Part 10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Antony seized her wrist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

VI

ANTONY'S WIVES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So the war went on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She proposed a fishing party.

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

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

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