Part 3

But the essential thing, the real triumph, was yet to be carried out. She must bind her lover by that long-desired marriage which would make her twice a Queen. For a woman of her talent, accustomed to using her varied powers of fascination to gain her ends, the present situation was ideal. Rome, from the very moment that she had entered its gates, had ceased to be the austere stronghold, where each and every citizen, faithful to his Lares and Penates, was steadfast in revering ancient traditions. These traditions, which had made the strength and greatness of the Republic as well as its formidable power, were already losing their hold. The old religion was passing; although still acknowledged by the State, unbelievers were many, especially among the Aristocracy. If the people had still a certain fear of the gods, this did not prevent them from breaking the laws of their deities, or from desecrating their temples in moments of passion. The story of the cynical soldier who boasted of having stolen the statue of Diana and of having made a fortune by this godless act was a common tale. The inviolability of the marriage law was a thing of the past. On every hand, Senators, Consuls, high dignitaries, put away their wives on the slightest pretext. Cicero himself, the best, the gentlest of men, said to Terentia, his wife for thirty years, the cruel words of divorcement: "Go hence and take with you whatever belongs to you," in order to put a younger, more beautiful woman in her place.

This disregard of the morals and manners of the old régime was a general canker, pervading all classes of Roman society. Shocking scandals marked the closing days of the circus, when it was a common occurrence for the nobles to descend into the arena and measure arms with the gladiators. The immense fortunes, accumulated during the war, had wiped out the simple habits of former days. Gold was the god that reigned supreme. Originally used for the decoration of the temples only, it was now displayed in private houses, where furniture, ceilings, walls, everything, was gilded. As a protest against the wanton luxury of his contemporaries Cato made a practice of walking about bare-footed, in a torn toga; but no one followed his example! He was merely ridiculed, while the procession of gorgeous chariots rolled on. No longer restrained by the Oppian law, the women's extravagance in dress knew no limit. Encircling their arms, twisted in their hair, clasping their ankles, golden ornaments of Etruscan workmanship glittered over them from head to foot; about their necks fell jewelled chains, which had been brought, at fabulous cost, from the rich caverns of India.

The banquets that were served at the tables of the wealthy Patricians rivalled those of Lucullus. The dishes of silver, the richly carved goblets, the heavy purple draperies of the couches, equalled in magnificence those of oriental sovereigns. Dignity, along with the once-revered virtues of economy, sobriety, endurance, all that Rome had stood for in the old days, was becoming a mere legend of the past.

But if the old society was changing, giving place to a new era which lacked the dignity of its predecessor, it is certain that the actual joy of living was materially increased. The culture of letters, the pursuit of art, had never been so widely spread. The philosophy, the sculpture, the language even, of Greece--which cultivated people prided themselves on speaking perfectly--had been born anew in the Rome of that day. There was no aristocratic youth who did not as a matter of course finish his education at Rhodes, Apollonia, or, best of all, at Athens. The theories that they learned there were universally accepted. A knowledge of literature was general in the higher ranks of society, where formerly it had been the exclusive privilege of the so-called intellectuals. It became the fashion to be learned. Many patrician homes aspired to the honour of entertaining a savant or a philosopher. It was considered a particular distinction to have the youthful Virgil, recently arrived from Mantua, as a guest, and to hear him recite his gracious pastorals at evening entertainments; or to listen to the verses of that poem, forged on the ringing anvil which was to resound down the ages, sung by Horace, then a youth of twenty years. In fact, everywhere, from whatever source it sprang, talent was held in high esteem.

Cleopatra understood at once the tremendous part that her personal charm could play in a society eager for everything that was new, original, and interesting. Probably she alone, among all the women there, was in a position to attract to her apartments learned men from all countries, and to furnish them with liberal, amusing recreation. Endowed with the rare and fascinating advantage of an understanding and spirit unequalled either by the Roman matrons, absorbed in their household affairs, or by the famous courtesans, whose conversation was often both frivolous and ribald, she had every reason to be confident of success.

In the sumptuous hall, which her artistic taste had adorned with luxurious divans, rich rugs, splendid draperies, she entertained the friends of Cæsar, who, happy in having his latest _inamorata_ restored to him, came every evening to forget at her side the political cares of the day. He enjoyed meeting his friends there informally, though all the while looking forward to the hour when he would clasp her lissome, perfumed body, and feel her heart beat against his own.

Trebonius, Lepidus, Sulpicius Rufus, Curion, and other Senators of congenial tastes were always to be found there. They discussed the leading questions of the hour; the means for carrying out promises made to the troops; the abolition of debts, reduction of rents. In all these debates they were surprised to hear this young woman, who apparently was there only to illuminate the room with her shining eyes, or to charm the hearers by the tinkling of her bracelets, give grave advice on these important matters and show in all things a wise judgment. Their astonishment grew greater on overhearing her conversation with the historian Sallust, whose writing and psychology she had studied and appreciated. Her comments were trenchant and convincing. The orator Asinius Pollion delighted in bringing his serious speeches to her for criticism, as well as those little ironical poems in which, speaking through the mouth of a shepherd, he ridiculed the absurdities of his fellow-citizens. Her arguments and criticism were marvels of intelligent thought. Her discussions with the archæologist, Atticus, in whose discoveries she was much interested, when he unrolled the delicately illuminated Persian scrolls, pointed out a bit of ivory polished by the patient skill of a Chinese workman, or showed her a fragment of bas-relief from the temple of Ephesus, all these indicated an unusual mind, alive to wide-reaching interests. Who would not have been moved at seeing this young girl poring over that chart of the heavens, on which a congress of savants was engaged in their alteration of the calendar; or watching her follow the evolution of the Great Bear, of Cassiopeia, of Orion, around the North Star? Truly in all things she was an exceptional creature, one of those chosen by the deities to represent them on earth.

It was at this time that Mark Antony, young, handsome, renowned, was presented to her. He had just arrived from Spain, covered with laurels won at Munda and laden with spoils. The fame of incomparable valour had given him a crown of glory. With his athletic body, the Bacchus-like smile which lighted up his face, his generous extravagance, he made a heroic figure, recalling the mythical Hercules, from whom he claimed descent. Although for the moment enamoured of the courtesan Cytheris, the young soldier was deeply impressed by the bewildering beauty of Cleopatra and it was only his sincere devotion to Cæsar which prevented him from expressing his admiration openly. He could not forget any single detail of their first meeting: the queenly grace with which the enchantress stretched out her tiny hand for him to kiss, the dress she wore that first evening, or the sudden anguish that thrilled him at the sound of her voice.

However enthusiastic was the adoration of this new Aspasia within that sanctuary of art and literature which her villa had become, a pack of wolves was snarling just outside. It was made up of virtuous, or pretendedly virtuous, men, indignant at the generally accepted and avowed liaison of the Dictator with this foreign woman. All the women of position in Rome were with them. The majority of them had endured humiliation at the hands of their husbands, and these embittered wives were leagued together in jealous persecution of this oriental sorceress of loose morals, whose dwelling was thronged with the men who had deserted their own firesides to seek her.

But Cleopatra's worst enemies were her political foes. Bound by ancient traditions, the Conservatives were uneasy at these new proceedings, which tended more and more to encroach on old customs. For some time it had been well known that Cæsar's ambition and personal desire were goading him to seek sovereign power; but, however evident had been the pomp with which he loved to surround himself, it was on his royal mistress that the chief blame fell. Was he giving up pious ways, did he disregard the laws, was he careless of all that Rome held most sacred? It was the accursed Egyptian who was responsible for all.

Whether or not it was the fault of the fair foreigner, it was evident that each day Cæsar strayed further and further from republican forms. Since the wars were over, there was no excuse for his prolonging his dictatorship. He was now absolute arbitrator and controlled all the affairs of the State. He chose the officers and divided the confiscated territories as he pleased. Where would his power stop? The title of King itself could not increase this power, but the feeling prevailed that he coveted that title and would seize the first opportunity to assume it. So far from consulting his colleagues as to ways and means, according to the established usage among Senators, Consuls, and Pontiffs, he seemed to delight in defying them, and showing the public that he looked on their opinions as antiquated, if not obsolete. With an insolence reeking of the grand seigneur, a lord who had flung off the traditions of his caste, he deliberately ridiculed the ethics of Cato, and was skeptical of everything, including the gods themselves. Had he not declared in the open Senate, among other imprudent sayings which had been noised abroad and exaggerated, that "The Republic from now on is a word without meaning?"

Cicero was leader of the party most genuinely alarmed by this state of things. The great orator was, after Cæsar, the first citizen of Rome. At all events he was the most honest and among those most respected. His liberal views had formerly associated him with Pompey's party and, since the latter's defeat, he had lived in retirement in his villa at Tusculum, given over to meditation. It had been a keen regret to Cæsar to lose the friendship of this warm-hearted man whose distinguished ability was so widely known and who would have been an invaluable adviser. The withdrawal of so important a figure had also been a blow to Cleopatra's pride. To entice him to her home, to number him among her courtiers, to make him an ally against the day when it might be necessary to break the law to gain her ends; with all her boundless ambition, this idea became a veritable obsession.

She unbosomed herself to Atticus, who was an intimate friend of Cicero. Attached as he was to the Queen whose hospitality had afforded him so many agreeable hours, he promised to use his influence with Cicero. No one was better fitted for the duties of ambassador. To bring together, to reconcile, to persuade, were intrinsic qualities of his serene nature. He was undoubtedly helped in his mission by the insufferable ennui which was consuming Cicero. For a man who had known the intoxication of power, who had been applauded in tones to shake the columns of the temples, there was no worse punishment than to be forced into seclusion. In order to hear again the praises of the crowd which was eager for him, to accept the homage which awaited him, and, above all, to enjoy the splendour of Cleopatra's library, where he would be free to read to his heart's content, the man of letters yielded to temptation and appeared at her portals, wrapped in the toga which no one knew so well as he how to drape about the shoulders. Cæsar was there to welcome him.

Cleopatra, radiant as always when one of her caprices had triumphed, received her distinguished guest with every honour. To please his connoisseur's taste, that first evening she drew his attention to the interesting things in her luxurious dwelling. One table was covered with antique parchments, embellished with curious drawings, depicting the history of the Pharaohs. The orator with his delicate hands would unroll these time-yellowed pages, and, while he was admiring the singular figures of the Egyptian hieroglyphics, the Queen would translate the meaning of the script in her cultivated, sweet-toned voice. Seeing his keen interest she thought him already won, but to make sure she promised that the precious writings should be sent to him at Tusculum the very next day.

A man of Cicero's character, however, was not so easily beguiled. If, after the various pledges made to the Conservative party, he had for the moment believed that Cæsar would return to his old liberal views, the recent outbreaks, the arbitrary proceedings, left him no shadow of illusion. Without a doubt the fall of the Republic was close at hand, and nowhere did the patriotic old man find an atmosphere more repugnant to his cherished ideals than in the court of the Transtevera. Gradually he stopped attending the sessions there. He felt freer to express his opinions outside its doors, and, alluding probably to the mixed crowd, enthusiastic but vulgar, which Cæsar's popularity had attracted, he replied to Atticus's query as to the cause of his absence: "I cannot be content in a place so devoid of civility."

This criticism, as well as other comments on his attitude, made no impression on Cæsar. He saw no need of concessions, especially if they were demanded by minds less daring than his own. The one thing necessary to establish his authority was the carrying out of some yet more brilliant project. To attain the height of his dream the old weapons were out of date. New expeditions, new wars even, must be planned; something that would surpass in splendour all his other achievements.

The country that attracted his adventurous spirit, tempted him with the most entrancing visions, was Persia; that Persia which had been the scene of the world-famous exploits of Alexander. Its boundless territory, its high plateaus, which pastured peaceful herds; its valleys, watered by the abundant streams of the Tigris and the Euphrates; its hanging gardens, its palaces of porphyry, its temples with their crowned columns; its incomparable rugs, its roses, its porcelains--all the fascinating possibilities of this kingdom called him, and the appeal was irresistible.

How different it was from poor, bare, barbarous Gaul! If he could perch his eagles in Persia, he would gain not only glory, a glory equal to that of the victorious Macedonian, but the inexhaustible riches of the country.

Cleopatra was even more enthusiastic than Cæsar in the pursuit of this wonderful vision. With no illusions as to the hatred which surrounded her, she fully realized that the only way to make the stern Roman aristocracy accept her presence was through the mighty power of Cæsar. To augment this power, to extend it from the borders of the Orient to her own country, to build a pedestal so high that from it she could see the whole world, was the ambition of the young Queen. So, although it was hard to leave the palace where she had so calmly and persistently played her part as a great lady of Rome, harder still to go back to Egypt and rejoin the clown whom she had accepted for her husband, she began to make ready for the journey.

It was generally known that when the Dictator came back from the campaign in Persia he would celebrate their wedding and adopt the son that she had given him. Certain malcontents declared that to the supreme power, which now equalled that of any king, Cæsar would then add the royal sceptre, and that he was planning to found a far-reaching empire, whose capital would be Alexandria. These rumours disturbed the people; they wounded them in their tenderest spot, their desire for the supremacy of their beloved Rome. To threaten it with division, with possible downfall, aroused the fiercest passions of the multitude.

As usual, the responsibility for these evil schemes fell on Cleopatra. The hatred of her was redoubled. Her enemies invented fantastic tales and circulated the dreadful accusation that she sealed her oaths with the avowal: "As surely as that one day I shall rule Rome." When they heard this the wrath of the multitude overflowed. When her litter appeared in the street, there was a riot. On every hand there were threats of compelling this Egyptian interloper to leave the country, of forcing her to return to her own land of crocodiles!

These disrespectful speeches naturally came to Cæsar's ears. They angered him more than the criticisms of his own conduct. To dare to desecrate the sacred one whom he had chosen! To approach her with lack of reverence! It was not to be tolerated! Alluding to a special group which had offended him, he exclaimed: "You shall see the penalty that I will inflict on those greasy, curly-pated slanderers!"

He immediately summoned Timomachus, who for the past month had been working on a statue of the Queen, made of ivory overlaid with gold.

"How long will it take to finish that piece of sculpture?" he demanded.

The sculptor reflected, estimated the time needed for the required incrustations of gold, which were not even begun, and answered, awkwardly,

"Twenty years, at least."

"I will give you three days," declared the Dictator. "In three days I desire that statue to be placed on its pillar in the temple of Venus-Genitrix."

The autocratic temper of Cæsar, which frequently brought on violent crises owing to his delicate, over-wrought nerves, was too well known for any one to dare to oppose his wishes. The dedication of the statue took place with great ceremony on the day specified, and with rage in their hearts, priests, noblemen, officers of all ranks were compelled to bow before this new goddess who had invaded their temple.

A little later, in order to see how far he could brave public opinion, Cæsar devised a new experiment. It was at the festival of Lupercalia, a carnival lasting several days, during which the young Patricians ran half naked through the streets, striking in jest the passers-by with leather thongs, under pretext of bringing them good luck. In his position of grand Pontiff, Cæsar presided at the festival. Seated in the Tribune, in a chair of gold and ivory, he had Cleopatra by his side. After the earth had been sprinkled with the blood of goats and dogs, according to the customary rites, he was about to withdraw, when Mark Antony, pushing his way through the crowd, boldly offered him a diadem. At this movement a murmur arose, like the sound of the sea before a coming storm. Cæsar felt that it was not the moment for such a display and he turned away. But, urged on by the Queen, who perhaps was the original instigator of the comedy, Mark Antony insisted on proffering the glittering crown. The angry murmur increased; it sounded now as though the wind were rushing through the waves. Decidedly this was not an auspicious hour. With a sterner gesture than before, a gesture which left no room for doubt, Cæsar threw back his head and thrust aside the tempting jewel. All the world was witness, he had refused to be crowned as King!

Many of the spectators, deceived by the scene which had just taken place, applauded furiously. Others, keener-sighted, detected signs of a plot, and said to each other: "Oh, no doubt he refuses to-day, but only to accept more graciously when he shall come back, bearing the standards of victory!" And in dark corners conspirators began to gather.

Spring was drawing near. It was about the middle of the month consecrated to the god of War. Blown by strong winds the tiny clouds scudded across the faint blue sky. The quivering trees began to swell and the crests of the seven hills around Rome were touched with vivid green. At their base lay the city, shrouded in the dim evening light. The clamour of the streets slowly died out and silence reigned. It was the hour when, the day's work done, each was going to his own home. This was the time when Cæsar, absorbed all day by his preparations for war, was hastening toward the dwelling of his beloved and beautiful mistress.

Seated near the window, from which she could see him coming, Cleopatra was lost in dreams. A few more days and they must part. While Cæsar was seeking fresh conquests through the Caspian gates she would be once more on the borders of the Nile. The coming separation made her anxious, suggested painful isolation and unknown difficulties. She was resigned, however, for she knew it was inevitable. Was not glory as necessary to rulers as bread to the common people? Master of Persia, Cæsar would be lord of all. No human power could then prevent them from carrying out their plans. He would place her on the thrones of Nineveh and Babylon, and proclaim her as his lawful wife. Together they would build their capital and this same Rome, which she had heard roaring like an infuriated she-wolf whenever she passed, would be compelled to receive her with acclamation.

It was on these mighty visions, on this dream of Semiramis, that the dreadful thunderbolt of the Ides of March was about to fall.

Morning had just come. Cæsar had left her scarcely an hour before, and in leaving had crushed her to his heart as though he would never let her go. By one of those mysterious forebodings which sometimes come in moments of decisive action and which should never be ignored, she had tried to detain him. "Why are you going so early? You said you were tired. Stay here and rest." But, no, he was expected. For fear lest he be late Brutus had sent Cassius to meet him, and, with no flinching of his traitor face, the latter had told him he must make haste, that there were matters of grave importance awaiting him in the Senate.

And it was there that the blow fell. A sudden noise was heard. "Hark, what was that?" The passers-by halted to ask what had happened. Suddenly the portico was filled with blanched faces. There was a terrifying cry: "Cæsar is assassinated!" Wailing was heard on every side, but it was drowned by the yells of the murderers, who, swords in hand, surged around, shrieking: "We have avenged the honour of the Republic!"

Horrified, not knowing what to believe, the people scattered, like a river that had burst its dam, and spread all over the city. In a moment the frightful news reached all quarters of Rome. Disorder and consternation reigned. The shops were quickly closed; each man hid his terror behind the shutters of his house. All knew that an overwhelming disaster had fallen on Rome and that others, many others, were treading closely on its heels.

To Cleopatra it meant the end of all her hopes. A great black gulf seemed to open at her feet, swallowing in its hungry depths her whole future. The world was a desert.