Chapter III: Mark Antony

In the accounts written by the admirers of Cæsar Augustus, Mark Antony is depicted as a combination of all the vices. His adversaries undoubtedly had good grounds for denouncing a man whose name reeked of scandals and whose passions had driven him to fight against his own country. It is easy to see how conservative men would have taken exception to his free ways, his bragging, his notorious wine-drinking, his extravagant habits; his gold plates carried, along with his mistresses, his mimes, and buffoons, into his very camps during the wars; the lions that were harnessed to his chariot, all the eccentricities which had caused him to be described as "an overgrown child who might have conquered the world and who did not know how to deny himself the least pleasure."

On the other hand, what charming characteristics he had, which they ignored! Without these delightful qualities, this foundation, so to say, which shone through the deceptive masquerade, how can we understand the continuous, irresistible attraction which he possessed for everyone who came in contact with him? People attract, not by the virtues that they strive for, but by their own natural charm. Mark Antony was blessed with this magnetism. Superb in face and figure, a nobleman full of enthusiasm, whose gay spirits were contagious, brutal perhaps, at times, but never malicious, he possessed all the gifts to make life a thing of joy for himself and for those about him. He was noted for his generosity and his friends knew that they could appeal to it and did not hesitate to do so. On one occasion, Curion, a man of gay life like himself, being in sudden need of money to pay a gambling debt, came to him early one morning before he had finished dressing. Antony was in exactly the same predicament, having lost his last penny at the gaming table the night before. The two friends were dismayed. What could be done? They were out in the country at some distance from Rome and the need was pressing. How could they procure the necessary funds? Antony looked about him. The furnishings, the weapons, the skins of wild beasts, nothing had any money value. Suddenly his eyes lighted on a gold basin filled with water for his morning toilet. With a quick movement he emptied it. "There," he said, "take that. The goldsmith will certainly give you two talents for it."*

*NOTE: In Plutarch's "Life of Antony" a like incident is related of Antony's father.

Though he spent money recklessly, he never used evil means to get it. Even Cicero, his mortal enemy, who brought many charges against him, did him the justice to say: "No one can accuse Mark Antony of dishonesty in money matters, of selfishness, or of any meanness of that kind."

In spite of his lax morals and of his deplorable habit of hard drinking, Antony was not lacking in nobility. It was his enemy, Seneca, who recognized this and described him: _Magnum virum ingenii nobilis_. And what finer keynote to his character as a man could be found than his loyal submission to his chief, whose glory he never coveted? As long as Cæsar lived, his young comrade-in-arms recognized that his own place was in the second rank. He never had any idea of usurping Cæsar's power, and aspired to his place only when he had Octavius for a rival.

It was chiefly on the battle-field that his real character was shown. Patient, steady, imperturbable, a model both of endurance and of submission to discipline, Antony won universal admiration. His soldiers, who had seen him in dangerous crises, would have followed him to the ends of the earth. They looked on him as a god. A man of Antony's temperament naturally had violent reactions. The more he had been restrained, the more he demanded when he was free. During the heroic retreat from Modena he slept on the hard ground, drank stagnant water, lived on roots and herbs; but when it was over, and peace was declared, the high-liver demanded his rights, and the orgies he held were not exceeded by Silenus himself. Just as moderation is the safe rule for most men, Antony thrived on excess. From every fatigue, from every indulgence, he came forth stronger, more keenly alive, invigorated.

Nature, with all her generous gifts to this grandson of Jupiter and Semele, had, however, denied him the one thing needful, without which the others were practically useless: Mark Antony had no commonsense. How could he have made great decisions? His passions were so compelling that he was carried away by them before he had time to reflect. They were irresistible, bearing him on with the force of a hurricane which is appeased only after having devastated all that lies in its path. Two elements fought for mastery in his ardent yet weak spirit: ambition and sensuality. Each, in turn supreme, carried him to extremes. Ambition, pre-eminent in his youth, had inspired those valorous deeds which had made him a leader in the invasions of Gaul and Sicily, and at the death of Cæsar had rendered him all-powerful in subduing the conspirators; between two campaigns it had led him to follow in Alexander's path and undertake the conquest of Persia. But sensuality was the stronger and conquered him at last. Little by little it took possession of its noble prey, binding him, engrossing all his faculties, stifling them, one by one, and at the end throwing him into the abyss of despair.

The morning after the battle of Philippi, before he had set foot on the soil of that Orient which was to be his triumph and his undoing, Antony was well balanced. Though his senses were exultant, his mind was filled with mighty projects. As he left that wild Macedonian country, where victory had been gained only after cruel sacrifices, the memory of whose bitter cold still made him shiver, he dreamed of those sunny southern lands, with their warmth and abundance, which his valour had won. Which one should he visit first? Each had its own attraction, each shore held some new charm. On the other side of Ossa and Pelion, whose snow-capped summits shut him in, lay the fascination and culture of Greece; beyond that, the coast of Asia, crowded with cities, each richer and more famous than the other: Smyrna, Ephesus, Pergamus; then Syria, with her palm trees, her gardens filled with luscious fruits; Lebanon, the stopping-place of the caravans from the Far East, laden with silks and precious stones. Then Palestine, arid beneath her gray olive trees, but crowned by holy Jerusalem, that sacred shrine calling a perpetual pilgrimage of Jews from the four corners of the earth; and above all, Egypt, Egypt fragrant with incense and violets, the kingdom of the incomparable Cleopatra!

Ever since the catastrophe of the Ides of March had so abruptly separated them, Antony had dreamed of the beautiful Queen. Often, in the heat of battle, or during the dreary watches in his tent at night, he had conjured up her fair image. Sometimes he saw again that indefinable look with which, when quite sure that she was unobserved, the mistress of Cæsar had returned his passionate regard. Tender and enticing, her glance, which stole toward him from between her long, dark lashes, seemed to demand his adoration. So vivid had been his sensations that at moments he was thrilled by the memory. The unspoken words of those evenings at the Transtevera would come back to him and, with the hunger of unsatisfied desire, he went over those scenes again and again. Unceasingly he repeated to himself the comforting thought that what had been impossible to him in the lifetime of Cæsar, he was no longer barred from taking. Cleopatra was free, and he, in his turn, had become one of the pillars of the world, a man whom any woman, even were she a queen, would be proud to call her lord. Above all, he had that magic gift of youth, to which all things are possible, and that ever-buoyant hope which, dreaming of the fairest fortune that the future may hold, whispers: "Why should not this be mine?"

But Antony was tormented by one ever-recurring doubt: what did Cleopatra really feel in regard to him? She had always been most gracious in her manner, but discreet at all times, careful not to give Cæsar the least ground for jealousy. What had she thought of him that day when, alone together for a moment, he had not been able to resist kissing her exquisite bare shoulder? She seemed like a beautiful sphinx, as, without remonstrance, without a smile, she had turned away and silently left the room. Was it love of the great Cæsar that made her so prudent, or the fear of losing his powerful protection? He had never understood her complex personality; he could not forget her feline grace, and those eyes which had stirred his innermost depths and had left him wondering, as does the mysterious beauty of a night in spring. What had she been doing for the past two years? He was utterly ignorant of her life, of her interests, and he longed to see her once more.

Antony, however, was not yet entirely in the power of these desires. The duties and responsibilities of his position were the chief factors in his life. He was fully alive to the necessity of visiting the new provinces that had come under his care, of giving them the protection which they had a right to expect from him. What excuse did he have for going first to Egypt? It was not, strictly speaking, a Roman province and could well afford to wait. Besides, it was not a good season for crossing.

So Antony sailed for Greece. It was not his first visit to that noble country. He had already trod the fields of Thessaly when, as a young commander, he had opposed Pompey. He had seen the wonderful temples of Delphi, Corinth, Olympia, with their wealth of sculpture and incomparable jewels. He had lingered in the forest of Eleusis, and in the theatre of Epidaurus he had been transported in spirit to the prophetic realms of the art of Æschylus. How thrilling it would be to revisit all these scenes! To come to them, clothed in majesty and with unlimited power!

The Greeks had become accustomed to foreign rule and no longer hated their conquerors. Indeed they had a certain regard for this Roman soldier who was said to be as handsome as Alcibiades and comparable to Themistocles in his warlike virtues. Among a people who counted physical strength and beauty as the highest gifts the gods could bestow, this son of Hercules had every chance of winning all hearts. He was welcomed graciously according to the custom of the country. The villages sent groups of men, bearing branches by day and torches by night, to escort his litter. As he entered the cities young girls greeted him with showers of roses, and a chorus of young men sang and danced to the music of lyres.

These acclamations were accompanied by alternate petitions and songs of praise. Wishing to prove how worthy he was of the latter, he showed his characteristic generosity in granting the requests. Ten thousand talents were donated to restore the theatre at Megara; at Thebes and Larissa he rebuilt the dwellings which Pompey's hordes had burned; and at Corinth he restored the ancient temple devoted to the worship of Venus Pandenus. While thus scattering gold broadcast he quickened his march over the slopes of Hymettus, for beyond them lay Athens, and he was eager to hear her honey-sweet praises.

Although badly damaged by Sulla's troops, pillaged by the greedy government which had succeeded him, poverty-stricken as she now was, and inconvenient as her narrow streets, small houses, and irregular squares had always made her, the city of Pericles kept her old charm. The magic light, which at sunrise and sunset illuminated the rose-coloured sides of the Pentelicus, would alone have made her worthy of adoration; and the birthplace of Phidias still possessed nearly all his wonderful creations. The monuments of the Acropolis were undisturbed; no profane hand had touched the pure glory of the Parthenon; the Poecile still held her brilliantly coloured decorations, fresh as the day they were completed, and the five doors of the Propylea were yet open to the blue sky.

Antony was not artistic by nature, and his career as a soldier had, naturally, not developed any love of art; yet he was not insensible to the charm of beautiful things. Rome had many rich sculptures, and he had grown up among them; and the Greek education which, in common with most Patrician youths, he had received had made him familiar with the works of Homer and the wisdom of Plato. He therefore approached the bridge of Ilisos in a spirit of reverence.

Athens was not only a venerated sanctuary with the glory of four centuries behind her, who had given the world a radiance of wisdom and culture which had never been equalled; she was still a centre of life and prosperity. Her colleges, though fewer and not so richly endowed as the schools of Alexandria, kept their ancient standards of excellence. Although not the equals of those of the old days, philosophers, poets, and artists still gathered there, together with fencers, horsemen, athletes, disk and javelin throwers; all youths who were faithful to the tradition of keeping a sound mind in a healthy body. Educated in the ideals of that republican past which had made their country great, these young men were full of fire and enthusiasm. A generous instinct gave them a natural sympathy for high aims, for all that recalled the heroes of their native land. On hearing of the death of Cato, they covered their heads with ashes; at the call of Brutus the elite of the country had perished at Philippi; and to-day Mark Antony, as opposed to Octavius, represented to them the old liberal spirit of Rome.

The Triumvir was careful not to check this flattering popularity. Knowing how these sons of Themistocles respected military pomp, he entered Athens on horseback, clad in cuirass and helmet, with clashing arms; then, in accordance with the simplicity of the civilian customs, he partook of the unpretentious hospitality that was offered him in the ancient palace of the Archons. His customary gold plate, silken togas, and couches were banished; he had a frugal meal prepared and, recalling the example set by Cæsar, he put on a woollen cloak and, preceded by a solitary lictor, went on foot up the hill of the Acropolis.

During his stay at Athens he never deviated from this simple manner of living; whether his unlimited power had wrought a sudden change in his views, or breathing the air of Greece had made him feel the beauty of moderation, his attitude astonished all those who had known him. His conduct was that of a real chief, and the sentences that he was called upon to pronounce all bore the stamp of balanced judgment. Not content with merely edifying the Athenians, it was soon apparent that he wished to win them. It was the season for the festival of Adonis. He consented to celebrate this with them and ingenuously joined in the rite of the quickly blooming, quickly fading flowers which symbolized the premature death of the son of Myrrha. He graciously listened to the elegies recited by the mourning women, who wept for the young god; and to the hymns with which these same women, now crowned with roses, filled the air the following day, in token of his resurrection. He presided over the different competitions held on the Pnyx, and, surrounded by a group of distinguished Athenians, awarded prizes to those who had won distinction in either athletics or oratory.

Had Antony become a convert to the virtuous life? Could such a sudden transformation be genuine? Was the former worshipper of Venus given over to gaining the affections of the masses? Some people who were interested in his future greatness believed this and rejoiced in it. But the real reason for this abrupt change lay in his craving for new sensations. Did he want to amuse? Did he hope to mystify? Not exactly; but the blood which bubbled in his veins was too strong and active to be satisfied with living one life only. By playing many parts this sturdy actor sought the illusion of crowding more into his life.

But his real character quickly came out. He suddenly grew weary of these simple pleasures and dull duties. The shores of Asia with its gracious fields were within easy reach, and its cities offered every luxury and entertainment. So one fine morning he shook the sacred dust of the Acropolis from his buskins, and taking ship, set sail for Antioch.

This metropolis, at that time the third in importance in the world, seemed, at a distance, to hang from the sides of the Coryphean mountains. Long before entering the harbour of Seleucia, voyagers were astonished to see the gigantic military forts which scaled the rocky slopes and crowned the summit with their crenelated walls. The city itself was on the banks of the Orontes, a white mass gleaming through the cypress trees. In addition to the theatres, gymnasiums, aqueducts, circuses, and race-courses, common to all large capitals, that of Syria had a Corso, a wide avenue, bordered from one end to the other by quadruple lines of columns. This splendid boulevard was a rendezvous for the world of fashion, and a constant stream of people passed up and down it day and night; on certain days the life and animation surpassed even that of the Roman Forum. The innumerable attractions of Antioch, especially since the decline of Athens, had brought many people to settle there, and it had, as well, a large floating population: Persians, Jews, Orientals of every country, to say nothing of the courtesans who flocked there from Susa, Ecbatana, often from the banks of the Ganges. Under the influence of these transient dwellers and of its tremendous commercial power, equalled only by that of Alexandria, manners and morals had gradually become corrupt. It was declared to be the most depraved city between Paphlagonia and Palmyra, a region noted for its scandalous living. As an example of the loose customs of the day, when the feast of Maia was celebrated, groups of naked girls ran through the streets, waving torches, while others, in like state, swam in the clear waters of the fishing pools, in full sight of the crowds.

This corrupt atmosphere had an immediate effect upon Mark Antony. The instant he breathed it his spirits rose; he was exhilarated, cheerful, full of his old keen desire for the pleasure of living. But did not everything in the palace of the Seleucides--a restoration of the one which had made Sardanapalus famous--tend to increase this feeling? As he strolled along the Corso, watching the beautiful and fascinating women file past, their look seemed to say: "Every hour cheated of its joy is empty as the grave!" How far he was from those austere assemblies of the Pnyx, or the house of the Archons! With impetuous vehemence, he stripped off his disguise of Athenian simplicity and was once more his natural self. The grave demeanour and governmental cares with which he had been occupied since the Macedonian days were succeeded by a period of license proportionate to his tedious term of self-restraint. No longer influenced by any fear of criticism, as everyone about him was of the same mind, yielding to the flattering libertines who surrounded him he put aside all dignity and, oblivious of his rank, joined in their orgies of debauchery. Every evening a group of perfumed courtesans, brought in by Anaxanor, the flute-player, swayed in rhythmic movement on the rich carpets, displaying the grace of their bodies, accompanied by languorous melodies upon the flute. The dancer, Xantos, directed the performances of the mimes and buffoons, and Medrador, whose father had grown rich by means of the wine-cellars of King Tissaphernus, had charge of the table which, in extravagant abundance and delicacy, had never been surpassed, even in the most famous Asiatic courts.

Such an establishment necessarily entailed great expense. How could the money for this be supplied save by the usual methods of the conqueror in a vanquished country--an increase of taxation? Antony did not fail to follow the example of his predecessors. He claimed that, as Brutus and Cassius had drawn heavily upon the resources of these provinces, he was entitled to get even more. Certain towns that had already been severely taxed were called upon for new contributions. "That will teach them the folly of upholding a bad cause," said Antony, with his genial smile.

These hardships, however, were not accepted everywhere with equal submission. Hybreas, the champion of Cappadocia, made bold to say, when the master appeared: "If Mark Antony demands a double, a triple tribute from us, will he provide a double, a triple crop each year?"

So far from annoying him, this remark pleased the Triumvir, for he had a sense of humour, and appreciated it in others, even though the joke was at his own expense. He replied with a jest and let the province of Cappadocia go free of extra taxes.

The good faith which he usually showed in his dealings gained him indulgence, and his generosity was an antidote to his plundering. He often restored with one hand what he had taken with the other. The day before he left Antioch, wishing to reward the chef who had prepared the feasts which he and his friends had enjoyed, he gave him a palace which had served as a ransom for a wealthy citizen of Magnesia.

His stay at Ephesus brought about the undoing of Mark Antony. Though not less dissolute than Antioch, this celebrated city was in a way different. Entirely under the influence of the priests, since the temple of Diana had been erected with its marble columns, it had impressed on everything, even the most objectionable, the stamp of her worship. Magnificent festivals attracted not only pilgrims, but hordes of suspicious characters, to whom the sanctuary afforded a safe refuge. All this mass of men, this mixture of charlatans, mountebanks, magicians, jugglers, and sorcerers, skilful in exploiting vice as well as superstition, helped to transform these fêtes into wild revels. And these horrors, these infamous liberties, took place at the shrine of Diana and under the guise of her worship. In leaving Delos and approaching the Syrian coast, where all things became tainted and corrupt, the character of the chaste goddess was changed. She who on the other side of the water breathed forth strength and modesty had become a coarse idol of the flesh. It seemed as though in changing her dwelling-place the very essence of her being was altered; the divine huntress had abandoned her bow and arrow, and the decadent imagination of some unknown sculptor had coarsened and distorted the lines of her virginal body. Oh, nymph of the woods, in what profane regions have your flying feet strayed!

When the Ephesians heard that the Triumvir was on his way to visit their city they determined, with their passion for deifying everything, to welcome him as they would Dionysos. Chariots preceded him, filled with girls representing Bacchantes; a group of Pans and Satyrs surrounded him, dancing to the accompaniment of the flute. They saluted him with the names given to the god himself, greeting him with the verses sacred to his worship: "Hail to thee, Heracles, giver of all joys! Oh, Bacchus, to whom we owe the juicy fruit of the vines! Omestes, sweet as tender figs, thou art welcome!" The whole town, wherever Antony's chariot passed, was decorated with ivy and garlands of flowers. Music resounded and blue clouds of incense mounted heavenward.

If Antony did not actually believe himself to be the son of Jupiter, he was drunk with flattery and claimed some of the privileges of divine ancestry, chiefly that of being beyond the control of human laws. His caprices were limitless. He attired himself in silk and cloth of gold, had a chorus of dancers in continual attendance, and held his court with Olympian bearing.

But with all this he did not, for a moment, forget the selfish object of his journey. He was willing to be adored, but not to make the least sacrifice. The Ionians had put up a strong protest, but he did not lessen by a farthing the tax of two hundred thousand talents which he had levied upon them. All that they gained was an extension of the time of payment, and that only because the request came to him through the beautiful Corelia, who was, for the time being, in high favour.

Antony soon tired of travelling from one city to another and decided that it was more in keeping with his dignity to summon the kings, his vassals, to him, than to go to them. He chose Tarsus for his residence and announced that henceforth the sovereigns should seek him, and he made it quite clear that the continuance of their sovereignty depended on his pleasure.

None dared disobey his orders. Along the dusty roads, under the placid skies, cavalcades and litters, chariots drawn by oxen, by elephants with majestic tread, moved steadily on, followed by a long file of dromedaries, bearing the baggage with oriental pomp. As the caravans drew near lances flashed, armour gleamed, the standards bore curious devices, the swarm of men and beasts presented a motley appearance. On arriving at the city gates a herald went forward and, through a silver trumpet, announced the name of the august visitor. The kings of Antioch and Sysima, the satrap, Palemon, Herod, who reigned in Judea, and Adallas of Sidonia, were all duly announced, also the tetrarchs of Lycaonia and Pontus, the governor of Commagene, as well as the rulers of Thrace and Arabia.

Tanned by the hot sun of the East, many of them seemed sad and very weary. One and all they hated this conqueror, but as soon as they were in his presence they were animated by the hope of some reward to be obtained, some honour or promotion to be secured.

Luxuriously installed in a tent, which served as a tribunal, Antony received the various suppliants with great ceremony and dealt out his favours. The report got abroad that the personal attractiveness of the claimant influenced his decisions, and the princesses hastened to seek an audience. He received a visit from the noted beauty, Glaphyra, and her gracious charms secured the throne of Phrygia for her son; the young widow of Aristobulus was assured of the permanence of her crown; Herod's devoted wife, Mariamne, in spite of her reserve, succeeded in winning what she desired for her husband.

But the one whom, above all others, he desired and expected, the Queen of Egypt, had not come. Why was she so late? The command had been sent to her as to the others; perhaps the wish to see her had inspired the general edict. Cleopatra's failure to appear was all the more remarkable as she had certain affairs to settle with him. As an ally of Rome, her attitude during the late war had given grounds for criticism. When the avengers of Cæsar had asked the aid of her fleet she had urged the pretext of a tempest which prevented her from sending it. But this prudence could be interpreted as a desire to keep on good terms with both parties. So she had much to explain and should lose no time. Antony had written to her several times. The first letters had been official notes from a ruler to a queen, desiring her presence according to the prescribed form then in use. Her replies had been vague. He then wrote more urgently. Getting no satisfactory result from his efforts, his anger was aroused. Was this daughter of the Lagidæ trifling with him? Had she forgotten that her father owed the restoration of his throne to the gracious power of Rome? And her own position? To-morrow, if he so decreed.

One day he decided to send her a letter of command. But what could he say? After all he was only a man, tormented by his passions, who, unaccustomed to any resistance, felt his desire turning to exasperation. Like Jupiter with his thunderbolts, he imagined that the elements would obey him and that this coveted woman would come submissively if he frightened her sufficiently. When he found that his commands were disregarded, just as his advances had been ignored, he tried to forget her. He was rich in resources and had many mistresses. One succeeded the other with incredible speed, as though a constant change could give to each the power to efface the memory of Cleopatra. Each time that he clasped a new love to his breast he would, for the moment, feel free from the desire for her presence, would think that he had effectually rid himself of the craving for her. But these periods of oblivion passed quickly and the longing for the absent one returned, stronger than ever. Although there had never been any definite bond between them, he unconsciously nourished toward Cleopatra the kind of rancour that he would have felt toward a mistress who had betrayed and deserted him. He was beginning to hate her; and yet, he still longed for her coming.

Tarsus, like Antioch and Ephesus, was one of the principal cities of Asia Minor. Situated almost at the mouth of the Cydnus, that ice-cold river which, to the young Alexander, had felt like the first touch of death--it had the animated life of a port, while the neighbouring forests of myrtles lent it the glamour of romance. The temple of Apollo made it a shrine for men of letters, and it showed a tendency toward idealism which prepared the way for that apostle who was soon to be born there, and who was destined to preach the gospel of Christ within its walls. In the meantime it was the sanctuary of Aphrodite, and innumerable voluptuous statues, always laden with abundant offerings, bore witness to the fervent worship of this goddess. Thus associated with divinity and screened by the range of the Taurus mountains, watered by bubbling springs and swept by fragrant breezes, Tarsus was an ideal resting-place.

If satisfied ambition could content the human heart, Antony should have been perfectly happy, for each day brought him new homage and more complete submission. In his innermost being, however, uneasiness and discontent reigned. He was not altogether sensual and was, at times, overcome by a noble sadness. He craved an object for his ambition, an aim for the exuberance which carried him away. On the days when this discontent tormented him beyond endurance he sought a counter-irritant, not in commonplace pleasures--they no longer amused him--but in healthy physical exercise, which, while it lasted, drove away all irritating thought. He would fling himself on one of his Syrian steeds, under whose delicate skin the veins were clearly visible, whose nostrils seemed to breathe fire, and with bridle-rein hanging loose would ride headlong through torrents and down valleys. This exhilarating exercise restored at once that vitality and enthusiasm which his temporary depression had apparently crushed for ever. He seemed born again, full of fierce energy and joyousness, as though he had just gained a new victory, more glorious than any he had yet won.

These rides often took Antony to the Ægean shore. Perhaps unconsciously he felt the need of looking out upon the sea, of questioning its depths. It was full of peace and beauty, covered with the shining gold of the setting sun. Its rippling bosom seemed to breathe. Gazing steadily at it, hearing its murmur on the beach, feeling its soft breath, it became at last a living creature to him, the woman of his dreams. In his imagination he saw two women, each aiding the other against him, both seductive, both perfidious, each having the same sovereign power to make him the happiest of men, yet taking pleasure in leaving him on this shore, solitary and forlorn.

But the days went by and although he scanned the horizon to its uttermost limits, although the winds were favourable and the sea was covered with ships, he could never see that world-renowned galley with its purple sails, which travellers returning from Alexandria had so often described to him. At last his patience gave out. He was tired of hoping against hope; all his powers availed him nothing against that far-away indifference, whose cause baffled him. Impelled by that mysterious force which controls human destinies, he finally despatched an ambassador with orders to use all possible persuasions to induce Cleopatra to come to him.