Chapter IV: Part 4

Cæsar allowed Cleopatra to bury Antony with royal honors; and afterwards he went himself to pay her a visit. He found Cleopatra overwhelmed with grief. She had refused food, and endeavored to starve herself to death; but Cæsar had sent her word that he would put her children to death if she should harm herself, and so she had reluctantly allowed herself to be ministered unto by her physician. But she had bruised her face, arms, and breast in her paroxysms of grief, and when Cæsar entered her apartment, he was shocked at her appearance. Her hair was loose and disordered, her countenance wild and haggard, and her arms and breast horribly disfigured with wounds and bruises, while her former lustrous eyes were red and swollen by excessive weeping.

At first, Cleopatra endeavored to vindicate her conduct; but finding that Cæsar was not awed by her hitherto irresistible power, she broke down completely, and with tears and lamentations sought to appeal to his pity. Cæsar assured her that she would be treated with kindness and generosity, and he left her, thinking that she desired to live, and that his coming triumph would be graced by her presence.

“Octavius little knew the subtle intrigues of Cleopatra. She had deluded him; not he, her. The waning charms of Cleopatra, dimmed by grief and sorrow, might not appeal to the sensuous side of Octavius’s nature, but he was not proof against the subtle and practised skill of her mental abilities, by which she wielded the judgments of men according to her will.”

Cleopatra now determined to destroy herself, that she might not have to endure the ignominy of serving as an ornament to Cæsar’s triumphal celebrations when he returned to Rome. Once before, Cæsar had sent a messenger to speak with her at the door of her tomb, while a second officer placed a ladder against the wall and entered her window, as he had been ordered to search her apartment, lest she had some weapons concealed with which she might harm herself. Whereupon, one of her women cried out, “O unfortunate Cleopatra, you are taken!” Cleopatra, seeing the officers, drew a dagger from her girdle, and was about to stab herself, but the officer caught her arm and took from her the weapon, and afterwards searched the room and shook her robes, lest she should have concealed some other weapon or poison with which she could destroy herself. A guard was then set in her tomb, to watch her constantly. But with all these precautions, Cleopatra outwitted them. She sent to Cæsar, and begged that he would allow her to go and pay the last honors at the tomb of Antony and take her final leave of him.

Cæsar having granted this request, she went with her women, bearing chaplets and wreaths of flowers, which they placed upon the tomb amidst wailings and lamentations. When Cleopatra returned to her apartments after this sad ceremony, she appeared more composed than usual. After taking a bath, she arrayed herself with all her queenly magnificence; and having ordered a sumptuous repast, served with the customary splendor, she partook of it with seeming calmness.

Afterwards, ordering all attendants to retire from her presence, with the exception of two trusty waiting-women, she wrote a letter to Cæsar, and then asked for a basket of figs which a servant had just brought to her.

When the guards stopped him at the door, he displayed the fruit, and declared that the queen desired them for her dinner; and thus they were allowed to be sent in.

After Cleopatra had examined the figs, she laid down upon her couch, and soon after appeared to have fallen asleep. The poison from the bite of the asp, which had been carefully hidden amongst the figs, and which had stung her upon the arm, which she held to it for that purpose, immediately reached her heart, and killed her almost instantly, and without seeming pain.

When Cæsar received her letter, in which Cleopatra requested that she might be buried by the side of Antony, his suspicions were aroused, lest she contemplated killing herself, and he sent officers quickly to her apartments. But when they opened the doors, they found Cleopatra lying dead upon her bed of gold, arrayed in all her royal robes, and one of her women already lying dead at her feet.

The other attendant, named Charmian, was arranging the diadem upon the brow of her beloved mistress, and decking her form with flowers.

Seeing which, one of the soldiers exclaimed:—

“Is that well done, Charmian?”

“Very well,” she replied, “and meet for a princess descended from so many noble kings.”

As she spoke these words, she, too, fell dead at her mistress’s side. Both of these faithful slaves had probably poisoned themselves, also, that they might die with their much-loved queen.

Cleopatra was buried in royal state by the side of Antony, according to her request.

Cæsar, deprived of her much-desired presence in his triumphal procession, ordered a statue of gold to be made of the famous Egyptian queen, which was carried before his chariot in his after-triumphs. The arm of this statue was adorned with a golden asp, signifying the supposed cause of Cleopatra’s death.

Cleopatra died at thirty-nine years of age, having reigned twenty-two years. Cæsar caused all the statues of Antony to be thrown down; but those of Cleopatra were spared, as an officer who had been many years in her service paid one thousand talents that they might not be destroyed.

After Cleopatra’s death Egypt was reduced to a province of the Roman Empire. The reign of the Ptolemies had continued two hundred and ninety-three years.

Cæsario, the son of Cleopatra and Julius Cæsar, was put to death by Octavius Cæsar; but her younger children were taken to Rome and treated with kindness.

Thus perished the famous Cleopatra, whose marvellous attractions and enchanting fascinations of beauty and unequalled display of pomp and royal magnificence make parts of her story to read like the wonderful tales of the Arabian Nights; but whose selfish ambition, treachery, and sins shrouded her last terrible end in the impenetrable blackness of hopeless despair.

ZENOBIA.

A.D. 260.

“She had all the royal makings of a Queen.”—SHAKESPEARE.

LIKE an enchanted island rising suddenly before the vision in mid-ocean, so did superb Palmyra of the East burst upon the sight in the midst of an ocean of sands, and cause the tired traveller, who had toiled painfully across the weary wastes of the Syrian desert, to pause spellbound and enraptured before the picture of unrivalled loveliness which suddenly met his gaze, as he looked towards the high land and waving groves of palm-trees which marked the site of the magnificent Palmyra, “the Tadmor in the wilderness,” said to have been founded by Solomon as a resting-place for caravans in the midst of the trackless desert.

Over sixteen hundred years ago this famous city flourished, in the zenith of its gorgeous magnificence. Even Rome paid homage to its power and beauty, and Roman emperors thought it not beneath them to seek alliance with the illustrious sovereign of this alluring realm.

Flanked by high hills on the east, the city filled the entire plain below, as far as the eye could reach, both north and south. Studded with groups of lofty palm-trees shooting up among its temples and palaces of glistening white marble, while magnificent structures of the purest marble adorned the groves which surrounded the city proper for miles in every direction, it appeared at the same time all city and all country; and from a little distance one could not determine the line which divided country from city.

The prospect seemed to the beholder the fair Elysian Fields, for it appeared almost too glorious for the mere earth-born; while from its midst the vast Temple of the Sun stretched upwards its thousand columns of glistening marble towards the heavens, which bent above them its dazzlingly blue vault flooded with the golden effulgence of the mid-day sun, or glowing with the rich tints of an oriental sunset.

This renowned Temple of the Sun was a marvel of man’s architectural skill and genius. It was of dazzling white marble, and of Ionic design. Around the central portion of the building rose slender pyramids,—pointed obelisks,—domes of the most graceful proportions, columns, arches, and lofty towers, innumerable in number, and of matchless beauty. The genius of Greece had contributed to the beauty of this Palm City of the desert, for on every side it was adorned with Grecian art and architecture.

Nor was the Temple of the Sun its only marvel. About half a Roman mile from the temple was situated the Long Portico. This building was devoted to pleasure and trade. Amongst its interminable ranges of Corinthian columns the busy multitudes passed in ceaseless processions, pursuing their various avocations or seeking amusement. Here the merchants assembled, and exhibited their rich stuffs gathered from all parts of the known world. There, also, the mountebanks resorted, and amused the crowds of idle rich with their fantastic tricks. Strangers from all the known countries might have been seen, attired in their varied and picturesque national costumes. A continuous throng of natives from all climes passed to and fro, along the spacious corridors, between the graceful, fluted columns surmounted by the rich entablature whereon were carved the achievements of Alexander.

Nor were these the only points of interest in this fascinating city. The royal palace rose in the midst, so vast, and with so many shining turrets and massive towers, that it seemed a city within a city.

Palmyra was laid out in shady avenues of luxuriant palm-trees, and adorned on either side with magnificent structures of white marble, or of stone equal in dazzling whiteness. Public gardens, groves, and woods stretched beyond the limits of the city, far as the eye could reach; and amidst these cool and green retreats, elegant villas of the rich and luxurious Palmyrenes were scattered so thickly that Palmyra, the Beautiful, the Palm Grove, seemed placed like a gem of matchless charms in the red-gold setting of the desert sands.

Along the roads leading to the city, elephants, camels, and dromedaries laden with merchandise, or gorgeously caparisoned, bearing some noted personage, in strange and brilliant costume, added picturesque dashes of varied color to the landscape.

Just without the walls of the city were the vast arches of the aqueduct which supplied the inhabitants with a river of purest water.

The streets presented a never-ending scene of varied beauty. The buildings of marble; the clean, paved streets; the frequent fountains of water throwing into the perfumed air hundreds of gleaming jets; temples, palaces, and gardens on every side, entranced the eye with their alluring beauty. Arabian horses with jewelled housings, and riders of noble rank; then anon a troop of royal cavalry, with clashing arms and clanging trumpets; with a motley population of Palmyrenes, Persians, Parthians, Arabians, Egyptians, Jews, and Romans, with their varied costumes of glowing colors; here mounted on a camel; there riding a stately elephant; some seated in chariots drawn by white Arabian steeds of peerless beauty, caparisoned with gold and jewels if their owners belonged to royal families,—all these objects fascinated the gaze of the bewildered stranger and riveted the attention of the lover of artistic effects.

Such was beautiful Palmyra in the time of its famous queen, Zenobia. And not less dazzlingly beautiful is the fair queen herself, as she rides through the streets of her royal city, where her adoring subjects flock to do her homage.

See! she is returning from one of her expeditions to her distant provinces, and is just entering her loved Palmyra. As soon as the near approach of their queen is made known to the people, the entire populace flock to the walls to welcome her return. Troops of horse, variously caparisoned, lead the queen’s procession, followed by a train of elephants and camels with gay trappings and heavily loaded. Then come the body-guard of the queen, clad in complete armor of steel, surrounding the royal chariot, which is drawn by six snowy Arabian steeds with gold-mounted harness and bearing waving plumes upon their high-arched heads. As the mid-day sun shines with effulgent splendor upon the scene, the flashing of spears and corselets and burnished chariots and gilded harness sparkle like diamond points. Seated with stately grace in the royal chariot, behold Zenobia! queen of this resplendent realm and mistress of many kingdoms! while the air resounds with the acclamations of the vast multitudes: “Long live the great Zenobia! The blessing of all the gods on our good queen, the mother of her people!”

Right royal is the bearing of the beautiful Zenobia, well fitted in mien and manner for her regal state. Imperial is her brow, and commanding are her dark, lustrous eyes. But she is more than haughty queen; she is a loving woman and a devoted mother, and she looks upon her subjects with the same tender glance of sympathetic regard that she casts upon the beautiful young princess seated by her side. A helmet-crown rests upon her luxurious black hair, which is partly confined in braided locks and partly floating in the breeze. A rich tunic of golden tissue adorns her form, and a mantle of purple silk, fringed with tassels of sparkling jewels and clasped with a dazzling diamond whose value would purchase a province, gracefully enshrouds her left shoulder, leaving her right arm bared above the elbow, where the swelling curves were clasped by shining circlets of glittering gems. Her complexion is dark, though not swarthy, for the smooth brunette skin gleams with ivory tints and deepens to crimson in her rounded cheeks, which time has not wrinkled, even though she has been a matron for many years. When she smiles in loving benediction on her adoring subjects, her red lips part over teeth of dazzling whiteness, and her voice thrills the listener with its rare cadences of melodious tones.

The Palmyrenes were Egyptian in their origin and customs, Persian in their luxurious tastes, Grecian in their language, literature, and architecture. Zenobia claimed descent from the Macedonian kings of Egypt. She fully equalled in beauty her famous ancestor, Cleopatra, and far surpassed her in character and valor. Some accounts state that she was the daughter of an Arab chief, Amrou, the son of Dharb, the son of Hassan; though other writers claim that Zenobia was a Jewess.

She was possessed of rare intellectual powers; was well versed in Latin, Greek, Syriac, and the Egyptian languages. The celebrated Longinus was her instructor, and the works of Homer and Plato were familiar to her, and she wrote with ease in Greek. She compiled an oriental history for her own use, and found constant delight in the arts and sciences when not engaged in the severer pursuits of war.

Zenobia married Odenathus, a prince of great valor and ambition, who was chief of several tribes of the Desert. He rapidly made himself master of the East, and became so powerful that the Romans made him their ally, giving him the title of Augustus and General of the East. He gained several victories, as the ally of Rome, over Sapor, shah of Persia, and twice pursued his armies, even to the gates of Ctesiphon or Ispahan, the Persian capital.

But in the midst of his victories Odenathus was assassinated at Emæsa, while engaged in hunting. His murderer was his nephew, Mæonius. Zenobia revenged the death of her husband by destroying Mæonius, and as her three sons were too young to rule, she first exercised supreme power in their name, but later, declared herself queen of the dominions of her husband, and assumed the royal diadem, with the titles of Augusta and Queen of the East.

Zenobia was remarkable for her courage, prudence, and fortitude, as well as for her intellectual gifts. No danger unnerved her; no fatigue dismayed her.

Her husband, Odenathus, had been a great lover of the chase, and Zenobia always accompanied him upon these expeditions. Disdaining a covered carriage, she rode on horseback in military habit, and pursued with ardor the exercise of hunting, unterrified, though the game might be lions, panthers, and other wild beasts of the desert.

The success of Odenathus in his various wars was in a large measure to be attributed to the marvellous foresight, fortitude, and prudence of Zenobia.

She did not appear to be possessed of those petty passions and weaknesses which female sovereigns have so often displayed. She governed her realm with the most judicious judgment and consummate policy. If it was expedient to punish, she could calm her woman’s heart into manlike stoicism, and silence the promptings of pity. If, on the other hand, it were justice to pardon, she could quell within herself all signs of personal resentment, and display a magnanimous forgiveness.

Though on state occasions she clothed herself and her court with regal magnificence and lavished money with a bountiful hand, apparently regardless of the cost, yet so strict was her economy in all her governmental affairs that she was sometimes accused of avarice. She spent immense sums for the adornment of her beautiful Palmyra, and gathered around her philosophers, poets, artists, and the great and rich from many lands.

As a queen, she was adored by her subjects and admiringly feared by rival sovereigns. As a woman, she was peerless among her cotemporaries, and illustrious among the women of all times. Possessed of striking and alluring beauty, she yet won more admirers for the beauties of her intellect, rather than for her bewitching face and stately form. And her voice, like that of Cleopatra, so charmed the ear by its delicious cadences, that the echo of its melodious tones has been wafted down the ages. As a wife and mother, Zenobia stands far above the dazzling Cleopatra, though she is said to have modelled her warlike exploits after that renowned Egyptian enchantress of the Nile; but she did not emulate her wicked coquetries, nor copy her weaknesses.

Arabia, Armenia, and Persia solicited her alliance, and she added Egypt to the dominions of Odenathus. The emperor of Rome, Gallienus, refused to acknowledge Zenobia’s claim to the sovereignty of her late husband’s dominions, and twice sent an army against her, but was twice defeated by the valorous and undaunted Zenobia. Her dominions extended from the Euphrates to the Mediterranean, and included Jerusalem, Antioch, Damascus, and other cities famed in history. Zenobia, however, made the beautiful Palmyra her place of residence, making expeditions to her other provinces. Her three sons, Timolaus, Herennianus, and Vaballathus, were educated with care; and they were attired in the Roman purple of the Cæsars and brought up according to Roman manners. The appointments of her palaces were gorgeously magnificent, and her style of living most regal; she affected great splendor in her attire, always appearing in royal state, dazzling with jewels, unless at the head of her army or riding in the chase, when she wore military habits, which, however, sparkled with gems; and though an apparent amazon, she was a woman of dazzling beauty and most fascinating presence, and always appeared before her council of war in regal pomp, which secured her an homage from her subjects and her soldiers which amounted almost to a worship which partook of the veneration and admiration accorded to a goddess. She was pure in her manners to the utmost refinement of delicacy, and was as much adored for her womanly virtues as she was admired for her warlike valor. At length the fierce Aurelian became emperor of Rome. He was highly indignant that a woman should dare to claim proud Rome as her ally, and defy his power. Having subdued all his competitors in the West, he turned his arms against this powerful queen of the East, who dared to call herself Augusta and clothe her sons in Roman royal purple. Proudly the Roman emperor approached the dominions of the haughty Zenobia. Rumor announced his coming, and the dauntless queen of Palmyra prepared to meet him. Neither Roman legions nor Roman emperors made her brave spirit quail or her woman’s heart grow faint.

When the first Roman herald reached Palmyra to announce the coming of the Roman ambassadors who had been sent by Aurelian to demand her submission, Zenobia was related to have been at her hunting-villa just without the city. It was in the forests lying to the north of this summer palace that she pursued the wild boar, tiger, or panther in the daring chase. As the messengers of Aurelian arrived at the palace gates, the queen had just returned from the hunt. Never did she look more regal. She was mounted upon a white Arabian steed of peerless beauty, caparisoned with harness gleaming with jewels. Zenobia was leaning upon her long hunting-spear. She wore upon her head a Parthian hunting-cap adorned with a long white plume, fastened by a glittering diamond worth a king’s ransom; her costume was also Parthian, and was most perfectly adapted to display the exquisite proportions of her graceful form. Her dark eyes were flashing with scarcely less brilliancy than the diamond which adorned her brow, as she sat her horse with regal dignity, and her countenance betokened her dauntless pride and warlike courage as the messengers of her enemy were announced. Not waiting to dismount, she exclaimed with tones of imperial command, “Bid the servants of your emperor draw near, and we will hear them.”

Announced by trumpets and followed by their train, the ambassadors of Aurelian advanced to the spot where Zenobia calmly awaited them, surrounded by her royal attendants.

“Speak your errand,” said the queen.

“For a long series of years,” replied the ambassador, “the wealth of Egypt and the East flowed into the Roman treasury. That stream has been diverted to Palmyra. Egypt, Syria, Bithynia, and Mesopotamia were dependents upon Rome, as Roman provinces. The queen of Palmyra was once but the queen of Palmyra; she is now queen of Egypt and of the East,—Augusta of the Roman Empire,—her sons styled and arrayed as Cæsars. By whatever consent of former emperors these honors have been won or permitted, it is not, we are required to say, with the consent of Aurelian. While he honors the greatness and genius of Zenobia, he holds essential to his honor and the glory of the Roman world, that the Roman Empire should again be restored to the limits which bounded it in the reigns of the Antonines.”

“You have spoken,” replied Zenobia to the ambassadors, with a calm voice and steady glance, “with plainness, as it became a Roman to do”; and then her eye flashed with proud disdain as she drew her stately form up to still more lofty proportions, and she continued: “Now hear me, and as you hear, so report to him who sent you. Tell Aurelian that what I am, I have made myself; that the empire which hails me queen has been moulded into what it is by Odenathus and Zenobia; it is no gift, but an inheritance, a conquest, and a possession; it is held, not by favor, but by right of birth and power; and when he will give away possessions or provinces which he claims as his, or Rome’s, for the asking, I will give away Egypt and the Mediterranean coast. Tell him, that as I have lived a queen, so, the gods helping, I will die a queen; that the last moment of my reign and my life shall be the same. If he is ambitious, let him be told that I am ambitious too—ambitious of wider empire, of an unsullied fame, and of my people’s love. Tell him I do not speak of gratitude on the part of Rome; but that posterity will say that the power which stood between Rome and Persia, and saved the empire in the East, which avenged the death of Valerian, and twice pursued the Persian king, even to the gates of his own Ctesiphon, deserved some fairer acknowledgment from an ally whom its arms had thus befriended than the message you now bring from your Roman emperor.”

With proud dignity the ambassadors were then dismissed, and Zenobia prepared to defend her rights and kingdom. Nor did she indolently permit the emperor of the West to approach the gates of her fair Palmyra. With brave rashness she went forth to meet him, and two great battles were fought, one near Antioch, and the second near Emæsa. In both these contests the brave Zenobia herself led her troops to the onslaught, giving the second place in command to her valiant warrior Zabdas, whose great prowess in arms had hitherto made him a successful general. But in both these battles Zenobia was defeated, and she was forced to fall back within the gates of Palmyra. Here she made a brave and last defence. And again she boldly defied Aurelian from her towers, as she had already defied him on the field of battle. So great was her courage and so valiant her defence, that Aurelian was obliged to admit her claims of being a most powerful and determined foe, and thus wrote of her: “Those who speak with contempt of the war I am waging against a woman, are ignorant of both the character and power of Zenobia. It is impossible to enumerate her warlike preparations of stones, of arrows, and of every species of missile weapons and military engines.”

So doubtful was Aurelian of the result of the siege, that he offered terms of an advantageous capitulation to the brave queen of Palmyra; but she indignantly rejected his proposals in a famous Greek epistle, in which she defied his power. Zenobia, expecting reinforcement from her provinces, and thinking that Aurelian, being encamped in a desert, could not long hold out, especially as he was constantly harassed by bands of Arabs attacking his army in the rear, felt confident that the siege would not be prolonged. But Aurelian, incensed by her haughty letter, roused himself to greater vigilance, cut off all her supplies as the several companies of her allies approached, and found means to subsist his army even in the desert. At length the city could hold out no longer. Zenobia determined to fly, and endeavor to raise succor for her beloved city in her surrounding provinces. Such, indeed, was the reason assigned for this apparent cowardice on her part, which was so contrary to her previous record of undaunted bravery. Mounted on the fleetest of her dromedaries, she succeeded in reaching the banks of the Euphrates, but she was pursued and taken captive, and brought into the presence of the Roman emperor. Aurelian sternly demanded how she dared thus defy the power of Rome. Still every inch a queen, and yet not forgetting a wise policy, she replied, “Because I disdained to acknowledge as my masters such men as Aureolus and Gallienus. To Aurelian I submit, as my conqueror and my sovereign.”

While this conference was being held in the tent of the Roman Emperor, the Roman soldiers came rushing in a riotous mass, demanding the instant death of Zenobia. But notwithstanding her previous bravery and fortitude, history records that, in this moment of terrible danger, Zenobia did not display equal courage to the famous Cleopatra, who resolved to die rather than submit to her Roman conqueror. It is stated that Zenobia laid the blame of her obstinate resistance upon the aged Longinus and others of her chief counsellors, in order to save her own life. Whether this were indeed the truth or not, the facts are that the great philosopher Longinus, and other chief men of Palmyra, were put to death by Aurelian, and the life of Zenobia was saved. But for this seeming betrayal of her most faithful subjects, Zenobia may not have been to blame; for the desire to preserve the haughty Queen of the East, in order that she might grace his coming triumph in Rome, was a sufficient reason to account for Aurelian’s conduct in saving her life, and putting to death her chief men, without it being necessary to ascribe to such a brave and noble woman as Zenobia such ignoble and cowardly actions. That she did not take her own life like Cleopatra, but bore her reverses with calm dignity, appears in these more enlightened days to be surely more to her credit than to her dishonor; and in the light of modern civilization, the picture of the beautiful Zenobia, walking with firm step and imperial bearing among the captives of the Roman conqueror, excites deeper feelings of admiration than Cleopatra, the suicide, lying dead upon her royal bed of state.

Palmyra being conquered, Aurelian seized upon its vast treasures, and leaving there a Roman garrison, he started to return to Europe, carrying with him Zenobia and her family. But having reached the Hellespont, tidings came to him that the Palmyrenes had revolted. Aurelian immediately retraced his steps, and arriving before Palmyra, he ruthlessly destroyed that beautiful city, sparing neither old men, women, nor children, in his bloody work of total destruction. The gorgeous buildings were soon smoking heaps of ruins; and though he afterwards repented of his wild fury, and sought to rebuild in part a few of its magnificent structures, it was too late. Palmyra became desolate; and until about a century ago, when some English travellers discovered its ruins, the very site where once stood this beautiful Palm City of the Desert had been completely forgotten.

Upon Aurelian’s return to Rome, his triumph was celebrated with extraordinary gorgeousness and pomp. Vast numbers of elephants, tigers, and other strange beasts from the conquered countries presented a novel sight to the wondering Romans. Sixteen hundred gladiators, who were devoted to the cruel contests of the amphitheatre, followed the line of strange beasts. Then appeared the ensigns of the conquered nations, and the magnificent plate, jewels, and royal robes of the Queen of the East were displayed in immense profusion. Ambassadors of Æthiopia, Arabia, Persia, Bactriana, India, and China, attired in their rich and striking national costumes, revealed the extent of the Roman power. After these came the long lines of captives, including Goths, Vandals, Sarmatians, Alemanni, Franks, Gauls, Syrians, and Egyptians. But every eye was riveted upon the famous Zenobia, Queen of the East. Arrayed in her royal robes, and covered with her blazing jewels, the weight of which was so overpowering as to cause her almost to faint under the burden, she walked before her own magnificent chariot, in which she had hoped to enter Rome as a conquerer, rather than thus walk a captive. Her arms were bound with fetters of gold, which were so heavy that slaves were obliged to assist in supporting them on either side. But though her delicate form was bent by the weight of her galling fetters,—gold though they were,—her proud eyes were undimmed by tears, and her queenly head was carried with imperial grace.

There are two accounts of the after-fate of Zenobia. Some writers state that she starved herself to death, refusing to outlive her own downfall and the ruin of her country. But according to other records, the Emperor Aurelian bestowed upon her a magnificent villa at Tivoli, where she resided in great honor, her daughters marrying into noble Roman families, while her youngest son became king of a part of Armenia.

MATILDA OF FLANDERS.

A.D. 1031-1083.

“The little work-tables of women’s fingers are
the playgrounds of women’s fancies, and their
knitting-needles are fairy wands by which they
transform the whole room into a spirit isle of
dreams.”—RICHTER.

MATILDA of Flanders deserves mention for three reasons. First, because she was the wife of William the Conqueror; secondly, because she was the first consort of the kings of England who was crowned and who received the title of _la reine_. For, on account of the crime of Edburga in poisoning her husband, Brihtric, king of Wessex, a law was made debarring the consorts of Anglo-Saxon kings from sharing in the honors of royalty. Previously to the time of William the Conqueror, who chose to ignore this law, the wife of the king had simply held the title of “The Lady, his Companion.”

The third reason which has made Matilda of Flanders worthy of mention is on account of the famous Bayeux Tapestry, the work of her own royal fingers, which is still preserved in the cathedral of Bayeux.

Cleopatra and Zenobia are illustrious for their warlike valor and remarkable learning; but Matilda of Flanders has made famous the needle, rather than the sword; and with that little domestic instrument, the industrious fingers of the first Norman queen, assisted by her attendant ladies, gave to the world a very important historical document, whereon was pictorially chronicled the famous Norman conquest of England. And thus the sword of the king and the needle of the queen have become indissolubly associated in the history of this momentous mediæval event.

Matilda was directly descended from Alfred the Great. She was the daughter of Baldwin V., count of Flanders. Her mother was Adelais, daughter of Robert I., king of France.

Matilda was born about the year 1031, and was possessed of much grace of form, as well as an attractive face.

In those days, skill in needle-work was held as the highest accomplishment for ladies of rank, and the remarkable skill in this handicraft, displayed by the four sisters of King Athelstan, is said to have secured for them the addresses of the most eligible princes in Europe.

Matilda had several suitors, but she fixed her heart upon a young Saxon noble named Brihtric, who on account of the fairness of his complexion was called _Meaw_, meaning “snow.” He was the Lord of Gloucester, and was made envoy at the court of Flanders by King Edward the Confessor.

But he did not return Matilda’s love, and he afterwards married another; this slight Matilda never forgot, and in time she retaliated.

But Matilda, though ignored by the Saxon, was most chivalrously loved by the bravest prince of all the courts—William of Normandy. This prince was the son of Duke Robert, though his mother was of humble birth; but as his father had no other heirs, he declared this child his lawful successor to the ducal throne, and then Duke Robert departed upon his pilgrimage to the Holy Land, from which he never returned.

William was educated at the court of Henry I. of France, where he remained until the Normans sent to claim him as their duke.

At the time when William sought the hand of Matilda of Flanders in marriage, he asserted that Edward of England had named him his heir; but some looked upon this as an idle boast, and fair Matilda seems to have been so little in love with her warlike cousin, that he sued for her for seven years in vain. At last, determining to prove that a “faint heart never won a fair lady,” he resorted to a most uncommon and hazardous mode of courting.

For seven long years he had wooed Matilda, who, absorbed in her vain fancy for the indifferent Lord of Gloucester, turned a deaf ear to brave William’s glowing ardor, until at length he was roused to desperate boldness.

One morning, as Matilda was returning from early mass in the city of Bruges, she was suddenly confronted by the unexpected appearance of Prince William, who, with glaring eyes and lips quivering with intense passion, accused her of loving Brihtric of Gloucester; and as she disdained to deny it he cried in bitter tones:—

“Edward, England’s king, has named me his heir, and by the holy cross, the Saxon churl who dares aspire to thy hand, shall ere long be crushed by the vengeance of our royal resentment.”

“Mighty words, easily spoken, and verily proof neither of greatness nor of valor,” replied the princess; then, laughing aloud in his face with disdainful manner, she continued: “The doubtful Duke of Normandy, monarch of England!—truly, a most excellent joke! But why does not my aspiring and politic cousin declare himself the future emperor of all Christendom?”

Stung by her sarcastic words and the implied insult regarding his birth, Prince William was driven to a frenzy of anger; he seized Matilda, rolled her in a muddy pool near by, and even struck her, in his wild fury, and leaving her fainting upon the ground, he leaped upon his charger, and galloped out of town. Strange wooing, surely! and yet after-events would seem to imply its efficacy. Truly, none but a William the Conqueror would ever again have dared to enter Matilda’s presence. Matilda’s father, incensed at the treatment his daughter had received, made war upon William of Normandy; but the king of Flanders was so badly beaten in the contest that he was glad to make terms of peace with his Norman conqueror. As Brihtric, the Saxon lord, refused to marry the princess of Flanders, Matilda’s love turned to hate, and she received the victor, William, when, with amazing boldness, he renewed his suit, with every mark of courteous forgiveness, and consented to accept him, declaring “that she thought the duke must be a man of the highest courage and most daring spirit, to come and beat her in her father’s city.” “So faithful in love and so dauntless in war,” this brave knight won his bride; and never was wooing so fiercely bold, nor fair lady so strangely won. King Baldwin V. of Flanders was only too ready to receive this brave knight as a son-in-law, and quickly concluded the marriage contract, having already had sufficient experience of the powerful sword of this fierce wooer. Matilda and William were married at Château d’Eu, in Normandy; and her father gave her a rich dower, in lands, money, jewels, and costly trousseau. William then conducted his bride with much pomp to his duchy; and she made her public entry into Rouen in magnificent array. The bridal mantles of William and Matilda, richly adorned with jewels, were long preserved in the treasury of Bayeux Cathedral. As William and Mary were cousins, the Archbishop of Rouen declared that their marriage was illegal, and excommunicated them. But the dauntless William was not to be terrified by any monkish bulls, and appealed to the Pope, who nullified the sentence of the archbishop, and sanctioned their marriage, on condition that they should each build an abbey at Caen, and found a hospital for the blind. This they willingly agreed to do; and Matilda, who possessed much taste in architecture, took great delight in the erection of the stately abbeys of St. Stephens and the Holy Trinity; the former was endowed by William, for the monks, and the latter by Matilda, for the nuns.

Normandy enjoyed peace and prosperity under the wise rule of William and Matilda, who were much beloved by their subjects. Their children were remarkable for beauty and promise, and were carefully educated under their mother’s supervision.

About this time, Harold, brother to Queen Edith of England, was taken prisoner by the sovereign of Ponthieu; and as a brother of Harold had married a sister of Matilda, William compelled the Earl of Ponthieu to release Harold, and then he invited the Saxon prince to Normandy, where he was betrothed to one of the young daughters of William and Matilda, after which Harold returned to England; but no sooner had Edward, king of England, breathed his last, than Harold seized upon the sovereign power, notwithstanding he had made a promise to William of Normandy to assist him in gaining his rights as heir to King Edward.

William thereupon invested Matilda with the regency of Normandy, and associated with her their eldest son, Robert, and prepared to invade England, and assert his claims as the successor of Edward the Confessor.

Unknown to her husband, Matilda had ordered a magnificent ship of war to be built; and when William arrived at the port of St. Vallery, he found this splendid present from his wife awaiting him, and gorgeously adorned in his honor. This ship was called the _Mora_, and in it William embarked at the head of his fleet.

The Norman fleet reached the port of Pevensey, on the coast of Sussex, in safety; but as Duke William was landing, he fell headlong upon the ground. “An evil sign is this!” exclaimed the superstitious Normans in affright. But the duke, rising with his hands full of sand, cried: “I have seized England with my two hands, and that which I have seized I will maintain.” And most truly did he fulfil this prophecy; and by the bloody battle of Hastings the proud realm of England became the dominion of the Norman conqueror.

Matilda, the Duchess Regent of Normandy, received the welcome news of her husband’s victory while at worship in the Church of Nôtre Dame, near St. Sever. She thereupon ordered that the cathedral should henceforth be called the “Church of Our Lady of Good Tidings.”

William re-embarked for Normandy to rejoin Matilda, in March, 1067; but scarcely had he arrived in his dukedom, ere tidings reached him of a revolt in England. He immediately returned, quelled the insurrection, and then sent for Matilda and their children to join him in England.

Matilda arrived in England with her family soon after Easter. William now made preparations for her coronation. As I have mentioned, former wives of the sovereigns of England had not received this honor. But William the Conqueror would allow no obstacles to defeat his purposes.

Although William had already been crowned in Westminster Abbey, he chose to be now re-crowned at Winchester, that Matilda might be made queen.

It was during the ceremony of Matilda’s coronation that the office of champion was first instituted. During the banquet, a brave cavalier named Marmion, clad in complete armor, rode into the hall and pronounced this challenge:—

“If any person denies that our sovereign lord, William, and his spouse, Matilda, are king and queen of England, he is a false-hearted traitor and liar; and I, as a champion, do here challenge him to single combat.”

This challenge was repeated three times, but no one accepted it; and henceforth Matilda was always addressed as _la reine_.

But Matilda had never forgiven the slight she had received, as a girl, from the proud Lord of Gloucester; and no sooner had she become queen of England than she determined to take an unworthy revenge, which ever after tarnished her fame.

She obtained from King William the grant of all the possessions of Brihtric Meaw, and caused that unfortunate Saxon, whose only crime had been indifference to her youthful charms, to be imprisoned in Winchester Castle, where he died. She even deprived the city of Gloucester of its charter, and brought ruin to its inhabitants, probably because they had dared bewail the fate of their lord, her enemy.

Queen Matilda now commenced her famous Bayeux Tapestry, illustrating the conquest of England by William the Conqueror. In the cathedral of Bayeux, where it is still preserved, it is called the “Tapestry of Queen Matilda.”

This remarkable piece of canvas is nineteen inches wide and sixty-seven yards in length. Upon it are worked in cross-stitch many hundreds of figures, of men, horses, birds, trees, houses, castles, churches, ships, and battle scenes.

A dwarf artist, named Turold, is supposed to have made the designs for Queen Matilda, and he has cunningly introduced his own effigies and name into the work.

Matilda’s table, while in England, was furnished at the daily expense of forty shillings; and twelvepence each were allowed for the maintenance of her attendants. She received from the city of London oil for her lamp, wood for her hearth, and imports on goods landed at Queenhithe.

At this time, also, the famous curfew bell was established, which was the signal that all lights and fires must be extinguished at eight o’clock in the evening. This was an old Norman custom, but it occasioned great dissatisfaction among the English.

So frequent were the revolts among his English subjects, that at length William thought best to send Matilda and their children back to Normandy, where she resumed the regency. She did not reside in England after this time.

Robert, the eldest son of William and Matilda, now occasioned his parents much trouble. At last the quarrel between father and son resulted in open war.

Matilda, whose excessive partiality for her eldest son much offended her husband, supplied the rebellious Robert with large sums of money; and when means failed her, she even parted with her plate and jewels to aid her favorite child. William was in England when the news reached him of the rebellion of Robert and the part Matilda was taking in the matter, and he immediately set out for Normandy. Upon arriving there, and learning the truth of these rumors, he met his wife with bitter reproaches. There was stern grandeur, not unmixed with tender pity and love, in the harsh words which he addressed to Matilda, which were not entirely unmerited; and there was also a sublime depth of mother’s love in her reply. Fixing his eyes upon the queen, the Conqueror exclaimed with trembling voice:—

“The brightest jewel of my bosom hath pierced my heart with the deadly dart of treachery. Behold, my wife!—the treasure of my soul—to whom I have confided my wealth, my crown, my greatness, my all. She hath supported my rebel son in perfidy, and aided him to raise his sword against his own father.”

“My lord!” replied Matilda, “far be from me to do you wrong. But when you spurn our firstborn and retain from him his rights, you drive him to wretchedness and distraction. Be not surprised if I feel a mother’s tenderness for her child. Nay, so much do I love him, that for his dear sake I would dare any danger, do any deed. Ask me not to enjoy the pomp of royalty while he is pining in want and misery; as a loving husband, you have no right to impose such insensibility on a mother.”

Robert and his father met in battle at Archembraye; and in the contest Robert unhorsed his father, and, unconscious as to whom he had defeated, was about to pierce him with his sword, when he recognized his foe, and fell at his feet begging forgiveness, horrified at the thought of how nearly he had committed the awful crime of parricide. A reconciliation took place, and Robert accompanied William to England.

Matilda’s last years were embittered by domestic troubles. She remained in Normandy. The death of her daughter Constance and renewed quarrels between Robert and his father, added to her own failing health, quickened her decline. She died at Caen, in November, 1083. Her husband hastened from England when informed of her danger, and arrived as she breathed her last. She was interred in the Church of the Holy Trinity at Caen. William the Conqueror survived her only four years, when his death was occasioned by an accident during the storming of the city of Nantes, when his horse stumbled over some burning timber, and throwing the king violently forward in the saddle, he was so seriously injured as to result in his death. William the Conqueror was buried in the Church of St. Stephen at Caen. The portraits of William and Matilda were painted upon the walls of St. Stephen’s chapel.

William was remarkable for his great strength and imposing beauty. He was a head taller than all his subjects. The face of Queen Matilda was beautiful and delicate. Their two sons, William Rufus and Henry, reigned successively over England. Robert died in prison. Their fourth daughter, Adela, was the mother of King Stephen.

In 1562 the Calvinist soldiers broke open the tombs of William and Matilda, hoping to find rich treasures; but finding nothing but a sapphire ring upon Matilda’s finger, they rudely threw the bones carelessly around. In 1642 these relics were collected, and their tombs restored, though at the close of the last century the French Republicans destroyed the monumental memorial of Matilda, which had been there erected by her husband before his death. Thus the needle-work of Queen Matilda has proved to be a more lasting memorial of her fame than the costly monument of marble erected to her memory.

MARGARET OF ANJOU.

A.D. 1429-1482.

“The red rose and the white are on his face,
The fatal colours of our striving houses.”
—SHAKESPEARE.

ONE of the most momentous civil commotions in the annals of English history was the famous War of the Roses, which was waged for many years between the Houses of Lancaster and York, during which sanguine contests the plains of England were deluged with blood; eighty princes were slain, and the ancient nobility were almost entirely annihilated.

With these exciting incidents the name of Margaret of Anjou is indissolubly associated, and she stands forth in history as one of the most important participants in that great civil struggle, which may be thus briefly stated.

Henry VI., the reigning king of England, was the son of John of Gaunt, a younger son of Edward the Third. About this time, the Duke of York, who was descended by his mother’s side from Lionel, an older son of the same Edward, aspired to the throne, and gathering to his standard many powerful nobles, he sought to dethrone King Henry.

The partisans of the House of York chose the white rose for their badge, while the reigning House of Lancaster wore, as their emblem, the red rose.

Previously to this period, Henry, the king of England, had wedded Margaret of Anjou.

This princess was the youngest daughter of René, Duke of Anjou. Her father was the son of Louis II., king of Naples, Sicily, and Jerusalem, and also sovereign count of Provence, Anjou, and Maine.

But though Duke René was heir to so many kingdoms at the time of his daughter’s marriage, he was owner of none; and instead of providing her with a rich dower, suitable to her rank, the marriage stipulations were very peculiar.

Henry VI. of England was twenty-six years of age. His country was impoverished by a thirty years’ war. Margaret was at this time living at Naples, of which realm her father called himself king. Amongst the princesses selected for the approval of the bachelor king of England, none pleased King Henry so well as the beautiful face of Margaret of Anjou, whose portrait had been sent to him for his examination. So overtures were at once made to the father of this lovely princess.

René consented most readily to the marriage, on the condition that the bride’s wedding portion should be only her own lovely charms and superior accomplishments, which he declared were worth more than all the riches of the world.

But this was not all in this strange marriage agreement. René also demanded that Henry should restore to him his patrimonial estates of Anjou and Maine, which had been wrested from him.

Though Margaret’s father possessed so many high-sounding titles, he was in truth a royal pauper. He had been driven out of Naples, England held Anjou and Maine, and in order to pay his ransom to the Duke of Burgundy, who had kept him a prisoner for six years, René had been obliged to mortgage his other dominions, so that now he possessed neither castle nor an acre of ground he could call his own.

The Earl of Suffolk, who had been sent by King Henry to make the marriage settlements, was alarmed to bring back to his sovereign such an unheard-of demand from the father of a portionless bride; but as René would not relent, Suffolk was forced to return to his king with this strange proposal.

Although King Henry was almost as much poverty-stricken as the lovely princess, her fair face so bewitched him that he readily consented to take her, not only without dower, but to relinquish for her the domains of Anjou and Maine.

The Earl of Suffolk was sent back to wed the fair princess as proxy for Henry, and in St. Martin’s church, at Nanci, in November, 1444, Margaret was married by proxy, the bride being in her fifteenth year.

The ceremony was performed in the presence of her aunt, Marie of Anjou, queen of France, and Charles VII. The bride’s father and mother were also present, and all the leading nobles of the courts of France and Lorraine; the mother of the bride being Isabella, claimant of the duchy of Lorraine.

At the nuptial tournaments and festivities, which lasted for eight days, all the knights wore daisies on their helmets; and the bridemaids and other maidens of Lorraine were decked with wreaths and garlands of the same flower, in honor of the bride’s name, “Marguerite,” signifying “the daisy.”

During these wedding festivities, an enlivening incident occurred. Yolante, the elder sister of Margaret, had for a long time been betrothed to Ferry of Lorraine, the heir of Duke Antony, the successful competitor for that dukedom. For some reason René had delayed this marriage; and so, at this auspicious moment, the young prince ran away with his fiancée and married her. Charles VII., king of France, interceded for their pardon, which René was only too willing to grant, as his apparent opposition had only been on account of lack of dower for his daughter.

Margaret now started on her journey to England, to meet King Henry, to whom she had been married by proxy. She was attended by the Marquis of Suffolk, who had been raised to that rank by King Henry, that he might act as his proxy; and Suffolk’s wife, the Countess of Shrewsbury, and many other noble ladies, accompanied the young bride on this momentous journey.