat motionless, as though the slightest movement would overwhelm him.
One morning, however, he came out of his torpor and went on board theAntoniadto review the fleet which lay in the Bay of Actium. It was there that Octavius, with his two hundred and fifty triremes with their curved prows, his hundred rapid despatch-boats, awaited him. Antony's fleet was much the larger. Well armed and equipped with formidable engines, it should have inspired him with confidence. He was cheered when his lieutenant, Alexas, called his attention to the good luck presaged by the swallows' nest in the rigging. His face lighted up; he jested.
"Before another moon the tiny galleys of Octavius will have fled before our ships, scattered like a pack of hounds."
At last his soldiers recognized their old leader. They gave him an ovation. But the next day other swallows flew in, killed the first and destroyed their young ones. And no sign brought such evil fortune as that!
Cleopatra, a true Greek, had the characteristic Grecian philosophy and did not share her lover's superstitions. To be convinced that she had taken all proper measures to insure success seemed more important to her than considering the blood of the victims! She had also that confidence in destiny which is natural to all beautiful women, who imagine that the gods, like men, will obey their wishes. Consequently she made her plans carefully, sure that they would succeed.
For several days the opposing armies had faced each other. Both sides hesitated. Confident in the equipment of Agrippa's fleet, Octavius wanted to force his enemy to a sea battle. Perplexed, uncertain, Antony could come to no decision. The sea was a new element for his war spirit; he had never won a victory on it, and his officers insisted that he should choose solid ground, the ground of Macedonia, rich in glorious memories.
The other influence, however, carried the day, for Cleopatra had so willed it. She knew that the results of a naval battle are rarely decisive and, in any event, retreat would be easier. It is not certain that she really preferred retreat to victory. Its results were hazardous, but the precautions taken showed that she was expecting it. If she did not, why had she arranged those relays between Greece and Egypt, why had she sent to places of safety the ships laden with gold and precious stones from which she was never separated? And why, above all, had she, on the very eve of battle, had the sails rolled up at the foot of the masts like sleeping sorceresses who would know how to wake themselves when the order for flight rang out? Thus all had been foreseen, prepared, made ready. She had only to be sure of that most uncertain and fragile of all things: the heart of a man.
The tie which bound Antony to his mistress, the fleshly bond that habit had, day by day, made stronger, was of the kind that rarely breaks. She had often had occasion to try its strength. In those latter days, especially, the necessity of having her beloved presence continually near him had become almost an obsession. The more uneasy and anxious he felt, the greater was his need of her. Nevertheless, Cleopatra was alarmed. It was never possible to know where the intoxication of victory, or the despair of a lost cause, might drag a leader. She knew that his will bent so easily that sometimes the giant became like a little child.
The night before the decisive day, the last day of August, which seemed in its splendour to have concentrated all the sunlight of the summer, the lovers spent the evening on board theAntoniad. Around them the brass-bound ships of the Egyptian squadron, like floating citadels with their stone towers, swung at anchor. Countless stars pricked the dark blue tent of night above them. For an endless moment they stood without exchanging a word. They heard the waves lapping against the side of the boat. It was a continuous sound, prolonged indefinitely, which seemed to express their thoughts before they had time to put them into words.
Antony sighed: "What will to-morrow bring forth?"
"Whatever happens, we have the invincible strength of being together."
Instinctively they grasped each other's hands in the darkness.
"Yes, our destinies are for ever bound together," Antony replied. Then, after a moment's hesitation: "If any disaster should occur, if either of us should ... the projectiles will rain down..."
She had imagined many possible calamities, but not that a chance blow might kill her lover. At the suggestion, she shivered.
"Antony, my beloved, do you not know that I could not live without you? I have guarded against that horror. If you die, this dagger, hidden in my girdle, will quickly put an end to me!"
In an ecstasy of almost fanatic ardour he pressed her to his heart. He kissed her hair, her mouth.
"I love you, I love you," he repeated over and over again, as though the magic words could save her from harm.
"And if I am killed, what will you do?"
"Killed! You! But that is not possible. On theAntoniadyou will be out of range of the battle!"
She looked at him dreamily.
"One never knows—we could be separated."
He could not imagine anything but death separating them. How could he live without his adored mistress, without her voice, her look? If she had her dagger ready, he had his sword!
She diverted him gently to less tragic possibilities.
"It is not only my death. One never knows what may happen to divide us."
But Antony was too wrought up to consider things calmly.
"Wherever you may be I will make a way to join you."
"You swear it?"
"I swear it!"
At last she had gained what she most desired. Let the worst come, they had exchanged vows, and she knew that at her signal her submissive lover would obey. Leave the rest to fate.
They listened silently, as though in the hope of catching some sign. Nothing, always nothing but the monotonous lapping of the waves against the keel. The stars began to grow dim. A rosy tint illumined the summit of the Othrys. Stirred by the first September breezes, the points of the great masts seemed to trace mysterious signs upon the sky. Dawn had come and the lovers must part.
"Good-bye, my beloved, until this evening," and they turned to their final preparations.
An hour later, as Antony was walking on the shore, he saw a centurion approaching, covered with scars.
"What can I do for you?" he asked, kindly.
"Oh, my Imperator, is it because you scorn us, our swords, our lances, that you are putting faith in those rotten planks?" said the man, pointing to the ships. "For the love of the gods leave the Egyptians and Phoenicians to paddle in water, since that is their vocation, and trust only in us, your old soldiers, who on solid ground will know how to conquer or to die!"
More moved than he cared to show, Antony put his hand on the brave soldier's shoulder and went on without reply.
It is said that at the very same hour Octavius met a man driving an ass, and asked his name.
"Fortune," answered the man, merrily, "and my beast is called Victory."
The coincidence is curious.
All possible suggestions and explanations have been offered concerning the battle of Actium. Nevertheless this famous day will always be an enigma, and the reason for the defeat will remain, for all time, a mystery.
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon. Since early morning the two fleets had been engaged in a fierce battle. As the bronze trumpets shook the roadstead, the galleys, like huge monsters, were rushing at each other. Missiles, arrows, balls of burning resin, whistled through the air. The steel prows of Octavius's fleet grazed the Egyptian mastodons. From their high towers these hurled showers of iron, which struck the enemy squarely. Both sides fought with equal ferocity and their blows were deadly. Limbs were scattered and heads fell, leaving only bloody masks in sight. No one could have predicted whose powerful machines would win, as they ruffled the surface of the water, a busy swarm that attacked, tormented, recoiled, and returned to the charge.
There was a sudden movement, an abrupt lunge, and theAntoniad, pushing her way through the surrounding ships, made for the open sea at full speed, followed by the royal squadron.
What incomprehensible motive had made the Queen act in this way? Why, with nothing as yet lost, or even compromised, had she given up the battle? Many have alleged that it was a deliberate plot with Antony. But why should they declare themselves defeated when they were not? No, Antony had no part in this premeditated flight. At first he was surprised, confounded. It could not be treason on Cleopatra's part! If from a variety of motives she did not want Antony to have the final victory, if she acted in a way to make it impossible, she surely did not wish Octavius to conquer? The avenger of Octavia, the representative of the Roman people from whom she had everything to fear? In the face of such astonishing contradictions the only answer is that human actions are not always logical, especially those of women!
From early morning Cleopatra had been watching the terrible battle. The unspeakable horrors had been too much for her overstrained nerves. For a moment the wing which protected her shifted. The danger of being surrounded, imprisoned, separated from Antony, threatened her. She was frightened. The assailants were very near, and her courage suddenly gave way. Standing on the bridge, like a frightened bird, she took her bearings. The wind blew from the north. It was favourable, and she took flight. Did she think of Antony and realize that in flying she condemned him? No, she remembered his promise to follow her, and her heart was comforted.
Unluckily she had divined only too well. At the first sight of the fleeing galleys Antony was puzzled. Was it a feint, a trap? Would their prows sweep around again and return to the battle more fiercely than ever? Then the truth flashed on him. His beloved was leaving him. Reason fled, and Cleopatra alone filled his heart and brain. Forgetting who he was and what was expected of him, losing all thought of those who were dying in his defence, he abandoned his post. A trireme was in waiting, all prepared for his flight, it is said. He threw himself on board and went after the woman who was leading him to ruin.
It was evening. A heavy silence weighed upon the sobbing waves. TheAntoniadhad stopped. At her stern Cleopatra was awaiting with palpitating heart the life or death issue of the day.
At last a light appeared and a boat approached. Antony came aboard; but no one would have recognized him. His head was bent and his shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the world. Without raising his eyes he crossed the bridge, followed by Eros, and reached the farther end of the ship. He dropped on a bench and buried his head in his hands. He felt as though he were at the bottom of an abyss. What had he done? What power, stronger than his will, had brought him there? For a soldier like himself to act as he had done! Was he a hero or a coward? A man with such triumphs behind him—and now he was praying for the darkness to hide him! What misfortune could be like his?
Cleopatra, leaning on the arms of Charmian and Iras to keep her from falling, watched him at a distance. He looked so morose that she did not dare to approach him. Was this the result of all her scheming? And then she saw the horrible blunder that she had committed in the name of love. If she had cared for Antony less, or loved him differently; if, from the outset of this unhappy campaign, she had only left him to follow his instincts as a warrior, he would not have been sitting there, a desperate man, his head bowed in shame! What a fool she had been! Why had she urged him to this battle against the will of all his counsellors? Why, above all, had she led this retreat ... this flight, which she herself could not understand, so quick and irresistible had been her impulse? She asked herself whether, if she had had any doubt as to Antony's following her, she would have sailed away as she had done. And she knew that if she had not had the certainty that wherever Fate took her he would come, she would have had greater strength to carry on the struggle; that she would have been braver in the face of danger. She had slipped away because of her selfish confidence that in Egypt she would have him for ever. And now, before this broken-down man, who had no further feeling for her, all her wild folly was borne in on her. How could she imagine that Antony could live when his honour was gone from him? She turned her tear-stained face to Charmian.
"Do you think he can ever forgive me?"
Worn out with the horrors of the long day, the Greek girl was trembling. The carnage had frozen her blood. At the moment of the Queen's flight, although her terror was abated, she had felt that disaster, greater than any that had yet come, was close upon them. Now she could only say:
"Antony is a ruined man!"
Iras was younger and had more faith in the power of love.
"Go to him, Madame, see how he suffers! Your presence will comfort him!"
Cleopatra took two or three steps toward him, but Eros warned his master, and Antony, clinging to his despair as to, a saving grace, shook his head as a sign that he wished to be left alone.
For three days and three nights he stayed there, without consolation. All his limbs seemed dead. He refused all food and was unconscious of the thirst that dried his tongue; but his mind was keenly awake to torture him.
His slave knew his humiliation of grief and said at last:
"Will you destroy the life that is so precious to us?"
"My life has no longer any value; glory was its only excuse for being. I am now like a man robbed and left naked by the roadside," replied Antony.
"But all is not lost; your friends..."
"I have no friends. Who stays by you in adversity? Foreseeing my defeat, no doubt those on whom I most counted have already deserted."
Crouching before the man whom he had always looked on as a demigod, Eros embraced his knees.
"Others are faithful. I know those who would shed their last drop of blood to save you."
"Yes, you, my poor Eros, I know it well. But it is not your blood that I need now, but a promise."
Eros looked at him lovingly, submissively.
"Swear that the instant I command you to do it, you will deliver me from the curse of existence!"
Startled by these words, the slave jumped up, rebellious.
"I will never swear that."
Antony turned away.
"Go away and let me hear no more of your devotion!"
It was brutal treatment to the slave who had just offered his life and would have given it willingly. He protested, stifling a sob:
"My sword, my hands, my life, all are yours, my master. But as to the oath that you demand, if I tried to execute it, the hand that seized the weapon would, in spite of all that I could do, pierce my heart rather than yours!"
Left to herself, now burning, now shivering with fever, Cleopatra was forlorn. Was Antony going to die? Did he no longer love her? She went over in memory the days when, at the least sign from her, he was ready to crush her to his heart. How many messages she had written him in these last three days that he had not taken the trouble to open; and again she had the torturing thought that she herself had destroyed her own happiness.
But grief is not endless, and passion, however shameful, is stronger than remorse. Days passed, and then Antony turned toward Cleopatra. They rested side by side, not daring to look into each other's eyes. The language of silence was sufficient. Words had no power to express their thoughts. There was no need to speak of their shattered hopes, to allude to that one fatal instant which had put them among the vanquished.
Deeper than their anguish, keener than the mortification to their pride, which had had no limits, was the intoxicating joy of being once more together. It wiped out all other feeling. It was irresistible, and their passionate love seemed all-sufficient, obliterating all other claims.
"Forgive me! I love you so!" his mistress pleaded, and Antony took her in his arms. Free for the moment from that remorse which was to poison all the rest of his life, he rested his head on the breast for which he had renounced the world. A kiss from Cleopatra was worth more than all the kingdoms of the earth!