Part 6

Antony soon returned to Alexandria. He was in a state of gloomy discouragement; his army in Acarnania, deserted by Canidius, who had taken flight, had surrendered to Octavius after a week of hesitation; in Cyrenaica he could not even obtain a meeting with his lieutenant Scarpus, who, having taken sides with the Cæsarians, had threatened his life; Herod, his creature, whom he had made king of the Jews, had offered his allegiance to the conqueror of Actium; defection on all sides with his allies as with his legions. Antony reached the point of doubting even Cleopatra; he would scarcely see her. Exasperated at the cruelty of the gods, and still more so at the perfidy of men, he resolved to pass in solitude the wretched days that his enemies might yet permit him to live. The story of Timon, the misanthrope of Athens, which he had heard in happier days, recurred to his memory, and, determined to live like Timon, he settled in the barren mole of Poseidon, and busied himself there in erecting a tower which he intended to call the Timonion.

Cleopatra yielded less submissively to fate. Attacked in the crisis of danger by a fainting courage to which Antony was an utter stranger, the immediate danger past she recovered all her powers. With her exalted imagination she could not despair either wholly or even for very long. She learned that the vessels she had had transported to the Red Sea had been burned by the Arabs, and thus her flight prevented. She at once prepared for determined resistance. Whilst Antony was losing his time playing the misanthrope, the queen raised fresh forces, furnished new vessels, formed new alliances, repaired the fortifications of Pelusium and Alexandria, distributed arms to the people, and to encourage the Alexandrians to the determined defense of their city, she inscribed the name of her son, Cæsarion, in the rolls of the militia. Antony could not but admire the courage and energy of Cleopatra, and, entreated by his friends besides being weary of his solitude, he resumed his residence at the palace. The queen received him as in the happy days of his return from Cilicia or Armenia. They again enjoyed with the friends of the last hour banquets, festivals, orgies—only “The Inimitables” changed their appellation, and called themselves “The Inseparables in Death”: οἱ συναποθανουμéνοι.

The choice of this funereal name, assumed as much from resignation as bravado, sufficiently reveals the state of mind of the lovers. Antony, it seems, had lost all hope; Cleopatra still hoped, but with intervals of gloomy discouragement. At such times she would descend to the crypts of the palace, near the prisons of the condemned; slaves would drag them, a few at a time, from their cells to test on them the effects of different poisons. Cleopatra watched with a curiosity, more painful even than cruel, the dying agonies of the victims. The experiments were frequently repeated, for the queen could not discover the poison of her dreams—a poison that slays instantly without pain and without shock. She noticed that violent poisons killed swiftly but with frightful torture, and that less active ones inflicted lingering agonies; then she studied the bites of serpents, and after new experiments she discovered that the venom of an Egyptian viper, called in Greek “Aspis,” caused neither convulsion nor any painful sensation, and led by a constantly increasing drowsiness to a gentle death, like a sleep. As for Antony, like Cato and Brutus, he had his sword.

In the midst of these preparations for defense and for death the vanquished of Actium sought to negotiate with their conqueror. Octavius, recalled to Rome by a threatened sedition of the veterans, had in the course of the winter gone to Syria, where he was concentrating his forces. Antony wrote to him; he reminded him of his former friendship, recalled his services, made excuses for the wrongs he had done, and ended by promising to lay down his arms on condition of being allowed to live as a private citizen at Alexandria. Octavius deigned no reply, nor did he reply to a second letter in which he offered to kill himself, provided that Cleopatra might continue to reign over Egypt. The queen on her side, and unknown to Antony, despatched an envoy to Octavius with rich gifts. Less generous than her lover, who had offered his life to secure her crown, she separated his cause from her own. The Egyptian envoy represented to Octavius that his hatred of Antony ought not to include the queen, who had had no part in the late events. It was Rome, said he, that declared war on Egypt, to bring matters to a close with Antony. Was not Cleopatra compelled to arm in her own defense? But now that Antony is overcome, compelled to exile or suicide, the Romans may safely show mercy to Cleopatra and leave her on the throne. That is far more to their interest than to force this powerful queen to a desperate struggle.

Octavius already considered himself the master of Egypt—and of the world. He feared but little the broken sword in the hand of Antony, still less the shattered remains of the army of Cleopatra and the wrecks of her navy. But there were two things still beyond his power—all-powerful emperor as he was—the immense treasures of Cleopatra, on which he had reckoned to pay his legionaries, and Cleopatra herself, whom he wished to grace his triumph; she might escape the Roman by death and her treasure by fire. Traitors and spies were not lacking in Alexandria; and Octavius knew, through their reports, of the queen’s experiments in poisons as well as that she had collected all her treasures in her future tomb. He was compelled to employ cunning with the Egyptian, and, believing himself justified by the words of her ambassador to propose such a step, he declared that if the queen would compass Antony’s death she should preserve her sovereignty. Some days after, fearful that this somewhat savage diplomacy might not prevail with Cleopatra, he despatched to her Thyreus, his freedman. In Egypt, Thyreus talked openly before the court and Antony of the resentment of Octavius and of his severe decrees, but having obtained without difficulty a secret audience of Cleopatra he told her that he had been charged by his master to repeat his assurances that she had nothing to fear. To satisfy her of this, he pretended to confide to her that she was beloved by Octavius as of old by Cæsar and Antony. Cleopatra had many interviews with Thyreus and publicly showed him much friendliness. Antony took the alarm, and, suspicious of Cleopatra whether as woman or queen, he made use of what power was left him to avenge himself on Thyreus, and in spite of his character as ambassador he had him beaten with rods and sent him back bleeding to his master. The anger of Antony proves that Cleopatra had not listened with inattentive ears to the communications of Thyreus. A woman readily believes this sort of declaration, especially when she has been much beloved. It is true that Cleopatra was then thirty-seven years old, but had she any less confidence in her ever-victorious charms? It is also true that Octavius had never seen her, unless, perhaps, thirteen years before, at Rome, after the death of Cæsar; but did not the universal fame of her attractions suffice to inspire, if not exactly love, at least a vague desire and an ardent and eager curiosity? Cleopatra had loved Antony passionately, but this love had been aroused, strengthened, and exalted as much by the glory and power of the triumvir as by his manly beauty and strength. Now Antony was conquered, a fugitive, betrayed by his friends, deserted by his legions; himself hopeless and dispirited he seemed to bow to his fate. His absurd retreat to the Timonion after the battle of Actium, while she, seized with a feverish activity, was preparing everything for a final effort, had inspired more scorn than pity in the heart of the queen. Women neither understand nor can they forgive those perilous moments of depression which at certain times overcome the bravest. Little as was the love she still bore Antony, and anxious as she might be about the revelations made by Thyreus, Cleopatra never thought for a moment of having Antony slain, or of giving him up to Octavius; but what, perhaps, she could not help hoping was, that Antony, his life threatened in Alexandria, forsaken by his last legionaries, and having no other than Egyptian troops of doubtful fidelity, would flee into Numidia or Spain and thus deliver her from her embarrassments.

About the middle of the spring of 30 B. C. news reached Alexandria that a Roman army had crossed the western frontier of Egypt. Antony collected a few troops and marched to meet the enemy. A battle was fought beneath the walls of the strong city of Prætonium, which was already in the hands of the Romans. Antony, with his handful of men, was repulsed. When he returned to Alexandria Octavius was within two days’ march of the city. Whilst his lieutenant, Cornelius Gallus, was penetrating into Egypt by Cyrenaica he himself had entered through Syria and had taken Pelusium, after a real or feigned resistance, in either case a very brief one. After the surrender of Pelusium, the last of the Romans who had remained faithful to Antony cried out treason, declaring that Seleucus had surrendered the city by the orders of Cleopatra herself. Is it true that the queen had given such instructions? It may be doubted; nevertheless, Cleopatra’s trouble of mind and her secret hopes give a color to these suspicions. To vindicate herself she gave up to Antony the wife and children of Seleucus, and proposed that he should put them to death. This was but a very doubtful proof of her innocence, but Antony had to be satisfied with it. His anger subsided before her protestations and tears, true or false; now was not the time for recriminations: he must fight. Octavius had pitched his camp on the heights about twenty stadia east of Alexandria. Antony, having led in person a strong reconnoitering body of cavalry in that direction, fell in, not far from the Hippodrome, with the whole body of the Roman cavalry. A furious battle was fought in which, notwithstanding their great superiority of numbers, the Romans were broken and utterly routed. Antony pursued them to their entrenchments; then he returned to the city, strengthened by this victory, of little importance indeed, but brilliant and of good augury. He sprang from his horse before the palace, and, without taking time to lay aside his armor, rushed, still wearing helmet and cuirass, and covered with the blood and sweat of the fight, to embrace Cleopatra. She, deceiving herself as to the importance of this skirmish, felt her love and her hopes at the same time revive. She had again found her Antony, her emperor, her god of war. She threw herself passionately on his neck, wounding her breasts against his cuirass. At this moment of sincere feeling she must have reproached herself grievously (if she had committed it) with the treason of Pelusium; and the confidences which she had accepted from the envoy of Octavius must have recurred to her as a bitter remorse. Cleopatra desired to review the troops. She made them a speech, and, having had the bravest of them pointed out to her, she gave him a complete armor of solid gold.

Antony, restored to hope, no longer contemplated negotiating, and the same day sent a herald to Octavius to invite him to decide their quarrel by single combat in sight of the two armies. Octavius replied disdainfully that there was more than one other way for Antony to seek death. This speech, that marked so great assurance in his enemy, struck Antony as a fatal omen. Suddenly, dashed from his chimerical hopes, he felt his situation in all its gloomy reality. Resolved, nevertheless, the next day to fight one last battle, he ordered a sumptuous feast. “To-morrow,” said he, “it will, perhaps, be too late!” The supper was sad as a funeral banquet; the few friends that were faithful to him maintained a gloomy silence, some even wept. Antony, simulating a confidence which he did not feel, said to them to revive their sinking spirits: “Think not that to-morrow I shall only seek a glorious death; I shall fight for life and victory.” At daybreak, while the troops were taking up their position before the Roman camp, and the Egyptian fleet, which was to support the action by attacking that of Octavius, was doubling Cape Lochias, Antony posted himself on an eminence whence he commanded both the plain and the sea. The Egyptian vessels advanced in battle array against the Roman Liburnians, but, when within two arrow-flights, the rowers raised high in air their long oars in salute. The salute was returned by the Romans, and immediately the two fleets, mingling and making now but one, sailed into the port together. Almost at the same moment Antony sees his cavalry,—that cavalry which the day previous had fought with such intrepidity,—move without orders and pass over to Octavius. In the Roman lines the trumpets sounded the onset; the legions dashed forward with their accustomed war-cry: “_Comminus! Comminus!_” (Hand-to-hand!) The infantry of Antony did not wait the shock—it broke and rushed towards the city, dragging their leader in the midst of the rout. Antony, mad with rage, uttering threats and curses, striking the fugitives indifferently with the blade and the flat of his sword, re-entered Alexandria exclaiming that he was betrayed by Cleopatra, given up by this woman to those with whom he had fought solely for love of her.

Cleopatra had no longer the power either to betray or to save Antony; for she, the “New Goddess,” the “Queen of Kings,” she, too, was abandoned by her people, as he, the great captain, was deserted by his army. Their cause was lost, who would be faithful to it? During the preceding day and night, Octavius’s emissaries had worked upon the legionaries and the Egyptians, promising to the former amnesty, to the latter safety. The valiant soldier on whom Cleopatra the day before had bestowed the golden suit of armor had not even waited for the morning to pass into the Roman camp; that very night he had deserted! At the sight of the fugitives rushing like a torrent into the city, Cleopatra is overcome with terror. She is aware of the suspicions of Antony, she knows his terrible fits of rage. Already she is familiar with the idea of death, but she desires a more easy death, a death the sister of sleep. She shudders and revolts at the thought of Antony’s sword; she has a vision of hideous wounds in her person, her breast, perhaps her face. As for attempting to calm his fury, she has neither strength nor courage for that. Desperate, she quits the palace with Iras and Charmion, and withdraws to her tomb, of which she has the door closed; and, to prevent Antony’s attempting to force this refuge, she gives orders to tell him she is no more.[14]

Antony, rushing like a madman about the deserted apartments of the palace, learns the news. His anger dissolves in tears: “What more have you to expect, Antony?” exclaimed he, “Fortune robs you of the only blessing which made life dear.” He commands his freedman Eros to slay him; then, unfastening his cuirass, he addresses this last adieu to Cleopatra: “O, Cleopatra! I do not complain that thou art taken from me, since in a moment I shall rejoin thee.” Eros, meanwhile, has drawn his sword, but instead of striking Antony, he stabs himself. “Brave Eros,” said Antony, seeing him fall dead at his feet, “you set me the example!” and, thrusting the sword into his breast, he sinks fainting upon a couch.

In a few minutes he recovers consciousness. He calls and entreats the slaves, the soldiers, to put an end to him, but none dare to comply, and he is left alone, howling and struggling on the couch. Meanwhile the queen has been informed of the fact. Her grief is bitter and profound—the more bitter that it is mingled with remorse. She must see Antony again; she commands that he be brought, dead or alive. Diomedes, her secretary, hastens to the palace. Antony is at the last gasp, but the joy at hearing that the queen is not dead revives him, and “he rises,” says Dion Cassius, “as if he might still live!” Slaves bear him in their arms, and, to hasten their movements, he utters entreaties, invectives, threats, which mingle with the death-rattle. They reach the tomb; the queen leans from a window of the upper story; fearing a surprise, she will not have the portcullis raised, but she throws down some ropes, and commands them to be fastened round Antony. Then, aided by Iras and Charmion, the only ones she has allowed to enter the mausoleum, she begins to drag him up. “It was not easy,” says Plutarch, “for women thus to lift a man of Antony’s size.” Never, say those who witnessed it, was a sadder or more pitiful sight. Cleopatra, with arms stiff and brow contracted, dragged painfully at the ropes, whilst Antony, bleeding and dying, raised himself as much as possible, extending towards her his dying hands.

At last he reached her, and they laid him on a bed, where she long held him in a close embrace. Her grief spent itself in tears, in sobs, in despairing kisses. She called him her husband, her master, her emperor; she struck her breast, tore it with her nails, then again casting herself upon him, she kissed his wound, wiping off on her face the blood that flowed from it. Antony endeavored to calm and console her, and entreated her to care for her own safety. Burning with fever, he begged for a drink, and swallowed a cup of wine. Death was rapidly approaching. Cleopatra renewed her lamentations. “Do not grieve,” said he, “for this last misfortune; rather congratulate me for the blessings I have enjoyed in my life, and the happiness that has been mine in being the most powerful and illustrious of men; congratulate me on this, that, being a Roman, none but a Roman has conquered me.” He expired in the arms of Cleopatra, dying, as Shakspeare says, where he had wished to live.

When Octavius heard of Antony’s death, he despatched Proculeius and Gallus with orders to seize Cleopatra before she could have time to kill herself. Their calls attracted the attention of the queen; she descended and began to parley with them from behind the portcullis. Deaf to the promises and protestations of the two Romans, Cleopatra declared that she would only surrender if Octavius would agree by oath to maintain her or her son on the throne of Egypt; otherwise Cæsar should have but her dead body. Proculeius, espying the window which had admitted Antony, left his companion to converse alone with the queen, and, finding a ladder, placed it against the thick wall, and thus entering the tomb, he descended the staircase within and sprang upon Cleopatra. Charmion, turning at the noise, exclaimed: “Unhappy queen, thou art taken alive!” Cleopatra snatched from her girdle a dagger which for some time she had carried in order to kill herself, but Proculeius seized her wrist and only allowed her to free herself after being assured that she had no other weapon and no suspicious phial about her. He then resumed the respectful attitude demanded by the rank and misfortunes of the royal captive. He assured her she had nothing to fear from Octavius. “O, Queen,” said he, “you are unjust towards Cæsar, whom you would rob of the noblest opportunity of exercising clemency.”

Her treasures and her person in the power of the Romans, Cleopatra felt herself without the means of defense. What availed it that Cæsar left her her life, since henceforth she desired only to die? The only favor she asked was to be allowed to pay funeral honors to Antony. Although the same request had already been made by the captains of his army who had served under Antony, Octavius, touched with compassion, granted the prayer of the Egyptian. Cleopatra bathed the body of her lover, adorned and armed it as for a last battle, then she laid it in the tomb which she had built for herself and in which she had vainly sought death. After the obsequies the queen was conducted, by order of Octavius, to the palace of the Lagidæ. There she was treated with every attention, but she was, so to speak, never lost sight of (a prisoner forever watched).

The terrible emotions through which Cleopatra had passed, the intense grief which overwhelmed her, above all the wounds she had inflicted on herself during the death-struggle of Antony, brought on an inflammation of the chest, attended by a burning fever. In this illness she saw the hoped-for death, and to hasten her deliverance she refused for many days all medical treatment and all food. Octavius was informed of this, and he sent her word that she must have forgotten that he held her four children as hostages, and that their lives should answer for hers. This horrid threat overcame the resolution of Cleopatra, who then consented to be properly cared for.

Octavius meanwhile felt he had cause for disquiet. What if the pride of the queen overpowered her motherly instincts? what if the horror of gracing as a captive his approaching triumph should decide her to a self-inflicted death? Doubtless she was well guarded, but what negligence or what treason might he not fear? Besides, though without arms or poison, might she not induce the faithful Charmion to strangle her? “Now Octavius,” so says Dion Cassius, “conceived that the death of Cleopatra would have robbed him of his glory.” He resolved, therefore, to see her. He knew he possessed sufficient self-control not to become entangled, and believed himself sufficiently skillful to keep the queen uncertain of the fate to which he destined her.

Cleopatra was no longer deceived as to the pretended sentiments of love with which, according to Thyreus, she had inspired Octavius; of this we are assured by Plutarch. Since the emperor’s arrival in Alexandria he had not even expressed the intention of seeing her, and the harsh treatment, the rigorous seclusion, and the savage threats which she had to endure from him did not certainly indicate a man in love. Can it be said, however, that the prospect of the unexpected visit of Octavius aroused in Cleopatra, desperate as she was, no glimpse of hope, no fugitive vision of a throne, no last enthusiasm? that from her beautiful eyes shot no ray of half-seen triumph?

The queen, scarcely convalescent, was in bed when Octavius entered. She sprang from the couch, though wearing only a tunic, and knelt before him. At the sight of this woman, worn out by fever, emaciated, dreadfully pale, with drawn features, eyes sunken and red with tears, bearing on her face and breast the marks made by her own hands, Octavius found it hard to believe that this was the enchantress that had captivated Cæsar and enslaved Mark Antony; but had Cleopatra been more beautiful than Venus he would not have been her lover. Continence was not among his virtues, but he was too prudent and too clever ever to sacrifice his interests to his passions. He urged the queen to return to her couch, and seated himself near her. Cleopatra began to vindicate herself, referring all that had passed to the force of circumstances and the fear she felt of Antony. She often ceased speaking, interrupted by her choking sobs; then, in the hope of moving Octavius to pity (of seducing him, some say), she drew from her bosom some of Cæsar’s letters, kissed them, and exclaimed: “Wouldst thou know how thy father loved me, read these letters.... Oh! Cæsar! why did I not die before thee!... but for me you live again in this man!” and through her tears she essayed to smile at Octavius. Lamentable scene of coquetry, which the wretched woman no longer could or knew how to play.