Chapter VII: The Marriage at Antioch

Leaning on the parapet, within sound of the waves that lapped against the quai, Cleopatra watched the ship that was carrying off her lover grow smaller in the distance. When the highest mast had disappeared beneath the horizon, she let her hand fall; the hand that had been waving a handkerchief since the ship had weighed anchor. Her throat contracted and the tears ran down her cheeks. The sea, in shades of green and amethyst, spread out before her like a piece of silk unrolled. It was perfectly calm, yet that wide gulf which separated her from Antony was full of terror for her. She turned to Charmian:

"What does life hold for me now? He who meant all my happiness has gone. Without his loving glance, the sound of his merry laughter, I shall have no joy in living."

The ideal confidante is one who makes her friend's grief her own. Although Charmian had deplored her mistress's relations with Antony and had felt, from the outset, that he would bring only misery to her beloved lady, yet she now feigned deep sorrow.

"The Triumvir's absence will make the Bruchium seem an empty palace, but he will not tarry long away from you, my Queen. Even as he stepped on board the ship I heard him promise to return before the year is ended."

Cleopatra did not doubt his prompt return, for hope filled her veins, as the sap runs strong in the young tree in full leaf. But summer had barely begun, the days would drag along very slowly. Thus talking, under the protecting shade of ivory-handled fans held over them by two negro slaves, they went back to the terrace. The Queen stopped every few steps, for there were memories of Antony at each turn. There was the rose-coloured ibis, one leg tucked out of sight, who, motionless and quite tame, was standing on the grass, apparently lost in thought. The aromatic perfume of the carnations made her sigh, remembering that each night Antony had plucked one in passing, touched it to his lips, and put it in her bosom, saying: "I give you all my heart." And when he was not near to embrace her she always felt the warm fragrance of the flower as she breathed, like lips pressing against her breast. Nothing is more cruel in the absence of a loved one than the constant reminders of shared joys.

"Antony, come back to me, my beloved!" she cried in a sudden spasm of loneliness.

"You care too much, Madame. No living man is worthy of such love."

"It is easy to see, Charmian, that nothing has troubled the calm waters of your soul! Do you imagine that love is measured by the worthiness of the beloved? If that were true I could have loved no one so much as Cæsar; yet, as you know, Antony is the only one who has filled my whole soul."

She approached the fountain, where the water ran like living crystal and broke into foam at the basin's edge. The falling water brought the thought of the flying time that was taking away her happiness. Would those blissful days ever come again, or were they, like yesterday's flow of water, lost for ever?

Anxious to divert her from things which by their very charm were depressing, Charmian said gently:

"Will you not come now and try to sleep, Madame? To-morrow surely will bring you fresh courage."

Cleopatra had her royal robes laid aside, swallowed a draught of nepenthes to induce slumber, and said, as she closed her eyes:

"If I could only sleep on until he comes again!"

Life had to go on, however; four, five, six months, or more, would pass before Antony's return and Cleopatra was not the woman to give herself up to idle lamentations. Leaving the mourning veil and ashes to Dido of old, she resumed her sumptuous life and the royal routine of her daily duties.

Many things which had been neglected during those months of infatuation with her lover now claimed her attention. She took note of all the buildings, ships, and gardens in need of repair and saw that they were thoroughly overhauled and set in order. Her ministers were astonished to see how altogether conversant she was with the problems of state, and those who had thought her given over to frivolity were amazed with the way she handled the finances of the Government. She was equally proficient in reorganizing the army after the model of the legions which Antony had left with her; in adding to the marine service and in improving the administration generally.

As reigning sovereign, she set to work to improve the condition of her people; guarded against famine by irrigating the lands with fertilizing floods from the Nile; drove off the Nabathæan tribes who were threatening the Arabian frontier, showing that the ruler of Egypt, woman though she was, was the equal of the great kings of the world.

Like all her ancestors she had a love for building. She went from city to city with a host of architects, engineers, and artists, to see that the old temples were kept in proper repair. Those at Edfu, Hermonthis, and Coptis were rebuilt under her direction. The one at Dendera, which she enlarged, still shows her portrait carved on its tablets. She restored the Library at Alexandria and began the Cæsarium, whose excavated ruins reveal her admiration for Greek art. The last of the obelisks was erected during her reign: that Cleopatra's Needle, which, two thousand years later, was transported to the borders of the Thames, and now mournfully lifts its once rosy sides to the sooty skies of the British metropolis.

All these activities, however, could not make Cleopatra forget the aching void in her heart. In the midst of ceremonials, festivals, travels, she was continually asking herself: "What has become of Antony? Where is he? Has he forgotten me?"

Separation between lovers is endurable only if there is a steady interchange of letters. When Antony first left Egypt a galley came from Brindisi every ten days bringing long letters. In the beginning these were infinitely tender, filled with the solicitous grief that showed his anxiety in his absence. They reëchoed every expression of devotion which Cleopatra's letters contained. "Waking and sleeping you are always with me. I seek your presence everywhere and I feel that you are near," he wrote repeatedly. He said that public affairs were going forward satisfactorily and announced that, in order to hasten his return, he intended to put these in Pollion's care, as he understood all the details concerning them, while he himself was going at once to Syria and Palestine to reëstablish the authority which his long absence had compromised.

Since he could not be with her, Cleopatra much preferred having her lover in Asia Minor. That was where they were to come together again, in that country so like her own in climate, customs, habits of dress and tastes. There he would be reminded of her at every turn, whereas in Italy everything was different. By one of those unfailing feminine instincts, she felt that in Rome some unlooked-for turn of events would bring her disaster. She had never seen Octavius, but the fact that he was Cæsar's heir made him the rival and enemy of her little Cæsarion. Anything that occurred in Italy aroused her suspicion, and she could only hope that Antony, easily led and trustful as he was, would never fail to be on his guard.

Cleopatra's various enterprises were interrupted, for the time being, by the birth of twins, to whom she gave the somewhat pretentious names of Helios and Selene. It seemed the propitious moment to remind Antony of the projected marriage which they had planned together and which was essential for the future protection of these children.

He responded by joyous and elaborate felicitations, saying that he was eager to legitimatize his claim to fatherhood as soon as possible. In confirmation of this assurance his messenger brought the young mother a coffer of carved gold, containing two pearls of perfect shape and wonderful orient, with the written words: "My lips have covered these with kisses, as I should love to cover your beautiful breasts, which are moulded in their likeness."

Such demonstrations made Cleopatra very happy. She loved--she was loved. That was enough for the present, and the future stretched before her like a flaming torch.

Then Antony's letters began to come less frequently. But what of that? He had left the coast; he was in the interior of the country, absorbed in necessary military details which left him little leisure for writing. Besides, he was remote from cities and consequently not exposed to the temptations of town life; why should she have any fears?

Her confidence that all was well was confirmed by the arrival of a Roman galley, sent from Asia, about the middle of the autumn. It brought neither gifts nor the customary sealed roll which the Queen was in the habit of seeing in the messenger's hand long before he reached her side. This time a courier came, requesting an audience with her. Cleopatra's heart throbbed with hope and fear. Her eyes sought those of the man who had so recently looked on her lover.

"How long since you have seen the Imperator?" she demanded.

"Twenty days, Madame."

"Where was he then?"

"At Samosata, on the border of the Commagene."

Her eager questions followed each other breathlessly. "How did he look? Was he sad or gay? What did he say to you? What message has he sent to me?"

This courier, Menecratus, was a freedman who had Antony's confidence, and whom long association with the Imperator had trained in the art of making a pleasing impression. He had abundant tact and discretion, an ideal interpreter for his master. He gave the following account to the Queen:

"When I went to receive the Imperator's orders he was neither sad nor gay. His face was radiant with that divine energy which is seen in the visage of Mars. The country all around him showed the marks of war. There were chariots, mules, troops of soldiers, shields glittering in the sun. He was holding the bridle of his fierce charger, which he was about to mount, in one hand; the other was on the pommel of his saddle. 'By the sacred geese which fly over the Capitol,' he said, 'go and report what you have seen. Tell Cleopatra that Mark Antony goes forth to conquer new kingdoms that he will soon lay at her feet.'"

So once again Cleopatra was comforted. Her lover was fighting for her sake; he was preparing for their future. Victory was in his path, and soon he would come back to her, so crowned with glory, so powerful in his conquests, that nothing, no one, could prevent the fulfilment of their magnificent plans.

The winter mists, however, were now obscuring the sea; all navigation was suspended. For more than three months there had been no tidings from Antony. The faith of Cleopatra was woven of a tissue so fragile that constant renewing was needed to keep the fabric whole. She was overwhelmed by a melancholy dread of possible disaster. The final date of his return was approaching. If he were not there! As she had no actual reasons to explain this persistent silence she tormented herself with the most rueful theories. He was the victim of poisoned arrows, a fatal fall, shipwreck; all these filled her imagination with depressing visions. She could not bear to be alone for a moment. Either Iras or Charmian was required to be in constant attendance. She kept them under a perpetual fire of questions, as an outlet for her own fears.

"The end of the year is close at hand, my Charmian. Why have I no word of his return?"

"Without doubt, Madame, he is planning to give you a happy surprise." The beautiful young Athenian girl spent hours at the feet of her mistress, her violet eyes fixed upon the Queen's anxious face, trying to reassure her.

But as the weary days dragged on and no news came, the ominous menace, that seemed to threaten her from afar, drew nearer and the Queen was more difficult to comfort. One day she caught at Iras's hand, as though a sudden fear had come to her: "Can he have ceased to care for me? Has he put another woman in my place?"

"But Madame, he has known Cleopatra, what other woman could he find to take your place?" replied the Persian girl.

These fancies, vague at first, were now becoming cruel certainties. Travellers from Rome reported that Antony had returned from Asia, made his peace with Octavius, and the price of that peace was also known!

The tragic scene in which Cleopatra learns of her lover's marriage; the tears and passion which Shakespeare describes in words that make his stage a living world, leave nothing more to be told. By the silence, that interminable silence, which surrounded her, the Queen at last comprehended that dire misfortune had come to her. Her attendants tried to keep the truth back. No one of them could muster courage to speak. Was the news so horrible? Her mind leaped to the most terrible thing of all: "Is he dead? Has death frozen the warmest heart that ever throbbed?"

"No, no, Madame," Charmian cried, "Antony is alive, he is well." The Queen breathed again, but the dreaded disaster rushed to her mind. He had deserted her, then. Her agonized eyes put the question that her lips could not frame. No one answered. Everyone turned away and Charmian stammered incoherently.

"Iras, tell me, what is it?"

"There is nothing known definitely, Madame."

"But I insist on knowing definitely and at once," said Cleopatra, in a tone that suffered no denial.

The man who had brought the tidings was summoned. He proved to be a merchant, in Alexandria on his own business. He had gossiped, as all travellers do, bringing news from one town to the next. He was puzzled at being called to the palace.

"What is this tale? Speak out," commanded the Queen. Her look was terrifying. But the man had no sense of responsibility in repeating a story which was the subject of general discussion in Rome.

"Antony is married?" On hearing of this wedding with Octavia, which had been celebrated with the utmost pomp and magnificence, Cleopatra was beside herself with rage. Her pride, her dignity, her position, were as nothing. She was practically delirious with fury. She looked wildly around for someone on whom to wreak her vengeance. Those who were nearest to her shrank back in terror. It was the unfortunate wretch, whose only crime had been to bear ill-tidings, on whom her wrath fell. He was cursed, beaten, threatened with death. It was the natural outburst of her passionate nature, accustomed to command all, and who, for the first time, was confronted by overpowering misfortune and injury.

Was there no refuge from her torment? Could not the laws of the universe be altered? The first moments were horrible; a burst of tears followed her access of rage and she fainted. The servants fled, filling the whole palace with wailings. The doctors pressed forward, as though to aid someone in mortal need. Charmian was at her side.

"For the love of the gods, Madame, do not give your enemies the joy of seeing you crushed by this sorrow. Do not let them know how this blow has pierced your heart!"

"My Queen, my Queen, be brave!" whispered Iras, holding a handkerchief with some drops of stimulant to Cleopatra's lips. Gradually she grew calmer; she regained her self-control, but the wild frenzy was succeeded by a stupor. She felt as though a bottomless abyss had opened suddenly at her feet. "How can this be?" she murmured dully. "I trusted him and he told me that I meant all the world to him!" Her thoughts turned to the woman who had stolen her happiness. That sister of Octavius, Octavia--what kind of creature was she? The fierce desire to know the whole truth, in all its bitter details, surged in her breast, with the same violence that had caused her to pour out the stream of threats and curses so short a while before.

But the traveller was nowhere to be seen. Taking advantage of the confusion that followed the Queen's fainting fit he had fled. A diligent search revealed him, hidden in the hold of a ship. He had taken refuge there, deciding to give up the affairs that had brought him to Alexandria and, thankful to escape with his life, was hoping to get away on the ship without being detected.

He was terrified at being caught and it took repeated assurances that he would not be further punished to induce him to speak again. Fear had taught him discretion; he had learned that when speaking to the great and mighty it was wise to say only what they desired to hear. The plain truth was a crime. He showed the manners of a practised courtier when he had his second audience with Cleopatra.

The Queen, too, had undergone a great change. A sad, compelling curiosity dominated all other feelings. She was like a wanderer, lost in a dark wood, who seeks only light.

"Tell me something about Octavia," she said, with a gentleness that veiled the autocratic command. "You have seen her and know whether she is beautiful. Has she a wonderful expression? Is she dark or fair? What is the colour of her hair?" But however adroitly her questions might be put, this man, in whose ears her curses still rang, who was yet bruised from her shower of blows, would give no direct reply. According to him Octavia was a fright. Her eyes were dull, her hair scanty and fastened with austere, ash-coloured fillets.

"How old is she?" queried Cleopatra, still in the depths of despair, for however fascinating a deserted mistress may be, in her eyes the new love, though in reality a scarecrow, has all the attractiveness of a pure maiden whose unsullied youth is like to a fragrant garden in which her lover, or her husband, may wander at will to gather the flowers of happiness.

The merchant's tale was comforting, however. On hearing that Octavia was a widow, with two children; that she was without beauty and devoid of charm, with no power to kindle passion in a man's heart, Cleopatra had a moment of relief. Her anger had not died out, nor her bitter rancour against the lover who had deceived and betrayed her; she was, however, beginning to understand that this marriage had merely been a matter of political stratagem, a means of accomplishing Antony's designs.

In spite of this conviction, her fits of depression during the first few weeks after the news had come to her were so terrible that at times she felt that she must give up the struggle. She had always thought herself immune from jealousy, because of her conscious superiority over all other women. Now, little by little, it was eating into her heart. How could she be sure that Octavia was really a fright? that she had no power to charm? Was it true that her thick-set body had no attraction for Antony? After all, she had nothing to depend on but the word of a common man in the street. She recalled the affection that Antony had had for the hideous Fulvia; why should he not care for this new wife who was at least amiable and virtuous? Day by day this poison was entering into her soul.

At last she was so tortured by this canker of jealousy that she determined to put it away from her. By stupendous effort she tried to make herself believe that her love for Antony was dead, that she had never really cared for him and that consequently his marriage was a matter of indifference to her. In order to convince both herself and the world of this indifference she resumed her former life of dissipation with the young men of her court. Restrained no longer by those burning bonds that had kept her true to Antony, she went recklessly from one excess to another. Each involved a new degradation, each exhausted her by its gross intoxication, but nowhere could she find that oblivion for which her feverish heart longed. Crush, profane, trample on it, as she would, the memory of her cherished idol could not be rooted out. With inexhaustible persistence it pursued her; even in the warm embrace of her most ardent adorers, it came to make her shiver with horror at her own disloyalty to her lover. Wherever she went his dear image would appear suddenly before her, would cover her with his reproachful glance, as though he asked: "Why are you acting as though all were over between us? In spite of this seeming separation we are bound together in spirit for all eternity. Like ships, scattered for a time by the tempest, we shall surely come together again."

Her eyes smarted with tears as she invented excuses for her faithless lover. Surely he had been forced into this marriage for political reasons and against his will. Who had gained by this trap save Octavius? Who else would profit by this unholy alliance? This scheme had been devised by that cunning fellow that he might make his sister a sentinel to watch over Antony and report his doings to his colleague. The brute! Half vexed, half tenderly, she would again invoke the loved image, addressing him in imagination: "How guileless you were! You who had every right to rule, who could have chosen your mate and controlled the world--why should you play such a petty part, be made to obey like a little child? Oh! the pity of it!"

And then a ray of hope gleamed. That same weakness which had taken her lover away from her arms might be used to restore him to her. Her kisses were indelibly printed on his forehead; why should she not re-kindle that fire which was probably still smouldering? And in one of those ecstasies, which were like a torch touched by a passing spark, she cried aloud: "I will tempt him back again! The hour is not far off when I shall carry him away from Rome, from his wife, from Octavius, from all who have thought that they were stronger than I."

She did not trust simply to that thread, which, like a new Ariadne, she had put in her Theseus's hands. She put all her resources to work to carry out her purpose. Octavius had his spies; she would have hers. These she despatched immediately, with orders to keep close watch over Antony; to learn the innermost secrets of his household; to leave no stone unturned to discover all that was going on there.

The first accounts sent back by these agents brought her only added distress. Apparently the newly wedded couple were happy and living in perfect harmony. She declined to be discouraged by these reports, however. "If I exhaust all the men in my kingdom," she said, "I will place spies in every corner and in time they will surely find the crack in his armour!"

When she first heard of the disagreements between the brothers-in-law, especially of the silly quarrel over the cock-fight, she was delighted. At last she had found the long-looked-for crack, and that would destroy the whole household, make it fall in ruins. She knew Antony too well to believe that he would tolerate a rival for any length of time. Her chief object now was to entice him away from Rome. With untiring diligence she organized a secret society composed of courtesans, freedmen, and court attendants. She instructed these to call Antony's attention to certain familiar things sent from the Bruchium; to the fragrance of perfumes associated with his days spent there with her; by a word spoken at the right moment to set him dreaming of those months in Egypt. The dealers in oracles also had their mission. They were to encourage the Triumvir to consult them, and, as though all Nature were speaking through them with one voice, they were told to repeat the famous words of his horoscope: "The star of your fortune is at its zenith, but the star of Octavius seeks to eclipse it. Your glory fears his glory, your power will diminish when the two stars come together."

Other influences were also working in unison with Cleopatra. If certain of his friends, like Ahenobarbus and Pollion, had urged Antony's marriage with Octavia and had jeered at this man of valour being subject to the yoke of Egypt's queen, others, more far-sighted, divined that some day she would regain her sovereignty over him. Among these latter was Quintus Dellius, he who had arranged the affair at Tarsus. He understood this passionate woman better than any one else and knew that she was capable of any deed to gain possession of her lover. There was also Fonteius Capito, a subtle observer of human nature, who had written before Antony had been wedded a year: "Yes, Antony's marriage is apparently a happy one, but that he is beginning to be bored by it is evident to every one." These two men thought it wise to forestall future developments and they kept up a close correspondence with the Queen, keeping her in touch with everything that could be of interest to her. She was not only informed of the most intimate details of Antony's household, but of all the governmental complications against which the Triumvir had to fight. The increasing boldness of the Parthian invasions, the coast pillage of the pirates of Sextus Pompey, the uprisings of the poorer classes, their refusals to pay the taxes. All these disturbances in Roman territory gave her fresh reasons for hope. The day she heard that Antony was leaving his wife to her maternal duties and sailing for Athens, she was overcome with joy.

The game was not yet won, but at least she was no longer tormented by visions of Octavia happy in the arms of her husband. Those two were separated and Antony's wife, desolate in her loneliness, would now suffer as she had done. If Cleopatra were not entirely comforted by this knowledge, it at any rate helped her to bear her own trials more patiently!

Stirred by alternate emotions, she sometimes felt as though all were lost; then again she exulted in the thought that her sorrows were almost over. The most cruel moment was when she heard of the reconciliation at Tarentum. She had been following with intense interest all the details of the fray and its results, and was planning to gather up the fragments of these broken alliances and construct a new power therefrom, and now this disappointment had come. It was a severe lesson and would have discouraged any one made of less stern stuff than this indomitable woman. She had, however, a gift of clairvoyance which could not be deceived for any length of time. Although the treaty to renew peace between the brothers-in-law was formally drawn up, although it was sealed with offerings to the gods, libations, and festivals, and, more important still, by betrothals of offspring which doubled and trebled the many bonds between the families of Julius and Antony, it was very evident that this reconciliation would only be a temporary alliance.

Antony had fulfilled his part of the contract at once. A hundred brass-prowed triremes, twenty despatch boats, and as many lighter vessels, lying in the harbour at Tarentum, had already been given over to Octavius. And what had Octavius offered in exchange? Promises, nothing but promises. Sixteen legions and a quantity of war supplies had been agreed upon in the treaty, but as yet none of these had materialized. There was nothing to do but trust in the good faith of Octavius, and to those who knew him there seemed small chance of these promises being carried out.

But Antony was confident that they would be. His own loyalty made him often the dupe of other people. At this time he was especially trustful, for he had Octavia as an intermediary and there could be no possible doubt as to her sincerity. He had no misgivings on that score and, counting on the promised reinforcements being forthcoming when required, he gave himself up to his own ambitious plans and left Italy for Antioch.

His wife went with him as far as Corcyra, proud of having been able to serve him, and more tenderly devoted to him than ever. There they parted, he to go on with his preparations for his coming campaign, she to return to Rome and see that the conditions of the treaty were carried out as promptly as possible.

Antony's first object was to procure money. Since the Imperators had persistently ravaged the cities and country, violated the temples and over-taxed the people, this necessary commodity of war had grown very scarce. To extort it from Italy was impossible. Greece had been exploited to its utmost resources. The provinces of Asia still remained; rich always, as a result of the advanced, scientific agriculture which made the land yield abundantly. But the land owners had been exasperated by toiling for Roman profit and there was a general effort to evade the taxes by violence and fraud. Many of these offenders had been executed for opposing the law, and these conditions had brought about disastrous results.

Antony found himself greatly embarrassed. To declare that it was his need of money alone that prompted him to return to Cleopatra would be to ignore the complexities of human nature. It is true that in those trying hours when the censors returned empty-handed, with accounts of money due, his thoughts naturally reverted to the overflowing treasury of the Egyptian Queen, with those accumulated riches buried in caverns beneath the earth. If he had not deserted Cleopatra this untold wealth would have been at his command. He could have employed it to sustain that army, which was, he firmly believed, to give him the empire of the world.

But why waste time in dreaming of that vanished opportunity which would come to him no more? Yet his mind went back again and again to those days spent in the palace of the Bruchium. He saw his enchanting hostess, with her dark, flashing eyes, her mocking smile, her golden-tinted flesh--that golden colour which made his blood hot at the mere thought of it. What was the mysterious magic of this woman that the very idea of her brought the sweat to his brow and stirred his innermost being, even after these years of separation? All the time he had been in Rome he had seen her in visions; embraced her in his dreams. Even when in Octavia's arms he had been ever conscious of the mistress whom he had deserted, and her phantom form would slip into the place of the actual woman by his side. These hallucinations had disturbed him. As a faithful husband he had tried to thrust them away from him. To-day, in this land of perfumed luxury that brought back the days he had spent at Tarsus, they had complete mastery over him. His blood ran faster; he was defenceless against these persistent memories of his mistress. He saw her in every possible posture; the cat-like grace of her movements; the exquisite colour and lines of her draperies. He heard the soft harmony of her voice, and all these images told him that he was powerless to withstand her spell.

But would the mere personal possession of her have satisfied him? Would it have sufficed in place of the social triumphs, interests, and ambitions that bound the Triumvir to Roman life? He was not certain as to this, but complications arose which freed him from further doubts and scruples.

The promised reënforcements from Octavius had not come and there were certain wise men who predicted that they never would come. These troubles increased the discontent that was fermenting in him. He not only nursed a fierce hatred against his treacherous colleague, whose delay was endangering all his projects, but he had a growing prejudice against everyone connected with him. Even Octavia, invaluable and faithful as she had been, did not escape his suspicion. It was unpardonable that she should be the sister of the most perfidious of men. Besides, at this great distance she was powerless to help him. If absence be a mirage which gives greater radiance to some images, it dims others, and often makes the more delicate ones vanish, as though they were swallowed up in mist. Each day was gradually effacing the gracious contour of his wife from Antony's mind, while the voluptuous outlines of his mistress grew clearer and more irresistible.

Fonteius Capito, who understood his master's anxiety, struck the decisive blow. Antony had just experienced a fresh disappointment in seeing promised confiscations for Peloponnesus reduced to a fourth of the original amount agreed upon. When Fonteius suggested that Cleopatra would be only too glad to lend any money that he needed, Antony staggered, as though he had received a sudden blow.

"How do you know that?" he asked impatiently.

"She has requested me to tell you so."

Was it possible that she was still thinking of him? That after all he had done she bore him no ill will? He must be dreaming! He stared at Capito, fearing he might deny the words that he had just spoken. But no; explanations followed and Antony was assured that Cleopatra had never ceased to love him, that she was still eager for his success.

What miracle of love was this, that after being stabbed, scorned, trodden under foot and profaned, thus came to life, or rather showed that it had never ceased to live! In a second Antony's exhausted energy was renewed. It was the ecstatic joy of an invalid recovering from a protracted illness, of a convalescent who takes life up again, to find it more beautiful than he had ever realized.

On being despatched to Alexandria, Capito had no occasion to copy the diplomacy of Dellius in order to induce Cleopatra to follow him. She was more than ready to go. Her days of coquetry were over. She now only desired to join her lover, to be assured that she could hold him, and to begin immediately that contest with her rival in which the more persistent and less scrupulous combatant was certain of the victory.

Some letters from Antony had made his situation and its difficulties quite clear to her. He was on the eve of a campaign, without money, without the necessary troops. Outside aid was essential. She would supply this assistance; be the beneficent goddess, who at the crucial moment turns the wheel of Fortune.

Ships were loaded at once; some with gold, others bearing beasts of burden; others again laden with machinery and abundant supplies of wheat; all the necessary stores to sustain the strength of the army. When these were packed to the netting, the purple sails of the royal galley were unfurled. The negro rowers grasped their silver-mounted oars, and, over gracious waves that seemed to make way for her tranquil passage, Antony's mistress sped to her lover.

It was at Antioch again that Antony awaited Cleopatra; the same Antioch where, five years before, he had begun to dream of her beneath the cedars and the palm trees. In the evening, under the glowing sunset skies, she stood erect, beside the silken canopy, looking as though she wished to hasten the flying ship to reach him sooner. His heart throbbed; his eyes grew dim; the blood surged in his ears. It seemed that the whole sea was beating against his breast. Amidst shoutings and acclamations he conducted the fair traveller to the old palace of the Seleucides that he had prepared for her with a luxury that rivalled the splendours of the Bruchium.

Alone at last, they looked at each other in silence. So many months had passed, so many things had happened since their parting that they seemed scarcely able to recognize each other. Was this the son of Bacchus, with such a troubled brow? Cleopatra, young as she was, and more beautiful than ever, bore the marks of suffering. Though her passionate mouth had the vivid red of an open pomegranate, a curve of bitterness had changed its expression. She had lost the serene look of former days. In the storm of life she had been bruised against the rocks of fate. Her heart, her royal heart, whose only dream had been to conquer, had known the humiliation of longing and of tears. At this moment, on the verge of victory, she was torn by conflicting emotions. Even as she yielded to his irresistible fascination she had the agonized thought: "Why do I still love this man who has put another woman in my place?"

"What are you thinking about?" demanded Antony, almost brutally, as though he dreaded her reply.

"I am thinking that you are no longer mine; that you never really loved me," she answered bitterly.

"Do not say such things!"

But her mind was made up. If only to show her generosity in forgiving him, she would let him see how guilty he had been.

"If you had really cared, how could you have had the heart to desert me?--to betray me, after all your promises?--to leave me, as you did, sorrowful, humiliated, and alone?"

Antony knelt before her, a penitent, overwhelmed with grief. He tried to prove his innocence. "I love you; I have always loved you and you only. Never, for one instant, have I loosed the bond that unites us." Cleopatra listened, but an ironical smile was on her lips.

"How can you understand my difficulties? The political necessity which has controlled all my actions? You have no idea what I have suffered."

But she would not be convinced. "If you had really loved me----" Antony stopped her. He leaped to his feet like a young Hercules, threw his arms around her, and pressed his quivering lips to her own.

"Forgive me! Only say that you forgive me!" he pleaded.

She was beginning to yield but turned away, with a last effort to make him believe that she was impervious to his prayers.

"Miserable creature that I am! Never have I so longed to hold you in my arms as I do at this moment, when I feel that you have every right to hate me, to curse me!"

She was looking at him through her dark lashes. A slight twitching at her throat showed the emotion that made them both the helpless victims of an overmastering passion.

"I have cursed you, yes; but hated you, how could I?"

They clasped each other, fiercely, passionately, as though to crush out all remembrance of what had come between them. In that moment they both forgot the cowardice, the bitterness; all that did not make for happiness, for the ecstasy of being together, was wiped out. The old passionate ardour, their very breath of life, without which they could only languish and die, had come back, nothing else mattered. Their separation was only a vast emptiness. Once more they were in that enchanted garden where Fate had first brought them together. They were wandering in its secret paths and would abide there for ever.

Whatever might happen afterward these infatuated lovers, with no interest, no desire except for each other, would wander hand in hand through fields of triumph and adversity, conquerors even to the end, since they would fix the hour for leaving life and would go down to immortality together.

Antony had ample cause for self-reproach. Haunted by the many wrongs done his mistress, he now became her slave, and was absorbed in carrying out her slightest wish. There was never a more extravagantly generous lover! Cleopatra was interested in literature; he sent two hundred thousand rolls of papyrus stolen from Pergamus, for the library she had just rebuilt. She had a passion for art; several sanctuaries were rifled and their treasures transported to Alexandria.

It was as easy for him to offer her kingdoms as it was for other men to cover their mistresses with jewels, or to lay fortunes at their feet. Invested with sovereign power, he gave away the Roman provinces as casually as though they had formed part of his own patrimony. In addition to Phoenicia, which he had presented to her in payment of the famous wager over the pearls, the kingdoms of Cilicia, Chalcides, and part of Arabia were annexed to Egypt. The Queen also coveted Judea, land of palms and spices, with its capital, Jerusalem, into which poured the gold procured by the Jews from the four quarters of the world; but it was difficult to dethrone Herod, the King, who had reconquered it after a hard struggle. Antony conceded the crown to this ally, who was to be of use to him, on condition that Cleopatra should receive the revenue from its most bountiful districts, as well as the palms from Samaria, and the roses of Jericho, which were cultivated for her only.

Some of the graver members of Antony's circle, among them Ahenobarbus (who never hesitated to express openly what others were whispering), resented this free use of Roman property. But, drunk alike with pride and passion, Antony replied: "Short-sighted men that you are, can you not understand that the true grandeur of Rome is shown less in her conquests and the extent of her possessions than in the generosity which her riches makes possible?"

Nor was it bad policy to strengthen and enrich the woman who aspired to be, not only his ally, but his wife! For Cleopatra had never renounced her original plan. Having gathered wisdom from experience, tired of joys which eluded her, of crowns which often melted away, she was determined to carry out this project without further delay.

At this moment, when Antony was making ready to draw on her treasures it was only fair that she should share the benefits. In the same way that she would help him to conquer Persia, thus making him more powerful than all other rulers, she would play the part of his companion, by fair means or foul, be present the day that he would ride in triumph to the Capitol.

An arrangement so entirely in accord with her own interests has caused Cleopatra to be considered a cold, calculating woman, who weighed and planned everything for her own glory, and used Antony merely as an easy instrument in her hands. To deny that she had schemes, and that, convinced of the Triumvir's weakness, she had made up her mind to rule for him and to direct his actions to her own advantage, would be to close one's eyes to actual evidence. But when have love and self-interest been proved irreconcilable? Did her dream of becoming a world-sovereign in any way lessen her passion? To marry Antony, to unite her lot with a passionate lover as well as a powerful ruler, to bind him so that he could never again escape from her, that was the dream of this far-seeing, level-headed woman.

There were serious obstacles to be considered, however, the chief one being Antony's marriage with Octavia. Divorces, to be sure, were neither rare nor difficult in Rome. Originally, in a society founded on religious faith and respect for the home, adultery had been the necessary cause; but at that time they were granted for less serious reasons. Incompatibility of temper, provided it was not proved by both sides, was accepted as a common cause of divorce. At one time, so lax were the morals, a man could put away the mother of his children simply on the ground that she no longer pleased him, that he preferred someone else.

But how could such injustice be done to a woman whose birth and rank had placed her near Olympus? What a brutal wrong against the pure, the revered sister of Octavius! Nor was this all. An ancient law, inscribed on the "Twelve Tables," prohibited all marriages between Roman rulers and foreigners. This law had always been rigorously enforced, and disastrous results would have followed its transgression by the first citizen of the Republic. Antony tried to persuade his audacious mistress of the danger that this cruel and unreasonable act would involve. He showed her how the common people, always ready to throw down their idols, would take sides with Octavius, how the Senate, indignant at his conduct, would rise up in arms.

But Cleopatra was obstinate. She determined to have her revenge on Antony and she reminded him of Cæsar.

"He was married to Calpurnia, he faced the same obstacles that seem insurmountable to you, yet he did not hesitate to divide with me the flourcake used to consecrate espousals, and to declare me before all the world as his lawful wife!"

"That was on his return from Persia," interrupted Antony. "When the voice of victory is loud enough to stifle all recriminations, I will do the same. Wait until I have conquered...."

But Cleopatra had had the cruel experience of what happens during separations; she would wait no longer. Their marriage should be the express condition of that pardon that she had granted in the excitement of those first moments of meeting, but which each succeeding day she was more inclined to withdraw. Crises of jealousy, continual reproaches, bitter railings on the subject of the lawful wife, perpetually reminded Antony of his sins and the need of making atonement.

The man who had been brought up in Fulvia's school knew only too well what punishment women can inflict. These scratches of the beautiful tigress, far from cooling his passion, fanned it into flame. He felt bound to her for life. Her gift of intensifying life, of making it feverishly exciting, her ferocious caresses, her pretended threats of breaking off all relations, her swoons, all this exhilaration which formed part of their daily life, how could he leave it to go back to the tameness of an honest affection, and take up the routine of married life? He would have to do as Cleopatra demanded. Their marriage should be celebrated in the first days of spring, before the army began the new campaign.

On hearing of this outrageous plot, the Triumvir's friends were beside themselves with indignation. If Dellius, Capito, and Plancus, who lived chiefly by his favours, kept silence for fear of displeasing him, others, who were more independent, did not hesitate to express their opinions. The proposed marriage would be a revolutionary act, an unprecedented scandal which might well upset the whole Roman Government. Public opinion would be unanimous against this contempt for the oldest traditions. The Patricians would take the insult as a personal offence and would defend Octavia's cause; and as to Octavius, his fury over this affront to his sister would pass all bounds, and who could foresee the consequences?

Antony, fully aware of the justice of these warnings, hesitated, tried to gain time. Whatever way he turned storms came down on him. By alarming Cleopatra, showing her the danger of a scandal when one is not strong enough to carry it over the heads of the people, he gained her consent, for the moment at least, to a middle course. The marriage would be celebrated, as he had promised, the official act would be inscribed on the civil registers at Antioch, as well as in Alexandria, but, until the termination of the war, there would be no official notification made to the Roman Senate. In this way, while he became the husband of the rich Egyptian, he would still remain the husband of the woman, whom, by lawful marriage, he had wedded according to the rites of the Latin monogamy.

There was no justice in this, no consistency. It was not possible that the same man could bear the title of King of Egypt and of Imperator at the same time; that a Proconsul could arrogate to himself, as a satrap, the right to have more than one wife at any one time.

But Cleopatra's lover had, for the time being, lost his senses. The good fortune which had followed him from his early youth, his habitual laxness of morals, made him accept the absurd, confound folly with reason. Not knowing which to choose he pretended to need all his titles. It was certainly not the moment to renounce the most important thing of all, the right to appear before his allies with the authority of Triumvir. He had neither the courage to decline the royal hand which was held out to him filled with love and treasure, nor to put away that other little hand which held his honour as a Roman.

Intoxicated with his triumphs, having had no reverses to teach him moderation, his violent nature demanded life in its highest key. He would not be bound by any restriction. The whole world seemed to lie before him like a huge field whose entire harvest was his by right.

To the kingdoms he had already given Cleopatra he added Crete, as a wedding gift, with its forests of maple and satinwood, of sandal and ebony; with its luxuriant larches whose branches swept the ground while waiting for the trunks to grow thick enough to furnish masts for the ships in the harbour.

Although fully aware of their value, these splendid donations were not enough for Cleopatra. Goddess as she was, her worship demanded sacrifices. What she was about to exact should be the price that Antony would be forced to pay for Egypt's gold. As he had not consented to divorce Octavia, he must at least promise that he would never see her again.

"The man who desires peace in his household has no regard for promises," says an ancient proverb. Diverted for the moment from Rome as Antony was, entranced by the fascinations of the Orient, of what importance was the guardian of his penates? She whom he believed wholly absorbed in the care of his children?

Antony was mistaken. He was an indifferent psychologist, and under the modest demeanour of the noble woman, whom the Athenians had compared to their Pallas, he had never divined her passionate soul; in the faithful and devoted wife he had not recognized the _woman_, hungry for her share of happiness.

In reality, since their parting at Corcyra, Octavia's only thought had been for her husband. She could not give him daily proofs of her love, but she could help him. And she began to gather together money, provisions, army equipments, all the things that a general requires for a campaign. Although she had been unable to make Octavius fulfil his promises, she had in spite of his opposition, recruited two thousand picked men, supplied them with the necessary funds, and, happy in the thought that these fearless and splendidly equipped volunteers would form an invincible cohort for the Imperator, she had engaged ships and embarked with them for Greece.

When he heard with what a valuable cargo Octavia was arriving at Piræus, Antony was greatly perplexed. He was not wholly hardened in evil-doing. Weakness was his chief fault. He acted on impulse and, with the thoughtlessness of a child, turned his back on the consequences. The present was all-important, the future did not count. When he married Cleopatra and promised never again to see Octavia, he had reckoned on the soothing effect of time and distance, and also on that nameless assistance from the gods who never yet had failed him. And now he suddenly faced a definite situation, a two-horned dilemma which led to equally disagreeable results. It would be madness to refuse the valuable help which Octavia was bringing him; yet to accept her generous gift without according her a welcome, without rewarding this god-sent messenger with even a kiss, made him hot with shame. But what was he to do? There was Cleopatra, fascinating and headstrong, jealous of her rights and not willing to yield an inch. In imagination he heard her bitter reproaches and was distracted by their accusing tone. What did his promises mean? The last were not the least binding, and they were strengthened by a soft arm around his neck, a honey-sweet mouth near his own, and eyes, now full of infinite tenderness, now threatening a storm more terrifying to a lover than the blaze of lightning and the roar of thunder.

But the image of Octavia had its influence too, and as she drew near it seemed as though her sweet soul had the same power that it had held for the past three years. There was no need for him to read again her last letter. The words were always ringing in his ears: "Why do you stay away? Have I offended you in any way? I thought it wise to come myself with the men and armaments that you asked me to get together. Am I wrong? I heard that you were about to start on your great campaign. May I embrace you before you go? At your bidding I will cross the seas that divide us, or if you do not want me to come I will await your return. As you know, I live only to serve you. But if you do not care for my aid and do not want me to wait for you, what will become of me?"

This tender, submissive devotion wrung his heart. He wanted to reply, not from love, for the brief passion that this pure Roman woman had roused in him was already dead, but--his conscience was not dead. His changes from sinner to penitent were a constant surprise to his contemporaries. They have recorded his grief at Fulvia's death, although during her life he had repaid her fierce devotion by gross ingratitude.

And now it was Octavia's turn to stir his heart and conscience. With the wheedling tenderness which, whatever wrong they may have done them, men use toward women they love, he pleaded with Cleopatra:

"I shall be away from you only three days. What are three days when we have a lifetime of love before us?"

But he could not escape from her suspicious eyes. She had suffered too keenly ever again to feel free from distrust. Why should the sorrow and tears of this woman whom she had never seen concern her? No, she would make no concessions. Antony should never again seen Octavia.

The preparations for war went on. Antioch was like a vast parade-ground. The cohorts passed through the gate of Daphne every day. They marched with fearless step, making the paved street ring under their buskins. A brilliant group of horsemen was seen in the midst of the glittering lances and eager young faces. Pell-mell with the Greeks came the Gauls, preceded by their standards. Then came the baggage: mules whose backs bent under the burden of stones and weapons; camels loaded like ships; chariots whose noise resounded through the silent old streets; and troop after troop marched by, each raising dust in its turn. Antony was about to leave for those Mesopotamian plains that stretched out in the distance against the misty blue horizon.

The thought of this new separation, which was bound to be long and beset with dangers--for the Parthians were the most treacherous of enemies--disturbed Cleopatra greatly. The memory of the brief, happy nights, the delicious days together, was only an additional grief; and she had one tormenting thought: Surely Antony had not broken his promise; he had not crossed the inlet of the sea which separated him from Greece? But Octavia was there, always there, expecting him, waiting for him, probably sending messages to him, and of late he had been preoccupied. In spite of his slavish devotion to her, Cleopatra was in continual dread of his secret escape to her rival, were it only for an hour. Before returning to Egypt she was determined to have Octavia go back to Rome. Once there, she would have at least the bitter satisfaction of feeling that her hated rival was at the greater distance from the husband who belonged to them in common.

As Antony was going to camp one morning to review his troops, he noticed that she looked unusually gloomy.

"You are depressed; what is troubling you?" he asked tenderly.

"You know very well why I am miserable. I cannot endure having Octavia so near us," she answered, frowning.

He tried to seem indifferent. "Why should she disturb you, since we never see her?"

"She has come here to defy me."

Making no attempt at a defence which he knew would be futile, he said:

"The poor woman!" and went out to join his escort, whose horses were pawing with impatience under the palace windows.

With that acute faculty, peculiar to people of passionate temperament, for making themselves miserable when a desire is not immediately fulfilled, Cleopatra imagined Antony as deceptive, evasive, ready to betray her for the second time. The very exclamation that he had uttered on leaving her--"the poor woman!"--rang in her ears and increased her anger. What tender pity he had put into the words! How plainly he had implied that she was innocent of any offence! Did he still love her? After all, it was quite possible that this intriguing woman had retained her influence over his weak heart. At all events they were still good friends, and that alone was a torment to the woman who, for her own advantage, would have been willing to destroy the world. She would have no peace until Octavia went away, and she resolved to secure her banishment that very day.

In the evening, when the Imperator returned, with the confident air of a man who, having satisfactorily accomplished his day's work, expects a certain reward, he had the disagreeable surprise of a cold welcome. Cleopatra had decided to smile upon him only on condition that he would carry out her wishes at once. She began:

"You are sacrificing our happiness for the sake of a woman who no longer means anything to you!"

"She is certainly nothing to me that can distress you, since I love only you!"

"But you are still good friends!"

He had gone over the same subject so often, defending himself and pointing out the motives for his attitude, that the futility of further words was clear to him.

"How you do hate her!" he exclaimed, in a tone which implied, "How unjust you are!"

This reproach was the last touch. Cleopatra was exasperated, and in a fury, demanded:

"And you! How can you pretend that you no longer love her?"

Kisses are the only sure means of persuasion between lovers, and she refused to let him come near her. Worn out, disheartened, like a man who has lost all interest in life, Antony asked sadly:

"What is it that you wish? What further proof do you require from me?"

A papyrus leaf was lying ready on the table.

"Write!" commanded his despot. "Send an order to Octavia to depart for Rome as quickly as possible!"

This ungracious act was repugnant to Antony's instinctive gallantry. He had never treated any woman rudely. Should he behave like a blackguard to the one who had every right to expect from him the greatest gratitude and consideration? He hesitated, his hand resting on his knee.

"Yet you pretend to love me!" she murmured, her breath fanning his cheek.

He realized that if he refused he would never again feel that sweet breath mingling with his own; that he would have to leave her, go to distant lands, contend with opposing forces, without having that last embrace which inspires men with courage and on the eve of battle makes them confident of victory. Without this powerful stimulus nothing seemed worth struggling for, his mighty enterprise would be in vain.

With a sudden movement Cleopatra slipped the stylet between his fingers.

"Write, write," she cried.

Slowly, painfully, as though the words were loath to come, he wrote the letter.

"Now sign it!"

He put his name at the bottom of the written lines. Everything had been prepared. The papyrus was rolled closely around the stick. When the seal was pressed on the wax it seemed to shrink like bleeding flesh. An officer came in for instructions. The message was handed him with orders to deliver it at once to Octavia. An instant later they heard him galloping in the direction of Seleucia. There he would find a boat which, in a few hours, would bring him to Piræus.

Not knowing the reason for Antony's prolonged silence, Octavia was counting the days. It was nearly a month since she had arrived at Piræus and she was still waiting for a reply to her letters. Rumours were afloat which might have given her a suggestion of the truth. She knew that the Queen of Egypt had landed in Asia; that this whimsical woman had put hordes of gold at the Imperator's disposal. There was a report of a political alliance between them. There were even whispers of a secret marriage. But to Octavia's virtuous and upright mind, totally unprepared for such tidings, the terrible truth was difficult to comprehend. To realize that such treachery was possible she required surer proof than mere hearsay.

The only proof that could convince her was already on its way: the affirmation signed by Antony.

Yet it did not tell her the whole truth. Under pretext of an unlooked-for change of plans he had written that he was obliged to leave Antioch sooner than he had expected, expressed formal regret at being prevented from coming to thank her for her assistance, and intimated his wish that she reëmbark as soon as possible and go back to Rome.

In reading this letter, with no word of affection, with nothing of her beloved husband in it but his signature, Octavia felt her heart grow cold. What had happened to him? Instantly her worst fears were confirmed. Her eyes were opened and she saw the heartless facts as they were; her husband no longer loved her. However opposed to deception she might be, she longed for the hour that had just passed, when she was at least ignorant of her misery. There was nothing to comfort her. She had to drink to the last drop the bitter cup of knowledge.

Two days later Octavia, always submissive to her husband's will, left Greece and turned toward Rome. Her tear-stained face was heavily veiled. The Athenians watched her set sail, saw her quit the beautiful city of song and play, where, as comrade of Dionysos, she had been crowned with myrtle. They looked after her as she took that lonely road which Hagar, Penelope, Ariadne, and many others had followed, and which to the end of time, the faithlessness of men will force on loyal women.

Cleopatra was triumphant. She had seized with both hands the reins of the chariot of victory. She was again madly in love with Antony, and, as always when she had made him yield to her wishes, she covered him with kisses. She wanted to stay with him, but it was imperative that she go back to Egypt. This new Jason was going to unexplored countries where he was confident of finding another golden fleece.

Cleopatra went with him as far as the frontier of the Euphrates--sometimes on horseback, galloping with the grace of the Queen of the Amazons, sometimes ensconced in a litter with clusters of ostrich feathers waving at the four corners and curtains fastened with crystal chains. Twelve Nubians bore this litter on their sturdy shoulders. When the wind blew two faces could be seen behind those soft silk curtains, two faces resting very near each other. In the evening a tent was pitched. With its golden roof, its walls draped with brilliant red, outlined by flaming torches, it looked like a huge bonfire blazing in the midst of the camp. Here the travellers, on the eve of separation, built their fond dreams. On their return--that return which was to be so soon--their marriage would be proclaimed. They would put on that double crown which their union would win for them. The world would belong to them; it would be their enchanted palace, a glorious, inexhaustible garden of delight. For with these lovers glory and love were always intermingled.

The morning that they were to part, with hands clasped they looked at each other in silence, as though each wished to imprint the vision of the other before it vanished.

"To-morrow my eyes will no longer behold you," sighed Cleopatra.

"Mine will see you always," said Antony, "for you will be nearer to me than the blaze of the sun by day, or the light of the stars at night."

In order to see him until the last moment Cleopatra climbed a hill which commanded the surrounding country. The rocks in the river made it a whirling torrent, foam-flecked and roaring furiously. When Antony had reached the farther side, he turned again, saluting Cleopatra for the last time, and described a wide circle with his flashing sword. Before him lay a deep valley. All was light, transparent green, touched with the gold of the coming harvest. The great shadow of Alexander seemed to point out the path for him to follow. Impetuously he threw himself on his horse, which leaped forward, his royal purple mantle floating in the wind.