They were again in Alexandria. The people, deceived by the couriers that Cleopatra, for fear of an insurrection, despatched in advance, had welcomed them as returning conquerors. The city, from one end to the other, was hung with garlands; waving palms and arches of flowers made a triumphal way for them.
But this joy was short-lived. When the tragic collapse at Actium was made public the people were stupefied. The defeats on land were equally appalling. Each day fresh details of the downfall were brought in by the arriving vessels. Then came the news of the surrender, practically without a struggle, of the legions of Canidius; then of the Oriental commands, which, one by one, had withdrawn from the lost cause, and by bribery and treachery were seeking the good graces of their new master. Last came the tidings that Italy, as one body, had turned against her former idol, and with the fury of a trust betrayed, was clamouring for his death.
For the first few days Antony still kept some illusions. With the remains of his scattered troops he imagined he might be able to save, if not the vast empire which his former victories had created, at least the portions of it which belonged to Cleopatra. When he knew that his troops at Arcamia had fled; that the army at Cyrenaica, the best protected point in Egypt, had gone over to Octavius; when he heard of the treason of Alexas, his lieutenant, who owed everything to him, and also that of Herod, whom he had made King of the Jews and showered with gifts—he felt as though the end of the world had come. So these were the men he had trusted! In his prosperity he had seen only their flattering faces and had been blind to their possible perfidy. With such an outlook he gave way to overwhelming depression. He went over the past with vain self-reproach and accusations. And above all he condemned his over-confidence and his lack of recognition of his adversary's forces.
The thought of Cleopatra only aggravated his anguish and remorse. With that terrible clearness which follows disaster he beheld her as his blinded eyes had never before seen her. All the mistakes he had made at her command vanished like phantoms in the distance. To-day she was the one to rally quickly to retrieve their failure, to build anew their cherished plans.
Cleopatra was not a woman to be subdued. However weak she had been at the critical moment, the resources of her energy were boundless. Whenever she seemed in the lowest depths of misery unlooked-for strength enabled her to rise again. Her strong love of life compelled her, in the face of all misfortunes and disappointments, to look toward the future. In his despair this buoyancy irritated Antony. He could not understand it. Her attitude, in contrast to his own, exasperated him. Seeing her now as the sole cause of his downfall, he wanted to get away from her. Many times he prepared to leave her, but always her beautiful arms were about his neck and held him back.
One day, however, in one of their frequent controversies, she reproved him sharply for his inertia, and his old pride rose up. It was too much for him to have to submit to reproaches from her who had been his undoing. Since his ways no longer pleased her he would put a wall between them. An old tower of the Pharaohs stood on the edge of the river; in memory of Timon of Athens he called it his Timonium, and shut himself up there, with the intention of spending the rest of his life alone.
Accustomed as she was to his violent changes of temper, Cleopatra was not seriously alarmed. "Antony a morose hermit-philosopher; it is too absurd!" she cried, a smile of incredulity on her lips. "I will give him just two weeks to be back at my feet."
In the meantime what should she do? Her active imagination was busy. She thought that should ill fortune decree that the conqueror of Actium be one day the master of Egypt, she must find a way to escape him. The far-off Indies offered ideal conditions. Travellers to that country had brought back fascinating accounts of it. If she and Antony had to seek a refuge, why not find it in that land of enchantment, where delicious visions filled the air, where the perfume of the flowers induced blissful slumber, where the constellations of the heavens, surpassing in brilliancy Orion, the Swan, and Cassiopeia, were reflected in the mirror-like waters? How was she to reach this magic land? It was useless to think of going by the Mediterranean and passing the Pillars of Hercules, which were guarded by Roman sentinels; but the Red Sea was there, then Gidda, then the Ganges! She need only move her fleet across the Isthmus of Suez and embark with all her treasures.
This romantic flight appealed to her adventurous spirit. She would not run the risk of being enslaved for lack of taking a short step. And she threw herself body and soul into this new enterprise. An army of workmen were sent to Pelusium. Enormous chariots, like those that formerly transported the stones of the Pyramids, were built, to be drawn by oxen.
Everything went on at great speed. Several ships had already crossed the sandy desert and were launched in the Gulf of Arabia when—she had not counted on this—agents of Octavius landed at Alexandria! Treason had done its work. All was destroyed, given over to pillage. What could not be carried off was cast to the bottom of the sea.
It was a cruel blow. Was she no longer to be that creature blest of the gods, before whom the elements yielded, like subjects to a queen? She had the feeling that henceforth, whatever she undertook, ill-fortune held her in its grip and would never loose its hold.
But it was not in her nature to yield. Since flight was impossible she would arrange for resistance. With redoubled energy she recruited fresh troops, equipped new ships, and negotiated alliances. Alexandria was fortified. In order to rouse the inhabitants to the defence of their city, she put Cæsarion's name on the list of the militia.
Cæsar's son was just eighteen years of age. Clad in his first armour, standing in his stirrups, this young man, who was meant to persuade rather than command, recalled the memory of his father.
In a clear voice he cried:
"Soldiers and citizens, your future king goes out to fight with you. Together we will use our swords against the usurper of Cæsar's name."
Applause broke out.
"Octavius shall not enter these gates," screamed a thousand voices that rang out like cymbals.
Cleopatra stepped out of her litter, from which she had been looking on at the scene. Many who had been applauding her son now prostrated themselves before her. Beautiful always, whether under the helmet that she wore in camp, or enveloped in the veil of Isis, she never failed to inspire admiration.
When he saw how much loyal devotion the Queen could still command, Antony was ashamed of his inaction. Besides, he could no longer stay away from her. Although his feeling for her was sometimes more like hate than love, she was necessary to him. One day, when his heart was heavier than usual, he realized how futile it was to try to endure life without her, and, full of repentance, he quitted his lonely retreat which had failed to bring him the coveted peace of mind.
Cleopatra was not surprised. She had known well that Antony, who in order to follow her had abandoned his post in battle, could not persist in his solitary confinement.
She welcomed him with open arms.
"Come to me! We have never needed each other as we do now!"
It was true; in their misfortune they had only each other. But their love had received a mortal wound. What each had done had placed an indelible shadow between them. Carried away by their violent natures they took up again the disputes and recriminations which had formerly forced them to separate.
Antony, especially, was incapable of hiding his rancour. At every turn he brought up the subject of the fatal day at Actium, which had marked him with dishonour like the brand of a red-hot iron. At other times their mutual sufferings drew these unhappy beings closer together. It made an indestructible bond. The hot breath of their guilt passed over them and they felt the irresistible need of uniting their forces.
They tried to go back to happier days and gather some of their old associates about them. With these old companions of their dissipations they formed a society, no less magnificent than The Inimitables, but with another name. This, which was called "Synapothanumenes"—inseparable in death—showed the state of mind of the two lovers. They had the same idea. They knew the god to whom their future libations would be consecrated. Their companions knew, also. Their feasts were as gorgeous as those of former days. They meant to rise above the common herd and show that they were determined not to endure a degrading lot, but to enjoy the days that remained to them.
Suicide was a virtue among the ancients; the final act imposed on them by misfortune. When life was no longer the distaff from which Clotho spun days of silk and gold, they gave it up, simply, as a useless thing. To put an end to himself Antony had the soldier's recourse, his sword, which, like that of Cato and of Brutus, was always at hand against the moment when he saw that the game was finally lost. Cleopatra's death would be more difficult. For those whose path through life has been strewn with flowers, whom youth still holds with magic arms, that last leap in the dark is a rude shock. To die was easy, but it must be done so that the accustomed harmony of life be not disturbed. How could she manage so that her lovely features, her fragrant body, should not be marred? As an artist who wanted to keep her place before the coming ages, pretending that her death had been a glorious one, Cleopatra had given much thought to this subject. She was prejudiced against using the ordinary poisons of the time. Perfectly familiar with the method employed to punish a conspirator, to get rid of an unworthy minister, or of an undesirable husband, she preferred the knife which left its deadly mark. The result of the usual poisons left her indifferent. What matter how many convulsions a dying enemy had? But for herself she wanted to study the matter carefully. She summoned Olympus, the celebrated physician.
He was versed in all branches of his art, having studied the effects of certain plants in Assyria, such as henbane and belladonna, which latter caused death or recovery, according to the strength of the dose.
In making her desire known to him the Queen said:
"Your fortune is made if you give me the means of quitting life painlessly and with no risk of spoiling my beauty."
Olympus was thoughtful. The Queen's demand was beyond his power; but he would do his best. He got together a group of physicians and they set to work. From the mysterious laboratory in a retired corner of the palace which had been set aside for them, red lights burned at night and sickly, bitter odours went up.
Experiments soon began. They were made on criminals who were condemned to punishment. The first results were terrifying. Forced to drink the deadly liquid, the unfortunate men writhed, their twisted limbs beat against the air, their distorted faces took on a greenish hue, and a hissing sound came from their dry throats. And this went on and on—prolonged indefinitely.
New combinations gave better results. The patients had a burning sensation, but the poison devoured them quickly and they fell, asphyxiated.
"Try again, again," commanded Cleopatra. "Your reward will be in proportion to your success."
One morning, Olympus requested an audience. His eyes shone under his bushy brows. At last he had found the right thing.
Accompanied by the devoted attendants who had sworn to die with her, Cleopatra went down into the bottom of the prison where the executions took place. She would judge with her own eyes.
A door opened and two colossal Egyptians entered, leading in chains a slave who had struck his master. He was a strong man and made a vigorous attempt to resist; but a funnel was placed in his upturned throat and the liquid ran down in spite of him. The effect was almost immediate; some convulsive starts, then a swoon. The man dropped between the arms that held him; he was dead.
A cold shiver ran over Cleopatra. Rapid as it had been, the scene left a horrible impression on her. Iras had not been able to stand it and was carried out fainting.
"Can you find nothing gentler?" asked Charmian, her face pale with fear.
"Not in the vegetable kingdom," said Olympus; "but there is the venom of serpents. You will see now."
At the same moment the door was opened to admit a young woman who had been condemned to death for killing her child. She was very beautiful and her tears made her all the more appealing. She fell at the Queen's feet, begging to be spared. The Ethiopians lifted her up.
"Have no fear," said Olympus. "You will feel no pain."
But she still implored pardon.
"Let me live, I want to live!" she cried.
There was a sudden silence. Without her knowing it the puncture had been made. Her lids closed, her limbs were heavy, she seemed asleep. Her heart had ceased to beat. Her face gradually relaxed, but lost none of its beauty.
Thus, painlessly, as though sleep had come, life had gone out. From that time Cleopatra was content. Her way of escape had been found. The conqueror of Actium would never carry her off alive.
But catastrophe was coming quickly. Pelusium had been captured and razed to the ground. Octavius's troops were camping under the walls of the Parsetonium. In this crisis what was to be done? Two hundred years before the days of knight-errantry Antony had a vision of knighthood. He would challenge his enemy to single combat. If he might only decide this mighty war in a tilting match and show the world, in full view of his lady and before the united armies, what a hero he was at heart!
Vain hope! When Octavius, without any risk whatever, had won the victory, why should he, coward that he was, expose himself to a fatal thrust?
"Go tell your master," he said to the officer who brought him the challenge, "that Antony can find several other ways to end his life!"
Before beginning the struggle which would settle Egypt's fate, and in spite of the humiliation of making any further request of a rival who had treated him so insolently, Antony tried, by generous self-sacrifice, to save Cleopatra's throne. If Octavius would promise to insure her sovereignty he offered to live near her, without arms, without titles, like an ordinary citizen.
Octavius did not even condescend to make any reply.
Several matters, however, were distracting his mind. Traitors and spies were not lacking in Alexandria and they reported that the Queen was experimenting with poisons and that, before her death, she had determined to set fire to her vast treasures. Now Octavius coveted these riches. The person of Cleopatra herself, which he regarded as the most brilliant trophy of his triumph, was scarcely more precious in his eyes. How was he to save these two treasures? Like the scheming man that he was, he consoled himself with the idea that all women, however arrogant when in power, are rarely so in adversity, and that undoubtedly terror, and the hope of gaining something from the present conditions, would make his beautiful enemy gracious. The main thing was to deceive her.
Consequently it was with her, and with her only, that he consented to enter into negotiations. He sent an ambassador to the Bruchium to represent him as inflexible; while, at the same time, Thyreus, a secret agent, slily, like all who do dirty work, intimated to the Queen that a reconcilation was by no means impossible. Fascinated by her charms, as all the great Roman leaders had been, Octavius wanted her to know that far from treating her cruelly he only asked the honour of serving her!
It is seldom that a woman fails to believe such flattery. Cleopatra, whose life had been a succession of conquests, to whom all the world had burned incense, was easily persuaded that she had a new worshipper. In spite of her experience of the world she might have been deceived by this mirage if one brutal condition had not accompanied the proposition. The demand was nothing less than the betrayal of Antony.
What Octavius really wanted was to get him out of the way. His great, humiliated rival annoyed him. A Roman general could not be chained to his chariot as Artabazes or Vercingetorix. Besides, with even a broken sword, his high-spirited enemy, defeated though he was, could dispute every inch of ground with him, and retard the final victory; and the Dictator was anxious to end his combat definitely and return to enjoy his triumph in Italy.
Unhappy Cleopatra! "How he must despise me to suggest such a bargain!" she groaned. Although her feeling for Antony was not what it once was; although the fugitive from Actium and the hermit of the Timonium had shown a weakness which was fatal to her woman's passion, yet she was indignant at the idea of such baseness. Too cunning not to take advantage of any possible chance of gain for herself, however, she took part in the exchange of trickery and, without refusing the proffered negotiations, asked time to consider them.
Spies, as has been said, infested the halls of the Bruchium, and one of them, the same, probably, who had brought word to Octavius, notified Antony that Octavius desired his death and that Cleopatra had promised to give him up to Thyreus.
At this news Antony had one of his outbursts of fury which swept over him like a hurricane. Betrayed! Sold by the woman for whom he had sacrificed everything! He thought of revenge. Should he slay her? He would rather put a dagger through his own heart. Should he kill himself? No, for his rival was waiting for her. Jealousy devoured him. Like his mighty ancestor, Hercules, he wore the shirt of Nessus and its poison tortured him. To love and to see in his beloved his bitterest enemy! His suspicions reached such a point that he would touch no dish until Cleopatra had tasted it, for fear of her poisoning him.
Justly indignant at such outrageous distrust, Cleopatra decided to inflict a lesson on the ingrate. It was toward the end of the supper. They were reclining side by side on the purple couch. She had amiably gratified the demands of the new order which required her to be served first. For a final libation she half emptied a cup of clear wine. A rose was in her hair. She drew it out, dipped it in the wine and, turning to Antony, said:
"Will you drink to our love in this cup?"
He agreed and put the cup to his lips.
With a quick motion she restrained him.
"Stop! See how silly your suspicions are. If I had any of the horrible intentions that you credit me with there are countless ways for me to carry them out. That flower was saturated with poison!"
Embarrassed, and not daring to meet her eyes, Antony fell at his mistress's feet. Would she forgive him? The little time he had left to live was not long enough to expiate the crime of which he had been guilty.
He prophesied better than he knew. There was only one day between him and the one when all would be settled. In that day, at least, he would accomplish wonders. It was the lion reawakening. The brilliancy of his warrior instinct would blaze out for the last time and show that, left to his own genius, he would have been a mighty hero.
The enemy's army was only a few furlongs from Alexandria. A hostile populace, on the point of treason, was not eager to defend it. The Imperator got some troops together, those who had been faithful to him through everything, and by a surprise attack, which there was no time to return, he fell on the cavalry of Octavius. Routed, pursued, the latter crossed the Nile in disorder and went back to the old intrenchments. For that day, at least, Alexandria was saved.
Drunk with a happiness that he had despaired of ever feeling again, Antony cried, "Victory, Victory," continually. Yes, for a last farewell Victory had come again and placed a crown on the forehead of the master who had won it so many times in vain. The old passionate love flamed in Cleopatra's heart, and her Antony was the magnificent, intrepid hero of former days. Seeing him in the distance, surrounded by banners, she left her window and ran down to welcome him.
In a transport of joy he leaped off his horse to press her to him, and these two, whom adversity had divided, were united again in the glory which was their native element. In the delight of being together all their past grief and bitterness were forgotten.
There was great rejoicing that evening in the old palace of the Lagidæ. The bravest soldier had a shower of gold. One of them was honoured by an antique golden armour, with the sparrow-hawk of the Ptolemys. The citterns and pipes resounded and the national songs were sung. It seemed like a revival of the days when the Imperator was distributing kingdoms.
Feeling that the hours were few and precious, the lovers grudged wasting any in sleep. It was a clear, mild night, when the soul is conscious of its own insignificance under the overwhelming vastness of the Oriental heavens. They wandered about the gardens until they reached the farther end, the place where Cleopatra had watched Antony disappear in the distance at their first parting. The rhythmic swell of the waters against the parapet sounded like their own heart-beats. To the right, the seven-storied beacon seemed to defy the stars; and above shone the crescent moon, whose silver reflections were like scattered petals in the sea.
This scene that they had so often looked on together carried them into the past. Standing there in silence, the exquisite joy of their former happiness was born anew, and tender memories of passing words, trifling incidents came back. They recalled those days at Tarsus, when in the first flush of youth they had embarked on their life-voyage with no thought of possible storms.
"Do you remember that first evening?" she whispered.
"Yes, your robe was clinging, iridescent, like the burnished breasts of doves."
There were other memories, hours of grief as well as joy; but they agreed that the most precious moments were those when they had each forgiven the other for some wrong. The present hour crowned them all. They felt as though they had traversed vast distances to find each other, and the certainty of faithful love from then until death obliterated all memory of rancour, suspicion, jealousy which had marred their life in the past. They were beginning a new existence here, surrounded by the bridal fragrance of the orange blossoms.
The wind arose. The sky changed from deep, tender blue to lead colour. A huge winding-sheet seemed suddenly spread over the face of the waters.
Trembling with terror, Cleopatra clung to Antony.
"Are you cold?" he said.
"Yes! No! I do not know. I feel as though darkness had entered into my soul!"
He smiled at her fancies. Although more easily discouraged than she, and more inclined to melancholy, he attached an exaggerated importance to the skirmish of the day before.
"Fear nothing," he cried, "I am strong again, and good fortune is ours once more!"
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when they heard a cawing above their heads. The crows were predicting evil things. It was Antony's turn to tremble. He looked at the horizon. The coming dawn revealed a monstrous fleet of ships crowded together opposite the channel. He recognized the same vessels which had faced him at Actium, and his quivering hand grasped Cleopatra's.
Pressed close together, like those who are terrified on a dark road at night, they retraced their way. The steps showed white between the dark masses of the trees. They climbed up them slowly, as though weighed down by fatigue. On the last terrace they stopped. Never had the moment of leave-taking seemed so ominous. They were facing the fatal day. Their lips met.
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye"—and their voices died out in space.
The attack of the day before had put Octavius on his guard and he had passed a sleepless night. He had exhorted his men to take a firmer stand, reproached them for being put to flight by a few companies of soldiers.
"And that," he added, "at the very gates of Alexandria! At the moment when you were within reach of enough booty to have secured a home for every one of you!"
No further stimulus was needed. At the same time emissaries were sowing corruption in Antony's camp. They threatened to punish with reprisals from Rome the men who remained loyal to Antony; to the others they promised an amnesty.
Under these conditions the battle began.
Antony's new-born hope soon fell to the ground. In the very first attack the desertions began. Seized with panic, the brave men of yesterday became the fugitives of to-day; and among them, by a cruel irony of fate, he recognized the hero on whose shoulders Cleopatra had placed the golden armour. To have thought that he could move the world according to his wish, and to look on at this!
In despair Antony cast aside his buckler and exposed his bare breast to the blows. If a sword would only put an end to him! But the hour was not yet. The right to die is given only when the last effort has been made. And first, he must prevent a complete rout. Alone he undertook the titanic task. He was all over the field; on every side his wrathful gestures were seen. With the flat of his sword he threatened, he struck. His fierce voice resounded:
"Miserable traitors who change masters at a word!"
But his imprecations were not heard. The confusion was universal and the city fell quickly. Octavius passed the gates on horseback, all the legions following him.
There was one more chance: the fleet. But there, again, treason was rampant. The men stubbornly refused to fight. Oars in hand, they welcomed as comrades the men whom yesterday they had regarded as enemies.
All was lost. No heroic effort could have saved the day. Antony realized it and the roar of the blood in his ears deafened him. He went on like a demented man, surrounded by threatening fists and curses. Instinct led him to the Bruchium. The approach to it was in wild disorder. His heart stood still.
"The Queen! Where is the Queen?" he demanded.
An agonized silence was his answer. All the javelins of presentiment were at his heart.
"Cleopatra!" he cried loudly.
He was heard. An officer came from the royal apartments. His face was sad. Before he could speak the lover understood.
"Dead?"
"Yes, with your name on her lips!"
At first the dread word had no meaning. Dead! She who filled the world. Dead! Had the daylight died, could heaven or earth die? Little by little the frightful truth dawned on him. He understood that he would see her no more. It was like a command given, as though he had heard the long-expected hour strike. He went back to his tent.
In these days of cowardice and treason Eros had never left his side. His brave arm had often warded off the blows aimed at the Imperator. Seeing him stagger at times, he had brought him reviving draughts. Now they were alone together. Antony controlled himself.
"Come, Eros, the time is here. The Queen has set the example. Draw your sword. Let me expiate the disgrace of a defeat."
The slave turned his head. His arm refused to obey.
"You promised me!"
"Master, do not ask the impossible. You whom I have just saved from the enemy's arrows! How can I?"
"Do you want to see me ruined, humiliated?"
No, Eros would not see that. He grasped his sword firmly, and spinning the blade so rapidly that it seemed to make an aureole around him, he hurled himself upon it with outstretched arms, and fell face downward, at the feet of his master.
Tears rolled down Antony's hollow cheeks.
"Brave Eros! You have shown me how to die," and he whirled his sword in like manner. The blow, unfortunately, had not the force of the one that killed his slave; Antony still breathed. He called, and the soldiers of his guard ran toward him.
"Strike," he commanded. "Stop my sufferings!"
But no one of them dared lay hands on that stately body from which such glory had shone.
But Cleopatra was not dead. On hearing that the army of Octavius, meeting no resistance, was marching on Alexandria her one idea was to save herself from the invader. The mausoleum where her treasures were gathered offered a safe refuge, and there she resolved to die.
But, once behind its iron grating, shut away from the living world, a cold chill ran over her. Was this the moment? Undoubtedly. There was nothing further to hope for. The last game had been played and lost. Servitude, captivity, with their threatening humiliation hung over her. Yet she hesitated. Why? The image of Antony was before her, vanquished, dishonoured, destroyed. Did she care to see him again? No, all was over between them. Their meeting place would be elsewhere, in those fields of asphodel that bloom in the land of shadows.
Why did she, who had so valiantly accustomed herself to the idea of dying, whose heart had nearly ceased beating, fall on Charmian's shoulder and cry bitterly? Her hand caressed the jade handle of the tiny dagger that she always carried, and she murmured, "I cannot!"
Was she thinking of breaking her promise? No, she would not survive her lover. She did not want to live. But, in the compact they had made, there was always the dread in the heart of each that the first one who went to the undiscovered country might not be followed. If she died, Antony, instead of joining her in death, might go to Octavia; and again her jealous soul imagined another of those reconciliations between them which had disturbed the peace of the world. She would take no chance of that. If she must go down into Hades at least she would be sure that her lover had gone before her, and so she sent him the false report of her death.
For the next hour the Queen suffered tortures in the depths of her mausoleum. How had Antony received the news of her death?
There was a sudden noise. A crowd gathered outside the walls. Cleopatra looked through one of the narrow openings which served as windows. Merciful gods! What was that the soldiers were carrying on a stretcher? It was Antony.
After he had wounded himself Antony heard that his beloved was still living and he wanted to see her once again. His arms were stretched out to her despairingly. How could he reach her? How get past the iron grating which protected the mausoleum?
And then a scene occurred, harrowing and barbaric, one of those superhuman acts which, viewed across the centuries, seems more fabulous than real. With the help of Charmian and Iras, Cleopatra threw down ropes from the roof and the wounded man was fastened to them. What a load for the frail arms of women! But, had it been heavier still they would have found strength to lift it up, for love made their muscles sturdy.
At last Antony was in his mistress's arms. She held him close and her burning tears fell over him.
"My lover! My hero! And I did not trust you!"
And Antony, heedless of his torn flesh that the least motion tortured, pressed close to her.
"Cleopatra! Beauty of the world! I am dying! Let me have your lips once more!"
She pressed him close. A few words, sobs, and the last breath went from him. Falling beside the lifeless form of him who had been her joy and pride, Cleopatra tore her breast.
"Most generous of men! This is where my love has brought you!"
When Octavius heard of Antony's death he was not overjoyed. His royal prey had escaped him. He must secure Cleopatra at once, before she came to herself and found strength to carry out her mysterious plans.
To gain entrance to the mausoleum was not easy. Proculeius, son-in-law of Mæcenas and, like him, blindly devoted to Octavius, undertook the task. He was an old friend of Antony's, one of those who, although they had gone over to the adverse camp, still retained a certain regard for him. Antony, when dying, had designated him as the only one whom Cleopatra might trust to defend her interests and those of her children.
Therefore, when he came, bearing the condolences of Octavius and of the Roman army, and asked the Queen to receive him, she could not refuse. Suspicious, as always, and determined to open the doors to no one, she tried to rise from her bed and go to receive her visitor in a lower hall, which communicated with the outside only by a grating.
But all caution was vain. While the deceitful messenger discussed, across the iron bars, the magnificent obsequies which Octavius was planning in honour of his great rival, his confederates effected a most cowardly entrance.
Cunningly as the plan was arranged, however, Cleopatra heard the noise. For a moment she did not answer her questioner. With anxious ears she listened to what was going on overhead. Then a door was flung open. Charmian came in.
"Horror! Treason! We are invaded!" she cried.
With ropes and cords the assassins that Proculeius had brought had scaled the walls. They burst in.
"Queen, you are a prisoner!" said one, as he approached her.
"Not while living!" cried Cleopatra, proudly, and drew from her girdle the tiny dagger which she had kept for such a moment.
Too late! The weapon was snatched from her hand!
Yes, Cleopatra was a prisoner. Through the lowered grating which she had sworn never to lift, she was led back to her palace between files of Roman soldiers.
Octavius was at last in possession of the long-coveted treasure. He was anxious to have an inventory made immediately. Preceded by slaves bearing flaming torches, he went through the subterranean vaults which Cleopatra had planned to burn. It was a world in itself. Marvellous works of art, priceless jewels, rare woods, rugs, were piled up to the vaulted ceilings. Many ships were needed to convey even the store of precious metals to Ostia. However phlegmatic this usurer's son might be, he could not restrain an exclamation of delight, which came from his heart, in passing through these stores of ingots, these piles of coins. These would put an end at last to the embarrassments which had plagued him since the indiscretions of his youth. All his debts would be paid. His legionaries would receive generous donations, over and above their just wages, that would attach them to him for life. With the stream of gold which would flow from this inexhaustible purse he could buy solid devotion. Was he not certain of wearing that imperial crown which Cæsar had barely lifted?
The people of Alexandria, who dreaded devastation and advocated a policy of prudence, welcomed the invader warmly. Exhausted by fifty years of revolutionary disturbances, they were only too willing to have a government that promised peace. The monarchial principle was, however, so deeply rooted in these servitors of the Lagidean dynasty that the surest way to obtain their respect and submission was to replace one crowned head by another.
The Imperator was no sooner seated on the throne than numerous well-wishers came to pay homage to him. Anxious to establish general friendly relations, he took care to flatter the pride that each Alexandrian cherished in regard to his beautiful city. Theatres, palaces, museums, temples above all—for he understood the importance of the priests' vote for the retention of the throne—were included in his carefully devised project. Concerned in all that could enrich his mind and help to forward the glory and magnificence of the reign of Augustus, he interested himself in the schools, the gymnasiums, the Library. He cultivated the learned men of the Serapeum, and was much gratified at meeting there the philosopher, Areus, who had been his professor at Athens. He promised to continue the independence which students had enjoyed under the former kings.
The visit to the Soma, that gigantic mausoleum, where the body of Alexander of Macedon lay in its crystal coffin, was of tremendous interest to a man whose only thought was glory. It is said that Cæsar, in the presence of the illustrious remains, had exclaimed: "I weep, because at my age this man had already conquered the world." His nephew, even more ambitious, examined the mummy long and carefully. He seemed to be questioning it, as though he were not satisfied with merely looking at the earthly form of him who had conceived and carried out such marvellous ambitions. He had the lid which covered the body raised, and, greedy to the point of profanation, he dared to handle the skull.
Cleopatra had been taken back to her apartments in the Bruchium. She was kept carefully out of sight of the people. Honours were not lacking; but these honours merely served to accentuate the fact that she was a captive, as they were all rendered by Roman functionaries. For fear of poison her clothes, her boxes, her person even, were continually searched. Her greatest trial was the continual presence of Epaphroditus, a eunuch of Octavius, who, according to instructions, played the part of courtier and under his obsequious manner concealed his role of jailor.
Emotion, disaster, grief, had finally broken Cleopatra's buoyant nature. That wound she had made in tearing her breast had become inflamed. Fever set in. The physicians pronounced the malady serious, possibly fatal. For an instant the unhappy woman believed that the merciful gods were going to save her from self-slaughter; and she gave herself up to the disease as to a generous current. So far from resisting it, she aided it, refused all medicine, and would take no nourishment.
Octavius was alarmed. Although he had obtained the treasure, he wanted the woman as well. He desired her perfect, not injured in any way. In all her beauty she would be the crowning glory of his triumphant return to Rome.
Trusting no one but himself to look after her health, which for that cruel reason was precious to him, he sent her word of his visit, thinking by this mark of respect to disarm his captive and deceive her as to his motives.
His calculations, at first, seemed successful. On hearing that the Imperator was coming to see her Cleopatra improved somewhat. She decided to defer dying for the present! Before that irreparable deed she wished to see her enemy, to know what she was to hope or to fear from him.
Much has been written on the meeting of these two remarkable figures, who, after the manner of augurs, approached each other wearing masks. The object of the Imperator was definite. But what was her dream? What temptations assailed that mistress of the art of seduction to try her fatal powers once more? What hope did she have in those last days? That was the undiscoverable secret of a soul already on its way to eternity.
Those historians whose accounts of Augustus are full of adulation have described this scene as typical of the chaste and grave son of Theseus who was able to resist the seductions of the cursed courtesan. Perhaps, under other conditions, Cleopatra would still have kept this role of courtesan; but, at this time of infinite weariness, with her wounded breast, her tired eyes, her feet still trembling from having felt her throne crumble beneath them; after having buried the man whom she adored, and having in her mouth the bitter taste of emptiness, could she still have played the part of a coquette? Her keen intelligence, apart from her dignity, would have kept her from such a false step. With no intention of beguiling him, no hope of finding in him another Cæsar, or an Antony, she surely had the privilege of using what remained of her charms, scarred by thirty-eight years of passion and misfortune, to soften the heart of her captor. As to succeeding...?
The two antagonists were face to face. Bowing courteously, Octavius took the chair near her bed that the Queen had pointed out. Then, as customary when greeting an invalid, he inquired as to her health.
With a sigh, she replied:
"You can see. I have no strength left."
Abruptly he broached the subject that was nearest his heart. Was it true that the Queen had given up in despair? That she would rather die than submit to his kindly rule?
She only sobbed.
He went on:
"Undoubtedly Thyreus has not delivered my message properly!"
She said that, on the contrary, she understood what a generous master he was and that she expected every consideration from him.
"Then be brave, Queen. Do not look on me as an enemy."
His voice was gentle, his expression kindly, but at a glance Cleopatra had comprehended. He was hard as a rock. He was trying to look human but she saw only the sharply cut nose that suggested a bird of prey, the dry, close-lipped mouth. No sincere words could come from it. She knew the part she must play. It would be a fencing match, and each must be on guard. She made a gesture of resignation.
"It is true; when Antony died I felt I could not go on living!"
"And now?"
"Oh! now I must think of my children. Dear little souls! How can I leave them? At least I must know what their future in Rome will be!"
Her children! Cæsarion, Ptolemy, Antyllas, they were the first prizes that Octavius had seized. Defrauded of his principal victim, these innocent children would be sacrificed to their mother's insubordination.
The executioner went on with his hypocritical smile:
"Have no fear for them, Madame. Their fate is in your hands. If you put your faith in me and comply with my requests, no harm shall come to them."
She knew just how much this assurance was worth. She knew that the unhappy children would have to suffer; but she feigned confidence.
"I have the word of Octavius."
"And will you in return, beautiful Cleopatra, swear that you will not try to kill yourself? That you will not refuse to accompany me to Rome?"
In this frightful comedy, with a vain knave on one side, and the honour of a Queen on the other, who would win?
Cleopatra gave her word.
"You are my sovereign master," she replied, bending her beautiful head. "Wherever you choose to take me I will follow you submissively."
And to demonstrate that from that time on she was his vassal, she took from an attendant her list of jewels and handed it to Octavius.
"These are yours. I have only kept some ornaments, the most precious, it is true, in order to offer them myself to Livia, to Octavia."
This time he was really astonished.
"Do you really mean it?"
"Yes, I want your sister, who is sharing my grief, to pardon me for all the sorrow that I have brought on her."
However skilled he might have been in the art of deception, he was chiefly accustomed to dealing with men, and he did not understand Cleopatra's subtleties. Entirely confident that all would be well, he was about to leave her, but Cleopatra detained him. She had one favour to ask of him. As she was soon to go away from Egypt, to tear herself from the cherished city where her husband lay, might she be allowed to go to his tomb for the last time?
A docile captive, a generous prince! Following the example of Antony, who, after the battle of Philippi had so magnanimously honoured the bleeding body of Brutus, Octavius granted the request of his widow.
The next day, though hardly able to stand, Cleopatra was taken to the tomb. Her jailors accompanied her, which pleased her, as she wanted them to look on at the sad demonstration there. It was not enough to have convinced Octavius; she wanted it generally known that she had accepted her fate. Only in this way could she gain the liberty that she needed for her plans. She knelt down before an audience that would not fail to report her every gesture, every word. With tears and grief, which at least were not feigned, she poured on the tomb-stone oil and wine, the mystic nourishment of the dead. Her words came slowly, each cunningly conceived, and put together in a manner to deceive the world.
"Oh, Antony, my beloved! my hands that laid you to rest here were those of a free woman; to-day it is a slave who comes to offer you libations. Accept them, since they are the only honours, the last homage that I can ever render you. We, whom nothing could separate in life, are condemned to exchange our countries in death. You, a Roman, will rest here, while I, unhappy being that I am, will find my sepulchre in Italy, far from the land of my ancestors."
The effect of this pathetic farewell was just what Cleopatra had foreseen. The most skeptical were convinced of her sincerity. In speaking thus she surely accepted the decreed departure from the land of her fathers.
Epaphroditus, himself, astonished at the transformation that had taken place in the prisoner, was relieved to know that she had given up the thought of suicide. From that time on supervision was relaxed. The exits and entrances of the palace were unguarded. The Queen was allowed to entertain her visitors without witnesses.
A heroine who had borne so much suffering was worthy of profound devotion. What came to her exceeded her hopes. The man who would have risked his life, not to save that of the Queen, which, alas, was not to be saved, but to spare her humiliation, was a Roman officer. Young, handsome, of the noble family of Cornelius, Dolabella had served as staff-officer during Octavius's campaign in Egypt. Happy to have done with war, he was thoroughly enjoying the brilliant pleasures which the conquered city afforded.
One morning he was on duty as commander of the guard which protected the Queen's apartments. It was at the crisis of her illness. He saw her weeping, suffering, refusing all care. He heard her implore death to come as a divine mercy. Men usually prefer women who are happy, but turn instinctively away when they are suffering. Some rare natures, however, are drawn toward those who are in sorrow. When Dolabella saw the misery of this royal woman, whom the gods had first blessed above all others and then ruthlessly deprived of happiness, he felt a tender compassion for her. With a pity such as a neglected garden inspires he thought, "What is to be done? What help can I give? How can I aid this divine flower broken by the storm?"
Without having had any encouragement he approached the Queen, saying:
"Use me, Madame, as a thing that belongs to you."
It was a surprise to this sorrowing woman, whom all the world seemed to have forgotten. For a moment Cleopatra hesitated. Accustomed as she was to trickery and betrayal, she suspected some trap. He might be another Proculeius! But no, honesty was stamped on this man's face. His eyes inspired trust. Her bruised heart took courage and suddenly, with the faith of a young girl, she told him of the only one of her desires that had any chance of being granted: to know Octavius's intentions in regard to her, and to be duly warned of the day fixed for his return to Rome.
The young officer was in touch with the Imperator. It was easy to find out what his immediate plans were. Unconscious of being an accomplice to a fatal act, he agreed to do as she asked. It was a perilous promise which might have cost him his life. But even had he realized this he had been too often under fire to value life save for what it brings.
Three days later he gave her the information she desired. Octavius had decided to go back to Italy by way of Syria and Greece, and had given orders that Cleopatra, together with her younger children, be sent to Rome.
The hour had come at last. Cleopatra knew that henceforth there was no changing the fate which awaited her. It was time for the sword, which had been hanging over her for nearly a year, to fall. She regarded it fearlessly. Perhaps had she only drunk a few drops of bitterness she would have shrunk from the horror of it. But her cup of sorrow was empty; the game of life was lost. She gave the news to the two cherished friends, who had her full confidence, and instructed them to inform Olympus.
For fear of arousing suspicions, this manipulator of poisons had been kept in retirement; but his solicitude for Cleopatra made him vigilant and everything was prepared secretly. The Queen had no anxiety on the subject. She knew that at the appointed hour her means of freedom would be ready. There was nothing to do but wait and arrange things according to the carefully thought-out plan.
As a woman to whom elegance was a necessity, Cleopatra had determined to make her death, as she had made her life, a thing of beauty. Her queenly pride demanded that Octavius, Agrippa, Mæcenas, even Proculeius, all these Romans who had scoffed at her, should admire, not only the courage which had sustained her during the humiliating farce which they had forced upon her, but the envelope of her rare soul as well. With an ardour which left her quite calm she personally attended to all the little preparatory details of her toilet. As though she were making ready for meeting her lover, she bathed in warm, perfumed water. Her face was sweet with spikenard, and antimony gave a touch of mystery to her dark eyes. Her lips and cheeks were like burning roses. From the cedar chest came forth the snow-white robe, shining with pearls and gold, which had made her more than royal at the coronation feast. Some jewels put the finishing touch to her splendour.
What memories that brought back to her! The dazzling processions, the mad joy of the people, Antony, beautiful as Apollo, in his two-wheeled chariot drawn by the four white chargers; his stepping down and proclaiming her under the shining heavens Queen of kings, Empress, Goddess—and to-day, the winding-sheet!
As she fastened the amethyst buckle at her girdle Cleopatra's fingers trembled. But a stoic, she drew herself up. There must be no weakness. Her task was not yet completed. Instead of there being any suggestion of mourning here, all things should sing a chant of deliverance. Roses were scattered on the tables, on the carpet. Incense burned in the cressets. The shaded lamps gave a soft, rich light. When everything was adjusted to harmonize with the great climax, Cleopatra drew a letter, written some days before, from a secret drawer. In it she had recommended her children to the generosity of the conqueror and begged him to allow her to rest by the side of Antony. She read it over, wrote the date (August 15, 30), the date that was to be her last day of life, and affixed the royal seal.
Was it as a jest that she charged Epaphroditus with the delivery of this letter? Perhaps, for Cleopatra had always loved to play with men or perhaps she merely wanted to get him out of the way. However that was, his ugly snout smelt some trickery. To go away from her seemed imprudent. He hesitated; but the message was important and the Queen persuaded him, with one of those smiles which no man could resist. The jailor yielded. Besides, why should he have any serious suspicions of a woman whose days were passed in futile occupations? Who since early morning had been poking in chests, turning over jewels and trinkets? Epaphroditus's shallow brain was incapable of comprehending the whims and caprices of a Cleopatra!
The evening repast was served as usual. The careless slaves came and went. That none of them should have any idea of what was coming, the Queen forced herself to eat and to keep up the conversation.
There was a sudden stirring behind the curtain. It sounded like a dispute. One of the guards came in. He could not get rid of a man, a peasant apparently, who insisted on speaking with the Queen.
"What does he want?"
"He wishes to give you a basket of figs."
"Let him come in."
Cleopatra understood. Her heart contracted violently. It required all her strong will to control its spasms. Under the peasant's garb she had recognized Olympus. Pale, but firm, she signalled him to approach. No word passed between them. They exchanged glances which made all clear. It was arranged. The gift had been paid for. She who received it understood what to do with it.
The Queen was alone with Iras and Charmian, those two devoted priestesses whose worship meant the immolation of themselves. These three women no longer cared to live and were ready for the sacrifice. No one knows, no one will ever know, what were those deadly rites.
The general belief is that an asp was hidden in the figs. Olympus had experimented with the venom of this serpent, which killed according to the conditions exacted by the Queen; quickly, without pain, leaving no disfiguring mark.
The idea of that age-old myth, bound up in religions for centuries, comes back. The woman and the serpent together. Their eyes meet, flames go out, they challenge each other. The serpent hesitates, draws back, then, enthralled by a look stronger than his own, darts, and in the willing flesh implants his deadly sting.
Iras died first. She was the frailest, and as soon as the poison began to circulate in her veins she bent down, rested her head on the knees of her beloved sovereign and held them till her last breath went.
Cleopatra felt her lids grow heavy. An irresistible langour overwhelmed her. Her mind began to wander and in her dream she saw Antony coming toward her to the sound of flutes and lyres. How quick and joyous his step was! They were on the sands of the shore. Where are they now? It is evening in a fragrant garden. A light breeze caresses them. There is music again, now it is fainter, all grows dim, then black. The eternal rest has come.
Charmian was still breathing when a clash of arms outside roused her. Fierce blows sounded on the door.
"Open! Open!"
The voices were commanding. It was a company sent from Octavius. He himself would be there in an instant.
The first words of the letter brought him by Epaphroditus had revealed the truth. The letter was a will.
"Run! Summon the physician!" commanded the Imperator. "Ten talents of gold to whoever will revive the Queen!"
But they came too late. The gods keep guard over those who resemble them. They had saved Cleopatra. Nothing could give her back to the hate of her enemies.
The first attendant to enter the room found her on her purple bed, which was upheld by the four sphinxes. All white, in the midst of flowers she seemed asleep. Her face had the serenity which comes from a duty fulfilled. With a reverent gesture, Charmian, staggering, with half closed eyes, was arranging her diadem.
"How fine that is!" railed Epaphroditus maliciously, furious that his watchfulness had been in vain.
"A superb pose, worthy of the daughter of many kings," the Athenian girl found strength to whisper. Then she fell near the Queen whom even to her last sigh she had adorned, served with a divine worship.
For Octavius it was a rude shock. He remained dazed, as though in dying Cleopatra had robbed his victory of its glory. What would Rome say? And Italy? The people, that pack of hounds who were devoured with impatience to avenge on the Egyptian all the humiliations she had inflicted on their country? He who to-morrow would be Cæsar Augustus had not forgotten his revenge. His captive had escaped him, but her children should suffer for her sins. Neither the prayers that she had addressed to him nor the pleading of these bleating lambs, whose only crime was in being born, could soften his infamous heart.
Antyllas was his first victim. Cæsarion's remarkable resemblance to his father, which seemed to make the divine Cæsar live again, should have preserved that innocent youth. On the contrary, it was another reason for getting rid of him.
"There is no room for two Cæsars in this world," declared Octavius, and gave orders that the young boy left in his care be put to death. As to the other children that Cleopatra had borne Antony, too young to be a serious menace, they were carried in the triumphal procession to take the place of their mother.
Only one of the requests of the dead woman found grace with the conqueror. He contented himself with her effigy and abandoned the body to the Alexandrians, who claimed it. With reverent care, arranged as though for her marriage, they placed, in the same porphyry sepulchre where Antony lay, the body of the woman whose passionate love had lost him an empire, but who in exchange had given him immortality.
THE END