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Title: Cleopatra — Complete
Author: Ebers, Georg, 1837-1898
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.


*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Cleopatra — Complete" ***


CLEOPATRA

By Georg Ebers

Translated from the German by Mary J. Safford



PREFACE.

If the author should be told that the sentimental love of our day was
unknown to the pagan world, he would not cite last the two lovers, Antony
and Cleopatra, and the will of the powerful Roman general, in which he
expressed the desire, wherever he might die, to be buried beside the
woman whom he loved to his latest hour. His wish was fulfilled, and the
love-life of these two distinguished mortals, which belongs to history,
has more than once afforded to art and poesy a welcome subject.

In regard to Cleopatra, especially, life was surrounded with an
atmosphere of romance bordering on the fabulous. Even her bitterest foes
admire her beauty and rare gifts of intellect. Her character, on the
contrary, presents one of the most difficult problems of psychology. The
servility of Roman poets and authors, who were unwilling frankly to
acknowledge the light emanating so brilliantly from the foe of the state
and the Imperator, solved it to her disadvantage. Everything that bore
the name of Egyptian was hateful or suspicious to the Roman, and it was
hard to forgive this woman, born on the banks of the Nile, for having
seen Julius Caesar at her feet and compelled Mark Antony to do her
bidding. Other historians, Plutarch at their head, explained the enigma
more justly, and in many respects in her favour.

It was a delightful task to the author to scan more closely the
personality of the hapless Queen, and from the wealth of existing
information shape for himself a creature in whom he could believe. Years
elapsed ere he succeeded; but now that he views the completed picture, he
thinks that many persons might be disposed to object to the brightness of
his colours. Yet it would not be difficult for the writer to justify
every shade which he has used. If, during his creative work, he learned
to love his heroine, it was because, the more distinctly he conjured
before his mind the image of this wonderful woman, the more keenly he
felt and the more distinctly he perceived how fully she merited not only
sympathy and admiration, but, in spite of all her sins and weaknesses,
the self-sacrificing affection which she inspired in so many hearts.

It was an author of no less importance than Horace who called Cleopatra
"non humilis mulier"--a woman capable of no baseness. But the phrase
gains its greatest importance from the fact that it adorns the hymn which
the poet dedicated to Octavianus and his victory over Antony and
Cleopatra. It was a bold act, in such an ode, to praise the victor's foe.
Yet he did it, and his words, which are equivalent to a deed, are among
this greatly misjudged woman's fairest claims to renown.

Unfortunately it proved less potent than the opinion of Dio, who often
distorted what Plutarch related, but probably followed most closely the
farce or the popular tales which, in Rome, did not venture to show the
Egyptian in a favourable light.

The Greek Plutarch, who lived much nearer the period of our heroine than
Dio, estimated her more justly than most of the Roman historians. His
grandfather had heard many tales of both Cleopatra and Antony from his
countryman Philotas, who, during the brilliant days when they revelled in
Alexandria, had lived there as a student. Of all the writers who describe
the Queen, Plutarch is the most trustworthy, but even his narrative must
be used with caution. We have closely followed the clear and
comprehensive description given by Plutarch of the last days of our
heroine. It bears the impress of truth, and to deviate widely from it
would be arbitrary.

Unluckily, Egyptian records contain nothing which could have much weight
in estimating the character of Cleopatra, though we have likenesses
representing the Queen alone, or with her son Caesarion. Very recently
(in 1892) the fragment of a colossal double statue was found in
Alexandria, which can scarcely be intended for any persons except
Cleopatra and Antony hand in hand. The upper part of the female figure is
in a state of tolerable preservation, and shows a young and attractive
face. The male figure was doubtless sacrificed to Octavianus's command to
destroy Antony's statues. We are indebted to Herr Dr. Walther, in
Alexandria, for an excellent photograph of this remarkable piece of
sculpture. Comparatively few other works of plastic art, in which we here
include coins, that could render us familiar with our heroine's
appearance, have been preserved.

Though the author must especially desire to render his creation a work of
art, it is also requisite to strive for fidelity. As the heroine's
portrait must reveal her true character, so the life represented here
must correspond in every line with the civilization of the period
described. For this purpose we placed Cleopatra in the centre of a larger
group of people, whom she influences, and who enable her personality to
be displayed in the various relations of life.

Should the author succeed in making the picture of the remarkable woman,
who was so differently judged, as "lifelike" and vivid as it stamped
itself upon his own imagination, he might remember with pleasure the
hours which he devoted to this book.

                  GEORG EBERS

TUTZING ON THE STARNBERGER SEE, October 5, 1893.



CLEOPATRA.



CHAPTER I.

Gorgias, the architect, had learned to bear the scorching sunbeams of the
Egyptian noonday. Though not yet thirty, he had directed--first as his
late father's assistant and afterwards as his successor--the construction
of the huge buildings erected by Cleopatra in Alexandria.

Now he was overwhelmed with commissions; yet he had come hither ere the
hours of work were over, merely to oblige a youth who had barely passed
the confines of boyhood.

True, the person for whom he made this sacrifice was Caesarion, the son
whom Cleopatra had given to Julius Caesar. Antony had honoured him with
the proud title of "King of kings"; yet he was permitted neither to rule
nor even to issue orders, for his mother kept him aloof from affairs of
state, and he himself had no desire to hold the sceptre.

Gorgias had granted his wish the more readily, because it was apparent
that he wanted to speak to him in private, though he had not the least
idea what Caesarion desired to confide, and, under any circumstances, he
could give him only a brief interview. The fleet, at whose head the Queen
had set sail, with Mark Antony, for Greece, must have already met
Octavianus's galleys, and doubtless a battle wherein the destiny of the
world was decided had also been fought upon the land, Gorgias believed
that the victory would fall to Antony and the Queen, and wished the noble
pair success with his whole heart. He was even obliged to act as if the
battle had been already determined in their favour, for the architectural
preparations for the reception of the conquerors were entrusted to his
charge, and that very day must witness the decision of the location of
the colossal statues which represented Antony hand in hand with his royal
love.

The epitrop Mardion, a eunuch, who as Regent, represented Cleopatra; and
Zeno, the Keeper of the Seal, who rarely opposed him, wished to have the
piece of sculpture erected in a different place from the one he favoured.
The principal objection to the choice made by the powerful head of the
government was that it had fallen on land owned by a private individual.
This might lead to difficulties, and Gorgias opposed it. As an artist,
too, he did not approve Mardion's plan; for though, on Didymus's land,
the statues would have faced the sea, which the Regent and the Keeper of
the Seal regarded as very important, no fitting background could have
been obtained.

At any rate, the architect could now avail himself of Caesarion's
invitation to overlook from the appointed place of meeting--the lofty
steps of the Temple of Isis--the Bruchium, and seek the best site for the
twin statues. He was anxious to select the most suitable one; the master
who had created this work of art had been his friend, and had closed his
eyes in death shortly after its completion.

The sanctuary whence Gorgias commenced his survey was in one of the
fairest portions of the Bruchium, the Alexandrian quarter, where stood
the royal palace with its extensive annexes, the finest temples--except
the Serapeum, situated in another part of the city-and the largest
theatres; the Forum invited the council of Macedonian citizens to its
assemblies, and the Museum afforded a resort for the scholars.

The little square closed in the east by the Temple of Isis was called the
"Corner of the Muses," on account of the two marble statues of women
before the entrance of the house, which, with its large garden facing the
square northward and extending along the sea, belonged to Didymus, an old
and highly respected scholar and member of the Museum.

The day had been hot, and the shade of the Temple of Isis was very
welcome to the architect.

This sanctuary rested upon a lofty foundation, and a long flight of steps
led to the cella. The spot afforded Gorgias a wide prospect.

Most of the buildings within his vision belonged to the time of Alexander
and his successors in the house of the Ptolemies, but some, and by no
means the least stately, were the work of Gorgias himself or of his
father. The artist's heart swelled with enthusiastic delight at the sight
of this portion of his native city.

He had been in Rome, and visited many other places numbered among the
world's fairest and most populous cities; but not one contained so many
superb works of art crowded together in so small a space.

"If one of the immortals themselves," he murmured, "should strive to
erect for the inhabitants of Olympus a quarter meet for their grandeur
and beauty, it could scarcely be much more superb or better fitted to
satisfy the artistic needs which we possess as their gift, and it would
surely be placed on the shore of such a sea."

While speaking, he shaded his keen eyes with his hand. The architect, who
usually devoted his whole attention to the single object that claimed his
notice, now permitted himself the pleasure of enjoying the entire picture
in whose finishing touches he had himself borne a part; and, as his
practised eye perceived in every temple and colonnade the studied and
finished harmony of form, and the admirable grouping of the various
buildings and statues, he said to himself, with a sigh of satisfaction,
that his own art was the noblest and building the highest of royal
pleasures. No doubt this belief was shared by the princes who, three
centuries before, had endeavoured to obtain an environment for their
palaces which should correspond with their vast power and overflowing
wealth, and at the same time give tangible expression to their reverence
for the gods and their delight in art and beauty. No royal race in the
universe could boast of a more magnificent abode. These thoughts passed
through Gorgias's mind as the deep azure hue of sea and sky blended with
the sunlight to bring into the strongest relief all that the skill and
brains of man, aided by exhaustless resources, had here created.

Waiting, usually a hard task for the busy architect, became a pleasure in
this spot; for the rays streaming lavishly in all directions from the
diadem of the sovereign sun flooded with dazzling radiance the thousands
of white marble statues on the temples and colonnades, and were reflected
from the surfaces of the polished granite of the obelisks and the equally
smooth walls of the white, yellow, and green marble, the syenite, and the
brown, speckled porphyry of sanctuaries and palaces. They seemed to be
striving to melt the bright mosaic pictures which covered every foot Of
the ground, where no highway intersected and no tree shaded it, and
flashed back again from the glimmering metal or the smooth glaze in the
gay tiles on the roofs of the temples and houses. Here they glittered on
the metal ornaments, yonder they seemed to be trying to rival the
brilliancy of the gilded domes, to lend to the superb green of the
tarnished bronze surfaces the sparkling lustre of the emerald, or to
transform the blue and red lines of the white marble temples into
lapis-lazuli and coral and their gilded decorations into topaz. The
pictures in the mosaic pavement of the squares, and on the inner walls of
the colonnades, were doubly effective against the light masses of marble
surrounding them, which in their turn were indebted to the pictures for
affording the eye an attractive variety instead of dazzling monotony.

Here the light of the weltering sun enhanced the brilliancy of colour in
the flags and streamers which fluttered beside the obelisks and Egyptian
pylons, over the triumphal arches and the gates of the temples and
palaces. Yet even the exquisite purplish blue of the banner waving above
the palace on the peninsula of Lochias, now occupied by Cleopatra's
children, was surpassed by the hue of the sea, whose deep azure near the
shore merged far away into bands of lighter and darker blue, blending
with dull or whitish green.

Gorgias was accustomed to grasp fully whatever he permitted to influence
him, and though still loyal to his custom of associating with his art
every remarkable work of the gods or man, he had not forgotten in his
enjoyment of the familiar scene the purpose of his presence in this spot.

No, the garden of Didymus was not the proper place for his friend's last
work.

While gazing at the lofty plane, sycamore, and mimosa trees which
surrounded the old scholar's home, the quiet square below him suddenly
became astir with noisy life, for all classes of the populace were
gathering in front of the sequestered house, as if some unusual spectacle
attracted them.

What could they want of the secluded philosopher?

Gorgias gazed earnestly at them, but soon turned away again; a gay voice
from below called his name.

A singular procession had approached the temple--a small body of armed
men, led by a short, stout fellow, whose big head, covered with bushy
curls, was crowned with a laurel wreath. He was talking eagerly to a
younger man, but had paused with the others in front of the sanctuary to
greet the architect. The latter shouted a few pleasant words in reply.
The laurel-crowned figure made a movement as if he intended to join him,
but his companion checked him, and, after a short parley, the older man
gave the younger one his hand, flung his heavy head back, and strutted
onward like a peacock, followed by his whole train.

The other looked after him, shrugging his shoulders; then called to
Gorgias, asking what boon he desired from the goddess.

"Your presence," replied the architect blithely.

"Then Isis will show herself gracious to you," was the answer, and the
next instant the two young men cordially grasped each other's hands.

Both were equally tall and well formed; the features bore witness to
their Greek origin; nay, they might have been taken for brothers, had not
the architect's whole appearance seemed sturdie and plainer than that of
his companion, whom he called "Dion" and friend. As the latter heaped
merry sarcasms upon the figure wearing the laurel wreath who had just
left him, Anaxenor, the famous zither-player, on whom Antony had bestowed
the revenues of four cities and permission to keep body-guard, and
Gorgias's deeper voice sometime assented, sometimes opposed with sensible
objections, the difference between these two men of the same age and race
became clearly apparent.

Both showed a degree of self-reliance unusual, at their age; but the
architect's was the assurance which a man gains by toil and his own
merit, Dion's that which is bestowed by large possession and a high
position in society. Those who were ignorant that the weight of Dion's
carefully prepared speech had more than once turned the scale in the city
councils would probably have been disposed to take him for one of the
careless worldlings who had no lack of representatives among the gilded
youth of Alexandria; while the architect's whole exterior, from his keen
eye to the stouter leather of his sandals, revealed earnest purpose and
unassuming ability.

Their friendship had commenced when Gorgias built a new palace for Dion.
During long business association people become well acquainted, even
though their conversations relate solely to direction and execution. But
in this case, he who gave the orders had been only the inspirer and
adviser, the architect the warm-hearted friend, eager to do his utmost to
realize what hovered before the other's mind as the highest attainable
excellence. So the two young men became first dear, and finally almost
indispensable to each other. As the architect discovered in the wealthy
man of the world many qualities whose existence he had not suspected, the
latter was agreeably surprised to find in the artist, associated with his
solidity of character, a jovial companion, who--this first made him
really beloved by his friend--had no lack of weaknesses.

When the palace was completed to Dion's satisfaction and became one of
the most lauded ornaments of the city, the young men's friendship assumed
a new form, and it would have been difficult to say which received the
most benefit.

Dion had just been stopped by the zither-player to ask for confirmation
of the tidings that the united forces of Antony and Cleopatra had gained
a great victory on sea and land.

In the eating-house at Kanopus, where he had breakfasted, everyone was
full of the joyful news, and rivers of wine had been drunk to the health
of the victors and the destruction of the malicious foe. "In these days,"
cried Dion, "not only weak-brained fellows, like the zither-player,
believe me omniscient, but many sensible men also. And why? Because,
forsooth, I am the nephew of Zeno, the Keeper of the Seal, who is on the
brink of despair because he himself knows nothing, not even the veriest
trifle."

"Yet he stands nearest to the Regent," observed Gorgias, "and must learn,
if any one does, how the fleet fares."

"You too!" sighed his friend. "Had I been standing so far above the
ground as you, the architect--by the dog, I should not have failed to
note the quarter whence the wind blew! It has been southerly a whole
fortnight, and keeps back the galleys coming from the north. The Regent
knows nothing, absolutely nothing, and my uncle, of course, no more. But
if they do learn anything they will be shrewd enough not to enrich me
with it."

"True, there are other rumours afloat," said the architect thoughtfully.
"If I were in Mardion's place--"

"Thank the Olympians that you are not," laughed his companion. "He has as
many cares as a fish has scales. And one, the greatest. That pert young
Antyllus was over-ready with his tongue yesterday at Barine's. Poor
fellow! He'll have to answer for it to his tutor at home."

"You mean the remark about the Queen's accompanying the fleet?"

"St!" said Dion, putting his finger on his lips, for many men and women
were now ascending the temple steps. Several carried flowers and cakes,
and the features of most expressed joyful emotion. The news of the
victory had reached their ears, and they wanted to offer sacrifices to
the goddess whom Cleopatra, "the new Isis," preferred to all others.

The first court-yard of the sanctuary was astir with life. They could
hear the ringing of the sistrum bells and the murmuring chant of the
priests. The quiet fore-court of the little temple of the goddess, which
here, in the Greek quarter of palaces, had as few visitors as the great
Temple of Isis in the Rhakotis was overcrowded, had now become the worst
possible rendezvous for men who stood so near the rulers of the
government. The remark made about the Queen the evening before by
Antyllus, Antony's nineteen-year-old son, at the house of Barine, a
beautiful young woman who attracted all the prominent men in Alexandria,
was the more imprudent because it coincided with the opinion of all the
wisest heads. The reckless youth enthusiastically reverenced his father,
but Cleopatra, the object of Antony's love, and--in the Egyptians'
eyes--his wife, was not Antyllus's mother. He was the son of Fulvia, his
father's first wife, and feeling himself a Roman, would have preferred a
thousand times to live on the banks of the Tiber. Besides, it was
certain--Antony's stanchest friends made no attempt to conceal the
fact--that the Queen's presence with the army exerted a disturbing
influence, and could not fail to curb the daring courage of the brave
general. Antyllus, with the reckless frankness inherited from his father,
had expressed this view in the presence of all Barine's guests, and in a
form which would be only too quickly spread throughout Alexandria, whose
inhabitants relished such speeches.

These remarks would be slow in reaching the plain people who were
attracted to the temple by the news of the victory, yet many doubtless
knew Caesarion, whom the architect was awaiting here. It would be wiser
to meet the prince at the foot of the steps. Both men, therefore, went
down to the square, though the crowds seeking the temple and thronging
the space before Didymus's house made it more and more difficult to pace
to and fro.

They were anxious to learn whether the rumour that Didymus's garden was
to be taken for the twin statues had already spread abroad, and their
first questions revealed that this was the case. It was even stated that
the old sage's house was to be torn down, and within a few hours. This
was vehemently contradicted; but a tall, scrawny man seemed to have
undertaken to defend the ruler's violence.

The friends knew him well. It was the Syrian Philostratus, a clever
extempore speaker and agitator of the people, who placed his clever
tongue at the disposal of the highest bidder.

"The rascal is probably now in my uncle's employ," said Dion. "The idea
of putting the piece of sculpture there originated with him, and it is
difficult to turn him from such plans. There is some secret object to be
gained here. That is why they have brought Philostratus. I wonder
if the conspiracy is connected in any way with Barine, whose
husband--unfortunately for her--he was before he cast her off."

"Cast her off!" exclaimed Gorgias wrathfully. "How that sounds! True, he
did it, but to persuade him the poor woman sacrificed half the fortune
her father had earned by his brush. You know as well as I that life with
that scoundrel would be unbearable."

"Very true," replied Dion quietly. "But as all Alexandria melted into
admiration after her singing of the 'yalemos' at the Adonis festival, she
no longer needed her contemptible consort."

"How can you take pleasure, whenever it is possible, in casting such
slurs upon a woman, whom but yesterday you called blameless, charming,
peerless?"

"That the light she sheds may not dazzle your eyes. I know how sensitive
they are."

"Then spare, instead of irritating them. Besides, your suggestion gives
food for thought Barine is the granddaughter of the man whose garden they
want, and the advocate would probably be glad to injure both. But I'll
spoil his game. It is my business to choose the site for the statues."

"Yours?" replied Dion. "Unless some on who is more powerful opposes you.
I would try to win my uncle, but there are others superior to him. The
Queen has gone, it is true; but Iras, whose commands do not die away in
empty air, told me this morning that she had her own ideas about the
erection of the statue."

"Then you bring Philostratus here!" cried the architect.

"I?" asked the other in amazement.

"Ay, you," asserted Gorgias. "Did not you say that Iras, with whom you
played when a boy is now becoming troublesome by watching your every
step? And then--you visit Barine constantly and she so evidently prefers
you, that the fact might easily reach the ears of Iras."

"As Argus has a hundred, jealousy has a thousand eyes," interrupted Dion,
"yet I seek nothing from Barine, save two pleasant hours when the day is
drawing towards its close. No matter; Iras, I suppose, heard that I was
favoured by this much-admired woman. Iras herself has some little regard
for me, so she bought Philostratus. She is willing to pay something for
the sake of injuring the woman who stands between us, or the old man who
has the good or evil fortune of being her rival's grandfather. No, no;
that would be too base! And believe me, if Iras desired to ruin Barine,
she need not make so long a circuit. Besides, she is not really a wicked
woman. Or is she? All I know is that where any advantage is to be gained
for the Queen, she does not shrink even from doubtful means, and also
that the hours speed swiftly for any one in her society. Yes, Iras,
Iras--I like to utter the name. Yet I do not love her, and she--loves
only herself, and--a thing few can say--another still more. What is the
world, what am I to her, compared with the Queen, the idol of her heart?
Since Cleopatra's departure, Iras seems like the forsaken Ariadne, or a
young roe which has strayed from its mother. But stop; she may have a
hand in the game: the Queen trusted her as if she were her sister, her
daughter. No one knows what she and Charmian are to her. They are called
waiting-women, but are their sovereign's dearest friends. When, on the
departure of the fleet, Cleopatra was compelled to leave Iras here--she
was ill with a fever--she gave her the charge of her children, even those
whose beards were beginning to grow, the 'King of kings' Caesarion, whose
tutor punishes him for every act of disobedience; and the unruly lad
Antyllus, who has forced his way the last few evenings into our friend's
house."

"Antony, his own father, introduced him to her."

"Very true, and Antyllus took Caesarion there. This vexed Iras, like
everything which may disturb the Queen. Barine is troublesome on account
of Cleopatra, whom she wishes to spare every annoyance, and perhaps she
dislikes her a little for my sake. Now she wants to inflict on the old
man, Barine's grandfather, whom she loves, some injury which the spoiled,
imprudent woman will scarcely accept quietly, and which will rouse her to
commit some folly that can be used against her. Iras will hardly seek her
life, but she may have in mind exile or something of that kind. She knows
people as well as I know her, my neighbour and playmate, whom many a time
I was obliged to lift down from some tree into which the child had
climbed as nimbly as a kitten."

"I myself suggested this conjecture, yet I cannot credit her with such
unworthy intrigues," cried Gorgias.

"Credit her?" repeated Dion, shrugging his shoulders. "I only transport
myself in imagination to the court and to the soul of the woman who helps
make rain and sunshine there. You have columns rounded and beams hewed
that they may afterwards support the roof to which in due time you wish
to direct attention. She and all who have a voice in the management of
court affairs look first at the roof and then seek anything to raise and
support it, though it should be corpses, ruined lives, and broken hearts.
The point is that the roof shall stand until the architect, the Queen,
sees and approves it. As to the rest--But there is the carriage--It
doubtless brings--You were--"

He paused, laid his hand on his friend's arm, and whispered hastily:
"Iras is undoubtedly at the bottom of this, and it is not Antyllus, but
yonder dreaming lad, for whom she is moving. When she spoke of the
statues just now, she asked in the same breath where I had seen him on
the evening of the day before yesterday, and that was the very time he
called on Barine. The plot was made by her, and Iras is doing all the
work. The mouse is not caught while the trap is closed, and she is just
raising her little hand to open it."

"If only she does not use some man's hand," replied the architect
wrathfully, and then turned towards the carriage and the elderly man who
had just left it, and was now approaching the two friends.



CHAPTER II.

When Caesarion's companion reached Dion and Gorgias, the former modestly
made a movement to retire. But Archibius was acquainted with both, and
begged him to remain. There was an air of precision and clearness in the
voice and quiet movements of this big, broad-shouldered man, with his
robust frame and well-developed limbs. Though only a few years beyond
forty, not merely his grey hair but the calm, impressive dignity of his
whole manner indicated a more advanced age.

"The young King yonder," he began in a deep, musical voice, motioning
towards the equipage, "wished to speak to you here in person, Gorgias,
but by my advice he refrained from mingling with the crowd. I have
brought him hither in a closed carriage. If the plan suits you, enter it
and talk with him while I keep watch here. Strange things seem to be
occurring, and yonder--or am I mistaken? Has the monster dragged along
there any connection with the twin statues of the Queen and her friend?
Was it you who selected that place for them?"

"No," replied the architect. "The order was issued over my head and
against my will."

"I thought so," replied the other. "This is the very matter of which
Caesarion wishes to speak. If you can prevent the erection of the statues
on Didymus's land, so much the better. I will do everything in my power
to aid you, but in the Queen's absence that is little."

"Then what can be said of my influence?" asked the architect. "Who, in
these days, knows whether the sky will be blue or grey to-morrow? I can
guarantee one thing only: I will do my best to prevent this injury of an
estimable citizen, interference with the laws of our city, and violation
of good taste."

"Say so to the young King, but express yourself cautiously," replied
Archibius as the architect turned towards the carriage.

As soon as Dion and the older man were alone, the latter inquired the
cause of the increasing uproar, and as, like every well-disposed
Alexandrian, he esteemed Archibius, and knew that he was intimately
acquainted with the owner of the imperilled garden, and therefore with
his granddaughter Barine, he confided his anxiety to him without reserve.

"Iras is your niece, it is true," he said in his open-hearted manner,
"but I know that you understand her character. It suits her now to fling
a golden apple into the path of a person whom she dislikes and believes
incautious, that she may pick it up and thus afford her an opportunity to
bring a charge of theft."

Noting the inquiring glance Archibius fixed upon him as he made this
comparison, he changed his tone and continued more earnestly: "Zeus is
great, but destiny is superior even to him. Zeus can accomplish much, but
when Iras and your sister Charmian, who unfortunately is now with the
Queen, wish to effect anything, he, like the Regent Mardion, must give
way. The more lovable Cleopatra is, the more surely every one prizes a
position near her person above aught else, especially such trifles as law
and justice."

"These are harsh words," responded Archibius, "and seem the more bitter
in proportion to the germ of truth which they contain. Our court shares
the fate of every other in the East, and those to whom Rome formerly set
the example of holding law and justice sacred--"

"Can now go there," interrupted Dion, "to learn how rudely both are
trampled under foot. The sovereigns here and there may smile at one
another like the augurs. They are like brothers--"

"But with the difference," Archibius broke in, "that the head of our
public affairs is the very embodiment of affability and grace; while in
Rome, on the contrary, harsh severity and bloody arrogance, or even
repulsive servility, guide the reins."

Here Archibius interrupted himself to point to the shouting throng
advancing towards them. "You are right," Dion answered. "Let us defer
this discussion till we can pursue it in the house of the charming
Barine. But I rarely meet you there, though by blood you are so nearly
allied to her father. I am her friend--at my age that might easily mean
her lover. But in our case the comparison would not suit. Yet perhaps you
will believe me, for you have the right to call yourself the friend of
the most bewitching of women."

A sorrowful smile flitted over the grave, set features of the older man,
who, raising his hand as if in protest, answered carelessly: "I grew up
with Cleopatra, but a private citizen loves a queen only as a divinity. I
believe in your friendship for Barine, though I deem it dangerous."

"If you mean that it might injure the lovely woman," replied Dion,
raising his head more proudly as if to intimate that he required no
warning, even from him, "perhaps you are right. Only I beg you not to
misunderstand me. I am not vain enough to suppose that I could win her
heart, but unfortunately there are many who cannot forgive the power of
attraction which she exerts over me as well as upon all. So many men
gladly visit Barine's house that there are an equal number of women who
would rejoice to close it. Among them, of course, is Iras. She dislikes
my friend; nay, I fear that what you witness yonder is the apple she
flung in order, if not to ruin, at least to drive her from the city, ere
the Queen--may the gods grant her victory!--ere Cleopatra returns. You
know your niece Iras. Like your sister Charmian, she will shrink from
nothing to remove an annoyance from her mistress's pathway, and it will
hardly please Cleopatra when she learns that the two youths whose welfare
lies nearest her heart--Antyllus and Caesarion--seek Barine's house, no
matter how stainless the latter's reputation may be."

"I have just heard of it," replied Archibius, "and I, too, am anxious.
Antony's son has inherited much of his father's insatiable love of
pleasure. But Caesarion! He has not yet ventured out of the dreamland
which surrounds him into actual life. What others scarcely perceive deals
him a serious blow. I fear Eros is sharpening arrows for him which will
pierce deep into his heart. While talking with me he seemed strangely
changed. His dreamy eyes glittered like a drunkard's when he spoke of
Barine. I fear, I fear--"

"Impossible!" cried Dion, in surprise, nay, almost terror. "If that is
the case, Iras is not wholly wrong, and we must deal with the matter
differently. But it is of the first importance to conceal the fact that
Caesarion has any interest in the affairs of the old house-owner. To seek
to maintain the old man's right to his own property is a matter of
course, and I will undertake to do this and try to get yonder orator home
Just see how the braggart is swinging his arms in Iras's service! As for
Barine, it will be well to induce her to leave of her own free will a
city where it will be made unpleasant for her. Try to persuade her to
pursue this course. If I went to her with such a suggestion, I, who
yesterday--No, no! Besides, she might hear that Iras and I--She would
imagine all sorts of absurdities. You know what jealousy means. To you,
whom she esteems, she would surely listen, and she need not go far from
the city. If the heart of this enthusiastic boy--who might some day
desire to be 'King of kings' not only in name--should really be fired
with love for Barine, what serious misfortune might follow! We must
secure her from him. She could not go to my country house among the
papyrus plantations at Sebennys. It would afford too much license for
evil tongues. But you--your villa at Kanopus is too near--but, if I am
not mistaken, you have--"

"My estate in the lake region is remote enough, and will be at her
disposal," interrupted the other. "The house is always kept ready for my
reception. I will do my best to persuade her, for your advice is prudent.
She must be withdrawn from the boy's eyes."

"I shall learn the result of your mission tomorrow," cried Dion
eagerly--"nay, this evening. If she consents, I will tell Iras, as if by
accident, that Barine has gone to Upper Egypt to drink new milk, or
something of that kind. Iras is a shrewd woman, and will be glad if she
can keep aloof from such trifles during the time which will decide the
fate of Cleopatra and of the world."

"My thoughts, too, are always with the army," said Archibius. "How
trivial everything else seems compared with the result which will be
determined in the next few days! But life is made up of trifles. They are
food, drink, maintenance. Should the Queen return triumphant, and find
Caesarion in wrong paths--"

"We must close them against him," exclaimed Dion.

"That the boy may not follow Barine?" asked Archibius, shaking his head.
"I think we need feel no anxiety on that score. He will doubtless eagerly
desire to do so, but with him there is a wide gulf between the wish and
its fulfilment. Antyllus is differently constituted. He would be quite
capable of ordering a horse to be saddled, or the sails of a boat to be
spread in order to pursue her--beyond the Cataract if necessary. So we
must maintain the utmost secrecy concerning the place to which Barine
voluntarily exiles herself."

"But she is not yet on her way," replied Dion with a faint sigh. "She is
bound to this city by many ties."

"I know it," answered Archibius, confirming his companion's fear. The
latter, pointing to the equipage, said in a rapid, earnest tone: "Gorgias
is beckoning. But, before we part, let me beseech you to do everything to
persuade Barine to leave here. She is in serious danger. Conceal nothing
from her, and say that her friends will not leave her too long in
solitude."

Archibius, with a significant glance, shook his finger at the young man
in playful menace, and then went up to the carriage.

Caesarion's clear-cut but pallid face, whose every feature resembled that
of his father, the great Caesar, bent towards them from the opening above
the door, as he greeted both with a formal bend of the head and a
patronizing glance. His eyes had sparkled with boyish glee when he first
caught sight of the friend from whom he had been separated several weeks,
but to the stranger he wished to assume the bearing which beseemed a
king. He desired to make him feel his superior position, for he was
ill-disposed towards him. He had seen him favoured by the woman whom he
imagined he loved, and whose possession he had been promised by the
secret science of the Egyptians, whose power to unveil the mysteries of
the future he firmly believed. Antyllus, Antony's son, had taken him to
Barine, and she had received him with the consideration due his rank.
Spite of her bright graciousness, boyish timidity had hitherto prevented
any word of love to the young beauty whom he saw surrounded by so many
distinguished men of mature years. Yet his beaming, expressive eyes must
have revealed his feelings to her. Doubtless his glances had not been
unobserved, for only a few hours before an Egyptian woman had stopped him
at the temple of his father, Caesar, to which, according to the fixed
rules governing the routine of his life, he went daily at a certain hour
to pray, to offer sacrifices, to anoint the stone of the altar, or to
crown the statue of the departed emperor.

Caesarion had instantly recognized her as the female slave whom he had
seen in Barine's atrium, and ordered his train to fall back.

Fortunately his tutor, Rhodon, had not fulfilled his duty of accompanying
him. So the youth had ventured to follow the slave woman, and in the
shadow of the mimosas, in the little grove beside the temple, he found
Barine's litter. His heart throbbed violently as, full of anxious
expectation, he obeyed her signal to draw nearer. Still, she had granted
him nothing save the favour of gratifying one of her wishes. But his
heart had swelled almost to bursting when, resting her beautiful white
arm on the door of her litter, she had told him that unjust men were
striving to rob her grandfather Didymus of his garden, and she expected
him, who bore the title of the "King of kings" to do his best to prevent
such a crime.

It had been difficult for him to grasp her meaning while she was
speaking. There was a roaring sound in his ears as if, instead of being
in the silent temple grove, he was standing on a stormy day upon the
surf-beaten promontory of Lochias. He had not ventured to raise his eyes
and look into her face. Not until she closed with the question whether
she might hope for his assistance did her gaze constrain him to glance
up. Ah, what had he not fancied he read in her imploring blue eyes! how
unspeakably beautiful she had appeared!

He had stood before her as if bereft of his senses. His sole knowledge
was that he had promised, with his hand on his heart, to do everything in
his power to prevent what threatened to cause her pain. Then her little
hand, with its sparkling rings, was again stretched towards him, and he
had resolved to kiss it; but while he glanced around at his train, she
had already waved him a farewell, and the litter was borne away.

He stood motionless, like the figure of a man on one of his mother's
ancient vases, staring in bewilderment after the flying figure of
Happiness, whom he might easily have caught by her floating locks. How he
raged over the miserable indecision which had defrauded him of so much
joy! Yet nothing was really lost. If he succeeded in fulfilling her
wishes, she could not fail to be grateful; and then--

He pondered over the person to whom he should apply--Mardion, the Regent,
or the Keeper of the Seal? No, they had planned the erection of the group
of sculpture in the philosopher's garden. To Iras, his mother's
confidante? Nay, last of all to her. The cunning woman would have
perceived his purpose and betrayed it to the Regent. Ah, if Charmian, his
mother's other attendant, had been present! but she was with the fleet,
which perhaps was even now engaged in battle with the enemy.

At this recollection his eyes again sought the ground--he had not been
permitted to take the place in the army to which his birth entitled him,
while his mother and Charmian--But he did not pursue this painful current
of thought; for a serious reproach had forced itself upon him and sent
the blood to his cheeks. He wished to be considered a man, and yet, in
these fateful days, which would determine the destiny of his mother, his
native city, Egypt, and that Rome which he, the only son of Caesar, was
taught to consider his heritage, he was visiting a beautiful woman,
thinking of her, and of her alone. His days and half the nights were
passed in forming plans for securing her love, forgetful of what should
have occupied his whole heart.

Only yesterday Iras had sharply admonished him that, in times like these,
it was the duty of every friend of Cleopatra, and every foe of her foes,
to be with the army at least in mind.

He had remembered this, but, instead of heeding the warning, the thought
of her had merely recalled her uncle, Archibius, who possessed great
influence, not merely on account of his wealth but because every one also
knew his high standing in the regard of the Queen. Besides, the clever,
kindly man had always been friendly to him from childhood, and like a
revelation came the idea of applying to him, and to the architect
Gorgias, who had a voice in the matter, and by whom he had been strongly
attracted during the period while he was rebuilding the wing assigned to
the prince in the palace at Lochias.

So one of the attendants was instantly despatched with the little tablet
which invited Gorgias to the interview at the Temple of Isis.

Then, in the afternoon, Caesarion went secretly in a boat to the little
palace of Archibius, situated on the seashore at Kanopus, and now as the
latter, with his friend, stood beside the carriage door, he explained to
them that he was going with the architect to old Didymus to assure him of
his assistance.

This was unadvisable in every respect, but it required all the weight of
the older man's reasons to induce the prince to yield. The consequences
which might ensue, should the populace discover that he was taking sides
against the Regent, would be incalculable. But submission and withdrawal
were especially difficult to the young "King of kings." He longed to pose
as a man in Dion's presence, and as this could not be, he strove to
maintain the semblance of independence by yielding his resolve only on
the plea of not desiring to injure the aged scholar and his
granddaughter. Finally, he again entreated the architect to secure
Didymus in the possession of his property. When at last he drove away
with Archibius, twilight was already gathering, torches were lighted in
front of the temple and the little mausoleum adjoining the cella, and
pitch-pans were blazing in the square.



CHAPTER III.

"The lad is in an evil plight," said Gorgias, shaking his head
thoughtfully as the equipage rolled over the stone pavement of the Street
of the King.

"And over yonder," added Dion, "the prospect is equally unpleasing.
Philostratus is setting the people crazy. But the hired mischief-maker
will soon wish he had been less ready to seize Iras's gold coins."

"And to think," cried the architect, "that Barine was this scoundrel's
wife! How could it--"

"She was but a child when they married her," interrupted Dion. "Who
consults a girl of fifteen in the choice of a husband? And
Philostratus--he was my classmate at Rhodus--at that time had the fairest
prospects. His brother Alexas, Antony's favourite, could easily advance
him. Barine's father was dead, her mother was accustomed to follow
Didymus's counsel, and the clever fellow had managed to strew dust in the
old man's eyes. Long and lank as he is, he is not bad-looking even now.

"When he appeared as an orator he pleased his hearers. This turned his
head, and a spendthrift's blood runs in his veins. To bring his fair
young bride to a stately mansion, he undertook the bad cause of the
thievish tax-collector Pyrrhus, and cleared him."

"He bought a dozen false witnesses."

"There were sixteen. Afterwards they became as numerous as the open
mouths you see shouting yonder. It is time to silence them. Go to the old
man's house and soothe him--Barine also, if she is there. If you find
messengers from the Regent, raise objections to the unprecedented decree.
You know the portions of the law which can be turned to Didymus's
advantage."

"Since the reign of Euergetes II, registered landed property has been
unassailable, and his was recorded."

"So much the better. Tell the officials also, confidentially, that you
know of objections just discovered which may perhaps change the Regent's
views."

"And, above all, I shall insist upon my right to choose the place for the
twin statues. The Queen herself directed the others to heed my opinion."

"That will cast the heaviest weight into the scale. We shall meet later.
You will prefer to keep away from Barine to-night. If you see her, tell
her that Archibius said he would visit her later--for an object I will
explain afterwards. I shall probably go to Iras to bring her to reason.
It will be better not to mention Caesarion's wish."

"Certainly--and you will give nothing to yonder brawler."

"On the contrary. I feel very generous. If Peitho will aid me, the
insatiate fellow will get more than may be agreeable to him."

Then grasping the architect's hand, Dion forced his way through the
throng surrounding the high platform on wheels, upon which the closely
covered piece of sculpture had been rolled up. The gate of the scholar's
house stood open, for an officer in the Regent's service had really
entered a short time before, but the Scythian guards sent by the exegetus
Demetrius, one of Barine's friends, were keeping back the throng of
curious spectators.

Their commander knew Gorgias, and he was soon standing in the impluvium
of the scholar's house, an oblong, rootless space, with a fountain in the
centre, whose spray moistened the circular bed of flowers around it. The
old slave had just lighted some three-branched lamps which burned on tall
stands. The officers sent by the Regent to inform Didymus that his garden
would be converted into a public square had just arrived.

When Gorgias entered, these magistrates, their clerks, and the witnesses
accompanying them--a group of twenty men, at whose head was Apollonius, a
distinguished officer of the royal treasury--were in the house. The slave
who admitted the architect informed him of it.

In the atrium a young girl, doubtless a member of the household, stopped
him. He was not mistaken in supposing that she was Helena, Didymus's
younger granddaughter, of whom Barine had spoken. True, she resembled her
sister neither in face nor figure, for while the young matron's hair was
fair and waving, the young girl's thick black tresses were wound around
her head in a smooth braid. Very unlike Barine's voice, too, were the
deep, earnest tones trembling with emotion, in which she confronted him
with the brief question, concealing a faint reproach, "Another demand?"

After first ascertaining that he was really speaking to Helena, his
friend's sister, he hastily told her his name, adding that, on the
contrary, he had come to protect her grandfather from a serious
misfortune.

When his glance first rested upon her in the dimly lighted room, the
impression she made upon him was by no means favourable. The pure brow,
which seemed to him too high for a woman's face, wore an indignant frown;
and though her mouth was beautiful in form, its outlines were often
marred by a passionate tremor that lent the exquisitely chiselled
features a harsh, nay, bitter expression. But she had scarcely heard the
motive of his presence ere, pressing her hand upon her bosom with a sigh
of relief, she eagerly exclaimed:

"Oh, do what you can to avert this terrible deed! No one knows how the
old man loves this house. And my grandmother! They will die if it is
taken from them."

Her large eyes rested upon him with a warm, imploring light; and the
stern, almost repellent voice thrilled with love for her relatives. He
must lend his aid here, and how gladly he would do so! He assured her of
this; and Helena, who had heard him mentioned as a man of ability, saw in
him a helper in need, and begged him, with touching fervour, to show her
grandfather, when he came before the officers, that all was not lost.

The astonished architect asked if Didymus did not know what was
impending, and Helena hastily replied:

"He is working in the summer-house by the sea. Apollonius is a
kind-hearted man, and will wait until I have prepared my grandfather. I
must go to him. He has already sent Philotas--his pupil, who finds and
unrolls his books--a dozen times to inquire the cause of the tumult
outside; but I replied that the crowds were flocking to the harbour on
account of the Queen. There is often a mob shouting madly; but nothing
disturbs my grandfather when he is absorbed in his work; and his pupil--a
young student from Amphissa--loves him and does what I bid him. My
grandmother, too, knows nothing yet. She is deaf, and the female slaves
dare not tell her. After her recent attack of giddiness, the doctor said
that any sudden shock might injure her. If only I can find the right
words, that my grandfather may not be too sorely hurt!"

"Shall I accompany you?" asked Gorgias kindly.

"No," she answered hurriedly. "He needs time ere he will trust strangers.
Only, if Apollonius discloses the terrible truth, and his grief threatens
to overpower him, comfort him, and show him that we still have friends
who are ready to protect us from such disaster."

She waved her hand in token of gratitude, and hurried through the little
side gate into the garden. Gorgias looked after her with sparkling eyes,
and drew a long breath. How good this girl must be, how wisely she cared
for her relatives! How energetically the young creature behaved! He had
seen his new acquaintance only in the dim light, but she must be
beautiful. Her eyes, lips, and hair certainly were. How his heart
throbbed as he asked himself the question whether this young girl, who
was endowed with every gift which constituted the true worth of
womanhood, was not preferable to her more attractive sister Barine!--when
the thought darted through his mind that he had cause to be grateful to
the beard which covered his chin and cheeks, for he felt that he, a
sedate, mature man, must have blushed. And he knew why. Only half an hour
before he had felt and admitted to Dion that he considered Barine the
most desirable of women, and now another's image cast a deep shadow over
hers and filled his heart with new, perhaps stronger emotions.

He had had similar experiences only too often, and his friends, Dion at
their head, had perceived his weakness and spoiled many an hour for him
by their biting jests. The series of tall and short, fair and dark
beauties who had fired his fancy was indeed of considerable length, and
every one on whom he had bestowed his quickly kindled affections had
seemed to him the one woman he must make his own, if he would be a happy
man. But ere he had reached the point of offering his hand, the question
had arisen in his mind whether he might not love another still more
ardently. So he had begun to persuade himself that his heart yearned for
no individual, but the whole sex--at least the portion which was young
and could feel love--and therefore he would scarcely be wise to bind
himself to any one. True, he knew that he was capable of fidelity, for he
clung to his friends with changeless loyalty, and was ready to make any
sacrifice in their behalf. With women, however, he dealt differently. Was
Helena's image, which now floated before him so bewitchingly, destined to
fade as swiftly? The contrary would have been remarkable. Yet he firmly
believed that this time Eros meant honestly by him. The laughing loves
who twined their rose garlands around him and Helena's predecessors had
nothing to do with this grave maiden.

These reflections darted through his brain with the speed of lightning,
and still stirred his heart when he was ushered into the impluvium, where
the magistrates were impatiently awaiting the owner of the house. With
the lucidity peculiar to him, he explained his reasons for hoping that
their errand would be vain, and Apollonius replied that no one would
rejoice more than he himself if the Regent should authorize him, on the
morrow, to countermand his mission. He would gladly wait there longer to
afford the old man's granddaughter an opportunity to soften the tidings
of the impending misfortune.

The kind-hearted man's patience, however, was not tested too long; for
when Helena entered the summer-house Didymus had already been informed of
the disaster which threatened him and his family. The philosopher
Euphranor, an elderly member of the Museum, had reached him through the
garden gate, and, spite of Philotas's warning sign, told him what was
occurring. But Didymus knew the old philosopher, who, a recluse from the
world like himself, was devoting the remainder of his life and strength
to the pursuit of science. So he only shook his head incredulously,
pushed back the thin locks of grey hair which hung down on his cheeks
over the barest part of his skull, and exclaimed reproachfully, though as
if the matter under discussion was of the most trivial importance: "What
have you been hearing? We'll see about it!"

He had risen as he spoke, and too abruptly surprised by the news to
remember the sandals on the mat and the upper robe which lay on a chest
of drawers at the end of the room, he was in the act of quitting it, when
his friend, who had silently watched his movements, stopped him, and
Helena entered.

The grey-haired sage turned to her, and, vexed by his friend's doubts,
begged her to convince her grandfather that even matters which do not
please us may nevertheless be of some importance. She did so as
considerately as possible, thinking meanwhile of the architect and his
hopes.

Didymus, with his eyes bent on the ground, shook his grey head again and
again. Then, suddenly raising it, he rushed to the door, and without
heeding the upper garment which Helena still held in her hand, tore it
open, shouting, "But things must and shall be changed!"

Euphranor and his granddaughter followed. Though his head was bowed, he
crossed the little garden with a swift, firm tread, and, without noticing
the questions and warnings of his companions, walked at once to the
impluvium. The bright light dazzled his weakened eyes, and his habit of
gazing into vacancy or on the ground compelled him to glance from side to
side for some time, ere he could accustom himself to it. Apollonius
approached, greeted him respectfully, and assured him that he deeply
regretted having interrupted him in the work for which the whole world
was waiting, but he had come on important business.

"I know, I know," the old scholar answered with a smile of superiority.
"What is all this ado about?"

As he spoke he looked around the group of spectators, among whom he knew
no one except Apollonius, who had charge of the museum accounts, and the
architect, for whom he had composed the inscription on the Odeum, which
he had recently built. But when his eyes met only unfamiliar faces, the
confidence which hitherto had sustained him began to waver, though still
convinced that a demand such as the philosopher suggested could not
possibly be made upon him, he continued: "It is stated that there is a
plan for turning my garden into a public square. And for what purpose? To
erect a piece of sculpture. But there can be nothing serious in the
rumour, for my property is recorded in the land register, and the law--"

"Pardon me," Apollonius broke in, "if I interrupt you. We know the
ordinance to which you refer, but this case is an exceptional one. The
Regent desires to take nothing from you. On the contrary, he offers, in
the name of the Queen, any compensation you yourself may fix for the
piece of land which is to be honoured by the statues of the highest
personages in the country--Cleopatra and Antony, hand in hand. The piece
of sculpture has already been brought here. A work by the admirable
artist Lysander, who passed too early to the nether world, certainly will
not disfigure your house. The little summer-house by the sea must be
removed to-morrow, it is true; you know that our gracious Queen may
return any day-victorious if the immortals are just. This piece of
sculpture, which is created in her honour, to afford her pleasure, must
greet her on her arrival, so the Regent send me to-day to communicate his
wish, which, as he represents the Queen--"

"Yet," interrupted the architect, who had again warmly assured the old
man's granddaughter of his aid, "yet your friends will endeavour to
persuade the Regent to find another place for the statues."

"They are at liberty to do so," said the officer. "What will happen later
the future will show. My office merely requires me to induce the worthy
owner of this house and garden to submit to-day to the Queen's command,
which the Regent and my own heart bid me clothe in the form of a
request."

During this conversation the old man had at first listened silently to
the magistrate's words, gazing intently into his face. So it was true.
The demand to yield up his garden, and even the little house, for fifty
years the scene of his study and creative work, for the sake of a statue,
would be made. Since this had become a certainty, he had stood with his
eyes fixed upon the ground. Grief had paralyzed his tongue, and Helena,
who felt this, for the aged head seemed as if it were bending under a
heavy burden, had drawn close to his side.

The shouts and howls of the throng outside echoed through the open roof
of the impluvium, but the old man did not seem to hear them, and did not
even notice his granddaughter. Yet, no sooner did he feel her touch than
he hurriedly shrank away, flung back his drooping head, and gazed around
the circle of intruders.

The dull, questioning eyes of the old commentator and writer of many
books now blazed with the hot fire of youthful passion and, like a
wrestler who seeks the right grip, he measured Apollonius and his
companions with wrathful glances. The fragile recluse seemed transformed
into a warrior ready for battle. His lips and the nostrils of his
delicate nose quivered, and when Apollonius began to say that it would be
wise to remove the contents of the summer-house that day, as it would be
torn down early the next morning, Didymus raised his arms, exclaiming:

"That will not be done. Not a single roll shall be removed! They will
find me at work as usual early to-morrow morning, and if it is still your
wish to rob me of my property you must use violence to attain your
purpose."

"Calm yourself," replied Apollonius. "Every one beneath the moon must
submit to a higher power; the gods bow to destiny, we mortals to the
sovereign. You are a sage; I, merely mindful of the behests of duty,
administer my office. But I know life, and if I may offer my counsel, you
will accept what cannot be averted, and I will wager ten to one that you
will have the best of it; that the Queen will place in your hands
means--"

"Sufficient to build a palace on the site of the little house of which I
was robbed," Didymus interrupted bitterly. Then rage burst forth afresh
"What do I care for your money? I want my rights, my good, guaranteed
rights. I insist upon them, and whoever assails the ground which my
grandfather and father bequeathed to me--"

He hesitated, for the throng outside had burst into a loud shout of joy;
and when it died away, and the old man began once more defiantly to claim
his rights, he was interrupted by a woman's clear tones, addressing him
with the Greek greeting, "Rejoice!"--a voice so gay and musical that it
seemed to dispel the depression which rested like a grey fog on the whole
company.

While Didymus was listening to the excited populace, and the new-comer
was gazing at the old man whose rigid obstinacy could scarcely be
conquered by kindness, the younger men were looking at the beautiful
woman who joined them. Her haste had flushed her cheeks, and from beneath
the turquoise-blue kerchief that covered her fair locks a bewitching face
smiled at her sister, the architect, and her grandfather.

Apollonius and many of his companions felt as if happiness in person had
entered this imperilled house, and many an eye brightened when the
infuriated old man exclaimed in an altered tone, "You here, Barine?" and
she, without heeding the presence of the others, kissed his cheek with
tender affection.

Helena, Gorgias, and the old philosopher Euphranor, had approached her,
and when the latter asked with loving reproach, "Why, Barine, how did you
get through the howling mob?" she answered gaily: "That a learned member
of the Museum may receive me with the query whether I am here, though
from childhood a kind or--what do you think, grandfather?--a malign fate
has preserved me from being overlooked, and some one else reprovingly
asks how I passed through the shouting mob, as if it were a crime to wade
into the water to hold out a helping hand to those we love best when it
is up to their chins! But, oh! dear, this howling is too hideous!"

While speaking, she pressed her little hands on the part of the kerchief
which concealed her ears, and said no more until the noise subsided,
although she declared that she was in a hurry, and had only come to learn
how matters were. Meanwhile it seemed as if she was so full of quick,
pulsing life, that it was impossible to leave even a moment unused, if it
were merely to bestow or answer a friendly glance.

The architect and her sister were obliged to return hurried answers to
hasty questions; and as soon as she ascertained what had brought the
strangers there she thanked Apollonius, and said that old friends would
do their best to spare her grandfather such a sorrow.

In reply to repeated inquiries from the two old men in regard to her
arrival there, she answered: "Nobody will believe it, because in this
hurry I could not keep my mouth shut; but I acted like a mute fish and
reached the water." Then, drawing her grandfather aside, she whispered to
him that, when she left her boat at the harbour, Archibius had seen her
from his carriage, and instantly stopped it to inform her of his intended
visit that evening. He was coming to discuss an important matter.
Therefore she must receive the worthy man, whom she sincerely liked, so
she could not stay. Then turning to the others still with her kerchief on
her head ready for departure--she asked what the people meant by their
outcries. The architect replied that Philostratus had endeavoured to make
the crowd believe that the only appropriate site for the statues of which
she had heard was her grandfather's garden, and he thought he knew in
whose behalf the fellow was acting.

"Certainly not in the Regent's," said Apollonius, in a tone of sincere
conviction; but Barine, over whose sunny brow a shadow had flitted when
Gorgias uttered the orator's name, assented with a slight bend of the
head, and then whispered hurriedly, yet earnestly, that she would answer
for the old man's allowing himself to be persuaded, if he had only time
to collect his thoughts.

The next morning, when the market was crowded, the officer might commence
his negotiations afresh, if the Regent insisted on his plan. Meanwhile
she would do her best to persuade her grandfather to yield, though he was
not exactly one of the class who are easily guided. Apollonius might
remind the Regent that it would be advisable at this time to avoid a
public scandal, to remember Didymus's age, and the validity of his claim.

While Apollonius was talking with his companions, Barine beckoned to the
architect, and hastily took leave of the others, protesting that she was
in no danger, since she would slip away again like a fish, only this time
she would use her tongue, and hoped by its means to win to the support of
Didymus's just cause a man who would already have ended all the trouble
had the Queen only been in Alexandria.

Until now the eyes and ears of the whole company had been fixed upon
Barine. No one had desired anything better than to gaze at and listen to
her.

Not until she had quitted the room with Gorgias did the officials discuss
the matter together, and soon after Apollonius went away with his
companions, to hold another conference with the Regent about this
unpleasant business. This time the architect had followed the young
beauty with very mingled feelings. Only an hour before he would have
rejoiced to be permitted to accompany and protect Barine; now he would
have gladly remained with her sister, who had returned his farewell
greeting so gratefully and yet with such maidenly modesty. But even the
most vacillating man cannot change one fancy for another as he would
replace a black piece on the draughtboard with a white one, and he still
found it delightful to be so near Barine. Only the thought that Helena
might believe that he stood on very intimate terms with her sister had
darted with a disquieting influence through his brain when the latter
invited him to accompany her.

In the garden Barine begged him, before they went to the landing-place
where the boat was moored, to help her ascend the narrow flight of steps
leading to the flat roof of the gatekeeper's little house.

Here they could watch unseen the tumult in the square below, for it was
surrounded by dense laurel bushes. Bright flames were blazing in the
pitch-pans before the two temples at the side of the Corner of the Muses,
and their light was increased by the torches held in the hands of
Scythians. Yet no individuals could be distinguished in the throng. The
marble walls of the temples shimmered, the statues at Didymus's gate, and
the hermae along the street of the King which passed the threatened house
and connected the north of the Corner of the Muses with the sea-shore,
loomed from the darkness in the brilliancy of the reflected light, but
the smoke of the torches darkened the sky and dimmed the starlight.

The only persons distinctly visible were Dion, who had stationed himself
on the lofty framework of the platform on which the muffled statues had
been drawn hither, and the attorney Philostratus, who stood on the
pedestal of one of the dolphins which surrounded the fountain between the
Temple of Isis and the street. The space, a dozen paces wide, which
divided them, permitted the antagonists to understand each other, and the
attention of the whole throng was fixed upon the wranglers.

These verbal battles were one of the greatest pleasures of the
Alexandrians, and they greeted every clever turn of speech with shouts of
applause, every word which displeased them with groans, hisses, and
cat-calls.

Barine could see and hear what was passing below. She had pushed aside
the foliage of the laurel bushes which concealed her, and, with her hand
raised to her ear, stood listening to the two disputants. When the
scoundrel whom she had called husband, and for whom her contempt had
become too deep for hate, sneeringly assailed her family as having been
fed from generation to generation from the corn-bin of the Museum, she
bit her lips. But they soon curled, as if what she heard aroused her
disgust, for the speaker now turned to Dion and accused him of preventing
the kindly disposed Regent from increasing the renown of the great Queen
and affording her noble heart a pleasure.

"My tongue," he cried, "is the tool which supports me. Why am I using it
here till it is weary and almost paralyzed? In honour of Cleopatra, our
illustrious Queen, and her generous friend, to whom we all owe a debt of
gratitude. Let all who love her and the divine Antony, the new Herakles
and Dionysus--both will soon make their entry among us crowned with the
laurels of victory--join the Regent and every well-disposed person in
seizing yonder bit of land so meanly withheld by base avarice and a
sentiment--a sentiment, do you hear?--which I do not name more plainly,
simply because wickedness is repulsive to me, and I do not stand here as
an accuser. Whoever upholds the word-monger who spouts forth books as the
dolphin at my side does water, may do so. I shall not envy him. But first
look at Didymus's ally and panegyrist. There he stands opposite to me. It
would have been better for him had the dolphin at his feet taught him
silence. Then he might have remained in the obscurity which befits him.

"But whether willing or not, I must drag him forth, and I will show you
Dion, fellow-citizens, though I would far rather have you see things
which arouse less ire. The dim light prevents your distinguishing the
colour of his robe, but I know it, for I saw it in the glare of day. It
is hyacinthine purple. You know what that costs. It would support the
wives and children of many among you for ten long years. 'How heavy must
be the purse which can expose such a treasure to sun and rain!' is the
thought of every one who sees him strutting about as proudly as a
peacock. And his purse is loaded with many talents. Only it is a pity
that, day after day, most of you must give your children a little less
bread and deprive yourselves of many a draught of wine to deck him out so
bravely. His father, Eumenes, was a tax-collector, and what the leech
extorted from you and your children, the son now uses to drive, clad in
hyacinthine purple, a four-horse chariot, which splashes the mire from
the street into your faces as it rolls onward. By the dog! the gentleman
does not weigh so very much, yet he needs four horses to drag him. And,
fellow-citizens, do you know why? I'll tell you. He's afraid of sticking
fast everywhere, even in his speech."

Here Philostratus lowered his voice, for the phrase "sticking fast" had
drawn a laugh from some of his hearers; but Dion, whose father had really
amassed, in the high position of a receiver of taxes, the handsome
fortune which his son possessed, did not delay his reply.

"Yes, yes," he retorted scornfully, "yonder Syrian babbler hit the mark
this time. He stands before me, and who does not easily stick fast when
marsh and mire are so near? As for the hyacinthine purple cloak, I wear
it because I like it. His crocus-yellow one is less to my taste, though
he certainly looks fine enough in it in the sunlight. It shines like a
buttercup in the grass. You know the plant. When it fades--and I ask
whether you think Philostratus looks like a bud--when it fades, it leaves
a hollow spiral ball which a child's breath could blow away. Suppose in
future we should call the round buttercup seed-vessels 'Philostratus
heads'? You like the suggestion? I am glad, fellow-citizens, and I thank
you. It proves your good taste. Then we will stick to the comparison.
Every head contains a tongue, and Philostratus says that his is the tool
which supports him."

"Hear the money-bag, the despiser of the people!" interrupted
Philostratus furiously. "The honest toil by which a citizen earns a
livelihood is a disgrace in his eyes."

"Honest toil, my good friend," replied Dion, "is scarcely in question
here. I spoke only of your tongue.--You understand me, fellow-citizens.
Or, if any of you are not yet acquainted with this worthy man, I will
show him to you, for I know him well. He is my foe, yet I can sincerely
recommend him to many of you. If any one has a very bad, shamefully
corrupt cause to bring before the courts, I most earnestly counsel him to
apply to the buttercup man perched on yonder fountain. He will thank me
for it. Believe me, Didymus's cause is just, precisely because this
advocate so eagerly assails it. I told you just now the matter under
discussion. Which of you who owns a garden can say in future, 'It is
mine,' if, during the absence of the Queen, it is allowable to take it
away to be used for any other purpose? But this is what threatens
Didymus. If this is to be the custom here, let every one beware of sowing
a radish or planting a bush or a tree, for should the wife of some great
noble desire to dry her linen there, he may be deprived of it ere the
former can ripen or the latter give shade."

Loud applause followed this sentence, but Philostratus shouted in a voice
that echoed far and wide: "Hear me, fellow-citizens; do not allow your
selves to be deceived! No one is to be robbed here. The project is to
purchase, at a high price, the spot which the city needs for her
adornment, and to honour and please the Queen. Are the Regent and the
citizens to lose this opportunity of expressing the gratitude of years,
and the rejoicing over the greatest of victories, of which we shall soon
hear, because an evil-disposed person--the word must be uttered--a foe to
his country, opposes it?"

"Now the mire is coming too near me," Dion angrily responded, "and I
might really stick fast, as I was warned; for I do not envy the ready
presence of mind of any person whose tongue would not falter when the
basest slander scattered its venom over him. You all know,
fellow-citizens, through how many generations the Didymus family has
lived to the honour of this city, doing praiseworthy work in yonder
house. You know that the good old man who dwells there was one of the
teachers of the royal children."

"And yet," cried Philostratus, "only the day before yesterday he walked
arm in arm in the Paneum garden with Arius, the tutor of Octavianus, our
own and our Queen's most hated foe. In my presence, and before I know not
how many others, Didymus distinguished this Arius as his most beloved
pupil."

"To give you that title," retorted Dion, "would certainly fill any
teacher with shame and anger, no matter how far you had surpassed him in
wisdom and knowledge. Nay, had you been committed to the care of the
herring dealers, instead of the rhetoricians, every honest man among them
would disown you, for they sell only good wares for good money, while you
give the poorest in exchange for glittering gold. This time you trample
under foot the fair name of an honourable man. But I will not suffer it;
and you hear, fellow-citizens, I now challenge this Syrian to prove that
Didymus ever betrayed his native land, or I will brand him in your
presence a base slanderer, an infamous, venal destroyer of character!"

"An insult from such lips is easily borne," replied Philostratus in a
tone of scornful superiority; but there was a pause ere he again turned
to the listening throng, and with all the warmth he could throw into his
voice continued: "What do I desire, then, fellow-citizens? What is the
sole object of my words? I stand here with clean hands, impelled solely
by the impulse of my heart, to plead for the Queen. In order to secure
the only suitable site for the statues to be erected to Cleopatra's
honour and fame, I enter into judgment with her foes, expose myself to
the insult with which boastful insolence is permitted to vent its wrath
upon me. But I am not dismayed, though, in pursuing this course, I am
acting against the law of Nature; for the infamous man against whom I
raise my voice was my teacher, too, and ere he turned from the path of
right and virtue--under influences which I will not mention here--he
numbered me also, in the presence of many witnesses, among his best
pupils. I was certainly one of the most grateful--I chose his
granddaughter--the truth must be spoken--for my wife. The possession--"

"Possession!" interrupted Dion in a loud, excited tone. "The corpse cast
ashore by the waves might as well boast possession of the sea!"

The dim torchlight was sufficient to reveal Philostratus's pallor to the
bystanders. For a moment the orator seemed to lose his self-control, but
he quickly recovered himself, and shouted: "Fellow-citizens, dear
friends! I was about to make you witnesses of the misery which a woman,
whose wickedness is even greater than her beauty, brought upon an
inexperienced--"

But he went no further; for his hearers--many of whom knew the brilliant,
generous Dion, and Barine, the fair singer at the last Adonis
festival--gave the orator tokens of their indignation, which were all the
more pitiless because of the pleasure they felt in seeing an expert
vanquished by an untrained foe. The wordy war would not have ended so
quickly, however, had not restlessness and alarm taken possession of the
crowd. The shout, "Back! disperse!" ran through the multitude, and
directly after the trampling of hoofs and the commands of the leader of a
troop of Libyan cavalry were heard. The matter at stake was not
sufficiently important to induce the populace to offer an armed force
resistance which might have entailed serious danger. Besides, the
blustering war of tongues had reached a merry close, and loud laughter
blended with the shouts of fear and warning; for the surging throng had
swept with unexpected speed towards the fountain and plunged Philostratus
into the basin. Whether this was due to the wrath of some enemy, or to
mere accident, could not be learned; the vain efforts of the luckless man
to crawl out of the water up the smooth marble were so comical, and his
gestures, after helping hands had dragged him dripping upon the pavement
of the square, were so irresistibly funny, that more laughing than angry
voices were heard, especially when some one cried, "His hands were soiled
by blackening Didymus, so the washing will do him good." "Some wise
physicians flung him into the water," retorted an other; "he needed the
cold application after the blows Dion dealt him."

The Regent, who had sent the troop of horsemen to drive the crowd away
from Didymus's house, might well be pleased that the violent measure
encountered so little resistance.

The throng quickly scattered, and was speedily attracted by something new
at the Theatre of Dionysus--the zither-player Anaxenor had just announced
from its steps that Cleopatra and Antony had won the most brilliant
victory, and had sung to the accompaniment of his lute a hymn which had
deeply stirred all hearts. He had composed it long before, and seized the
first opportunity--the report had reached his ears while breakfasting in
Kanopus--to try its effect.

As soon as the square began to empty, Barine left her post of
observation. It was long since her heart had throbbed so violently. Not
one of the many suitors for her favour had been so dear to her as Dion;
but she now felt that she loved him.

What he had just done for her and her grandfather was worthy of the
deepest gratitude; it proved that he did not come to her house, like most
of her guests, merely to while away the evening hours.

It had been no small matter for the young aristocrat, in the presence of
the whole multitude, to enter into a debate with the infamous
Philostratus, and how well he had succeeded in silencing the dreaded
orator! Besides, Dion had even taken her part against his own powerful
uncle, and perhaps by his deed drawn upon himself the hostility of his
enemy's brother, Alexas, Antony's powerful favourite. Barine might assure
herself that he, who was the peer of any Macedonian noble in the city,
would have done this for no one else.

She felt as if the act had ransomed her.

When, after an unhappy marriage and many desolate days, she had regained
her former bright cheerfulness and saw her house become the centre of the
intellectual life of the city, she had striven until now to extend the
same welcome to all her guests. She had perceived that she ought not to
give any one the power over her which is possessed by the man who knows
that he is beloved, and even to Dion she had granted little more than to
the others. But now she saw plainly that she would resign the pleasure of
being a universally admired woman, whose modest home attracted the most
distinguished men in the city, for the far greater happiness which would
be hers as Dion's beloved wife.

With him, cherished by his love, she believed that she could find far
greater joy in solitude than in the gay course of her present life.

She knew now what she must do if Dion sought her, and the architect, for
the first time, found her a silent companion. He had willingly
accompanied her back to her grandfather's house, where he had again met
her sister Helena, while she had quitted it disappointed, because her
brave defender had not returned there.

After the interruption of the debate Dion had been in a very cheerful
mood. The pleasant sensation of having championed a good cause, and the
delightful consciousness of success were not new to him, but he had
rarely felt so uplifted as now. He most ardently longed for his next
meeting with Barine, and imagined how he would describe what had happened
and claim her gratitude for his friendly service. The scene had risen
clearly before his mind, but scarcely had the radiant vision of the
future faded when the unusually bright expression of his manly face was
clouded by a grave and troubled one.

The darkness of the night, illumined only by the flare of the pitch-pans,
had surrounded him, yet it had seemed as if he were standing with Barine
in the full light of noon in the blossoming garden of his own palace,
and, after asking a reward for his sturdy championship, she had clung to
him with deep emotion, and he had passionately kissed her tearful face.

The face had quickly vanished, yet it had been as distinct as the most
vivid picture in a dream. Was Barine more to him than he supposed? Had he
not been drawn to her, during the past few months, by the mere charm of
her pliant intellect and her bright beauty? Had a new, strong passion
awakened within him? Was he in danger of seeing the will which urged him
to preserve his freedom conquered? Had he cause to fear that some day,
constrained by a mysterious, invincible power, in defiance of the
opposition of calm reason, he might perhaps bind himself for life to this
Barine, the woman who had once been the wife of a Philostratus, and who
bestowed her smiles on all who found admittance to her house seeking a
feast for the eye, a banquet for the ear, a pleasant entertainment?

Though her honor was as stainless as the breast of a swan--and he had no
reason to doubt it--she would still be classed with Aspasia and other
women whose guests sought more than songs and agreeable conversations.
The gifts with which the gods had so lavishly endowed her had already
been shared with too many to permit him, the last scion of a noble
Macedonian house, to think of leading her, as mistress, to the palace
whose erection he had so carefully and successfully planned with Gorgias.

Surely it lacked nothing save the gracious rule of a mistress.

But if she should consent to become his without the blessing of Hymen?
No.

He could not thus dishonor the granddaughter of Didymus, the man who had
been his father's revered teacher, a woman whom he had always rejoiced
that, spite of the gay freedom with which she received so many admirers,
he could still esteem. He would not do so, though his friends would have
greeted such scruples with a smile of superiority. Who revered the
sacredness of marriage in a city whose queen was openly living for the
second time with the husband of another? Dion himself had formed many a
brief connection, but for that very reason he could not place a woman
like Barine on the same footing with those whose love he had perhaps owed
solely to his wealth. He had never lacked courage and resolution, but he
felt that this time he would have to resist a power with which he had
never coped.

That accursed face! Again and again it rose before his mental vision,
smiling and beckoning so sweetly that the day must come when the yearning
to realize the dream would conquer all opposition. If he remained near
her he would inevitably do what he might afterwards regret, and therefore
he would fain have offered a sacrifice to Peitho to induce her to enhance
Archibius's powers of persuasion and induce Barine to leave Alexandria.
It would be hard for him to part from her, yet much would be gained if
she went into the country. Between the present and the distant period of
a second meeting lay respite from peril, and perhaps the possibility of
victory. Dion did not recognize himself. He seemed as unstable as a
swaying reed, because he had conquered his wish to re-enter old Didymus's
house and encourage him, and passed on to his own home. But he would
probably have found Barine still with her grandfather, and he would not
meet her, though every fibre of his being longed for her face, her voice,
and a word of gratitude from her beloved lips. Instead of joy, he was
filled with the sense of dissatisfaction which overpowers a man standing
at a crossing in the roads, who sees before him three goals, yet can be
fully content with neither.

The Street of the King, along which he suffered himself to be carried by
the excited throng, ran between the sea and the Theatre of Dionysus. The
thought darted through his mind that his friend the architect desired to
erect the luckless statues of the royal lovers in front of this stately
building. He would divert his thoughts by examining the site which
Gorgias had chosen.

The zither-player finished his hymn just as Dion approached the theatre,
and the crowd began to disperse. Every one was full of the joyful tidings
of victory, and one shouted to another what Anaxenor, the favourite of
the great Antony, who must surely know, had just recited in thrilling
verse. Many a joyous Io and loud Evoe to Cleopatra, the new Isis, and
Antony, the new Dionysus, resounded through the air, while bearded and
smooth, delicate Greek and thick Egyptian lips joined in the shout, "To
the Sebasteum!" This was the royal palace, which faced the government
building containing the Regent's residence. The populace desired to have
the delightful news confirmed, and to express, by a public demonstration,
the grateful joy which filled every heart.

Dion, too, was eager to obtain certainty, and, though usually averse to
mingling with the populace during such noisy outbursts of feeling, he was
preparing to follow the crowd thronging towards the Sebasteum, when the
shouts of runners clearing a passage for a closed litter fell upon his
ear.

It was occupied by Iras, the Queen's trusted attendant. If any one could
give accurate information, it was she; yet it would hardly be possible to
gain an opportunity of conversing with her in this throng. But Iras must
have had a different opinion; she had seen Dion, and now called him to
her side. There were hoarse tones in her voice, usually so clear and
musical, which betrayed the emotion raging in her breast as she assailed
the young Macedonian noble with a flood of questions. Without giving him
the usual greeting, she hastily desired to know what was exciting the
people, who had brought the tidings of victory, and whither the multitude
was flocking?

Dion had found it difficult not to be forced from the litter while
answering. Iris perceived this, and as they were just passing the
Maeander, the labyrinth, which was closed after sunset, she ordered her
bearers to carry the litter to the entrance, made herself known to the
watchman, ordered the outer court to be opened, the litter to be placed
there, and the bearers and runners to wait outside for her summons, which
would soon be given.

This unusual haste and excitement filled Dion with just solicitude. She
refused his invitation to alight and walk up and down, declaring that
life offered so many labyrinths that one need not seek them. He, too,
seemed to be following paths which were scarcely straight ones. "Why,"
she concluded, thrusting her head far out of the opening in the litter,
"are you rendering it so difficult for the Regent and your own uncle to
execute their plans, making common cause with the populace, like a paid
agitator?"

"Like Philostratus, you mean, on whom I bestowed a few blows in addition
to the golden guerdon received from your hand?"

"Ay, like him, for aught I care. Probably it was you, too, who had him
flung into the water, after you had vented your wrath on him? You managed
your cause well. What we do for love's sake is usually successful. No
matter, if only his brother Alexas does not rouse Antony against you. For
my part, I merely desire to know why and for whom all this was done."

"For whom save the good old man who was my father's preceptor, and his
just claim?" replied Dion frankly. "Moreover--for no site more unsuitable
could be found than his garden-in behalf of good taste."

Iras laughed a shrill, short laugh, and her narrow, regularly formed
face, which might have been called beautiful, had not the bridge of the
straight delicate nose been too long and the chin too small, darkened
slightly, as she exclaimed, "That is frank at least."

"You ought to be accustomed to that from me," replied Dion calmly. "In
this case, however, the expert, Gorgias, fully shares my opinion."

"I heard that too. You are both the most constant visitors of--what is
the woman's name?--the bewitching Barine."

"Barine?" repeated Dion, as if the mention of the name surprised him.
"You take care, my friend, that our conversation does honour to its
scene, the labyrinth. I speak of works of the sculptor's art, and you
pretend that I am referring to what is most certainly a very successful
living work from the creative hands of the gods. I was very far from
thinking of the granddaughter of the old scholar for whom I interceded."

"Ay," she scornfully retorted, "young gentlemen in your position, and
with your habits of life, always think of their fathers estimable
teachers rather than of the women who, ever since Pandora opened her box,
have brought all sorts of misfortunes into the world. But," she added,
pushing back her dark locks from her high forehead, "I don't understand
myself, how, with the mountain of care that now burdens my soul, I can
waste even a single word upon such trifles. I care as little for the aged
scholar as I do for his legion of commentaries and books, though they are
not wholly unfamiliar to me. For any concern of mine he might have as
many grandchildren as there are evil tongues in Alexandria, were it not
that just at this time it is of the utmost importance to remove
everything which might cast a shadow on the Queen's pathway. I have just
come from the palace of the royal children at Lochias, and what I learned
there. But that--I will not, I cannot believe it. It fairly stifles me!"

"Have you received bad news from the fleet?" questioned Dion, with
sincere anxiety; but she only bent her head in assent, laying her fan of
ostrich-plumes on her lips to enjoin silence, at the same time shivering
so violently that he perceived it, even in the dusk. It was evident that
speech was difficult, as she added in a muffled tone: "It must be kept
secret--Rhodian sailors--thank the gods, it is still very doubtful--it
cannot, must not be true--and yet-the prattle of that zither-player,
which has filled the multitude with joyous anticipation, is
abominable--the great ones of the earth are often most sorely injured by
those who owe them the most gratitude. I know you can be silent, Dion.
You could as a boy, if anything was to be hidden from our parents. Would
you still be ready to plunge into the water for me, as in those days?
Scarcely. Yet you may be trusted, and, even in this labyrinth, I will do
so. My heart is heavy. But not one word to any person. I need no
confidant and could maintain silence even towards you, but I am anxious
that you should understand me, you who have just taken such a stand.
Before I entered my litter at Lochias, the boy returned, and I talked
with him."

"Young Caesarion loves Barine," replied Dion with grave earnestness.

"Then this horrible folly is known?" asked Iras excitedly. "A passion far
deeper than I should ever have expected this dreamer to feel has taken
possession of him. And if the Queen should now return--perhaps less
successful than we desire--if she looks to those from whom she still
expects pleasure, satisfaction, lofty deeds, and learns what has befallen
the boy--for what does not that sun-bright intellect learn and perceive?
He is dear to her, dearer than any of you imagine. How it will increase
her anxiety, perhaps her suffering! With what good reason she will be
angered against those whom duty and love should have commanded to guard
the boy!"

"And therefore," added Dion, "the stone of offence must be removed. Your
first step to secure this object was the attack on Didymus."

He had judged correctly and perceived that, in her assault upon the old
scholar, she had at first intended to play into the hands of the rulers,
work against the old philosopher and his relatives, among whose number
was Barine; for the Egyptian law permitted the relatives of those who
were convicted of any crime against the sovereign or the government to be
banished with the criminal. This attack upon an innocent person was
disgraceful, yet every word Iras uttered made Dion feel, every feature of
her face betrayed, that it was not merely base jealousy, but a nobler
emotion, that caused her to assail the guiltless sage--love for her
mistress, the desire which dominated her whole being to guard Cleopatra
from grief and trouble in these trying times. He knew Iras's iron will
and the want of consideration with which she had learned to pursue her
purpose at the court. His first object was to protect Barine from the
danger which threatened her; but he also wished to relieve the anxiety of
Iras, the daughter of Krates, his father's neighbour, with whom he had
played in boyhood and for whom he had never ceased to feel a tender
interest.

His remark surprised her. She saw that her plot was detected by the man
whose esteem she most valued, and a loving woman is glad to recognize the
superiority of her lover. Besides, from her earliest childhood--and she
was only two years younger than Dion--she had belonged to circles where
no quality was more highly prized than mental pliancy and keenness. Her
dark eyes, which at first had glittered distrustfully and questioningly
and afterwards glowed with a gloomy light, now gained a new expression.
Her gaze sought her friend's with a tender, pleading look as, admitting
his charge, she began: "Yes! Dion, the philosopher's granddaughter must
not stay here. Or do you see any other way to protect the unhappy boy
from incalculable misfortune? You know me well enough to be aware that,
like you, I am reluctant to infringe another's rights, that except in
case of necessity I am not cruel. I value your esteem. No one is more
truthful, and yesterday you averred that Eros had no part in your visits
to the much-admired young woman, that you joined her guests merely
because the society you found at her house afforded a pleasant stimulus
to the mind. I have ceased to believe in many things, but not in you and
your words, and if hearing that you had taken sides with the grandfather,
I fancied that you were secretly seeking the thanks and gratitude of the
granddaughter, why--surely the atrocious maxim that Zeus does not hear
the vows of lovers comes from you men--why, suspicion again reared its
head. Now you seem to share my opinion--"

"Like you," Dion interrupted, "I believe that Barine ought to be
withdrawn from the boy's pursuit, which cannot be more unpleasant to you
than to her. As Caesarion neither can nor ought to leave Alexandria while
affairs are so threatening, nothing is left except to remove the young
woman--but, of course, in all kindness."

"In a golden chariot, garlanded with roses, if you so desire," cried Iras
eagerly.

"That might attract attention," answered Dion, smiling and raising his
hand as if to enjoin moderation. "Your mode of action does not please me,
even now that I know its purpose, but I will gladly aid you to attain
your object. Your crooked paths also lead to the goal, and perhaps one is
less likely to stumble in them; but straight ways suit me better, and I
think I have already found the right one. A friend will invite Barine to
an estate far away from here, perhaps in the lake regions."

"You?" cried Iras, her narrow eyebrows suddenly contracting.

"Do you imagine that she would go with me?" he asked, in a faintly
reproachful tone. "No. Fortunately, we have older friends, and at their
head is one who happens to be your uncle and at the same time is wax in
the hands of the Queen."

"Archibius?" exclaimed Iras. "Ah! if he could persuade her to do so!"

"He will try. He, too, is anxious about the lad. While we are talking
here, he is inviting Barine to his estate. The country air will benefit
her."

"May she bloom there like a young shepherdess!"

"You are right to wish her the best fortune; for if the Queen does not
return victorious, the irritability of our Alexandrians will be doubled.
When you laid hands on Didymus's garden, you were so busily engaged in
building the triumphal arch that you forgot--"

"Who would have doubted the successful issue of this war?" cried Iras.
"And they will, they will conquer. The Rhodian said that the fleet was
scattered. The disaster happened on the Acharnanian coast. How positive
it sounded! But he had it only at second and third hand. And what are
mere rumours? The source of the false tidings is discovered later.
Besides, even if the naval battle were really lost, the powerful army,
which is far superior to Octavianus's forces, still remains. Which of the
enemy's generals could cope with Antony on the land? How he will fight
when all is at stake-fame, honour, sovereignty, hate, and love! Away with
this fear, based on mere rumour! After Dyrrachium Caesar's cause was
deemed lost, and how soon Pharsalus made him master of the world! Is it
worthy of a sensible person to suffer courage to be depressed by a
sailor's gossip? And yet--yet! It began while I was ill. And then the
swallows on the Antonias, the admiral's ship. We have already spoken of
it. Mardiou and your uncle Zeno saw with their own eyes the strange
swallows drive away those which had built their nest on the helm of the
Antonias, and kill the young ones with their cruel beaks. An evil omen!

"I cannot forget it. And my dream, while I lay ill with fever far away
from my mistress! But I have already lingered here too long. No, Dion,
no. I am grateful for the rest here--I can now feel at ease about
Caesarion. Place the monument where you choose. The people shall see and
hear that we respect their opposition, that we are just and friendly.
Help me to turn this matter to the advantage of the Queen, and if
Archibius succeeds in getting Barine away and keeping her in the country,
then--if I had aught that seemed to you desirable it should be yours. But
what does the petted Dion care for his fading playfellow?"

"Fading?" he repeated in a tone of indignant reproach. "Say rather the
fully developed flower has learned from her royal friend the secret of
eternal youth."

With a swift impulse of gratitude Iras bent her face towards him in the
dusk, extending the slender white hand--next to Cleopatra's famed as the
most beautiful at court--for him to kiss, but when he merely pressed his
lips lightly on it with no shadow of tenderness, she hastily withdrew it,
exclaiming as if overwhelmed by sudden repentance: "This idle, hollow
dalliance at such a time, with such a burden of anxiety oppressing the
heart! It is un worthy, shameful! If Barine goes with Archibius, her time
will scarcely hang heavy on his estates. I think I know some one who will
speedily follow to bear her company.--Here, Sasis! the bearers! To the
Tower of Nilus, before the Gate of the Sun!"

Dion gazed after her litter a short time, then passed his hand through
his waving brown hair, walked swiftly to the shore and, without pausing
long to choose, sprang into one of the boats which were rented for
pleasure voyages. Ordering the sailors who were preparing to accompany
him to remain on shore, he stretched the sail with a practised hand, and
ran out towards the mouth of the harbour. He needed some strong
excitement, and wished to go himself in search of news.



     ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

     Contempt had become too deep for hate
     Jealousy has a thousand eyes
     Zeus does not hear the vows of lovers



CLEOPATRA

By Georg Ebers

Volume 2.



CHAPTER IV.

The house facing the garden of the Paneum, where Barine lived, was the
property of her mother, who had inherited it from her parents. The artist
Leonax, the young beauty's father, son of the old philosopher Didymus,
had died long before.

After Barine's unhappy marriage with Philostratus was dissolved, she had
returned to her mother, who managed the affairs of the household. She
too, belonged to a family of scholars and had a brother who had won high
repute as a philosopher, and had directed the studies of the young
Octavianus. This had occurred long before the commencement of the
hostility which separated the heirs of Caesar and Mark Antony. But even
after the latter had deserted Octavia, the sister of Octavianus, to
return to Cleopatra, the object of his love, and there was an open breach
between the two rivals for the sovereignty of the world, Antony had been
friendly to Arius and borne him no grudge for his close relations to his
rival. The generous Roman had even given his enemy's former tutor a fine
house, to show him that he was glad to have him in Alexandria and near
his person.

The widow Berenike, Barine's mother, was warmly attached to her only
brother, who often joined her daughter's guests. She was a quiet, modest
woman whose happiest days had been passed in superintending the education
of her children, Barine, the fiery Hippias, and the quiet Helena, who for
several years had lived with her grandparents and, with faithful
devotion, assumed the duty of caring for them. She had been more easily
guided than the two older children; for the boy's aspiring spirit had
often drawn him beyond his mother's control, and the beautiful, vivacious
girl had early possessed charms so unusual that she could not remain
unnoticed.

Hippias had studied oratory, first in Alexandria and later in Athens and
Rhodes. Three years before, his uncle Arius had sent him with excellent
letters of introduction to Rome to become acquainted with the life of the
capital and try whether, in spite of his origin, his brilliant gifts of
eloquence would forward his fortunes there.

Two miserable years with an infamous, unloved husband had changed the
wild spirits of Barine's childhood into the sunny cheerfulness now one of
her special charms. Her mother was conscious of having desired only her
best good in uniting the girl of sixteen to Philostratus, whom the
grandfather Didymus then considered a very promising young man, and whose
advancement, in addition to his own talents, his brother Alexas, Antony's
favourite, promised to aid. She had believed that this step would afford
the gay, beautiful girl the best protection from the perils of the
corrupt capital; but the worthless husband had caused both mother and
daughter much care and sorrow, while his brother Alexas, who constantly
pursued his young sister-in-law with insulting attentions, was the source
of almost equal trouble. Berenike often gazed in silent astonishment at
the child, who, spite of such sore grief and humiliation, had preserved
the innocent light-heartedness which made her seem as if life had offered
her only thornless roses.

Her father, Leonax, had been one of the most distinguished artists of the
day, and Barine had inherited from him the elastic artist temperament
which speedily rebounds from the heaviest pressure. To him also she owed
the rare gift of song, which had been carefully cultivated and had
already secured her the first position in the woman's chorus at the
festival of the great goddesses of the city. Every one was full of her
praises, and after she had sung the Yalemos in the palace over the waxen
image of the favourite of the gods, slain by the boar, her name was
eagerly applauded. To have heard her was esteemed a privilege, for she
sang only in her own house or at religious ceremonials "for the honour of
the gods."

The Queen, too, had heard her, and, after the Adonis festival, her uncle
Arius had presented her to Antony, who expressed his admiration with all
the fervour of his frank nature, and afterwards came to her house a
second time, accompanied by his son Antyllus. Doubtless he would have
called on her frequently and tested upon her heart his peculiar power
over women, had he not been compelled to leave the city on the day after
his last visit.

Berenike had reproved her brother for bringing the Queen's lover to
Barine, for her anxiety was increased by the repeated visits of Antony's
son, and still more aroused by that of Caesarion, who was presented by
Antyllus.

These youths were not numbered among the guests whose presence she
welcomed and whose conversation afforded her pleasure. It was flattering
that they should honour her simple home by their visits, but she knew
that Caesarion came without his tutor's knowledge, and perceived, by the
expression of his eyes, what drew him to her daughter. Besides, Berenike,
in rearing the two children, who had been the source of so much anxiety
had lost the joyous confidence which had characterized her own youth.
Whenever life presented any new phase, she saw the dark side first. If a
burning candle stood before her, the shadow of the candlestick caught her
eye before the light. Her whole mental existence became a chain of fears,
but the kind-hearted woman loved her children too tenderly to permit them
to see it. Only it was a relief to her heart when some of her evil
forebodings were realized, to say that she had foreseen it all.

No trace of this was legible in her face, a countenance still pretty and
pleasing in its unruffled placidity. She talked very little, but what she
did say was sensible, and proved how attentively she understood how to
listen. So she was welcome among Barine's guests. Even the most
distinguished received something from her, because he felt that the quiet
woman understood him.

Before Barine had returned that evening, something had occurred which
made her mother doubly regret the accident to her brother Arius the day
before. On his way home from his sister's he had been run over by a
chariot darting recklessly along the Street of the King, and was carried,
severely injured, to his home, where he now lay helpless and fevered. Nor
did it lessen his sufferings to hear his two sons threaten to take
vengeance on the reckless fellow who had wrought their father this
mischief, for he had reason to believe Antyllus the perpetrator of the
deed, and a collision between the youths and the son of Antony could only
result in fresh disaster to him and his, especially as the young Roman
seemed to have inherited little of his father's magnanimous generosity.
Yet Arius could not be vexed with his sons for stigmatizing, in the
harshest terms, the conduct of the man who had gone on without heeding
the accident. He had cautioned his sister against the utterly unbridled
youth whose father he had himself brought to her house. With what good
reason he had raised his voice in warning was now evident. At sunset that
very day several guests had arrived as usual, followed by Antyllus, a
youth of nineteen. When the door-keeper refused to admit him, he had
rudely demanded to see Barine, thrust aside the prudent old porter, who
endeavoured to detain him, and, in spite of his protestations, forced his
way into his dead master's work-room, where the ladies usually received
their visitors. Not until he found it empty would he retire, and then he
first fastened a bouquet of flowers he had brought to a statue of Eros in
burnt clay, which stood there. Both the porter and Barine's waiting-maid
declared that he was drunk; they saw it when he staggered away with the
companions who had waited for him in the garden outside.

This unseemly and insulting conduct filled Berenike with the deepest
indignation. It must not remain unpunished, and, while waiting for her
daughter, she imagined what evil consequences might ensue if Antyllus
were forbidden the house and accused to his tutor, and how unbearable, on
the other hand, he might become if they omitted to do so.

She was full of sad presentiments, and as, with such good reason, she
feared the worst, she cherished a faint hope that her daughter might
perhaps bring home some pleasant tidings; for she had had the experience
that events which had filled her with the utmost anxiety sometimes
resulted in good fortune.

At last Barine appeared, and it was indeed long since she had clasped her
mother in her arms with such joyous cheerfulness.

The widow's troubled heart grew lighter. Her daughter must have met with
something unusually gratifying, she looked so happy, although she had
surely heard what had happened here; for her cloak was laid aside and her
hair newly arranged, so she must have been to her chamber, where she was
dressed by her loquacious Cyprian slave, who certainly could not keep to
herself anything that was worth mentioning. The nimble maid had shown her
skill that day.

"Any stranger would take her for nineteen," thought her mother. "How
becoming the white robe and blue-bordered peplum are to her; how softly
the azure bombyx ribbon is wound around the thick waves of her hair! Who
would believe that no curling-irons had touched the little golden locks
that rest so gracefully on her brow, that no paint-brush had any share in
producing the rose and white hues on her cheek, or the alabaster glimmer
of her arms? Such beauty easily becomes a Danae dower; but it is a
magnificent gift of the gods! Yet why did she put on the bracelet which
Antony gave her after his last visit? Scarcely on my account. She can
hardly expect Dion at so late an hour. Even while I am rejoicing in the
sight of her beauty, some new misfortune may be impending."

So ran the current of her thoughts while her daughter was gaily
describing what she had witnessed at her grandfather's. Meanwhile she had
nestled comfortably among the cushions of a lounge; and when she
mentioned Antyllus's unseemly conduct, she spoke of it, with a
carelessness that startled Berenike, as a vexatious piece of rudeness
which must not occur again.

"But who is to prevent it?" asked the mother anxiously.

"Who, save ourselves?" replied Barine. "He will not be admitted."

"And if he forced his way in?"

Barine's big blue eyes flashed angrily, and there was no lack of decision
in her voice as she exclaimed, "Let him try it!"

"But what power have we to restrain the son of Antony?" asked Berenike.
"I do not know."

"I do," replied her daughter. "I will be brief, for a visitor is coming."

"So late?" asked the mother anxiously.

"Archibius wishes to discuss an important matter with us."

The lines on the brow of the older woman smoothed, but it contracted
again as she exclaimed inquiringly: "Important business at so unusual an
hour! Ah, I have expected nothing good since early morning! On my way to
my brother's a raven flew up before me and fluttered towards the left
into the garden."

"But I," replied Barine, after receiving, in reply to her inquiry, a
favourable report concerning her uncle's health-"I met seven--there were
neither more nor less; for seven is the best of numbers--seven snow-white
doves, which all flew swiftly towards the right. The fairest of all came
first, bearing in its beak a little basket which contained the power that
will keep Antony's son away from us. Don't look at me in such amazement,
you dear receptacle of every terror."

"But, child, you said that Archibius was coming so late to discuss an
important matter," rejoined the mother.

"He must be here soon."

"Then cease this talking in riddles; I do not guess them quickly."

"You will solve this one," returned Barine; "but we really have no time
to lose. So-my beautiful dove was a good, wise thought, and what it
carried in its basket you shall hear presently. You see, mother, many
will blame us, though here and there some one may pity; but this state of
things must not continue. I feel it more and more plainly with each
passing day; and several years must yet elapse ere this scruple becomes
wholly needless. I am too young to welcome as a guest every one whom this
or that man presents to me. True, our reception-hall was my father's
work-room and you, my own estimable, blameless mother, are the hostess
here; but though superior to me in every respect, you are so modest that
you shield yourself behind your daughter until the guests think of you
only when you are absent. So those who seek us both merely say, 'I am
going to visit Barine'--and there are too many who say this--I can no
longer choose, and this thought--"

"Child! child!" interrupted her mother joyfully, "what god met you as you
went out this morning?"

"Surely you know," she answered gaily; "it was seven doves, and, when I
took the little basket from the bill of the first and prettiest one, it
told me a story. Do you want to hear it?"

"Yes, yes; but be quick, or we shall be interrupted."

Then Barine leaned farther back among the cushions, lowered her long
lashes, and began: "Once upon a time there was a woman who had a garden
in the most aristocratic quarter of the city--here near the Paneum, if
you please. In the autumn, when the fruit was ripening, she left the gate
open, though all her neighbours did the opposite. To keep away unbidden
lovers of her nice figs and dates, she fastened on the gate a tablet
bearing the inscription: 'All may enter and enjoy the sight of the
garden; but the dogs will bite any one who breaks a flower, treads upon
the grass, or steals the fruit.'

"The woman had nothing but a lap-dog, and that did not always obey her.
But the tablet fulfilled its purpose; for at first none came except her
neighbours in the aristocratic quarter. They read the threat, and
probably without it would have respected the property of the woman who so
kindly opened the door to them. Thus matters went on for a time, until
first a beggar came, and then a Phoenician sailor, and a thievish
Egyptian from the Rhakotis--neither of whom could read. So the tablet
told them nothing; and as, moreover, they distinguished less carefully
between mine and thine, one trampled the turf and another snatched from
the boughs a flower or fruit. More and more of the rabble came, and you
can imagine what followed. No one punished them for the crime, for they
did not fear the barking of the lap-dog, and this gave even those who
could read, courage not to heed the warning. So the woman's pretty garden
soon lost its peculiar charm; and the fruit, too, was stolen. When the
rain at last washed the inscription from the tablet, and saucy boys
scrawled on it, there was no harm done; for the garden no longer offered
any attractions, and no one who looked into it cared to enter. Then the
owner closed her gate like the neighbours, and the next year she again
enjoyed the green grass and the bright hues of the flowers. She ate her
fruit herself, and the lap-dog no longer disturbed her by its barking."

"That is," said her mother, "if everybody was as courteous and as well
bred as Gorgias, Lysias, and the others, we would gladly continue to
receive them. But since there are rude fellows like Antyllus--"

"You have understood the story correctly," Barine interrupted. "We are
certainly at liberty to invite to our house those who have learned to
read our inscription. To-morrow visitors will be informed that we can no
longer receive them as before."

"Antyllus's conduct affords an excellent pretext," her mother added.
"Every fair-minded person must understand--"

"Certainly," said Barine, "and if you, shrewdest of women, will do your
part--

"Then for the first time we can act as we please in our own home. Believe
me, child--if you only do not--"

"No ifs!--not this time!" cried the young beauty, raising her hand
beseechingly. "It gives me such delight to think of the new life, and if
matters come to pass as I hope and wish--then--do not you also believe,
mother, that the gods owe me reparation?"

"For what?" asked the deep voice of Archibius, who had entered
unannounced, and was now first noticed by the widow and her daughter.

Barine hastily rose and held out both hands to her old friend,
exclaiming, "Since they bring you to us, they are already beginning the
payment."



CHAPTER V.

An artist, especially a great artist, finds it easy to give his house an
attractive appearance. He desires comfort in it, and only the beautiful
is comfortable to him. Whatever would disturb harmony offends his eye,
and to secure the noblest ornament of his house he need not invite any
stranger to cross its threshold. The Muse, the best of assistants, joins
him unbidden.

Leonax, Barine's father, had been thus aided to transform the interior of
his house into a very charming residence. He had painted on the walls of
his own work-room incidents in the life of Alexander the Great, the
founder of his native city, and on the frieze a procession of dancing
Cupids.

Here Barine now received her guests, and the renown of these paintings
was not one of the smallest inducements which had led Antony to visit the
young beauty and to take his son, in whom he wished to awaken at least a
fleeting pleasure in art. He also knew how to prize her beauty and her
singing, but the ardent passion which had taken possession of him in his
mature years was for Cleopatra alone. He whose easily won heart and
susceptible fancy had urged him from one commonplace love to another had
been bound by the Queen with chains of indestructible and supernatural
power. By her side a Barine seemed to him merely a work of art endowed
with life and a voice that charmed the ear. Yet he owed her some pleasant
hours, and he could not help bestowing gifts upon any one to whom he was
indebted for anything pleasant. He liked to be considered the most
generous spendthrift on earth, and the polished bracelet set with a gem,
on which was carved Apollo playing on his lyre, surrounded by the
listening Muses, looked very simple, but was really an ornament of
priceless value, for the artist who made it was deemed the best
stone-cutter in Alexandria in the time of Philadelphus, and each one of
the tiny figures sculptured on the bit of onyx scarcely three fingers
wide was a carefully executed masterpiece of the most exquisite beauty.
Antony had chosen it because he deemed it a fitting gift for the woman
whose song had pleased him. He had not thought of asking its value;
indeed, only a connoisseur would have perceived it; and as the circlet
was not showy and well became her beautiful arm, Barine liked to wear it.

Had not the war taken him away, Antony's second visit would certainly not
have been his last. Besides the singing which enthralled him, the
conversation had been gay and brilliant, and in addition to Leonax's
paintings, he had seen other beautiful works of art which the former had
obtained by exchanging with many distinguished companions.

Nor was there any lack of plastic creations in the spacious apartment, to
which the flashing of the water poured by a powerful man from the
goatskin bottle on his shoulder into a shell lent a special charm.

The master who had carved this stooping Nubian had also created the
much-discussed statues of the royal lovers. The clay Eros, who with bent
knee was aiming at a victim visible to himself alone, was also his work.
Antony, when paying his second visit, had laughingly laid the garland he
wore before "the greatest of human conquerors," while a short time ago
his son Antyllus had rudely thrust his bouquet of flowers into the
opening of the curved right arm which was drawing the string. In doing so
the statue had been injured. Now the flowers lay unheeded upon the little
altar at the end of the large room, lighted only by a single lamp; for
the ladies had left it with their guest. They were in Barine's favourite
apartment, a small room, where there were several pictures by her dead
father.

Antyllus's bouquet, and the damage to the clay statue of Eros, had played
a prominent part in the conversation between the three, and rendered
Archibius's task easier.

Berenike had greeted the guest with a complaint of the young Roman's
recklessness and unseemly conduct, to which Barine added the declaration
that they had now sacrificed enough to Zeus Xenios, the god of
hospitality. She meant to devote her future life to the modest household
gods and to Apollo, to whom she owed the gift of song.

Archibius had listened silently in great surprise until she had finished
her explanation and declared that henceforth she intended to live alone
with her mother, instead of having her father's workshop filled with
guests.

The young beauty's vivid imagination transported her to this new and
quieter life. But, spite of the clear and glowing hues in which she
described her anticipations, her grey-haired listener could not have
believed in them fully. A subtle smile sometimes flitted over his grave,
somewhat melancholy face--that of a man who has ceased to wrestle in the
arena of life, and after severe conflict now preferred to stand among the
spectators and watch others win or lose the prize of victory. Doubtless
the wounds which he had received still ached, yet his sorrowful
experiences did not prevent his being an attentive observer. The
expression of his clear eyes showed that he mentally shared whatever
aroused his sympathy. Whoever understood how to listen thus, and,
moreover--the prominence of the brow above the nose showed it--was also a
trained thinker, could not fail to be a good counsellor, and as such he
was regarded by many, and first of all by the Queen.

The wise deliberation, which was one of his characteristic traits, showed
itself on this occasion; for though he had come to persuade Barine try a
country residence, he refrained from doing until she had exhausted the
story of her own affairs and inquired the important cause of his visit.

In the principal matter his request was granted ere he made it. So he
could begin with the query whether the mother and daughter did not think
that the transition to the new mode of life could be effected more easily
if they were absent from the city a short time. It would awaken comment
they should close their house against guests on the morrow, and as the
true reason could not be given, many would be offended. If, on the
contrary, they could resolve to quit the capital for a few weeks, many,
it is true, would lament their decision, but what was alloted to all
alike could be resented by no one.

Berenike eagerly assented, but Barine grew thoughtful. Then Archibius
begged her to speak frankly, and after she had asked where they could he
proposed his country estate.

His keen grey eyes had perceived that something, bound her so firmly to
the city that in the case of a true woman like Barine it must be an
affair of the heart. He had evidently judged correctly, for, at his
prediction that there would be no lack of visits from her dearest
friends, she raised her head, her blue eyes sparkled brightly, and when
Archibius paused she to her mother, exclaiming gaily "We will go!"

Again the vivid imagination daughter conjured the future before her in
distinct outlines. She alone knew whom she meant when she spoke of the
visitor she expected at Irenia, Archibius's estate. The name meant "The
place of peace," and it pleased her.

Archibius listened smilingly; but when she began to assign him also a
part in driving the little Sardinian horses and pursuing the birds, he
interrupted her with the statement that whether he could speedily allow
himself a pleasure which he should so keenly enjoy--that of breathing the
country air with such charming guests--would depend upon the fate of
another. Thank the gods, he had been able to come here with a lighter
heart, because, just before his departure, he had heard of a splendid
victory gained by the Queen. The ladies would perhaps permit him to
remain a little longer, as he was expecting confirmation of the news.

It was evident that he awaited it in great suspense, and that his heart
was by no means free from anxiety.

Berenike shared it, and her pleasant face, which had hitherto reflected
her delight at her daughter's sensible resolution, was now clouded with
care as Archibius began: "The object of my presence here? You are making
it very easy for me to attain it. If I deemed it honest, I could now
conceal the fact that I had sought you to induce you to leave the city. I
see no peril from the boyish insolence of the son of Antony. The point in
question, child, is merely to put yourself out of the reach of
Caesarion."

"If you could place me in the moon, it would please me best, as far as he
is concerned," replied Barine eagerly. "That is just what induced me to
change our mode of life, since my door cannot be closed against the boy
who, though still under a tutor, uses his rank as a key to open it. And
just think of being compelled to address that dreamer, with eyes pleading
for help, by the title of 'king'!"

"Yet what mighty impulse might not be slumbering in the breast of a son
of Julius Caesar and Cleopatra?" said Archibius. "And passion--I know, my
child, that it is no fault of yours--has now awakened within him.
Whatever the result may be, it must fill his mother's heart with anxiety.
That is why it is needful to hasten your departure, and to keep your
destination a secret. He will attempt no violence; but--he is the child
of his parents--and some unexpected act may be anticipated from him."

"You startle me!" cried Barine. "You transform the cooing dove which
entered my house into a dangerous griffin."

"As such you may regard him," said the other, warningly. "You will be a
welcome guest, Barine, but I invited you, whom I have loved from your
earliest childhood, the daughter of my dearest friend, not merely to do
you a service at Irenia, but to save from grief or even annoyance the
person to whom--who is not aware of it--I owe everything."

The words conveyed to both ladies the knowledge that, though they were
dear to Archibius, he would sacrifice them, and with them, perhaps, all
the rest of the world, for the peace and happiness of the Queen.

Barine had expected nothing else. She knew that Cleopatra had made the
philosopher's son a wealthy man and the owner of extensive estates; but
she also felt that the source of his loyal devotion to the Queen, over
whom he watched like a tender father, was due to other causes. Cleopatra
prized him also. Had he been ambitious, he could have stood at the helm
of the ship of state, as Epitrop long ago, but--the whole city knew
it--he had more than once refused to accept a permanent office, because
he believed that he could serve his mistress better as an unassuming,
unnoticed counsellor. Berenike had told Barine that the relations between
Cleopatra and Archibius dated back to their childhood, but she had
learned no particulars. Various rumours were afloat which, in the course
of time, had been richly adorned and interwoven with anecdotes, and
Barine naturally lent the most ready credence to those which asserted
that the princess, in her earliest youth, had cherished a childish love
for the philosopher's son. Now her friend's conduct led her to believe
it.

When Archibius paused, the young beauty assured him that she understood
him; and as the alabaster hanging lamp and a three-branched light cast a
brilliant glow upon the portrait which her father had painted of the
nineteen-year-old Queen, and afterwards copied for his own household, she
pointed to it, and, pursuing the current of her own thoughts, asked the
question:

"Was she not marvellously beautiful at that time?"

"As your father's work represents her," was the reply. "Leonax painted
the portrait of Octavia, on the opposite side, the same year, and perhaps
the artist deemed the Roman the fairer woman." He pointed as he spoke to
a likeness of Octavianus's sister, whom Barine's father had painted as
the young wife of Marcellus, her first husband.

"Oh, no!" said Berenike. "I still remember perfectly how Leonax returned
in those days. What woman might not have been jealous of his enthusiasm
for the Roman Hera? At that time I had not seen the portrait, and when I
asked whether he thought Octavia more beautiful than the Queen, for whom
Eros had inflamed his heart, as in the case of most of the beautiful
women he painted, he exclaimed--you know his impetuous manner--'Octavia
stands foremost in the ranks of those who are called "beautiful" or "less
beautiful"; the other, Cleopatra, stands alone, and can be compared with
no one.'"

Archibius bent his head in assent, then said firmly, "But, as a child,
when I first saw her, she would have been the fairest even in the dance
of the young gods of love."

"How old was she then?" asked Barine, eagerly.

"Eight years," he answered. "How far in the past it is, yet I have not
forgotten a single hour!" Barine now earnestly entreated him to tell them
the story of those days, but Archibius gazed thoughtfully at the floor
for some time ere he raised his head and answered: "Perhaps it will be
well if you learn more of the woman for whose sake I ask a sacrifice at
your hands. Arius is your brother and uncle. He stands near to
Octavianus, for he was his intellectual guide, and I know that he reveres
the Roman's sister, Octavia, as a goddess. Antony is now struggling with
Octavianus for the sovereignty of the world. Octavia succumbed in the
conflict against the woman of whom you desire to hear. It is not my place
to judge her, but I may instruct and warn. Roman nations burn incense to
Octavia, and, when Cleopatra's name is uttered, they veil their faces
indignantly. Here in Alexandria many imitate them. Whoever upholds
shining purity may hope to win a share of the radiance emanating from it.
They call Octavia the lawful wife, and Cleopatra the criminal who robbed
her of her husband's heart."

"Not I!" exclaimed Barine eagerly. "How often I have heard my uncle say
that Antony and Cleopatra were fired with the most ardent love for each
other! Never did the arrows of Eros pierce two hearts more deeply. Then
it became necessary to save the state from civil war and bloodshed.
Antony consented to form an alliance with his rival, and, as security for
the sincerity of the reconciliation, he gave his hand in marriage to
Octavia, whose first husband, Marcellus, had just died--his hand, I say,
only his hand, for his heart was captive to the Queen of Egypt. And if
Antony was faithless to the wife to whom statecraft had bound him, he
kept his pledge to the other, who had an earlier, better title. If
Cleopatra did not give up the man to whom she had sworn fidelity forever,
she was right--a thousand times right! In my eyes--no matter how often my
mother rebukes me--Cleopatra, in the eyes of the immortals, is and always
will be Antony's real wife; the other, though on her marriage day no
custom, no word, no stroke of the stylus, no gesture was omitted, is the
intruder in a bond of love which rejoices the gods, however it may anger
mortals, and--forgive me, mother--virtuous matrons."

Berenike had listened with blushing cheeks to her vivacious daughter; now
with timid earnestness she interrupted: "I know that those are the views
of the new times; that Antony in the eyes of the Egyptians, and probably
also according to their customs, is the rightful husband of the Queen. I
know, too, that you are both against me. Yet Cleopatra is in reality a
Greek, and therefore--eternal gods!--I can sincerely pity her; but the
marriage has been solemnized, and I cannot blame Octavia. She rears and
cherishes, as if they were her own, the children of her faithless husband
and Fulvia, his first wife, who have no claim upon her. It is more than
human to take the stones from the path of the man who became her foe, as
she does. No woman In Alexandria can pray more fervently than I that
Cleopatra and her friend may conquer Octavianus. His cold nature, highly
as my brother esteems him, is repellent to me. But when I gaze at
Octavia's beautiful, chaste, queenly, noble countenance, the mirror of
true womanly purity--"

"You can rejoice," Archibius added, completing the sentence, and laying
his right hand soothingly on the arm of the excited woman, "only it would
be advisable at this time to put the portrait elsewhere, and rest
satisfied with confiding your opinion of Octavia to your brother and a
friend as reliable as myself. If we conquer, such things may pass; if
not--The messenger tarries long--"

Here Barine again entreated him to use the time. She had only once had
the happiness of being noticed by the Queen--just after her song at the
Adonis festival. Then Cleopatra had advanced to thank her. She said only
a few kind words, but in a voice which seemed to penetrate the inmost
depths of her heart and bind her with invisible threads. Meanwhile
Barine's eyes met those of her sovereign, and at first they roused an
ardent desire to press her lips even on the hem of her robe, but
afterwards she felt as if a venomous serpent had crawled out of the most
beautiful flower.

Here Archibius interrupted her with the remark that he remembered
perfectly how, after the song, Antony had addressed her at the same time
as the Queen, and Cleopatra lacked no feminine weakness.

"Jealousy?" asked Barine, in astonishment. "I was not presumptuous enough
to admit it. I secretly feared that Alexas, the brother of Philostratus,
had prejudiced her. He is as ill-disposed towards me as the man who was
my husband. But everything connected with those two is so base and
shameful that I will not allow it to cloud this pleasant hour. Yet the
fear that Alexas might have slandered me to the Queen is not groundless.

"He is as shrewd as his brother, and through Antony, into whose favour he
ingratiated himself, is always in communication with Cleopatra. He went
to the war with him."

"I learned that too late, and am utterly powerless against Antony,"
replied Archibius.

"But was it not natural that I should fear he had prejudiced the Queen?"
asked Barine. "At any rate, I imagined that I detected a hostile
expression in her eyes, and it repelled me, though at first I had been so
strongly attracted towards her."

"And had not that other stepped between you, you could not have turned
from her again!" said Archibius. "The first time I saw her I was but a
mere boy, and she--as I have already said--a child eight years old."

Barine nodded gratefully to Archibius, brought the distaff to her mother,
poured water into the wine in the mixing vessel, and after at first
leaning comfortably back among the cushions, she soon bent forward in a
listening attitude, with her elbow propped on her knee, and her chin
supported by her hand. Berenike drew the flax from the distaff, at first
slowly, then faster and faster.

"You know my country-house in the Kanopus," the guest began. "It was
originally a small summer palace belonging to the royal family, and
underwent little change after we moved into it. Even the garden is
unaltered. It was full of shady old trees. Olympus, the leech, had chosen
this place, that my father might complete within its walls the work of
education entrusted to him. You shall hear the story. At that time
Alexandria was in a state of turmoil, for Rome had not recognized the
King, and ruled over us like Fate, though it had not acknowledged the
will by which the miserable Alexander bequeathed Egypt to him like a
field or a slave.

"The King of Egypt, who called himself 'the new Dionysus,' was a weak
man, whose birth did not give him the full right to the sovereignty. You
know that the people called him the 'fluteplayer.' He really had no
greater pleasure than to hear music and listen to his own performances.
He played by no means badly on more than one instrument, and, moreover,
as a reveller did honour to the other name. Whoever kept sober at the
festival of Dionysus, whose incarnate second self he regarded himself,
incurred his deepest displeasure.

"The flute-player's wife, Queen Tryphoena, and her oldest daughter--she
bore your name, Berenike--ruined his life. Compared with them, the King
was worthy and virtuous. What had become of the heroes and the
high-minded princes of the house of Ptolemy? Every passion and crime had
found a home in their palaces!

"The flute-player, Cleopatra's father, was by no means the worst. He was
a slave to his own caprices; no one had taught him to bridle his
passions. Where it served his purpose, even death was summoned to his
aid; but this was a custom of the last sovereigns of his race. In one
respect he was certainly superior to most of them--he still possessed a
capacity to feel a loathing for the height of crime, to believe in virtue
and loftiness of soul, and the possibility of implanting them in youthful
hearts. When a boy, he had been under the influence of an excellent
teacher, whose precepts had lingered in his memory and led him to
determine to withdraw his favourite children--two girls--from their
mother's sway, at least as far as possible.

"I learned afterwards that it had been his desire to confide the
princesses wholly to my parents' care. But an invincible power opposed
this. Though Greeks might be permitted to instruct the royal children in
knowledge, the Egyptians would not yield the right to their religious
education. The leech Olympus--you know the good old man--had insisted
that the delicate Cleopatra must spend the coldest winter months in Upper
Egypt, where the sky was never clouded, and the summer near the sea in a
shady garden. The little palace at Kanopus was devoted to this purpose.

"When we moved there it was entirely unoccupied, but the princesses were
soon to be brought to us. During the winter Olympus preferred the island
of Philae, on the Nubian frontier, because the famous Temple of Isis was
there, and its priests willingly undertook to watch over the children.

"The Queen would not listen to any of these plans. Leaving Alexandria and
spending the winter on a lonely island in the tropics was an utterly
incomprehensible idea. So she let the King have his way, and no doubt was
glad to be relieved from the care of the children; for, even after her
royal husband's exile from the city, she never visited her daughters.
True, death allowed her only a short time to do so.

"Her oldest daughter, Berenike, who became her successor, followed her
example, and troubled herself very little about her sisters. I heard
after wards that she was very glad to know that they were in charge of
persons who filled their minds with other thoughts than the desire to
rule. Her brothers were reared at Lochias by our countryman Theodotus,
under the eyes of their guardian, Pothinus.

"Our family life was of course wholly transformed by the reception of the
royal children. In the first place, we moved from our house in the Museum
Square into the little palace at Kanopus, and the big, shady garden
delighted us. I remember, as though it were but yesterday, the morning--I
was then a boy of fifteen--when my father told us that two of the King's
daughters would soon become members of the household. There were three of
us children--Charmian, who went to the war with the Queen, because Iras,
our niece, was ill; I myself; and Straton, who died long ago. We were
urged to treat the princesses with the utmost courtesy and consideration,
and we perceived that their reception really demanded respect; for the
palace, which we had found empty and desolate, was refurnished from roof
to foundation.

"The day before they were expected horses, chariots, and litters came,
while boats and a splendid state galley, fully manned, arrived by sea.
Then a train of male and female slaves appeared, among them two fat
eunuchs.

"I can still see the angry look with which my father surveyed all these
people. He drove at once to the city, and on his return his clear eyes
were as untroubled as ever. A court official accompanied him, and only
that portion of the useless amount of luggage and number of persons that
my father desired remained.

"The princesses were to come the next morning--it was at the end of
February--flowers were blooming in the grass and on the bushes, while the
foliage of the trees glittered with the fresh green which the rising sap
gives to the young leaves. I was sitting on a strong bough of a
sycamore-tree, which grew opposite to the house, watching for them. Their
arrival was delayed and, as I gazed meanwhile over the garden, I thought
it must surely please them, for not a palace in the city had one so
beautiful.

"At last the litters appeared; they had neither runners nor attendants,
as my father had requested, and when the princesses alighted--both at the
same moment--I knew not which way to turn my eyes first, for the creature
that fluttered like a dragon-fly rather than stepped from the first
litter, was not a girl like other mortals--she seemed like a wish, a
hope. When the dainty, beautiful creature turned her head hither and
thither, and at last gazed questioningly, as if beseeching help, into the
faces of my father and mother, who stood at the gate to receive her, it
seemed to me that such must have been the aspect of Psyche when she stood
pleading for mercy at the throne of Zeus.

"But it was worth while to look at the other also. Was that Cleopatra?
She might have been the elder, for she was as tall as her sister, but how
utterly unlike! From the waving hair to every movement of the hands and
body the former--it was Cleopatra--had seemed to me as if she were
flying. Everything about the second figure, on the contrary, was solid,
nay, even seemed to offer positive resistance. She sprang from the litter
and alighted on the ground with both feet at once, clung firmly to the
door, and haughtily flung back her head, crowned with a wealth of dark
locks. Her complexion was pink and white, and her blue eyes sparkled
brightly enough; but the expression with which she gazed at my parents
was defiant rather than questioning, and as she glanced around her red
lips curled scornfully as though she deemed her surroundings despicable
and unworthy of her royal birth.

"This irritated me against the seven-year-old child, yet I said to myself
that, though it was very beautiful here--thanks to my father's
care--perhaps it appeared plain and simple when compared with the marble,
gold, and purple of the royal palace whence she came. Her features, too,
were regular and beautiful, and she would have attracted attention by her
loveliness among a multitude. When I soon heard her issue imperious
commands and defiantly insist upon the fulfilment of every wish, I
thought, in my boyish ignorance, that Arsinoe must be the elder; for she
was better suited to wield a sceptre than her sister. I said so to my
brother and Charmian; but we all soon saw which really possessed queenly
majesty; for Arsinoe, if her will were crossed, wept, screamed, and raged
like a lunatic, or, if that proved useless, begged and teased; while if
Cleopatra wanted anything she obtained it in a different way. Even at
that time she knew what weapons would give her victory and, while using
them, she still remained the child of a king.

"No artisan's daughter could have been further removed from airs of
majestic pathos than this embodiment of the most charming childlike
grace; but if anything for which her passionate nature ardently longed
was positively refused, she understood how to attain it by the melody of
her voice, the spell of her eyes, and in extreme cases by a silent tear.
When to such tears were added uplifted hands and a few sweet words, such
as, 'It would make me happy,' or, 'Don't you see how it hurts me?'
resistance was impossible; and in after-years also her silent tears and
the marvellous music of her voice won her a victory in the decisive
questions of life.

"We children were soon playmates and friends, for my parents did not wish
the princesses to begin their studies until after they felt at home with
us. This pleased Arsinoe, although she could already read and write; but
Cleopatra more than once asked to hear something from my father's store
of wisdom, of which she had been told.

"The King and her former teacher had cherished the highest expectations
from the brilliant intellect of this remarkable child, and Olympus once
laid his hand on my curls and bade me take care that the princess did not
outstrip the philosopher's son. I had always occupied one of the foremost
places, and laughingly escaped, assuring him that there was no danger.

"But I soon learned that this warning was not groundless. You will think
that the old fool's heart has played him a trick, and in the magic garden
of childish memories the gifted young girl was transformed into a
goddess. That she certainly was not; for the immortals are free from the
faults and weaknesses of humanity."

"And what robbed Cleopatra of the renown of resembling the gods?" asked
Barine eagerly.

A subtle smile, not wholly free from reproach, accompanied Archibius's
reply: "Had I spoken of her virtues, you would hardly have thought of
asking further details. But why should I try to conceal what she has
displayed to the world openly enough throughout her whole life? Falsehood
and hypocrisy were as unfamiliar to her as fishing is to the sons of the
desert. The fundamental principles which have dominated this rare
creature's life and character to the present day are two ceaseless
desires: first, to surpass every one, even in the most difficult
achievements; and, secondly, to love and to be loved in return. From them
emanated what raised her above all other women. Ambition and love will
also sustain her like two mighty wings on the proud height to which they
have borne her, so long as they dwell harmoniously in her fiery soul.
Hitherto a rare favour of destiny has permitted this, and may the
Olympians grant that thus it may ever be!"

Here Archibius paused, wiped the perspiration from his brow, asked if the
messenger had arrived, and ordered him to be admitted as soon as he
appeared. Then he went on as calmly as before:

"The princesses were members of our household, and in the course of time
they seemed like sisters. During the first winter the King allowed them
to spend only the most inclement months at Philae, for he was unwilling
to live without them. True, he saw them rarely enough; weeks often
elapsed without a visit; but, on the other hand, he often came day after
day to our garden, clad in plain garments, and borne in an unpretending
litter, for these visits were kept secret from every one save the leech
Olympus.

"I often saw the tall, strong man, with red, bloated face, playing with
his children like a mechanic who had just returned from work. But he
usually remained only a short time, seeming to be satisfied with having
seen them again. Perhaps he merely wished to assure himself that they
were comfortable with us. At any rate, no one was permitted to go near
the group of plane-trees where he talked with them.

"But it is easy to hide amid the dense foliage of these trees, so my
knowledge that he questioned them is not solely hearsay.

"Cleopatra was happy with us from the beginning; Arsinoe needed a longer
time; but the King valued only the opinion of his older child, his
darling, on whom he feasted his eyes and ears like a lover. He often
shook his heavy head at the sight of her, and when she gave him one of
her apt replies, he laughed so loudly that the sound of his deep,
resonant voice was heard as far as the house.

"Once I saw tear after tear course down his flushed cheeks, and yet his
visit was shorter than usual. The closed 'harmamaxa' in which he came
bore him from our house directly to the vessel which was to convey him to
Cyprus and Rome. The Alexandrians, headed by the Queen, had forced him to
leave the city and the country.

"He was indeed unworthy of the crown, but he loved his little daughter
like a true father. Still, it was terrible, monstrous for him to invoke
curses upon the mother and sister of the children, in their presence, and
in the same breath command them to hate and execrate them, but to love
and never forget him.

"I was then seventeen and Cleopatra ten years old. I, who loved my
parents better than my life, felt an icy chill run through my veins and
then a touch upon my heart like balsam, as I heard little Arsinoe, after
her father had gone, whisper to her sister, 'We will hate them--may the
gods destroy them!' and when Cleopatra answered with tearful eyes, 'Let
us rather be better than they, very good indeed, Arsinoe, that the
immortals may love us and bring our father back.'

"'Because then he will make you Queen,' replied Arsinoe sneeringly, still
trembling with angry excitement.

"Cleopatra gazed at her with a troubled look.

"Her tense features showed that she was weighing the meaning of the
words, and I can still see her as she suddenly drew up her small figure,
and said proudly, 'Yes, I will be Queen!'

"Then her manner changed, and in the sweetest tones of her soft voice,
she said beseechingly, 'You won't say such naughty things again, will
you?'

"This was at the time that my father's instruction began to take
possession of her mind. The prediction of Olympus was fulfilled. True, I
attended the school of oratory, but when my father set the royal maiden a
lesson, I was permitted to repeat mine on the same subject, and
frequently I could not help admitting that Cleopatra had succeeded better
than I.

"Soon there were difficult problems to master, for the intellect of this
wonderful child demanded stronger food, and she was introduced into
philosophy. My father himself belonged to the school of Epicurus, and
succeeded far beyond his expectations in rousing Cleopatra's interest in
his master's teachings. She had been made acquainted with the other great
philosophers also, but always returned to Epicurus, and induced the rest
of us to live with her as a true disciple of the noble Samian.

"Your father and brother have doubtless made you familiar with the
precepts of the Stoa; yet you have certainly heard that Epicurus spent
the latter part of his life with his friends and pupils in quiet
meditation and instructive conversation in his garden at Athens. We,
too--according to Cleopatra's wish--were to live thus and call ourselves
'disciples of Epicurus.'

"With the exception of Arsinoe, who preferred gayer pastimes, into which
she drew my brother Straton--at that time a giant in strength--we all
liked the plan. I was chosen master, but I perceived that Cleopatra
desired the position, so she took my place.

"During our next leisure afternoon we paced up and down the garden, and
the conversation about the chief good was so eager, Cleopatra directed it
with so much skill, and decided doubtful questions so happily, that we
reluctantly obeyed the brazen gong which summoned us to the house, and
spent the whole evening in anticipating the next afternoon.

"The following morning my father saw several country people assembled
before the secluded garden; but he did not have time to inquire what they
wanted; for Timagenes, who shared the instruction in history--you know he
was afterwards taken to Rome as a prisoner of war--rushed up to him,
holding out a tablet which bore the inscription Epicurus had written on
the gate of his garden: 'Stranger, here you will be happy; here is the
chief good, pleasure.'

"Cleopatra had written this notice in large letters on the top of a small
table before sunrise, and a slave had secretly fastened it on the gate
for her.

"This prank might have easily proved fatal to our beautiful
companionship, but it had been done merely to make our game exactly like
the model.

"My father did not forbid our continuing this pastime, but strictly
prohibited our calling ourselves 'Epicureans' outside of the garden, for
this noble name had since gained among the people a significance wholly
alien. Epicurus says that true pleasure is to be found only in peace of
mind and absence of pain."

"But every one," interrupted Barine, "believes that people like the
wealthy Isidorus, whose object in life is to take every pleasure which
his wealth can procure, are the real Epicureans. My mother would not have
confided me long to a teacher by whose associates 'pleasure' was deemed
the chief good."

"The daughter of a philosopher," replied Archibius, gently shaking his
head, "ought to understand what pleasure means in the sense of Epicurus,
and no doubt you do. True, those who are further removed from these
things cannot know that the master forbids yearning for individual
pleasure. Have you an idea of his teachings? No definite one? Then permit
me a few words of explanation. It happens only too often that Epicurus is
confounded with Aristippus, who places sensual pleasure above
intellectual enjoyment, as he holds that bodily pain is harder to endure
than mental anguish. Epicurus, on the contrary, considers intellectual
pleasure to be the higher one; for sensual enjoyment, which he believes
free to every one, can be experienced only in the present, while
intellectual delight extends to both the past and the future. To the
Epicureans the goal of life, as has already been mentioned, is to attain
the chief blessings, peace of mind, and freedom from pain. He is to
practise virtue only because it brings him pleasure; for who could remain
virtuous without being wise, noble, and just?--and whoever is all these
cannot have his peace of mind disturbed, and must be really happy in the
exact meaning of the master. I perceived long since the peril lurking in
this system of instruction, which takes no account of moral excellence;
but at that time it seemed to me also the chief good.

"How all this charmed the mind of the thoughtful child, still untouched
by passion! It was difficult to supply her wonderfully vigorous intellect
with sufficient sustenance, and she really felt that to enrich it was the
highest pleasure. And to her, who could scarcely endure to have a rude
hand touch her, though a small grief or trivial disappointment could not
be averted, the freedom from pain which the master had named as the first
condition for the existence of every pleasure, and termed the chief good,
seemed indeed the first condition of a happy life.

"Yet this child, whom my father once compared to a thinking flower, bore
without complaint her sad destiny--her father's banishment, her mother's
death, her sister Berenike's profligacy. Even to me, in whom she found a
second brother and fully trusted, she spoke of these sorrowful things
only in guarded allusions. I know that she understood what was passing
fully and perfectly, and how deeply she felt it; but pain placed itself
between her and the 'chief good,' and she mastered it. And when she sat
at work, with what tenacious power the delicate creature struggled until
she had conquered the hardest task and outstripped Charmian and even me!

"In those days I understood why, among the gods, a maiden rules over
learning, and why she is armed with the weapons of war. You have heard
how many languages Cleopatra speaks. A remark of Timagenes had fallen
into her soul like a seed. 'With every language you learn,' he had said,
'you will gain a nation.' But there were many peoples in her father's
kingdom, and when she was Queen they must all love her. True, she began
with the tongue of the conquerors, not the conquered. So it happened that
we first learned Lucretius, who reproduces in verse the doctrines of
Epicurus. My father was our teacher, and the second year she read
Lucretius as if it were a Greek book. She had only half known Egyptian;
now she speedily acquired it. During our stay at Philae she found a
troglodyte who was induced to teach her his language. There were Jews
enough here in Alexandria to instruct her in theirs, and she also learned
its kindred tongue, Arabic.

"When, many years later, she visited Antony at Tarsus, the warriors
imagined that some piece of Egyptian magic was at work, for she addressed
each commander in his own tongue, and talked with him as if she were a
native of the same country.

"It was the same with everything. She outstripped us in every branch of
study. To her burning ambition it would have been unbearable to lag
behind.

"The Roman Lucretius became her favourite poet, although she was no more
friendly to his nation than I, but the self-conscious power of the foe
pleased her, and once I heard her exclaim 'Ah! if the Egyptians were
Romans, I would give up our garden for Berenike's throne.'

"Lucretius constantly led her back to Epicurus, and awakened a severe
conflict in her unresting mind. You probably know that he teaches that
life in itself is not so great a blessing that it must be deemed a
misfortune not to live. It is only spoiled by having death appear to us
as the greatest of misfortunes. Only the soul which ceases to regard
death as a misfortune finds peace. Whoever knows that thought and feeling
end with life will not fear death; for, no matter how many dear and
precious things the dead have left here below, their yearning for them
has ceased with life. He declares that providing for the body is the
greatest folly, while the Egyptian religion, in which Anubis strove to
strengthen her faith, maintained precisely the opposite.

"To a certain degree he succeeded, for his personality exerted a powerful
influence over her; and besides, she naturally took great pleasure in
mystical, supernatural things, as my brother Straton did in physical
strength, and you, Barine, enjoy the gift of song. You know Anubis by
sight. What Alexandrian has not seen this remarkable man? and whoever has
once met his eyes does not easily forget him. He does indeed rule over
mysterious powers, and he used them in his intercourse with the young
princess. It is his work if she cleaves to the religious belief of her
people, if she who is a Hellene to the last drop of blood loves Egypt,
and is ready to make any sacrifice for her independence and grandeur. She
is called 'the new Isis,' but Isis presides over the magic arts of the
Egyptians, and Anubis initiated Cleopatra into this secret science, and
even persuaded her to enter the observatory and the laboratory--

"But all these things had their origin in our garden of Epicurus, and my
father did not venture to forbid it; for the King had sent a message from
Rome to say that he was glad to have Cleopatra find pleasure in her own
people and their secret knowledge.

"The flute-player, during his stay on the Tiber, had given his gold to
the right men or bound them as creditors to his interest. After Pompey,
Caesar, and Crassus had concluded their alliance, they consented at Lucca
to the restoration of the Ptolemy. Millions upon millions would not have
seemed to him too large a price for this object. Pompey would rather have
gone to Egypt himself, but the jealousy of the others would not permit
it. Gabinius, the Governor of Syria, received the commission.

"But the occupants of the Egyptian throne were not disposed to resign it
without a struggle. You know that meanwhile Queen Berenike, Cleopatra's
sister, had been twice married. She had her miserable first husband
strangled--a more manly spouse had been chosen by the Alexandrians for
her second consort. He bravely defended his rights, and lost his life on
the field of battle.

"The senate learned speedily enough that Gabinius had brought the Ptolemy
back to his country; the news reached us more slowly. We watched for
every rumour with the same passionate anxiety as now.

"At that time Cleopatra was fourteen, and had developed magnificently.
Yonder portrait shows the perfect flower, but the bud possessed, if
possible, even more exquisite charm. How clear and earnest was the gaze
of her bright eyes! When she was gay they could shine like stars, and
then her little red mouth had an indescribably mischievous expression,
and in each cheek came one of the tiny dimples which still delight every
one. Her nose was more delicate than it is now, and the slight curve
which appears in the portrait, and which is far too prominent in the
coins, was not visible. Her hair did not grow dark until later in life.
My sister Charmian had no greater pleasure than to arrange its wavy
abundance. It was like silk, she often said, and she was right. I know
this, for when at the festival of Isis, Cleopatra, holding the sistrum,
followed the image of the goddess, she was obliged to wear it unconfined.
On her return home she often shook her head merrily, and her hair fell
about her like a cataract, veiling her face and figure. Then, as now, she
was not above middle height, but her form possessed the most exquisite
symmetry, only it was still more delicate and pliant.

"She had understood how to win all hearts. Yet, though she seemed to
esteem our father higher, trust me more fully, look up to Anubis with
greater reverence, and prefer to argue with the keen-witted Timagenes,
she still appeared to hold all who surrounded her in equal favour, while
Arsinoe left me in the lurch if Straton were present, and whenever the
handsome Melnodor, one of my father's pupils, came to us, she fairly
devoured him with her glowing eyes.

"As soon as it was rumoured that the Romans were bringing the King back,
Queen Berenike came to us to take the young girls to the city. When
Cleopatra entreated her to leave her in our parents' care and not
interrupt her studies, a scornful smile flitted over Berenike's face, and
turning to her husband Archelaus, she said scornfully, 'I think books
will prove to be the smallest danger.'

"Pothinus, the guardian of the two princesses' brothers, had formerly
permitted them at times to visit their sisters. Now they were no longer
allowed to leave Lochias, but neither Cleopatra nor Arsinoe made many
inquiries about them. The little boys always retreated from their
caresses, and the Egyptian locks on their temples, which marked the age
of childhood, and the Egyptian garments which Pothinus made them wear,
lent them an unfamiliar aspect.

"When it was reported that the Romans were advancing from Gaza, both
girls were overpowered by passionate excitement. Arsinoe's glittered in
every glance; Cleopatra understood how to conceal hers, but her colour
often varied, and her face, which was not pink and white like her
sister's, but--how shall I express it?"

"I know what you mean," Barine interrupted. "When I saw her, nothing
seemed to me more charming than that pallid hue through which the crimson
of her cheeks shines like the flame through yonder alabaster lamp, the
tint of the peach through the down. I have seen it often in
convalescents. Aphrodite breathes this hue on the faces and figures of
her favourites only, as the god of time imparts the green tinge to the
bronze. Nothing is more beautiful than when such women blush."

"Your sight is keen," replied Archibius, smiling. "It seemed indeed as if
not Eos, but her faint reflection in the western horizon, was tinting the
sky, when joy or shame sent the colour to her cheeks, But when wrath took
possession of her--and ere the King's return this often happened--she
could look as if she were lifeless, like a marble statue, with lips as
colourless as those of a corpse.

"My father said that the blood of Physkon and other degenerate ancestors,
who had not learned to control their passions, was asserting itself in
her also. But I must continue my story, or the messenger will interrupt
me too soon.

"Gabinius was bringing back the King. But from the time of his approach
with the Roman army and the auxiliary troops of the Ethnarch of Judea,
nothing more was learned of him or of Antipater, who commanded the forces
of Hyrkanus; every one talked constantly of the Roman general Antony. He
had led the troops successfully through the deserts between Syria and the
Egyptian Delta without losing a single man on the dangerous road by the
Sirbonian Sea and Barathra, where many an army had met destruction. Not
to Antipater, but to him, had the Jewish garrison of Pelusium surrendered
their city without striking a blow. He had conquered in two battles; and
the second, where, as you know, Berenike's husband fell after a brave
resistance, had decided the destiny of the country.

"From the time his name was first mentioned, neither of the girls could
hear enough about him. It was said that he was the most aristocratic of
aristocratic Romans, the most reckless of the daring, the wildest of the
riotous, and the handsomest of the handsome.

"The waiting-maid from Mantua, with whom Cleopatra practised speaking the
Roman language, had often seen him, and had heard of him still more
frequently--for his mode of life was the theme of gossip among all
classes of Roman men and women. His house was said to have descended in a
direct line from Hercules, and his figure and magnificent black beard
recalled his ancestor. You know him, and know that the things reported of
him are those which a young girl cannot hear with indifference, and at
that time he was nearly five lustra younger than he is to-day.

"How eagerly Arsinoe listened when his name was uttered! How Cleopatra
flushed and paled when Timagenes condemned him as an unprincipled
libertine! True, Antony was opening her father's path to his home.

"The flute-player had not forgotten his daughters. He had remained aloof
from the battle, but as soon as the victory was decided, he pressed on
into the city.

"The road led past our garden.

"The King had barely time to send a runner to his daughters, fifteen
minutes before his arrival, to say that he desired to greet them. They
were hurriedly attired in festal garments, and both presented an
appearance that might well gladden a father's heart.

"Cleopatra was not yet as tall as Arsinoe, but, though only fourteen, she
looked like a full-grown maiden, while her sister's face and figure
showed that in years she was still a child. But she was no longer one in
heart. Bouquets for the returning sovereign had been arranged as well as
haste permitted. Each one of the girls held one in her hand when the
train approached.

"My parents accompanied them to the garden gate. I could see what was
passing, but could hear distinctly only the voices of the men.

"The King alighted from the travelling chariot, which was drawn by eight
white Median steeds. The chamberlain who attended him was obliged to
support him. His face, reddened by his potations, fairly beamed as he
greeted his daughters. His joyful surprise at the sight of both, but
especially of Cleopatra, was evident. True, he kissed and embraced
Arsinoe, but after that he had eyes and ears solely for Cleopatra.

"Yet his younger daughter was very beautiful. Away from her sister, she
would have commanded the utmost admiration; but Cleopatra was like the
sun, beside which every other heavenly body pales. Yet, no; she should
not be compared to the sun. It was part of the fascination she exerted
that every one felt compelled to gaze at her, to discover the source of
the charm which emanated from her whole person.

"Antony, too, was enthralled by the spell as soon as he heard the first
words from her lips. He had dashed up to the King's chariot, and seeing
the two daughters by their father's side, he greeted them with a hasty
salute. When, in reply to the question whether he might hope for her
gratitude for bringing her father back to her so quickly, she said that
as a daughter she sincerely rejoiced, but as an Egyptian the task would
be harder, he gazed more keenly at her.

"I did not know her answer until later; but ere the last sound of her
voice had died away, I saw the Roman spring from his charger and fling
the bridle to Ammonius--the chamberlain who had assisted the King from
the chariot--as if he were his groom. The woman-hunter had met with rare
game in his pursuit of the fairest, and while he continued his
conversation with Cleopatra her father sometimes joined in, and his deep
laughter was often heard.

"No one would have recognized the earnest disciple of Epicurus. We had
often heard apt replies and original thoughts from Cleopatra's lips, but
she had rarely answered Timagenes's jests with another. Now she
found--one could see it by watching the speakers--a witty answer to many
of Antony's remarks. It seemed as if, for the first time, she had met
some one for whom she deemed it worth while to bring into the field every
gift of her deep and quick intelligence. Yet she did not lose for a
moment her womanly dignity; her eyes did not sparkle one whit more
brightly than during an animated conversation with me or our father.

"It was very different with Arsinoe. When Antony flung himself from his
horse, she had moved nearer to her sister, but, as the Roman continued to
overlook her, her face crimsoned, she bit her scarlet lips. Her whole
attitude betrayed the agitation that mastered her, and I, who knew her,
saw by the expression of her eyes and her quivering nostrils that she was
on the point of bursting into tears. Though Cleopatra stood so much
nearer to my heart, I felt sorry for her, and longed to touch the arm of
the haughty Roman, who indeed looked like the god of war, and whisper to
him to take some little notice of the poor child, who was also a daughter
of the King.

"But a still harder blow was destined to fall upon Arsinoe; for when the
King, who had been holding both bouquets, warned Antony that it was time
to depart, he took one, and I heard him say in his deep, loud tones,
'Whoever calls such flowers his daughters does not need so many others.'
Then he gave Cleopatra the blossoms and, laying his hand upon his heart,
expressed the hope of seeing her in Alexandria, and swung himself upon
the charger which the chamberlain, pale with fury, was still holding by
the bridle.

"The flute-player was delighted with his oldest daughter, and told my
father he would have the young princess conveyed to the city on the day
after the morrow. The next day he had things to do of which he desired
her to have no knowledge. Our father, in token of his gratitude, should
retain for himself and his heirs the summer palace and the garden. He
would see that the change of owner was entered in the land register. This
was really done that very day. It was, indeed, his first act save
one--the execution of his daughter Berenike.

"This ruler, who would have seemed to any one who beheld his meeting with
his children a warm-hearted man and a tender father, at that time would
have put half Alexandria to the sword, had not Antony interposed. He
forbade the bloodshed, and honoured Berenike's dead husband by a stately
funeral.

"As the steed bore him away, he turned back towards Cleopatra; he could
not have saluted Arsinoe, for she had rushed into the garden, and her
swollen face betrayed that she had shed burning tears.

"From that hour she bitterly hated Cleopatra.

"On the day appointed, the King brought the princesses to the city with
regal splendour. The Alexandrians joyously greeted the royal sisters, as,
seated on a golden throne, over which waved ostrich-feathers, they were
borne in state down the Street of the King, surrounded by dignitaries,
army commanders, the body-guard, and the senate of the city. Cleopatra
received the adulation of the populace with gracious majesty, as if she
were already Queen. Whoever had seen her as, with floods of tears, she
bade us all farewell, assuring us of her gratitude and faithful
remembrance, the sisterly affection she showed me--I had just been
elected commander of the Ephebi--" Here Archibius was interrupted by a
slave, who announced the arrival of the messenger, and, rising hurriedly,
he went to Leonax's workshop, to which the man had been conducted, that
he might speak to him alone.



     ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

     Shadow of the candlestick caught her eye before the light
     Soul which ceases to regard death as a misfortune finds peace



CLEOPATRA

By Georg Ebers

Volume 3.



CHAPTER VI.

The men sent by Archibius to obtain news had brought back no definite
information; but a short time before, a royal runner had handed him a
tablet from Iras, requesting him to visit her the next day. Disquieting,
but fortunately as yet unverified tidings had arrived. The Regent was
doing everything in his power to ascertain the truth; but he (Archibius)
was aware of the distrust of the government, and everything connected
with it, felt by the sailors and all the seafaring folk at the harbour.
An independent person like himself could often learn more than the chief
of the harbour police, with all his ships and men.

The little tablet was accompanied by a second, which, in the Regent's
name, authorized the bearer to have the harbour chains raised anywhere,
to go out into the open sea and return without interference.

The messenger, the overseer of Archibius's galley slaves, was an
experienced man. He undertook to have the "Epicurus"--a swift vessel,
which Cleopatra had given to her friend--ready for a voyage to the open
sea within two hours. The carriage should be sent for his master, that no
time might be lost.

When Archibius had returned to the ladies and asked whether it would be
an abuse of their hospitality, if--it was now nearly midnight--he should
still delay his departure for a time, they expressed sincere pleasure,
and begged him to continue his narrative.

"I must hasten," he hurriedly began, after eating the lunch which
Berenike had ordered while he was talking with the messenger, "but the
events of the next few years are hardly worth mentioning. Besides, my
time was wholly occupied by my studies in the museum.

"As for Cleopatra and Arsinoe, they stood like queens at the head of all
the magnificence of the court. The day on which they left our house was
the last of their childhood.

"Who would venture to determine whether her father's restoration, or the
meeting with Antony, had wrought the great change which took place at
that time in Cleopatra?

"Just before she left us, my mother had lamented that she must give her
to a father like the flute-player, instead of to a worthy mother; for the
best could not help regarding herself happy in the possession of such a
daughter. Afterwards her character and conduct were better suited to
delight men than to please a mother. The yearning for peace of mind
seemed over. Only the noisy festivals, the singing and music, of which
there was never any cessation in the palace of the royal virtuoso, seemed
to weary her and at such times she appeared at our house and spent
several days beneath its roof. Arsinoe never accompanied her; her heart
was sometimes won by a golden-haired officer in the ranks of the German
horsemen whom Gabinius had left among the garrison of Alexandria,
sometimes by a Macedonian noble among the youths who, at that time,
performed the service of guarding the palace.

"Cleopatra lived apart from her, and Arsinoe openly showed her hostility
from the time that she entreated her to put an end to the scandal caused
by her love affairs.

"Cleopatra held aloof from such things.

"Though she had devoted much time to the magic arts of the Egyptians, her
clear intellect had rendered her so familiar with the philosophy of the
Hellenes that it was a pleasure to hear her converse or argue in the
museum-as she often did-with the leaders of the various schools. Her
self-confidence had become very strong. Though, while with us, she said
that she longed to return to the days of the peaceful Garden of Epicurus,
she devoted herself eagerly enough to the events occurring in the world
and to statecraft. She was familiar with everything in Rome, the desires
and struggles of the contending parties, as well as the characters of the
men who were directing affairs, their qualities, views, and aims.

"She followed Antony's career with the interest of love, for she had
bestowed on him the first affection of her young heart. She had expected
the greatest achievements, but his subsequent course seemed to belie
these lofty hopes. A tinge of scorn coloured her remarks concerning him
at that time, but here also her heart had its share.

"Pompey, to whom her father owed his restoration to the throne, she
considered a lucky man, rather than a great and wise one. Of Julius
Caesar, on the contrary, long before she met him, she spoke with ardent
enthusiasm, though she knew that he would gladly have made Egypt a Roman
province. The greatest deed which she expected from the energetic Julius
was that he would abolish the republic, which she hated, and soar upward
to tyrannize over the arrogant rulers of the world--only she would fain
have seen Antony in his place. How often in those days she used magic art
to assure herself of his future! Her father was interested in these
things, especially as, through them, and the power of the mighty Isis, he
expected to obtain relief from his many and severe sufferings.

"Cleopatra's brothers were still mere boys, completely dependent upon
their guardian, Pothinus, to whom the King left the care of the
government, and their tutor, Theodotus, a clever but unprincipled
rhetorician. These two men and Achillas, the commander of the troops,
would gladly have aided Dionysus, the King's oldest male heir, to obtain
the control of the state, in order afterwards to rule him, but the
flute-player baffled their plans. You know that in his last will he made
Cleopatra, his favourite child, his successor, but her brother Dionysus
was to share the throne as her husband. This caused much scandal in Rome,
though it was an old custom of the house of Ptolemy, and suited the
Egyptians.

"The flute-player died. Cleopatra became Queen, and at the same time the
wife of a husband ten years old, for whom she did not even possess the
natural gift of sisterly tenderness. But with the obstinate child who had
been told by his counsellors that the right to rule should be his alone,
she also married the former governors of the country.

"Then began a period of sore suffering. Her life was a perpetual battle
against notorious intrigues, the worst of which owed their origin to her
sister. Arsinoe had surrounded herself with a court of her own, managed
by the eunuch Ganymedes, an experienced commander, and at the same time a
shrewd adviser, wholly devoted to her interest. He understood how to
bring her into close relations with Pothinus and other rulers of the
state, and thus at last united all who possessed any power in the royal
palace in an endeavour to thrust Cleopatra from the throne. Pothinus,
Theodotus, and Achillas hated her because she saw their failings and made
them feel the superiority of her intellect. Their combined efforts might
have succeeded in overthrowing her before, had not the Alexandrians,
headed by the Ephebi, over whom I still had some influence, stood by her
so steadfastly. Whoever could still be classed as a youth glowed with
enthusiasm for her, and most of the Macedonian nobles in the body-guard
would have gone to death for her sake, though she had forced them to gaze
hopelessly up to her as if she were some unapproachable goddess.

"When her father died she was seventeen, but she knew how to resist
oppressors and foes as if she were a man. My sister, Charmian, whom she
had appointed to a place in her service, loyally aided her. At that time
she was a beautiful and lovable girl, but the spell exerted by the Queen
fettered her like chains and bonds. She voluntarily resigned the love of
a noble man--he afterwards became your husband, Berenike--in order not to
leave her royal friend at a time when she so urgently needed her. Since
then my sister has shut her heart against love. It belonged to Cleopatra.
She lives, thinks, cares for her alone. She is fond of you, Barine,
because your father was so dear to her. Iras, whose name is so often
associated with hers, is the daughter of my oldest sister, who was
already married when the King entrusted the princesses to our father's
care. She is thirteen years younger than Cleopatra, but her mistress
holds the first place in her heart also. Her father, the wealthy Krates,
made every effort to keep her from entering the service of the Queen, but
in vain. A single conversation with this marvellous woman had bound her
forever.

"But I must be brief. You have doubtless heard how completely Cleopatra
bewitched Pompey's son during his visit to Alexandria. She had not been
so gracious to any man since her meeting with Antony, and it was not from
affection, but to maintain the independence of her beloved native land.
At that time the father of Gnejus was the man who possessed the most
power, and statecraft commanded her to win him through his son. The young
Roman also took his leave 'full of her,' as the Egyptians say. This
pleased her, but the visit greatly aided her foes. There was no slander
which was not disseminated against her. The commanders of the body-guard,
whom she had always treated as a haughty Queen, had seen her associate
with Pompey's son in the theatre as if he were a friend of equal rank;
and on many other occasions the Alexandrians saw her repay his courtesies
in the same coin. But in those days hatred of Rome surged high. The
regents, leagued with Arsinoe, spread the rumour that Cleopatra would
deliver Egypt up to Pompey, if the senate would secure to her the sole
sovereignty of the new province, and leave her free to rid herself of her
royal brother and husband.

"She was compelled to fly, and went first to the Syrian frontier, to gain
friends for her cause among the Asiatic princes. My brother Straton--you
remember the noble youth who won the prize for wrestling at Olympia,
Berenike--and I were commissioned to carry the treasure to her. We
doubtless exposed ourselves to great peril, but we did so gladly, and
left Alexandria with a few camels, an ox-cart, and some trusted slaves.
We were to go to Gaza, where Cleopatra was already beginning to collect
an army, and had disguised ourselves as Nabataean merchants. The
languages which I had learned, in order not to be distanced by Cleopatra,
were now of great service.

"Those were stirring times. The names of Caesar and Pompey were in every
mouth. After the defeat at Dyrrachium the cause of Julius seemed lost,
but the Pharsalian battle again placed him uppermost, unless the East
rose in behalf of Pompey. Both seemed to be favourites of Fortune. The
question now was to which the goddess would prove most faithful.

"My sister Charmian was with the Queen, but through one of Arsinoe's
maids, who was devoted to her, we had learned from the palace that
Pompey's fate was decided. He had come a fugitive from the defeat of
Pharsalus, and begged the King of Egypt--that is, the men who were acting
in his name--for a hospitable reception. Pothinus and his associates had
rarely confronted a greater embarrassment. The troops and ships of the
victorious Caesar were close at hand; many of Gabinius' men were serving
in the Egyptian army. To receive the vanquished Pompey kindly was to make
the victorious Caesar a foe. I was to witness the terrible solution of
this dilemma. The infamous words of Theodotus, 'Dead dogs no longer
bite,' had turned the scale.

"My brother and I reached Mount Casius with our precious freight, and
pitched our tents to await a messenger, when a large body of armed men
approached from the city. At first we feared that we were pursued; but a
spy reported that the King himself was among the soldiery, and at the
same time a large Roman galley drew near the coast. It must be Pompey's.
So they had changed their views, and the King was coming in person to
receive their guest. The troops encamped on the flat shore on which stood
the Temple of the Casian Amon.

"The September sun shone brightly, and was reflected from the weapons.
From the high bank of the dry bed of the river, where we had pitched our
tent, we saw something scarlet move to and fro. It was the King's mantle.
The waves, stirred by the autumn breeze, rippled lightly, blue as
cornflowers, over the yellow sand of the dunes; but the King stood still,
shading his eyes with his hand as he gazed at the galley. Meanwhile,
Achillas, the commander of the troops, and Septimius, the tribune, who
belonged to the Roman garrison in Alexandria, and who, I knew, had served
under Pompey and owed him many favours, had entered a boat and put off to
the vessel, which could not come nearer the land on account of the
shallow water.

"The conference now began, and Achillas's offer of hospitality must have
been very warm and well calculated to inspire confidence, for a tall
lady--it was Cornelia, the wife of the Imperator--waved her hand to him
in token of gratitude."

Here the speaker paused, drew a long breath, and, pressing his hand to
his brow, continued "What follows--alas, that it was my fate to witness
the dreadful scene! How often a garbled account has been given, and yet
the whole was so terribly simple!

"Fortune makes her favourites confiding. Pompey was also. Though more
than fifty years old--he lacked two years of sixty--he sprang into the
boat quickly enough, with merely a little assistance from a freedman. A
sailor--he was a negro--shoved the skiff off from the side of the huge
ship as violently as if the pole he used for the purpose was a spear, and
the galley his foe. The boat, urged by his companions' oars, had already
moved forward, and he stumbled, the brown cap falling from his woolly
head in the act.

"It seems as if I could still see him. Ere I clearly realized that this
was an evil omen, the boat stopped.

"The water was shallow. I saw Achillas point to the shore. It could be
reached by a single bound. Pompey looked towards the King. The freedman
put his hand under his arm to help him rise. Septimius also stood up. I
thought he intended to assist him. But no! What did this mean? Something
flashed by the Imperator's silver-grey hair as if a spark had fallen from
the sky. Would Pompey defend himself, or why did he raise his hand? It
was to draw around him the toga, with which he silently covered his face.
The tribune's arm was again raised high into the air, and then--what
confusion! Here, there, yonder, hands suddenly appeared aloft, bright
flashes darted through the clear air. Achillas, the general, dealt blows
with his dagger as if he were skilled in murder. The Imperator's stalwart
figure sank forward. The freedman supported him.

"Then shouts arose, here a cry of fury, yonder a wail of grief, and,
rising above all, a woman's shriek of anguish. It came from the lips of
Cornelia, the murdered man's wife. Shouts of applause from the King's
camp followed, then the blast of a trumpet; the Egyptians drew back from
the shore. The scarlet cloak again appeared. Septimius, bearing in his
hand a bleeding head, went towards it and held the ghastly trophy aloft.

"The royal boy gazed into the dull eyes of the victim, who had guided the
destinies of many a battlefield, of Rome, of two quarters of the globe.
The sight was probably too terrible for the child upon the throne, for he
averted his head. The ship moved away from the land, the Egyptians formed
into ranks and marched off. Achillas cleansed his blood-stained hands in
the sea-water. The freedman beside him washed his master's headless
trunk. The general shrugged his shoulders as the faithful fellow heaped
reproaches on him."

Here Archibius paused, drawing a long breath. Then he continued more
calmly:

"Achillas did not lead the troops back to Alexandria, but eastward,
towards Pelusium, as I learned later.

"My brother and I stood on the rocky edge of the ravine. It was long ere
either spoke. A cloud of dust concealed the King and his body-guard, the
sails of the galley disappeared. Twilight closed in, and Straton pointed
westward towards Alexandria. Then the sun set. Red! red! It seemed as if
a torrent of blood was pouring over the city.

"Night followed. A scanty fire was glimmering on the strand. Where had
the wood been gathered in this desert? How had it been kindled? A
wrecked, mouldering boat had lain close beside the scene of the murder.
The freedman and his companions had broken it up and fed the flames with
withered boughs, the torn garments of the murdered man, and dry sea-weed.
A blaze soon rose, and a body was carefully placed upon the wretched
funeral pyre. It was the corpse of the great Pompey. One of the
Imperator's veterans aided the faithful servant."

Here Archibius sank back again among the cushions, adding in explanation:

"Cordus, the man's name was Servius Cordus. He fared well later. The
Queen provided for him. The others? Fate overtook them all soon enough.
Theodotus was condemned by Brutus to a torturing death. Amid his loud
shrieks of agony one of Pompey's veterans shouted, 'Dead dogs no longer
bite, but they howl when dying!'

"It was worthy of Caesar that he averted his face in horror from the head
of his enemy, which Theodotus sent to him. Pothinus, too, vainly awaited
the reward of his infamous deed.

"Julius Caesar had cast anchor before Alexandria shortly after the King's
return. Not until after his arrival in Egypt did he learn how Pompey had
been received there. You know that he remained nine months. How often I
have heard it said that Cleopatra understood how to chain him here! This
is both true and false. He was obliged to stay half a year; the following
three months he did indeed give to the woman whom he loved. Ay, the heart
of the man of fifty-four had again opened to a great passion. Like all
wounds, those inflicted by the arrows of Eros heal more slowly when youth
lies behind the stricken one. It was not only the eyes and the senses
which attracted a couple so widely separated by years, but far more the
mental characteristics of both. Two winged intellects had met. The genius
of one had recognized that of the other. The highest type of manhood had
met perfect womanhood. They could not fail to attract each other. I
expected it; for Cleopatra had long watched breathlessly the flight of
this eagle who soared so far above the others, and she was strong enough
to keep at his side.

"We succeeded in joining Cleopatra, and heard that, spite of the
hostility of our citizens, Caesar had occupied the palace of the
Ptolemies and was engaged in restoring order.

"We knew in what way Pothinus, Achillas, and Arsinoe would seek to
influence him. Cleopatra had good reason to fear that her foes might
deliver Egypt unconditionally to Rome, if Caesar should leave the reins
of government in their hands and shut her out. She had cause to dread
this, but she also had the courage to act in person in her own behalf.

"The point now was to bring her into the city, the palace-nay, into
direct communication with the dictator. Children tell the tale of the
strong man who bore Cleopatra in a sack through the palace portals. It
was not a sack which concealed her, but a Syrian carpet. The strong man
was my brother Straton. I went first, to secure a free passage.

"Julius Caesar and she saw and found each other. Fate merely drew the
conclusion which must result from such premises. Never have I seen
Cleopatra happier, more exalted in mind and heart, yet she was menaced on
all sides by serious perils. It required all the military genius of
Caesar to conquer the fierce hostility which he encountered here. It was
this, not the thrall of Cleopatra, I repeat, which first bound him to
Egypt. What would have prevented him--as he did later--from taking the
object of his love to Rome, had it been possible at that time? But this
was not the case. The Alexandrians provided for that.

"He had recognized the flute-player's will, nay, had granted more to the
royal house than could have been given to the former. Cleopatra and her
brother-husband, Dionysus, were to share the government, and he also
bestowed on Arsinoe and her youngest brother the island of Cyprus, which
had been wrested from their uncle Ptolemy by the republic. Rome was, of
course, to remain the guardian of the brothers and sisters.

"This arrangement was unendurable to Pothinus and the former rulers of
the state. Cleopatra as Queen, and Rome--that is Caesar, the dictator,
her friend, as guardian--meant their removal from power, their
destruction, and they resisted violently.

"The Egyptians and even the Alexandrians supported them. The young King
hated nothing more than the yoke of the unloved sister, who was so
greatly his superior. Caesar had come with a force by no means equal to
theirs, and it might be possible to draw the mighty general into a snare.
They fought with all the power at their command, with such passionate
eagerness, that the dictator had never been nearer succumbing to peril.
But Cleopatra certainly did not paralyze his strength and cautious
deliberation. No! He had never been greater; never proved the power of
his genius so magnificently. And against what superior power, what hatred
he contended! I myself saw the young King, when he heard that Cleopatra
had succeeded in entering the palace and meeting Caesar, rush into the
street, fairly crazed by rage, tear the diadem from his head, hurl it on
the pavement, and shriek to the passers-by that he was betrayed, until
Caesar's soldiers forced him back into the palace, and dispersed the mob.

"Arsinoe had received more than she could venture to expect; but she was
again most deeply angered. After Caesar's entry into the palace, she had
received him as Queen, and hoped everything from his favour. Then her
hated sister had come and, as so often happened, she was forgotten for
Cleopatra's sake.

"This was too much, and with the eunuch Ganymedes, her confidant, and--as
I have already said--an able warrior, she left the palace and joined the
dictator's foes.

"There were severe battles on land and sea; in the streets of the city,
for the drinkable water excavated by the foe; and against the
conflagration which destroyed part of the Bruchium and the library of the
museum. Yet, half dead with thirst, barely escaped from drowning,
threatened on all sides by fierce hatred, he stood firm, and remained
victor also in the open field, after the young King had placed himself at
the head of the Egyptians and collected an army.

"You know that the boy was drowned in the flight.

"In battle and mortal peril, amid blood and the clank of arms, Caesar and
Cleopatra spent half a year ere they were permitted to pluck the fruit of
their common labour. The dictator now made her Queen of Egypt, and gave
her, as co-regent, her youngest brother, a boy not half her own age. To
Arsinoe he granted the life she had forfeited, but sent her to Italy.

"Peace followed the victory. Now, it is true, grave duties must have
summoned the statesman back to Rome, but he tarried three full months
longer.

"Whoever knows the life of the ambitious Julius, and is aware what this
delay might have cost him, may well strike his brow with his hand, and
ask, 'Is it true and possible that he used this precious time to take a
trip with the woman he loved up the Nile, to the island of Isis, which is
so dear to the Queen, to the extreme southern frontier of the country?'
Yet it was so, and I myself went in the second ship, and not only saw
them together, but more than once shared their banquets and their
conversation. It was giving and taking, forcing down and elevating, a
succession of discords, not unpleasant to hear, because experience taught
that they would finally terminate in the most beautiful harmony. It was a
festal day for all the senses."

"I imagine the whole Nile journey," interrupted Barine, "to be like the
fairy voyage, when the purple silk sails of Cleopatra's galley bore
Antony along the Cydnus."

"No, no," replied Archibius, "she first learned from Antony the art of
filling this earthly existence with fleeting pleasures. Caesar demanded
more. Her intellect offered him the highest enjoyment."

Here he hesitated.

"True, the skill with which, to please Antony, she daily offered him for
years fresh charms for every sense, was not a matter of accident."

"And this," cried Barine, "this was undertaken by the woman who had
recognized the chief good in peace of mind!"

"Ay," replied Archibius thoughtfully, "yet this was the inevitable
result. Pleasure had been the young girl's object in life. Ere passion
awoke in her soul, peace of mind was the chief good she knew. When the
hour arrived that this proved unattainable, the firmly rooted yearning
for happiness still remained the purpose of her existence. My father
would have been wiser to take her to the Stoa and impress it upon her
that, if life must have a goal, it should be only to live in accordance
with the sensibly arranged course of the world, and in harmony with one's
own nature. He should have taught her to derive happiness from virtue. He
should have stamped goodness upon the soul of the future Queen as the
fundamental law of her being. He omitted to do this, because in his
secluded life he had succeeded in finding the happiness which the master
promises to his disciples. From Athens to Cyrene, from Epicurus to
Aristippus, is but a short step, and Cleopatra took it when she forgot
that the master was far from recognizing the chief good in the enjoyment
of individual pleasure. The happiness of Epicurus was not inferior to
that of Zeus, if he had only barley bread and water to appease his hunger
and thirst.

"Yet she still considered herself a follower of Epicurus, and later, when
Antony had gone to the Parthian war, and she was a long time alone, she
once more began to strive for freedom from pain and peace of mind, but
the state, her children, the marriage of Antony--who had long been her
lover--to Octavia, the yearning of her own heart, Anubis, magic, and the
Egyptian teachings of the life after death, above all, the burning
ambition, the unresting desire to be loved, where she herself loved, to
be first among the foremost--"

Here he was interrupted by the messenger, who informed him that the ship
was ready.



CHAPTER VII.

Archibius had buried himself so deeply in the past that it was several
minutes ere he could bring himself back to the present. When he did so,
he hastily discussed with the two ladies the date of their departure.

It was hard for Berenike to leave her injured brother, and Barine longed
to see Dion once more before the journey. Both were reluctant to quit
Alexandria ere decisive news had arrived from the army and the fleet. So
they requested a few days' delay; but Archibius cut them short, requiring
them, with a resolution which transformed the amiable friend into a stern
master, to be ready for the journey the next day at sunset. His Nile boat
would await them at the Agathodaemon harbour on Lake Mareotis, and his
travelling chariot would convey them thither, with as much luggage and as
many female slaves as they desired to take with them. Then softening his
tone, he briefly reminded the ladies of the great annoyances to which a
longer stay would expose them, excused his rigour on the plea of haste,
pressed the hands of the mother and daughter, and retired without heeding
Barine, who called after him, yet could desire nothing save to plead for
a longer delay. The carriage bore him swiftly to the great harbour.

The waxing moon was mirrored like a silver column, now wavering and
tremulous, now rent by the waves tossing under a strong southeast wind,
and illumined the warm autumn night. The sea outside was evidently
running high. This was apparent by the motion of the vessels lying at
anchor in the angle which the shore in front of the superb Temple of
Poseidon formed with the Choma. This was a tongue of land stretched like
a finger into the sea, on whose point stood a little palace which
Cleopatra, incited by a chance remark of Antony, had had built there to
surprise him.

Another, of white marble, glimmered in the moonlight from the island of
Antirrhodus; and farther still a blazing fire illumined the darkness. Its
flames flared from the top of the famous lighthouse on the island of
Pharos at the entrance of the harbour, and, swayed to and fro by the
wind, steeped the horizon and the outer edge of the dark water in the
harbour with moving masses of light which irradiated the gloomy distance,
sometimes faintly, anon more brilliantly.

Spite of the late hour, the harbour was full of bustle, though the wind
often blew the men's cloaks over their heads, and the women were obliged
to gather their garments closely around them. True, at this hour commerce
had ceased; but many had gone to the port in search of news, or even to
greet before others the first ship returning from the victorious fleet;
for that Antony had defeated Octavianus in a great battle was deemed
certain.

Guards were watching the harbour, and a band of Syrian horsemen had just
passed from the barracks in the southern part of the Lochias to the
Temple of Poseidon.

Here the galleys lay at anchor, not in the harbour of Eunostus, which was
separated from the other by the broad, bridge-like dam of the
Heptastadium, that united the city and the island of Pharos. Near it were
the royal palaces and the arsenal, and any tidings must first reach this
spot. The other harbour was devoted to commerce, but, in order to prevent
the spread of false reports, newly arrived ships were forbidden to enter.

True, even at the great harbour, news could scarcely be expected, for a
chain stretching from the end of the Pharos to a cliff directly opposite
in the Alveus Steganus, closed the narrow opening. But it could be raised
if a state galley arrived with an important message, and this was
expected by the throng on the shore.

Doubtless many came from banquets, cookshops, taverns, or the nocturnal
meeting-places of the sects that practised the magic arts, yet the weight
of anxious expectation seemed to check the joyous activity, and wherever
Archibius glanced he beheld eager, troubled faces. The wind forced many
to bow their heads, and, wherever they turned their eyes, flags and
clouds of dust were fluttering in the air, increasing the confusion.

As the galley put off from the shore, and the flutes summoned the oarsmen
to their toil, its owner felt so disheartened that he did not even
venture to hope that he was going in quest of good tidings.

Long-vanished days had, as it were, been called from the grave, and many
a scene from the past rose before him as he lay among the cushions on the
poop, gazing at the sky, across which dark, swiftly sailing clouds
sometimes veiled the stars and again revealed them.

"How much we can conceal by words without being guilty of falsehood!" he
murmured, while recalling what he had told the women.

Ay, he had been Cleopatra's confidant in his early youth, but how he had
loved her, how, even as a boy, he had been subject to her, body and soul!
He had allowed her to see it, displayed, confessed it; and she had
accepted it as her rightful due. She had repelled with angry pride his
only attempt to clasp her, in his overflowing affection, in his arms; but
to show his love for her is a crime for which the loftiest woman pardons
the humblest suitor, and a few hours later Cleopatra had met him with the
old affectionate familiarity.

Again he recalled the torments which he had endured when compelled to
witness how completely she yielded to the passion which drew her to
Antony. At that time the Roman had merely swept through her life like a
swiftly passing meteor, but many things betrayed that she did not forget
him; and while Archibius had seen without pain her love for the great
Caesar bud and grow, the torturing feeling of jealousy again stirred in
his heart, though youth was past, when at Tarsus, on the river Cydnus,
she renewed the bond which still united her to Antony.

Now his hair had grown grey, and though nothing had clouded his
friendship for the Queen, though he had always been ready to serve her,
this foolish feeling had not been banished, and again and again mastered
his whole being. He by no means undervalued Antony's attractions; but he
saw his foibles no less clearly. All in all, whenever he thought of this
pair, he felt like the lover of art who entrusts the finest gem in his
collection to a rich man who knows not how to prize its real value, and
puts it in the wrong place.

Yet he wished the Roman the most brilliant victory; for his defeat would
have been Cleopatra's also, and would she endure the consequences of such
a disaster?

The galley was approaching the flickering circle of light at the foot of
the Pharos, and Archibius was just producing the token which was to
secure the lifting of the chain, when his name echoed through the
stillness of the night.

It was Dion hailing him from a boat tossing near the mouth of the harbour
on the waves surging in from the turbulent sea. He had recognized
Archibius's swift galley from the bust of Epicurus which was illumined by
the light of the lantern in the prow. Cleopatra had had it placed upon
the ship which, by her orders, had been built for her friend.

Dion now desired to join him, and was soon standing on the deck at his
side. He had landed on the island of Pharos, and entered a sailors'
tavern to learn what was passing. But no one could give him any definite
information, for the wind was blowing from the land and allowed large
vessels to approach the Egyptian coast only by the aid of oars. Shortly
before the breeze had veered from south to southeast, and an experienced
Rhodian would "never again lift cup of wine to his lips" if it did not
blow from the north to-morrow or the day after. Then ships bearing news
might reach Alexandria by the dozen--that is, the greybeard added with a
defiant glance at the daintily clad city gentleman--if they were allowed
to pass the Pharos or go through the Poseidon basin into the Eunostus. He
had fancied that he saw sails on the horizon at sunset, but the swiftest
galley became a hedgehog when the wind blew against its prow, and even
checked the oars.

Others, too, had fancied that they had seen sails, and Dion would gladly
have gone out to sea to investigate, but he was entirely alone in a frail
hired boat, and this would not have been permitted to pass beyond the
harbour. The expectation that every road would be open to Archibius had
not deceived him, and the harbour chain was drawn aside for the Epicurus.
With swelling sails, urged by the strong wind blowing from the southeast,
its keel cut the rolling waves.

Soon a faint, tremulous light appeared in the north. It must be a ship;
and though the helmsman in the tavern at Pharos, who looked as though he
had not always steered peaceful trading-vessels, had spoken of some which
did not let the ships they caught pass unscathed, the men on the
well-equipped, stately Epicurus did not fear pirates, especially as
morning was close at hand, and it had just shot by two clumsy men-of-war
which had been sent out by the Regent.

The strong wind filled every sail, rowing would have been useless labour,
and the light in front seemed to be coming nearer.

A wan glimmer was already beginning to brighten the distant east when the
Epicurus approached the vessel with the light, but it seemed to wish to
avoid the Alexandrian, and turned suddenly towards the northeast.

Archibius and Dion now discussed whether it would be worth while to
pursue the fugitive. It was a small ship, which, as the dark masses of
clouds became bordered with golden edges, grew more distinct and appeared
to be a Cilician pirate of the smallest size.

As to its crew, the tried sailors on the Epicurus, a much larger vessel,
which lacked no means of defence, showed no signs of alarm, the helmsman
especially, who had served in the fleet of Sextus Pompey, and had sprung
upon the deck of many a pirate ship.

Archibius deemed it foolish to commence a conflict unnecessarily. But
Dion was in the mood to brave every peril.

If life and death were at stake, so much the better!

He had informed his friend of Iras's fears.

The fleet must be in a critical situation, and if the little Cilician had
had nothing to conceal she would not have shunned the Epicurus.

It was worth while to learn what had induced her to turn back just before
reaching the harbour. The warlike helmsman also desired to give chase,
and Archibius yielded, for the uncertainty was becoming more and more
unbearable. Dion's soul was deeply burdened too. He could not banish
Barine's image; and since Archibius had told him that he had found her
resolved to shut her house against guests, and how willingly she had
accepted his invitation to the country, again and again he pondered over
the question what should prevent his marrying the quiet daughter of a
distinguished artist, whom he loved?

Archibius had remarked that Barine would be glad to greet her most
intimate friends--among whom he was included--in her quiet country.

Dion did not doubt this, but he was equally sure that the greeting would
bind him to her and rub him of his liberty, perhaps forever. But would
the Alexandrian possess the lofty gift of freedom, if the Romans ruled
his city as they governed Carthage or Corinth? If Cleopatra were
defeated, and Egypt became a Roman province, a share in the business of
the council, which was still addressed as "Macedonian men," and which was
dear to Dion, could offer nothing but humiliation, and no longer afford
satisfaction.

If a pirate's spear put an end to bondage under the Roman yoke and to
this unworthy yearning and wavering, so much the better!

On this autumn morning, under this grey sky, from which sank a damp,
light fog, with these hopes and fears in his heart, he beheld in both the
present and future naught save shadows.

The Epicurus overtook and captured the fugitive. The slight resistance
the vessel might have offered was relinquished when Archibius's helmsman
shouted that the Epicurus did not belong to the royal navy, and had come
in search of news.

The Cilician took in his oars; Archibius and Dion entered the vessel and
questioned the commander.

He was an old, weather-beaten seaman, who would give no information until
after he had learned what his pursuers really desired.

At first he protested that he had witnessed on the Peloponnesian coast a
great victory gained by the Egyptian galleys over those commanded by
Octavianus; but the queries of the two friends involved him in
contradictions, and he then pretended to know nothing, and to have spoken
of a victory merely to please the Alexandrian gentlemen.

Dion, accompanied by a few men from the crew of the Epicurus, searched
the ship, and found in the little cabin a man bound and gagged, guarded
by one of the pirates.

It was a sailor from the Pontus, who spoke only his native language.
Nothing intelligible could be obtained from him; but there were important
suggestions in a letter, found in a chest in the cabin, among clothing,
jewels, and other stolen articles.

The letter-Dion could scarcely believe his own eyes-was addressed to his
friend, the architect Gorgias. The pirate, being ignorant of writing, had
not opened it, but Dion tore the wax from the cord without delay.
Aristocrates, the Greek rhetorician, who had accompanied Antony to the
war, had written from Taenarum, in the south of the Peloponnesus,
requesting the architect, in the general's name, to set the little palace
at the end of the Choma in order, and surround it on the land side with a
high wall.

No door would be necessary. Communication with the dwelling could be had
by water. He must do his utmost to complete the work speedily.

The friends gazed at each other in astonishment, as they read this
commission.

What could induce Antony to give so strange an order? How did it fall
into the hands of the pirates?

This must be understood.

When Archibius, whose gentle nature, so well adapted to inspire
confidence, quickly won friends, burst into passionate excitement, the
unexpected transition rarely failed to produce its effect, especially as
his tall, strong figure and marked features made a still more threatening
impression.

Even the captain gazed at him with fear, when the Alexandrian threatened
to recall all his promises of consideration and mercy if the pirate
withheld even the smallest trifle connected with this letter. The man
speedily perceived that it would be useless to make false statements; for
the captive from Pontus, though unable to speak Greek, understood the
language, and either confirmed every remark of the other with vehement
gestures, or branded it in the same manner as false.

Thus it was discovered that the pirate craft, in company with a much
larger vessel, owned by a companion, had lurked behind the promontory of
Crete for a prize. They had neither seen nor heard aught concerning the
two fleets, when a dainty galley, "the finest and fleetest that ever
sailed in the sea"--it was probably the "Swallow," Antony's
despatch-boat-had run into the snare. To capture her was an easy task.
The pirates had divided their booty, but the lion's share of goods and
men had fallen to the larger ship.

A pouch containing letters and money had been taken from a gentleman of
aristocratic appearance--probably Antony's messenger--who had received a
severe wound, died, and had been flung into the sea. The former had been
used to light the fire, and only the one addressed to the architect
remained.

The captured sailors had said that the fleet of Octavianus had defeated
Cleopatra's, and the Queen had fled, but that the land forces were still
untouched, and might yet decide the conflict in Antony's favour. The
pirate protested that he did not know the position of the army--it might
be at Taenarum, whence the captured ship came. It was a sin and a shame,
but his own crew had set it on fire, and it sank before his eyes.

This report seemed to be true, yet the Acharnanian coast, where the
battle was said to have been fought, was so far from the southern point
of the Peloponnesus, whence Antony's letter came, that it must have been
written during the flight. One thing appeared to be certain--the fleet
had been vanquished and dispersed on the 2d or 3d of September.

Where would the Queen go now? What had become of the magnificent galleys
which had accompanied her to the battle?

Even the contrary winds would not have detained them so long, for they
were abundantly supplied with rowers.

Had Octavianus taken possession of them? Were they burned or sunk?

But in that case how had Antony reached Taenarum?

The pirate could give no answer to these questions, which stirred both
heart and brain. Why should he conceal what had reached his ears?

At last Archibius ordered the property stolen from Antony's ship, and the
liberated sailor to be brought on board the Epicurus, but the pirate was
obliged to swear not to remain in the waters between Crete and
Alexandria. Then he was suffered to pursue his way unmolested.

This adventure had occupied many hours, and the return against the wind
was slow; for, during the chase the Epicurus had been carried by the
strong breeze far out to sea. Yet, when still several miles from the
mouth of the harbour at the Pharos, it was evident that the Rhodian
helmsman in the island tavern had predicted truly; for the weather
changed with unusual speed, and the wind now blew from the north. The sea
fairly swarmed with ships, some belonging to the royal fleet, some to
curious Alexandrians, who had sailed out to take a survey. Archibius and
Dion had spent a sleepless night and day. The heavy air, pervaded by a
fine mist, had grown cool. After refreshing themselves by a repast, they
paced up and down the deck of the Epicurus.

Few words were exchanged, and they wrapped their cloaks closer around
them. Both had quaffed large draughts of the fiery wine with which the
Epicurus was well supplied, but it would not warm them. Even the fire,
blazing brightly in the richly furnished cabin, could scarcely do so.

Archibius's thoughts lingered with his beloved Queen, and his vivid power
of imagination conjured before his mind everything which could distress
her. No possible chance, not even the most terrible, was forgotten, and
when he saw her sinking in the ship, stretching her beautiful arms
imploringly towards him, to whom she had so long turned in every perilous
position, when he beheld her a captive in the presence of the hostile,
cold-hearted Octavianus, the blood seemed to freeze in his veins. At last
he dropped his felt mantle and, groaning aloud, struck his brow with his
clenched hand. He had fancied her walking with gold chains on her slender
wrists before the victor's four-horse chariot, and heard the exulting
shouts of the Roman populace.

That would have been the most terrible of all. To pursue this train of
thought was beyond the endurance of the faithful friend, and Dion turned
in surprise as he heard him sob and saw the tears which bedewed his face.

His own heart was heavy enough, but he knew his companion's warm devotion
to the Queen; so, passing his arm around his shoulder, he entreated him
to maintain that peace of soul and mind which he had so often admired. In
the most critical situations he had seen him stand high above them, as
yonder man who fed the flames on the summit of the Pharos stood above the
wild surges of the sea. If he would reflect over what had happened as
dispassionately as usual, he could not fail to see that Antony must be
free and in a position to guide his own future, since he directed the
palace in the Choma to be put in order. He did not understand about the
wall, but perhaps he was bringing home some distinguished captive whom he
wished to debar from all communication with the city. It might prove that
everything was far better than they feared, and they would yet smile at
these grievous anxieties. His heart, too, was heavy, for he wished the
Queen the best fortune, not only for her own sake, but because with her
and her successful resistance to the greed of Rome was connected the
liberty of Alexandria.

"My love and anxiety, like yours," he concluded, "have ever been given to
her, the sovereign of this country. The world will be desolate, life will
no longer be worth living, if the iron foot of Rome crushes our
independence and freedom." The words had sounded cordial and sincere, and
Archibius followed Dion's counsel. Calm thought convinced him that
nothing had yet happened which compelled belief in the worst result; and,
as one who needs consolation often finds relief in comforting another,
Archibius cheered his own heart by representing to his younger friend
that, even if Octavianus were the victor and should deprive Egypt of her
independence, he would scarcely venture to take from the citizens of
Alexandria the free control of their own affairs. Then he explained to
Dion that, as a young, resolute, independent man, he might render himself
doubly useful if it were necessary to guard the endangered liberty of the
city, and told him how many beautiful things life still held in store.

His voice expressed anxious tenderness for his young friend. No one had
spoken thus to Dion since his father's death.

The Epicurus would soon reach the mouth of the harbour, and after landing
he must again leave Archibius.

The decisive hour which often unites earnest men more firmly than many
previous years had come to both. They had opened their hearts to each
other. Dion had withheld only the one thing which, at the first sight of
the houses in the city, filled his soul with fresh uneasiness.

It was long since he had sought counsel from others. Many who had asked
his, had left him with thanks, to do exactly the opposite of what he had
advised, though it would have been to their advantage. More than once he,
too, had done the same, but now a powerful impulse urged him to confide
in Archibius. He knew Barine, and wished her the greatest happiness.
Perhaps it would be wise to let another person, who was kindly disposed,
consider what his own heart so eagerly demanded and prudence forbade.

Hastily forming his resolution, he again turned to his friend, saying:

"You have shown yourself a father to me. Imagine that I am indeed your
son, and, as such wished to confess that a woman had become dear to my
heart, and to ask whether you would be glad to greet her as a daughter."

Here Archibius interrupted him with the exclamation: "A ray of light amid
all this gloom? Grasp what you have too long neglected as soon as
possible! It befits a good citizen to marry. The Greek does not attain
full manhood till he becomes husband and father. If I have remained
unwedded, there was a special reason for it, and how often I have envied
the cobbler whom I saw standing before his shop in the evening, holding
his child in his arms, or the pilot, to whom large and small hands were
stretched in greeting when he returned home! When I enter my dwelling
only my dogs rejoice. But you, whose beautiful palace stands empty, to
whose proud family it is due that you should provide for its
continuance--"

"That is just what brings me into a state of indecision, which is usually
foreign to my nature," interrupted Dion. "You know me and my position in
the world, and you have also known from her earliest childhood the woman
to whom I allude."

"Iras?" asked his companion, hesitatingly. His sister, Charmian, had told
him of the love felt by the Queen's younger waiting-woman.

But Dion eagerly denied this, adding I am speaking of Barine, the
daughter of your dead friend Leonax. "I love her, yet my pride is
sensitive, and I know that it will extend to my future wife. The
contemptuous glances which others might cast at her I should scorn, for I
know her worth. Surely you remember my mother: she was a very different
woman. Her house, her child, the slaves, her loom, were everything to
her. She rigidly exacted from other women the chaste reserve which was a
marked trait in her own character. Yet she was gentle, and loved me, her
only son, beyond aught else. I think she would have opened her arms to
Barine, had she believed that she was necessary to my happiness. But
would the young beauty, accustomed to gay intercourse with distinguished
men, have been able to submit to her demands? When I consider that she
cannot help taking into her married life the habit of being surrounded
and courted; when I think that the imprudence of a woman accustomed to
perfect freedom might set idle tongues in motion, and cast a shadow upon
the radiant purity of my name; when I even--" and he raised his clenched
right hand. But Archibius answered soothingly:

"That anxiety is groundless if Barine warmly and joyfully gives you her
whole heart. It is a sunny, lovable, true woman's heart, and therefore
capable of a great love. If she bestows it on you--and I believe she
will--go and offer sacrifices in your gratitude; for the immortals
desired your happiness when they guided your choice to her and not to
Iras, my own sister's child. If you were really my son, I would now
exclaim, 'You could not bring me a dearer daughter, if--I repeat it--if
you are sure of her love.'"

Dion gazed into vacancy a short time, and then cried firmly: "I am!"



CHAPTER VIII.

The Epicurus anchored before the Temple of Poseidon. The crew had been
ordered to keep silence, though they knew nothing, except that a letter
from Antony, commanding the erection of a wall, had been found on board
the pirate. This might be regarded as a good omen, for people do not
think of building unless they anticipate a time of peace.

The light rain had ceased, but the wind blew more strongly from the
north, and the air had grown cool. A dense throng still covered the quay
from the southern end of the Heptastadium to the promontory of Lochias.
The strongest pressure was between the peninsula of the Choma and the
Sebasteum; for this afforded a view of the sea, and the first tidings
must reach the residence of the Regent, which was connected with the
palace.

A hundred contradictory rumours had been in circulation that morning; and
when, at the third hour in the afternoon, the Epicurus arrived, it was
surrounded by a dense multitude eager to hear what news the ship had
brought from without.

Other vessels shared the same fate, but none could give reliable tidings.

Two swift galleys from the royal fleet reported meeting a Samian trireme,
which had given news of a great victory gained by Antony on the land and
Cleopatra on the sea, and, as men are most ready to believe what they
desire, throngs of exulting men and women moved to and fro along the
shore, strengthening by their confidence many a timorous spirit. Prudent
people, who had regarded the long delay of the first ships of the fleet
with anxiety, had opened their ears to the tales of evil, and looked
forward to the future with uneasiness. But they avoided giving expression
to their fears, for the overseer of an establishment for gold embroidery,
who had ventured to warn the people against premature rejoicing, had
limped home badly beaten, and two other pessimists who had been flung in
the sea had just been dragged out dripping wet.

Nor could the multitude be blamed for this confidence; for at the
Serapeum, the theatre of Dionysus, the lofty pylons of the Sebasteum, the
main door of the museum, in front of the entrance of the palace in the
Bruchium, and before the fortress-like palaces in the Lochias, triumphal
arches had been erected, adorned with gods of victory and trophies
hastily constructed of plaster, inscriptions of congratulations and
thanks to the deities, garlands of foliage and flowers. The wreathing of
the Egyptian pylons and obelisks, the principal temple, and the favourite
statues in the city had been commenced during the night. The last touches
were now being given to the work.

Gorgias, like his friend Dion, had not closed his eyes since the night
before; for he had had charge of all the decorations of the Bruchium,
where one superb building adjoined another.

Sleep had also fled from the couches of the occupants of the Sebasteum,
the royal palace where Iras lived during the absence of the Queen, and
the practorium, facing its southern front, which contained the official
residence of the Regent.

When Archibius was conducted to the Queen's waiting-woman, her appearance
fairly startled him. She had been his guest in Kanopus only the day
before yesterday, and how great was the alteration within this brief
time! Her oval face seemed to have lengthened, the features to have grown
sharper; and this woman of seven-and-twenty years, who had hitherto
retained all the charms of youth, appeared suddenly to have aged a
decade. There was a feverish excitement in her manner, as, holding out
her hand to her uncle, in greeting, she exclaimed hastily, "You, too,
bring no good tidings?"

"Nor any evil ones," he answered quietly. "But, child, I do not like your
appearance--the dark circles under your keen eyes. You have had news
which rouses your anxiety?"

"Worse than that," she answered in a low tone.

"Well?"

"Read!" gasped Iras, her lips and nostrils quivering as she handed
Archibius a small tablet. With a gesture of haste very unusual in him, he
snatched it from her hand and, as his eyes ran over the words traced upon
it, every vestige of colour vanished from his cheeks and lips.

They were written by Cleopatra's own hand, and contained the following
lines:

"The naval battle was lost--and by my fault. The land forces might still
save us, but not under his command. He is with me, uninjured, but
apparently exhausted; like a different being, bereft of courage, listless
as if utterly crushed. I foresee the beginning of the end. As soon as
this reaches you, arrange to have some unpretending litters ready for us
every evening at sunset. Make the people believe that we have conquered
until trustworthy intelligence arrives concerning the fate of Canidius
and the army. When you kiss the children in my name, be very tender with
them. Who knows how soon they may be orphaned? They already have an
unhappy mother; may they be spared the memory of a cowardly one! Trust no
one except those whom I left in authority, and Archibius, not even
Caesarion or Antyllus. Provide for having every one whose aid may be
valuable to me within reach when I come. I cannot close with the familiar
'Rejoice'--the 'Fresh Courage' placed on many a tombstone seems more
appropriate. You who did not envy me in my happiness will help me to bear
misfortune. Epicurus, who believes that the gods merely watch the destiny
of men inactively from their blissful heights, is right. Were it
otherwise, how could the love and loyalty which cleave to the hapless,
defeated woman, be repaid with anguish of heart and tears? Yet continue
to love her."

Archibius, pale and silent, let the tablet fall. It was long ere he
gasped hoarsely: "I foresaw it; yet now that it is here--" His voice
failed, and violent, tearless sobs shook his powerful frame.

Sinking on a couch he buried his face amid the cushions.

Iras gazed at the strong man and shook her head. She, too, loved the
Queen; the news had brought tears to her eyes also; but even while she
wept, a host of plans coping with this disaster had darted through her
restless brain. A few minutes after the arrival of the message of
misfortune she had consulted with the members of Cleopatra's council, and
adopted measures for sustaining the people's belief in the naval victory.

What was she, the delicate, by no means courageous girl, compared to this
man of iron strength who, she was well aware, had braved the greatest
perils in the service of the Queen? Yet there he lay with his face hidden
in the pillows as if utterly overwhelmed.

Did a woman's soul rebound more quickly after being crushed beneath the
burdens of the heaviest suffering, or was hers of a special character,
and her slender body the casket of a hero's nature?

She had reason to believe so when she recalled how the Regent and the
Keeper of the Seal had received the terrible news. They had rushed
frantically up and down the vast hall as if desperate; but Mardion the
eunuch had little manhood, and Zeno was a characterless old author who
had won the Queen's esteem, and the high office which he occupied solely
by the vivid power of imagination, that enabled him constantly to devise
new exhibitions, amusements, and entertainments, and present them with
magical splendour.

But Archibius, the brave, circumspect counsellor and helper?

His shoulders again quivered as if they had received a blow, and Iras
suddenly remembered what she had long known, but never fully
realized--that yonder grey-haired man loved Cleopatra, loved her as she
herself loved Dion; and she wondered whether she would have been strong
enough to maintain her composure if she had learned that a cruel fate
threatened to rob him of life, liberty, and honour.

Hour after hour she had vainly awaited the young Alexandrian, yet he had
witnessed her anxiety the day before. Had she offended him? Was he
detained by the spell of Didymus's granddaughter?

It seemed a great wrong that, amid the unspeakably terrible misfortune
which had overtaken her mistress, she could not refrain from thinking
continually of Dion. Even as his image filled her heart, Cleopatra's
ruled her uncle's mind and soul, and she said to herself that it was not
alone among women that love paid no heed to years, or whether the locks
were brown or tinged with grey.

But Archibius now raised himself, left the couch, passed his hand across
his brow, and in the deep, calm tones natural to his voice, began with a
sorrowful smile: "A man stricken by an arrow leaves the fray to have his
wound bandaged. The surgeon has now finished his task. I ought to have
spared you this pitiable spectacle, child. But I am again ready for the
battle. Cleopatra's account of Antony's condition renders a piece of news
which we have just received somewhat more intelligible."

"We?" replied Iras. "Who was your companion?"

"Dion," answered Archibius; but when he was about to describe the
incidents of the preceding night, she interrupted him with the question
whether Barine had consented to leave the city. He assented with a curt
"Yes," but Iras assumed the manner of having expected nothing different,
and requested him to continue his story.

Archibius now related everything which they had experienced, and their
discovery in the pirate ship. Dion was even now on the way to carry
Antony's order to his friend Gorgias.

"Any slave might have attended to that matter equally well," Iras
remarked in an irritated tone. "I should think he would have more reason
to expect trustworthy tidings here. But that's the way with men!"

Here she hesitated but, meeting an inquiring glance from her uncle, she
went on eagerly; "Nothing, I believe, binds them more firmly to one
another than mutual pleasure. But that must now be over. They will seek
other amusements, whether with Heliodora or Thais I care not. If the
woman had only gone before! When she caught young Caesarion--"

"Stay, child," her uncle interrupted reprovingly. "I know how much she
would rejoice if Antyllus had never brought the boy to her house."

"Now--because the poor deluded lad's infatuation alarms her."

"No, from his first visit. Immature boys do not suit the distinguished
men whom she receives."

"If the door is always kept open, thieves will enter the house."

"She received only old acquaintances, and the friends whom they
presented. Her house was closed to all others. So there was no trouble
with thieves. But who in Alexandria could venture to refuse admittance to
a son of the Queen?"

"There is a wide difference between quiet admittance and fanning a
passion to madness. Wherever a fire is burning, there has certainly been
a spark to kindle it. You men do not detect such women's work. A glance,
a pressure of the hand, even the light touch of a garment, and the flame
blazes, where such inflammable material lies ready."

"We lament the violence of the conflagration. You are not well disposed
towards Barine."

"I care no more for her than this couch here cares for the statue of
Mercury in the street!" exclaimed Iras, with repellent arrogance. "There
could be no two things in the world more utterly alien than we. Between
the woman whose door stands open, and me, there is nothing in common save
our sex."

"And," replied Archibius reprovingly, "many a beautiful gift which the
gods bestowed upon her as well as upon you. As for the open door, it was
closed yesterday. The thieves of whom you spoke spoiled her pleasure in
granting hospitality. Antyllus forced himself with noisy impetuosity into
her house. This made her dread still more unprecedented conduct in the
future. In a few hours she will be on the way to Irenia. I am glad for
Caesarion's sake, and still more for his mother's, whom we have wronged
by forgetting so long for another."

"To think that we should be forced to do so!" cried Iras excitedly--
"now, at this hour, when every drop of blood, every thought of this poor
brain should belong to the Queen! Yet it could not be avoided. Cleopatra
is returning to us with a heart bleeding from a hundred wounds, and it is
terrible to think that a new arrow must strike her as soon as she steps
upon her native soil. You know how she loves the boy, who is the living
image of the great man with whom she shared the highest joys of love.
When she learns that he, the son of Caesar, has given his young heart to
the cast-off wife of a street orator, a woman whose home attracted men as
ripe dates lure birds, it will be--I know--like rubbing salt into her
fresh wounds. Alas! and the one sorrow will not be all. Antony, her
husband, also found the way to Barine. He sought her more than once. You
cannot know it as I do; but Charmian will tell you how sensitive she has
become since the flower of her youthful charms--you don't perceive it--is
losing one leaf after another. Jealousy will torture her, and--I know her
well--perhaps no one will ever render the siren a greater service than I
did when I compelled her to leave the city."

The eyes of Archibius's clever niece had glittered with such hostile
feeling as she spoke that he thought with just anxiety of his dead
friend's daughter. What did not yet threaten Barine as serious danger
Iras had the power to transform into grave peril.

Dion had begged him to maintain strict secrecy; but even had he been
permitted to speak, he would not have done so now. From his knowledge of
Iras's character she might be expected, if she learned that some one had
come between her and the friend of her youth, to shrink from no means of
spoiling her game. He remembered the noble Macedonian maiden whom the
Queen had begun to favour, and who was hunted to death by Iras's hostile
intrigues. Few were more clever, and--if she once loved--more loyal and
devoted, more yielding, pliant, and in happy hours more bewitching, yet
even in childhood she had preferred a winding path to a straight one. It
seemed as if her shrewdness scorned to attain the end desired by the
simple method lying close at hand. How willingly his mother and his
younger sister Charmian had cared for the slaves and nursed them when
they were ill; nay, Charmian had gained in her Nubian maid Aniukis a
friend who would have gone to death for her sake! Cleopatra, too, when a
child, had found sincere delight in taking a bouquet to his parents' sick
old housekeeper and sitting by her bedside to shorten the time for her
with merry talk. She had gone to her unasked, while Iras had often been
punished because she had made the lives of numerous slaves in her
parents' household still harder by unreasonable harshness. This trait in
her character had roused her uncle's anxiety and, in after-years, her
treatment of her inferiors had been such that he could not number her
among the excellent of her sex. Therefore he was the more joyfully
surprised by the loyal, unselfish love with which she devoted herself to
the service of the Queen. Cleopatra had gratified Charmian's wish to have
her niece for an assistant; and Iras, who had never been a loving
daughter to her own faithful mother, had served her royal mistress with
the utmost tenderness.

Archibius valued this loyalty highly, but he knew what awaited any one
who became the object of her hatred, and the fear that it would involve
Barine in urgent peril was added to his still greater anxiety for
Cleopatra.

When about to depart, burdened by the sorrowful conviction that he was
powerless against his niece's malevolent purpose, he was detained by the
representation that every fresh piece of intelligence would first reach
the Sebasteum and her. Some question might easily arise which his calm,
prudent mind could decide far better than hers, whose troubled condition
resembled a shallow pool disturbed by stones flung into the waves.

The apartments of his sister Charmian, which were connected with his by a
corridor, were empty, and Iras begged him to remain there a short time.
The anxiety and dread that oppressed her heart would kill her. To know
that he was near would be the greatest comfort.

When Archibius hesitated because he deemed it his duty to urge Caesarion,
over whom he possessed some influence, to give up his foolish wishes for
his mother's sake, Iras assured him that he would not find the youth. He
had gone hunting with Antyllus and some other friends. She had approved
the plan, because it removed him from the city and Barine's dangerous
house.

"As the Queen does not wish him to know the terrible news yet," she
concluded, "his presence would only have caused us embarrassment. So
stay, and when it grows dark go with us to the Lochias. I think it will
please the sorrowing woman, when she lands, to see your familiar face,
which will remind her of happier days. Do me the favour to stay." She
held out both hands beseechingly as she spoke, and Archibius consented.

A repast was served, and he shared it with his niece; but Iras did not
touch the carefully chosen viands, and Archibius barely tasted them.
Then, without waiting for dessert, he rose to go to his sister's
apartments. But Iras urged him to rest on the divan in the adjoining
room, and he yielded. Yet, spite of the softness of the pillows and his
great need of sleep, he could not find it; anxiety kept him awake, and
through the curtain which divided the room in which Iras remained from
the one he occupied he sometimes heard her light footsteps pacing
restlessly to and fro, sometimes the coming and going of messengers in
quest of news.

All his former life passed before his mind. Cleopatra had been his sun,
and now black clouds were rising which would dim its light, perchance
forever. He, the disciple of Epicurus, who had not followed the doctrines
of other masters until later in life, held the same view of the gods as
his first master. To him also they had seemed immortal beings sufficient
unto themselves, dwelling free from anxiety in blissful peace, to whom
mortals must look upward on account of their supreme grandeur, but who
neither troubled themselves about the guidance of the world, which was
fixed by eternal laws, nor the fate of individuals. Had he been convinced
of the contrary, he would have sacrificed everything he possessed in
order, by lavish offerings, to propitiate the immortals in behalf of her
to whom he had devoted his life and every faculty of his being.

Like Iras, he, too, could find no rest upon his couch, and when she heard
his step she called to him and asked why he did not recover the sleep
which he had lost. No one knew the demands the next night might make upon
him.

"You will find me awake," he answered quietly.

Then he went to the window which, above the pylons that rose before the
main front of the Sebasteum, afforded a view of the Bruchium and the sea.
The harbour was now swarming with vessels of every size, garlanded with
flowers and adorned with gay flags and streamers. The report of the
successful issue of the first naval battle was believed, and many desired
to greet the victorious fleet and hail their sovereign as she entered the
harbour.

Many people, equipages, and litters had also gathered on the shore,
between the lofty pylons and the huge door of the Sebasteum. They were
representatives of the aristocracy of the city; for the majority were
attended by richly attired slaves. Many wore costly garlands, and
numerous chariots and litters were adorned with gold or silver ornaments,
gems, and glittering paste. The stir and movement in front of the palace
were ceaseless, and Iras, who was now standing beside her uncle, waved
her hand towards it, saying: "The wind of rumour! Yesterday only one or
two came; to-day every one who belongs to the 'Inimitable Livers' flocks
hither in person to get news. The victory was proclaimed in the
market-place, at the theatre, the gymnasium, and the camp. Every one who
wears garlands or weapons heard of a battle won. Yesterday, among all the
thousands, there was scarcely a single doubter; but to-day-how does it
happen? Even among those who as 'Inimitables' have shared all the
pleasures, entertainments, and festivities of our noble pair, faith
wavers; for if they were firmly convinced of the brilliant victory which
was announced loudly enough, they would not come themselves to watch, to
spy, to listen. Just look down! There is the litter of Diogenes--yonder
that of Ammonius. The chariot beyond belongs to Melampous. The slaves in
the red bombyx garments serve Hermias. They all belong to the society
of--'Inimitables,' and shared our banquets. That very Apollonius who, for
the last half hour, has been trying to question the palace servants, day
before yesterday ordered fifty oxen to be slaughtered to Ares, Nike, and
the great Isis, as the Queen's goddess, and when I met him in the temple
he exclaimed that this was the greatest piece of extravagance he had ever
committed; for even without the cattle Cleopatra and Antony would be sure
of victory. But now the wind of rumour has swept away his beautiful
confidence also. They are not permitted to see me. The doorkeepers say
that I am in the country. The necessity of showing every one a face
radiant with the joy of victory would kill me. There comes Apollonius.
How his fat face beams! He believes in the victory, and after sunset none
of yonder throng will appear here; he is already giving orders to his
slaves. He will invite all his friends to a banquet, and won't spare his
costly wines. Capital! At least no one from that company can disturb us.
Dion is his cousin, and will be present also. We shall see what these
pleasure-lovers will do when they are forced to confront, the terrible
reality."

"I think," replied Archibius, "they will afford the world a remarkable
spectacle; friends won in prosperity who remain constant in adversity."

"Do you?" asked Iras, with sparkling eyes. "If that proves true, how I
would praise and value men--the majority of whom without their wealth
would be poorer than beggars. But look at yonder figure in the white robe
beside the left obelisk--is it not Dion? The crowd is bearing him away--I
think it was he."

But she had been deceived; the man whom she fancied she had seen, because
her heart so ardently yearned for him, was not near the Sebasteum, and
his thoughts were still farther away.

At first he had intended to give the architect the letter which was
addressed to him. He would be sure to find him at the triumphal arch
which was being erected on the shore of the Bruchium. But on reaching the
former place he learned that Gorgias had gone to remove the statues of
Cleopatra and Antony from the house of Didymus, and erect them in front
of the Theatre of Dionysus. The Regent, Mardion, had ordered it. Gorgias
was already superintending the erection of the foundation.

The huge hewn stones which he required for this purpose had been taken
from the Temple of Nemesis, which he was supervising. Whatever number of
government slaves he needed were at his disposal, so Gorgias's foreman
reported, proudly adding that before the sun went down, the architect
would have shown the Alexandrians the marvel of removing the twin statues
from one place to another in a single day, and yet establishing them as
firmly as the Colossus which had been in Thebes a thousand years.

Dion found the piece of sculpture in front of Didymus's garden, ready for
removal, but the slaves who had placed before the platform the rollers on
which it was to be moved had already been kept waiting a long time by the
architect.

This was his third visit to the old philosopher's house. First, he had
been obliged to inform him and his family that their property was no
longer in danger; then he had come to tell them at what hour he would
remove the statues, which still attracted many curious spectators; and,
finally, he had again appeared, to announce that they were to be taken
away at once. His foreman or a slave could probably have done this, but
Helena--Didymus's granddaughter, Barine's sister--drew him again and
again to the old man's home. He would gladly have come still more
frequently, for at every meeting he had discovered fresh charms in the
beautiful, quiet, thoughtful maiden, who cared so tenderly for her aged
grandparents. He believed that he loved her, and she seemed glad to
welcome him. But this did not entitle him to seek her hand, though his
large, empty house so greatly needed a mistress. His heart had glowed
with love for too many. He wished first to test whether this new fancy
would prove more lasting. If he succeeded in remaining faithful even a
few days, he would, as it were, reward himself for it, and appear before
Didymus as a suitor.

He excused his frequent visits to himself on the pretext of the necessity
of becoming acquainted with his future wife, and Helena made the task
easier for him. The usual reserve of her manner lessened more and more;
nay, the great confidence with which he at first inspired her was
increased by his active assistance. When he entered just now, she had
even held out her hand to him, and inquired about the progress of his
work.

He was overwhelmed with business, but so great was his pleasure in
talking with her that he lingered longer than he would have deemed right
under any other circumstances, and regarded it as an unpleasant
interruption when Barine--for whom his heart had throbbed so warmly only
yesterday--entered the tablinum.

The young beauty was by no means content with a brief greeting; but drew
Helena entirely away from him. Never had he seen her embrace and kiss her
sister so passionately as while hurriedly telling her that she had come
to bid farewell to the loved ones in her grandparents' house.

Berenike had arrived with her, but went first to the old couple.

While Barine was telling Helena and Gorgias, also, why all this plan had
been formed so hastily, Gorgias was silently comparing the two sisters.
He found it natural that he had once believed that he loved Barine; but
she would not have been a fitting mistress of his house. Life at her side
would have been a chain of jealous emotions and anxieties, and her
stimulating remarks and searching questions, which demanded absolute
attention, would not have permitted him, after his return home, wearied
by arduous toil, to find the rest for which he longed. His eye wandered
from her to her sister, as if testing the space between two newly erected
pillars; and Barine, who had noticed his strange manner, suddenly laughed
merrily, and asked whether they might know what building was occupying
his thoughts, while a good friend was telling him that the pleasant hours
in her house were over.

Gorgias started, and the apology he stammered showed so plainly how
inattentively he had listened, that Barine would have had good reason to
feel offended. But one glance at her sister and another at him enabled
her speedily to guess the truth. She was pleased; for she esteemed
Gorgias, and had secretly feared that she might be forced to grieve him
by a refusal, but he seemed as if created for her sister. Her arrival had
probably interrupted them so, turning to Helena, she exclaimed: "I must
see my mother and our grandparents. Meanwhile entertain our friend here.
We know each other well. He is one of the few men who can be trusted.
That is my honest opinion, Gorgias, and I say it to you also, Helena."

With these words she nodded to both, and Gorgias was again alone with the
maiden whom he loved.

It was difficult to begin the conversation anew, and when, spite of many
efforts, it would not flow freely, the shout of the overseer, which
reached his ear through the opening of the roof, urging the men to work,
was like a deliverance. Promising to return again soon, as eagerly as if
he had been requested to do so, he took his leave and opened the door
leading into the adjoining room. But on the threshold he started back,
and Helena, who had followed him, did the same, for there stood his
friend Dion, and Barine's beautiful head lay on his breast, while his
hand rested as if in benediction on her fair hair. And--no, Gorgias was
not mistaken-the slender frame of the lovely woman, whose exuberant
vivacity had so often borne him and others away with it, trembled as if
shaken by deep and painful emotion.

When Dion perceived his friend, and Barine raised her head, turning her
face towards him, it was indeed wet with tears, but their source could
not be sorrow; for her blue eyes were sparkling with a happy light.

Yet Gorgias found something in her features which he was unable to
express in words--the reflection of the ardent gratitude that had taken
possession of her soul and filled it absolutely. While seeking the
architect, Dion had met Barine, who was on her way to her grandparents,
and what he had dreaded the day before happened. The first glance from
her eyes which met his forced the decisive question from his lips.

In brief, earnest words he confessed his love for her, and his desire to
make her his own, as the pride and ornament of his house.

Then, in the intensity of her bliss, her eyes overflowed and, under the
spell of a great miracle wrought in her behalf, she found no words to
answer; but Dion had approached, clasped her right hand in both of his,
and frankly acknowledged how, with the image of his strict mother before
his eyes, he had wavered and hesitated until love had overmastered him.
Now, full of the warmest confidence, he asked whether she would consent
to rule as mistress of his home, the honour and ornament of his ancient
name? He knew that her heart was his, but he must hear one thing more
from her lips--

Here she had interrupted him with the cry, "This one thing--that your
wife, in joy and in sorrow, will live for you and you alone? The whole
world can vanish for her, now that you have raised her to your side and
she is yours."

After this assurance, which sounded like an oath, Dion felt as if a heavy
burden had fallen from his heart, and clasping her in his arms with
passionate tenderness, he repeated, "In joy and in sorrow!"

Thus Gorgias and Helena had surprised them, and the architect felt for
the first time that there is no distinction between our own happiness and
that of those whom we love.

His friend Helena seemed to have the same feeling, when she saw what this
day had given her sister; and the philosopher's house, so lately shadowed
by anxiety, and many a fear, would soon ring with voices uttering joyous
congratulations. The architect no longer felt that he had a place in this
circle, which was now pervaded by a great common joy, and after Dion made
a brief explanation, Gorgias's voice was soon heard outside loudly
issuing orders to the workmen.



     ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

     From Epicurus to Aristippus, is but a short step
     Preferred a winding path to a straight one



CLEOPATRA

By Georg Ebers

Volume 4.



CHAPTER IX.

Gorgias went to his work without delay. When the twin statues were only
waiting to be erected in front of the Theatre of Dionysus, Dion sought
him. Some impulse urged him to talk to his old friend before leaving the
city with his betrothed bride. Since they parted the latter had
accomplished the impossible; for the building of the wall on the Choma,
ordered by Antony, was commenced, the restoration of the little palace at
the point, and many other things connected with the decoration of the
triumphal arches, were arranged. His able and alert foreman found it
difficult to follow him as he dictated order after order in his
writing-tablet.

The conversation with his friend was not a long one, for Dion had
promised Barine and her mother to accompany them to the country.
Notwithstanding the betrothal, they were to start that very day; for
Caesarion had called upon Barine twice that morning. She had not received
him, but the unfortunate youth's conduct induced her to hasten the
preparations for her departure.

To avoid attracting attention, they were to use Archibius's large
travelling chariot and Nile boat, although Dion's were no less
comfortable.

The marriage was to take place in the "abode of peace." The young
Alexandrian's own ship, which was to convey the newly wedded pair to
Alexandria, bore the name of Peitho, the goddess of persuasion, for Dion
liked to be reminded of his oratorical powers in the council.
Henceforward it would be called the Barine, and was to receive many an
embellishment.

Dion confided to his friend what he had learned in relation to the fate
of the Queen and the fleet, and, notwithstanding the urgency of the
claims upon Gorgias's time, he lingered to discuss the future destiny of
the city and her threatened liberty; for these things lay nearest to his
heart.

"Fortunately," cried Dion, "I followed my inclination; now it seems to me
that duty commands every true man to make his own house a nursery for the
cultivation of the sentiments which he inherited from his forefathers and
which must not die, so long as there are Macedonian citizens in
Alexandria. We must submit if the superior might of Rome renders Egypt a
province of the republic, but we can preserve to our city and her council
the lion's share of their freedom. Whatever may be the development of
affairs, we are and shall remain the source whence Rome draws the largest
share of the knowledge which enriches her brain."

"And the art which adorns her rude life," replied Gorgias. "If she is
free to crush us without pity, she will fare, I think, like the maiden
who raises her foot to trample on a beautiful, rare flower, and then
withdraws it because it would be a crime to destroy so exquisite a work
of the Creator."

"And what does the flower owe to your maiden," cried Dion, "or our city
to Rome? Let us meet her claims with dignified resolution, then I think
we shall not have the worst evils to fear."

"Let us hope so. But, my friend, keep your eyes open for other than Roman
foes. Now that it will become known that you do not love her, beware of
Iras. There is something about her which reminds me of the jackal.
Jealousy!--I believe she would be capable of the worst--"

"Yet," Dion interrupted, "Charmian will soften whatever injury Iras plans
to do me, and, though I cannot rely much upon my uncle, Archibius is
above both and favours us and our marriage."

Gorgias uttered a sigh of relief, and exclaimed, "Then on to happiness!"

"And you must also begin to provide for yours," replied Dion warmly.
"Forbid your heart to continue this wandering, nomad life. The tent which
the wind blows down is not fit for the architect's permanent residence.
Build yourself a fine house, which will defy storms, as you built my
palace. I shall not grudge it, and have already said, the times demand
it."

"I will remember the advice," replied Gorgias. "But six eyes are again
bent upon me for direction. There are so many important things to be done
while we waste the hours in building triumphal arches for the
defeated--trophies for an overthrow. But your uncle has just issued
orders to complete the work in the most magnificent style. The ways of
destiny and the great are dark; may the brightest sunshine illumine
yours! A prosperous journey! We shall hear, of course, when you celebrate
the wedding, and if I can I shall join you in the Hymenaeus. Lucky fellow
that you are! Now I'm summoned from over yonder! May Castor and Pollux,
and all the gods favourable to travel, Aphrodite, and all the Loves
attend your trip to Irenia, and protect you in the realm of Eros and
Hymen!"

With these words the warm-hearted man clasped his friend to his breast
for the first time. Dion cordially responded, and at last shook his hard
right hand with the exclamation:

"Farewell, then, till we meet in Irenia on the wedding day, you dear,
faithful fellow."

Then he entered the chariot which stood waiting, and Gorgias gazed after
him thoughtfully. The hyacinthine purple cloak which Dion wore that day
had not vanished from his sight when a loud crashing, rattling, and
roaring arose behind him. A hastily erected scaffold, which was to
support the pulleys for raising the statues, had collapsed. The damage
could be easily repaired, but the accident aroused a troubled feeling in
the architect's mind. He was a child of his time, a period when duty
commanded the prudent man to heed omens. Experience also taught him that
when such a thing happened in his work something unpleasant was apt to
occur within the circle of his friends. The veil of the future concealed
what might be in store for the beloved couple; but he resolved to keep
his eyes open on Dion's behalf and to request Archibius to do the same.

The pressure of work, however, soon silenced the sense of uneasiness. The
damage was speedily repaired, and later Gorgias, sometimes with one,
sometimes with another tablet or roll of MS. in his hand, issued the most
varied orders.

Gradually the light of this dismal day faded. Ere the night, which
threatened to bring rain and storm, closed in, he again rode on his mule
to the Bruchium to overlook the progress of the work in the various
buildings and give additional directions, for the labour was to be
continued during the night.

The north wind was now blowing so violently from the sea that it was
difficult to keep the torches and lamps lighted. The gale drove the drops
of rain into his face, and a glance northward showed him masses of black
clouds beyond the harbour and the lighthouse. This indicated a bad night,
and again the boding sense of coming misfortune stole over him. Yet he
set to work swiftly and prudently, helping with his own hands when
occasion required.

Night closed in. Not a star was visible in the sky, and the air, chilled
by the north wind, grew so cold that Gorgias at last permitted his body
slave to wrap his cloak around him. While drawing the hood over his head,
he gazed at a procession of litters and men moving towards Lochias.

Perhaps the Queen's children were returning home from some expedition.
But probably they were rather private citizens on their way to some
festival celebrating the victory; for every one now believed in a great
battle and a successful issue of the war. This was proved by the shouts
and cheers of the people, who, spite of the storm, were still moving to
and fro near the harbour.

The last of the torch-bearers had just passed Gorgias, and he had told
himself that a train of litters belonging to the royal family would not
move through the darkness so faintly lighted, when a single man, bearing
in his hand a lantern, whose flickering rays shone on his wrinkled face,
approached rapidly from the opposite direction. It was old Phryx,
Didymus's house slave, with whom the architect had become acquainted,
while the aged scholar was composing the inscription for the Odeum which
Gorgias had erected. The aged servant had brought him many alterations of
his master's first sketch, and Gorgias had reminded him of it the
previous day.

The workmen by whom the statues had been raised to the pedestal, amid the
bright glare of torches, to the accompaniment of a regular chant, had
just dropped the ropes, windlasses, and levers, when the architect
recognized the slave.

What did the old man want at so late an hour on this dark night? The fall
of the scaffold again returned to his mind.

Was the slave seeking for a member of the family? Did Helena need
assistance? He stopped the gray-haired man, who answered his question
with a heavy sigh, followed by the maxim, "Misfortunes come in pairs,
like oxen." Then he continued: "Yesterday there was great anxiety. Today,
when there was so much rejoicing on account of Barine, I thought
directly, 'Sorrow follows joy, and the second misfortune won't be spared
us.' And so it proved."

Gorgias anxiously begged him to relate what had happened, and the old
man, drawing nearer, whispered that the pupil and assistant of
Didymus--young Philotas of Amphissa, a student, and, moreover, a
courteous young man of excellent family--had gone to a banquet to which
Antyllus, the son of Antony, had invited several of his classmates. This
had already happened several times, and he, Phryx, had warned him, for,
when the lowly associate with the lofty, the lowly rarely escape kicks
and blows. The young fellow, who usually had behaved no worse than the
other Ephebi, had always returned from such festivities with a flushed
face and unsteady steps, but to-night he had not even reached his room in
the upper story. He had darted into the house as though pursued by the
watch, and, while trying to rush up the stairs--it was really only a
ladder-he had made a misstep and fell. He, Phryx, did not believe that he
was hurt, for none of his limbs ached, even when they were pulled and
stretched, and Dionysus kindly protected drunkards; but some demon must
have taken possession of him, for he howled and groaned continually, and
would answer no questions. True, he was aware, from the festivals of
Dionysus, that the young man was one of those who, when intoxicated, weep
and lament; but this time something unusual must have occurred, for in
the first place his handsome face was coloured black and looked hideous,
since his tears had washed away the soot in many places, and then he
talked nothing but a confused jargon. It was a pity.

When an attempt was made, with the help of the garden slave, to carry him
to his room, he dealt blows and kicks like a lunatic. Didymus now also
believed that he was possessed by demons, as often happens to those who,
in falling, strike their heads against the ground, and thus wake the
demons in the earth. Well, yes, they might be demons, but only those of
wine. The student was just "crazy drunk," as people say. But the old
gentleman was very fond of his pupil, and had ordered him, Pliryx, to go
to Olympus, who, ever since he could remember, had been the family
physician.

"The Queen's leech?" asked Gorgias, disapprovingly, and when the slave
assented, the architect exclaimed in a positive tone: "It is not right to
force the old man out of doors in such a north wind. Age is not specially
considerate to age. Now that the statues stand yonder, I can leave my
post for half an hour and will go with you. I don't think a leech is
needed to drive out these demons."

"True, my lord, true!" cried the slave, "but Olympus is our friend. He
visits few patients, but he will come to our house in any weather. He has
litters, chariots, and splendid mules. The Queen gives him whatever is
best and most comfortable. He is skilful, and perhaps can render speedy
help. People must use what they have."

"Only where it is necessary," replied the architect. "There are my two
mules; follow me on the second. If I don't drive out the demons, you will
have plenty of time to trot after Olympus."

This proposal pleased the old slave, and a short time after Gorgias
entered the venerable philosopher's tablinum.

Helena welcomed him like an intimate friend. Whenever he appeared she
thought the peril was half over. Didymus, too, greeted him warmly, and
conducted him to the little room where the youth possessed by demons lay
on a divan.

He was still groaning and whimpering. Tears were streaming down his
cheeks, and, whenever any member of the household approached, he pushed
him away.

When Gorgias held his hands and sternly ordered him to confess what wrong
he had done, he sobbed out that he was the most ungrateful wretch on
earth. His baseness would ruin his kind parents, himself, and all his
friends.

Then he accused himself of having caused the destruction of Didymus's
granddaughter. He would not have gone to Antyllus again had not his
recent generosity bound him to him, but now he must atone-ay, atone.
Then, as if completely crushed, he continued to mumble the word, "atone!"
and for a time nothing more could be won from him.

Didymus, however, had the key to the last sentence. A few weeks before,
Philotas and several other pupils of the rhetorician whose lectures in
the museum he attended had been invited to breakfast with Antyllus. When
the young student loudly admired the beautiful gold and silver beakers in
which the wine was served, the reckless host cried: "They are yours; take
them with you." When the guests departed the cup-bearer asked Philotas,
who had been far from taking the gift seriously, to receive his property.
Antyllus had intended to bestow the goblets; but he advised the youth to
let him pay their value in money, for among them were several ancient
pieces of most artistic workmanship, which Antony, the extravagant young
fellow's father, might perhaps be unwilling to lose.

Thereupon several rolls of gold solidi were paid to the astonished
student--and they had been of little real benefit, since they had made it
possible for him to keep pace with his wealthy and aristocratic
classmates and share many of their extravagances. Yet he had not ceased
to fulfil his duty to Didymus.

Though he sometimes turned night into day, he gave no serious cause for
reproof. Small youthful errors were willingly pardoned; for he was a
good-looking, merry young fellow, who knew how to make himself agreeable
to the entire household, even to the women.

What had befallen the poor youth that day? Didymus was filled with
compassion for him, and, though he gladly welcomed Gorgias, he gave him
to understand that the leech's absence vexed him.

But, during a long bachelor career in Alexandria, a city ever gracious to
the gifts of Bacchus, Gorgias had become familiar with attacks like those
of Philotas and their treatment, and after several jars of water had been
brought and he had been left alone a short time with the sufferer, the
philosopher secretly rejoiced that he had not summoned the grey-haired
leech into the stormy night for Gorgias led forth his pupil with dripping
hair, it is true, but in a state of rapid convalescence.

The youth's handsome face was freed from soot, but his eyes were bent in
confusion on the ground, and he sometimes pressed his hand upon his
aching brow. It needed all the old philosopher's skill in persuasion to
induce him to speak, and Philotas, before he began, begged Helena to
leave the room.

He intended to adhere strictly to the truth, though he feared that the
reckless deed into which he had suffered himself to be drawn might have a
fatal effect upon his future life.

Besides, he hoped to obtain wise counsel from the architect, to whom he
owed his speedy recovery, and whose grave, kindly manner inspired him
with confidence; and, moreover, he was so greatly indebted to Didymus
that duty required him to make a frank confession--yet he dared not
acknowledge one of the principal motives of his foolish act.

The plot into which he had been led was directed against Barine, whom he
had long imagined he loved with all the fervour of his twenty years. But,
just before he went to the fatal banquet, he had heard that the young
beauty was betrothed to Dion. This had wounded him deeply; for in many a
quiet hour it had seemed possible to win her for himself and lead her as
his wife to his home in Amphissa. He was very little younger than she,
and if his parents once saw her, they could not fail to approve his
choice. And the people in Amphissa! They would have gazed at Barine as if
she were a goddess.

And now this fine gentleman had come to crush his fairest hopes. No word
of love had ever been exchanged between him and Barine, but how kindly
she had always looked at him, how willingly she had accepted trivial
services! Now she was lost. At first this had merely saddened him, but
after he had drunk the wine, and Antyllus, Antony's son, in the
presence of the revellers, over whom Caesarion presided as
"symposiarch"--[Director of a banquet.]--had accused Barine of capturing
hearts by magic spells, he had arrived at the conviction that he, too,
had been shamefully allured and betrayed.

He had served for a toy, he said to himself, unless she had really loved
him and merely preferred Dion on account of his wealth. In any case, he
felt justified in cherishing resentment against Barine, and with the
number of goblets which he drained his jealous rage increased.

When urged to join in the escapade which now burdened his conscience he
consented with a burning brain in order to punish her for the wrong
which, in his heated imagination, she had done him.

All this he withheld from the older men and merely briefly described the
splendid banquet which Caesarion, pallid and listless as ever, had
directed, and Antyllus especially had enlivened with the most reckless
mirth.

The "King of kings" and Antony's son had escaped from their tutors on the
pretext of a hunting excursion, and the chief huntsman had not grudged
them the pleasure--only they were obliged to promise him that they would
be ready to set out for the desert early the next morning.

When, after the banquet, the mixing-vessels were brought out and the
beakers were filled more rapidly, Antyllus whispered several times to
Caesarion and then turned the conversation upon Barine, the fairest of
the fair, destined by the immortals for the greatest and highest of
mankind. This was the "King of kings," Caesarion, and he also claimed the
favour of the gods for himself. But everybody knew that Aphrodite deemed
herself greater than the highest of kings, and therefore Barine ventured
to close her doors upon their august symposiarch in a manner which could
not fail to be unendurable, not only to him but to all the youth of
Alexandria. Whoever boasted of being one of the Ephebi might well clench
his fist with indignation, when he heard that the insolent beauty kept
young men at a distance because she considered only the older ones worthy
of her notice. This must not be! The Ephebi of Alexandria must make her
feel the power of youth. This was the more urgently demanded, because
Caesarion would thereby be led to the goal of his wishes.

Barine was going into the country that very evening. Insulted Eros
himself was smoothing their way. He commanded them to attack the arrogant
fair one's carriage and lead her to him who sought her in the name of
youth, in order to show her that the hearts of the Ephebi, whom she
disdainfully rejected, glowed more ardently than those of the older men
on whom she bestowed her favours.

Here Gorgias interrupted the speaker with a loud cry of indignation, but
old Didymus's eyes seemed to be fairly starting from their sockets as he
hoarsely shouted an impatient:

"Go on!"

And Philotas, now completely sobered, described with increasing animation
the wonderful change that had taken place in the quiet Caesarion, as if
some magic spell had been at work; for scarcely had the revellers greeted
Antyllus's words with shouts of joy, declaring themselves ready to avenge
insulted youth upon Barine, than the "King of kings" suddenly sprang from
the cushions on which he had listlessly reclined, and with flashing eyes
shouted that whoever called himself his friend must aid him in the
attack.

Here he was urged to still greater haste by another impatient "Go on!"
from his master, and hurriedly continued his story, describing how they
had blackened their faces and armed themselves with Antyllus's swords and
lances. As the sun was setting they went in a covered boat through the
Agathodamon Canal to Lake Mareotis. Everything must have been arranged in
advance; for they landed precisely at the right hour.

As, during the trip, they had kept up their courage by swallowing the
most fiery wine, Philotas had staggered on shore with difficulty and then
been dragged forward by the others. After this he knew nothing more,
except that he had rushed with the rest upon a large harmamaxa,--[A
closed Asiatic travelling-carriage with four wheels]--and in so doing
fell. When he rose from the earth all was over.

As if in a dream he saw Scythians and other guardians of the peace seize
Antyllus, while Caesarion was struggling on the ground with another man.
If he was not mistaken it was Dion, Barine's betrothed husband.

These communications were interrupted by many exclamations of impatience
and wrath; but now Didymus, fairly frantic with alarm, cried:

"And the child--Barine?"

But when Philotas's sole reply to this question was a silent shake of the
head, indignation conquered the old philosopher, and clutching his
pupil's chiton with both hands, he shook him violently, exclaiming
furiously:

"You don't know, scoundrel? Instead of defending her who should be dear
to you as a child of this household, you joined the rascally scorners of
morality and law as the accomplice of this waylayer in purple!"

Here the architect soothed the enraged old man with expostulations, and
the assertion that everything must now yield to the necessity of
searching for Barine and Dion. He did not know which way to turn, in the
amount of labour pressing upon him, but he would have a hasty talk with
the foreman and then try to find his friend.

"And I," cried the old man, "must go at once to the unfortunate child.-My
cloak, Phryx, my sandals!"

In spite of Gorgias's counsel to remember his age and the inclement
weather, he cried angrily:

"I am going, I say! If the tempest hurls me to the earth, and the bolts
of Zeus strike me, so be it. One misfortune more or less matters little
in a life which has been a chain of heavy blows of Fate. I buried three
sons in the prime of manhood, and two have been slain in battle. Barine,
the joy of my heart, I myself, fool that I was, bound to the scoundrel
who blasted her joyous existence; and now that I believed she would be
protected from trouble and misconstruction by the side of a worthy
husband, these infamous rascals, whose birth protects them from
vengeance, have wounded, perhaps killed her betrothed lover. They trample
in the dust her fair name and my white hair!--Phryx, my hat and staff."

The storm had long been raging around the house, which stood close by the
sea, and the sailcloth awning which was stretched over the impluvium
noisily rattled the metal rings that confined it. Now so violent a gust
swept from room to room that two of the flames in the three-branched lamp
went out. The door of the house had been opened, and drenched with rain,
a hood drawn over his black head, Barine's Nubian doorkeeper crossed the
threshold.

He presented a pitiable spectacle and at first could find no answer to
the greetings and questions of the men, who had been joined by Helena,
her grandmother leaning on her arm; his rapid walk against the fury of
the storm had fairly taken away his breath.

He had little, however, to tell. Barine merely sent a message to her
relatives that, no matter what tales rumour might bring, she and her
mother were unhurt. Dion had received a wound in the shoulder, but it was
not serious. Her grandparents need have no anxiety; the attack had
completely failed.

Doris, who was deaf, had listened vainly, holding her hand to her ear, to
catch this report; and Didymus now told his granddaughter as much as he
deemed it advisable for her to know, that she might communicate it to her
grandmother, who understood the movements of her lips.

The old man was rejoiced to learn that his granddaughter had escaped so
great a peril uninjured, yet he was still burdened by sore anxiety. The
architect, too, feared the worst, but by dint of assuring him that he
would return at once with full details when he had ascertained the fate
of Dion and his betrothed bride, he finally persuaded the old man to give
up the night walk through the tempest.

Philotas, with tears in his eyes, begged them to accept his services as
messenger or for any other purpose; but Didymus ordered him to go to bed.
An opportunity would be found to enable him to atone for the offence so
recklessly committed.

The scholar's peaceful home was deprived of its nocturnal repose, and
when Gorgias had gone and Didymus had refused Helena's request to have
the aged porter take her to her sister, the old man remained alone with
his wife in the tablinum.

She had been told nothing except that thieves had attacked her
granddaughter, Barine, and slightly wounded her lover; but her own heart
and the manner of the husband, at whose side she had grown grey, showed
that many things were being concealed. She longed to know the story more
fully, but it was difficult for Didymus to talk a long time in a loud
tone, so she silenced her desire to learn the whole truth. But, in order
to await the architect's report, they did not go to rest.

Didymus had sunk into an armchair, and Doris sat near at her spindle, but
without drawing any threads from her distaff. When she heard her husband
sigh and saw him bury his face in his hands, she limped nearer to him,
difficult as it was for her to move, and stroked his head, now nearly
bald, with her hand. Then she uttered soothing words, and, as the
anxious, troubled expression did not yet pass from his wrinkled face, she
reminded him in faltering yet tender tones how often they had thought
they must despair, and yet everything had resulted well.

"Ah! husband," she added, "I know full well that the clouds hanging over
us are very black, and I cannot even see them clearly, because you show
them at such a distance. Yet I feel that they threaten us with sore
tribulation. But, after all, what harm can they do us, if we only keep
close together, we two old people and the children of the children whom
Hades rent from us? We need only to grow old to perceive that life has a
head with many faces. The ugly one of to-day can last no longer than you
can keep that deeply furrowed brow. But you need not coerce yourself for
my sake, husband. Let it be so. I need merely close my eyes to see how
smooth and beautiful it was in youth, and how pleasant it will look when
better days say, 'Here we are!'"

Didymus, with a mournful smile, kissed her grey hair and shouted into her
left ear, which was a little less deaf than the other:

"How young you are still, wife!"



CHAPTER X.

The tempest swept howling from the north across the island of Pharos, and
the shallows of Diabathra in the great harbour of Alexandria. The water,
usually so placid, rose in high waves, and the beacon on the lighthouse
of Sastratus sent the rent abundance of its flames with hostile
impetuosity towards the city. The fires in the pitch-pans and the torches
on the shore sometimes seemed on the point of being extinguished, at
others burst with a doubly brilliant blaze through the smoke which
obscured them.

The royal harbour, a fine basin which surrounded in the form of a
semicircle the southern part of the Lochias and a portion of the northern
shore of the Bruchium, was brightly illuminated every night; but this
evening there seemed to be an unusual movement among the lights on its
western shore, the private anchorage of the royal fleet.

Was it the storm that stirred them? No. How could the wind have set one
torch in the place of another, and moved lights or lanterns in a
direction opposite to its violent course? Only a few persons, however,
perceived this; for, though joyous anticipation or anxious fears urged
many thither, who would venture upon the quay on such a tempestuous
night? Besides, no one would have found admittance to the royal port,
which was closed on all sides. Even the mole which, towards the west,
served as the string to the bow of land surrounding it, had but a single
opening and--as every one knew--that was closed by a chain in the same
way as the main entrance to the harbour between the Pharos and Alveus
Steganus.

About two hours before midnight, spite of the increasing fury of the
tempest, the singular movement of the lights diminished, but rarely had
the hearts of those for whom they burned throbbed so anxiously. These
were the dignitaries and court officials who stood nearest to
Cleopatra--about twenty men and a single woman, Iras. Mardion and she had
summoned them because the Queen's letter permitted those to whom she had
given authority to offer her a quiet reception. After a long consultation
they had not invited the commanders of the little Roman garrison left
behind. It was doubtful whether those whom they expected would return
that night, and the Roman soldiers who were loyal to Antony had gone with
him to the war.

The hall in the centre of the private roadstead of the royal harbour,
where they had assembled, was furnished with regal magnificence; for it
was a favourite resort of the Queen. The spacious apartment lacked no
requisite of comfort, and most of those who were waiting used the
well-cushioned couches, while others, harassed by mental anxiety, paced
to and fro.

As the room had remained unused for months, bats had made nests there,
and now that it was lighted, dazzled by the glare of the lamps and
candles, they darted to and fro above the heads of the assembly. Iras had
ordered the commander of the Mellakes, or youths, a body-guard composed
of the sons of aristocratic Macedonian families, to expel the troublesome
creatures, and it diverted the thoughts of these devoted soldiers of the
Queen to strike at them with their swords.

Others preferred to watch this futile battle rather than give themselves
up to the anxiety which filled their minds. The Regent was gazing mutely
at the ground; Iras, pale and absent-minded, was listening to Zeno's
statements; and Archibius had gone out of doors, and, unheeding the
storm, was looking across the tossing waves of the harbour for the
expected ships.

In a wooden shed, whose roof was supported by gaily painted pillars,
through which the wind whistled, the servants, from the porters to the
litter-bearers, had gathered in groups under the flickering light of the
lanterns. The Greeks sat on wooden stools, the Egyptians upon mats on the
floor. The largest circle contained the parties who attended to the
Queen's luggage and the upper servants, among whom were several maids.

They had been told that the Queen was expected that night, because it was
possible that the strong north wind would bear her ship home with
unexpected speed after the victory. But they were better informed:
palaces have chinks in doors and curtains, and are pervaded by a very
peculiar echo which bears even a whisper distinctly from ear to ear.

The body-slave of the commander-in-chief Seleukus was the principal
spokesman. His master had reached Alexandria but a few hours ago from the
frontier fortress of Pelusium, which he commanded. A mysterious order
from Lucilius, Antony's most faithful friend, brought from Taenarum by a
swift galley, had summoned him hither.

The freedman Beryllus, a loquacious Sicilian, who, as an actor, had seen
better days ere pirates robbed him of his liberty, had heard many new
things, and his hearers listened eagerly; for ships coming from the
north, which touched at Pelusium, had confirmed and completed the evil
tidings that had penetrated the Sebasteum.

According to his story, he was as well informed as if he had been an
eye-witness of the naval battle; for he had been present during his
master's conversation with many ship-captains and messengers from Greece.
He even assumed the air of a loyal, strictly silent servant, who would
only venture to confirm and deny what the Alexandrians had already
learned. Yet his knowledge consisted merely of a confused medley of false
and true occurrences. While the Egyptian fleet had been defeated at
Actium, and Antony, flying with Cleopatra, had gone first to Taenarum at
the end of the Peloponnesian coast, he asserted that the army and fleet
had met on the Peloponnesian coast and Octavianus was pursuing Antony,
who had turned towards Athens, while Cleopatra was on her way to
Alexandria.

His "trustworthy intelligence" had been patched together from a few words
caught from Seleukus at table, or while receiving and dismissing
messengers. In other matters his information was more accurate.

While for several days the harbour of Alexandria had been closed, vessels
were permitted to enter Pelusium, and all captains of newly arrived ships
and caravans were compelled to report to Beryllus's master, the
commandant of the important frontier fortress.

He had quitted Pelusium the night before. The strong wind had driven the
trireme before it so swiftly that it was difficult for even the sea gulls
to follow. It was easy for the listeners to believe this; for the storm
outside howled louder and louder, whistling through the open hall where
the servants had gathered. Most of the lamps and torches had been blown
out, the pitch-pans only sent forth still blacker clouds of smoke, lit by
red and yellow flames, and the closed lanterns alone continued to diffuse
a flickering light. So the wide space, dim with smoke, was illumined only
by a dull, varying glimmer.

One of the porters had furnished wine to shorten the hours of waiting;
but it could only be drunk in secret, so there were no goblets. The jars
wandered from mouth to mouth, and every sip was welcome, for the wind
blew keenly, and besides, the smoke irritated their throats.

The freedman, Beryllus, was often interrupted by paroxysms of coughing,
especially from the women, while relating the evil omens which were told
to his master in Pelusium. Each was well authenticated and surpassed its
predecessor in significance.

Here one of Iras's maids interrupted him to tell the story of the
swallows on the "Antonius," Cleopatra's admiral galley. He could scarcely
report from Pelusium an omen of darker presage.

But Beryllus gazed at her with a pitying smile, which so roused the
expectations of the others that the overseer of the litter and baggage
porters, who were talking loudly together, hoarsely shouted, "Silence!"

Soon no sound was heard in the open space save the shrill whistling of
the wind, a word of command to the harbour-guards, and the freedman's
voice, which he lowered to increase the charm of the mysterious events he
was describing.

He began with the most fulsome praise of Cleopatra and Antony, reminding
his hearers that the Imperator was a descendant of Herakles. The
Alexandrians especially were aware that their Queen and Antony claimed
and desired to be called "The new Isis" and "The new Dionysus." But every
one who beheld the Roman must admit that in face and figure he resembled
a god far more than a man.

The Imperator had appeared as Dionysus, especially to the Athenians. In
the proscenium of the theatre in that city was a huge bas-relief of the
Battle of the Giants, the famous work of an ancient sculptor--he,
Beryllus, had seen it--and from amid the numerous figures in this piece
of sculpture the tempest had torn but a single one--which? Dionysus, the
god as whose mortal image Antony had once caroused in a vine-clad arbour
in the presence of the Athenians. The storm to-night was at the utmost
like the breath of a child, compared with the hurricane which could wrest
from the hard marble the form of Dionysus. But Nature gathers all her
forces when she desires to announce to short-sighted mortals the approach
of events which are to shake the world.

The last words were quoted from his master who had studied in Athens.
They had escaped from his burdened soul when he heard of another portent,
of which a ship from Ostia had brought tidings. The flourishing city
Pisaura--

Here, however, he was interrupted, for several of those present had
learned, weeks before, that this place had sunk in the sea, but merely
pitied the unfortunate inhabitants.

Beryllus quietly permitted them to free themselves from the suspicion
that people in Alexandria had had tidings of so remarkable an event later
than those in Pelusium, and at first answered their query what this had
to do with the war merely by a shrug of the shoulders; but when the
overseer of the porters also put the question, he went on "The omen made
a specially deep impression upon our minds, for we know what Pisaura is,
or rather how it came into existence. The hapless city which dark Hades
ingulfed really belonged to Antony, for in the days of its prosperity he
was its founder."

He measured the group with a defiant glance, and there was no lack of
evidences of horror; nay, one of the maid-servants shrieked aloud, for
the storm had just snatched a torch from the iron rings in the wall and
hurled it on the floor close beside the listener.

Suspense seemed to have reached its height. Yet it was evident that
Beryllus had not yet drawn his last arrow from the quiver.

The maid-servant, whose scream had startled the others, had regained her
composure and seemed eager to hear some other new and terrible omen, for,
with a beseeching glance, she begged the freedman not to withhold the
knew.

He pointed to the drops of perspiration which, spite of the wind sweeping
through the hall, covered her brow: "You must use your handkerchief.
Merely listening to my tale will dampen your skin. Stone statues are made
of harder material, but a soul dwells within them too. Their natures may
be harsher or more gentle; they bring us woe or heal heavy sorrows,
according to their mood. Every one learns this who raises his hands to
them in prayer. One of these statues stands in Alba. It represents Mark
Antony, in whose honour it was erected by the city. And it foresaw what
menaced the man whose stone double it is. Ay, open your ears! About four
days ago a ship's captain came to my master and in my presence this man
reported--he grew as pale as ashes while he spoke--what he himself had
witnessed. Drops of perspiration had oozed from the statue of Antony in
Alba. Horror seized all the citizens; men and women came to wipe the brow
and cheeks of the statue, but the drops of perspiration did not cease to
drip, and this continued several days and nights. The stone image had
felt what was impending over the living Mark Antony. It was a horrible
spectacle, the man said."

Here the speaker paused, and the group of listeners started, for the
clang of a gong was heard outside, and the next instant all were on their
feet hastening to their posts.

The officials in the magnificent hall had also risen. Here the silence
had been interrupted only by low whispers. The colour had faded from most
of the grave, anxious faces, and their timid glances shunned one another.

Archibius had first perceived, by the flames of the Pharos, the red
glimmer which announced the approach of the royal galley. It had not been
expected so early, but was already passing the islands into the great
harbour. It was probably the Antonius, the ship on which the old swallows
had pecked the young ones to death.

Though the waves were running high, even in the sheltered harbour, they
scarcely rocked the massive vessel. An experienced pilot must have
steered it past the shallows and cliffs on the eastern side of the
roadstead, for instead of passing around the island of Antirrhodus as
usual, it kept between the island and the Lochias, steering straight
towards the entrance into the little royal harbour. The pitch-pans on
both sides had been filled with fresh resin and tow to light the way. The
watchers on the shore could now see its outlines distinctly.

It was the Antonius, and yet it was not.

Zeno, the Keeper of the Seal, who was standing beside Iras, wrapped his
cloak closer around his shivering limbs, pointed to it, and whispered,

"Like a woman who leaves her parents' house in the rich array of a bride,
and returns to it an impoverished widow."

Iras drew herself up, and with cutting harshness replied, "Like the sun
veiled by mists, but which will soon shine forth again more radiantly
than ever."

"Spoken from the depths of my soul," said the old courtier eagerly, "so
far as the Queen is concerned. Of course, I did not allude to her
Majesty, but to the ship. You were ill when it left the harbour,
garlanded with flowers and adorned with purple sails. And now! Even this
flickering light shows the wounds and rents. I am the last person whom
you need tell that our sun Cleopatra will soon regain its old radiance,
but at present it is very chilly and cold here by the water's edge in
this stormy air; and when I think of our first moment of meeting--

"Would it were over!" murmured Iras, wrapping herself closer in her
cloak. Then she drew back shivering, for the rattle of the heavy chain,
which was drawn aside from the opening of the harbour, echoed with an
uncanny sound through the silence of the night. A mountain seemed to
weigh upon the watchers' breasts, for the wooden monster which now
entered the little harbour moved forward as slowly and silently as a
spectral ship. It seemed as if life were extinct on the huge galley
usually swarming with a numerous crew; as if a vessel were about to cast
anchor whose sailors had fallen victims to the plague. Nothing was heard
save an occasional word of command, and the signal whistles of the
fluteplayer who directed the rowers. A few lanterns burned with a
wavering light on the vast length of her decks. The brilliant
illumination which usually shone through the darkness would have
attracted the attention of the Alexandrians.

Now it was close to the landing. The group on shore watched every inch of
its majestic progress with breathless suspense, but when the first rope
was flung to the slaves on shore several men in Greek robes pressed
forward hurriedly among the courtiers.

They had come with a message, whose importance would permit no delay, to
the Regent Mardion, who stood between Zeno and Iras, gazing gloomily at
the ground with a frowning brow. He was pondering over the words in which
to address the Queen, and within a few minutes the ship would have made
her landing, and Cleopatra might cross the bridge. To disturb him at that
moment was an undertaking few who knew the irritable, uncertain temper of
the eunuch would care to risk. But the tall Macedonian, who for a short
time attracted the eyes of most of the spectators from the galley,
ventured to do so. It was the captain of the nightwatch, the aristocratic
commander of the police force of the city.

"Only a word, my lord," he whispered to the Regent, "though the time may
be inopportune."

"As inopportune as possible," replied the eunuch with repellent
harshness.

"We will say as inopportune as the degree of haste necessary for its
decision. The King Caesarion, with Antyllus and several companions,
attacked a woman. Blackened faces. A fight. Caesarion and the woman's
companion--an aristocrat, member of the Council--slightly wounded.
Lictors interfered just in time. The young gentlemen were arrested. At
first they refused to give their names--"

"Caesarion slightly, really only slightly wounded?" asked the eunuch with
eager haste.

"Really and positively. Olympus was summoned at once. A knock on the
head. The man who was attacked flung him on the pavement in the
struggle."

"Dion, the son of Eumenes, is the man," interrupted Iras, whose quick ear
had caught the officer's report. "The woman is Barine, the daughter of
the artist Leonax."

"Then you know already?" asked the Macedonian in surprise.

"So it seems," answered Mardion, gazing into the girl's face with a
significant glance. Then, turning to her rather than to the Macedonian,
he added, "I think we will have the young rascals set free and brought to
Lochias with as little publicity as possible."

"To the palace?" asked the Macedonian.

"Of course," replied Iras firmly. "Each to his own apartments, where they
must remain until further orders."

"Everything else must be deferred until after the reception," added the
eunuch, and the Macedonian, with a slight, haughty nod, drew back.

"Another misfortune," sighed the eunuch.

"A boyish prank," Iras answered quickly, "but even a still greater
misfortune is less than nothing so long as we are not conscious of it.
This unpleasant occurrence must be concealed for the present from the
Queen. Up to this time it is a vexation, nothing more--and it can and
must remain so; for we have it in our power to uproot the poisonous tree
whence it emanates."

"You look as if no one could better perform the task," the Regent
interrupted, with a side glance at the galley, "so you shall have the
commission. It is the last one I shall give, during the Queen's absence,
in her name."

"I shall not fail," she answered firmly.

When Iras again looked towards the landing-place she saw Archibius
standing alone, with his eyes fixed upon the ground. Impulse prompted her
to tell her uncle what had happened; but at the first step she paused,
and her thin lips uttered a firm "No."

Her friend had become a stone in her path. If necessary, she would find
means to thrust him also aside, spite of his sister Charmian and the old
tie which united him to Cleopatra. He had grown weak, Charmian had always
been so.

She would have had time enough now to consider what step to take first,
had not her heart ached so sorely.

After the huge galley lay moored, several minutes elapsed ere two
pastophori of the goddess Isis, who guarded the goblet of Nektanebus,
taken from the temple treasures and borne along in a painted chest,
stepped upon the bridge, followed by Cleopatra's first chamberlain, who
in a low tone announced the approach of the Queen and commanded the
waiting groups to make way. A double line of torch-bearers had been
stationed from the landing to the gate leading into the Bruchium, and the
other on the north, which was the entrance to the palaces on the Lochias,
since it was not known where Cleopatra would desire to go. The
chamberlain, however, said that she would spend the night at Lochias,
where the children lived, and ordered all the flickering, smoking
torches, save a few, to be extinguished.

Mardion, the Keeper of the Seal, Archibius, and Iras were standing by the
bridge a little in advance of the others, when voices were heard on the
ship, and the Queen appeared, preceded by several lantern-bearers and
followed by a numerous train of court officials, pages, maids, and female
slaves. Cleopatra's little hand rested on Charmian's arm, as, with a
haughty carriage of the head, she moved towards the shore. A thick veil
covered her face, and a large, dark cloak concealed her figure. How
elastic her step was still! how proud yet graceful was the gesture with
which she waved a greeting to Mardion and Zeno.

Extending her hand to raise Iras, who had sunk prostrate before her, she
kissed her on the forehead, whispering, "The children?"

"All is well with them," replied the girl.

Then the returning sovereign greeted the others with a gracious gesture,
but vouchsafed a word to no one until the eunuch stepped before her to
deliver his address of welcome. She motioned him aside with a curt
"Later"; and when Zeno held open the door of the litter, she said in a
stifled tone: "I will walk. After the rocking of the galley in this
tempest, I feel reluctant to enter the litter. There are many things to
be considered to-day. An idea came to me on the way home. Summon the
captain of the harbour and his chief counsellors, the heads of the war
office, the superintendent of the fortifications on land and water,
especially the Aristarch and Gorgias--I want to see them. Time presses.
They must be here in two hours-no, in an hour and a half. I wish to
examine all their plans and charts of the eastern frontier, especially
the river channels and canals in the Delta."

Then she turned to Archibius, who had approached the litter, laid her
hand upon his arm, and though her veil prevented him from seeing her
sparkling eyes, he felt them shining deep into his heart, as the voice
whose melody had often enthralled his soul cried, "We will take it as a
favourable omen that it is again you who lead me to this palace in a time
of trouble."

His overflowing heart found expression in the warm reply, "Whenever it
may be, forever and ever this arm and this life are yours!" And the Queen
answered in a tone of earnest belief, "I know it."

Then, with her hand still resting on his arm, she moved forward; but when
he began to ask whether she really had cause to speak of a time of
trouble, she cut him short with the entreaty "Not now. Let us say
nothing. It is worse than bad--as evil as possible. Yet no. Few are
permitted, in an hour of trouble, to lean on the arm of a faithful
friend."

The words were accompanied with a light pressure of her little hand, and
it seemed as if his old heart was growing young.

He dared not speak, for her wish was law; but while moving silently at
her side, first along the shore, then through the gate, and finally over
the marble flagstones which led to the palace portal, it seemed as if he
beheld, instead of the veiled head of the hapless Queen, the soft,
light-brown locks which floated around the face of a happy child. Before
his mental vision rose the little mistress of the garden of Epicurus. He
saw the sparkle of her large blue eyes, which never ceased to question,
yet appeared to contain the mystery of the world. He fancied he heard
once more the silvery cadence of her voice and the bewitching magic of
her pure, childlike laughter, and it was hard to remember what she had
become.

Snatched away from the present, yet conscious that Fate had granted him a
great boon in this sorrowful hour, he moved on at her side and led her
through the main entrance, the spacious inner court-yard of the palace.
At the rear was the great door opening into the Queen's apartments,
before which Mardion, Iras, and their companions had already stationed
themselves. At the left was a smaller one leading into the wing occupied
by the children.

Archibius was about to conduct Cleopatra across the lighted court-yard,
but she motioned towards the children's rooms, and he understood her.

At the threshold her hand fell from his arm, and when he bowed as if to
retire, she said kindly: "There is Charmian. You both deserve to
accompany me to the spot where childhood is dreaming and peace of mind
and painlessness have their abode. But respect for the Queen has
prevented the brother and sister from greeting each other after so long a
separation. Do so now! Then, follow me."

While speaking, she hastened with the swift step of youth into the atrium
and up the staircase which led to the sleeping-rooms of the princes and
princesses.

Archibius and Charmian obeyed her bidding; the brother clasped his sister
affectionately in his arms, and in hurried tones, with tears streaming
from her eyes, she informed him that to her all seemed lost.

Antony had behaved in a manner for which no words of condemnation or
regret were adequate. Probably he would follow Cleopatra; the fleet, and
perhaps the army also, were destroyed. Her fate lay in the hands of
Octavianus.

Then she preceded him towards the staircase, where Iras was standing with
a tall Syrian, who bore a striking resemblance to Philostratus, Barine's
former husband. It was his brother Alexas, the trusted favourite of Mark
Antony. His place should now have been with him, and Archibius asked his
sister with a hasty look how this man chanced to be in the Queen's train.

"His skill in reading the stars," was the reply. "His flattering tongue.
He is a parasite of the worst kind, but he tells her many things, he
diverts her, and she tolerates him near her person."

As soon as Iras saw the direction in which Cleopatra had turned, she had
hastened after her to accompany her to the children. The Syrian Alexas
had stopped her to express his joy in meeting her again. Even before the
outbreak of the war he had devoted himself zealously to her, and he now
plainly showed that during the long period of separation his feelings had
by no means cooled. Like his brother, he had a head too small for his
body, but his well-formed features were animated by a pair of eyes
sparkling with a keen, covetous expression.

Iras, too, seemed glad to welcome the favourite, but ere the brother and
sister reached the staircase she left him to embrace Charmian, her aunt
and companion, with the affection of a daughter.

They found the Queen in the anteroom of the children's apartments.
Euphronion, their tutor, had awaited her there, and hurriedly gave, in
the most rapturous terms, his report of them and the wonderful gifts
which became more and more apparent in each, now as a heritage from their
mother, now from their father.

Cleopatra had interrupted the torrent of his enthusiastic speech with
many a question, meanwhile endeavouring to loose the veil wound about her
head; but the little hands, unaccustomed to the task, failed. Iras
noticed it from the stairs and, hastening up the last steps, skilfully
released her from the long web of lace.

The Queen acknowledged the service by a gracious nod, but when the chief
eunuch opened the door leading into the children's rooms, she called
joyously to the brother and sister, "Come!" The tutor, who was obliged to
leave the charge of his pupils' sleeping apartments to the eunuchs and
nurses, drew back, but Iras felt it a bitter affront to be excluded from
this visit. Her cheeks flushed and paled; her thin lips were more firmly
compressed, and she gazed intently at the basket of fruit in the mosaic
floor at her feet as if she were counting the cherries that filled it.
But she suddenly pushed the little curls back from her forehead, darted
swiftly down the stairs, and called to Alexas just as he was about to
leave the atrium.

The Syrian hastened towards her, extolling the good fortune that made his
sun rise for him a second time that night, but she cut him short with the
words; "Cease this foolish love-making. It would be far better for us
both to become allies in serious, bitter earnest. I am ready."

"So am I!" cried the Syrian rapturously, pressing his hand upon his
heart.

Meanwhile Cleopatra had entered the chamber where the children lay
sleeping. Deep silence pervaded the lofty hall hung with bright-hued
carpets, and softly lighted by three lamps with rose-colored globes. An
arch, supported by pillars of Libyan marble, divided the wide space. In
the first, near a window closely muffled with draperies, stood two ivory
beds, surmounted with crowns of gold and silver set with pearls and
turquoises. Around the edge, carved by the hands of a great artist, ran a
line of happy children dancing to the songs of birds in blossoming
bushes.

The couches were separated by a heavy curtain which the eunuchs had
raised at the approach of the Queen. Cleopatra could now see them all at
a single glance, and the picture was indeed one of exquisite charm; for
on these beautiful couches slept the twins, the ten-year-old children of
Cleopatra and Antony--Antonius Helios and Cleopatra Selene. The girl was
pink and white, fair and wonderfully lovely; the boy no less beautiful,
but with ebon-black hair, like his father. Both curly heads were turned
towards the side, and rested on a dimpled hand pressed upon the silken
pillow.

Upon a third bed, beyond the arch, was Alexander, the youngest prince, a
lovely boy of six, the Queen's darling.

After gazing a long while at the twins, and pressing a light kiss upon
cheeks flushed with slumber, she turned to the youngest child and sank
beside his couch as if forced to bend the knee before some apparition
which Heaven had vouchsafed to her. Tears streamed from her eyes as,
drawing the child carefully towards her, she kissed his mouth, eyes, and
cheeks, and then laid him gently back upon the pillows. The boy, however,
did not instantly relapse into slumber, but threw his little plump arms
around his mother's neck, murmuring incomprehensible words. She joyously
submitted to his caresses, till sleep again overpowered him, and his
little hands fell back upon the bed.

She lingered a short time longer, with her brow resting on the ivory of
the couch, praying for this child and his brother and sister. When she
rose again her cheeks were wet with tears, and she pressed her hand upon
her breast. Then, beckoning to Charmian and Archibius, she motioned
towards Alexander and the twins, saying, as she saw tears glittering in
the eyes of both: "I know you have lost this happiness for my sake. For
each one of these children a great empire would not be too high a price;
for them all----What does earth contain that I would not bestow? Yet what
can I still call my own?"

Her smiling face clouded as she asked the question. The vision of the
lost battle again rose before her mind. Her own power was lost,
forfeited, and with it the independence of the native land which she
loved. Rome was already stretching out her hand to add it to the others
as a new province. But this should not be! Her twin children yonder,
sleeping beneath crowns, must wear them! And the boy slumbering on the
pillows? How many kingdoms Antony had bestowed! What remained for her to
give?

Again she bent to the child. A beautiful dream must have hovered over
him, for he was smiling in his sleep. A flood of maternal love welled up
in her agitated heart, and, as she saw the companions of her childhood
also gazing tenderly at the little steeper, she remembered the days of
her own youth, and the quiet happiness which she had enjoyed in her
garden of Epicurus.

Power and splendour had begun for her beyond its confines, but the
greater the heights of worldly grandeur she attained, the more distant,
the more irrecoverable became the consciousness of the happiness which
she had once gratefully enjoyed, and for which she had never ceased to
long. And as she now gazed once more at the peaceful, smiling face,
whence all pain and anxiety seemed worlds away, and all the love which
her heart contained appeared to be pouring towards him, the question
arose in her mind whether this boy, for whom she possessed no crown,
might not be the only happy mortal of them all-happy in the sense of the
master. Deeply moved by this thought, she turned to Archibius and
Charmian, exclaiming in a subdued tone, in order not to rouse the
sleeper: "Whatever destiny may await us, I commend this child to your
special love and care. If Fate denies him the lustre of the crown and the
elation of power, teach him to enjoy that other happiness, which--how
long ago it is!--your father unfolded to his mother."

Archibius kissed her robe, and Charmian her hands; but Cleopatra, drawing
a long breath, said: "The mother has already taken too much time from the
Queen. I have ordered the news of my arrival to be kept from Caesarion.
This was well. The most important matters will be settled before our
meeting. Everything relating to me and to the state must be decided
within an hour. But, first, I am something more than mother and Queen.
The woman also asserts her claim. I will find time for you, my friend,
to-morrow!-To my chamber first, Charmian. But you need rest still more
than I. Go with your brother. Send Iras to me. She will be glad to use
her skilful fingers again in her mistress's service."



CHAPTER XI.

The Queen had left her bath. Iras had arranged the still abundant waves
of her hair, now dark-brown in hue, and robed her magnificently to
receive the dignitaries whom, spite of the late hour of the night, she
expected.

How wonderfully she had retained her beauty! It seemed as if Time had not
ventured to touch this masterpiece of feminine loveliness; yet the
Greek's keen eye detected here and there some token of the vanishing
spell of youth. She loved her mistress, yet her inmost soul rejoiced
whenever she detected in her the same changes which began to appear in
herself, the woman of seven-and-twenty, so many years her sovereign's
junior. She would gladly have given Cleopatra everything at her command,
yet she felt as if she must praise Nature for an act of justice, when she
perceived that even her royal favourite was not wholly relieved from the
law which applied to all.

"Cease your flattery," said Cleopatra, smiling mournfully. "They say that
the works of the Pharaohs here on the Nile flout Time. The inexorable
destroyer is less willing to permit this from the Queen of Egypt. These
are grey hairs, and they came from this head, however eagerly you may
deny it. Whose save my own are these lines around the corners of the eyes
and on the brow? What say you to the tooth which my lips do not hide so
kindly as you assert? It was injured the night before the luckless
battle. My dear, faithful, skilful Olympus, the prince of leeches, is the
only one who can conceal such things. But it would not do to take the old
man to the war, and Glaucus is far less adroit. How I missed Olympus
during those fatal hours! I seemed a monster even to myself, and
he--Antony's eye is only too keen for such matters. What is the love of
men? A blackened tooth may prove its destruction. An aspect obnoxious to
the gaze will pour water on the fiercest fire. What hours I experienced,
Iras! Many a glance from him seemed an insult, and, besides, my heart was
filled with torturing anxiety.

"Something had evidently come between us! I felt it. The trouble began
soon after he left Alexandria. It gnawed my soul like a worm, and now
that I am here again I must see clearly. He will follow me in a few days,
I know. Pinarius Scarpus, with his untouched legions, is in Paraetonium,
whither he went. At Taenarum he resolved to retire from the world which
he, on whom it had bestowed so much that is great, hates because he has
given it cause for many a shake of the head. But the old spirit woke
again, and if Fortune, usually so faithful, still aids him, a large force
will soon join the new African army. The Asiatic princes--But the ruler
of the state must be silent. I entered this room to give the woman her
just rights, and the woman shall have them. He will soon be here. He
cannot live without me. It is not alone the beaker of Nektanebus which
draws him after me!"

"When the greatest of the great, Julius Caesar, sued for your love in
Alexandria, and Antony on the Cydnus, you did not possess the goblet,"
observed Iras. "It is two years since Anubis permitted you to borrow the
masterpiece from the temple treasures, and within a few days you will be
obliged to restore it. That a mysterious spell emanates from the cup is
certain, but one still more powerful dwells in the magic of your own
nature."

"Would that it might assert itself to-day!" cried the Queen. "At any rate
the power of the beaker impelled Antony to do many things. I am not vain
enough to believe that it was love, that it was solely the spell of my
own personality which drew him to me in that disastrous hour. That
battle, that incomprehensible, disgraceful battle! You were ill, and
could not see our fleet when it set sail; but even experienced spectators
said that handsomer, larger vessels were never beheld. I was right in
insisting that the decision of the conflict should be left to them. I was
entitled to call them mine. Had we conquered, what a proud delight it
would have been to say, 'The weapons which you gave to the man you loved
gained him the sovereignty of the world!' Besides, the stars had assured
me that good fortune would attend us on the sea. They had given the same
message to Anubis here and to Alexas upon Antony's galley. I also trusted
the spell of the goblet, which had already compelled Antony to do many
things he opposed. So I succeeded in having the decision of the conflict
left to the fleet, but the prediction was false, false, false!--how
utterly, was to be proved only too soon.

"If I had only been told in time what I learned later! After the defeat
people were more loquacious. That one remark of a veteran commander of
the foot-soldiers would probably have sufficed to open my eyes. He had
asked Mark Antony why he fixed his hopes on miserable wood, exclaiming,
'Let the Phoenician's and Egyptians war on the water, but leave us the
land where we are accustomed, with our feet firmly set upon the earth, to
fight, conquer, or die!' This alone, I am sure, would have changed my
resolve in a happy hour. But it was kept from me.

"The conflict began. Our troops had lost patience. The left wing of the
fleet advanced. At first I watched the battle eagerly, with a throbbing
heart. How proudly the huge galleys moved forward! Everything was going
admirably. Antony had made an address, assuring the warriors that, even
without soldiers, our ships would destroy the foe by their mere height
and size. What orator can so carry his hearers with him! I, too, was
still fearless. Who cherishes anxiety when confidently expecting victory?
When he went on board his own ship, after bidding me farewell far less
cordially than usual, I became more troubled. I thought it was evident
that his love was waning. What had I become since we left Alexandria, and
Olympus no longer attended me! Matters could not continue in this way. I
would leave the direction of the war to him, and vanish from his eyes.
After he had looked into the beaker of Nektanebus, he yielded to my will,
but often with indignation. The unconcealed, ineffaceable lines, and the
years, the cruel years!"

"What thoughts are these?" cried Iras. "Let me take oath, my sovereign
mistress, that as you stand before me--"

"Thanks to this toilet-table and the new compounds of Olympus in these
boxes! At that time, I tell you, I was fairly startled at the sight of my
own face. Trouble does not enhance beauty, and what condemnation the
Romans had heaped on the woman who meddled with war, the craft of man! I
had answers for them, but I would not endure it longer. I had previously
determined to hold aloof from the battle on land; but even at the
commencement of the conflict, spite of its favourable promise, I longed
to leave Antony and return to the children. They do not heed the colour
of their mother's hair, nor her wrinkles; and he, when he had looked for
and called me in vain, would feel for the first time what he possessed in
me, would miss me, and with the longing the old love would awaken with
fresh ardour. As soon as the fleet had gained the victory I would have
the prow of my galley turned southward and, without a farewell,
exclaiming only, 'We will meet in Alexandria!' set sail for Egypt.

"I summoned Alexas, who had remained with me, and ordered him to give me
a signal as soon as the battle was decided in our favour. I remained on
deck. Then I saw the ships of the foe describing a wide circle. The
nauarch told me that Agrippa was trying to surround us. This roused a
feeling of discomfort. I began to repent having meddled with men's work.

"Antony looked across at me from his galley. I waved my hand to point out
the peril, but instead of eagerly and lovingly answering the greeting, as
of yore, he turned his back, and in a short time after the wildest uproar
arose around me. One ship became entangled with another, planks and poles
shattered with a loud crash. Shouts, the cries and moans of the
combatants and the wounded, mingled with the thunder of the stones hurled
by the catapults, and the sharp notes of the signals which sounded like
calls for help. Two soldiers, stricken by arrows, fell beside me. It was
horrible! Yet my courage remained steadfast, even when a squadron--it was
commanded by Aruntius--pressed upon the fleet. I saw another line of
galleys steering directly towards us, and a Roman vessel assailed by one
of mine--I had named her the Selene--turn on her side and sink. This
pleased me and seemed like the first presage of victory. I again ordered
Alexas to have the ship's prow turned as soon as the result of the battle
was decided. Ere I had ceased speaking, Jason, the steward--you know
him--appeared with refreshments. I took the beaker, but, ere I could
raise it to my lips, he fell to the deck with a cloven skull, mingling
his blood with the spilled juice of the grape. My blood seemed fairly to
freeze in my veins, and Alexas, trembling and deadly pale, asked, 'Do you
command us to quit the battle?'

"Every fibre of my being urged me to give the order, but I controlled
myself, and asked the nauarch, who was standing on the bridge before me,
'Are we gaining the advantage?' The reply was a positive 'Yes.' I thought
the fitting time had come, and called to him to steer the galley
southward. But the man did not seem to understand. Meanwhile the noise of
the conflict had grown louder and louder. So, in spite of Charmian, who
besought me not to interfere in the battle, I sent Alexas to the
commander on the bridge, and while he talked with the grey-bearded
seaman, who wrathfully answered I know not what, I glanced at the nearest
ship--I no longer knew whether it was friend or foe--and as I saw the
rows of restless oars moving in countless numbers to and fro, it seemed
as if every ship had become a huge spider, and the long wooden handles of
the oars were its legs and feet. Each of these monsters appeared to be
seeking to snare me in a horrible net, and when the nauarch came to
beseech me to wait, I imperiously commanded him to obey my orders.

"The luckless man bowed, and performed his Queen's behest. The giant was
turned, and forced a passage through the maze.

"I breathed more freely.

"What had threatened me like the legs of huge spiders became oars once
more. Alexas led me under a roof, where no missiles could reach me. My
desire was fulfilled. I had escaped Antony's eyes, and we were going
towards Alexandria and my children. When I at last looked around I saw
that my other ships were following. I had not given this order, and was
terribly startled. When I sought Alexas, he had vanished. The centurion
whom I sent to order the nauarch to give the signal to the other ships to
return to the battle, reported that the captain's dead body has just been
borne away, but that the command should be given. How this was done I do
not know, but it produced no effect, and no one noticed the anxious
waving of my handkerchief.

"We had left Antony's galley--he was standing on the bridge--far behind.

"I had waved my hand as we passed close by, and he hurried down to bend
far over the bulwark and shout to me. I can still see his hands raised to
his bearded lips. I did not understand what he said, and only pointed
southward and in spirit wished him victory and that this separation might
tend to the welfare of our love. But he shook his head, pressed his hand
despairingly to his brow, and waved his arms as though to give me a sign,
but the Antonias swept far ahead of his ship and steered straight towards
the south.

"I breathed more freely, in the pleasant consciousness of escaping a
two-fold danger. Had I remained long before Antony's eyes, looking as I
did then, it might--

"Wretched blunder of a wretched woman, I say now. But at that time I
could not suspect what a terrible doom I had brought down in that hour
upon ourselves, my children, perhaps the whole world; so I remained under
the thrall of these petty fears and thoughts until wounded men were
carried past me. The sight distressed me; you know how sensitive I am,
and with what difficulty I endure and witness suffering.

"Charmian led me to the cabin. There I first realized what I had done. I
had hoped to aid in crushing the hated foe, and now perhaps it was I who
had built for him the bridge to victory, to sovereignty, to our
destruction. Pursued by such thoughts, as if by the Furies, I paced
restlessly to and fro.

"Suddenly I heard a loud noise on deck. A crashing blow seemed to shake
the huge ship. We were pursued! A Roman galley had boarded mine! This was
my thought as I grasped the dagger Antony had given me.

"But Charmian came back with tidings which seemed scarcely less terrible
than the baseless fear. I had angrily commanded her to leave me because
she had urged me to revoke the command to turn back. Now, deadly pale,
she announced that Mark Antony had left his galley, followed me in a
little five-oared boat, and come on board our ship.

"My blood froze in my veins.

"He had come, I imagined, to force me to return to the battle and,
drawing a long breath, my defiant pride urged me to show him that I was
the Queen and would obey only my own will, while my heart impelled me to
sink at his feet and beseech him, without heeding me, to issue any order
which promised to secure a victory.

"But he did not come.

"I sent Charmian up again. Antony had been unable to continue the
conflict when parted from me. Now he sat in front of the cabin with his
head resting on his hands, staring at the planks of the deck like one
distraught. He, he--Antony! The bravest horseman, the terror of the foe,
let his arms fall like a shepherd-boy whose sheep are stolen by the
wolves. Mark Antony, the hero who had braved a thousand dangers, had
flung down his sword. Why, why? Because a woman had yielded to idle
fears, obeyed the yearning of a mother's heart, and fled? Of all human
weaknesses, not one had been more alien than cowardice to the man whose
recklessness had led him to many an unprecedented venture. And now? No, a
thousand times no! Fire and water would unite sooner than Mark Antony and
cowardice! He had been under the coercive power of a demon; a mysterious
spell had forced him--"

"The mightiest power, love," interrupted Iras with enthusiastic
warmth--"a love as great and overmastering as ever subjugated the soul of
man."

"Ay, love," repeated Cleopatra, in a hollow tone. Then her lips curled
with a faint tinge of derision, and her voice expressed the very
bitterness of doubt, as she continued: "Had it been merely the love which
makes two mortals one, transfers the heart of one to the other, it might
perchance have borne my timorous soul into the hero's breast! But no.
Violent tempests had raged before the battle. It had not been possible
always to appear before him in the guise in which we would fain be seen
by those whom we love.

"Even now, when your skilful hands have served me--there is the
mirror--the image it reflects--seems to me like a carefully preserved
wreck--"

"O my royal mistress," cried Iras, raising her hands beseechingly, "must
I again declare that neither the grey hairs which are again brown, nor
the few lines which Olympus will soon render invisible, nor whatever else
perhaps disturbs you in the image you behold reflected, impairs your
beauty? Unclouded and secure of victory, the spell of your godlike
nature--"

"Cease, cease!" interrupted Cleopatra. "I know what I know. No mortal can
escape the great eternal laws of Nature. As surely as birth commences
life, everything that exists moves onward to destruction and decay."

"Yet the gods," Iras persisted, "give to their works different degrees of
existence. The waterlily blooms but a single day, yet how full of vigour
is the sycamore in the garden of the Paneum, which has flourished a
thousand years! Not a petal in the blossoms of your youth has faded, and
is it conceivable that there is even the slightest diminution in the love
of him who cast away all that man holds dearest because he could not
endure to part, even for days or weeks, from the woman whom he
worshipped?"

"Would that he had done so!" cried Cleopatra mournfully. "But are you so
sure that it was love which made him follow me? I am of a different
opinion. True love does not paralyze, but doubles the high qualities of
man. I learned this when Caesar was prisoned by a greatly superior force
within this very palace, his ships burned, his supply of water cut off.
In him also, in Antony, I was permitted to witness this magnificent
spectacle twenty--what do I say?-a hundred times, so long as he loved me
with all the ardour of his fiery soul. But what happened at Actium? That
shameful flight of the cooing dove after his mate, at which generations
yet unborn will point in mockery! He who does not see more deeply will
attribute to the foolish madness of love this wretched forgetfulness of
duty, honour, fame, the present and the future; but I, Iras--and this is
the thought which whitens one hair after another, which will speedily
destroy the remnant of your mistress's former beauty by the exhaustion of
sleepless nights--I know better. It was not love which drew Antony after
me, not love that trampled in the dust the radiant image of reckless
courage, not love that constrained the demigod to follow the pitiful
track of a fugitive woman."

Here her voice fell, and seizing the girl's wrist with a painful
pressure, she drew her closer to her side and whispered:

"The goblet of Nektanebus is connected with it. Ay, tremble! The powers
that emanate from the glittering wonder are as terrible as they are
unnatural. The magic spell exerted by the beaker has transformed the
heroic son of Herakles, the more than mortal, into the whimpering coward,
the crushed, broken nonentity I found upon the galley's deck. You are
silent? Your nimble tongue finds no reply. How could you have forgotten
that you aided me to win the wager which forced Antony to gaze into the
beaker before I filled it for him? How grateful I was to Anubis when he
finally consented to trust to my care this marvel of the temple
treasures, when the first trial succeeded, and Antony, at my bidding,
placed the magnificent wreath which he wore upon the bald brow of that
crabbed old follower of Aristoteles, Diomedes, whom he detested in his
inmost soul! It was scarcely a year ago, and you know how rarely at first
I used the power of the terrible vessel. The man whom I loved obeyed my
slightest glance, without its aid. But later--before the battle--I felt
how gladly he would have sent me, who might ruin all, back to Egypt.
Besides, I felt--I have already said so--that something had come between
us. Yet, often as he was on the point of sacrificing me to the
importunate Romans, I need only bid him gaze into the beaker, and exclaim
'You will not send me hence. We belong together. Whither one goes, the
other will follow!' and he besought me not to leave him. The very morning
before the battle I gave him the drinking cup, urging him, whatever might
happen, never, never to leave me. And he obeyed this time also, though
the person to whom a magic spell bound him was a fleeing woman. It is
terrible. And yet, have I a right to execrate the thrall of the beaker?
Scarcely! For without the Magian's glittering vessel--a secret voice in
my soul has whispered the warning a thousand times during the sleepless
nights--he would have taken another on the galley. And I believe I know
this other--I mean the woman whose singing enthralled my heart too at the
Adonis festival just before our departure. I noticed the look with which
his eyes sought hers. Now I know that it was not merely my old deceitful
foe, jealousy, which warned me against her. Alexas, the most faithful of
his friends, also confirmed what I merely feared--ah! and he told me
other things which the stars had revealed to him. Besides, he knows the
siren, for she was the wife of his own brother. To protect his honour, he
cast off the coquettish Circe."

"Barine!" fell in resolute tones from the lips of Iras.

"So you know her?" asked Cleopatra, eagerly. The girl raised her clasped
hands beseechingly to the Queen, exclaiming:

"I know this woman only too well, and how my heart rages against her! O
my mistress, that I, too, should aid in darkening this hour! Yet it must
be said. That Antony visited the singer, and even took his son there more
than once, is known throughout the city. Yet that is not the worst. A
Barine entering into rivalry with you! It would be too ridiculous. But
what bounds can be set to the insatiate greed of these women? No rank, no
age is sacred. It was dull in the absence of the court and the army.
There were no men who seemed worth the trouble of catching, so she cast
her net for boys, and the one most closely snared was the King
Caesarion."

"Caesarion!" exclaimed Cleopatra, her pale cheeks flushing. "And his
tutor Rhodon? My strict commands?"

"Antyllus secretly presented him to her," replied Iras. "But I kept my
eyes open. The boy clung to the singer with insensate passion. The only
expedient was to remove her from the city. Archibius aided me."

"Then I shall be spared sending her away."

"Nay, that must still be done; for, on the journey to the country
Caesarion, with several comrades, attacked her."

"And the reckless deed was successful?"

"No, my royal mistress. I wish it had been. A love-sick fool who
accompanied her drew his sword in her defence, raised his hand against
the son of Caesar, and wounded him. Calm yourself, I beseech you, I
conjure you--the wound is slight. The boy's mad passion makes me far more
anxious."

The Queen's pouting scarlet lips closed so firmly that her mouth lost the
winning charm which was peculiar to it, and she answered in a firm,
resolute tone: "It is the mother's place to protect the son against the
temptress. Alexas is right. Her star stands in the path of mine. A woman
like this casts a deep shadow on her Queen's course. I will defend
myself. It is she who has placed herself between us; she has won Antony.
But no! Why should I blind myself? Time and the charms he steals from
women are far more powerful than twenty such little temptresses. Then,
there are the circumstances which prevented my concealing the defects
that wounded the eyes of this most spoiled of all spoiled mortals. All
these things aided the singer. I feel it. In her pursuit of men she had
at her command all the means which aid us women to conceal what is
unlovely and enhance what is beautiful in a lover's eyes, while I was at
a disadvantage, lacking your aid and the long-tested skill of Olympus.
The divinity on the ship, amid the raging of the storm, was forced more
than once to appear before the worshipper ungarlanded, without ornament
for the head, or incense."

"But though she used all the combined arts of Aphrodite and Isis, she
could not vie with you, my royal mistress!" cried Iras. "How little is
required to delude the senses of one scarcely more than a child!"

"Poor boy!" sighed the Queen, gently. "Had he not been wounded, and were
it not so hard to resign what we love, I should rejoice that he, too,
understands how to plan and act. Perhaps--O Iras, would that it might be
so!--now that the gate is burst open, the brain and energy of the great
Caesar will enter his living image. As the Egyptians call Horus 'the
avenger of his father,' perhaps he may become his mother's defender and
avenger. If Caesar's spirit wakes within him, he will wrest from the
dissembler Octavianus the heritage of which the nephew robbed the son.
You swear that the wound is but a slight one?"

"The physicians have said so."

"Well, then we will hope so. Let him enter the conflict of life. We will
afford him ample opportunity to test his powers. No foolish passion shall
prevent the convalescent youth from following his father upward along the
pathway of fame. But send for the woman who ensnared him, the audacious
charmer whose aspirations mount to those I hold dearest. We will see how
she appears beside me!"

"These are grievous times," said Iras, who saw in amazement the Queen's
eyes sparkle with the confident light of victory. "Grant your foot its
right. Let it crush her! Monsters enough, on whom you cannot set your
foot, throng your path. Hence to Hades, in these days of conflict, with
all who can be quickly removed!"

"Murder?" asked Cleopatra, her noble brow contracting in a frown.

"If it must be, ay," replied Iras, sharply. "If possible, banishment to
an island, an oasis. If necessity requires, to the mines with the siren!"

"If necessity requires?" repeated the Queen. "I think that means, if it
proves that she has deserved the harshest punishment."

"She has brought it upon herself by every hour of my sovereign's life
clouded through her wiles. In the mines the desire to set snares for
husbands and sons soon vanishes."

"And people languish in the most terrible torture till death ends their
suffering," added Cleopatra, in a tone of grave reproof. "No, girl, this
victory is too easy. I will not send even my foe to death without a
hearing, especially at this time, which teaches me what it is to await
the verdict of one who is more powerful. This woman who, as it were,
summons me to battle, shall have her wish. I am curious to see the singer
again, and to learn the means by which she has succeeded in chaining to
her triumphal car so many captives, from boys up to the most exacting
men."

"What do you intend, my royal mistress?" cried Iras in horror.

"I intend," said Cleopatra imperiously, "to see the daughter of Leonax,
the granddaughter of Didymus, two men whom I hold in high esteem, ere I
decide her destiny. I wish to behold, test, and judge my rival, heart and
mind, ere I condemn her. I will engage in the conflict to which she
challenged the loving wife and mother! But--this is my right--I will
compel her to show herself to me as Antony so often saw me during the
past few weeks, unaided and unimproved by the arts which we both have at
command."

Then, without paying any further heed to her attendant, she went to a
window, and, after a swift glance at the sky, added quietly: "The first
hour after midnight is drawing to a close. The council will begin
immediately. The matter to be under discussion is a venture which might
save much from the wreck. The council will last two hours, perchance only
one. The singer can wait. Where does she live?"

"In the house which belonged to her father, the artist Leonax, in the
garden of the Paneum," replied Iras hoarsely. "But, O my Queen, if ever
my opinion had the slightest weight with you--"

"I desire no counsel now, but demand the fulfilment of my orders!" cried
Cleopatra resolutely. "As soon as those whom I expect are here--"

The Queen was interrupted by a chamberlain, who announced the arrival of
the men whom she had summoned, and Cleopatra bade him tell them that she
was on her way to the council chamber. Then she turned again to Iras and
in rapid words commanded her to go at once in a closed carriage,
accompanied by a reliable person, to Barine's house. She must be brought
to the palace without the least delay--Iras would understand--even if it
should be necessary to rouse her from her sleep. "I wish to see her as if
a storm had forced her suddenly upon the deck of a ship," she said in
conclusion.

Then snatching a small tablet from the dressing-table, she scrawled upon
the wax with a rapid hand: "Cleopatra, the Queen, desires to see Barine,
the daughter of Leonax, without delay. She must obey any command of Iras,
Cleopatra's messenger, and her companion."

Then, closing the diptychon, she handed it to her attendant, asking:

"Whom will you take?"

She answered without hesitation, "Alexas."

"Very well," answered Cleopatra. "Do not allow her a moment for
preparations, whatever they may be. But do not forget--I command
you--that she is a woman."

With these words she turned to follow the chamberlain, but Iras hurried
after her to adjust the diadem upon her head and arrange some of the
folds of her robe.

Cleopatra submitted, saying kindly, "Something else, I see, is weighing
on your heart."

"O my mistress!" cried the girl. "After these tempests of the soul, these
harassing months, you are turning night into day and assuming fresh
labours and anxieties. If the leech Olympus--"

"It must be," interrupted Cleopatra kindly. "The last two weeks seemed
like a single long and gloomy night, during which I sometimes left my
couch for a few hours. One who seeks to drag what is dearest from the
river does not consider whether the cold bath is agreeable. If we
succumb, it does not matter whether we are well or ill; if, on the
contrary, we succeed in gathering another army and saving Egypt, let it
cost health and life. The minutes I intend to grant to the woman will be
thrown into the bargain. Whatever may come, I shall be ready to meet my
fate. I am at one of life's great turning points. At such a time we
fulfil our obligations and demands, both great and small."

A few minutes later Cleopatra entered the throne-room and saluted the men
whom she had roused from their slumber in order to lay before them a bold
plan which, in the lowest depths of misfortune, her yearning to offer
fresh resistance to the victorious foe had caused her vigorous, restless
mind to evoke.

When, many years before, the boy with whom, according to her father's
will, she shared the throne, and his guardian Pothinus, had compelled her
to fly from Alexandria, she had found in the eastern frontier of the
Delta, on the isthmus which united Egypt to Asia, the remains of the
canal which the energetic Pharaohs of former times had constructed to
connect the Mediterranean with the Red Sea.

Even at that period she had deemed this ruinous work worthy of notice,
had questioned the AEnites who dwelt there about the remains, and even
visited some of them herself during the leisure hours of waiting.

From this survey it had seemed possible, by a great expenditure of
labour, to again render navigable the canal which the Pharaohs had used
to reach both seas in the same galleys, and by which, less than five
hundred years before, Darius, the founder of the Persian Empire, had
brought his fleet to his support.

With the tireless desire for knowledge characteristic of her, Cleopatra
had sought information concerning all these matters, and in quiet hours
had more than once pondered over plans for again uniting the Grecian and
Arabian seas.

Clearly, plainly, fully, with more thorough knowledge of many details
than even the superintendent of the water works, she explained her design
to the assembled professionals. If it proved practicable, the rescued
ships of the fleet, with others lying in the roadstead of Alexandria,
could be conveyed across the isthmus into the Red Sea, and thus saved to
Egypt and withdrawn from the foe. Supported by this force, many things
might be attempted, resistance might be considerably prolonged, and the
time thus gained used in gathering fresh aid and allies.

If the opportunity to make an attack arrived, a powerful fleet would be
at her disposal, for which smaller ships also should now be built at
Klysma, on the basis of the experience gained at Actium. The men who had
been robbed of their night's rest listened in amazement to the melodious
words of this woman who, in the deepest disaster, had devised a plan of
escape so daring in its grandeur, and understood how to explain it better
than any one of their number could have done. They followed every
sentence with the keenest attention, and Cleopatra's language grew more
impassioned, gained greater power and depth, the more plainly she
perceived the unfeigned, enthusiastic admiration paid her by her
listeners.

Even the oldest and most experienced men did not consider the surprising
proposal utterly impossible and impracticable. Some, among them Gorgias,
who during the restoration of the Serapeum had helped his father on the
eastern frontier of the Delta, and thus became familiar with the
neighbourhood of Heroonopolis, feared the difficulties which an elevation
of the earth in the centre of the isthmus would place in the way of the
enterprise. Yet, why should an undertaking which was successful in the
days of Sesostris appear unattainable?

The shortness of the time at their disposal was a still greater source of
anxiety, and to this was added the information that one hundred and
twenty thousand workmen had perished during the restoration of the canal
which Pharaoh Necho nearly completed. The water way was not finished at
that period, because an oracle had asserted that it would benefit only
the foreigners, the Phoenicians.

All these points were duly considered, but could not shake the opinion
that, under specially favourable conditions, the Queen's plan would be
practicable; though, to execute it, obstacles mountain-high were to be
conquered. All the labourers in the fields, who had not been pressed into
the army, must be summoned to the work.

Not an hour's delay was permitted. Where there was no water to bear the
ships, an attempt must be made to convey them across the land. There was
no lack of means. The mechanics who had understood how to move the
obelisks and colossi from the cataract to Alexandria, could here again
find opportunity to test their brains and former skill.

Never had Cleopatra's kindling spirit roused more eager, nay, more
passionate sympathy, in any counsellors gathered around her than during
this nocturnal meeting, and when at last she paused, the loud
acclamations of excited men greeted her. The Queen's return, and the
tidings of the lost battle which she had communicated, were to be kept
secret.

Gorgias had been appointed one of the directors of the enterprise, and
the intellect, voice, and winning charm of Cleopatra had so enraptured
him that he already fancied he saw the commencement of a new love which
would be fatal to his regard for Helena.

It was foolish to raise his wishes so high, but he told himself that he
had never beheld a woman more to be desired. Yet he cherished a very warm
memory of the philosopher's grand-daughter, and lamented that he would
scarcely find it possible to bid her farewell.

Zeno, the Keeper of the Seal, Dion's uncle, had questioned him about his
nephew in a very mysterious manner as soon as he entered the council
chamber, and received the reply that the wound in the shoulder, which
Caesarion had dealt with a short Roman sword, though severe, was--so the
physicians assured them-not fatal.

This seemed to satisfy Zeno, and ere Gorgias could urge him to extend a
protecting hand over his nephew, he excused himself and, with a message
to the wounded man, turned his back upon him.

The courtier had not yet learned what view the Queen would take of this
unfortunate affair, and besides, he was overloaded with business. The new
enterprise required the issue of a large number of documents conferring
authority, which all passed through his hands.

Cleopatra addressed a few kind, encouraging words to each one of the
experts who had been entrusted with the execution of her plan. Gorgias,
too, was permitted to kiss her robe, which stirred his blood afresh. He
would fain have flung himself at the feet of this marvellous woman and,
with his services, place his life at her disposal. And Cleopatra noticed
the enthusiastic ardour of his glance.

He, too, had been mentioned in the list of Barine's admirers. There must
be something unusual about this woman! But could she have fired a body of
grave men in behalf of a great, almost impossible deed, roused them to
such enthusiastic admiration as she, the vanquished, menaced Queen?
Certainly not.

She felt in the right mood to confront Barine as judge and rival.

In the midst of the deepest misery she had spent one happy hour. She had
again felt, with joyous pride, that her intellect, fresh and unclouded,
would be capable of outstripping the best powers, and in truth she needed
no magic goblet to win hearts.



     ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

     Aspect obnoxious to the gaze will pour water on the fire
     Everything that exists moves onward to destruction and decay
     Trouble does not enhance beauty



CLEOPATRA

By Georg Ebers

Volume 5.



CHAPTER XII.

Barine had been an hour in the palace. The magnificently furnished room
to which she was conducted was directly above the council chamber, and
sometimes, in the silence of the night, the voice of the Queen or the
loud cheers of men were distinctly heard.

Barine listened without making the slightest effort to catch the meaning
of the words which reached her ears. She longed only for something to
divert her thoughts from the deep and bitter emotion which filled her
soul. Ay, she was roused to fury, and yet she felt how completely this
passionate resentment contradicted her whole nature.

True, the shameless conduct of Philostratus during their married life had
often stirred the inmost depths of her placid, kindly spirit, and after
wards his brother Alexas had come to drive her, by his disgraceful
proposals, to the verge of despair; rage was added to the passionate
agitation of her soul, and for this she had cause to rejoice--but for
this mighty resentment during the time of struggle she might have,
perhaps, succumbed from sheer weariness and the yearning desire to rest.

At last, at last, she and her friends, by means of great sacrifices, had
succeeded in releasing her from these tortures. Philostratus's consent to
liberate her was purchased. Alexas's persecution had ceased long before;
he had first been sent away as envoy by his patron Antony, and afterwards
been compelled to accompany him to the war.

How she had enjoyed the peaceful days in her mother's house! How quickly
the bright cheerfulness which she had supposed lost had returned to her
soul!--and to-day Fate had blessed her with the greatest happiness life
had ever offered. True, she had had only a few brief hours in which to
enjoy it, for the attack of the unbridled boys and the wound inflicted
upon her lover had cast a heavy shadow on her bliss.

Her mother had again proved to be in the right when she so confidently
predicted a second misfortune which would follow the first only too soon.

Barine had been torn at midnight from her peaceful home and her wounded
lover's bedside. This was done by the Queen's command, and, full of angry
excitement, she said to herself that the men were right who cursed
tyranny because it transformed free human beings into characterless
chattels.

There could be nothing good awaiting her; that was proved by the
messengers whom Cleopatra had sent to summon her at this unprecedented
hour. They were her worst enemies: Iras, who desired to wed her
lover--Dion had told her so after the assault--and Alexas, whose suit she
had rejected in a way which a man never forgives.

She had already learned Iras's feelings. The slender figure with the
narrow head, long, delicate nose, small chin, and pointed fingers, seemed
to her like a long, sharp thorn. This strange comparison had entered her
head as Iras stood rigidly erect, reading aloud in a shrill, high voice
the Queen's command. Everything about this hard, cold face appeared as
sharp as a sting, and ready to destroy her.

Her removal from her mother's house to the royal palace had been swift
and simple.

After the attack--of which she saw little, because, overpowered by fear
and horror, she closed her eyes--she had driven home with her lover,
where the leech had bandaged his injuries, and Berenike had quickly and
carefully transformed her own sleeping chamber into a sick-room.

Barine, after changing her dress, did not leave Dion's side. She had
attired herself carefully, for she knew his delight in outward adornment.
When she returned from her grandparents, before sunset, she was alone
with him, and he, kissing her arm, had murmured that wherever the Greek
tongue was spoken there was not one more beautiful. The gem was worthy of
its loveliness. So she had opened her baggage to take out the circlet
which Antony had given, and it again enclasped her arm when she entered
the sick-room.

Because Dion had told her that he deemed her fairest in the simple white
robe she had worn a few days before, when there were no guests save
himself and Gorgias, and she had sung until after midnight his favourite
songs as though all were intended for him alone, her choice had fallen
upon this garment. And she rejoiced that she had worn it--the wounded
man's eyes rested upon her so joyously when she sat down opposite to him.

The physician had forbidden him to talk, and urged him to sleep if
possible. So Barine only held his hand in silence, whispering, whenever
he opened his eyes, a tender word of love and encouragement.

She had remained with him for hours, leaving her place at his side merely
to give him his medicine, or, with her mother's aid, place poultices on
his wounds.

When his manly face was distorted by suffering, she shared his pain; but
during most of the time a calm, pleasant sense of happiness pervaded her
mind. She felt safe and sheltered in the possession of the man whom she
loved, though fully aware of the perils which threatened him, and,
perhaps, her also. But the assurance of his love completely filled her
heart and cast every care entirely into the shade. Many men had seemed
estimable and agreeable, a few even desirable husbands, but Dion was the
first to awaken love in her ardent but by no means passionate soul. She
regarded the experiences of the past few days as a beautiful miracle. How
she had yearned and pined until the most fervent desire of her heart was
fulfilled! Now Dion had offered her his love, and nothing could rob her
of it.

Gorgias and the sons of her uncle Arius had disturbed her a short time.
After they had gone with a good report, Berenike had entreated her
daughter to lie down and let her take her place. But Barine would not
leave her lover's couch, and had just loosed her hair to brush it again
and fasten the thick, fair braids around her head, when, two hours after
midnight, some one knocked loudly on the window shutters. Berenike was in
the act of removing the poultice, so Barine herself went into the atrium
to wake the doorkeeper.

But the old man was not asleep, and had anticipated her. She recognized,
with a low cry of terror, the first person who entered the lighted
vestibule--Alexas. Iras followed, her head closely muffled, for the storm
was still howling through the streets. Last of all a lantern-bearer
crossed the threshold.

The Syrian saluted the startled young beauty with a formal bow, but Iras,
without a greeting or even a single word of preparation, delivered the
Queen's command, and then read aloud, by the light of the lantern, what
Cleopatra had scrawled upon the wax tablet.

When Barine, pallid and scarcely able to control her emotion, requested
the messengers who had arrived at so late an hour to enter, in order to
give her time to prepare for the night drive and take leave of her
mother, Iras vouchsafed no reply, but, as if she had the right to rule
the house, merely ordered the doorkeeper to bring his mistress's cloak
without delay.

While the old man, with trembling knees, moved away, Iras asked if the
wounded Dion was in the dwelling; and Barine, her self-control restored
by the question, answered, with repellent pride, that the Queen's orders
did not command her to submit to an examination in her own house.

Iras shrugged her shoulders and said, sneeringly, to Alexas:

"In truth, I asked too much. One who attracts so many men of all ages can
scarcely be expected to know the abode of each individual."

"The heart has a faithful memory," replied the Syrian in a tone of
correction, but Iras echoed, contemptuously, "The heart!"

Then all were silent until, instead of the doorkeeper, Berenike herself
came hurrying in, bringing the cloak. With pallid face and bloodless lips
she wrapped it around her daughter's shoulders, whispering, amid floods
of tears, almost inaudible words of love and encouragement, which Iras
interrupted by requesting Barine to follow her to the carriage.

The mother and daughter embraced and kissed each other, then the closed
equipage bore the persecuted woman through the storm and darkness to
Lochias.

Not a word was exchanged between Barine and the Queen's messengers until
they reached the room where the former was to await Cleopatra; but here
Iras again endeavoured to induce her to speak. At the first question,
however, Barine answered that she had no information to give.

The room was as bright as if it were noonday, though the lights flickered
constantly, for the wind found its way through the thin shutters closing
the windows on both sides of the corner room, and a strong, cold draught
swept in. Barine wrapped her cloak more closely around her; the storm
which howled about the sea-washed palace harmonized with the vehement
agitation of her soul. Whether she had looked within or without, there
was nothing which could have soothed her save the assurance of being
loved--an assurance that held fear at bay. Now, indignation prevented
dread from overpowering her, yet calm consideration could not fail to
show her that danger threatened on every hand. The very manner in which
Iras and Alexas whispered together, without heeding her presence, boded
peril, for courtiers show such contempt only to those whom they know are
threatened with the indifference or resentment of the sovereign. Barine,
during her married life with a man devoid of all delicacy of feeling, and
with a disposition as evil as his tongue was ready, had learned to endure
many things which were hard to bear; yet when, after a remark from Iras
evidently concerning her, she heard Alexas laugh, she was compelled to
exert the utmost self-restraint to avoid telling her enemy how utterly
she despised the cowardly cruelty of her conduct. But she succeeded in
keeping silent. Still, the painful constraint she imposed on herself must
find vent in some way, and, as the tortured anguish of her soul reached
its height, large tears rolled down her cheeks.

These, too, were noticed by her enemy and made the target of her wit; but
this time the sarcasm failed to produce its effect upon the Syrian, for,
instead of laughing, he grew grave, and whispered something which seemed
to Barine a reproof or a warning. Iras's reply was merely a contemptuous
shrug of the shoulders.

Barine had noticed long before that her mother, in her fear and
bewilderment, had brought her own cloak instead of her daughter's, and
this circumstance also did not seem to her foe too trivial for a sneer.

But the childish insolence that seemed to have taken possession of one
who usually by no means lacked dignity, was merely the mask beneath which
she concealed her own suffering. A grave motive was the source of the
mirth by which she affected to be moved at the sight of her enemy's
cloak. The grey, ill-fitting garment disfigured Barine, and she desired
that the Queen should feel confident of surpassing her rival even in
outward charms. No one, not even Cleopatra, could dispense with a
protecting wrap in this cold draught, and nothing suited her better than
the purple mantle in whose delicate woollen fabric black and gold dragons
and griffins were embroidered. Iras had taken care that it lay ready.
Barine could not fail to appear like a beggar in comparison, though
Alexas said that her blue kerchief was marvellously becoming.

He was a base-minded voluptuary, who, aided by rich gifts of mind and
wide knowledge, had shunned no means of ingratiating himself with Antony,
the most lavish of patrons. The repulse which this man, accustomed to
success, had received from Barine had been hard to forget, yet he did not
resign the hope of winning her. Never had she seemed more desirable than
in her touching weakness. Even base natures are averse to witnessing the
torture of the defenceless, and when Iras had aimed another poisoned
shaft at her, he ventured, at the risk of vexing his ally, to say, under
his breath:

"Condemned criminals are usually granted, before their end, a favourite
dish. I have no cause to wish Barine anything good; but I would not
grudge that. You, on the contrary, seem to delight in pouring wormwood on
her last mouthful."

"Certainly," she answered, her eyes sparkling brightly. "Malice is the
purest of pleasures; at least to me, when exercised on this woman."

The Syrian, with a strange smile, held out his hand, saying: "Keep your
good-will towards me, Iras."

"Because," she retorted with a sneer, "evil may follow my enmity. I think
so, too. I am not especially sensitive concerning myself, but whoever
dares"--here she raised her voice--"to harm one whom I--Just listen to
the cheers! How she carries all hearts with her! Though Fate had made her
a beggar, she would still be peerless among women. She is like the sun.
The clouds which intrude upon her pathway of radiance are consumed and
disappear."

While uttering the last sentence she had turned towards Barine, whose ear
the sharp voice again pierced like a thorn, as she commanded her to
prepare for the examination.

Almost at the same moment the door, caught by the wind, closed with a
loud bang. The "introducer"--[Marshal of the court.]--had opened it, and,
after a hasty glance, exclaimed:

"The audience will not be given in this meeting place for all the winds
of heaven! Her Majesty desires to receive her late visitor in the Hall of
Shells."

With these words he bowed courteously to Barine, and ushered her and her
two companions through several corridors and apartments into a
well-heated anteroom.

Here even the windows were thoroughly protected from the storm. Several
body-guards and pages belonging to the corps of the "royal boys" stood
waiting to receive them.

"This is comfortable." said Alexas, turning to Iras. "Was the winter we
have just experienced intended to fill us with twofold gratitude for the
delights of the mild spring in this blessed room?"

"Perhaps so," she answered sullenly, and then added in a low tone: "Here
at Lochias the seasons do not follow their usual course. They change
according to the pleasure of the supreme will. Instead of four, the
Egyptians, as you know, have but three; in the palaces on the Nile they
are countless. What is the meaning of this sudden entry of summer? Winter
would have pleased me better."

The Queen--Iras knew not why--had changed her arrangements for Barine's
reception. This vexed her, and her features assumed a gloomy, threatening
expression as the young beauty, casting aside her cloak and kerchief,
stood awaiting Cleopatra in a white robe of fine material and perfect
fit. The thick, fair braids, wound simply around her shapely head, gave
her an appearance of almost childish youth, and the sight made Iras feel
as if she, and Cleopatra also, were outwitted.

In the dimly lighted atrium of the house near the Paneum garden, she had
noticed only that Barine wore something white. Had it been merely a night
robe, so much the better. But she might have appeared in her present garb
at the festival of Isis. The most careful deliberation could have
selected nothing more suitable or becoming. And did this vain woman go to
rest with costly gold ornaments? Else how did the circlet chance to be on
her arm? Each of Cleopatra's charms seemed to Iras, who knew them all,
like a valuable possession of her own. To see even the least of them
surpassed by another vexed her; and to behold in yonder woman a form
which she could not deny was no less beautiful, enraged, nay, pierced her
to the heart.

Since she had known that because of Barine she could hope for nothing
more from the man to whose love she believed she possessed a claim dating
from their childhood, she had hated the young beauty. And now to the many
things which contributed to increase her hostile mood, was added the
disagreeable consciousness that during the last few hours she had treated
her contemptibly. Had she only seen earlier what her foe's cloak
concealed, she would have found means to give her a different appearance.
But she must remain as she was; for Chairman had already entered. Other
hours, however, would follow, and if the next did not decide the fate of
the woman whom she hated, future ones should.

For this purpose she did not need the aid of Charmian, her uncle
Archibius's sister, who had hitherto been a beloved associate and
maternal friend. But what had happened? Iras fancied that her pleasant
features wore a repellent expression which she had never seen before. Was
this also the singer's fault? And what was the cause?

The older woman's manner decided the question whether she should still
bestow upon her returned relative the love of a grateful niece. No, she
would no longer put any restraint upon herself. Charmian should feel that
she (Iras) considered any favour shown to her foe an insult. To work
against her secretly was not in her nature. She had courage to show an
enemy her aversion, and she did not fear Charmian enough to pursue a
different course. She knew that the artist Leonax, Barine's father, had
been Charmian's lover; but this did not justify her favouring the woman
who had robbed her niece of the heart of the man whom she--as Charmian
knew--had loved from childhood.

Charmian had just had a long conversation with her brother, and had also
learned in the palace that Barine had been summoned to the Queen's
presence in the middle of the night; so, firmly persuaded that evil was
intended to the young woman who had already passed through so many
agitating scenes of joy and sorrow, she entered the waiting-room, and her
pleasant though no longer youthful face, framed in smooth, grey hair, was
greeted by Barine as the shipwrecked mariner hails the sight of land.

All the emotions which had darkened and embittered her soul were soothed.
She hastened towards her friend's sister, as a frightened child seeks its
mother, and Charmian perceived what was stirring in her heart.

It would not do, under existing circumstances, to kiss her in the palace,
but she drew Leonax's daughter towards her to show Iras that she was
ready to extend a protecting hand over the persecuted woman. But Barine
gazed at her with pleading glances, beseeching aid, whispering amid her
tears: "Help me, Charmian. She has tortured, insulted, humiliated me with
looks and words--so cruelly, so spitefully! Help me; I can bear no more."

Charmian shook her kind head and urged her in a whisper to calm herself.
She had robbed Iras of her lover; she should remember that. Cost what it
might, she must not shed another tear. The Queen was gracious. She,
Charmian, would aid her. Everything would depend on showing herself to
Cleopatra as she was, not as slander represented her. She must answer her
as she would Archibius or herself.

The kindly woman, as she spoke, stroked her brow and eyes with maternal
tenderness, and Barine felt as if goodness itself had quelled the tempest
in her soul. She gazed around her as though roused from a troubled dream,
and now for the first time perceived the richly adorned room in which she
stood, the admiring glances of the boys in the Macedonian corps of pages,
and the bright fire blazing cheerily on the hearth. The howling of the
storm increased the pleasant sense of being under a firm roof, and Iras,
who had whispered to the "introducer" at the door, no longer seemed like
a sharp thorn or a spiteful demon, but a woman by no means destitute of
charm, who repulsed her, but on whom she had inflicted the keenest pang a
woman's heart can suffer. Then she again thought of her wounded lover at
home, and remembered that, whatever might happen, his heart did not
belong to Iras, but to her alone. Lastly, she recalled Archibius's
description of Cleopatra's childhood, and this remembrance was followed
by the conviction that the omnipotent sovereign would be neither cruel
nor unjust, and that it would depend upon herself to win her favour.
Charmian, too, was the Queen's confidante; and if the manner of Iras and
Alexas had alarmed her, Charmian's might well inspire confidence.

All these thoughts darted through her brain with the speed of lightning.
Only a brief time for consideration remained; for, even as she bowed her
head on the bosom of her friend, the "introducer" entered the room,
crying, "Her illustrious Majesty will expect those whom she summoned in a
few minutes!"

Soon after a chamberlain appeared, waving a fan of ostrich feathers and,
preceded by the court official, they passed through several brilliantly
lighted, richly furnished rooms.

Barine again breathed freely and moved with head erect; and when the
wide, lofty folding doors of ebony, against whose deep black surface the
inlaid figures of Tritons, mermaids, shells, fish, and sea monsters were
sharply relieved, she beheld a glittering, magnificent scene, for the
hall which Cleopatra had chosen for her reception was completely covered
with various marine forms, from the shells to coral and starfish.

A wide, lofty structure, composed of masses of stalactites and unhewn
blocks of stone, formed a deep grotto at the end of the hall, whence
peered the gigantic head of a monster whose open jaws formed the
fireplace of the chimney. Logs of fragrant Arabian wood were blazing
brightly on the hearth, and the dragon's ruby glass eyes diffused a red
light through the apartment which, blended with the rays of the white and
pink lamps in the shape of lotus flowers fastened among gold and silver
tendrils and groups of sedges on the walls and ceiling, filling the
spacious apartment with the soft light whose roseate hue was specially
becoming to Cleopatra's waxen complexion.

Several stewards and cup-bearers, the master of the hunt, chamberlains,
female attendants, eunuchs, and other court officials were awaiting the
Queen, and pages who belonged to the Macedonian cadet corps of royal boys
stood sleepily, with drooping heads, around the small throne of gold,
coral, and amber which, placed opposite to the chimney, awaited the
sovereign.

Barine had already seen this magnificent hall, and others still more
beautiful in the Sebasteum, and the splendour therefore neither excited
nor abashed her; only she would fain have avoided the numerous train of
courtiers. Could it be Cleopatra's intention to question her before the
eyes of all these men, women, and boys?

She no longer felt afraid, but her heart still throbbed quickly. It had
beat in the same way in her girlhood, when she was asked to sing in the
presence of strangers.

At last she heard doors open, and an invisible hand parted the heavy
curtains at her right. She expected to see the Regent, the Keeper of the
Seal, and the whole brilliantly adorned train of attendants who always
surrounded the Queen on formal occasions, enter the magnificent hall.
Else why had it been selected as the scene of this nocturnal trial?

But what was this?

While she was still recalling the display at the Adonis festival, the
curtains began to close again. The courtiers around the throne
straightened their bowed figures, the pages forgot their fatigue, and all
joined in the Greek salutation of welcome, and the "Life! happiness!
health!" with which the Egyptians greeted their sovereign.

The woman of middle height who now appeared before the curtain, and who,
as she crossed the wide hall alone and unattended, seemed to Barine even
smaller than when surrounded by the gay throng at the Adonis festival,
must be the Queen. Ay, it was she!

Iras was already standing by her side, and Charmian was approaching with
the "introducer." The women rendered her various little services thus
Iras took from her shoulders the purple mantle, with its embroidery of
black and gold dragons. What an exquisite masterpiece of the loom it must
be!

All the dangers against which she must defend herself flashed swiftly
through Barine's mind; yet, for an instant, she felt the foolish feminine
desire to see and handle the costly mantle.

But Iras had already laid it on the arm of one of the waiting maids, and
Cleopatra now glanced around her, and with a youthful, elastic step
approached the throne.

Once more the feeling of timidity which she had had in her girlhood
overpowered Barine, but with it came the memory of the garden of
Epicurus, and Archibius's assurance that she, too, would have left the
Queen with her heart overflowing with warm enthusiasm had not a
disturbing influence interposed between them.

Yet, had this disturbing influence really existed? No. It was created
solely by Cleopatra's jealous imagination. If she would only permit her
to speak freely now, she should hear that Antony cared as little for her
as she, Barine, for the boy Caesarion. What prevented her from confessing
that her heart was another's? Iras had no one to blame save herself if
she spoke the truth pitilessly in her presence.

Cleopatra now turned to the "introducer," waving her hand towards the
throne and those who surrounded it.

Ay, she was indeed beautiful. How bright and clear was the light of her
large eyes, in spite of the harassing days through which she had passed
and the present night of watching!

Cleopatra's heart was still elated by the reception of her bold idea of
escape, and she approached Barine with gentler feelings and intentions.
She had chosen a pleasanter room for the interview than the one Iras had
selected. She desired a special environment to suit each mood, and as
soon as she saw the group of courtiers who surrounded the throne she
ordered their dismissal.

The "introducer," to carry out the usual ceremonial, had commanded their
presence in the audience chamber, but their attendance had given the
meeting a form which was now distasteful to the Queen. She wished to
question, not to condemn.

At so happy an hour it was a necessity of her nature to be gracious.
Perhaps she had been unduly anxious concerning this singer. It even
seemed probable; for a man who loved her like Antony could scarcely yearn
for the favour of another woman. This view had been freshly confirmed by
a brief conversation with the chief Inspector of Sacrifices, an estimable
old man, who, after hearing how Antony had hurried in pursuit of her at
Actium, raised his eyes and hands as if transported with rapture,
exclaiming: "Unhappy Queen! Yet happiest of women! No one was ever so
ardently beloved; and when the tale is told of the noble Trojan who
endured such sore sufferings for a woman's sake, future generations will
laud the woman whose resistless spell constrained the greatest man of his
day, the hero of heroes, to cast aside victory, fame, and the hope of the
world's sovereignty, as mere worthless rubbish."

Posterity, whose verdict she dreaded--this wise old reader of the future
was right--must extol her as the most fervently beloved, the most
desirable of women.

And Mark Antony? Even had the magic power of Nektanebus's goblet forced
him to follow her and to leave the battle, there still remained his will,
a copy of which--received from Rome--Zeno, the Keeper of the Seal, had
showed to her at the close of the council. "Wherever he might die," so
ran the words, "he desired to be buried by the side of Cleopatra."
Octavianus had wrested it from the Vestal Virgins, to whose care it had
been entrusted, in order to fill the hearts of Roman citizens and matrons
with indignation against his foe. The plot had succeeded, but the
document had reminded Cleopatra that her heart had given this man the
first of its flowers, that love for him had been the sunshine of her
life. So, with head erect, she had crossed the threshold where she was to
meet the woman who had ventured to sow tares in her garden. She intended
to devote only a short time to the interview, which she anticipated with
the satisfaction of the strong who are confident of victory.

As she approached the throne, her train left the hall; the only persons
who remained were Charmian, Iras, Zeno, the Keeper of the Seal, and the
"introducer."

Cleopatra cast a rapid glance at the throne, to which an obsequious
gesture of the courtier's hand invited her; but she remained standing,
gazing keenly at Barine.

Was it the coloured rays from the ruby eyes of the dragon in the
fireplace which shed the roseate glow on Cleopatra's cheeks? It certainly
enhanced the beauty of a face now only too frequently pallid and
colourless, when rouge did not lend its aid; but Barine understood
Archibius's ardent admiration for this rare woman, when Cleopatra, with a
faint smile, requested her to approach.

Nothing more winning could be imagined than the frank kindness, wholly
untinged by condescending pride, of this powerful sovereign.

The less Barine had expected such a reception the more deeply it moved
her; nay, her eyes grew dim with grateful emotion, which lent them so
beautiful a lustre, she looked so lovely in her glad surprise, that
Cleopatra thought the months which had elapsed since her first meeting
with the singer had enhanced her charms. And how young she was! The Queen
swiftly computed the years which Barine must have lived as the wife of
Philostratus, and afterwards as the attractive mistress of a hospitable
house, and found it difficult to reconcile the appearance of this
blooming young creature with the result of the calculation.

She was surprised, too, to note the aristocratic bearing whose possession
no one could deny the artist's daughter. This was apparent even in her
dress, yet Iras had roused her in the middle of the night, and certainly
had given her no time for personal adornment.

She had expected lack of refinement and boldness, in the woman who was
said to have attracted so many men, but even the most bitter prejudice
could have detected no trace of it. On the contrary, the embarrassment
which she could not yet wholly subdue lent her an air of girlish
timidity. All in all, Barine was a charming creature, who bewitched men
by her vivacity, her grace, and her exquisite voice, not by coquetry and
pertness. That she possessed unusual mental endowments Cleopatra did not
believe. Barine had only one advantage over her--youth.

Time had not yet robbed the former of a single charm, while from the
Queen he had wrested many; their number was known only to herself and her
confidantes, but at this hour she did not miss them.

Barine, with a low, modest bow, advanced towards the Queen, who commenced
the conversation by graciously apologizing for the late hour at which she
had summoned her. "But," she added, "you belong to the ranks of the
nightingales, who during the night most readily and exquisitely reveal to
us what stirs their hearts--"

Barine gazed silently at the floor a moment, and when she raised her eyes
her voice was faint and timid. "I sing, it is true, your Majesty, but I
have nothing else in common with the birds. The wings which, when a
child, bore me wherever I desired, have lost their strength. They do not
wholly refuse their service, but they now require favourable hours to
move."

"I should not have expected that in the time of your youth, your most
beautiful possession," replied the Queen. "Yet it is well. I too--how
long ago it seems!--was a child, and my imagination outstripped even the
flight of the eagle. It could dare the risk unpunished. Now----Whoever
has reached mature life is wise to let these wings remain idle. The
mortal who ventures to use them may easily approach too near the sun,
and, like Icarus, the wax will melt from his pinions. Let me tell you
this: To the child the gift of imagination is nourishing bread. In later
years we need it only as salt, as spice, as stimulating wine. Doubtless
it points out many paths, and shows us their end; but, of a hundred
rambles to which it summons him, scarcely one pleases the mature man. No
troublesome parasite is more persistently and sharply rebuffed. Who can
blame the ill-treated friend if it is less ready to serve us as the years
go on? The wise man will keep his ears ever open, but rarely lend it his
active hand. To banish it from life is to deprive the plant of blossoms,
the rose of its fragrance, the sky of its stars."

"I have often said the same things to myself, though in a less clear and
beautiful form, when life has been darkened," replied Barine, with a
faint blush; for she felt that these words were doubtless intended to
warn her against cherishing too aspiring wishes. "But, your Majesty, here
also the gods place you, the great Queen, far above us. We should often
find existence bare indeed but for the fancy which endows us with
imaginary possessions. You have the power to secure a thousand things
which to us common mortals only the gift of imagination pictures as
attainable."

"You believe that happiness is like wealth, and that the happiest person
is the one who receives the largest number of the gifts of fortune,"
answered the Queen. "The contrary, I think, can be easily proved. The
maxim that the more we have the less we need desire, is also false,
though in this world there are only a certain number of desirable things.
He who already possesses one of ten solidi which are to be divided, ought
really to desire only nine, and therefore would be poorer by a wish than
another who has none. True, it cannot be denied that the gods have
burdened or endowed me with a greater number of perishable gifts than you
and many others. You seem to set a high value upon them. Doubtless there
may be one or another which you could appropriate only by the aid of the
imagination. May I ask which seems to you the most desirable?"

"Spare me the choice, I beseech you," replied Barine in an embarrassed
tone. "I need nothing from your treasures, and, as for the other
possessions I lack many things; but it is uncertain how the noblest and
highest gifts in the possession of the marvellously endowed favourite of
the gods would suit the small, commonplace ones I call mine, and I know
not--"

"A sensible doubt!" interrupted the Queen. "The lame man, who desired a
horse, obtained one, and on his first ride broke his neck. The only
blessing--the highest of all--which surely bestows happiness can neither
be given away nor transferred from one to another. He who has gained it
may be robbed of it the next moment."

The last sentence had fallen from the Queen's lips slowly and
thoughtfully, but Barine, remembering Archibius's tale, said modestly,
"You are thinking of the chief good mentioned by Epicurus--perfect peace
of mind."

Cleopatra's eyes sparkled with a brighter light as she asked eagerly, "Do
you, the granddaughter of a philosopher, know the system of the master?"

"Very superficially, your Majesty. My intellect is far inferior to yours.
It is difficult for me thoroughly to comprehend all the details of any
system of philosophy."

"Yet you have attempted it?"

"Others endeavoured to introduce me into the doctrines of the Stoics. I
have forgotten most of what I learned; only one thing lingered in my
memory, and I know why--because it pleased me."

"And that?"

"Was the wise law of living according to the dictates of our own natures.
The command to shun everything contradictory to the simple fundamental
traits of our own characters pleased me, and wherever I saw affectation,
artificiality, and mannerism I was repelled, while from my grandfather's
teaching I drew the principle that I could do nothing better than to
remain, so far as life would permit, what I had been as a child ere I had
heard the first word of philosophy, or felt the constraint which society
and its forms impose."

"So the system of the Stoics leads to this end also!" cried the Queen
gaily, and, turning to the companion of her own studies, she added: "Did
you hear, Charmian? If we had only succeeded in perceiving the wisdom and
calm, purposeful order of existence which the Stoics, amid so much that
is perverse, unhealthy, and provocative of contradiction, nevertheless
set above everything else! How can I, in order to live wisely, imitate
Nature, when in her being and action I encounter so much that is
contradictory to my human reason, which is a part of the divine?"

Here she hesitated, and the expression of her face suddenly changed.

She had advanced close to Barine and, while standing directly in front of
her, her eyes had rested on the gem which adorned her arm above the
elbow.

Was it this which agitated Cleopatra so violently that her voice lost its
bewitching melody, as she went on in a harsh, angry tone?--"So that is
the source of all this misfortune. Even as a child I detested that sort
of arbitrary judgment which passes under the mask of stern morality.
There is an example! Do you hear the howling of the storm? In human
nature, as well as in the material world, there are tempests and
volcanoes which bring destruction, and, if the original character of any
individual is full of such devastating forces, like the neighbourhood of
Vesuvius or Etna, the goal to which his impulses would lead him is
clearly visible. Ay, the Stoic is not allowed to destroy the harmony and
order of things in existence, any more than to disturb those which are
established by the state. But to follow our natural impulses wherever
they lead us is so perilous a venture, that whoever has the power to fix
a limit to it betimes is in duty bound to do so. This power is mine, and
I will use it!"

Then, with iron severity, she asked: "As it seems to be one of the
demands of your nature, woman, to allure and kindle the hearts of all who
bear the name of man, even though they have not yet donned the garb of
the Ephebi, so, too, you seem to appear to delight in idle ornaments.
Or," and as she spoke she touched Barine's shoulder"--or why should you
wear, during the hours of slumber, that circlet on your arm?"

Barine had watched with increasing anxiety the marked change in the
manner and language of the Queen. She now beheld a repetition of what she
had experienced at the Adonis festival, but this time she knew what had
roused Cleopatra's jealousy. She, Barine, wore on her arm a gift from
Antony. With pallid face she strove to find a fitting answer, but ere she
could do so Iras advanced to the side of the incensed Queen, saying:
"That circlet is the counterpart of the one your august husband bestowed
upon you. The singer's must also be a gift from Mark Antony. Like every
one else in the world, she deems the noble Imperator the greatest man of
his day. Who can blame her for prizing it so highly that she does not
remove it even while she sleeps?"

Again Barine felt as if a thorn had pierced her; but though the
resentment which she had previously experienced once more surged hotly
within her heart, she forced herself to maintain seemly external
composure, and struggled for some word in answer; but she found none
suitable, and remained silent.

She had told the truth. From early youth she had followed the impulses of
her own nature without heeding the opinion of mortals, as the teachings
of the Stoics directed, and she had been allowed to do so because this
nature was pure, truthful, alive to the beautiful, and, moreover, free
from those unbridled, volcanic impulses to which the Queen alluded. The
cheerful patience of her soul had found ample satisfaction in the
cultivation of her art, and in social intercourse with men who permitted
her to share their own intellectual life. Today she had learned that the
first great passion of her heart had met with a response. Now she was
bound to her lover, and knew herself to be pure and guiltless, far better
entitled to demand respect from sterner judges of morality than the woman
who condemned her, or the spiteful Iras, who had not ceased to offer her
love to Dion.

The sorrowful feeling of being misunderstood and unjustly condemned,
mingled with fear of the terrible fate to which she might be sentenced by
the omnipotent sovereign, whose clear intellect was clouded by jealousy
and the resentment of a mother's wounded heart, paralyzed her tongue.
Besides, she was confused by the angry emotion which the sight of Iras
awakened. Twice, thrice she strove to utter a few words of explanation,
defence, but her voice refused to obey her will.

When Charmian at last approached to encourage her, it was too late; the
indignant Queen had turned away, exclaiming to Iras: "let her be taken
back to Lochias. Her guilt is proved; but it does not become the injured
person, the accuser, to award the punishment. This must be left to the
judges before whom we will bring her."

Then Barine once more recovered the power of speech. How dared Cleopatra
assert that she was convicted of a crime, without hearing her defence?

As surely as she felt her own innocence she must succeed in proving it,
and with this consciousness she cried out to the Queen in a tone of
touching entreaty: "O your Majesty, do not leave me without hearing me!
As truly as I believe in your justice, I can ask you to listen to me once
more. Do not give me up to the woman who hates me because the man whom
she--"

Here Cleopatra interrupted her. Royal dignity forbade her to hear one
woman's jealous accusation of another, but, with the subtle discernment
with which women penetrate one another's moods, she heard in Barine's
piteous appeal a sincere conviction that she was too severely condemned.
Doubtless she also had reason to believe in Iras's hate, and Cleopatra
knew how mercilessly she pursued those who had incurred her displeasure.
She had rejected and still shuddered at her advice to remove the singer
from her path; for an inner voice warned her not to burden her soul now
with a fresh crime, which would disturb its peace. Besides, she had at
first been much attracted by this charming, winning creature; but the
irritating thought that Antony had bestowed the same gift upon the
sovereign and the artist's daughter still so incensed her, that it taxed
to the utmost her graciousness and self-control as, without addressing
any special person, she exclaimed, glancing back into the hall: "This
examination will be followed by another. When the time comes, the accused
must appear before the judges; therefore she must remain at Lochias and
in custody. It is my will that no harm befalls her. You are her friend,
Charmian. I will place her in your charge. Only"--here she raised her
voice--"on pain of my anger, do not allow her by any possibility to leave
the palace, even for a moment, or to hold intercourse with any person
save yourself."

With these words she passed out of the hall and went into her own
apartments. She had turned the night into day, not only to despatch
speedily matters which seemed to her to permit of no delay, but even more
because, since the battle of Actium, she dreaded the restless hours upon
her lonely couch. They seemed endless; and though before she had
remembered with pleasure the unprecedented display and magnificence with
which she had surrounded her love-life with Antony, she now in these
hours reproached herself for having foolishly squandered the wealth of
her people. The present appeared unbearable, and from the future a host
of black cares pressed upon her.

The following days were overcrowded with business details.

Half of her nights were spent in the observatory. She had not asked again
for Barine. On the fifth night she permitted Alexas to conduct her once
more to the little observatory which had been erected for her father at
Lochias, and Antony's favourite knew how to prove that a star which had
long threatened her planet was that of the woman whom she seemed to have
forgotten as completely as she had ignored his former warning against
this very foe.

The Queen denied this, but Alexas eagerly continued: "The night after
your return home your kindness was again displayed in its inexhaustible
and--to us less noble souls--incomprehensible wealth. Deeply agitated, we
watched during the memorable examination the touching spectacle of the
greatest heart making itself the standard by which to measure what is
petty and ignoble. But ere the second trial takes place the wanderers
above, who know the future, bid me warn you once more; for that woman's
every look was calculated, every word had its fixed purpose, every tone
of her voice was intended to produce a certain effect. Whatever she said
or may yet say had no other design than to deceive my royal mistress. As
yet there have been no definite questions and answers. But you will have
her examined, and then----What may she not make of the story of Mark
Antony, Barine, and the two armlets? Perhaps it will be a masterpiece."

"Do you know its real history?" asked Cleopatra, clasping her fingers
more closely around the pencil in her hand.

"If I did," replied Alexas, smiling significantly, "the receiver of
stolen goods should not betray the thief."

"Not even if the person who has been robbed--the Queen--commands you to
give up the dishonestly acquired possession?"

"Unfortunately, even then I should be forced to withhold obedience; for
consider, my royal mistress, there are but two great luminaries around
which my dark life revolves. Shall I betray the moon, when I am sure of
gaining nothing thereby save to dim the warm light of the sun?"

"That means that your revelations would wound me, the sun?"

"Unless your lofty soul is too great to be reached by shadows which
surround less noble women with an atmosphere of indescribable torture."

"Do you intend to render your words more attractive by the veil with
which you shroud them? It is transparent, and dims the vision very
little. My soul, you think, should be free from jealousy and the other
weaknesses of my sex. There you are mistaken. I am a woman, and wish to
remain one. As Terence's Chremes says he is a human being, and nothing
human is unknown to him, I do not hesitate to confess all feminine
frailties. Anubis told me of a queen in ancient times who would not
permit the inscriptions to record 'she,' but 'he came,' or 'he, the
ruler, conquered.' Fool! Whatever concerns me, my womanhood is not less
lofty than the crown. I was a woman ere I became Queen. The people
prostrate themselves before my empty litters; but when, in my youth, I
wandered in disguise with Antony through the city streets and visited
some scene of merrymaking, while the men gazed admiringly at me, and we
heard voices behind us murmur, 'A handsome couple!' I returned home full
of joy and pride. But there was something greater still for the woman to
learn, when the heart in the breast of the Queen forgot throne and
sceptre and, in the hours consecrated to Eros, tasted joys known to
womanhood alone. How can you men, who only command and desire, understand
the happiness of sacrifice? I am a woman; my birth does not exalt me
above any feeling of my sex; and what I now ask is not as Queen but as
woman."

"If that is the case," Alexas answered with his hand upon his heart, "you
impose silence upon me; for were I to confess to the woman Cleopatra what
agitates my soul, I should be guilty of a double crime--I would violate a
promise and betray the friend who confided his noble wife to my
protection."

"Now the darkness is becoming too dense for me," replied Cleopatra,
raising her head with repellent pride. "Or, if I choose to raise the
veil, I must point out to you the barriers--

"Which surround the Queen," replied the Syrian with an obsequious bow.
"There you behold the fact. It is an impossibility to separate the woman
from the princess. So far as I am concerned, I do not wish to anger the
former against the presumptuous adorer, and I desire to yield to the
latter the obedience which is her due. Therefore I entreat you to forget
the armlet and its many painful associations, and pass to the
consideration of other matters. Perhaps the fair Barine will voluntarily
confess everything, and even add how she managed to ensnare the amiable
son of the greatest of men, and the most admirable of mothers, the young
King Caesarion."

Cleopatra's eyes flashed more brightly, and she angrily exclaimed: "I
found the boy just now as though he were possessed by demons. He was
ready to tear the bandage from his wound, if he were refused the woman
whom he loved. A magic potion was the first thought, and his tutor of
course attributes everything to magic arts. Charmian, on the contrary,
declares that his visits annoyed and even alarmed Barine. Nothing except
a rigid investigation can throw light upon this subject. We will await
the Imperator's return. Do you think that he will again seek the singer?
You are his most trusted confidant. If you desire his best good, and care
for my favour, drop your hesitation and answer this question."

The Syrian assumed the manner of a man who had reached a decision, and
answered firmly: "Certainly he will, unless you prevent him. The simplest
way would be--"

"Well?"

"To inform him, as soon as he lands, that she is no longer to be found. I
should be especially happy to receive this commission from my royal sun."

"And do you think it would dim the light of your moon a little, were he
to seek her here in vain?"

"As surely as that the contrary would be the case if he were always as
gratefully aware of the peerless brilliancy of his sun as it deserves.
Helios suffers no other orb to appear so long as he adorns the heavens.
His lustre quenches all the rest. Let my sun so decree, and Barine's
little star will vanish."

"Enough! I know your aim now. But a human life is no small thing, and
this woman, too, is the child of a mother. We must consider, earnestly
consider, whether our purpose cannot be gained without proceeding to
extremes. This must be done with zeal and a kindly intention--But I--Now,
when the fate of this country, my own, and the children's is hanging in
the balance, when I have not fifteen minutes at my command, and there is
no end of writing and consulting, I can waste no time on such matters."

"The reflective mind must be permitted to use its mighty wings
unimpeded," cried the Syrian eagerly. "Leave the settlement of minor
matters to trustworthy friends."

Here they were interrupted by the "introducer," who announced the eunuch
Mardion. He had come on business which, spite of the late hour, permitted
no delay.

Alexas accompanied the Queen to the tablinum, where they found the
eunuch. A slave attended him, carrying a pouch filled with letters which
had just been brought by two messengers from Syria. Among them were some
which must be answered without delay. The Keeper of the Seal and the
Exegetus were also waiting. Their late visit was due to the necessity of
holding a conference in relation to the measures to be adopted to calm
the excited citizens. All the galleys which had escaped from the battle
had entered the harbour the day before, wreathed with garlands as if a
great victory had been won. Loud acclamations greeted them, yet tidings
of the defeat at Actium spread with the swiftness of the wind. Crowds
were now gathering, threatening demonstrations had been made in front of
the Sebasteum, and on the square of the Serapeum the troops had been
compelled to interfere, and blood had flowed.

There lay the letters. Zeno remarked that more papers conferring
authority were required for the work on the canal, and the Exegetus
earnestly besought definite instruction.

"It is much--much," murmured Cleopatra. Then, drawing herself up to her
full height, she exclaimed, "Well, then, to work!"

But Alexas did not permit her to do this at once. Humbly advancing as she
took her seat at the large writing-table, he whispered: "And with all
this, must my royal mistress devote time and thought to the destroyer of
her peace. To disturb your Majesty with this trifle is a crime; yet it
must be committed, for should the affair remain unheeded longer, the
trickling rivulet may become a mountain torrent--"

Here Cleopatra, whose glance had just rested upon a fateful letter from
King Herod, turned her face half towards her husband's favourite,
exclaiming curtly, with glowing cheeks, "Presently."

Then she glanced rapidly over the letter, pushed it excitedly aside, and
dismissed the waiting Syrian with the impatient words: "Attend to the
trial and the rest. No injustice, but no untimely mildness. I will look
into this unpleasant matter myself before the Imperator returns."

"And the authority?" asked the Syrian, with another low bow.

"You have it. If you need a written one, apply to Zeno. We will discuss
the affair further at some less busy hour."

The Syrian retired; but Cleopatra turned to the eunuch and, flushed with
emotion, cried, pointing to the King of Judea's letter: "Did you ever
witness baser ingratitude? The rats think the ship is sinking, and it is
time to leave it. If we succeed in keeping above water, they will return
in swarms; and this must, must, must be done, for the sake of this
beloved country and her independence. Then the children, the children!
All our powers must now be taxed, every expedient must be remembered and
used. We will hammer each feeble hope until it becomes the strong steel
of certainty. We will transform night into day. The canal will save the
fleet. Mark Antony will find in Africa Pinarius Scarpus with untouched
loyal legions. The gladiators are faithful to us. We can easily make them
ours, and my brain is seething with other plans. But first we will attend
to the Alexandrians. No violence!"

This exclamation was followed by order after order, and the promise that,
if necessary, she would show herself to the people.

The Exegetus was filled with admiration as he received the clear,
sagacious directions. After he had retired with his companions, the Queen
again turned to the Regent, saying: "We did wisely to make the people
happy at first with tidings of victory. The unexpected news of terrible
disaster might have led them to some unprecedented deed of madness.
Disappointment is a more common pain, for which less powerful remedies
will suffice. Besides, many things could be arranged ere they knew that I
was here. How much we have accomplished already, Mardion! But I have not
even granted myself the joy of seeing my children. I was forced to defer
the pleasure of the companionship of my oldest friends, even Archibius.
When he comes again he will be admitted. I have given the order. He knows
Rome thoroughly. I must hear his opinion of pending negotiations."

She shivered as she spoke, and pressing her hand upon her brow,
exclaimed: "Octavianus victor, Cleopatra vanquished! I, who was
everything to Caesar, beseeching mercy from his heir. I, a petitioner to
Octavia's brother! Yet, no, no! There are still a hundred chances of
avoiding the horrible doom. But whoever wishes to compel the field to
bear fruits must dig sturdily, draw the buckets from the well, plough,
and sow the seed. To work, then, to work! When Antony returns he must
find all things ready. The first success will restore his lost energy. I
glanced through yonder letter while talking with the Exegetus; now I will
dictate the answer."

So she sat reading, writing, and dictating, listening, answering, and
giving orders, until the east brightened with the approach of dawn, the
morning star grew pale, and the Regent, utterly exhausted, entreated her
to consider her own health and his years, and permit him a few hours'
rest.

Then she, too, allowed herself to be led into her darkened chamber, and
this time a friendly, dreamless slumber closed her weary eyes and held
her captive until roused by the loud shouts of the multitude, who had
heard of the Queen's return and flocked to Lochias.



     ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

     Without heeding the opinion of mortals



CLEOPATRA

By Georg Ebers

Volume 6.



CHAPTER XIII.

During these hours of rest Iras and Charmian had watched in turn beside
Cleopatra. When she rose, the younger attendant rendered her the
necessary services. She was to devote herself to her mistress until the
evening; for her companion, who now stood in her way, was not to return
earlier. Before Charmian left, she had seen that her apartments--in which
Barine, since the Queen had placed her in her charge, had been a welcome
guest--were carefully watched. The commander of the Macedonian guard, who
years before had vainly sought her favour, and finally had become the
most loyal of her friends, had promised to keep them closely.

Yet Iras knew how to profit by her mistress's sleep and the absence of
her aunt. She had learned that she would be shut out of her apartments,
and therefore from Barine also. Ere any step could be taken against the
prisoner, she must first arrange the necessary preliminaries with Alexas.
The failure of her expectation of seeing her rival trampled in the dust
had transformed her jealous resentment into hatred, and though she was
her niece, she even transferred a portion of it to Charmian, who had
placed herself between her and her victim.

She had sent for the Syrian, but he, too, had gone to rest at a late hour
and kept her waiting a long time. The reception which the impatient girl
bestowed was therefore by no means cordial, but her manner soon grew more
friendly.

First Alexas boasted of having induced the Queen to commit Barine's fate
to him. If he should try her at noon and find her guilty, there was
nothing to prevent him from compelling her to drink the poisoned cup or
having her strangled before evening. But the matter would be dangerous,
because the singer's friends were numerous and by no means powerless.
Yet, in the depths of her heart, Cleopatra desired nothing more ardently
than to rid herself of her dangerous rival. But he knew the great ones of
the earth. If he acted energetically and brought matters to a speedy
close, the Queen, to avoid evil gossip, would burden him with her own
act. Antony's mood could not be predicted, and the Syrian's weal or woe
depended on his favour. Besides, the execution of the singer at the last
Adonis festival might have a dangerous effect upon the people of
Alexandria. They were already greatly excited, and his brother, who knew
them, said that some were overwhelmed with sorrow, and others ready, in
their fury, to rise in a bloody rebellion. Everything was to be feared
from this rabble, but Philostratus understood how to persuade them to
many things, and Alexas had just secured his aid.

Alexas had really succeeded in the work of reconciliation. During the
orator's married life with Barine she had forbidden her brother-in-law
the house, and her husband had quarrelled with the brother who sought his
wife. But after the latter had risen to a high place in Antony's favour,
and been loaded with gold by his lavish hand, Philostratus had again
approached him to claim his share of the new wealth. And the source from
which Alexas drew flowed so abundantly that his favourite did not find it
difficult to give. Both men were as unprincipled as they were lavish, and
experience taught them that base natures always have at their disposal a
plank with which to bridge chasms. If it is of gold, it will be crossed
the more speedily. Such was the case here, and of late it had become
specially firm; for each needed the other's aid.

Alexas loved Barine, while Philostratus no longer cared for her. On the
other hand, he hated Dion with so ardent a thirst for revenge that, to
obtain it, he would have resigned even the hope of fresh gains. The
humiliation inflicted upon him by the arrogant Macedonian noble, and the
derision which through his efforts had been heaped upon him, haunted him
like importunate pursuers; and he felt that he could only rid himself of
them with the source of his disgrace. Without his brother's aid, he would
have been content to assail Dion with his slandering tongue; with his
powerful assistance he could inflict a heavier injury upon him, perhaps
even rob him of liberty and life. They had just made an agreement by
which Philostratus pledged himself to reconcile the populace to any
punishment that might be inflicted upon Barine, and Alexas promised to
help his brother take a bloody vengeance upon Dion the Macedonian.

Barine's death could be of no service to Alexas. The sight of her beauty
had fired his heart a second time, and he was resolved to make her his
own. In the dungeon, perhaps by torture, she should be forced to grasp
his helping hand. All this would permit no delay. Everything must be done
before the return of Antony, who was daily expected. Alexas's lavish
patron had made him so rich that he could bear to lose his favour for the
sake of this object. Even without it, he could maintain a household with
royal magnificence in some city of his Syrian home.

On receiving the favourite's assurance that he would remove Barine from
Charmian's protection on the morrow, Iras became more gracious. She could
make no serious objection to his statement that the new trial might not,
it is true, end in a sentence of death, but the verdict would probably be
transportation to the mines, or something of the sort.

Then Alexas cautiously tested Iras's feelings towards his brother's
mortal foe. They were hostile; yet when the favourite intimated that he,
too, ought to be given up to justice, she showed so much hesitation, that
Alexas stopped abruptly and turned the conversation upon Barine. Here she
promised assistance with her former eager zeal, and it was settled that
the arrest should be made the following morning during the hours of
Charmian's attendance upon the Queen.

Iras had valuable counsel to offer. She was familiar with one of the
prisons, whose doors she had opened to many a hapless mortal whose
disappearance, in her opinion, might be of service to the Queen. She had
deemed it a duty, aided by the Keeper of the Seal, to anticipate her
mistress in cases where her kind heart would have found it difficult to
pronounce a severe sentence, and Cleopatra had permitted it, though
without commendation or praise. What happened within its walls--thanks to
the silence of the warder--never passed beyond the portals. If Barine
cursed her life there, she would still fare better than she, Iras, who
during the past few nights had been on the brink of despair whenever she
thought of the man who had disdained her love and abandoned her for
another.

As the Syrian held out his hand to take leave, she asked bluntly

"And Dion?"

"He cannot be set free," was the reply, "for he loves Barine; nay, the
fool was on the eve of leading her home to his beautiful palace as its
mistress."

"Is that true, really true?" asked Iras, whose cheeks and lips lost every
tinge of colour, though she succeeded in maintaining her composure.

"He confessed it yesterday in a letter to his uncle, the Keeper of the
Seal, in which he entreated him to do his utmost for his chosen bride,
whom he would never resign. But Zeno has no liking for this niece. Do you
wish to see the letter?"

"Then, of course, he cannot be set at liberty," replied Iras, and there
was additional shrillness in her voice. "He will do everything in his
power for the woman he loves, and that is much--far more than you, who
are half a stranger here, suspect. The Macedonian families stand by each
other. He is a member of the council. The bands of the Ephebi will
support him to a man. And the populace?--He lately spoiled the game of
your brother, who was acting for me, in a way. He was finally dragged out
of the basin of the fountain, dripping with water and overwhelmed with
shame."

"For that very reason his mouth must be closed."

Iras nodded assent, but after a short pause she exclaimed angrily: "I
will help you to silence him, but not forever. Do you hear? Theodotus's
saying about the dead dogs which do not bite brought no blessing to any
one who followed it. There are other ways of getting rid of this man."

"A bird sang that you were not unfriendly to him."

"A bird? Then it was probably an owl, which cannot see in the daylight.
His worst enemy, your brother, would probably sacrifice himself for his
welfare sooner than I."

"Then I shall begin to feel sympathy for this Dion."

"I saw recently that your compassion surpassed mine. Death is not the
hardest punishment."

"Is that the cause of this gracious respite?"

"Perhaps so. But there are other matters to be considered here. First,
the condition of the times. Everything is tottering, even the royal
power, which a short time ago was a wall which concealed many things and
afforded shelter from every assault. Then Dion himself. I have already
numbered those who will support him. Since the defeat at Actium, the
Queen can no longer exclaim to that many-headed monster, the people, 'You
must,' but 'I entreat.' The others--"

"The first considerations are enough; but may I be permitted to know what
my wise friend has awarded to the hapless wight from whom she withdrew
her favour?"

"First, imprisonment here at Lochias. He has stained his hands with the
blood of Caesarion, the King of kings. That is high treason, even in the
eyes of the people. Try to obtain the order for the arrest this very
day."

"Whenever I can disturb the Queen with such matters."

"Not for nay sake, but to save her from injury. Away with everything
which can cloud her intellect in these decisive days! First, away with
Barine, who spoiled her return home; and then let us take care of the man
who would be capable, for this woman's sake, of causing an insurrection
in Alexandria. The great cares associated with the state and the throne
are hers; for the minor ones of the toilet and the heart I will provide."

Here she was interrupted by one of Cleopatra's waiting-maids. The Queen
had awakened, and Iras hastened to her post.

As she passed Charmian's apartments and saw two handsome soldiers,
belonging to the Macedonian body-guard, pacing to and fro on duty before
them, her face darkened. It was against her alone that Charmian was
protecting Barine. She had been harshly reproved by the older woman on
account of the artist's daughter, who had been the source of so many
incidents which had caused her pain, and Iras regretted that she had ever
confided to her aunt her love for Dion. But, no matter what might happen,
the upas-tree whence emanated all these tortures, anxieties, and
vexations, must be rooted out--stricken from the ranks of the living.

Ere she entered the Queen's anteroom she had mentally pronounced sentence
of death on her enemy. Her inventive brain was now busy in devising means
to induce the Syrian to undertake its execution. If this stone of offence
was removed it would again be possible to live in harmony with Charmian.
Dion would be free, and then, much as he had wounded her, she would
defend him from the hatred of Philostratus and his brother.

She entered the Queen's presence with a lighter heart. The death of a
condemned person had long since ceased to move her deeply. While
rendering the first services to her mistress, who had been much refreshed
by her sleep, her face grew brighter and brighter; for Cleopatra
voluntarily told her that she was glad to have her attendance, and not be
constantly annoyed by the same disagreeable matter, which must soon be
settled.

In fact, Charmian, conscious that no one else at court would have
ventured to do so, had never grown weary, spite of many a rebuff, of
pleading Barine's cause until, the day before, Cleopatra, in a sudden fit
of anger, had commanded her not to mention the mischief-maker again.

When Charmian soon after requested permission to let Iras take her place
the following day, the Queen already regretted the harsh reproof she had
given her friend, and, while cordially granting the desired leave, begged
her to attribute her angry impatience to the cares which burdened her.
"And when you show me your kind, faithful face again," she concluded,
"you will have remembered that a true friend withholds from an unhappy
woman whom she loves whatever will shadow more deeply her already clouded
life. This Barine's very name sounds like a jeer at the composure I
maintain with so much difficulty. I do not wish to hear it again."

The words were uttered in a tone so affectionate and winning, that
Charmian's vexation melted like ice in the sun. Yet she left the Queen's
presence anxious and troubled; for ere she quitted the room Cleopatra
remarked that she had committed the singer's affairs to Alexas. She was
now doubly eager to obtain a day's freedom, for she knew the unprincipled
favourite's feelings towards the young beauty, and longed to discuss with
Archibius the best means of guarding her from the worst perils.

When at a late hour she went to rest, she was served by the Nubian maid,
who had accompanied her to the court from her parents' home. She came
from the Cataract, where she had been bought when the family of Alypius
accompanied the child Cleopatra to the island of Philae. Anukis was given
to Charmian, who at the time was just entering womanhood, as the first
servant who was her sole property, and she had proved so clever, skilful,
apt to learn, and faithful, that her mistress took her, as her personal
attendant, to the palace.

Charmian's warm, unselfish love for the Queen was equalled by Anukis's
devotion to the mistress who had long since made her free, and had become
so strongly attached to her that the Nubian's interests were little less
regarded than her own. Her sound, keen judgment and natural wit had
gained a certain renown in the palace, and as Cleopatra often
condescended to rouse her to an apt answer, Antony had done so, too; and
since the slight crook in the back, which she had from childhood, had
grown into a hump, he gave her the name of Aisopion--the female AEsop.
All the Queen's attendants now used it, and though others of lower rank
did the same, she permitted it, though her ready wit would have supplied
her tongue with a retort sharp enough to respond to any word which
displeased her.

But she knew the life and fables of AEsop, who had also once been a
slave, and deemed it an honour to be compared with him.

When Charmian had left Cleopatra and sought her chamber, she found Barine
sound asleep, but Anukis was awaiting her, and her mistress told her with
what deep anxiety for Barine she had quitted the presence of the Queen.
She knew that the Nubian was fond of the young matron, whom in her
childhood she had carried in her arms, and whose father, Leonax, had
often jested with her. The maid had watched her career with much
interest, and while Barine had been her mistress's guest her efforts to
amuse and soothe her were unceasing.

She had gone every morning to Berenike to ask tidings of Dion's health,
and always brought favourable news. Anukis knew Philostratus and his
brother, too, and as she liked Antony, who jested with her so kindly, she
grieved to see an unprincipled fellow like Alexas his chief confidant.
She knew the plots with which the Syrian had persecuted Barine, and when
Charmian told her that the Queen had committed the young beauty's fate to
this man's keeping her dark face grew fairly livid; but she forced
herself to conceal the terror which the news inspired. Her mistress was
also aware what this choice meant to Barine. But Anukis would have
thought it wrong to disturb Charmian's sleep by revealing her own
distress. It was fortunate that she was going early the next morning to
seek the aid of Archibius, whom Anukis believed to be the wisest of men;
but this by no means soothed her. She knew the fable of the lion and the
mouse, which had been told in her home long before the time of the author
for whom she was nicknamed, and already more than once she had been in a
position to render far greater and more powerful persons an important
service. To soothe Charmian to sleep and turn her thoughts in another
direction, she told her about Dion, whom she had found much better that
day, how tenderly he seemed to love Barine, and how touchingly patient
and worthy of her father the daughter of Leonax had been.

After her mistress had fallen asleep she went to the hall where, spite of
the late hour, she expected to meet some of the servants--sure of being
greeted as a welcome guest. When, a short time later, Alexas's body-slave
appeared, she filled his wire cup, sat down by his side, and tried with
all the powers at her command to win his confidence. And so well did the
elderly Nubian succeed that Marsyas, a handsome young Ligurian, after she
had gone, declared that Aisopion's jokes and stories were enough to bring
the dead to life, and it was as pleasant to talk seriously with the
brown-skinned monster as to dally with a fair-haired sweetheart.

After Charmian had left the palace the following morning, Anukis again
sought Marsyas and learned from him for what purpose and at what hour
Iras had summoned Alexas. His master was continually whispering with the
languishing Macedonian.

When Anukis returned, Barine seemed troubled because she brought no
tidings from her mother and Dion; but the Nubian entreated her to have
patience, and gave her some books and a spindle, that she might have
occupation in her solitude. She, Anukis, must go to the kitchen, because
she had heard yesterday that the cook had bought some mushrooms, which
might be poisonous; she knew the fungi and wanted to see them.

Then, passing into Charmian's chamber, she glided through the corridor
which connected the apartments of Cleopatra's confidential attendants,
and slipped into Iras's room. When Alexas entered she was concealed
behind one of the hangings which covered the walls of the reception-room.

After the Syrian had retired and Iras had been called away, Anukis
returned to Barine and said that the mushrooms had really been poisonous,
and of the deadliest species. They had been cooked, and she must go out
to seek an antidote. Since a precious human life might be at stake,
Barine would not wish to keep her.

"Go," said the latter, kindly. "But if you are the old obliging Aisopion,
you won't object to going a little farther."

"And inquiring at the house near the Paneum garden," added Anukis. "That
was already settled. Longing is also a poison for a loving heart, and its
antidote is good news."

With these laughing words she left her favourite; but as soon as she was
out of doors her black brow became lined with earnest thought, and she
stood pondering a long time. At last she went to the Bruchium to hire a
donkey to ride to Kanopus, where she hoped to find Archibius. It was
difficult to reach the nearest stand; for a great crowd had assembled on
the quay between the Lochias and the Corner of the Muses, and groups of
the common people, sailors, and slaves were constantly flocking hither.
But she at last forced her way to the spot and, while the driver was
helping her to mount the animal she had chosen, she asked what had
attracted the throng, and he answered:

"They are tearing down the house of the old Museum fungus, Didymus."

"How can that be?" cried the startled woman. "The good old man!"

"Good?" repeated the driver, scornfully. "He's a traitor, who has caused
all the trouble. Philostratus, the brother of the great Alexas, a friend
of Mark Antony, told us so. He wanted to prove it, so it must be true.
Hear the shouts, and how the stones are flying! Yes, yes. His
granddaughter and her lover set an ambush for the King Caesarion. They
would have killed him, but the watch interfered, and now he lies wounded
on his couch. If mighty Isis does not lend her aid, the young prince's
life will soon be over."

Then, turning to the donkey, he dealt him two severe blows on the right
and left haunches, shouting: "Hi, Grey! It does one good to hear that
royal backs have room for the cudgel too."

Meanwhile, the Nubian was hesitating whether she should not first turn
the donkey to the right and seek Didymus; but Barine was threatened by
greater peril, and her life was of more value than the welfare of the
aged pair. This decided the question, and she rode forward.

The donkey and his driver did their best, but they came too late; for in
the little palace at Kanopus, Anukis learned from the porter that
Archibius had gone to the city with his old friend Timagenes, the
historian, who lived in Rome, and seemed to have come to Alexandria as an
envoy.

Charmian, too, had been here, but also failed to find the master of the
house, and followed him. Evil tidings-which, owing to the loss of time
involved, might prove fatal. If the donkey had only been swifter! True,
Archibius's stable was full of fine animals, but who was she that she
should presume to use them? Yet she had gained something which rendered
her the equal of many who were born free and occupied a higher
station--the reputation for trustworthiness and wisdom; and relying upon
this, she told the faithful old steward, as far as possible, what was at
stake, and soon after he himself took her, both mounted on swift mules,
to the city and the Paneum garden.

He chose the nearest road thither through the Gate of the Sun and the
Kanopic Way. Usually at this hour it was crowded with people, but to-day
few persons were astir. All the idlers had thronged to the Bruchium and
the harbour to see the returning ships of the vanquished fleet, hear
something new, witness the demonstrations of joy, the sacrifices and
processions, and--if Fortune favoured--meet the Queen and relieve their
overflowing hearts by acclamations.

When the carriage turned towards the left and approached the Paneum,
progress for the first time became difficult. A dense crowd had gathered
around the hill on whose summit the sanctuary of Pan dominated the
spacious garden. Anukis's eye perceived the tall figure of Philostratus.
Was the mischief-maker everywhere? This time he seemed to encounter
opposition, for loud shouts interrupted his words. Just as the carriage
passed he pointed to the row of houses in which the widow of Leonax
lived, but violent resistance followed the gesture.

Anukis perceived what restrained the crowd; for, as the equipage
approached its destination, a body of armed youths stopped it. Their
finely-formed limbs, steeled by the training of the Palaestra, and the
raven, chestnut, and golden locks floating around their well-shaped
heads, were indeed beautiful. They were a band of the Ephebi, formerly
commanded by Archibius, and to whose leadership more recently Dion had
been elected. The youths had heard what had occurred--that imprisonment,
perhaps even worse disaster, threatened him. At any other time it would
scarcely have been possible to oppose the decree of the Government and
guard their imperilled friend, but in these dark days the rulers must
deal with them. Though they were loyal to the Queen, and had resolved,
spite of her defeat, to support her cause, as soon as she needed them,
they would not suffer Dion to be punished for a crime which, in their
eyes, was an honour. Their determination to protect him grew more eager
with every vexatious delay on the part of the city council to deal with a
matter which concerned one of their own body. They had not yet decided
whether to demand a full pardon or only a mild sentence for the man who
had wounded the "King of kings," the son of the sovereign. Moreover, the
quiet Caesarion, still subject to his tutor, had not understood how to
win the favour of the Ephebi. The weakling never appeared in the
Palaestra, which even the great Mark Antony did not disdain to visit. The
latter had more than once given the youths assembled there proofs of his
giant strength, and his son Antyllus also frequently shared their
exercises. Dion had merely dealt Caesarion with his clenched fist one of
the blows which every one must encounter in the arena.

Philotas of Amphissa, the pupil of Didymus, had been the first to inform
them of the attack and, with fiery zeal, had used his utmost power to
atone for the wrong done to his master's granddaughter. His appeal had
roused the most eager sympathy. The Ephebi believed themselves strong
enough to defend their friend against any one and, if the worst should
come, they knew they would be sustained by the council, the Exegetus, the
captain of the guard--a brave Macedonian, who had once been an ornament
of their own band--and the numerous clients of Dion and his family. There
was not a single weakling among them. They had already found an
opportunity to prove this; for, though they had arrived too late to
protect Didymus's property from injury, they had checked the fury of the
mob whose passions Philostratus had aroused, and forced back the crowd
whom the Syrian led to Barine's dwelling to devote it to the same fate.

Another equipage was already standing before the door of Berenike's
house--one of the carriages which were always at the disposal of the
Queen's officials--when Anukis left Archibius's vehicle. Had some of
Alexas's myrmidons arrived, or was he himself on the way to examine Dion,
or even arrest him? The driver, like all the palace servants, knew
Anukis, and she learned from him that he had brought Gorgias, the
architect.

Anukis had never met the latter, though, during the rebuilding of
Caesarion's apartments, she had often seen him, and heard much of him;
among other things, that Dion's beautiful palace was his work. He was a
friend of the wounded man, so she need not fear him.

When she entered the atrium she heard that Berenike had gone out to drive
with Archibius and his Roman friend. The leech had forbidden his patient
to see many visitors. No one had been admitted except Gorgias and one of
Dion's freedmen.

But time pressed; people of the same rank and disposition understand one
another; the old porter and the Nubian were both loyal to their
employers, and, moreover, were natives of the same country; so it
required only a few words to persuade the door-keeper to conduct her
without delay to the bedside of the wounded man.

The freedman, a tall, weather-beaten greybeard, simply clad, who looked
like a pilot, was waiting outside the sick-room. He had not yet been
admitted to Dion's presence, but this did not appear to vex him, for he
stood leaning quietly against the wall beside the door, gazing at the
broad-brimmed sailor's hat which he was slowly turning in his hands.

Scarcely had Dion heard Anukis's name, when an eager "Let her come in"
reached her ears through the half-open door.

The Nubian waited to be summoned, but her dark face must have showed
distinctly that something important and urgent had brought her here, for
the wounded man added to his first words of greeting the expression of a
fear that she had no good news.

Her reply was an eager nod of assent, accompanied by a doubtful glance at
Gorgias; and Dion now curtly told the architect the name of the newcomer,
and assured her that his friend might hear everything, even the greatest
secret.

Anukis uttered a sigh of relief and then, in a tone of the most earnest
warning, poured forth the story of the impending danger. She would not be
satisfied when he spoke of the Ephebi, who were ready to defend him, and
the council, which would make the cause of one of its members its own,
but entreated him to seek some safe place of refuge, no matter where; for
powers against whom no resistance would avail were stretching their hands
towards him. Even this statement, however, proved useless, for Dion was
convinced that the influence of his uncle, the Keeper of the Seal, would
guard him from any serious danger. Then Anukis resolved to confess what
she had overheard; but she told the story without mentioning Barine, and
the peril threatening her also. Finally, with all the warmth of a really
anxious heart, she entreated him to heed her warning.

Even while she was still speaking, the friends exchanged significant
glances; but scarcely had the last words fallen from her lips when the
giant figure of the freedman passed through the door, which had remained
open.

"You here, Pyrrhus?" cried the wounded man kindly.

"Yes, master, it is I," replied the stalwart fellow, twirling his sailor
hat still faster. "Listening isn't exactly my trade, and I don't usually
enter your presence uninvited; but I couldn't help hearing what came
through the door, and the croaking of the old raven drew me in."

"I wish you had heard more cheerful things," replied Dion; "but the
brown-skinned bird of ill omen usually sings pleasant songs, and they all
come from a faithful heart. But when my silent Pyrrhus opens his mouth so
far, something important must surely follow, and you can speak freely in
her presence."

The sailor cleared his throat, gripped his coarse felt hat in his sinewy
hands, and said, in such a tremulous, embarrassed tone that his heavy
chin quivered and his voice sometimes faltered: "If the woman is to be
trusted, you must leave here, master, and seek some safe hiding-place. I
came to offer one. On my way I heard your name. It was said that you had
wounded the Queen's son, and it might cost you your life. Then I thought:
'No, no, not that, so long as Pyrrhus lives, who taught his young master
Dion to use the oars and to set his first sail--Pyrrhus and his family.'
Why repeat what we both know well enough? From my first boat and the land
on our island to the liberty you bestowed upon us, we owe everything to
your father and to you, and a blessing has rested upon your gift and our
labour, and what is mine is yours. No more words are needed. You know our
cliff beyond the Alveus Steganus, north of the great harbour--the Isle of
Serpents. It is quickly gained by any one who knows the course through
the water, but is as inaccessible to others as the moon and stars. People
are afraid of the mere name, though we rid the island of the vermin long
ago. My boys Dionysus, Dionichus, and Dionikus--they all have 'Dion' in
their name--are waiting in the fish market, and when it grows dusk--"
Here the wounded man interrupted the speaker by holding out his hand and
thanking him warmly for his fidelity and kindness, though he refused the
well-meant invitation. He admitted that he knew no safer hiding-place
than the cliff surrounded by fluttering sea-gulls, where Pyrrhus lived
with his family and earned abundant support by fishing and serving as
pilot. But anxiety concerning his future wife prevented his leaving the
city.

The freedman however gave him no rest. He represented how quickly the
harbour could be reached from his island, that fish were brought thence
from it daily, and he would therefore always have news of what was
passing. His sons were like him, and never used any unnecessary words;
talking did not suit them. The women of the household rarely left the
island. So long as it sheltered their beloved guest, they should not set
foot away from it. If occasion should require, the master could be in
Alexandria again quickly enough to put anything right.

This suggestion pleased the architect, who joined in the conversation to
urge the freedman's request. But Dion, for Barine's sake, obstinately
refused, until Anukis, who had long been anxious to go in pursuit of
Archibius, thought it time to give her opinion.

"Go with the man, my lord!" she cried. "I know what I know. I will tell
our Barine of your faithful resolution; but how can she show her
gratitude for it if you are a dead man?"

This question and the information which followed it turned the scale;
and, as soon as Dion had consented to accompany the freedman, the Nubian
prepared to continue her errands, but the wounded man detained her to
give many messages for Barine, and then she was stopped by the architect,
who thought he had found in her the right assistant for numerous plans he
had in his mind.

He had returned early that morning from Heroonpolis, where, with other
members of his profession, he had inspected the newly constructed
waterway. The result of the first investigation had been unfavourable to
the verge of discouragement; and, in behalf of the others, he had gone to
the Queen to persuade her to give up the enterprise which, though so full
of promise, was impracticable in the short time at their disposal.

He had travelled all night, and was received as soon as Cleopatra rose
from her couch. He had driven from the Lochias in the carriage placed at
his disposal because he had business at the arsenal and various points
where building was going on, in order to inspect the wall erected for
Antony on the Choma, and the Temple of Isis at the Corner of the Muses,
to which Cleopatra desired to add a new building. But scarcely had he
quitted the Bruchium when he was detained by the crowd assailing the
house of Didymus with beams and rams, and at the same time keeping off
the Ephebi who had attacked them.

He had forced his way through the raging mob to aid the old couple and
their granddaughter. The slave Phryx had been busily preparing the boats
which lay moored in the harbour of the seawashed estate, but Gorgias had
found it difficult to persuade the grey-haired philosopher to go with him
and his family to the shore. He was ready to face the enraged rioters
and--though it should cost his life--cry out that they were shamefully
deceived and were staining themselves with a disgraceful crime. Not until
the architect represented that it was unworthy of a Didymus to expose to
bestial violence a life on which helpless women and the whole world--to
whom his writings were guide-posts to the realms of truth--possessed a
claim, could he be induced to yield. Nevertheless, the sage and his
relatives almost fell into the hands of the furious rabble, for Didymus
would not depart until he had saved this, that, and the other precious
book, till the number reached twenty or thirty. Besides, his old deaf
wife, who usually submitted quietly when her defective hearing prevented
her comprehension of many things, insisted upon knowing what was
occurring. She ordered everybody who came near her to explain what had
happened, thus detaining her granddaughter Helena, who was trying to save
the most valuable articles in the dwelling. So the departure was delayed,
and only the brave defence of young Philotas, Didymus's assistant, and
some of the Ephebi, who joined him, enabled them to escape unharmed.

The Scythian guards, which at last put a stop to the frantic rage of the
deluded populace, arrived too late to prevent the destruction of the
house, but they saved Philotas and the other youths from the fists and
stones of the rabble. When the boats had gone farther out into the
harbour the question of finding a home for the philosopher and his family
was discussed. Berenike's house was also threatened, and the rules of the
museum prevented the reception of women. Five servants had accompanied
the family, and none of Didymus's learned friends had room for so many
guests. When the old man and Helena began to enumerate the lodgings of
which they could think, Gorgias interposed with an entreaty that they
would come to his house.

He had inherited the dwelling from his father. It was very large and
spacious, almost empty, and they could reach it speedily, as it stood on
the seashore, north of the Forum. The fugitives would be entirely at
liberty there, since he had work on hand which would permit him to spend
no time under his own roof except at night. He soon overcame the trivial
objections made by the philosopher and, fifteen minutes after they had
left the Corner of the Muses, he was permitted to open the door of his
house to his guests, and he did so with genuine pleasure. The old
housekeeper and the grey-haired steward, who had been in his father's
service, looked surprised, but worked zealously after Gorgias had
confided the visitors to their charge. The pressure of business forbade
his fulfilling the duties of host in his own person.

Didymus and his family had reason to be grateful; and when the old sage
found in the large library which the architect placed at his disposal
many excellent books and among them some of his own, he ceased his
restless pacing to and fro and forced himself to settle down. Then he
remembered that, by the advice of a friend, he had placed his property in
the keeping of a reliable banker and, though life still seemed dark grey,
it no longer looked as black as before.

Gorgias briefly related all this to the Nubian, and Dion added that she
would find Archibius with his Roman friend at the house of Berenike's
brother, the philosopher Arius. Like himself, the latter was suffering
from an injury inflicted by a reckless trick of Antyllus. Barine's mother
was there also, so Anukis could inform them of the fate of Didymus and
his brother, and tell them that he, Dion, intended to leave her house and
the city an hour after sunset.

"But," interrupted Gorgias, "no one, not even your hostess Berenike and
her brother, must know your destination.--You look as if you could keep a
secret, woman."

"Though she owes her nickname Aisopion to her nimble tongue," replied
Dion.

"But this tongue is like the little silver fish with scarlet spots in the
palace garden," said Anukis. "They dart to and fro nimbly enough; but as
soon as danger threatens they keep as quiet in the water as though they
were nailed fast. And--by mighty Isis!--we have no lack of peril in these
trying times. Would you like to see the lady Berenike and the others
before your departure?"

"Berenike, yes; but the sons of Arius--they are fine fellows--would be
wise to keep aloof from this house to-day."

"Yes indeed!" the architect chimed in. "It will be prudent for their
father, too, to seek some hiding-place. He is too closely connected with
Octavianus. It may indeed happen that the Queen will desire to make use
of him. In that case he may be able to aid Barine, who is his sister's
child. Timagenes, too, who comes from Rome as a mediator, may have some
influence."

"The same thoughts entered my poor brain also," said Anukis. "I am now
going to show the gentlemen the danger which threatens her, and if I
succeed--Yet what could a serving-woman of my appearance accomplish?
Still--my house is nearer to the brink of the stream than the dwelling of
most others, and if I fling in a loaf, perhaps the current will bear it
to the majestic sea."

"Wise Aisopion!" cried Dion; but the worthy maid-servant shrugged her
crooked shoulders, saying: "We needn't be free-born to find pleasure in
what is right; and if being wise means using one's brains to think, with
the intention of promoting right and justice, you can always call me so.
Then you will start after sundown?"

With these words she was about to leave the room, but the architect, who
had watched her every movement, had formed a plan and begged her to
follow him.

When they reached the next room he asked for a faithful account of Barine
and the dangers threatening her. After consulting her as if she were an
equal, he held out his hand in farewell, saying: "If it is possible to
bring her to the Temple of Isis unseen, these clouds may scatter. I shall
be in the sanctuary of the goddess from the first hour after sunset. I
have some measurements to take there. When you say you know that the
immortals will have pity on the innocent woman whom they have led to the
verge of the abyss, perhaps you may be right. It seems as if matters here
were combining in a way which would be apt to rob the story-teller of his
listener's faith."

After Aisopion had gone, Gorgias returned to Dion's room and asked the
freedman to be ready with his boat at a place on the shore which he
carefully described.

The friends were again alone. Gorgias had his hands full of work, but he
could not help expressing his surprise at the calm bearing which Dion
maintained. "You behave as if you were going to an oyster supper at
Kanopus," he said, shaking his head as though perplexed by some
incomprehensible problem.

"What else would you have me do?" asked the Macedonian. "The vivid
imagination of you artists shows you the future according to your own
varying moods. If you hope, you transform a pleasant garden into the
Elysian fields; if you fear anything you behold in a burning roof the
conflagration of a world. We, from whose cradle the Muse was absent, who
use only sober reason to provide for the welfare of the household and the
state, as well as for our own, see facts as they are and treat them like
figures in a sum. I know that Barine is in danger. That might drive me
frantic; but beyond her I see Archibius and Charmian spreading their
protecting wings over her head; I perceive the fear of my faction,
including the museum, of the council of which I am a member, of my
clients and the conditions of the times, which precludes arousing the
wrath of the citizens. The product which results from the correct
addition of all these known quantities--"

"Will be correct," interrupted his friend, "so long as the most
incalculable of all factors, passion, does not blend with them--the
passion of a woman--and the Queen belongs to the sex which is certainly
more powerful in that domain."

"Granted! But as soon as Mark Antony returns it will be proved that her
jealousy was needless."

"We will hope so. It is only the misled, deceived, abused Cleopatra whom
I fear; for she herself is matchless in divine goodness. The charm by
which she ensnares hearts is indescribable, and the iron power of her
intellect! I tell you, Dion--"

"Friend, friend," was the laughing interruption. "How high your wishes
soar! For three years I have kept an account of the conflagrations in
your heart. I believe we had reached seventeen; but this last one is
equal to two."

"Folly!" cried Gorgias in an irritated tone: "May not a man admire what
is magnificent, wonderful, unique? She is all these things! Just now--how
long ago is it?--she appeared before me in a radiance of beauty--"

"Which should have made you shade both eyes. Yet you have been speaking
so warmly of your young guest, her loving caution, her gentle calmness in
the midst of peril--"

"Do you suppose I wish to recall a single syllable?" the architect
indignantly broke in. "Helena has no peer among the maidens of
Alexandria--but the other--Cleopatra--is elevated in her divine majesty
above all ordinary mortals. You might spare me and yourself that scornful
curl of the lip. Had she gazed into your face with those tearful,
sorrowful eyes, as she did into mine, and spoken of her misery, you would
have gone through fire and water, hand in hand with me, for her sake. I
am not a man who is easily moved, and since my father's death the only
tears I have seen have been shed by others; but when she talked of the
mausoleum I was to build for her because Fate, she knew not how soon,
might force her to seek refuge in the arms of death, my calmness
vanished. Then, when she cumbered me among the friends on whom she could
rely and held out her hand--a matchless hand--oh! laugh if you choose--I
felt I know not how, and kneeling at her feet I kissed it; it was wet
with my tears. I am not ashamed of this emotion, and my lips seem
consecrated since they touched the little white hand which spoke a
language of its own and stands before my eyes wherever I gaze."

Pushing back his thick locks from his brow as he spoke, he shook his head
as though dissatisfied with himself and, in an altered tone, hurriedly
continued: "But this is a time ill-suited for such ebullitions of
feeling. I mentioned the mausoleum, whose erection the Queen desires. She
will see the first hasty sketch to-morrow. It is already before my mind's
eye. She wished to have it adjoin the Temple of Isis, her goddess--I
proposed the great sanctuary in the Rhakotis quarter, but she
objected--she wished to have it close to the palace at Lochias. She had
thought of the temple at the Corner of the Muses, but the house occupied
by Didymus stood in the way of a larger structure. If this were removed
it would be possible to carry the street through the old man's garden,
perhaps even to the sea-shore, and we should have had space for a
gigantic edifice and still left room for a fine garden. But we had
learned how the philosopher loved his family estate. The Queen is
unwilling to use violence towards the old man. She is just, and perhaps
other reasons, of which I am ignorant, influence her. So I promised to
look for another site, though I saw how much she desired to have her tomb
connected with the sanctuary of her favourite goddess Then--I have
already told the clever brown witch--then the immortals, Divinity, Fate,
or whatever we call the power which guides the world and our lives
according to eternal laws and its own mysterious, omnipotent will,
permitted a rascally deed, from which I think may come deliverance for
you and a source of pleasure to the Queen in these days of trial."

"Man, man! Where will this new passion lead you? The horses are stamping
impatiently outside; duty summons the most faithful of men, and he stands
like a prophet, indulging in mysterious sayings!"

"Whose meaning and purport, spite of your calm calculations of existing
circumstances, will soon seem no less wonderful to you than to me, whose
unruly artist nature, according to your opinion, is playing me a trick,"
retorted the architect. "Now listen to this explanation: Didymus's house
will be occupied at once by my workmen, but I shall examine the lower
rooms of the Temple of Isis. I have with me a document requiring
obedience to my orders. Cleopatra herself laid the plans before me, even
the secret portion showing the course of the subterranean chambers. It
will cast some light upon my mysterious sayings if I bear you away from
the enemy through one of the secret corridors. They were right in
concealing from you by how slender a thread, spite of the power of your
example in mathematics, the sword hangs above your head. Now that I see a
possibility of removing it, I can show it to you. Tomorrow you would have
fallen, without hope of rescue, into the hands of cruel foes and been
shamefully abandoned by your own weak uncle, had not the most implacable
of all your enemies permitted himself the infamous pleasure of laying
hands on an old man's house, and the Queen, in consequence of an
agitating message, had the idea suggested of building her own mausoleum.
The corridor"--here he lowered his voice--"of which I spoke leads to the
sea at a spot close beside Didymus's garden, and through it I will guide
you, and, if possible, Barine also, to the shore. This could be
accomplished in the usual way only by the greatest risk. If we use the
passage we can reach a dark place on the strand unseen, and unless some
special misfortune pursues us our flight will be unnoticed. The litters
and your tottering gait would betray everything if we were to enter the
boat anywhere else in the great harbour."

"And we, sensible folk, refuse to believe in miracles!" cried Dion,
holding out his wan hand to the architect. "How shall I thank you, you
dear, clever, most loyal of friends to your male friends, though your
heart is so faithless to fair ones? Add that malicious speech to the
former ones, for which I now crave your pardon. What you intend to
accomplish for Barine and me gives you a right to do and say to me
whatever ill you choose all the rest of my life. Anxiety for her would
surely have bound me to this house and the city when the time came to
make the escape, for without her my life would now be valueless. But when
I think that she might follow me to Pyrrhus's cliff--"

"Don't flatter yourself with this hope," pleaded Gorgias. "Serious
obstacles may interpose. I am to have another talk with the Nubian later.
With no offence to others, I believe her advice will be the best. She
knows how matters stand with the lofty, and yet herself belongs to the
lowly. Besides, through Charmian the way to the Queen lies open, and
nothing which happens at court escapes her notice. She showed me that we
must consider Barine's delivery to Alexas a piece of good fortune. How
easily jealousy might have led to a fatal crime one whose wish promptly
becomes action, unless she curbs the undue zeal of her living tools!
Those on whom Fate inflicts so many blows rarely are in haste to spare
others. Would the anxieties which weigh upon her like mountains interpose
between the Queen and the jealous rancour which is too petty for her
great soul?"

"What is great or petty to the heart of a loving woman?" asked Dion. "In
any case you will do what you can to remove Barine from the power of the
enraged princess--I know."

Gorgias pressed his friend's hand closely, then, yielding to a sudden
impulse, kissed him on the forehead and hurried to the door.

On the threshold a faint moan from the wounded man stopped him. Would he
be strong enough to follow the long passage leading to the sea?

Dion protested that he confidently expected to do so, but his deeply
flushed face betrayed that the fever which had once been conquered had
returned.

Gorgias's eyes sought the floor in deep thought. Many sick persons were
borne to the temple in the hope of cure; so Dion's appearance would cause
no special surprise. On the other hand, to have strangers carry him
through the passage seemed perilous. He himself was strong, but even the
strongest person would have found it impossible to support the heavy
burden of a grown man to the sea, for the gallery was low and of
considerable length. Still, if necessary, he would try. With the
comforting exclamation, "If your strength does not suffice, another way
will be found," he took his leave, gave Barine's maid and the wounded
man's body-slave the necessary directions, commanded the door-keeper to
admit no one save the physician, and stepped into the open air.

A little band of Ephebi were pacing to and fro before the house. Others
had flung themselves down in an open space surrounded by shrubbery in the
Paneum garden, and were drinking the choice wine which Dion's cellarer,
by his orders, had brought and was pouring out for the crowd.

It was an animated scene, for the clients of the sufferer, who, after
expressing their sympathy, had been dismissed by the porter, and
bedizened girls had joined the youths. There was no lack of jests and
laughter, and when some pretty young mother or female slave passed by
leading children, with whom the garden was a favourite playground, many a
merry word was exchanged.

Gorgias waved his hands gaily to the youths, pleased with the
cheerfulness with which the brave fellows transformed duty into a
festival, and many raised their wine-cups, shouting a joyous "Io" and
"Evoe," to drink the health of the famous artist who not long ago had
been one of themselves.

The others were led by a slender youth, the student Philotas, from
Amphissa, Didymus's assistant, whom the architect, a few days before, had
helped to liberate from the demons of wine. Even while Gorgias was
beckoning to him from the two-wheeled chariot, the thought entered his
mind that yonder handsome youth, who had so deeply wronged Barine and
Dion, would be the very person to help carry his friend through the
low-roofed passage to the sea. If Philotas was the person Gorgias
believed him to be, he would deem it a special favour to make amends for
his crime to those whom he had injured, and he was not mistaken; for,
after the youth had taken a solemn oath not to betray the secret to any
one, the architect asked him to aid in Dion's rescue. Philotas,
overflowing with joyful gratitude, protested his willingness to do so,
and promised to wait at the appointed spot in the Temple of Isis at the
time mentioned.



CHAPTER XIV.

While Gorgias was examining the subterranean chambers in the Temple of
Isis, Charmian returned to Lochias earlier than she herself had expected.
She had met her brother, whom she did not find at Kanopus, at Berenike's,
and after greeting Dion on his couch of pain, she told Archibius of her
anxiety. She confided to him alone that the Queen had committed Barine's
fate to Alexas, for the news might easily have led the mother of the
endangered woman to some desperate venture; but even Archibius's
composure, so difficult to disturb, was not proof against it. He would
have sought the Queen's presence at once--if necessary, forced his way to
it; but the historian Timagenes, who had just come from Rome, was
expecting him, and he had not returned to his birthplace as a private
citizen, but commissioned by Octavianus to act as mediator in putting an
end to the struggle which had really been decided in his favour at the
battle of Actium. The choice of this mediator was a happy one; for he had
taught Cleopatra in her childhood, and was the self-same quick-witted man
who had so often roused her to argument. His share in a popular
insurrection against the Roman rule had led to his being carried as a
slave to the Tiber. There he soon purchased his freedom, and attained
such distinction that Octavianus entrusted this important mission to the
man who was so well known in Alexandria. Archibius was to meet him at the
house of Arius, who was still suffering from the wounds inflicted by the
chariot-wheels of Antyllus, and Berenike had accompanied Timagenes to her
brother.

Charmian did not venture to go there; a visit to Octavianus's former
teacher would have been misinterpreted, and it was repugnant to her own
delicacy of feeling to hold intercourse at this time with the foe and
conqueror of her royal mistress. She therefore let her brother drive with
Berenike to the injured man's; but before his departure Archibius had
promised, if the worst came, to dare everything to open the eyes of the
Queen, who had forbidden her, Charmian, to speak in behalf of Barine and
thwart the plans of Alexas.

From the Paneum garden she was carried to the Kanopic Way and the Jewish
quarter, where she had many important purchases to make for Cleopatra. It
was long after noon when the litter was again borne to Lochias.

On the way she had severely felt her own powerlessness. Without having
accomplished anything herself, she was forced to wait for the success of
others; and she had scarcely crossed the threshold of the palace ere
fresh cares were added to those which already burdened her soul.

She understood how to read the faces of courtiers, and the door-keeper's
had taught her that since her departure something momentous had occurred.
She disliked to question the slaves and lower officials, so she
refrained, though the interior of the palace was crowded with guards,
officials of every grade, attendants, and slaves. Many who saw her gazed
at her with the timidity inspired by those over whom some disaster is im
pending. Others, whose relations were more intimate, pressed forward to
enjoy the mournful satisfaction of being the first messengers of evil
tidings. But she passed swiftly on, keeping them back with grave words
and gestures, until, before the door of the great anteroom thronged with
Greek and Egyptian petitioners, she met Zeno, the Keeper of the Seal.
Charmian stopped him and inquired what had happened.

"Since when?" asked the old courtier. "Every moment has brought some
fresh tidings and all are mournful. What terrible times, Charmian, what
disasters!"

"No messenger had arrived when I left the Lochias," replied Charmian.
"Now it seems as though the old monster of a palace, accustomed to so
many horrors, is holding its breath in dread. Tell me the main thing, at
least, before I meet the Queen."

"The main thing? Pestilence or famine--which shall we call the worse?"

"Quick, Zeno! I am expected."

"I, too, am in haste, and really there is nothing to relate over which
the tongue would care to dwell. Candidus arrived first. Came himself
straight from Actium. The fellow is bold enough."

"Is the army defeated also?"

"Defeated, dispersed, deserted to the foe--King Herod with his legions in
the van."

Charmian covered her face with her hands and groaned aloud, but Zeno
continued:

"You were with her in the flight. When Mark Antony left you, he sailed
with the ships which joined him for Paraetonium. A large body of troops
on which the Queen and Mardion had fixed their hopes was encamped there.
Reinforcements could easily be gained and we should once more have a fine
army at our disposal."

"Pinarius Scarpus, a cautious soldier, was in command; and I, too,
believed--"

"The more you trusted him, the greater would be your error. The shameless
rascal--he owes everything to Antony--had received tidings of Actium ere
the ships arrived, and had already made overtures to Octavianus when the
Imperator came. The veterans who opposed the treachery were hewn down by
the wretch's orders, but the brave garrison of the city could not be won
over to the monstrous crime. It is due to these men that Mark Antony
still lives and did not come to a miserable end at the hands of his own
troops. The twice-defeated general--a courier brought the news--will
arrive to-night. Strangely enough, he will not come to Lochias, but to
the little palace on the Choma."

"Poor, poor Queen!" cried Charmian; "how did she bear all this?"

"In the presence of the defeated Candidus and Antony's messenger like a
heroine. But afterwards----Her raving did not last long; but the mute,
despairing silence! Ere she had fully recovered her self-command she sent
us all away, and I have not seen her since. But all the thoughts and
feelings which dwell here"--he pointed to his brow and breast--"have left
their abode and linger with her. I totter from place to place like a
soulless body. O Charmian! what has befallen us? Where are the days when
care and trouble lay buried with the other dead--the days and nights when
my brain united with that of the Queen to transform this desolate earth
into the beautiful Elysian Fields, every-day life to a festival,
festivals to the very air of Olympus? What unprecedented scenes of
splendour had I not devised for the celebration of the victory, the
triumph--nay, even the entry into Rome! Whole chests are filled with the
sketches, programmes, drawings, and verses. All who handle brush and
chisel, compose and execute music, would have lent their aid, and--you
may believe me-the result would have been something which future
generations would have discussed, lauded, and extolled in song. And
now--now?"

"Now we will double our efforts to save what is yet to be rescued!"

"Rescued?" repeated the courtier in a hollow tone. "The Queen, too, still
clings to this fine word. When I saw her at work yesterday, it seemed as
if I beheld her drawing water with the bottomless vessel of the Danaides.
True, today, when I left her, her arms had fallen--and in this attitude
she now stands before me with her tearful eyes. And besides, I can't get
my nephew Dion out of my mind. Cares--nothing but cares concerning him!
And my intentions towards him were so kind! My will gives him my entire
fortune; but now he actually wants to marry the singer, the daughter of
the artist Leonax. You have taken her under your protection, but surely
your own niece, Iras, is dearer to you, so you will approve of my
destroying the will if Dion insists upon his own way. He shall not have a
solidus of my property if he does not give up the woman who is a thorn in
the Queen's flesh. And his choice does not suit our ancient race. Iras,
on the contrary, was Dion's playfellow, and I have long destined her for
his wife. No better match, nor one more acceptable to the Queen, could be
found for him. He cared for her until the singer bewitched him. Bring
them together, and they shall be like my own children. If the fool
resists his uncle, whose sole desire is to benefit him, I will withdraw
my aid. Whatever intrigues his foes may weave, I shall fold my arms and
not interfere. I stand in the place of his father, my dead brother, and
demand obedience. The Queen is my universe, and her favour is of more
value than twenty refractory nephews."

"You will retain her Majesty's favour, even if you intercede for your
brother's son."

"And Iras? When she finds herself deceived--and she will soon discover
it--she will not rest--"

"Until she has brought ruin upon him," interrupted Charmian, in a tone of
sorrow rather than reproach as though she already beheld the impending
disaster. "But Iras has no greater influence with the Queen than I, and
if you and I unite to protect the brave young fellow, who is of your own
blood--"

"Then, of course--no doubt, on account of your longer period of service,
you have more influence with her Majesty than Iras--however--such matters
must be considered--and I have already said--my mind leaves its abode to
follow the Queen like her shadow. It heeds only what concerns her. Let
everything else go as it will. The fleet the same as destroyed, Candidus
defeated, Herod a deserter, treason on treason--the African legions lost!
What in the name of the god who tried to roll back the wheel dashing down
the mountain-side!--And yet! Let us offer sacrifices, my friend, and hope
for better days!"

Zeno retired as he spoke, but Charmian moved forward with a drooping head
to find Barine and her faithful Anukis, and weep her fill ere she went to
perform the duty of consoling and sustaining her beloved mistress. Yet
she herself so sorely needed comfort. Wherever she turned her eyes she
beheld disaster, peril, treachery, and base intrigues. She felt as if she
had lived long enough, and that her day was over. Hitherto her gentle
nature, her intellect, which yearned to expand, gather new riches, and
exchange what it had gained with others, had possessed much to offer to
the Queen. She had not only been Cleopatra's confidante, but necessary to
her to discuss questions far in advance of the demands of the times,
which occupied her restless mind. Now the Queen's attention was wholly
absorbed by events--hard, cruel facts--which she must resist or turn to
her own advantage. Her life had become a conflict, and Charmian felt that
she was by no means combative. The hard, supple, keenly polished
intellect of Iras now asserted its value, and the elderly woman told
herself that she was in danger of being held in less regard than her
younger companion. To resign her office would have given her peace of
mind, but she repelled the thought. For the very reason that these days
were so full of misery and perhaps drawing nearer to the end, she must
remain, first for the sake of the Queen, but also to watch over Barine.

Now she longed to go to Cleopatra. Her mere presence, she knew, would do
her sore heart good. The silvery laugh of a child reached her ears
through the open gate of the garden which she was rapidly approaching.
Little six-year-old Alexander ran towards her with open arms, hugged her
closely, pressed his curly head against her, and gazed into her face with
his large clear eyes.

Charmian's heart swelled; and as she raised the child in her arms and
kissed him, she thought of the sad fate impending, and the composure
maintained with so much difficulty gave way; tears streamed from her eyes
and, sobbing violently, she pressed the boy closer to her breast.

The prince, accustomed to bright faces and tender caresses, broke away
from her in terror to run back to his brother and sisters. But he had a
kind little heart, and, knowing that no one weeps and sobs unless in
pain, Alexander pitied Charmian, whom he loved, and hurried to her again.

What he meant to show her had pleased his mother, too, and dried the
tears in her eyes. So he took Charmian by the hand and drew her along,
saying that he wanted her to see the prettiest thing. She willingly
allowed herself to be led over the paths, strewn with red sand, of the
little garden which Antony had had laid out for his children in the
magnificent style which pleased his love of splendour, and filled with
rare and beautiful things.

There was a pond with tiny gold and silver fish, where the rare lotus
flowers with pink blossoms arose from amid their smooth green leaves, and
another where dwarf ducks of every colour, which seemed as if they had
been created for children, swam to and fro. A bit of the sea which washed
its shore had been enclosed by a gilded latticework, and on its surface
floated a number of snow-white swans and black ones with scarlet bills.
Native and Indian flowers of every hue adorned the beds, and the narrow
paths were shaded by arbours made of gold wire, over which ran climbing
vines filled with bright blossoms.

A grotto of stalactites behind the dense foliage of an Indian tree
offered a resting-place, and beside it was a little house where the
children could stay. The interior lacked none of the requisites of
living, not even the cooking utensils in the kitchen, and the family
portraits in the tablinum, delicately painted by an artist on small ivory
slabs. Everything was made to suit the size of children, but of the most
costly material and careful workmanship.

Behind the house was a little stable where four tiny horses with spotted
skins, the rarest and prettiest creatures imaginable--a gift from the
King of Media--were stamping the ground.

In another place was an enclosure containing gazelles, ostriches, young
giraffes, and other grass-eating animals. Bright-plumaged birds and
monkeys filled the tops of the trees, gay balls rose and fell on the jets
of the fountains, and child genii and images of the gods in bronze and
marble peered from the foliage. This whole enchanted world was comprised
within a narrow space, and, with its radiance of colour and wealth of
form, its perfume, songs, and warbling, exerted a bewildering influence
upon the excited imaginations of grown people as well as children.

Little Alexander, without even casting a glance at all this, drew
Charmian forward. He did not pause until he reached the shore of the
lotus pond; then, putting his fingers on his lips, he said: "There, now,
I'll show you. Look here!"

Rising cautiously upon tip-toe as he spoke, he pointed to the hollow in
the trunk of a tree. A pair of finches had built their nest in it, and
five young ones with big yellow beaks stretched their ugly little heads
hungrily upward.

"That's so pretty!" cried the prince. "And you must see the old ones come
to feed them." The beautiful boy's sweet face fairly beamed with delight,
and Charmian kissed him tenderly. Yet, even as she did so, she thought of
the young swallows hacked to death in his mother's galley, and a chill
ran through her veins.

Just at that moment voices were heard calling Alexander from a neglected
spot behind the dainty little house built for the children, and the boy
exclaimed peevishly:

"There, now, I showed you the little nest, so I forgot. Agatha fell
asleep and Smerdis went away, so we were alone. Then they sent me to
Horus, the gate-keeper, to get some of his spelt bread. He never says no
to anything, and it does taste so good. We're peasants, and have been
using the axe and the hoe, so we want something to eat. Have you seen our
house? We built it ourselves. Selene, Helios, Jotape, my future wife, and
I--yes, I! They let me help, and we finished it alone, all alone!
Everything is here. We shall build the shed for the cow to-morrow. The
others mustn't see it, but I may show it to you."

While speaking, he drew her forward again, and Charmian obediently
followed. The twins and little Jotape, who had been chosen for the future
bride of the six-year-old Prince Alexandera pretty, delicate, fair-haired
child of his own age, the daughter of the Median king, who had been
betrothed to the boy after the Parthian war, and now remained as a
hostage at Cleopatra's court--welcomed her with joyous shouts. With the
exception of the little Median princess, Charmian had witnessed their
birth, and they all loved her dearly.

The little royal labourers showed their work with proud delight, and it
really was well done.

They had toiled at it for weeks, paying no heed to the garden and all its
costly rarities. They pointed with special pride to the two planks which
Helios, aided by Alexander, had fished out of the sea after the last
storm, when they were left alone, and to the lock on the door which they
had secretly managed to wrench from an old gate. Selene herself had woven
the curtain in front of the door. Now they were going to build a hearth
too.

Charmian praised their skill, while they--all talking merrily
together--told her how they had conquered the greatest difficulties.
Their bright eyes sparkled with pleasure while describing the work of
their own hands, and they were so absorbed in eager delight that they did
not notice the approach of a man until startled by his words: "Enough of
this idle sport now, your Highnesses. Too much time has already been
wasted on it."

Then, turning to the Queen, who had accompanied him, he continued in a
tone of apology: "This amusement might seem somewhat hazardous, yet there
is much to be said in its favour. Besides, it appeared to afford the
royal children so much pleasure that I permitted it for a short time. But
if your Majesty commands:

"Let them have their pleasure," the Queen interrupted kindly; and as soon
as the children saw their mother they rushed forward, crowded around her
with fearless love, thanked her, and eagerly assured her that nothing in
the whole garden was half so dear to them as their little house. They
meant to build a stable too.

"That might be too much," said the tutor Euphronion, a grey-haired man
with a shrewd, kindly face. "We must remember how many things are yet to
be learned, that we may reach the goal fixed for your Majesty's birthday
and pass the examination."

But all the children now joined in the entreaty to be allowed to build
the stable too, and it was granted.

When the tutor at last began to lead them away, the royal mother stopped
them, asking "Suppose, instead of this garden, I should give you a bit of
bare land, such as the peasants till, where, after your lessons, you
might dig and build as much as you please?"

Loud shouts of joy from the children answered the question; but the
little Median girl, Jotape, said hesitatingly:

"Could I take my doll too--only the oldest, Atossa? She has lost one arm,
yet I love her the best."

"Deprive us of anything you choose!" cried Helios, drawing little
Alexander towards him, to show that they, the men, were of the same mind,
"only give us some ground and let us build."

"We will consider whether it can be done," replied Cleopatra. "Perhaps,
Euphronion, you would be the right person--But we will discuss the matter
at a more quiet hour."

The tutor withdrew and the children, who followed, looked back, waving
their hands and calling to their mother for a long time.

When they had disappeared behind the shrubbery in the garden Charmian
exclaimed, "However dark the sky may be, so long as you possess these
little ones you can never lack sunshine."

"If," replied Cleopatra, gazing pensively at the ground, "with a thought
of them another did not blend which makes the gloom become deeper still.
You know the tidings this terrible day has brought?"

"All," replied Charmian, sighing heavily.

"Then you know the abyss on whose verge we are walking; and to see
them--them also dragged into the yawning gulf by their unhappy
mother--Oh, Charmian, Charmian!"

She sobbed aloud, threw her arms around the neck of her friend and
playfellow, and laid her head upon her bosom like a child seeking
consolation. Cleopatra wept for several minutes, and when she again
raised her tear-stained face she said softly:

"That did me good! O, Charmian! no one needs love as I do. On your warm
heart my own has already grown calmer."

"Use it, nestle there whenever you need it, to the end," cried Charmian,
deeply moved.

"To the end," repeated Cleopatra, wiping her eyes. "It began to-day, I
think. I have just spent an hour alone. I meant to commit a crime, and
you know how impatiently passion sweeps me along. But what misfortunes
have assailed me! The army destroyed; the desertion of Herod and
Pinarius; Antony's generous, trusting heart torn by base treachery, his
soul darkened; the reconstruction of the canal, the last hope--Gorgias
brought the news--the same as destroyed. Just then little Alexander came
to show me his bird's nest. Everything else in the garden seemed to him
worthless by comparison. This awakened new thoughts, and now here is the
little house which the children have built with their own hands. All
these things forced me by some mysterious power to look back along the
course of my life to the distant days in your father's house--I--These
children! Upon what different foundations our lives have been built! I
made them begin at the point I had gained when youth lay behind me. My
childhood commenced among the disorders of the government, clouded by my
father's exile and my mother's death, on the brink of ruin. That of the
twins--they are ten years old--will soon be over--and now, after enjoying
pleasures not one of which was bestowed on me, they must endure the same
sorrow. But did not we have better ones? What they daily possessed we
only dreamed of in our simple garden. How often I let you share the
radiant visions which my soul revealed to me! You willingly accompanied
me into the splendid fairy world of my dreams. All that my imagination
conjured up during the years of quiet and repose accompanied me into my
after-life. Again and again I have beheld them, rich and powerful, upon
the throne. The means of rendering the vision a varity were at hand; and
when I met the man whose own life resembled the realization of a dream, I
recalled those childish fancies and made them facts. The marvels with
which I adorned my lover's existence were childish dreams to which I gave
tangible form. This garden is an image of the life to which I intended to
rise; in reality, fell. We collected within the limits of this bit of
earth everything which can delight the senses; not a single one is
omitted in this narrow space, whose crowded maze of pleasures fairly
impede freedom of movement. Yet in your home, and guided by your wise
father, I had learned to be content with so little, and commenced the
struggle to attain peace. That painless peace--our chief good--whence
came it? Through me it was lost to you both But the children--I made them
begin their lives in an arena of every disturbing influence; and now I
see how their own healthy natures yearn to escape from the dazzling
wealth of colour, the stupefying fragrance, the bewildering songs and
twittering. They long to return to the untilled earth, where the life of
struggling mortals began.

"The boy casts away the baubles, to test his own creative powers. The
girl follows his example, and clings fast only to the doll in which she
sees the living child, in order to do justice to the maternal instinct,
the token of her sex. But what they so eagerly desire is right, and shall
be granted. When I was ten years old, like the twins, my life and efforts
were already directed towards one fixed goal. They are still blindly
following the objects set before them. Let them return to the place
whence their mother started, where she received everything good which is
still hers. They shall go to the garden of Epicurus, no matter whether it
is the old one in Kanopus or elsewhere. All that their mother beheld in
vivid dreams, which she often strove with wanton extravagance to realize,
has surrounded them from their birth and early satiated them. When they
enter life, they will scorn what merely stirs and dazzles the senses, and
cling to the aspiration for painless peace of mind, if a wise guide
directs them and protects them from the dangers which the teachings of
Epicurus contain for youth. I have found this guide, and you, too, will
trust him--I mean your brother Archibius."

"Archibius?" asked Charmian in surprise. "Yes, he who grew up in the
garden of Epicurus, and in life and philosophy found the support which
has preserved his peace of mind during all the conflicts of existence--he
who loves the mother, and to whom the children are also dear--he to whom
the boys and girls cling with affectionate confidence. I wish to place
the children under his protection and, if he will consent to grant this
desire of the most hapless of women, I shall look forward calmly to the
end. It is approaching! I feel, I know it! Gorgias is already at work
upon the plan for my tomb."

"O my Queen!" cried Charmian sorrowfully. "Whatever may happen, your
illustrious life cannot be in danger! The generous heart of Mark Antony
does not throb in Octavianus's breast, but he is not cruel, and for the
very reason that cool calculation curbs ambition he will spare you. He
knows that you are the idol of the city, the whole country; and if he
really succeeds in adding fresh victories to this first conquest, if the
immortals permit your throne and--may they avert it!--your sacred person,
too, to fall into his power--"

"Then," cried Cleopatra, her clear eyes flashing, "then he shall learn
which of us two is the greater--then I shall know how to maintain the
right to despise him, though blind Fate should make the whole power of
the world subject to him who robbed my son and Caesar's of his heritage!"

Her eyes had blazed with anger as she uttered the words; then, letting
her little clenched hand fall, she went on in an altered tone:

"Months may pass before he is strong enough to risk the attack, and the
immortals themselves approved the erection of the monument. The only
obstacle in the way, the house of the old philosopher Didymus, was
destroyed. A messenger from Gorgias brought the news. It is to be the
second monument in Alexandria worthy of notice. The other contains the
body of the great Alexander, to whom the city owes its origin and name.
He who subjected half the world to his power and the genius of the
Greeks, was younger than I when he died. Whence do I, by whose miserable
weakness the battle of Actium was lost, derive the right to walk longer
beneath the sun? Perhaps Mark Antony will arrive in a few hours."

"And will you meet the disheartened hero in this mood?" interrupted
Charmian.

"He does not wish to be received," answered Cleopatra bitterly. "He even
refused to let me greet him, and I understand the denial. But what must
have overwhelmed this joyous nature, so friendly to all mankind, that he
longs for solitude and avoids meeting those who are nearest and dearest?
Iras is now at the Choma--whither he wishes to retire--to see that
everything is in order. She will also provide a supply of the flowers he
loves. It is hard, cruelly hard, not to welcome him as usual. Oh,
Charmian, what joy it was when, with open arms and overflowing heart, he
swung his mighty figure ashore like a youth, while his handsome, heroic
face beamed with ardent love for me! And then--you do not forget it
either--when he raised his deep voice to shout the first greeting, why,
it seemed as if the very fish in the water must join in, and the
palm-trees on the shore wave their feathery tops in joyous sympathy. And
here! The dreams of my childhood, which I made reality for him, received
us, and our existence, wreathed with love and roses, became a fairy tale.
Since the day he rode towards us at Kanopus and offered me the first
bouquet, with his sunny glance wooing my love, his image has stood before
my soul as the embodiment of the virile strength which conquers
everything, and the bright, undimmed joy which renders the whole world
happy. And now--now? Do you remember the dull dreamer whom we left ere he
set forth for Paraetonium? But no, no, a thousand times no, he must not
remain so! Not with bowed head, but erect as in the days of happiness,
must he cross the threshold of Hades, hand in hand with her whom he
loved. And he does love me still. Else would he have followed me hither,
though no magic goblet drew him after me? And I? The heart which, in the
breast of the child, gave him its first young love, is still his, and
will be forever. Might I not go to the harbour and await him there? Look
me in the face, Charmian, and answer me as fearlessly as a mirror: did
Olympus really succeed in effacing the wrinkles?"

"They were scarcely visible before," was the reply, "and even the keenest
eye could no longer discover them. I have brought the pomade, too, and
the prescription Olympus gave me for--"

"Hush, hush!" interrupted Cleopatra softly. "There are many living
creatures in this garden, and they say that even the birds are good
listeners."

A roguish smile deepened the dimples in her cheeks as she spoke, and
delight in her bewitching grace forced from Charmian's lips the
exclamation:

"If Mark Antony could only see you now!"

"Flatterer!" replied the Queen with a grateful smile. But Charmian felt
that the time had now come to plead once more for Barine, and she began
eagerly:

"No, I certainly do not flatter. No one in Alexandria, no matter what
name she bears, could venture to vie even remotely with your charms. So
cease the persecution of the unfortunate woman whom you confided to my
care. It is an insult to Cleopatra--"

But here an indignant "Again!" interrupted her.

Cleopatra's face, which during the conversation had mirrored every
emotion of a woman's soul, from the deepest sorrow to the most
mischievous mirth, assumed an expression of repellent harshness, and,
with the curt remark, "You are forgetting what I had good reason to
forbid--I must go to my work," she turned her back upon the companion of
her youth.



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CLEOPATRA

By Georg Ebers

Volume 7.



CHAPTER XV.

Charmain went towards her own apartments. How often she had had a similar
experience! In the midst of the warmest admiration for this rare woman's
depth of feeling, masculine strength of intellect, tireless industry,
watchful care for her native land, steadfast loyalty, and maternal
devotion, she had been sobered in the most pitiable way.

She had been forced to see Cleopatra, for the sake of realizing a
childish dream, and impressing her lover, squander vast sums, which
diminished the prosperity of her subjects; place great and important
matters below the vain, punctilious care of her own person; forget, in
petty jealousy, the justice and kindness which were marked traits in her
character; and, though the most kindly and womanly of sovereigns, suffer
herself to be urged by angry excitement to inflict outrage on a subject
whose acts had awakened her displeasure. The lofty ambition which had
inspired her noblest and most praiseworthy deeds had more than once been
the source of acts which she herself regretted. When a child, she could
not endure to be surpassed in difficult tasks, and still deemed it a
necessity to be first and peerless. Hence the unfortunate circumstance
that Antony had given Barine the counterpart of an armlet which she
herself wore as a gift from her lover, was perhaps the principal cause of
her bitter resentment against the hapless woman.

Charmian had seen Cleopatra forgive freely and generously many a wrong,
nay, many an affront, inflicted upon her; but to see herself placed by
her husband on the same plane as a Barine, even in the most trivial
matter, might easily seem to her an unbearable insult; and the mishap
which had befallen Caesarion, in consequence of his foolish passion for
the young beauty, gave her a right to punish her rival.

Deeply anxious concerning the fate of the woman in her care--greatly
agitated, moreover, and exhausted physically and mentally--Charmian
sought her own apartments.

Here she hoped to find solace in Barine's cheerful and equable nature;
here the helpful hands of her dark-skinned maid and confidante awaited
her.

The sun was low in the western horizon when she entered the anteroom. The
members of the body-guard who were on duty told her that nothing unusual
had occurred, and with a sigh of relief she passed into the sitting-room.

But the Ethiopian, who usually came to meet her with words of welcome,
took her veil and wraps, and removed her shoes, was absent. Today no one
greeted her. Not until she entered the second room, which she had
assigned to her guest, did she find Barine, who was weeping bitterly.

During Charmian's absence the latter had received a letter from Alexas,
in which he informed her that he was ordered by the Queen to subject her
to an examination the next morning. Her cause looked dark but, if she did
not render his duty harder by the harshness which had formerly caused him
much pain, he would do his utmost to protect her from imprisonment,
forced labour in the mines, or even worse misfortunes. The imprudent game
which she had played with King Caesarion had unfortunately roused the
people against her. The depth of their indignation was shown by the fury
with which they had assailed the house of her grandfather, Didymus.
Nothing could save Dion, who had audaciously attacked the illustrious son
of their beloved Queen, from the rage of the populace. He, Alexas, knew
that in this Dion she would lose a friend and protector, but he would be
disposed to take his place if her conduct did not render it impossible
for him to unite mercy with justice.

This shameful letter, which promised Barine clemency in return for her
favour without unmasking him in his character of judge, explained to
Charmian the agitation in which she found her friend's daughter.

It was doubtless a little relief to Barine to express her loathing and
abhorrence of Alexas as eagerly as her gentle nature would permit, but
fear, grief, and indignation continued to struggle for the mastery in her
oppressed soul.

It would have been expected that the keen-witted woman would have eagerly
inquired what Charmian had accomplished with the Queen and Archibius, and
what new events had happened to affect Cleopatra, the state, and the
city; but she questioned her with far deeper interest concerning the
welfare of her lover, desiring information in regard to many things of
which her friend could give no tidings. In her brief visit to Dion's
couch she had not learned how he bore his own misfortunes and Barine's,
what view he took of the future, or what he expected from the woman he
loved.

Charmian's ignorance and silence in regard to these very matters
increased the anxiety of the endangered woman, who saw not only her own
life, but those dearest to her, seriously threatened. So she entreated
her hostess to relieve her from the uncertainty which was harder to
endure than the most terrible reality; but the latter either could not or
would not give her any further details of Cleopatra's intentions, or the
fate and present abode of her grandparents and Helena. This increased her
anxiety, for if Alexas's information was correct, her family must be
homeless. When Charmian at last admitted that she had seen Dion only a
few minutes, the tortured Barine's power of quiet endurance gave way.

She, whose nature was so hopeful that, when the glow of the sunset faded,
she already anticipated with delight the rosy dawn of the next day, now
beheld in Cleopatra's hand the reed which was to sign the death-sentence
of Dion and herself. Her mental vision conjured up her relatives wounded
by the falling house or bleeding under the stones hurled by the raging
populace. She heard Alexas command the executioner to subject her to the
rack, and fancied that Anukis had not returned because she had failed to
find Dion. The Queen's soldiers had probably carried him to prison,
loaded with chains, if Philostratus had not already instigated the mob to
drag him through the streets.

With feverish impetuosity, which alarmed Charmian the more because it was
so unlike her old friend's daughter, Barine described all the spectres
with which her imagination--agitated by terror, longing, love, and
loathing--terrified her; but the former exerted all the power of
eloquence she possessed, by turns reproving her and loading her with
caresses, in order to soothe her and rouse her from her despair. But
nothing availed. At last she succeeded in persuading the unhappy woman to
go with her to the window, which afforded a most beautiful view.
Westward, beyond the Heptastadium, the sun was sinking below the forests
of masts in the harbour of the Eunostus; and Charmian, who had learned
from her intercourse with the royal children how to soothe a troubled
young heart, to divert Barine's thoughts, directed her attention to the
crimson glow in the western sky, and told her how her father, the artist,
had showed her the superb brilliancy which colours gained at this hour of
the day, even when the west was less radiant than now. But Barine, who
usually could never gaze her fill at such a spectacle, did not thank her,
for this sunset reminded her of another which she had lately watched at
Dion's side, and she again broke into convulsive sobs.

Charmian, not knowing what to do, passed her arm around her. Just at that
moment the door was hurriedly thrown open, and Anukis, the Nubian,
entered.

Her mistress knew that something unusual must have happened to detain her
so long from her post at Barine's side, and her appearance showed that
she had been attending to important matters which had severely taxed her
strength. Her shining dark skin looked ashen grey, her high forehead,
surrounded by tangled woolly locks, was dripping with perspiration, and
her thick lips were pale. Although she must have undergone great fatigue,
she did not seem in need of rest; for, after greeting the ladies,
apologizing for her long absence, and telling Barine that this time Dion
had seemed to her half on the way to recovery, a rapid side glance at her
mistress conveyed an entreaty that she would follow her into the next
room.

But the language of the Nubian's eyes had not escaped the suspicious
watchfulness of the anxious Barine and, overwhelmed with fresh terror,
she begged that she might hear all.

Charmian ordered her maid to speak openly; but Anukis, ere she began,
assured them that she had received the news she brought from a most
trustworthy source--only it would make a heavy demand upon the resolution
and courage of Barine, whom she had hoped to find in a very different
mood. There was no time to lose. She was expected at the appointed place
an hour after sunset.

Here Charmian interrupted the maid with the exclamation "Impossible!" and
reminded her of the guards which Alexas, aided by Iras, who was
thoroughly familiar with the palace, had stationed the day before in the
anteroom, at all the doors--nay, even beneath the windows.

The Nubian replied that everything had been considered; but, to gain
time, she must beg Barine to let her colour her skin and curl her hair
while she was talking.

The surprise visible in the young beauty's face caused her to exclaim:
"Only act with entire confidence. You shall learn everything directly.
There is so much to tell! On the way here I had planned how to relate the
whole story in regular order, but it can't be done now. No, no! Whoever
wants to save a flock of sheep from a burning shed must lead out the
bell-wether first--the main thing, I mean--so I will begin with that,
though it really comes last. The explanation of how all this--"

Here, like a cry of joy, Barine's exclamation interrupted her:

"I am to fly, and Dion knows it and will follow me! I see it in your
face."

In fact, every feature of the dusky maid-servant's ugly face betrayed
that pleasant thoughts were agitating her mind. Her black eyes flashed
with fearless daring, and a smile beautified her big mouth and thick lips
as she replied:

"A loving heart like yours understands the art of prophecy better than
the chief priest of the great Serapis. Yes, my young mistress, he of whom
you speak must disappear from this wicked city where so much evil
threatens you both. He will certainly escape and, if the immortals aid us
and we are wise and brave, you also. Whence the help comes can be told
later. Now, the first thing is to transform you--don't be reluctant--into
the ugliest woman in the world--black Anukis. You must escape from the
palace in this disguise.--Now you know the whole plan, and while I get
what is necessary from my chest of clothes, I beg you, mistress, to
consider how we are to obtain the black stains for that ivory skin and
golden hair."

With these words she left the room, but Barine flung herself into her
friend's arms, exclaiming, amid tears and laughter: "Though I should be
forced to remain forever as black and crooked as faithful Aisopion, if he
did not withdraw his love, though I were obliged to go through fire and
water--I would O Charmian! what changes so quickly as joy and sorrow? I
would fain show some kindness to every one in the world, even to your
Queen, who has brought all these troubles upon me."

The new-born hope had transformed the despairing woman into a happy one,
and Charmian perceived it with grateful joy, secretly wishing that
Cleopatra had listened to her appeal.

While examining the hair-dyes used by the Queen she saw, lurking in the
background of what was still unexplained, and therefore confused her
mind, fresh and serious perils. Barine, on the contrary, gazed across
them to the anticipated meeting with her lover, and was full of the
gayest expectation until the maid-servant's return.

The work of disfigurement began without delay. Anukis moved her lips as
busily as her hands, and described in regular order all that had befallen
her during the eventful day.

Barine listened with rising excitement, and her joy increased as she
beheld the path which had been smoothed for her by the care and wisdom of
her friends. Charmian, on the contrary, became graver and more quiet the
more distinctly she perceived the danger her favourite must encounter.
Yet she could not help admitting that it would be a sin against Barine's
safety, perhaps her very life, to withhold her from this well-considered
plan of escape.

That it must be tried was certain; but as the moment which was to
endanger the woman she loved drew nearer, and she could not help saying
to herself that she was aiding an enterprise in opposition to the express
command of the Queen and helping to execute a plan which threatened to
rouse the indignation, perhaps the fury, of Cleopatra, a feeling of
sorrow overpowered her. She feared nothing for herself. Not for a single
instant did she think of the unpleasant consequences which Barine's
escape might draw upon her. The burden on her soul was due only to the
consciousness of having, for the first time, opposed the will of the
sovereign, to fulfil whose desires and to promote whose aims had been the
beloved duty of her life. Doubtless the thought crossed her mind that, by
aiding Barine's escape, she was guarding Cleopatra from future
repentance; probably she felt sure that it was her duty to help rescue
this beautiful young life, whose bloom had been so cruelly assailed by
tempest and hoar-frost, and which now had a prospect of the purest
happiness; yet, though in itself commendable, the deed brought her into
sharp conflict with the loftiest aims and aspirations of her life. And
how much nearer than the other was the woman--she shrank from the
word--whom she was about to betray, how much greater was Cleopatra's
claim to her love and gratitude! Could she have any other emotion than
thankfulness if the plan of escape succeeded? Yet she was reluctant to
perform the task of making Barine's beautiful, symmetrical figure
resemble the hunch-backed Nubian's, or to dip her fingers into the pomade
intended for Cleopatra; and it grieved her to mar the beauty of Barine's
luxuriant tresses by cutting off part of her thick fair braids.

True, these things could not be avoided, if the flight was to succeed,
and the further Anukis advanced in her story, the fewer became her
mistress's objections to the plan.

The conversation between Iras and Alexas, which had been overheard by the
maid, already made it appear necessary to withdraw Barine and her lover
from the power of such foes. The faithful man whom Anukis had found with
Dion, whose name she did not mention and of whose home she said only that
no safer hiding-place could be found, even by the mole which burrowed in
the earth, really seemed to have been sent with Gorgias to Dion's couch
by Fate itself. The control of the subterranean chambers in the Temple of
Isis which had been bestowed on the architect, also appeared like a
miracle.

Upon a small tablet, which the wise Aisopion had intentionally delayed
handing to her mistress until now, were the lines: "Archibius greets his
sister Charmian. If I know your heart, it will be as hard for you as for
me to share this plot, yet it must be done for the sake of her father, to
save the life and happiness of his child. So it must fall to your lot to
bring Barine to the Temple of Isis at the Corner of the Muses. She will
find her lover there and, if possible, be wedded to him. As the sanctuary
is so near, you need leave the palace only a short time. Do not tell
Barine what we have planned. The disappointment would be too great if it
should prove impracticable."

This letter and the arrangement it proposed transformed the serious
scruples which shadowed Charmian's good-will into a joyous, nay,
enthusiastic desire to render assistance. Barine's marriage to the man
who possessed her heart was close at hand, and she was the daughter of
Leonax, who had once been dear to her. Fear and doubt vanished as if
scattered to the four winds, and when Aisopion's work of transformation
was completed and Barine stood before her as the high-shouldered,
dark-visaged, wrinkled maid, she could not help admitting that it would
be easy to escape from the palace in that disguise.

She now told Barine that she intended to accompany her herself; and
though the former's stained face forced her to refrain from kissing her
friend, she plainly expressed to her and the faithful freedwoman the
overflowing gratitude which filled her heart.

Anukis was left alone. After carefully removing all the traces of her
occupation, as habit dictated, she raised her arms in prayer, beseeching
the gods of her native land to protect the beautiful woman to whom she
had loaned her own misshapen form, which had now been of genuine service,
and who had gone forth to meet so many dangers, but also a happiness
whose very hope had been denied to her.

Charmian had told her maid that if the Queen should inquire for her
before Iras returned from the Choma to say that she had been obliged to
leave the palace, and to supply her place. During their absence, when
Charmian had been attacked by sickness, Cleopatra had often entrusted the
care of her toilet to Aisopion, and had praised her skill.

The Queen's confidential attendant was followed as usual when she went
out by a dark-skinned maid. Lanterns and lamps had already been lighted
in the corridors of the spacious palace, and the court-yards were ablaze
with torches and pitch-pans; but, brilliantly as they burned in many
places, and numerous as were the guards, officers, eunuchs, clerks,
soldiers, cooks, attendants, slaves, door-keepers, and messengers whom
they passed, not one gave them more than a careless glance.

So they reached the last court-yard, and then came a moment when the
hearts of both women seemed to stop beating--for the man whom they had
most cause to dread, Alexas the Syrian, approached.

And he did not pass the fugitives, but stopped Charmian, and courteously,
even obsequiously, informed her that he wished to get rid of the
troublesome affair of her favourite, which had been assigned to him
against his will, and therefore had determined to bring Barine to trial
early the following morning.

The Syrian's body-servant attended his master, and while the former was
talking with Charmian the latter turned to the supposed Nubian, tapped
her lightly on the shoulder, and whispered: "Come this evening, as you
did yesterday. You haven't finished the story of Prince Setnau."

The fugitive felt as if she had grown dumb and could never more regain
the power of speech. Yet she managed to nod, and directly after the
favourite bowed a farewell to Charmian. The Ligurian was obliged to
follow his master, while Charmian and Barine passed through the gateway
between the last pylons into the open air.

Here the sea-breeze seemed to waft her a joyous greeting from the realm
of liberty and happiness, and the timid woman, amid all the perils which
surrounded her, regained sufficient presence of mind to tell her friend
what Alexas's slave had whispered--that Aisopion might remind him of it
the same evening, and thus strengthen his belief that the Nubian had
accompanied the Queen's confidante.

The way to the Temple of Isis was short. The stars showed that they would
reach their destination in time; but a second delay unexpectedly
occurred. From the steps leading to the cella of the sanctuary a
procession, whose length seemed endless, came towards them. At the head
of the train marched eight pastophori, bearing the image of Isis. Then
came the basket-bearers of the goddess with several other priestesses,
followed by the reader with an open book-roll. Behind him appeared the
quaternary number of prophets, whose head, the chief priest, moved with
stately dignity beneath a canopy. The rest of the priestly train bore in
their hands manuscripts, sacred vessels, standards, and wreaths. The
priestesses--some of whom, with garlands on their flowing hair, were
already shaking the sistrum of Isis--mingled with the line of priests,
their high voices blending with the deep notes of the men. Neokori, or
temple servants, and a large number of worshippers of Isis, closed the
procession, all wearing wreaths and carrying flowers. Torch and lantern
bearers lighted the way, and the perfume of the incense rising from the
little pan of charcoal in the hand of a bronze arm, which the pastophori
waved to and fro, surrounded and floated after the procession.

The two women waiting for the train to pass saw it turn towards Lochias,
and the conversation of the bystanders informed them that its object was
to convey to "the new Isis," the Queen, the greeting of the goddess, and
assure the sovereign of the divinity's remembrance of her in the hour of
peril.

Cleopatra could not help accepting this friendly homage, and it was
incumbent upon her to receive it wearing on her head the crown of Upper
and Lower Egypt, and robed in all the ecclesiastical vestments which only
her two most trusted attendants knew how to put on with the attention to
details that custom required. This had never been entrusted to maids of
inferior position like the Nubian; so Cleopatra would miss Charmian.

The thought filled her with fresh uneasiness and, when the steps were at
last free, she asked herself anxiously how all this would end.

It seemed as if the fugitive and her companion had exposed themselves to
this great peril in vain; for some of the temple servants were forcing
back those who wished to enter the sanctuary, shouting that it would be
closed until the return of the procession. Barine gazed timidly into
Charmian's face; but, ere she could express her opinion, the tall figure
of a man appeared on the temple steps. It was Archibius, who with grave
composure bade them follow him, and silently led them around the
sanctuary to a side door, through which, a short time before, a litter
had passed, accompanied by several attendants.

Ascending a flight of steps within the long building, they reached the
dimly lighted cella.

As in the Temple of Osiris at Abydos seven corridors, here three led to
the same number of apartments, the holy place of the sanctuary. The
central one was dedicated to Isis, that on the left to her husband
Osiris, and that on the right to Horus, the son of the great goddess.
Before it, scarcely visible in the dim light, stood the altars, loaded
with sacrifices by Archibius.

Beside that of Horus was the litter which had been borne into the temple
before the arrival of the women. From it, supported by two friends,
descended a slender young man.

A hollow sound echoed through the pillared hall. The iron door at the
main entrance of the temple had been closed. The shrill rattle that
followed proceeded from the metal bolts which an old servant of the
sanctuary had shot into the sockets.

Barine started, but neither inquired the cause of the noise nor perceived
the wealth of objects here presented to the senses; for the man who,
leaning on another's arm, approached the altar, was Dion, the lover who
had perilled his life for her sake. Her eyes rested intently on his
figure, her whole heart yearned towards him and, unable to control
herself,--she called his name aloud.

Charmian gazed anxiously around the group, but soon uttered a sigh of
relief; for the tall man whose arm supported Dion was Gorgias, the worthy
architect, his best friend, and the other, still taller and stronger, her
own brother Archibius. Yonder figure, emerging from the disguise of
wraps, was Berenike, Barine's mother. All trustworthy confidants! The
only person whom she did not know was the handsome young man standing at
her brother's side.

Barine, whose arm she still held, had struggled to escape to rush to her
mother and lover; but Archibius had approached, and in a whisper warned
her to be patient and to refrain from any greeting or question,
"supposing," he added, "that you are willing to be married at this altar
to Dion, the son of Eumenes."

Charmian felt Barine's arm tremble in hers at this suggestion, but the
young beauty obeyed her friend's directions. She did not know what had
befallen her, or whether, in the excess of happiness which overwhelmed
her, to shout aloud in her exultant joy, or melt into silent tears of
gratitude and emotion.

No one spoke. Archibius took a roll of manuscript from Dion's hand,
presented himself before the assembled company as the bride's kyrios, or
guardian, and asked Barine whether she so recognized him. Then he
returned to Dion the marriage contract, whose contents he knew and
approved, and informed those present that, in the marriage about to be
solemnized, they must consider him the paranymphos, or best man, and
Berenike as the bridesmaid, and they instantly lighted a torch at the
fires burning on one of the altars. Archibius, as kyrios, joined the
lovers' hands in the Egyptian--Barine's mother, as bridesmaid, in the
Greek-manner, and Dion gave his bride a plain iron ring. It was the same
one which his father had bestowed at his own wedding, and he whispered:
"My mother valued it; now it is your turn to honour the ancient
treasure."

After stating that the necessary sacrifices had been offered to Isis and
Serapis, Zeus, Hera, and Artemis, and that the marriage between Dion, son
of Eumenes, and Barine, daughter of Leonax, was concluded, Archibius
shook hands with both.

Haste seemed necessary, for he permitted Berenike and his sister only
time for a brief embrace, and Gorgias to clasp her hand and Dion's. Then
he beckoned, and the newly made bride's mother followed him in tears,
Charmian bewildered and almost stupefied. She did not fully realize the
meaning of the event she had just witnessed until an old neokori had
guided her and the others into the open air.

Barine felt as if every moment might rouse her from a blissful dream, and
yet she gladly told herself that she was awake, for the man walking
before her, leaning on the arm of a friend, was Dion. True, she saw, even
in the faint light of the dim temple corridor, that he was suffering.
Walking appeared to be so difficult that she rejoiced when, yielding to
Gorgias's entreaties, he entered the litter.

But where were the bearers?

She was soon to learn; for, even while she looked for them, the architect
and the youth, in whom she had long since recognized Philotas, her
grandfather's assistant, seized the poles.

"Follow us," said Gorgias, under his breath, and she obeyed, keeping
close behind the litter, which was borne first down a broad and then a
narrow staircase, and finally along a passage. Here a door stopped the
fugitives; but the architect opened it and helped his friend out of the
litter, which before proceeding farther he placed in a room filled with
various articles discovered during his investigation of the subterranean
temple chambers.

Hitherto not a word had been spoken. Now Gorgias called to Barine: "This
passage is low--you must stoop. Cover your head, and don't be afraid if
you meet bats. They have long been undisturbed. We might have taken you
from the temple to the sea, and waited there, but it would probably have
attracted attention and been dangerous. Courage, young wife of Dion! The
corridor is long, and walking through it is difficult; but compared with
the road to the mines, it is as smooth and easy as the Street of the
King. If you think of your destination, the bats will seem like the
swallows which announce the approach of spring."

Barine nodded gratefully to him; but she kissed the hand of Dion, who was
moving forward painfully, leaning on the arm of his friend. The light of
the torch carried by Gorgias's faithful foreman, who led the way, had
fallen on her blackened arm, and when the little party advanced she kept
behind the others. She thought it might be unpleasant for her lover to
see her thus disfigured, and spared him, though she would gladly have
remained nearer. As soon as the passage grew lower, the wounded man's
friends took him in their arms, and their task was a hard one, for they
were not only obliged to move onward bending low under the heavy burden,
but also to beat off the bats which, frightened by the foreman's torch,
flew up in hosts.

Barine's hair was covered, it is true, but at any other time the hideous
creatures, which often brushed against her head and arms, would have
filled her with horror and loathing. Now she scarcely heeded them; her
eyes were fixed on the recumbent figure in the bearers' arms, the man to
whom she belonged, body and soul, and whose patient suffering pierced her
inmost heart. His head rested on the breast of Gorgias, who walked
directly in front of her; the architect's stooping posture concealed his
face, but his feet were visible and, whenever they twitched, she fancied
he was in pain. Then she longed to press forward to his side, wipe the
perspiration from his brow in the hot, low corridor, and whisper words of
love and encouragement.

This she was sometimes permitted to do when the friends put down their
heavy burden. True, they allowed themselves only brief intervals of rest,
but they were long enough to show her how the sufferer's strength was
failing. When they at last reached their destination, Philotas was forced
to exert all his strength to support the exhausted man, while Gorgias
cautiously opened the door. It led to a flight of sea-washed steps close
to the garden of Didymus, which as a child she had often used with her
brother to float a little boat upon the water.

The architect opened the door only a short distance; he was expected, for
Barine soon heard him whisper, and suddenly the door was flung wide. A
tall man raised Dion and bore him into the open air. While she was still
gazing after him, a second figure of equal size approached her and,
hastily begging her permission, lifted her in his arms like a child, and
as she inhaled the cool night air and felt the water through which her
bearer waded splash up and wet her feet, her eyes sought her new-made
husband--but in vain; the night was very dark, and the lights on the
shore did not reach this spot so far below the walls of the quay.

Barine was frightened; but a few minutes after the outlines of a large
fishing boat loomed through the darkness, dimly illumined by the harbour
lights, and the next instant the giant who carried her placed her on the
deck, and a deep voice whispered: "All's well. I'll bring some wine at
once."

Then Barine saw her husband lying motionless on a couch which had been
prepared for him in the prow of the boat. Bending over him, she perceived
that he had fainted, and while rubbing his forehead with the wine,
raising his head on her lap, cheering him, and afterwards by the light of
a small lantern carefully renewing the bandage on his shoulder, she did
not notice that the vessel was moving through the water until the boatman
set the triangular sail.

She had not been told where the boat was bearing her, and she did not
ask. Any spot that she could share with Dion was welcome. The more lonely
the place, the more she could be to him. How her heart swelled with
gratitude and love! When she bent over him, kissed his forehead, and felt
how feverishly it burned, she thought, "I will nurse you back to health,"
and raised her eyes and soul to her favourite god, to whom she owed the
gift of song, and who understood everything beautiful and pure, to thank
Phoebus Apollo and beseech him to pour his rays the next morning on a
convalescent man. While she was still engaged in prayer the boat touched
the shore. Again strong arms bore her and Dion to the land, and when her
foot touched the solid earth, her rescuer, the freedman Pyrrhus, broke
the silence, saying: "Welcome, wife of Dion, to our island! True, you
must be satisfied to take us as we are. But if you are as content with us
as we are glad to serve you and your lord, who is ours also, the hour of
leave-taking will be far distant."

Then, leading the way to the house, he showed her as her future
apartments two large whitewashed rooms, whose sole ornament was their
exquisite neatness. On the threshold stood Pyrrhus's grey-haired wife, a
young woman, and a girl scarcely beyond childhood; but the older one
modestly welcomed Barine, and also begged her to accept their
hospitality. Recovery was rapid in the pure air of the Serpent Isle. She
herself, and--she pointed to the others--her oldest son's wife, and her
own daughter, Dione, would be ready to render her any service.



CHAPTER XVI.

Brothers and sisters are rarely talkative when they are together. As
Charmian went to Lochias with Archibius, it was difficult for her to find
words, the events of the past few hours had agitated her so deeply.
Archibius, too, could not succeed in turning his thoughts in any other
direction, though important and far more momentous things claimed his
attention.

They walked on silently side by side. In reply to his sister's inquiry
where the newly wedded pair were to be concealed, he had answered that,
spite of her trustworthiness, this must remain a secret. To her second
query, how had it been possible to use the interior of the Temple of Isis
without interruption, he also made a guarded reply.

In fact, it was the control of the subterranean corridors of the
sanctuary which had suggested to Gorgias the idea of carrying Dion
through them to Pyrrhus's fishing-boat. To accomplish this it was only
necessary to have the Temple of Isis, which usually remained open day and
night, left to the fugitive's friends for a short time; and this was
successfully managed.

The historian Timagenes, who had come from Rome as ambassador and claimed
the hospitality of his former pupil Archibius, had been empowered to
offer Cleopatra recognition of her own and her children's right to the
throne, and a full pardon, if she would deliver Mark Antony into the
hands of Octavianus, or have him put to death.

The Alexandrian Timagenes considered this demand both just and desirable,
because it promised to deliver his native city from the man whose
despotic arrogance menaced its freedom, and whose lavish generosity and
boundless love of splendour diminished its wealth. To Rome, as whose
representative the historian appeared, this man's mere existence meant
constant turmoil and civil war. At the restoration of the flute-player by
Gabinius and Mark Antony, Timagenes had been carried into slavery. Later,
when, after his freedom had been purchased by the son of Sulla, he
succeeded in attaining great influence in Rome, he still remained hostile
to Mark Antony, and it had been a welcome charge to work against him in
Alexandria. He hoped to find an ally in Archibius, whose loyal devotion
to the Queen he knew. Arius, Barine's uncle and Octavianus's former
tutor, would also aid him. The most powerful support of his mission,
however, could be rendered by the venerable chief priest, the head of the
whole Egyptian hierarchy. He had shown the latter that Antony, in any
case, was a lost man, and Egypt was in the act of dropping like a ripe
fruit into the lap of Octavianus. It would soon be in his power to give
the country whatever degree of liberty and independence he might choose.
The Caesar had the sole disposal of the Queen's fate also, and whoever
desired to see her remain on the throne must strive to gain the good-will
of Octavianus.

The wise Anubis had considered all these things, but he owed to Timagenes
the hint that Arius was the man whom Octavianus most trusted. So the
august prelate secretly entered into communication with Barine's uncle.
But the dignity of his high office, and the feebleness of extreme age,
forbade Anubis to seek the man who was suspected of friendship for the
Romans. He had therefore sent his trusted secretary, the young Serapion,
to make a compact as his representative with the friend of Octavianus,
whose severe injuries prevented his leaving the house to go to the chief
priest.

During Timagenes's negotiations with the secretary and Arius, Archibius
came to entreat Barine's uncle to do everything in his power to save his
niece; and, as all the Queen's friends were anxious to prevent an act
which, in these times of excitement, could not fail, on account of its
connection with Dion, a member of the Council, to rouse a large number of
the citizens against her, Serapion, as soon as he was made aware of the
matter, eagerly protested his readiness to do his best to save the
imperilled lovers. He cared nothing for Barine or Dion as individuals,
but he doubtless would have been ready to make a still greater sacrifice
to win the influential Archibius, and especially Arius, who would have
great power through Octavianus, the rising sun.

The men had just begun to discuss plans for saving Barine, when the
Nubian appeared and told Archibius what had been arranged beside Dion's
sick-bed by the freedman and Gorgias. The escape of the fugitives
depended solely upon their reaching the boat unseen, and the surest way
to accomplish this was to use the subterranean passage which the
architect had again opened.

Archibius, to whom the representative of the chief priest had offered his
aid, now took the others into his confidence, and Arius proposed that
Barine should marry Dion in the Temple of Isis, and the couple should
afterwards be guided through the secret passage to the boat. This
proposal was approved, and Serapion promised to reserve the sanctuary for
the wedding of the fugitives for a short time after the departure of the
procession, which was to take place at sunset. In return for this service
another might perhaps soon be requested from the friend of Octavianus,
who greeted his promise with grateful warmth.

"The priesthood," said Serapion, "takes sides with all who are unjustly
persecuted, and in this case bestows aid the more willingly on account of
its great anxiety to guard the Queen from an act which would be difficult
to approve." As for the fugitives, so far as he could see, only two
possibilities were open to them: Cleopatra would cleave to Mark Antony
and go--would that the immortals might avert it!--to ruin, or she would
sacrifice him and save her throne and life. In both cases the endangered
lovers could soon return uninjured--the Queen had a merciful heart, and
never retained anger long if no guilt existed.

The details of the plan were then settled by Archibius, Anukis, and
Berenike, who was with the family of Arius, and the decision was
communicated to the architect. Archibius had maintained the same silence
concerning the destination of the fugitives towards the men composing the
council and Barine's mother as to his sister. With regard to the mission
of Timagenes and the political questions which occupied his mind, he gave
Charmian only the degree of information necessary to explain the plan she
so lovingly promoted; but she had no desire to know more. On the way home
her mind was wholly absorbed by the fear that Cleopatra had missed her
services and discovered Barine's flight. True, she mentioned the Queen's
desire to place her children in Archibius's charge, but she could not
give him full particulars until she reached her own apartments.

Her absence had not been noticed. The Regent Mardion had received the
procession in the Queen's name, for Cleopatra had driven into the city,
no one knew where.

Charmian entered her apartments with a lighter heart. Anukis opened the
door to them. She had remained undisturbed, and it was a pleasure to
Archibius to give the faithful, clever freedwoman an account of the
matter with his own lips. He could have bestowed no richer reward upon
the modest servant, who listened to his words as if they were a
revelation. When she disclaimed the thanks with which he concluded,
protesting that she was the person under obligation, the expression was
sincere. Her keen intellect instantly recognized the aristocrat's manner
of addressing an equal or an inferior; and he who, in her eyes, was the
first of men, had described the course of events as though she had stood
on the same level. The Queen herself might have been satisfied with the
report.

When she left Charmian's rooms to join the other servants, she told
herself that she was an especially favoured mortal; and when a young cook
teased her about her head being sunk between her shoulders, she answered,
laughing--"My shoulders have grown so high because I shrug them so often
at the fools who jeer at me and yet are not half so happy and grateful."

Charmian, sorely wearied, had flung herself into an arm-chair, and
Archibius took his place opposite to her. They were happy in each other's
society, even when silent; but to-day the hearts of both were so full
that they fared like those who are so worn out by fatigue that they
cannot sleep. How much they had to tell each other!--yet it was long ere
Charmian broke the silence and returned to the subject of the Queen's
wish, describing to her brother Cleopatra's visit to the house which the
children had built, how kind and cordial she had been; yet, a few minutes
later, incensed by the mere mention of Barine's name, she had dismissed
her so ungraciously.

"I do not know what you intend," she said in conclusion, "but,
notwithstanding my love for her, I must perhaps decide in favour of what
is most difficult, for--when she learns that it was I who withdrew the
daughter of Leonax from her and the base Alexas--what treatment can I
expect, especially as Iras no longer gives me the same affection, and
shows that she has forgotten my love and care? This will increase, and
the worst of the matter is, that if the Queen begins to favour her, I
cannot justly reproach her, for Iras is keener-witted, and has a more
active brain. Statecraft was always odious to me. Iras, on the contrary,
is delighted with the opportunity to speak on subjects connected with the
government of the country, and especially the ceaseless, momentous game
with Rome and the men who guide her destiny."

"That game is lost," Archibius broke in with so much earnestness that
Charmian started, repeating in a low, timid tone:

"Lost?"

"Forever," said Archibius, "unless--

"The Olympians be praised--that there is still a doubt."

"Unless Cleopatra can decide to commit an act which will force her to be
faithless to herself, and destroy her noble image through all future
generations."

"How?"

"Whenever you learn it, will be too soon."

"And suppose she should do it, Archibius? You are her most trusted
confidant. She will place in your charge what she loves more than she
does herself."

"More? You mean, I suppose, the children?"

"The children! Yes, a hundred times yes. She loves them better than aught
else on earth. For them, believe me, she would be ready to go to her
death."

"Let us hope so."

"And you--were she to commit the horrible deed--I can only suspect what
it is. But should she descend from the height which she has hitherto
occupied--would you still be ready--"

"With me," he interrupted quietly, "what she does or does not do matters
nothing. She is unhappy and will be plunged deeper and deeper into
misery. I know this, and it constrains me to exert my utmost powers in
her service. I am hers as the hermit consecrated to Serapis belongs to
the god. His every thought must be devoted to him. To the deity who
created him he dedicates body and soul until the death to which he dooms
him. The bonds which unite me to this woman--you know their origin--are
not less indestructible. Whatever she desires whose fulfilment will not
force me to despise myself is granted in advance."

"She will never require such things from the friend of her childhood,"
cried Charmian. Then, approaching him with both arms extended joyfully,
she exclaimed: "Thus you ought to speak and feel, and therein is the
answer to the question which has agitated my soul since yesterday.
Barine's flight, the favour and disfavour of Cleopatra, Iras, my poor
head, which abhors politics, while at this time the Queen needs
keen-sighted confidants--"

"By no means," her brother interrupted. "It is for men alone to give
counsel in these matters. Accursed be women's gossip over their toilet
tables. It has already scattered to the four winds many a well-considered
plan of the wisest heads, and an Iras could never be more fatal to
statecraft than just at the present moment, had not Fate already uttered
the final verdict."

"Then hence with these scruples," cried Charmian eagerly; "my doubts are
at an end! As usual, you point out the right path. I had thought of
returning to the country estate we call Irenia--the abode of peace--or to
our beloved little palace at Kanopus, to spend the years which may still
be allotted to me, and return to everything that made my childhood
beautiful. The philosophers, the flowers in the garden, the poets--even
the new Roman ones, of whose works Timagenes sent us such charming
specimens--would enliven the solitude. The child, the daughter of the man
whose love I renounced, and afterwards perhaps her sons and daughters,
would fill the place of my own. As they would have been dear to Leonax,
I, too, would have loved them! This is the guise in which the future has
appeared to me in many a quiet hour. But shall Charmian--who, when her
heart throbbed still more warmly and life lay fair before her, laid her
first love upon the altar of sacrifice for her royal playfellow--abandon
Cleopatra in misfortune from mere selfish scruples? No, no!--Like you, I
too belong--come what may--to the Queen."

She gazed into her brother's face, sure of his approval but, waving his
uplifted hand, he answered gravely: "No, Charmian! What I, a man, can
assume, might be fatal to you, a woman. The present is not sweet enough
for me to embitter it with wormwood from the future. And yet you must
cast one glance into its gloomy domain, in order to understand me. You
can be silent, and what you now learn will be a secret between us. Only
one thing"--here he lowered the loud tones of his deep voice--"only one
thing can save her: the murder of Antony, or an act of shameless
treachery which would deliver him into Octavianus's power. This is the
proposal Timagenes brought."

"This?" she asked in a hollow tone, her grey head drooping.

"This," he repeated firmly. "And if she succumbs to the temptation, she
will be faithless to the love which has coursed through her whole life as
the Nile flows through the land of her ancestors. Then, Charmian, stay,
stay under any circumstances, cling to her more firmly than ever, for
then, then, my sister, she will be more wretched--ten, a hundred fold
more wretched than if Octavianus deprives her of everything, perhaps even
life itself."

"Nor will I leave her, come what may. I will remain at her side until the
end," cried Charmian eagerly. But Archibius, without noticing the
enthusiastic ardor, so unusual to his sister's quiet nature, calmly
continued: "She won your heart also, and it seems impossible for you to
desert her. Many have shared our feelings; and it is no disgrace to any
one. Misfortune is a weapon which cleaves base natures like a sword, yet
like a hammer welds noble ones more closely. To you, therefore, it now
seems doubly difficult to leave her, but you need love. The right to live
and guard yourself from the most pitiable retrogression is your due, as
much as that of the rare woman on the throne. So long as you are sure of
her love, remain with her, and show your devotion in every situation
until the end. But the motives which were drawing you away to books,
flowers, and children, weigh heavily in the balance, and if you lack the
anchor of her favour and love, I shall see you perish miserably. The
frost emanating from Cleopatra, if her heart grew cold to you, the
pin-pricks with which Iras would assail you, were you defenceless, would
kill you. This must not be, sister; we will guard against it Do not
interrupt me. The counsel I advise you to follow has been duly weighed.
If you see that the Queen still loves you as in former days, cling to
her; but should you learn the contrary, bid her farewell to-morrow. My
Irenia is yours--"

"But she does love me, and even should she no longer--"

"The test is at hand. We will leave the decision to her. You shall
confess that you were the culprit who aided Barine to escape her power to
punish."

"Archibius!"

"If you did not, a series of falsehoods must ensue. Try whether the petty
qualities in her nature, which urged her to commit the fate of Leonax's
daughter to unworthy hands, are more powerful than the nobler ones. Try
whether she is worthy of the self-sacrificing fidelity which you have
given her all your life. If she remains the same as before, spite of this
admission--"

Here he was interrupted by Anukis, who asked if her mistress would see
Iras at this late hour. "Admit her," replied Archibius, after hastily
exchanging glances with his sister, whose face had paled at his demand.
He perceived it and, as the servant withdrew, he clasped her hand, saying
with earnest affection: "I gave you my opinion, but at our age we must
take counsel with ourselves, and you will find the right path."

"I have already found it," she answered softly with downcast eyes. "This
visitor brought a speedy decision. I must not feel ashamed in Iras's
presence."

She had scarcely finished speaking when the Queen's younger confidante
entered. She was excited and, after casting a searching glance around the
familiar room, she asked, after a curt greeting:

"No one knows where the Queen has gone. Mardion received the procession
in her place. Did she take you into her confidence?"

Charmian answered in the negative, and inquired whether Antony had
arrived, and how she had found him.

"In a pitiable state," was the reply. "I hastened hither to prevent the
Queen from visiting him, if possible. She would have received a rebuff.
It is horrible."

"The disappointment of Paraetonium is added to the other burdens,"
observed Archibius.

"A feather compared with the rest," cried Iras indignantly. "What a
spectacle! A shrivelled soul, never too large, in the body of a powerful
giant. Disaster crushes the courage of the descendant of Herakles. The
weakling will drag the Queen's splendid courage with him into the dust."

"We will do our best to prevent it," replied Archibius firmly. "The
immortals have placed you and Charmian at her side to sustain her, if her
own strength fails. The time to test your powers has arrived."

"I know my duty," replied Iras austerely.

"Prove it!" said Archibius earnestly. "You think you have cause for anger
against Charmian."

"Whoever treats my foes so tenderly can doubtless dispense with my
affection. Where is your ward?"

"That you shall learn later," replied Charmian advancing. "But when you
do know, you will have still better reason to doubt my love; yet it was
only to save one dear to me from misery, certainly not to grieve you,
that I stepped between you and Barine. And now let me say--had you
wounded me to the quick, and everything dear to the Greek heart called to
me for vengeance--I should impose upon myself whatever constraint might
be necessary to deny the impulse, because this breast contains a love
stronger, more powerful, than the fiercest hate. And this love we both
share. Hate me, strive to wound and injure one at whose side you have
hitherto stood like a daughter, but beware of robbing me of the strength
and freedom which I need, to be and to offer to my royal mistress all the
assistance in my power. I have just been consulting my brother about
leaving Cleopatra's service."

"Now?" Iras broke in vehemently. "No, no! Not that! It must not be! She
cannot spare you now."

"More easily, perhaps, than you," replied Charmian; "yet in many things
my services might be hard to replace."

"Nothing under the sun could do it," cried Iras eagerly. "If, in these
days of trouble, she should lose you too--"

"Still darker ones are approaching," interrupted Archibius positively.
"Perhaps you will learn all to-morrow. Whether Charmian yields to her
desire for rest, or continues in the service of the Queen, depends on
you. If you wish her to remain you must not render it too hard for her to
do so. We three, my child, are perhaps the only persons at this court to
whom the Queen's happiness is more than their own, and therefore we
should permit no incident, whatever name it may bear, to cloud our
harmony."

Iras threw back her head with angry pride, exclaiming passionately: "Was
it I who injured you? I do not know in what respect. But you and
Charmian--though you have so long been aware that this heart was closed
against every love save one--stepped between me and the man for whom I
have yearned since childhood, and built the bridge which united Dion and
Barine. I held the woman I hated in my grasp, and thanked the immortals
for the boon; but you two--it is not difficult to guess the secret you
are still trying to keep from me--you aided her to escape. You have
robbed me of my revenge; you have again placed the singer in the path
where she must find the man to whom I have a better and older claim, and
who perhaps may still be considering which of us two will be the better
mistress of his house, if Alexas and his worthy brother do not arrange
matters so that we must both content ourselves with thinking tenderly of
a dead man. That is why I believe that I am no longer indebted to you,
that Charmian has more than repaid herself for all the kindness she has
ever showed me."

With these words she hurried to the door, but paused on the threshold,
exclaiming: "This is the state of affairs; yet I am ready to serve the
Queen hand in hand with you as before; for you two--as I have said--are
necessary to her. In other respects--I shall follow my own path."



CHAPTER XVII.

Cleopatra had sought the venerable Anubis, who now, as the priest of
Alexander, at the age of eighty, ruled the whole hierarchy of the
country. It was difficult for him to leave his arm-chair, but he had been
carried to the observatory to examine the adverse result of the
observation made by the Queen herself. The position of the stars,
however, had been so unfavourable that the more deeply Cleopatra entered
into these matters, the less easy he found it to urge the mitigating
influences of distant planets, which he had at first pointed out.

In his reception-hall, however, the chief priest had assured her that the
independence of Egypt and the safety of her own person lay in her hands;
only--the planets showed this--a terrible sacrifice was required--a
sacrifice of which his dignity, his eighty years, and his love for her
alike forbade him to speak. Cleopatra was accustomed to hear these
mysterious sayings from his lips, and interpreted them in her own way.
Many motives had induced her to seek the venerable prelate at this late
hour. In difficult situations he had often aided her with good counsel;
but this time she was not led to him by the magic cup of Nektanebus,
which the eight pastophori who accompanied it had that day restored to
the temple, for since the battle of Actium the superb vessel had been a
source of constant anxiety to her.

Cleopatra had now asked the teacher of her childhood the direct question
whether the cup--a wide, shallow vessel, with a flat, polished bottom
could really have induced Antony to leave the battle and follow her ere
the victory was decided. She had used it just before the conflict between
the galleys, and this circumstance led Anubis to answer positively in the
affirmative.

Long ago the marvellous chalice had been exhibited to her among the
temple treasures, and she was told that every one who induced another
person to be reflected from its shining surface obtained the mastery over
his will. Her wish to possess it, however, was not gratified, and she did
not ask for it again until the limitless devotion and ardent love of
Antony had seemed less fervent than of yore. From that time she had never
ceased to urge her aged friend to place the wondrous cup in her keeping.
At first he had absolutely refused, predicting that its use would bring
misfortune upon her; but when her request was followed by an imperative
command, and the goblet was entrusted to her, Anubis himself believed
that this one vessel did possess the magic power attributed to it. He
deemed that the drinking-cup afforded the strongest proof of the magic
art, far transcending human ability, of the great goddess by whose aid
King Nektanebus--who, according to tradition, was the father of Alexander
the Great--was said to have made the vessel in the Isis island of Philoe.

Anubis had intended to remind Cleopatra of his refusal, and show her the
great danger incurred by mortals who strove to use powers beyond their
sphere. It had been his purpose to bid her remember Phaeton, who had
almost kindled a conflagration in the world, when he attempted, in the
chariot of his father, Phoebus Apollo, to guide the horses of the sun.
But this was unnecessary, for he had scarcely assented to the question
ere, with passionate vehemence, she ordered him to destroy before her
eyes the cup which had brought so much misfortune.

The priest feigned that her desire harmonized with a resolution which he
had himself formed. In fact, before her arrival, he had feared that the
goblet might be used in some fatal manner if Octavianus should take
possession of the city and country, and the wonder-working vessel should
fall into his hands. Nektanebus had made the cup for Egypt. To wrest it
from the foreign ruler was acting in the spirit of the last king in whose
veins had flowed the blood of the Pharaohs, and who had toiled with
enthusiastic devotion for the independence and liberty of his people. To
destroy this man's marvellous work rather than deliver it to the Roman
conqueror seemed to the chief priest, after the Queen's command, a sacred
duty, and as such he represented it to be when he commanded the smelting
furnace to be fired and the cup transformed into a shapeless mass before
the eyes of Cleopatra.

While the metal was melting he eagerly told the Queen how easily she
could dispense with the vessel which owed its magic power to the mighty
Isis.

The spell of woman's charms was also a gift of the goddess. It would
suffice to render Antony's heart soft and yielding as the fire melted the
gold. Perhaps the Imperator had forfeited, with the Queen's respect, her
love--the most priceless of blessings. He, Anubis, would regard this as a
great boon of the Deity; "for," he concluded, "Mark Antony is the cliff
which will shatter every effort to secure to my royal mistress
undiminished the heritage which has come to her and her children from
their ancestors, and preserve the independence and prosperity of this
beloved land. This cup was a costly treasure. The throne and prosperity
of Egypt are worthy of greater sacrifices. But I know that there is none
harder for a woman to make than her love."

The meaning of the old man's words Cleopatra learned the following
morning, when she granted the first interview to Timagenes, Octavianus's
envoy.

The keen-witted, brilliant man, who had been one of her best teachers and
with whom, when a pupil, she had had many an argument, was kindly
received, and fulfilled his commission with consummate skill.

The Queen listened attentively to his representations, showed him that
her own intellect had not lost in flexibility, though it had gained
power; and when she dismissed him, with rich gifts and gracious words,
she knew that she could preserve the independence of her beloved native
land and retain the throne for herself and her children if she would
surrender Antony to the conqueror or to him, as "the person acting,"
or--these were Timagenes's own words--"remove him forever from the play
whose end she had the power to render either brilliant or fateful."

When she was again alone her heart throbbed so passionately and her soul
was in such a tumult of agitation that she felt unable to attend the
appointed meeting of the Council of the crown. She deferred the session
until the following day, and resolved to go out upon the sea, to
endeavour to regain her composure.

Antony had refused to see her. This wounded her. The thought of the
goblet and its evil influences had by no means passed from her memory
with the destruction of the vessel caused by one of those outbursts of
passion to which, in these days of disaster, she yielded more frequently
than usual. On the contrary, she felt the necessity of being alone, to
collect her thoughts and strive to dispel the clouds from her troubled
soul.

The beaker had been one of the treasures of Isis, and the memory of it
recalled hours during which, in former days, she had often found
composure in the temple of the goddess. She wished to seek the sanctuary
unnoticed and, accompanied only by Iras and the chief Introducer, went,
closely veiled, to the neighbouring temple at the Corner of the Muses.

But she failed to find the object of her pilgrimage. The throng which
filled it to pray and offer sacrifices, and the fear of being recognized,
destroyed her calmness.

She was in the act of retiring, when Gorgias, the architect, followed by
an assistant carrying surveying instruments, advanced towards her. She
instantly called him to her side, and he informed her how wonderfully
Fate itself seemed to favour her plan of building. The mob had destroyed
the house of the old philosopher Didymus, and the grey-haired sage, to
whom he had offered the shelter of his home, was now ready to transfer
the property inherited from his ancestors, if her Majesty would assure
him and his family of her protection.

Then she asked to see the architect's plan for joining the museum to the
sanctuary, and became absorbed in the first sketch, to which he had
devoted part of the night and morning. He showed it, and with eager
urgency Cleopatra commanded him to begin the building as soon as possible
and pursue the work night and day. What usually required months must be
completed in weeks.

Iras and the "Introducer," clad in plain garments, had waited for her in
the temple court and, joined by the architect, accompanied her to the
unpretending litter standing at one of the side gates but, instead of
entering it, she ordered Gorgias to attend her to the garden.

The inspection proved that the architect was right and, even if the
mausoleum occupied a portion of it, and the street which separated it
from the Temple of Isis were continued along the shore of the sea, the
remainder would still be twice as large as the one belonging to the
palace at Lochias.

Cleopatra's thorough examination showed Gorgias that she had some
definite purpose in view. Her inquiry whether it would be possible to
connect it with the promontory of Lochias indicated what she had in mind,
and the architect answered in the affirmative. It was only necessary to
tear down some small buildings belonging to the Crown and a little temple
of Berenike at the southern part of the royal harbour. The arm of the
Agathodaemon Canal which entered here had been bridged long ago.

The new scene which would result from this change had been conjured
before the Queen's mental vision with marvellous celerity, and she
described it in brief, vivid language to the architect. The garden should
remain, but must be enlarged from the Lochias to the bridge. Thence a
covered colonnade would lead to the palace. After Gorgias had assured her
that all this could easily be arranged, she gazed thoughtfully at the
ground for a time, and then gave orders that the work should be commenced
at once, and requested him to spare neither means nor men.

Gorgias foresaw a period of feverish toil, but it did not daunt him. With
such a master builder he was ready to roof the whole city. Besides, the
commission delighted him because it proved that the woman whose mausoleum
was to rise from the earth so swiftly still thought of enhancing the
pleasures of existence; for, though she wished the garden to remain
unchanged, she desired to see the colonnade and the remainder of the work
constructed of costly materials and in beautiful forms. When she bade him
farewell, Gorgias kissed her robe with ardent enthusiasm.

What a woman! True, she had not even raised her veil, and was attired in
plain dark clothing, but every gesture revealed the most perfect grace.

The arm and hand with which she pointed now here, now there, again seemed
to him fairly instinct with life; and he, who deemed perfection of form
of so much value, found it difficult to avert his eyes from her
marvellous symmetry. And her whole figure! What lines, what genuine
aristocratic elegance, and warm, throbbing life!

That morning when Helena, now an inmate of his own home, greeted him, he
had essayed to compare her, mentally, with Cleopatra, but speedily
desisted. The man to whom Hebe proffers nectar does not ask for even the
best wine of Byblus. A feeling of grateful, cheerful satisfaction,
difficult to describe, stole over him when the reserved, quiet Helena
addressed him so warmly and cordially; but the image of Cleopatra
constantly thrust itself between them, and it was difficult for him to
understand himself. He had loved many women in succession, and now his
heart throbbed for two at once, and the Queen was the brighter of the two
stars whose light entranced him. Therefore his honest soul would have
considered it a crime to woo Helena now.

Cleopatra knew what an ardent admirer she had won in the able architect,
and the knowledge pleased her. She had used no goblet to gain him.
Doubtless he would begin to build the mausoleum the next morning. The
vault must have space for several coffins. Antony had more than once
expressed the desire to be buried beside her, wherever he might die, and
this had occurred ere she possessed the beaker. She must in any case
grant him the same favour, no matter in what place or by whose hand he
met death, and the bedimmed light of his existence was but too evidently
nearing extinction. If she spared him, Octavianus would strike him from
the ranks of the living, and she----Again she was overpowered by the
terrible, feverish restlessness which had induced her to command the
destruction of the goblet, and had brought her to the temple. She could
not return in this mood to meet her councillors, receive visitors, greet
her children. This was the birthday of the twins; Charmian had reminded
her of it and undertaken to provide the gifts. How could she have found
time and thought for such affairs? She had returned from the chief priest
late in the evening, yet had asked for a minute description of the
condition in which they found Mark Antony. The report made by Iras
harmonized with the state in which she had herself seen him during and
after the battle. Ay, his brooding gloom seemed to have deepened.
Charmian had helped her dress in the morning, and had been on the point
of making her difficult confession, and owning that she had aided Barine
to escape the punishment of her royal mistress; but ere she could begin,
Timagenes was announced, for Cleopatra had not risen from her couch until
a late hour.

The object for which the Queen had sought the temple had not been gained;
but the consultation with Gorgias had diverted her mind, and the emotions
which the thought of her last resting-place had evoked now drowned
everything else, as the roar of the surf dominates the twittering of the
swallows on the rocky shore.

Ay, she needed calmness! She must weigh and ponder over many things in
absolute quietude, and this she could not obtain at Lochias. Then her
glance rested upon the little sanctuary of Berenike, which she had
ordered removed to make room for a garden near at hand, where the
children could indulge their love of creative work. It was empty. She
need fear no interruption there. The interior contained only a single,
quiet, pleasant chamber, with the image of Berenike. The "Introducer"
commanded the guard to admit no other visitors, and soon the little white
marble, circular room with its vaulted roof received the Queen. She sank
down on one of the bronze benches opposite to the statue. All was still;
in this cool silence her mind, trained to thought, could find that for
which it longed--clearness of vision, a plain understanding of her own
feelings and position in the presence of the impending decision.

At first her thoughts wandered to and fro like a dove ere it chooses the
direction of its flight; but after the question why she was having a tomb
built so hurriedly, when she would be permitted to live, her mind found
the right track. Among the Scythian guards, the Mauritanians, and
Blemmyes in the army there were plenty of savage fellows whom a word from
her lips and a handful of gold would have set upon the vanquished Antony,
as the huntsman's "Seize him!" urges the hounds. A hint, and among the
wretched magicians and Magians in the Rhakotis, the Egyptian quarter of
the city, twenty men would have assassinated him by poison or wily
snares; one command to the Macedonians in the guard of the Mellakes or
youths, and he would be a captive that very day, and to-morrow, if she so
ordered, on the way to Asia, whither Octavianus, as Timagenes told her,
had gone.

What prevented her from grasping the gold, giving the hint, issuing the
command?

Doubtless she thought of the magic goblet, now melted, which had
constrained him to cast aside honour, fame, and power, as worthless
rubbish, in order to obey her behest not to leave her; but though this
remembrance burdened her soul, it had no decisive influence. It was no
one thing which prisoned her hand and lips, but every fibre of her being,
every pulsation of her heart, every glance back into the past to the
confines of childhood.

Yet she listened to other thoughts also. They reminded her of her
children, the elation of power, love for the land of her ancestors, and
the peril which menaced it without her, the bliss of seeing the light,
and the darkness, the silence, the dull rigidity of death, the
destruction of the body and the mind cherished and developed with so much
care and toil, the horrible torture which might be associated with the
transition from life to death--the act of dying. And what lay before her
in the existence which lasted an eternity? When she no longer breathed
beneath the sun, even if the death hour was deferred, and she found that
not Epicurus, who believed that with death all things ended, had been
right, but the ancient teachings of the Egyptians, what would await her
in that world beyond the grave if she purchased a few more years of life
by the murder or betrayal of her lover, her husband?

Yet perhaps the punishments inflicted upon the condemned were but
bugbears invented by the priesthood, which guarded the regulation of the
state in order to curb the unruly conduct of the populace and terrify the
turbulent transgressors of the law. And, whispered the daring Greek
spirit, in the abode of the condemned, not in the Garden of Aalu, the
Elysian Fields of the Egyptians, she would meet her father and mother and
all her wicked ancestors down to Euergetes I., who was succeeded by the
infamous Philopater. Thus the thought of the other world became an
antecedent so uncertain as to permit no definite inference, and might
therefore be left out of the account. How would--this must be the form of
the question--the years purchased by the murder or betrayal of one whom
she loved shape themselves for her?

During the night the image of the murdered man would drive sleep from her
couch, and the Furies, the Dirx, as the Roman Antony called them, who
pursue murderers with the serpent scourge, were no idle creations of
poetic fancy, but fully symbolized the restlessness of the criminal,
driven to and fro by the pangs of conscience. The chief good, the
painless happiness of the Epicureans, was forever lost to those burdened
by such guilt.

And during the hours of the day and evening? Ay, then she would be free
to heap pleasure on pleasure. But for whom were the festivals to be
celebrated; with whom could she share them? For many a long year no
banquet, no entertainment had given her enjoyment without Mark Antony.
For whom did she adorn herself or strive to stay the vanishing charm? And
how soon would anguish of soul utterly destroy the spell, which was
slowly, slowly, yet steadily diminishing, and, when the mirror revealed
wrinkles which the skill of no Olympus could efface, when she----No, she
was not created to grow old! Did the few years of life which must contain
so much misery really possess a value great enough to surrender the right
of being called by present and future generations the bewitching
Cleopatra, the most irresistible of women?

And the children?

Yes, it would have been delightful to see them grow up and occupy the
throne, but serious, decisive doubts soon blended even with an idea so
rich in joy.

How glorious to greet Caesarion as sovereign of the world in Octavianus's
place! But how could the dreamer, whose first love affair had caused the
total sacrifice of dignity and violation of the law, and who now seemed
to have once more relapsed into the old state of torpor, attain the
position?

The other children inspired fair hopes, and how beautiful it appeared to
the mother's heart to see Antonius Helios as King of Egypt; Cleopatra
Selene with her first child in her arms; and little Alexander a noble
statesman and hero, rich in virtue and talents! Yet, what would they,
Antony's children, whose education she hoped Archibius would direct, feel
for the mother who had been their father's murderess?

She shuddered at the thought, remembering the hours when her childish
heart had shed tears of blood over the infamous mother whom her father
had execrated. And Queen Tryphoena, whom history recorded as a monster,
had not killed her husband, but merely thrust him from the throne.

Arsinoe's execrations of her mother and sister came back to her memory,
and the thought that the rosy lips of the twins and her darling Alexander
could ever open to curse her,--the idea that the children would ever
raise their beloved hands to point at her, the wicked murderess of their
father, with horror and scorn--No, no, and again no! She would not
purchase a few more years of valueless life at the cost of this
humiliation and shame.

Purchase of whom?

Of that Octavianus who had robbed her son of the heritage of his father,
Caesar, and whose mention in the will was like an imputation on her
fidelity--the cold-hearted, calculating upstart, whose nature from their
first meeting in Rome had repelled, rebuffed, chilled her; of the man by
whose cajolery and power her husband--for in her own eyes and those of
the Egyptians Antony held this position--had been induced to wed his
sister, Octavia, and thereby stamp her, Cleopatra, as merely his love,
cast a doubt upon the legitimate birth of her children; of the false
friend of the trusting Antony who, before the battle of Actium, had most
deeply humiliated and insulted both!

On the contrary, her royal pride rebelled against obeying the command of
such a man to commit the most atrocious deed; and from childhood this
pride had been as much a part of her nature as her breath and the
pulsation of her heart. And yet, for her children's sake, she might
perhaps have incurred this disgrace, had it not been at the same time the
grave of the best and noblest things which she desired to implant in the
young souls of the twins and Alexander.

While thinking of the children's curses she had risen from her seat. Why
should she reflect and consider longer? She had found the clear
perception she sought. Let Gorgias hasten the building of the tomb.
Should Fate demand her life, she would not resist if she were permitted
to preserve it only at the cost of murder or base treachery. Her lover's
was already forfeited. At his side she had enjoyed a radiant, glowing,
peerless bliss, of which the world still talked with envious amazement.
At his side, when all was over, she would rest in the grave, and compel
the world to remember with respectful sympathy the royal lovers, Antony
and Cleopatra. Her children should be able to think of her with
untroubled hearts, and not even the shadow of a bitter feeling, a warning
thought, should deter them from adorning their parents' grave with
flowers, weeping at its foot, invoking and offering sacrifices to their
spirits.

Then she glanced at the statue of Berenike, who had also once worn on her
brow the double crown of Egypt. She, too, had early died a violent death;
she, too, had known how to love. The vow to sacrifice her beautiful hair
to Aphrodite if her husband returned uninjured from the Syrian war had
rendered her name illustrious. "Berenike's Hair" was still to be seen as
a constellation in the night heavens.

Though this woman had sinned often and heavily, one act of loyal love had
made her an honoured, worshipped princess. She--Cleopatra would do
something still greater. The sacrifice which she intended to impose upon
herself would weigh far more heavily in the balance than a handful of
beautiful tresses, and would comprise sovereignty and life.

With head erect and a sense of proud self-reliance she gazed at the noble
marble countenance of the Cyrenian queen. Ere entering the sanctuary she
had imagined that she knew how the criminals whom she had sentenced to
death must feel. Now that she herself had done with life, she felt as if
she were relieved from a heavy burden, and yet her heart ached,
and--especially when she thought of her children--she was overwhelmed
with the emotion which is the most painful of all forms of
compassion--pity for herself.



CHAPTER XVIII.

When Cleopatra left the temple, Iras marvelled at the change in her
appearance. The severe tension which had given her beautiful face a shade
of harshness had yielded to an expression of gentle sadness that enhanced
its charm, yet her features quickly brightened as her attendant pointed
to the procession which was just entering the forecourt of the palace.

In Alexandria and throughout Egypt birthdays were celebrated as far as
possible. Therefore, to do honour to the twins, the children of the city
had been sent to offer their congratulations, and at the same time to
assure their royal mother of the love and devotion of the citizens.

The return to the palace occupied only a few minutes, and as Cleopatra,
hastily donning festal garments, gazed down at the bands of children, it
seemed as if Fate by this fair spectacle had given her a sign of approval
of her design.

She was soon standing hand in hand with the twins upon the balcony before
which the procession had halted. Hundreds of boys and girls of the same
age as the prince and princess had flocked thither, the former bearing
bouquets, the latter small baskets filled with lilies and roses. Every
head was crowned with a wreath, and many of the girls wore garlands of
flowers. A chorus of youths and maidens sang a festal hymn, beseeching
the gods to grant the royal mother and children every happiness; the
leader of the chorus of girls made a short address in the name of the
city, and during this speech the children formed in ranks, the tallest in
the rear, the smallest in the front, and the others between according to
their height. The scene resembled a living garden, in which rosy faces
were the beautiful flowers.

Cleopatra thanked the citizens for the charming greeting sent to her by
those whom they held dearest, and assured them that she returned their
love. Her eyes grew dim with tears as she went with her three children to
the throng who offered their congratulations, and an unusually pretty
little girl whom she kissed threw her arms around her as tenderly as if
she were her own mother. And how beautiful was the scene when the girls
strewed the contents of their little baskets on the ground before her,
and the boys, with many a ringing shout and loving wish, offered the
bouquets to her and the twins!

Charmian had not forgotten to provide the gifts; and when the
chamberlains and waiting-women led the children into a large hall to
offer them refreshments, the Queen's eyes sparkled so brightly that the
companion of her childhood ventured to make her difficult confession.

And, as so often happens, the event we most dread shows, when it actually
occurs, a friendly or indifferent aspect; this was the case now. Nothing
in life is either great or small--the one may be transformed to the
other, according to the things with which it is compared. The tallest man
becomes a dwarf beside a rocky giant of the mountain chain, the smallest
is a Titan to the swarming ants in the forest. The beggar seizes as a
treasure what the rich man scornfully casts aside. That which the day
before yesterday seemed to Cleopatra unendurable, roused her keenest
anxiety, robbed her of part of her night's repose, and induced her to
adopt strenuous measures, now appeared trivial and scarcely worthy of
consideration.

Yesterday and to-day had brought events and called up questions which
forced Barine's disappearance into the realm of unimportant matters.

Charmian's confession was preceded by the statement that she longed for
rest yet, nevertheless, was ready to remain with her royal friend, in
every situation, until she no longer desired her services and sent her
away. But she feared that this moment had come.

Cleopatra interrupted her with the assurance that she was speaking of
something utterly impossible; and when Charmian disclosed Barine's
escape, and admitted that it was she who had aided the flight of the
innocent and sorely threatened granddaughter of Didymus, the Queen
started up angrily and frowned, but it was only for a moment. Then, with
a smile, she shook her finger at her friend, embraced her, and gravely
but kindly assured her that, of all vices, ingratitude was most alien to
her nature. The companion of her childhood had bestowed so many proofs of
faithfulness, love, self-sacrifice, and laborious service in her behalf
that they could not be long outweighed by a single act of wilful
disobedience. An abundant supply would still remain, by virtue of which
she might continue to sin without fearing that Cleopatra would ever part
from her Charmian.

The latter again perceived that nothing on earth could be hostile or
sharp enough to sever the bond which united her to this woman. When her
lips overflowed with the gratitude which filled her heart, Cleopatra
admitted that it seemed as if, in aiding Barine's escape, she had
rendered her a service. The caution with which Charmian had concealed
Barine's refuge had not escaped her notice, and she did not ask to learn
it. It was enough for her that the dangerous beauty was out of
Caesarion's reach. As for Antony, a wall now separated him from the
world, and consequently from the woman who, spite of Alexas's
accusations, had probably never stood closer to his heart.

Charmian now eagerly strove to show the Queen what had induced the Syrian
to pursue Barine so vindictively. It was evident--and scarcely needed
proof--that Mark Antony's whole acquaintanceship with the old scholar's
granddaughter had been far from leading to any tender relation. But
Cleopatra gave only partial attention. The man whom she had loved with
every pulsation of her heart already seemed to her only a dear memory.
She did not forget the happiness enjoyed with and through him, or the
wrong she had done by the use of the magic goblet; yet with the wall on
the Choma, which divided him from her and the rest of the world, and her
command to have the mausoleum built, she imagined that the season of love
was over. Any new additions to this chapter of the life of her heart were
but the close. Even the jealousy which had clouded the happiness of her
love like a fleeting, rapidly changing shadow, she believed she had now
renounced forever.

While Charmian protested that no one save Dion had ever been heard with
favour by Barine, and related many incidents of her former life,
Cleopatra's thoughts were with Antony. Like the image of the beloved
dead, the towering figure of the Roman hero rose before her mind, but she
recalled him only as he was prior to the battle of Actium. She desired
and expected nothing more from the broken-spirited man, whose condition
was perhaps her own fault. But she had resolved to atone for her guilt,
and would do so at the cost of throne and life. This settled the account.
Whatever her remaining span of existence might add or subtract, was part
of the bargain.

The entrance of Alexas interrupted her. With fiery passion he expressed
his regret that he had been defrauded by base intrigues of the right
bestowed upon him to pass sentence upon a guilty woman. This was the more
difficult to bear because he was deprived of the possibility of providing
for the pursuit of the fugitive. Antony had honoured him with the
commission to win Herod back to his cause. He was to leave Alexandria
that very night. As nothing could be expected in this matter from the
misanthropic Imperator, he hoped that the Queen would avenge such an
offence to her dignity, and adopt severe measures towards the singer and
her last lover, Dion, who with sacrilegious hands had wounded the son of
Caesar.

But Cleopatra, with royal dignity, kept him within the limits of his
position, commanded him not to mention the affair to her again, and then,
with a sorrowful smile, wished him success with Herod, in whose return to
the lost cause of Antony, however, much as she prized the skill of the
mediator, she did not believe.

When he had retired, she exclaimed to Charmian: "Was I blind? This man is
a traitor! We shall discover it. Wherever Dion has taken his young wife,
let her be carefully concealed, not from me, but from this Syrian. It is
easier to defend one's self against the lion than the scorpion. You, my
friend, will see that Archibius seeks me this very day. I must talk with
him, and--you no longer have any thought of a parting? Another will come
soon enough, which will forever forbid these lips from kissing your dear
face."

As she spoke, she again clasped the companion of her childhood in her
arms, and when Iras entered to request an audience for Lucilius, Antony's
most faithful friend, Cleopatra, who had noticed the younger woman's
envious glance at the embrace, said: "Was I mistaken in fancying that you
imagined yourself slighted for Charmian, who is an older friend? That
would be wrong; for I love and need you both. You are her niece, and
indebted to her for much kindness from your earliest childhood. So, even
though you will lose the joy of revenge upon a hated enemy, forget what
has happened, as I did, and maintain your former affectionate
companionship. I will reward you for it with the only thing that the
daughter of the wealthy Krates cannot purchase, yet which she probably
rates at no low value--the love of her royal friend."

With these words she clasped Iras also in a close embrace, and when the
latter left the room to summon Lucilius, she thought: "No woman has ever
won so much love; perhaps that is why she possesses so great a treasure
of it, and can afford such unspeakable happiness by its bestowal. Or is
she so much beloved because she entered the world full of its wealth, and
dispenses it as the sun diffuses light? Surely that must be the case. I
have reason to believe it, for whom did I ever love save the Queen? No
one, not even myself, and I know no one in whose love for me I can
believe. But why did Dion, whom I loved so fervently, disdain me? Fool!
Why did Mark Antony prefer Cleopatra to Octavia, who was not less fair,
whose heart was his, and whose hand held the sovereignty of half the
world?"

Passing on as she spoke, she soon returned, ushering the Roman Lucilius
into the presence of the Queen. A gallant deed had bound this man to
Antony. After the battle of Philippi, when the army of the republicans
fled, Brutus had been on the point of being seized by the enemy's
horsemen; but Lucilius, at the risk of being cut down, had personated
him, and thereby, though but for a short time, rescued him. This had
seemed to Antony unusual and noble and, in his generous manner, he had
not only forgiven him, but bestowed his favour upon him. Lucilius was
grateful, and gave him the same fidelity he had showed to Brutus. At
Actium he had risked Antony's favour to prevent his deserting Cleopatra
after the battle, and then accompanied him in his flight. Now he was
bearing him company in his seclusion on the Choma.

The grey-haired man who, but a short time before, had retained all the
vigour of youth, approached the Queen with bowed head and saddened heart.
His face, so regular in its contours, had undergone a marked change
within the past few weeks. The cheeks were sunken, the features had grown
sharper, and there was a sorrowful expression in the eyes, which, when
informing Cleopatra of his friend's condition, glittered with tears.

Before the hapless battle he was one of Cleopatra's most enthusiastic
admirers; but since he had been forced to see his friend and benefactor
risk fame, happiness, and honour to follow the Queen, he had cherished a
feeling of bitter resentment towards her. He would certainly have spared
himself this mission, had he not been sure that she who had brought her
lover to ruin was the only person who could rouse him from spiritless
languor to fresh energy and interest in life.

From motives of friendship, urged by no one, he came unbidden to the
woman whom he had formerly so sincerely admired, to entreat her to cheer
the unfortunate man, rouse him, and remind him of his duty. He had little
news to impart; for on the voyage she had herself witnessed long enough
the pitiable condition of her husband. Now Antony was beginning to be
content in it, and this was what most sorely troubled the faithful
friend.

The Imperator had called the little palace which he occupied on the Choma
his Timonium, because he compared himself with the famous Athenian
misanthrope who, after fortune abandoned him, had also been betrayed by
many of his former friends. Even at Taenarum he had thought of returning
to the Choma, and by means of a wall, which would separate it from the
mainland, rendering it as inaccessible as--according to rumour--the grave
of Timon at Halae near Athens. Gorgias had erected it, and whoever wished
to visit the hermit was forced to go by sea and request admittance, which
was granted to few.

Cleopatra listened to Lucilius with sympathy, and then asked whether
there was no way of cheering or comforting the wretched man.

"No, your Majesty," he replied. "His favourite occupation is to recall
what he once possessed, but only to show the uselessness of these
memories. 'What joys has life not offered me?' he asks, and then adds:
'But they were repeated again and again, and after being enjoyed for the
tenth time they became monotonous and lost their charm. Then they caused
satiety to the verge of loathing.' Only necessary things, such as bread
and water, he says, possess real value; but he desires neither, because
he has even less taste for them than for the dainties which spoil a man's
morrow. Yesterday in a specially gloomy hour, he spoke of gold. This was
perhaps most worthy of desire. The mere sight of it awakened pleasant
hopes, because it might afford so many gratifications. Then he laughed
bitterly, exclaiming that those joys were the very ones which produced
the most disagreeable satiety. Even gold was not worth the trouble of
stretching out one's hand.

"He is fond of enlarging upon such fancies, and finds images to make his
meaning clear.

"'In the snow upon the highest mountain-peak the feet grow cold,' he
said. 'In the mire they are warm, but the dark mud is ugly and clings to
them.'

"Then I remarked that between the morass and the mountain-snows lie sunny
valleys where life would be pleasant; but he flew into a rage, vehemently
protesting that he would never be content with the pitiable middle course
of Horace. Then he exclaimed: 'Ay, I am vanquished. Octavianus and his
Agrippa are the conquerors; but if a rock mutilates or an elephant's
clumsy foot crushes me, I am nevertheless of a higher quality than
either.'"

"There spoke the old Mark Antony!" cried Cleopatra; but again Lucilius's
loyal heart throbbed with resentment against the woman who had fostered
the recklessness which had brought his powerful friend to ruin, and he
continued:

"But he often sees himself in a different light. 'No writer could invent
a more unworthy life than mine,' he exclaimed recently. 'A farce ending
in a tragedy.'"

Lucilius might have added still harsher sayings, but the sorrowful
expression in the tearful eyes of the afflicted Queen silenced them upon
his lips.

Yet Cleopatra's name blended with most of the words uttered by the
broken-spirited man. Sometimes it was associated with the most furious
reproaches, but more frequently with expressions of boundless delight and
wild outbursts of fervent longing, and this was what inspired Lucilius
with the hope that the Queen's influence would be effectual with his
friend. Therefore he repeated some especially ardent words, to which
Cleopatra listened with grateful joy.

Yet, when Lucilius paused, she remarked that doubtless the misanthropist
had spoken of her, and probably of Octavia also, in quite a different
way. She was prepared for the worst, for she was one of the rocks against
which his greatness had been shattered.

This reminded Lucilius of the comment Antony had made upon the three
women whom he had wedded, and he answered reluctantly: "Fulvia, the wife
of his youth--I knew the bold, hot-blooded woman, the former wife of
Clodius--he called the tempest which swelled his sails."

"Yes, Yes!" cried Cleopatra. "So she did. He owes her much; but I, too,
am indebted to the dead Fulvia. She taught him to recognize and yield to
woman's power."

"Not always to his advantage," retorted Lucilius, whose resentment was
revived by the last sentence and, without heeding the faint flush on the
Queen's cheek, he added: "Of Octavia he said that she was the straight
path which leads to happiness, and those who are content to walk in it
are acceptable to gods and men."

"Then why did he not suffer it to content him?" cried Cleopatra
wrathfully.

"Fulvia's school," replied the Roman, "was probably the last where he
would learn the moderation which--as you know--is so alien to his nature.
His opinion of the quiet valleys and middle course you have just heard."

"But I, what have I been to him?" urged the Queen.

Lucilius bent his gaze for a short time on the floor, then answered
hesitatingly:

"You asked to hear, and the Queen's command must be obeyed. He compared
your Majesty to a delicious banquet given to celebrate a victory, at
which the guests, crowned with garlands, revel before the battle--"

"Which is lost," said the Queen hurriedly, in a muffled voice. "The
comparison is apt. Now, after the defeat, it would be absurd to prepare
another feast. The tragedy is closing, so the play (doubtless he said so)
which preceded it would be but a wearisome repetition if performed a
second time. One thing, it is true, seems desirable--a closing act of
reconciliation. If you think it is in my power to recall my husband to
active life, rely upon me. The banquet of which he spoke occupied long
years. The dessert will consume little time, but I am ready to serve it.
When I asked permission to visit him he refused. What plan of meeting
have you arranged?"

"That I will leave to your feminine delicacy of feeling," replied
Lucilius. "Yet I have come with a request whose fulfilment will perhaps
contain the answer. Eros, Mark Antony's faithful body-slave, humbly
petitions your Majesty to grant him a few minutes' audience. You know the
worthy fellow. He would die for you and his master, and he--I once heard
from your lips the remark of King Antiochus, that no man was great to his
body-slave--thus Eros sees his master's weaknesses and lofty qualities
from a nearer point of view than we, and he is shrewd. Antony gave him
his freedom long ago, and if your Majesty does not object to receiving a
man so low in station--"

"Let him come," replied Cleopatra. "Your demand upon me is just.
Unhappily, I am but too well aware of the atonement due your friend.
Before you came, I was engaged in making preparations for the fulfilment
of one of his warmest wishes."

With these words she dismissed the Roman. Her feelings as she watched his
departure were of very mingled character. The yearning for the happiness
of which she had been so long deprived had again awaked, while the unkind
words which he had applied to her still rankled in her heart. But the
door had scarcely closed behind Lucilius when the usher announced a
deputation of the members of the museum.

The learned gentlemen came to complain of the wrong which had been done
to their colleague, Didymus, and also to express their loyalty during
these trying times. Cleopatra assured them of her favour, and said that
she had already offered ample compensation to the old philosopher. In a
certain sense she was one of themselves. They all knew that, from early
youth, she had honoured and shared their labours. In proof of this, she
would present to the library of the museum the two hundred thousand
volumes from Pergamus, one of the most valuable gifts Mark Antony had
ever bestowed upon her, and which she had hitherto regarded merely as a
loan. This she hoped would repay Didymus for the injury which, to her
deep regret, had been inflicted upon him, and at least partially repair
the loss sustained by the former library of the museum during the
conflagration in the Bruchium.

The sages, eagerly assuring her of their gratitude and devotion, retired.
Most of them were personally known to Cleopatra who, to their mutual
pleasure and advantage, had measured her intellectual powers with the
most brilliant minds of their body.

The sun had already set, when a procession of the priests of Serapis, the
chief god of the city, whose coming had been announced the day before,
appeared at Lochias. Accompanied by torch and lantern bearers, it moved
forward with slow and solemn majesty. In harmony with the nature of
Serapis, there were many reminders of death.

The meaning of every image, every standard, every shrine, every
peculiarity of the music and singing, was familiar to the Queen. Even the
changing colours of the lights referred to the course of growth and decay
in the universe and in human life, and the magnificent close of the chant
of homage which represented the reception of the royal soul into the
essence of the deity, the apotheosis of the sovereign, was well suited to
stir the heart; for a sea of light unexpectedly flooded the whole
procession and, while its glow irradiated the huge pile of the palace,
the sea with its forest of ships and masts, and the shore with its
temples, pylons, obelisks, and superb buildings, all the choruses,
accompanied by the music of sackbuts, cymbals, and lutes, blended in a
mighty hymn, whose waves of sound rose to the star-strewn sky and reached
the open sea beyond the Pharos.

Many a symbolical image suggested death and the resurrection, defeat and
a victory following it by the aid of great Serapis; and when the torches
retired, vanishing in the darkness, with the last, notes of the chanting
of the priests, Cleopatra, raised her head, feeling as if the vow she had
made during the gloomy singing of the aged men and the extinguishing of
the torches had received the approval of the deity brought by her
forefathers to Alexandria and enthroned there to unite in his own person
the nature of the Greek and the Egyptian gods.

Her tomb was to be built and, if destiny was fulfilled, to receive her
lover and herself. She had perceived from Antony's bitter words, as well
as the looks and tones of Lucilius, that he, as well as the man to whom
her heart still clung with indissoluble bonds, held her responsible for
Actium and the fall of his greatness.

The world, she knew, would imitate them, but it should learn that if love
had robbed the greatest man of his day of fame and sovereignty, that love
had been worthy of the highest price.

The belief which had just been symbolically represented to her--that it
was allotted to the vanishing light to rise again in new and radiant
splendour--she would maintain for the present, though the best success
could scarcely lead to anything more than merely fanning the glimmering
spark and deferring its extinction.

For herself there was no longer any great victory to win which would be
worth the conflict. Yet the weapons must not rest until the end. Antony
must not perish, growling, like a second Timon, or a wild beast caught in
a snare. She would rekindle, though but for the last blaze, the fire of
his hero-nature, which blind love for her and the magic spell that had
enabled her to bind his will had covered for a time with ashes.

While listening to the resurrection hymn of the priests of Serapis, she
had asked herself if it might not be possible to give Antony, when he had
been roused to fresh energy, the son of Caesar as a companion in arms.
True, she had found the boy in a mood far different from the one for
which she had hoped. If he had once been carried on to a bold deed, it
seemed to have exhausted his energy; for he remained absorbed in the most
pitiable love-sickness. Yet he had not recovered from his illness. When
he was better he would surely wake to active interest in the events which
threatened to exert so great an influence on his own existence and, like
the humblest slave, lament the defeat of Actium. Hitherto he had listened
to the tidings of battle which had reached his ears with an indifference
that seemed intelligible and pardonable only when attributed to his
wound.

His tutor Rhodon had just requested a leave of absence, remarking that
Caesarion would not lack companions, since he was expecting Antyllus and
other youths of his own age. A flood of light streamed from the windows
of the reception hall of the "King of kings." There was still time to
seek him and make him understand what was at stake. Ah! if she could but
succeed in awaking his father's spirit! If that culpable attack should
prove the harbinger of future deeds of manly daring!

No interview with him as yet had encouraged this expectation, but a
mother's heart easily sees, even in disappointment, a step which leads to
a new hope. When Charmian entered to announce Antony's body-slave, she
sent word to him to wait, and requested her friend to accompany her to
her son.

As they approached the apartments occupied by Caesarion, Antyllus's loud
voice reached them through the open door, whose curtain was only half
drawn. The first word which the Queen distinguished was her own name; so,
motioning to her companion, she stood still. Barine was again the subject
of conversation.

Antony's son was relating what Alexas had told him. Cleopatra, the Syrian
had asserted, intended to send the young beauty to the mines or into
exile, and severely punish Dion; but both had made their escape. The
Ephebi had behaved treacherously by taking sides with their foe. But this
was because they were not yet invested with their robes. He hoped to
induce his father to do this as soon as he shook off his pitiable
misanthropy. And he must also be persuaded to direct the pursuit of the
fugitives. "This will not be difficult," he cried insolently, "for the
old man appreciates beauty, and has himself cast an eye on the singer. If
they capture her, I'll guarantee nothing, you 'King of kings!' for, spite
of his grey beard, he can cut us all out with the women, and Barine--as
we have heard--doesn't think a man of much importance until his locks
begin to grow thin. I gave Derketaeus orders to send all his men in
pursuit. He's as cunning as a fox, and the police are compelled to obey
him."

"If I were not forced to lie here like a dead donkey, I would soon find
her," sighed Caesarion. "Night or day, she is never out of my mind. I
have already spent everything I possessed in the search. Yesterday I sent
for the steward Seleukus. What is the use of being my mother's son, and
the fat little fellow isn't specially scrupulous! He will do nothing, yet
there must be gold enough. The Queen has sunk millions in the sand on the
Syrian frontier of the Delta. There is to be a square hole or something
of the sort dug there to hide the fleet. I only half understand the
absurd plan. The money might have paid hundreds of spies. So talents are
thrown away, and the strong-box is locked against the son. But I'll find
one that will open to me. I must have her, though I risk the crown. It
always sounds like a jeer when they call me the King of kings. I am not
fit for sovereignty. Besides, the throne will be seized ere I really
ascend it. We are conquered, and if we succeed in concluding a peace,
which will secure us life and a little more, we must be content. For my
part, I shall be satisfied with a country estate on the water, a
sufficient supply of money and, above all, Barine. What do I care for
Egypt? As Caesar's son I ought to have ruled Rome; but the immortals knew
what they were doing when they prompted my father to disinherit me. To
govern the world one must have less need of sleep. Really--you know it--I
always feel tired, even when I am well. People must let me alone! Your
father, too, Antyllus, is laying down his arms and letting things go as
they will."

"Ah, so he is!" cried Antony's son indignantly. "But just wait! The
sleeping lion will wake again, and, when he uses his teeth and paws--"

"My mother will run away, and your father will follow her," replied
Caesarion with a melancholy smile, wholly untinged by scorn. "All is
lost. But conquered kings and queens are permitted to live. Caesar's son
will not be exhibited to the Quirites in the triumphal procession. Rhodon
says that there would be an insurrection if I appeared in the Forum. If I
go there again, it certainly will not be in Octavianus's train. I am not
suited for that kind of ignominy. It would stifle me and, ere I would
grant any man the pleasure of dragging the son of Caesar behind him to
increase his own renown, I would put an end--ten, nay, a hundred times
over, in the good old Roman fashion, to my life, which is by no means
especially attractive. What is sweeter than sound sleep, and who will
disturb and rouse me when Death has lowered his torch before me? But now
I think I shall be spared this extreme. Whatever else they may inflict
upon me will scarcely exceed my powers of endurance. If any one has
learned contentment it is I. The King of kings and Co-Regent of the Great
Queen has been trained persistently, and with excellent success, to be
content. What should I be, and what am I? Yet I do not complain, and wish
to accuse no one. We need not summon Octavianus, and when he is here let
him take what he will if he only spares the lives of my mother, the
twins, and little Alexander, whom I love, and bestows on me the
estate--the main thing is that it must be full of fishponds--of which I
spoke. The private citizen Caesarion, who devotes his time to fishing and
the books he likes to read, will gladly be allowed to choose a wife to
suit his own taste. The more humble her origin, the more easily I shall
win the consent of the Roman guardian."

"Do you know, Caesarion," interrupted Antony's unruly son, leaning back
on the cushions and stretching his feet farther in front of him, "if you
were not the King of kings I should be inclined to call you a base,
mean-natured fellow! One who has the good fortune to be the son of Julius
Caesar ought not to forget it so disgracefully. My gall overflows at your
whimpering. By the dog! It was one of my most senseless pranks to take
you to the singer. I should think there would be other things to occupy
the mind of the King of kings. Besides, Barine cares no more for you than
the last fish you caught. She showed that plainly enough. I say once
more, if Derketaeus's men succeed in capturing the beauty who has robbed
you of your senses, she won't go with you to your miserable estate to
cook the fish you catch, for if we have her again, and my father holds
out his hand to her, all your labour will be in vain. He saw the fair
enchantress only twice, and had no time to become better acquainted, but
she captured his fancy and, if I remind him of her, who knows what will
happen?"

Here Cleopatra beckoned to her companion and returned to her apartments
with drooping head. On reaching them, she broke the silence, saying:
"Listening, Charmian, is unworthy of a Queen; but if all listeners heard
things so painful, one need no longer guard keyholes and chinks of doors.
I must recover my calmness ere I receive Eros. One thing more. Is
Barine's hiding-place secure?"

"I don't know--Archibius says so."

"Very well. They are searching for her zealously enough, as you heard,
and she must not be found. I am glad that she did not set a snare for the
boy. How a jealous heart leads us astray! Were she here, I would grant
her anything to make amends for my unjust suspicion of her and Antony.
And to think that Alexas--but for your interposition he would have
succeeded--meant to send her to the mines! It is a terrible warning to be
on my guard. Against whom? First of all, my own weakness. This is a day
of recognition. A noble aim, but on the way the feet bleed, and the
heart--ah! Charmian, the poor, weak, disappointed heart!"

She sighed heavily, and supported her head on the arm resting upon the
table at her side. The polished, exquisitely grained surface of thya-wood
was worth a large estate; the gems in the rings and bracelets which
glittered on her hand and arm would have purchased a principality. This
thought entered her mind and, overpowered by a feeling of angry disgust,
she would fain have cast all the costly rubbish into the sea or the
destroying flames.

She would gladly have been a beggar, content with the barley bread of
Epicurus, she said to herself, if in return she could but have inspired
her son even with the views of the reckless blusterer Antyllus. Her worst
fears had not pictured Caesarion so weak, so insignificant. She could no
longer rest upon her cushions; and while, with drooping head, she gazed
backward over the past, the accusing voice in her own breast cried out
that she was reaping what she had sowed. She had repressed, curbed the
boy's awakening will to secure his obedience; understood how to prevent
any exercise of his ability or efforts in wider circles.

True, it had been done on many a pretext. Why should not her son taste
the quiet happiness which she had enjoyed in the garden of Epicurus? And
was not the requirement that whoever is to command must first learn to
obey, based upon old experiences?

But this was a day of reckoning and insight, and for the first time she
found courage to confess that her own burning ambition had marked out the
course of Caesarion's education. She had not repressed his talents from
cool calculation, but it had been pleasant to her to see him grow up free
from aspirations. She had granted the dreamer repose without arousing
him. How often she had rejoiced over the certainty that this son, on whom
Antony, after his victory over the Parthians, had bestowed the title of
Co-Regent, would never rebel against his mother's guardianship! The
welfare of the state had doubtless been better secured in her trained
hands than in those of an inexperienced boy. And the proud consciousness
of power! Her heart swelled. So long as she lived she would remain Queen.
To transfer the sovereignty to another, whatever name he might bear, had
seemed to her impossible. Now she knew how little her son yearned for
lofty things. Her heart contracted. The saying "You reap what you sowed"
gave her no peace, and wherever she turned in her past life she perceived
the fruit of the seeds which she had buried in the ground. The field was
sinking under the burden of the ears of misfortune. The harvest was ripe
for the reaper; but, ere he raised the sickle, the owner's claim must be
preserved. Gorgias must hasten the building of the tomb; the end could
not be long deferred. How to shape this worthily, if the victor left her
no other choice, had just been pointed out by the son of whom she was
ashamed. His father's noble blood forbade him to bear the deepest
ignominy with the patience his mother had inculcated.

It had grown late ere she admitted Antony's body-slave, but for her the
business of the night was just commencing. After he had gone she would be
engaged for hours with the commanders of the army, the fleet, the
fortifications. The soliciting of allies, too, must be carried on by
means of letters containing the most stirring appeals to the heart.

Eros, Antony's body-slave, appeared. His kind eyes filled with tears at
the sight of the Queen. Grief had not lessened the roundness of his
handsome face, but the expression of mischievous, often insolent, gaiety
had given place to a sorrowful droop of the lips, and his fair hair had
begun to turn grey.

Lucilius's information that Cleopatra had consented to make advances to
Antony had seemed like the rising of the sun after a long period of
darkness. In his eyes, not only his master, but everything else, must
yield to the power of the Queen. He had heard Antony at Tarsus inveigh
against "the Egyptian serpent," protesting that he would make her pay so
dearly for her questionable conduct towards himself and the cause of
Caesar that the treasure-houses on the Nile should be like an empty
wine-skin; yet, a few hours after, body and soul had been in her toils.
So it had continued till the battle of Actium. Now there was nothing more
to lose; but what might not Cleopatra bestow upon his master? He thought
of the delightful years during which his face had grown so round, and
every day fresh pleasures and spectacles, such as the world would never
again witness, had satiated eye and ear, palate and nostril,--nay, even
curiosity. If they could be repeated, even in a simpler form, so much the
better. His main--nay, almost his sole-desire was to release his lord
from this wretched solitude, this horrible misanthropy, so ill suited to
his nature.

Cleopatra had kept him waiting two hours, but he would willingly have
loitered in the anteroom thrice as long if she only determined to follow
his counsel. It was worth considering, and Eros did not hesitate to give
it. No one could foresee how Antony would greet Cleopatra herself, so he
proposed that she should send Charmian--not alone, but with her clever
hunch-backed maid, to whom the Imperator himself had given the name
"Aisopion." He liked Charmian, and could never see the dusky maid without
jesting with her. If his master could once be induced to show a cheerful
face to others besides himself, Eros, and perceived how much better it
was to laugh than to lapse into sullen reverie and anger, much would be
gained, and Charmian would do the rest, if she brought a loving message
from her royal mistress.

Hitherto Cleopatra had not interrupted him; but when she expressed the
opinion that a slave's nimble tongue would have little power to change
the deep despondency of a man overwhelmed by the most terrible disaster,
Eros waved his short, broad hand, saying:

"I trust your Majesty will pardon the frankness of a man so humble in
degree, but those in high station often permit us to see what they hide
from one another. Only the loftiest and the lowliest, the gods and the
slaves, behold the great without disguise. May my ears be cropped if the
Imperator's melancholy and misanthropy are so intense! All this is a
disguise which pleases him. You know how, in better days, he enjoyed
appearing as Dionysus, and with what wanton gaiety he played the part of
the god. Now he is hiding his real, cheerful face behind the mask of
unsocial melancholy, because he thinks the former does not suit this time
of misfortune. True, he often says things which make your skin creep, and
frequently broods mournfully over his own thoughts. But this never lasts
long when we are alone. If I come in with a very funny story, and he
doesn't silence me at once, you can rely on his surpassing it with a
still more comical one. A short time ago I reminded him of the fishing
party when your Majesty had a diver fasten a salted herring on his hook.
You ought to have heard him laugh, and exclaim what happy days those
were. The lady Charmian need only remind him of them, and Aisopion spice
the allusion with a jest. I'll give my nose--true, it's only a small one,
but everybody values that feature most--if they don't persuade him to
leave that horrible crow's nest in the middle of the sea. They must
remind him of the twins and little Alexander; for when he permits me to
talk about them his brow smooths most speedily. He still speaks very
often to Lucilius and his other friends of his great plans of forming a
powerful empire in the East, with Alexandria as its principal city. His
warrior blood is not yet calm. A short time ago I was even ordered to
sharpen the curved Persian scimitar he likes to wield. One could not know
what service it might be, he said. Then he swung his mighty arm. By the
dog! The grey-haired giant still has the strength of three youths. When
he is once more with you, among warriors and battle chargers, all will be
well."

"Let us hope so." replied Cleopatra kindly, and promised to follow his
advice.

When Iras, who had taken Charmian's place, accompanied the Queen to her
chamber after several hours of toil, she found her silent and sad. Lost
in thought, she accepted her attendant's aid, breaking her silence only
after she had gone to her couch. "This has been a hard day, Iras," she
said; "it brought nothing save the confirmation of an old saying, perhaps
the most ancient in the world: 'Every one wilt reap only what he sows.
The plant which grows from the seed you place in the earth may be
crushed, but no power in the world will compel the seed to develop
differently or produce fruit unlike what Nature has assigned to it.' My
seed was evil. This now appears in the time of harvest. But we will yet
bring a handful of good wheat to the storehouses. We will provide for
that while there is time. I will talk with Gorgias early to-morrow
morning. While we were building, you showed good taste and often
suggested new ideas. When Gorgias brings the plans for the mausoleum you
shall examine them with me. You have a right to do so, for, if I am not
mistaken, few will visit the finished structure more frequently than my
Iras."

The girl started up and, raising her hand as if taking a vow, exclaimed:
"Your tomb will vainly wait my visit; your end will be mine also."

"May the gods preserve your youth from it!" replied the Queen in a tone
of grave remonstrance. "We still live and will do battle."



     ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

     Epicurus, who believed that with death all things ended
     No, she was not created to grow old
     Nothing in life is either great or small
     Priests: in order to curb the unruly conduct of the populace
     She would not purchase a few more years of valueless life
     To govern the world one must have less need of sleep
     What changes so quickly as joy and sorrow



CLEOPATRA

By Georg Ebers

Volume 8.



CHAPTER XIX.

Night brought little sleep to Cleopatra. Memory followed memory, plan was
added to plan. The resolve made the day before was the right one. To-day
she would begin its execution. Whatever might happen, she was prepared
for every contingency.

Ere she went to her work she granted a second audience to the Roman
envoy. Timagenes exerted all his powers of eloquence, skill in
persuasion, wit, and ingenuity. He again promised to Cleopatra life and
liberty, and to her children the throne; but when he insisted upon the
surrender or death of Mark Antony as the first condition of any further
negotiations, Cleopatra remained steadfast, and the ambassador set forth
on his way home without any pledge.

After he had gone, the Queen and Iras looked over the plans for the tomb
brought by Gorgias, but the intense agitation of her soul distracted
Cleopatra's attention, and she begged him to come again at a later hour.
When she was alone, she took out the letters which Caesar and Antony had
written to her. How acute, subtle, and tender were those of the former;
how ardent, impassioned, yet sincere were those of the mighty and fiery
orator, whose eloquence swept the listening multitudes with him, yet whom
her little hand had drawn wherever she desired!

Her heart throbbed faster when she thought of the meeting with Antony,
now close at hand; for Charmian had gone with the Nubian to invite him to
join her again. They had started several hours ago, and she awaited their
return with increasing impatience. She had summoned him for their last
mutual battle. That he would come she did not doubt. But could she
succeed in rekindling his courage? Two persons so closely allied should
sink and perish, still firmly united, in the final battle, if victory was
denied.

Archibius was now announced.

It soothed her merely to gaze into the faithful countenance, which
recalled so many of her happiest memories.

She opened her whole soul to him without reserve, and he drew himself up
to his full height, as if restored to youth; while when she told him that
she would never sully herself by treachery to her lover and husband, and
had resolved to die worthy of her name, the expression of his eyes
revealed that she had chosen the right path.

Ere she had made the request that he should undertake the education and
guidance of the children, he voluntarily proposed to devote his best
powers to them. The plan of uniting Didymus's garden with the Lochias and
giving it to the little ones also met with his approval. His sister had
already told him that Cleopatra had determined to build her tomb. He
hoped, he added, that its doors would not open to her for many years.

She shook her head sorrowfully, exclaiming "Would that I could read every
face as I do yours! My friend Archibius wishes me a long life, if any one
does; but he is as wise as he is faithful, and therefore will consider
that earthly life is by no means a boon in every case. Besides, he says
to himself: 'Events are impending over this Queen and woman, my friend,
which will perhaps render it advisable to make use of the great privilege
which the immortals bestow on human beings when it becomes desirable for
them to leave the stage of life. So let her build her tomb.' Have I read
the old familiar book aright?"

"On the whole, yes," he answered gravely. "But it is inscribed upon its
pages that a great princess and faithful mother can be permitted to set
forth on the last journey, whence there is no return, only when--"

"When," she interrupted, "a shameful end threatens to fall upon the fair
beginning and brilliant middle period, as a swarm of locusts darkens the
air and devours and devastates the fields. I know it, and will act
accordingly."

"And," added Archibius, "this end also (faithful to your nature) you will
shape regally.--On my way here I met my sister near the Choma. You sent
her to your husband. He will grasp the proffered hand. Now that it is
necessary to stake everything or surrender, the grandson of Herakles will
again display his former heroic power. Perhaps, stimulated and encouraged
by the example of the woman he loves, he will even force hostile Fate to
show him fresh favour."

"Destiny will pursue its course," interrupted Cleopatra firmly. "But
Antony must help me to heap fresh obstacles in the pathway, and when he
wishes to use his giant strength, what masses of rock his mighty arm can
hurl!"

"And if your lofty spirit smooths the path for him, then, my royal
mistress--"

"Even then the close of the tragedy will be death, and every scene a
disappointment. Was not the plan of bringing the fleet across the isthmus
bold and full of promise? Even the professional engineers greeted it with
applause, and yet it proved impracticable. Destiny dug its grave. And the
terrible omens before and after Actium, and the stars--the stars!
Everything points to speedy destruction, everything! Every hour brings
news of the desertion of some prince or general. As if from a
watch-tower, I now overlook what is growing from the seed I sowed.
Sterile ears or poisonous vegetation, wherever I turn my eyes. And yet!
You, who know my life from its beginning, tell me--must I veil my head in
shame when the question is asked, what powers of intellect, what talents
industry, and desire for good Cleopatra displayed?"

"No, my royal mistress, a thousand times no!"

"Yet the fruit of every tree I planted degenerated and decayed. Caesarion
is withering in the flower of his youth--by whose fault I know only too
well. You will now take charge of the education of the other children. So
it is for you to consider what brought me where I now stand, and how to
guard their life-bark from wandering and shipwreck."

"Let me train them to be human beings," replied Archibius gravely, "and
preserve them from the desire to enter the lists with the gods. From the
simple Cleopatra in the garden of Epicurus, who was a delight to the good
and wise, you became the new Isis, to whom the multitude raised hearts,
eyes, and hands, dazzled and blinded. We will transfer the twins, Helios
and Selene, the sun and the moon, from heaven to earth; they must become
mortals--Greeks. I will not transplant them to the garden of Epicurus,
but to another, where the air is more bracing. The inscription on its
portals shall not be, 'Here pleasure is the chief good,' but 'This is an
arena for character.' He who leaves this garden shall not owe to it the
yearning for happiness and comfort, but an immovably steadfast moral
discipline. Your children, like yourself, were born in the East, which
loves what is monstrous, superhuman, exaggerated. If you entrust them to
me, they must learn to govern themselves. At the helm stands moral
earnestness, which, however, does not exclude the joyous cheerfulness
natural to our people; the sails will be trimmed by moderation, the
noblest quality of the Greek nation."

"I understand," Cleopatra interrupted, with drooping head. "Interwoven
with the means of securing the children's welfare, you set before the
mother's eyes the qualities she has lacked. I know that long ago you
abandoned the teachings of Epicurus and the Stoa, and with an earnest aim
before your eyes sought your own paths. The tempest of life swept me far
away from the quiet garden where we sought the purest delight. Now I have
learned to know the perils which threaten those who see the chief good in
happiness. It stands too high for mortals, for in the changeful stir of
life it remains unattainable, and yet it is too low an aim for their
struggles, for there are worthier objects. Yet one saying of Epicurus we
both believed, and it has always stood us in good stead: 'Wisdom can
obtain no more precious contribution to the happiness of mortal life than
the possession of friendship.'"

She held out her hand as she spoke, and while, deeply agitated, he raised
it to his lips, she went on: "You know I am on the eve of the last
desperate battle--if the gods will--shoulder to shoulder with Antony.
Therefore I shall not be permitted to watch your work of education; yet I
will aid it. When the children question you about their mother, you will
be obliged to restrain yourself from saying: 'Instead of striving for the
painless peace of mind, the noble pleasure of Epicurus, which once seemed
to her the highest good, she constantly pursued fleeting amusements. The
Oriental recklessly squandered her once noble gifts of intellect and the
wealth of her people, yielded to the hasty impulses of her passionate
nature.' But you shall also say to them: 'Your mother's heart was full of
ardent love, she scorned what was base, strove for the highest goal, and
when she fell, preferred death to treachery and disgrace.'"

Here she paused, for she thought she heard footsteps approaching, and
then exclaimed anxiously: "I am waiting--expecting. Perhaps Antony cannot
escape from the paralyzing grasp of despair. To fight the last battle
without him, and yet under the gaze of his wrathful, gloomy eyes, once so
full of sunshine, would be the greatest sorrow of my life. Archibius, I
may confess this to you, the friend who saw love for this man develop in
the breast of the child--But what does this mean? An uproar! Have the
people rebelled? Yesterday the representatives of the priesthood, the
members of the museum, and the leaders of the army assured me of their
changeless fidelity and love. Dion belonged to the Macedonian men of the
Council; yet I have already declared, in accordance with the truth, that
I never intended to persecute him on Caesarion's account. I do not even
know--and do not desire to know the refuge of the lately wedded pair. Or
has the new tax levied, the command to seize the treasures of the temple,
driven them to extremities? What am I to do? We need gold to bid the foe
defiance, to preserve the independence of the throne, the country, and
the people. Or have tidings from Rome? It is becoming serious--and the
noise is growing louder."

"Let me see what they want," Archibius anxiously interrupted, hastening
to the door; but just at that moment the Introducer opened it, crying,
"Mark Antony is approaching the Lochias, attended by half Alexandria!"

"The noble Imperator is returning!" fell from the bearded lips of the
commander of the guard, ere the courtier's words had died away; and even
while he spoke Iras pressed past him, shrieking as if half frantic: "He
is coming! He is here! I knew he would come! How they are shouting and
cheering! Out with you, men! If you are willing, my royal mistress, we
will greet him from the balcony of Berenike. If we only had--"

"The twins--little Alexander!" interrupted Cleopatra, with blanched face
and faltering voice. "Put on their festal garments."

"Quick--the children, Zoe!" cried Iras, completing the order and clapping
her hands. Then she turned to the Queen with the entreaty: "Be calm, my
royal mistress, be calm, I beseech you. We have ample time. Here is the
vulture crown of Isis, and here the other. Antony's slave, Eros, has just
come in, panting for breath. The Imperator, he says, will appear as the
new Dionysus. It would certainly please his master--though he had not
commissioned him to request it--if you greeted him as the new Isis.--Help
me, Hathor. Nephoris, tell the usher to see that the fan-bearers and the
other attendants, women and men, are in their places.--Here are the pearl
and diamond necklaces for your throat and bosom. Take care of the robe.
The transparent bombyx is as delicate as a cobweb, and if you tear it No,
you must not refuse. We all know how it pleases him to see his goddess in
divine majesty and beauty." Cleopatra, with glowing cheeks and throbbing
heart, made no further objection to donning the superb festal robe,
strewn with glimmering pearls and glittering gems. It would have been
more in harmony with her feelings to meet the returning Antony in the
plain, dark garb which, since her arrival at home, she had exchanged for
a richer one only on festal occasions; but Antony was coming as the new
Dionysus, and Eros knew what would please his master.

Eight nimble hands, which were often aided by Iras's skilful fingers,
toiled busily, and soon the latter could hold up the mirror before
Cleopatra, exclaiming from the very depths of her heart, "Like the
foam-born Aphrodite and the golden Hathor!"

Then Iras, who, in adorning her beloved mistress, had forgotten love,
hate, and envy, and amid her eager haste barely found time for a brief,
fervent prayer for a happy issue of this meeting, threw the broad
folding-doors as wide as if she were about to reveal to the worshippers
in the temple the image of the god in the innermost sanctuary.

A long, echoing shout of surprise and delight greeted the Queen, for the
courtiers, hastily summoned, were already awaiting her without, from the
grey-haired epistolograph to the youngest page. Regally attired women in
her service raised the floating train of her cloak; others, in sacerdotal
robes, were testing the ease of movement of the rings on the sistrum
rods, men and boys were forming into lines according to the rank of each
individual, and the chief fan-bearer gave the signal for departure. After
a short walk through several halls and corridors, the train reached the
first court-yard of the palace, and there ascended the few steps leading
to the broad platform at the entrance-gate which overlooked the whole
Bruchium and the Street of the King, down which the expected hero would
approach.

The distant uproar of the multitude had sounded threatening, but now,
amid the deafening din, they could distinguish every shout of welcome,
every joyous greeting, every expression of delight, surprise, applause,
admiration, and homage, known to the Greek and Egyptian tongues.

Only the centre and end of the procession were visible. The head had
reached the Corner of the Muses, where, concealed by the old trees in the
garden, it moved on between the Temple of Isis and the land owned by
Didymus. The end still extended to the Choma, whence it had started.

All Alexandria seemed to have joined it.

Men large and small, of high and low degree, old and young, the lame and
the crippled, mingled with the throng, sweeping onward among horses and
carriages, carts and beasts of burden, like a mountain torrent dashing
wildly down to the valley. Here a loud shriek rang from an overturned
litter, whose bearers had fallen. Yonder a child thrown to the ground
screamed shrilly, there a dog trodden under the feet of the crowd howled
piteously. So clear and resonant were the shouts of joy that they rose
high above the flutes and tambourines, the cymbals and lutes of the
musicians, who followed the man approaching in the robes of a god.

The head of the procession now passed beyond the Corner of the Muses and
came within view of the platform.

There could be no doubt to whom this ovation was given, for the returning
hero was in the van, high above all the other figures. From the golden
throne borne on the shoulders of twelve black slaves he waved his long
thyrsus in greeting to the exulting multitude. Before the bacchanalian
train which accompanied him, and behind the musicians who followed, moved
two elephants bearing between them, as a light burden, some
unrecognizable object covered with a purple cloth. Now the column had
passed between the pylons through the lofty gateway which separated the
palace from the Street of the King, and stopped opposite to the platform.

While officials, Scythians, and body-guards of all shades of complexion,
on foot and on horseback, kept back the throng by force where friendly
warning did not avail, Cleopatra saw her lover descend from the throne
and give a signal to the Indian slave who guided the elephants. The cloth
was flung aside, revealing to the astonished eyes of the spectators a
bouquet of flowers such as no Alexandrian had ever beheld. It consisted
entirely of blossoming rose-bushes. The red flowers formed a circle in
the centre, surrounded by a broad light garland of white ones. The whole
gigantic work rested like an egg in its cup in a holder of palm fronds
which, as it were, framed it in graceful curving outlines. More than a
thousand blossoms were united in this peerless bouquet, and the singular
gigantic gift was characteristic of its giver.

He advanced on foot to the platform, his figure towering above the brown,
light-hued, and black freedmen and slaves who followed as, on the
monuments of the Pharaohs, the image of the sovereign dominates those of
the subjects and foes.

He could look down upon the tallest men, and the width of his shoulders
was as remarkable as his colossal height. A long, gold-broidered purple
mantle, floating to his ancles, increased his apparent stature. Powerful
arms, with the swelling muscles of an athlete, were extended from his
sleeveless robe towards the beloved Queen.

The well-formed head, thick dark hair, and magnificent beard corresponded
with the powerful figure. Formerly these locks had adorned the head of
the youth with the blue-black hue of the raven's plumage; now the threads
of grey scattered abundantly through them were concealed by the aid of
dye. A thick wreath of vine leaves rested on the Imperator's brow, and
leafy vine branches, to which clung several dark bunches of grapes, fell
over his broad shoulders and down his back, which was covered like a
cloak, not by a leopard-skin, but that of a royal Indian tiger of great
size--he had slain it himself in the arena. The head and paws of the
animal were gold, the eyes two magnificent sparkling sapphires. The clasp
of the chain, by which the skin was suspended, as well as that of the
gold belt which circled the Imperator's body above the hips, was covered
with rubies and emeralds. The wide armlets above his elbows, the
ornaments on his broad breast, nay, even his red morocco boots, glittered
and flashed with gems.

Radiant magnificent as his former fortunes seemed the attire of this
mighty fallen hero, who but yesterday had shrunk timidly and sadly from
the eyes of his fellow-men. His features, too, were large, noble, and
beautiful in outline; but, though his pale cheeks were adorned with the
borrowed crimson of youth, half a century of the maddest pursuit of
pleasure and the torturing excitement of the last few weeks had left
traces only too visible; for the skin hung in loose bags beneath the
large eyes; wrinkles furrowed his brow and radiated in slanting lines
from the corners of his eyes across his temples.

Yet not one of those whom this bedizened man of fifty was approaching
thought of seeing in him an aged, bedecked dandy; it was an instinct of
his nature to surround himself with pomp and splendour and, moreover, his
whole appearance was so instinct with power that scorn and mockery shrank
abashed before it.

How frank, gracious, and kindly was this man's face, how sincere the
heart-felt emotion which sparkled in his eyes, still glowing with the
fire of youth, at the sight of the woman from whom he had been so long
parted! Every feature beamed with the most ardent tenderness for the
royal wife whom he was approaching, and the expression on the lips of the
giant varied so swiftly from humble, sorrowful anguish of mind to
gratitude and delight, that even the hearts of his foes were touched. But
when, pressing his hand on his broad breast, he advanced towards the
Queen, bending so low that it seemed as if he would fain kiss her feet,
when in fact the colossal figure did sink kneeling before her, and the
powerful arms were outstretched with fervent devotion like a child
beseeching help, the woman who had loved him throughout her whole life
with all the ardour of her passionate soul was overpowered by the feeling
that everything which stood between them, all their mutual offences, had
vanished. He saw the sunny smile that brightened her beloved,
ever-beautiful face, and then--then his own name reached his ears from
the lips to which he owed the greatest bliss love had ever offered. At
last, as if intoxicated by the tones of her voice, which seemed to him
more musical than the songs of the Muses; half smiling at the jest which,
even in the most serious earnest, he could not abandon; half moved to the
depths of his soul by the power of his newly awakening happiness after
such sore sorrow, he pointed to the gigantic bouquet, which three slaves
had lifted down from the elephant and were bearing to the Queen.
Cleopatra, too, was overwhelmed with emotion.

This floral gift imitated, on an immense scale, the little bouquet which
the famous young general had taken from her father's hand before the gate
of the garden of Epicurus to present to her as his first gift. That had
also been composed of red roses, surrounded by white ones. Instead of
palm fronds, it had been encircled only by fern leaves. This was one of
the beautiful offerings which Antony's gracious nature so well understood
how to choose. The bouquet was a symbol of the unprecedented generosity
natural to this large-minded man. No magic goblet had compelled him to
approach her thus and with such homage. Nothing had constrained him, save
his overflowing heart, his constant, fadeless love.

As if restored to youth, transported by some magic spell to the happy
days of early girlhood, she forgot her royal dignity and the hundreds of
eyes which rested upon him as if spell-bound; and, obedient to an
irresistible impulse of the heart, she sank upon the broad, heaving
breast of the kneeling hero. Laughing joyously in the clear, silvery
tones which are usually heard only in youth, he clasped her in his strong
arms, raised her slender figure in its floating royal mantle from the
ground, kissed her lips and eyes, held her aloft in the soaring attitude
of the Goddess of Victory, as if to display his happiness to the eyes of
all, and at last placed her carefully on her feet again like some
treasured jewel.

Then, turning to the children, who were waiting at their mother's side,
he lifted first little Alexander, then the twins, to kiss them; and,
while holding Helios and Selene in his arms, as if the joy of seeing them
again had banished their weight, the shouts which had arisen when the
Queen sank on his breast again burst forth.

The ancient walls of the Lochias palace had never heard such
acclamations. They passed from lip to lip, from hundreds to hundreds and,
though those more distant did not know the cause, they joined in the
shouts. Along the whole vast stretch from the Lochias to the Choma the
cheers rang out like a single, heart-stirring, inseparable cry, echoing
across the harbour, the ships lying at anchor, the towering masts, to the
cliff amid the sea where Barine was nursing her new-made husband.



CHAPTER XX.

The property of the freedman Pyrrhus was a flat rock in the northern part
of the harbour, scarcely larger than the garden of Didymus at the Corner
of the Muses, a desolate spot where neither tree nor blade of grass grew.
It was called the Serpent Island, though the inhabitants had long since
rid it of these dangerous guests, which lived in great numbers in the
neighbouring cliffs. Not even the poorest crops would grow in soil so
hostile to life, and those who chose it for a home were compelled to
bring even the drinking-water from the continent.

This desert, around which hovered gulls, sea-swallows, and sea-eagles,
had been for several weeks the abode of the fugitives, Dion and Barine.
They still occupied the two rooms which had been assigned to them on
their arrival. During the day the sun beat fiercely down upon the yellow
chalky rock. There was no shade save in the house and at the foot of a
towering cliff in the southern part of the island, the fishermen's
watch-tower.

There were no works of human hands save a little Temple of Poseidon, an
altar of Isis, the large house owned by Pyrrhus, solidly constructed by
Alexandrian masons, and a smaller one for the freedman's married sons and
their families. A long wooden frame, on which nets were strung to dry,
rose on the shore. Near it, towards the north, in the open sea, was the
anchorage of the larger sea-going ships and the various skiffs and boats
of the fisher folk. Dionikos, Pyrrhus's youngest son, who was still
unmarried, built new boats and repaired the old ones.

His two strong, taciturn brothers, with their wives and children, his
father Pyrrhus, his wife and their youngest child, a daughter, Dione, a
few dogs, cats, and chickens, composed the population of the Serpent
Island.

Such were the surroundings of the newly wedded pair, who had been reared
in the capital. At first many things were strange to them, but they
accommodated themselves to circumstances with a good grace, and both had
admitted to each other, long before, that life had never been so equable
and peaceful.

During the first week Dion's wound and fever still harassed him, but the
prediction of Pyrrhus that the pure, fresh sea-air would benefit the
sufferer had been fulfilled, and the monotonous days had passed swiftly
enough to the young bride in caring for the invalid.

The wife of Pyrrhus--"mother," as they all called her--had proved to be a
skilful nurse, and her daughters-in-law and young Dione were faithful and
nimble assistants. During the time of anxiety and nursing, Barine had
formed a warm friendship for them. If the taciturn men avoided using a
single unnecessary word, the women were all the more ready to gossip; and
it was a pleasure to talk to pretty Dione, who had grown up on the island
and was eager to hear about the outside world.

Dion had long since left his couch and the house, and each day looked
happier, more content with himself and his surroundings. At first his
feverish visions had shown him his dead mother, pointing anxiously at his
new-made wife, as if to warn him against her. During his convalescence he
remembered them and they conjured up the doubt whether Barine could
endure the solitude of this desolate cliff, whether she would not lose
the bright serenity of soul whose charm constantly increased. Would it be
any marvel if she should pine with longing in this solitude, and even
suffer physically from their severe privations?

The perception that love now supplied the place of all which she had lost
pleased him, but he forbade himself to expect that this condition of
affairs could be lasting. Nothing save exaggerated self-conceit would
induce the hope. But he must have undervalued his own power of
attraction--or Barine's love--for with each passing week the cheerful
serenity of her disposition gained fresh steadfastness and charm. He,
too, had the same experience; it was long since he had felt so vigorous,
untrammelled, and free from care. His sole regret was the impossibility
of sharing the political life of the city at this critical period; and at
times he felt some little anxiety concerning the fate and management of
his property, though, even if his estates were confiscated, he would
still retain a competence which he had left in the hands of a trustworthy
money-changer. Barine shared everything that concerned him, even these
moods, and this led him to tell her about the affairs of the city and the
state, in which she had formerly taken little interest, his property in
Alexandria and the provinces. With what glad appreciation she listened,
when she went out with him from the northern anchorage on the open sea,
or sat during long winter evenings making nets, an art which she had
learned from Dione!

Her lute had been sent to her from the city, and what pleasure her
singing afforded her husband and herself; how joyously their hosts, old
and young, listened to the melody!

A few book-rolls had also come, and Dion enjoyed discussing their
contents with Barine. He himself read very little, for he was rarely
indoors during the day. The fourth week after his arrival he was able to
aid, with arms whose muscles had been steeled in the pakestra, the men in
their fishing, and Dionikos in his boat-building.

The close, constant, uninterrupted companionship of the married pair
revealed to each unexpected treasures in the other, which, perhaps, might
have remained forever concealed in city life. Here each was everything to
the other, and this undisturbed mutual life soon inspired that blissful
consciousness of inseparable union which usually appears only after
years, as the fairest fruit of a marriage founded on love.

Doubtless there were hours when Barine longed to see her mother and
others who were dear to her, but the letters which arrived from time to
time prevented this yearning from becoming a source of actual pain.

Prudence required them to restrict their intercourse with the city. But,
whenever Pyrrhus went to market, letters reached the island delivered at
the fish auction in the harbour by Anukis, Charmian's Nubian maid, to the
old freedman, who had become her close friend.

So the time came when Dion could say without self-deception that Barine
was content in this solitude, and that his love and companionship
supplied the place of the exciting, changeful life of the capital. Though
letters came from her mother, sister, or Charmian, her grandfather,
Gorgias, or Archibius, not one transformed the wish to leave her desolate
hiding-place into actual homesickness, but each brought fresh subjects
for conversation, and among them many which, by arousing the interest of
both, united them more firmly.

The second month of their flight a letter arrived from Archibius, in
which he informed them that they might soon form plans for their return,
for Alexas, the Syrian, had proved a malicious traitor. He had not
performed the commission entrusted to him of winning Herod to Antony's
cause, but treacherously deserted his patron and remained with the King
of the Jews. When, with unprecedented shamelessness, he sought Octavianus
to sell the secrets of his Egyptian benefactor, he was arrested and
executed in his own home, Laodicea.

Now, their friend continued, Cleopatra's eyes as well as her husband's
were opened to the true character of Barine's most virulent accuser. The
influence of Philostratus, too, was of course destroyed by his brother's
infamous deed. Yet they must wait a little longer; for Caesarion had
joined the Ephebi, and Antyllus had been invested with the toga virilis.
They could now undertake many things independently, and Caesarion often
made remarks which showed that he would not cease to lay plots for
Barine.

Dion feared nothing from the royal boy on his own account, but for his
wife's sake he dared not disregard his friend's warning. This was hard;
for though he still felt happy on the island, he longed to install the
woman he loved in his own house, and every impulse of his nature urged
him to be present at the meetings of the Council in these fateful times.
Therefore he was more than ready to risk returning to the city, but
Barine entreated him so earnestly not to exchange the secure happiness
they enjoyed here for a greater one, behind which might lurk the heaviest
misfortune, that he yielded. Another letter from Charmian soon proved the
absolute necessity of continuing to exercise caution.

Even from the island they could perceive that everything known as festal
pleasure was rife in Alexandria, and bore along in its mad revelry the
court and the citizens. When the wind blew from the south, it brought
single notes of inspiring music or indistinct sounds of the wildest
popular rejoicing.

The fisherman's daughter, Dione, often called them to the strand to
admire the galleys adorned with fabulous splendour, garlanded with
flowers, and echoing with the music of lutes and the melody of songs.
Sails of purple embroidered silk bore the vessels over the smooth tide.
Once the watchers even distinguished, upon a barge richly adorned with
gilded carving, young female slaves who, with floating hair and
transparent sea-green robes, handled, in the guise of Nereids, light
sandal-wood oars with golden blades. Often the breeze bore to the island
the perfumes which surrounded the galleys, and on calm nights the
magnificent ships, surrounded by the magical illumination of many-hued
lamps, swept across the mirror-like surface of the waves, Among the
voyagers were gods, goddesses, and heroes who, standing or reclining in
beautiful groups, represented scenes from the myths and history. On the
deck of the Queen's superb vessel guests crowned with wreaths lay on
purple couches, under garlands of flowers, eating choice viands and
draining golden wine-cups.

On other nights the illumination of the shore of the Bruchium rendered it
as bright as day. The huge dome of the Serapeum on the Rhakotis, covered
with lamps, towered above the flat roofs of the city like the starry
firmament of a smaller world which had descended to earth. Every temple
and palace was transformed into a giant candelabrum, and the rows of
lamps on the quay stretched like tendrils of light from the dazzlingly
illuminated marble Temple of Poseidon to the palace at Lochias, steeped
in radiance.

When Pyrrhus or one of his sons returned from market they described the
festivals and shows, banquets, races, and endless pleasure excursions
arranged by the court, which made the citizens fairly hold their breath.
It was a prosperous time for the fishermen; the Queen's cooks took all
their wares and paid a liberal price.

January had come, when another letter arrived from Charmian. Dion and
Barine had watched in vain for any unusual events on Cleopatra's birth
day, but on Antony's, a few days later, there was plenty of music and
shouting, and in the evening an unusually magnificent illumination.

Two days after, this letter was delivered to Pyrrhus by his dusky friend
Anukis.

Her inquiry whether he thought it prudent to convey visitors to his
guests was answered in the negative, for since Octavianus had been in
Asia, the harbour swarmed with the boats of spies, and a single act of
imprudence might bring ruin.

Charmian's letter, too, was even better calculated to curb Dion's
increasing desire to return home than the fisherman's warning.

True, the beginning contained good news of Barine's relatives, and then
informed Dion that his uncle, the Keeper of the Seal, was fairly
revelling in bliss. His inventive gifts were taxed more than ever. Every
day brought a festival, every night magnificent banquets. One spectacle,
excursion, or hunting party followed another. In the theatres, the Odeum,
the Hippodrome, no more brilliant performances, races, naval battles,
gladiatorial struggles, and combats between beasts had been given, even
before Actium. Dion himself had formerly attended the entertainments of
those who belonged to the court circle, the society of "Inimitable
Livers." It had been revived again, but Antony called them the "Comrades
of Death." This was significant. Every one knows that the end is drawing
near, and imitates the Pharaoh to whom the oracle promised six years of
life, and who convicted it of falsehood and made them twelve by carousing
during the night also.

The Queen's meeting with her husband, which she had previously reported,
had been magnificent. "At that time," she wrote, "we hoped that a more
noble life would begin, and Mark Antony, awakened and elevated by his
rekindled love, would regain his former heroic power; but we were
mistaken; Cleopatra, it is true, toiled unceasingly, but her lover with
his enormous bunch of roses gave the signal for the maddest revelry which
the imagination of the wildest devotee of pleasure could conceive. The
performances of the 'Inimitable Livers' were far surpassed by those of the
'Comrades of Death'."

"Antony is at their head, and he, whose giant frame resists even the most
unprecedented demands, succeeds in stupefying himself and forgetting the
impending ruin. When he comes to us after a night of revelry his eyes
sparkle as brightly, his deep voice has as clear a ring, as at the
beginning of the banquet. The Queen is his goddess; and who could remain
unmoved when the giant bows obediently to the nod of his delicate
sovereign, and devises and offers the most unprecedented things to win a
smile from her lips? The changeful, impetuous wooing of youth lies far
behind him, but his homage, which the Ephebi of today would perhaps term
antiquated, has always seemed to me as if a mountain were bending before
a star. The stranger who sees her in his company believes her a happy
woman. Amid the fabulous radiance of the festal array, when all who
surround her admire, worship, and strew flowers in her path, one might
believe that the old sunny days had returned; but when we are alone, how
rarely I see her smile! Then she plans for the tomb which, under
Gorgias's direction, is rapidly rising, and considers with him the best
method of rendering it an inaccessible place of retreat.

"She decided everything, down to the carving on the stone sarcophagi. In
addition, there are to be rooms and chambers in the lower story for the
reception of her treasures. Beneath them she has had corridors made for
the pitch and straw which, if the worst should come, are to be lighted.
She will then give to the flames the gold and silver, gems and jewels,
ebony and ivory, the costly spices--in short, all her valuables. The
pearls alone are worth many kingdoms. Who can blame her if she prefers to
destroy them rather than leave them for the foe"

"The garden in which you grew up, Barine, is now the scene of the happy,
busy life led by Alexander and the twins. There, under my brother's
guidance, they frolic, build, and dig. Cleopatra goes to it whenever she
longs for repose after the pursuit of pleasures which have lost their
zest.

"When, the day before yesterday, Antony, crowned with ivy as the new
Dionysus, drove up the Street of the King in the golden chariot drawn by
tamed lions, to bring her, the new Isis, from the Lochias in a lotus
flower made of silver and white paste, drawn by four snow-white steeds,
she pointed to the glittering train and said: 'Between the quiet of the
philosopher's garden, where I began my life and still feel most at ease,
and the grave, where nothing disturbs my last repose, stretches the
Street of the King, with this deafening tumult, this empty splendour. It
is mine.'

"O child, it was very different in former days! She loved Mark Antony
with passionate ardour. He was the first man in the world, and yet he
bowed before the supremacy of her will. The longing of the awakening
heart, the burning ambition which already kindled the soul of the child,
had alike found satisfaction, and the world beheld how the mortal woman,
Cleopatra, for her lover and herself, could steep this meagre life with
the joys of the immortals. He was grateful for them, and the most
generous of men laid at the feet of the 'Great Queen of the East' the
might of Rome and the kings of two quarters of the globe.

"These years were spent by both in one long revel. His marriage with
Octavia brought the first awakening. It was hard and painful. He had not
deserted Cleopatra for a woman's sake, but on account of his endangered
power and sovereignty. But the unloved Octavia constrained him to look up
to her with respectful admiration--nay, she became dear to him.

"A fierce battle for him and his heart arose between the two. It was
fought with very different weapons, and Cleopatra conquered. The revel,
the dream began again. Then came Actium, the disenchantment, the
awakening, the fall, the flight from the world. Our object was not to let
him relapse into intoxication, to rouse the hero's strength and courage
from their slumber, render him for love's sake a fellow-combatant in the
common cause.

"But he had become accustomed to see in her the giver of ecstasy. The
only thing that he still desired was to drain the cup of pleasure in her
society till all was over. She sees this, grieves over it, and leaves no
means of rousing him to fresh energy untried; yet how rarely he rallies
his powers to earnest labour!

"While she is fortifying the mouths of the Nile and the frontiers of the
country, building ship after ship, arming and negotiating, she can not
resist him when he summons her to new pleasures.

"Though so many of the traits which rendered him great and noble have
vanished, she can not give up the old love and clings steadfastly to him
because, because--I know not why. A woman's loving heart does not
question motives and laws. Besides, he is the father of her children and,
in playing with them, he regains the old joyousness of mood so
enthralling to the heart.

"Since Archibius has taken charge of them, they can dispense with
Euphronion, their tutor. The clever man knows Rome, Octavianus, and those
who surround him, so he was chosen as an envoy. His object was to induce
the conqueror to transfer the sovereignty of Egypt to the boys Antonius
Helios, and Alexander, but Caesar vouchsafed no answer to the mediator in
Antony's affairs--nay, did not even grant him an audience.

"To Cleopatra Octavianus promised friendly treatment, and the fulfilment
of her wish concerning the boys if--and now came the repetition of the
old demand--she would put Antony out of the world or deliver him into his
hands.

"This demand, which contains base treachery, was impossible for her noble
soul. Since she had resolved to build the tomb, granting it became
impossible, yet Octavianus made every effort to tempt her to the base
deed. True, the death of this one man would have spared much bloodshed.
The Caesar knows how to choose his tools. He sent here as negotiator a
clever young man, who possessed great charms of mind and person. No plan
to prejudice the Queen against her husband and persuade her to commit the
treachery was left untried. He went so far as to assure Cleopatra that in
former years she had won the Caesar's heart, and that he still loved her.
She accepted these assurances at their true value and remained steadfast.

"Antony at first paid no heed to the intriguer. But when he learned what
means he employed, and especially how he made use of the surrender of one
of Caesar's murderers, which he himself had long regretted, to brand him
as an ungrateful traitor, he would not have been Mark Antony if he had
accepted it quietly. He was completely his old self when he ordered the
smooth fellow--who, however, had come as the ambassador of the mighty
victor--to be scourged, sent him back to Rome, and wrote a letter to
Octavianus, in which he complained of the man's arrogance and
presumption, adding--spite of my heavy heart I can not help smiling when
I think of it--that misfortune had rendered him unusually irritable; yet
if his action perhaps displeased Caesar, he might treat his freedman
Hipparchus, who was in his power, as he had served Thyrsus!

"You see that his gay arrogance has not deserted him. Trouble slips away
from him as rain is shaken from the coarse military cloak which he wore
in the Parthian war, and therefore it cannot exert its purifying power.

"When we consider that, a few years ago, this man, as it were, doubled
himself when peril was most threatening, his conduct now, on the eve of
the decisive struggle, is intelligible only to those who know him as we
do. If he fights, he will no longer do so to save himself, or even to
conquer, but to die an honourable death. If he still enjoys the pleasures
offered, he believes that he can thus mitigate for himself the burden of
defeat, and diminish the grandeur of the conqueror's victory. In the eyes
of the world, at least, a man who can still revel like Antony is only
half vanquished. Yet the lofty tone of his mind was lowered. The
surrender of the murderer of Caesar--his name was Turullius--proves it.

"And this, Barine--tell your husband so--this is what fills me with
anxiety and compels me to entreat you not to think of returning home yet.

"Antony is now the jovial companion of his son, and permits Antyllus to
share all his own pleasures. Of course, he heard of Caesarion's passion,
and is disposed to help the poor fellow. He has often said that nothing
would better serve to rouse the dreamer from torpor than your charming
vivacity. As the earth could scarcely have swallowed you up, you would be
found; he, too, should be glad to hear you sing again. I know that search
will be made for you.

"How imperiously this state of affairs requires you to exercise caution
needs no explanation. On the other hand, you may find comfort in the
tidings that Cleopatra intends to send Caesarion with his tutor Rhodon to
Ethiopia, by way of the island of Philae. Archibius heard through
Timagenes that Octavianus considers the son of Caesar, whose face so
wonderfully resembles his father's, a dangerous person, and this opinion
is the boy's death-warrant. Antyllus, too, is going on a journey. His
destination is Asia, where he is to seek to propitiate Octavianus and
make him new offers. As you know, he was betrothed to his daughter Julia.
The Queen ceased long ago to believe in the possibility of victory, yet,
spite of all the demands of the 'Comrades of Death' and her own cares,
she toils unweariedly in preparing for the defence of the country. She is
doubtless the only member of that society who thinks seriously of the
approaching end.

"Now that the tomb is rising, she ponders constantly upon death. She, who
was taught by Epicurus to strive for freedom from pain and is so
sensitive to the slightest bodily suffering, is still seeking a path
which, with the least agony, will lead to the eternal rest for which she
longs. Iras and the younger pupils of Olympus are aiding her. The old man
furnishes all sorts of poisons, which she tries upon various
animals--nay, recently even on criminals sentenced to death. All these
experiments seem to prove that the bite of the uraeus serpent, whose
image on the Egyptian crown symbolizes the sovereign's instant power over
life and death, stills the heart most swiftly and with the least
suffering.

"How terrible these things are! What pain it causes to see the being one
loves most, the mother of the fairest children, so cruelly heighten the
anguish of parting, choose death, as it were, for a constant companion,
amid the whirl of the gayest amusements! She daily looks all his terrors
in the face, yet with proud contempt turns her back upon the bridge which
might perhaps enable her for a time to escape the monster. This is grand,
worthy of her, and never have I loved her more tenderly.

"You, too, must think of her kindly. She deserves it. A noble heart which
sees itself forced to pity a foe, easily forgives; and was she ever your
enemy?

"I have written a long, long letter to solace your seclusion from the
world and relieve my own heart. Have patience a little while longer. The
time is not far distant when Fate itself will release you from exile. How
often your relatives, Archibius and Gorgias, whom I now see frequently in
the presence of the Queen, long to visit you!--but they, too, believe
that it might prove a source of danger."

The warnings in this letter were confirmed by another from Archibius, and
soon after they heard that Caesarion had really sailed up the Nile for
Ethiopia with his tutor Rhodon, and Antyllus had been sent to Asia to
visit Octavianus. The latter had received him, it is true; but sent him
home without making any pledges.

These tidings were not brought by letter, but by Gorgias himself, whose
visit surprised them one evening late in March.

Rarely had a guest received a more joyous welcome. When he entered the
bare room, Barine was making a net and telling the fisherman's daughter
Dione the story of the wanderings of Ulysses. Dion, too, listened
attentively, now and then correcting or explaining her descriptions,
while carving a head of Poseidon for the prow of a newly built boat.

As Gorgias unexpectedly crossed the threshold, the dim light of the lamp
fed by kiki-oil seemed transformed into sunshine. How brightly their eyes
sparkled, how joyous were their exclamations of welcome and surprise!
Then came questions, answers, news! Gorgias was obliged to share the
family supper, which had only waited the return of the father who had
brought the guest.

The fresh oysters, langustae, and other dishes served tasted more
delicious to the denizen of the city than the most delicious banquets of
the "Comrades of Death" to which he was now frequently invited by the
Queen.

All that Pyrrhus said voluntarily and told his sons in reply to their
questions was so sensible and related to matters which, because they were
new to Gorgias, seemed so fascinating that, when Dion's good wine was
served, he declared that if Pyrrhus would receive him he, too, would
search for pursuers and be banished here.

When the three again sat alone before the plain clay mixing vessel it
seemed to the lonely young couple as if the best part of the city life
which they had left behind had found its way to them, and what did they
not have to say to one another! Dion and Barine talked of their hermit
life, Gorgias of the Queen and the tomb, which was at the same time a
treasure chamber. The slanting walls were built as firmly as if they were
intended to last for centuries and defy a violent assault. The centre of
the lower story was formed by a lofty hall of vast dimensions, in whose
midst were the large marble sarcophagi. Men were working busily upon the
figures in relief intended for the decoration of the sides and lids. This
hall, whose low arched ceiling was supported by three pairs of heavy
columns, was furnished like a reception-room. The couches, candelabra,
and altars were already being made. Charmian had kept the fugitives well
informed. In the subterranean chambers at the side of the hall, and in
the second story, which could not be commenced until the ceiling was
completed, store-rooms were to be made, and below and beside them were
passages for ventilation and the storage of combustible materials.

Gorgias regretted that he could not show his friend the hall, which was
perhaps the handsomest and most costly he had ever created. The noblest
material-brown porphyry, emerald-green serpentine, and the dark varieties
of marble-had been used, and the mosaic and brass doors, which were
nearing completion, were masterpieces of Alexandrian art. To have all
this destroyed was a terrible thought, but even more unbearable was that
of its object--to receive the body of the Queen.

Again rapturous admiration of this greatest and noblest of women led
Gorgias to enthusiastic rhapsodies, until Dion exercised his office of
soberer, and Barine asked tidings of her mother, her grandparents, and
her sister. There was nothing but good news to be told. True, the
architect had to wage a daily battle with the old philosopher, who termed
it an abuse of hospitality to remain so long at his friend's with his
whole family; but thus far Gorgias had won the victory, even against
Berenike, who wished to take her father and his household to her own
home.

Cleopatra had purchased the house and garden of Didymus at thrice their
value, the architect added. He was now a wealthy man, and had
commissioned him to build a new mansion. The land facing the sea and near
the museum had been found, but the handsome residence would not be
completed until summer. The dry Egyptian air would have permitted him to
roof it sooner, but there were many of Helena's wishes--most of them very
sensible ones--to be executed.

Barine and Dion glanced significantly at each other; but the architect,
perceiving it, exclaimed: "Your mute language is intelligible enough, and
I confess that for five months Helena has seemed to me the most
attractive of maidens. I see, too, that she has some regard for me. But
as soon as I stand before her--the Queen, I mean--and hear her voice, it
seems as if a tempest swept away every thought of Helena, and it is not
in my nature to deceive any one. How can I woo a girl whom I so deeply
honour--your sister, Barine--when the image of another rules my soul?"

Dion reminded him of his own words that the Queen was loved only as a
goddess and, without waiting for his reply, turned the conversation to
other topics.

It was three hours after midnight when Pyrrhus warned Gorgias that it was
time for departure. When the fisherman's fleetest boat was at last
bearing him back to the city he wondered whether girls who, before
marriage, lived like Helena in undisturbed seclusion, would really be
better wives and more content with every lot than the much-courted
Barine, whom Dion had led from the gayest whirl of life in the capital to
the most desolate solitude.

This delightful evening was followed by a day of excitement and grave
anxiety. It had been necessary to conceal the young couple from the
collector's officials, who took from Pyrrhus part of his last year's
savings, and the large new boat which he used to go out on the open sea.
The preparations for war required large sums; all vessels suitable for
the purpose were seized for the fleet, and all residents of the city and
country shared the same fate as Pyrrhus.

Even the temple treasures were confiscated, and yet no one could help
saying to himself that the vast sums which, through these pitiless
extortions, flowed into the treasury, were used for the pleasures of the
court as well as for the equipment of the fleet and the army.

Yet so great was the people's love for the Queen, so high their regard
for the independence of Egypt, so bitter their hate of Rome, that there
was no rebellion.

How earnestly Cleopatra, amid all the extravagant revels, from which she
could not too frequently absent herself, toiled to advance the military
preparations, could be seen even by the exiles from their cliff; for work
in two dock-yards was continued day and night, and the harbour was filled
with vessels. Ships of war were continually moving to and fro, and from
the Serpent Island they witnessed constantly, often by starlight, the
drilling of the oarsmen and of whole squadrons upon the open sea.
Sometimes a magnificent state galley appeared, on whose deck was Antony,
who inspected the hastily equipped fleet to make the newly recruited
sailors one of those kindling speeches in which he was a master hard to
surpass. Two sons of Pyrrhus were now numbered in the crews of the
recently built war ships. They had been impressed into the service in
April, and though Dion had placed a large sum at their father's disposal
to secure their release, the attempt was unsuccessful.

So there had been sorrow and tears in the contented little colony of
human beings on the lonely cliff, and when Dionysus and Dionichos had a
day's leave of absence to visit their relatives, they complained of the
cruel haste with which the young men were drilled and wearied to
exhaustion, and spoke of the sons of citizens and peasants who had been
dragged from their villages, their parents, and their business to be
trained for seamen. There was great indignation among them, and they
listened only too readily to the agitators who whispered how much better
they would have fared on the galleys of Octavianus.

Pyrrhus entreated his sons not to join any attempt at mutiny; the women,
on the contrary, would have approved anything which promised to release
the youths from their severe service, and their bright cheerfulness was
transformed into anxious depression. Barine, too, was no longer the same.
She had lost her joyous activity, her eyes were often wet with tears, and
she moved with drooping head as if some heavy care oppressed her.

Was it the heat of April, with its desert winds, which had brought the
transformation? Had longing for the changeful, exciting life of former
days at last overpowered her? Was solitude becoming unendurable? Was her
husband's love no longer sufficient to replace the many pleasures she had
sacrificed?--No! It could not be that; never had she gazed with more
devoted tenderness into Dion's face than when entirely alone with him in
shady nooks. She who in such hours looked the very embodiment of
happiness and contentment, certainly was neither ill nor sorrowful.

Dion, on the contrary, held his head high early and late, and appeared as
proud and self-conscious as though life was showing him its fairest face.
Yet he had heard that his estates had been sequestrated, and that he owed
it solely to the influence of Archibius and his uncle, that his property,
like that of so many others, had not been added to the royal treasures.
But what disaster could he not have speedily vanquished in these days?

A great joy--the greatest which the immortals can bestow upon human
beings--was dawning for him and his young wife, and in May the women on
the island shared her blissful hope.

Pyrrhus brought from the city an altar and a marble statue of Ilythyia,
the Goddess of Birth, called by the Romans Lucina, which his friend
Anukis had given him, in Charmian's name, for the young wife. She had
again spoken of the serpents which lived in such numbers in the
neighbouring islands, and her question whether it would be difficult to
capture one alive was answered by the freedman in the negative.

The image of the goddess and the altar were erected beside the other
sanctuaries, and how often the stone was anointed by Barine and the women
of the fisherman's family!

Dion vowed to the goddess a beautiful temple on the cliff and in the city
if she would be gracious to his beloved young wife.

When, in June, the noonday sun blazed most fiercely, the fisherman
brought to the cliff Helena, Barine's sister, and Chloris, Dion's nurse,
who had been a faithful assistant of his mother, and afterwards managed
the female slaves of the household.

How joyously and gratefully Barine held out her arms to her sister! Her
mother had been prevented from coming only by the warning that her
disappearance would surely attract the attention of the spies. And the
latter were very alert; for Mark Antony had not yet given up the pursuit
of the singer, nor had the attorney Philostratus recalled the
proclamation offering two talents for the capture of Dion, and both the
latter's palace and Berenike's house were constantly watched.

It seemed more difficult for the quiet Helena to accommodate herself to
this solitude than for her gayer-natured sister. Plainly as she showed
her love for Barine, she often lapsed into reverie, and every evening she
went to the southern side of the cliff and gazed towards the city, where
her grandparents doubtless sorely missed her, spite of the careful
attention bestowed upon them in Gorgias's house.

Eight days had passed since her arrival, and life in this wilderness
seemed more distasteful than on the first and the second; the longing for
her grandparents, too, appeared to increase; for that day she had gone to
the shore, even under the burning rays of the noonday sun, to gaze
towards the city.

How dearly she loved the old people!

But Dion's conjecture that the tears sparkling in Helena's eyes when she
entered their room at dusk were connected with another resident of the
capital, spite of his wife's indignant denial, appeared to be correct;
for, a short time after, clear voices were heard in front of the-house,
and when a deep, hearty laugh rang out, Dion started up, exclaiming,
"Gorgias never laughs in that way, except when he has had some unusual
piece of good fortune!"

He hurried out as he spoke, and gazed around; but, notwithstanding the
bright moonlight, he could see nothing except Father Pyrrhus on his way
back to the anchorage.

But Dion's ears were keen, and he fancied he heard subdued voices on the
other side of the dwelling. He followed the sound without delay and, when
he turned the corner of the building, stopped short in astonishment,
exclaiming as a low cry rose close before him:

"Good-evening, Gorgias! I'll see you later. I won't interrupt you."

A few rapid steps took him back to Barine, and as he whispered, "I saw
Helena out in the moonlight, soothing her longing for her grandparents in
Gorgias's arms," she clapped her hands and said, smiling:

"That's the way one loses good manners in this solitude. To disturb the
first meeting of a pair of lovers! But Gorgias treated us in the same way
in Alexandria, so he is now paid in his own coin."

The architect soon entered the room, with Helena leaning on his arm. Hour
by hour he had missed her more and more painfully, and on the eighth day
found it impossible to endure life's burden longer without her. He now
protested that he could approach her mother and grandparents as a suitor
with a clear conscience; for on the third day after Helena's departure
the relation between him and the Queen had changed. In Cleopatra's
presence the image of the granddaughter of Didymus became even more vivid
than that of the peerless sovereign had formerly been in Helena's.
Outside of the pages of poetry he had never experienced longing like that
which had tortured him during the past few days.



CHAPTER XXI.

This time the architect could spend only a few hours on the Serpent
Island, for affairs in the city were beginning to wear a very serious
aspect, and the building of the monument was pushed forward even during
the night. The interior of the first story was nearly completed and the
rough portion of the second was progressing. The mosaic workers, who were
making the floor of the great hall, had surpassed themselves. It was
impossible to wait longer for the sculptures which were to adorn the
walls. At present slabs of polished black marble were to occupy the
places intended for bronze reliefs; the utmost haste was necessary.

Octavianus had already reached Pelusium; even if Seleukus, the commander
of the garrison, held the strong fortress a long time, a part of the
hostile army might appear before Alexandria the following week.

A considerable force, however, was ready to meet him. The fleet seemed
equal to that of the enemy; the horsemen whom Antony had led before the
Queen would delight the eye of any one versed in military affairs; and
the Imperator hoped much from the veterans who had served under him in
former times, learned to know his generosity and open hand in the hour of
prosperity, and probably had scarcely forgotten the eventful days when he
had cheerfully and gaily shared their perils and privations.

Helena remained on the cliff, and her longing for the old couple had
materially diminished. Her hands moved nimbly, and her cheerful glance
showed that the lonely life on the island was beginning to unfold its
charms to her.

The young husband, however, had grown very uneasy. He concealed it before
the women, but old Pyrrhus often had much difficulty in preventing his
making a trip to the city which might imperil, on the eve of the final
decision, the result of their long endurance and privation. Dion had
often wished to set sail with his wife for a great city in Syria or
Greece, but fresh and mighty obstacles had deterred him. A special danger
lay in the fact that every large vessel was thoroughly searched before it
left the harbour, and it was impossible to escape from it without passing
through the narrow straits east of the Pharos or the opening in the
Heptastadium, both of which were easily guarded. The calm moderation that
usually distinguished the young counsellor had been transformed into
feverish restlessness, and the heart of his faithful old monitor had also
lost its poise; for an encounter between the fleet in which his sons
served and that of Octavianus was speedily expected.

One day he returned from the city greatly excited. Pelusium was said to
have fallen.

When he ascended the cliff he found everything quiet. No one, not even
Dione, came to meet him.

What had happened here?

Had the fugitives been discovered and dragged with his family to the city
to be thrown into prison, perhaps sent to the stone quarries?

Deadly pale, but erect and composed, he walked towards the house. He owed
to Dion and his father the greatest blessing in life, liberty, and the
foundation of everything else he possessed. But if his fears were
verified, if he was bereft of friends and property, even as a lonely
beggar he might continue to enjoy his freedom. If, for the sake of those
to whom he owed his best possession, he must surrender the rest, it was
his duty to bear fate patiently.

It was still light.

Even when he had approached very near the house he heard no sound save
the joyous barking of his wolf-hound, Argus, which leaped upon him.

He now laid his hand upon the lock of the door--but it was flung open
from the inside.

Dion had seen him coming and, enraptured by the new happiness with which
this day had blessed him, he flung himself impetuously on the breast of
his faithful friend, exclaiming: "A boy, a splendid boy! We will call him
Pyrrhus."

Bright tears of joy streamed down the freedman's face and fell on his
grey beard; and when his wife came towards him with her finger on her
lips, he whispered in a tremulous voice: "When I brought them here you
were afraid that the city people would drag us into ruin, but
nevertheless you received them as they deserved to be, and--he's going to
name him Pyrrhus--and now!--What has a poor fellow like me done to have
such great and beautiful blessings fall to my lot?"

"And I--I?" sobbed his wife. "And the child, the darling little
creature!"

This day of sunny happiness was followed by others of quiet joy, of the
purest pleasure, yet mingled with the deepest anxiety. They also brought
many an hour in which Helena found an opportunity to show her prudence,
while old Chloris and the fisherman's wife aided her by their experience.

Every one, down to the greybeard whose name the little one bore, declared
that there had never been a lovelier young mother than Barine or a
handsomer child than the infant Pyrrhus; but Dion could no longer endure
to remain on the cliff.

A thousand things which he had hitherto deemed insignificant and allowed
to pass unheeded now seemed important and imperatively in need of his
personal attention. He was a father, and any negligence might be harmful
to his son.

With his bronzed complexion and long hair and beard he required little
aid to disguise him from his friends. In the garments shabby by long use,
and with his delicate hands calloused by work in the dock-yard, any one
would have taken him for a real fisherman.

Perhaps it was foolish, but the desire to show himself in the character
of a father to Barine's mother and grandparents and to Gorgias seemed
worth risking a slight danger; so, without informing Barine, who was now
able to walk about her room, he set out for the city after sunset on the
last day of July.

He knew that Octavianus was encamped in the Hippodrome east of
Alexandria. The white mounds which had risen there had been recognized as
tents, even from the Serpent Island. Pyrrhus had returned in the
afternoon with tidings that Antony's mounted troops had defeated those of
Octavianus. This time the news of victory could be trusted, for the
palace at Lochias was illuminated for a festival and when Dion landed
there was a great bustle on the quay. One shouted to another that all
would be well. Mark Antony was his old self again. He had fought like a
hero.

Many who yesterday had cursed him, to-day mingled their voices in the
shouts of "Evoe!" which rang out for the new Dionysus, who had again
proved his claim to godship.

The late visitor found the grandparents alone in the house of Gorgias.
They had been informed of Barine's new happiness long before. Now they
rejoiced with Dion, and wanted to send at once for their host and future
son-in-law, who was in the city attending a meeting of the Ephebi,
although he had ceased some time ago to be a member of their company. But
Dion wished to greet him among the youths who had invited the architect
to give them his aid in deciding the question of the course they were to
pursue in the impending battle.

Yet he did not leave the old couple immediately; he was expecting two
visitors--Barine's mother and Charmian's Nubian maid who, since the birth
of little Pyrrhus, had come to the philosopher's every evening. The
former's errand was to ask whether any news of the mother and child had
been received during the day; the latter, to get the letters which she
delivered the next morning at the fish-market to her friend Pyrrhus or
his sons.

Anukis was the first to appear. She relieved her sympathizing heart by a
brief expression of congratulations; but, gladly as she would have
listened to the most minute details concerning the beloved young mother
from the lips of Dion himself, she repressed her own wishes for her
mistress's sake, and returned to Charmian as quickly as possible to
inform her of the arrival of the unexpected guest.

Berenike bore her new dignity of grandmother with grateful joy, yet
to-night she came oppressed by a grave anxiety, which was not solely due
to her power of imagining gloomy events. Her brother Arius and his sons
were concealed in the house of a friend, for they seemed threatened by a
serious peril. Hitherto Antony had generously borne the philosopher no
ill-will on the score of his intimate relations with Octavianus; but now
that Octavianus was encamped outside the city, the house of the man who,
during the latter's years of education, had been his mentor and
counsellor, and later a greatly valued friend, was watched, by Mardion's
orders, by the Scythian guard. He and his family were forbidden to enter
the city, and his escape to his friend had been effected under cover of
the darkness and with great danger.

The anxious woman feared the worst for her brother if Mark Antony should
conquer, and yet, with her whole heart, she wished the Queen to gain the
victory. She, who always feared the worst, saw in imagination the
fortunes of war change--and there was reason for the belief. The bold
general who had gained so many victories, and whom the defeat of Actium
had only humbled, was said to have regained his former elasticity. He had
dashed forward at the head of his men with the heroic courage of former
days--nay, with reckless impetuosity. Rumour reported that, with the huge
sword he wielded, he had dealt from his powerful charger blows as
terrible as those inflicted five-and-twenty years before when, not far
from the same spot, he struck Archelaus on the head. The statement that,
in his golden armour, with the gold helmet framing his bearded face, he
resembled his ancestor Herakles, was confirmed by Charmian, who had been
borne quickly hither by a pair of the Queen's swift horses. Cleopatra
might need her soon, yet she had left the Lochias to question the father
about many things concerning the young mother and her boy, who was
already dear to her as the first grandson of the man whose suit, it is
true, she had rejected, but to whom she owed the delicious consciousness
of having loved and been loved in the springtime of life.

Dion found her changed. The trying months which she had described in her
letters to Barine had completely blanched her grey hair, her cheeks were
sunken, and a deep line between her mouth and nose gave her pleasant face
a sorrowful expression. Besides, she seemed to have been weeping and, in
fact, heart-rending events had just occurred.

She had stolen away from Lochias in the midst of a revel.

Antony's victory was being celebrated. He himself presided at the
banquet. Again his head and breast were wreathed with a wealth of fresh
leaves and superb flowers. At his side reclined Cleopatra, robed in
light-blue garments adorned with lotus-flowers which, like the little
coronet on her head, glittered with sapphires and pearls. Charmian said
she had rarely looked more beautiful. But she did not add that the Queen
had been obliged to have rouge applied to her pale, bloodless cheeks.

It was touching to see Antony after his return from the battle, still in
his suit of mail, clasp her in his arms as joyously as if he had won her
back, a prize of victory, and with his vanished heroic power regained her
and their mutual love. Her eyes, too, had been radiant with joy and, in
the elation of her heart, she had given the horseman who, for a deed of
special daring, was presented to her, a helmet and coat of mail of solid
gold.

Yet, even before the revel began, she had been forced to acknowledge to
herself that the commencement of the end was approaching; for, a few
hours after she had so generously rewarded the man, he had deserted to
the foe. Then Antony had challenged Octavianus to a duel, and received
the unfeeling reply that he would find many roads to death open.

This was the language of the cold-hearted foe, secure of superior power.
How sadly, too, she had been disappointed in the hope--that the veterans
who had served under Antony would desert their new commander at the first
summons and flock to his standard!--for all her husband's efforts in this
direction, spite of the bewitching power of his eloquence, failed, while
every hour brought tidings of the treacherous desertion from his army of
individual warriors and whole maniples. His foe deemed his cause so weak
that he did not even resist Mark Antony's attempts to win the soldiers by
promises.

From all these signs Cleopatra now saw plainly, in her lover's victory,
only the last flicker of a dying fire; but so long as it burned he should
see her follow its light.

Therefore she had entered the festal hall with the victor of the day. She
had witnessed a strange festival. It began with tears and reminded
Cleopatra of the saying that she herself resembled a banquet served to
celebrate a victory before the battle was won. The cup-bearers had
scarcely advanced to the guests with their golden vessels when Antony
turned to them, exclaiming: "Pour generously, men; perhaps to-morrow you
will serve another master!"

Then, unlike his usual self, he grew thoughtful and murmured under his
breath, "And I shall probably be lying outside a corpse, a miserable
nothing."

Loud sobs from the cup-bearers and servants followed these words; but he
addressed them calmly, assuring them that he would not take them into a
battle from which he expected an honourable death rather than rescue and
victory.

At this Cleopatra's tears flowed also. If this reckless man of pleasure,
this notorious spendthrift and disturber of the public peace, with his
insatiate desires, had inspired bitter hostility, few had gained the warm
love of so many hearts. One glance at his heroic figure; one memory of
the days when even his foes conceded that he was never greater than in
the presence of the most imminent peril, never more capable of awakening
in others the hope of brighter times than amid the sorest privations; one
tone of the orator's deep, resonant voice, which so often came from the
heart and therefore gained hearts with such resistless power; the
recollection of numberless instances of the bright cheerfulness of his
nature and his boundless generosity sufficiently explained the
lamentations which burst forth at that banquet, the tears which
flowed--tears of genuine feeling. They were also shed for the beautiful
Queen who, unmindful of the spectators, rested her noble brow, with its
coronal of pearls, upon his mighty shoulder.

But the grief did not last long, for Mark Antony, shouted: "Hence with
melancholy! We do not need the larva!

   [At the banquets of the Egyptians a small figure in the shape of a
   mummy was passed around to remind the guests that they, too, would
   soon be in the same condition, and have no more time to enjoy life
   and its pleasures. The Romans imitated this custom by sending the
   larva, a statuette in the form of a skeleton, to make the round of
   the revellers. The Greek love of beauty converted this ugly
   scarecrow into a winged genius.]

We know, without its aid, that pleasure will soon be over!--Xuthus, a
joyous festal song!--And you, Metrodor, lead the dancers! The first
beaker to the fairest, the best, the wisest, the most cherished, the most
fervently beloved of women!" As he spoke he waved his goblet aloft, the
flute-player, Xuthus, beckoned to the chorus, and the dancer Metrodor, in
the guise of a butterfly, led forth a bevy of beautiful girls, who, in
the cloud of ample robes of transparent coloured bombyx which floated
around them, executed the most graceful figures and now hovered like
mists, now flitted to and fro as if borne on wings, affording the most
charming variety to the delighted spectators.

The "Comrades of Death" had again become companions in pleasure; and when
Charmian, who did not lose sight of her mistress, noticed the sorrowful
quiver of her lips and glided out of the circle of guests, the faithful
Nubian had approached to inform her of Dion's arrival.

Then--but this she concealed from her friends--she hastened to her own
apartments to prepare to go out, and when Iras opened the door to enter
her rooms she went to speak to her about the night attendance upon the
Queen. But her niece had not perceived her; shaken by convulsive sobs,
she had pressed her face among the cushions of a couch, and there
suffered the fierce anguish which had stirred the inmost depths of her
being to rave itself out with the full vehemence of her passionate
nature. Charmian called her name and, weeping herself, ripened her arms
to her, and for the first time since her return from Actium her sister's
daughter again sank upon her breast, and they held each other in a close
embrace until Charmian's exclamation, "With her, for her unto death!" was
answered by Iras's "To the tomb!"

This was a word which, in many an hour of the silent night, had stirred
the soul of the woman who had been the youthful playmate of the Queen
who, with bleeding heart, sat below among the revellers at the noisy
banquet and forced her to ask the question: "Is not your fate bound to
hers? What can life offer you without her?"

Now, this word was spoken by other lips, and, like an echo of Iras's
exclamation, came the answer: "Unto death, like you, if she precedes us
to the other world. Whatever may follow dying, nowhere shall she lack
Charmian's hand and heart."

"Nor the love and service of Iras," was the answering assurance.

So they had parted, and the agitation of this fateful moment was still
visible in the features of the woman who had formerly sacrificed to her
royal playfellow her love, and now offered her life.

When, ere leaving Gorgias's house, she bade her friend farewell, she
pressed Dion's hand with affectionate warmth and, as he accompanied her
to the carriage, she informed him that, before the first encounter of the
troops, Archibius had taken the royal children to his estate of Irenia,
where they were at present.

"Rarely has it been my fate to experience a more sorrowful hour than when
I beheld the Queen, her heart torn with anguish, bid them fare well. What
fate is impending over the dear ones, who are so worthy of the greatest
happiness? To see the twins and little Alexander recognized and saved
from death and insult, and your boy in Barine's arms, is the last wish
which I still cherish."

On returning to Lochias, Charmian had a long time to wait ere the Queen
retired. She dreaded the mood in which she would leave the banquet. For
months past Cleopatra had returned from the revels of the "Comrades of
Death" saddened to tears, or in a blaze of indignation. How must this
last banquet, which began so mournfully and continued with such reckless
mirth, affect her?

At last, the second hour after midnight, Cleopatra appeared.

Charmian believed that she must be the sport of some delusion, for the
Queen's eyes which, when she had left her, were full of tears, now
sparkled with the radiant light of joy and, as her friend took the crown
from her head, she exclaimed:

"Why did you depart from the banquet so early? Perhaps it was the last,
but I remember no festival more brilliant. It was like the springtime of
my love. Mark Antony would have touched the heart of a stone statue by
that blending of manly daring and humble devotion which no woman can
resist. As in former days, hours shrivelled into moments. We were again
young, once more united. We were together here at Lochias to-night, and
yet in distant years and other places. The notes of the singers, the
melodies of the musicians, the figures executed by the dancers, were lost
upon us. We soared back, hand in hand, to a magic world, and the fairy
drama in the realms of the blessed, which passed before us in dazzling
splendour and blissful joy, was the dream which I loved best when a
child, and at the same time the happiest portion of the life of the Queen
of Egypt.

"It began before the gate of the garden of Epicurus, and continued on the
river Cydnus. I again beheld myself on the golden barge, garlanded with
wreaths of flowers, reclining on the purple couch with roses strewn
around me and beneath my jewelled sandals. A gentle breeze swelled the
silken sails; my female companions raised their clear voices in song to
the accompaniment of lutes; the perfumes floating around us were borne by
the wind to the shore, conveying the tidings that the bliss believed by
mortals to be reserved for the gods alone was drawing near. And even as
his heart and his enraptured senses yielded to my sway, his mind, as he
himself confessed, was under the thrall of mine. We both felt happy,
united by ties which nothing, not even misfortune, could sever. He, the
ruler of the world, was conquered, and delighted to obey the behests of
the victor, because he felt that she before whom he bowed was his own
obedient slave. And no magic goblet effected all this. I breathed more
freely, as if relieved from the oppressive delusion--the fire had
consumed it also--which had burdened my soul until a few hours ago. No
magic spell, only the gifts of mind and soul which the vanquished victor,
the woman Cleopatra, owed to the favour of the immortals, had compelled
his lofty manhood to yield.

"From the Cydnus he brought me hither to the blissful days which we were
permitted to pass in my city of Alexandria. A thousand sunny hours,
musical, echoing surges which long since dashed down the stream of Time,
he recalled to life, and I--I did the same, and our memories blended into
one. What never-to-be-forgotten moments we experienced when, with
reckless mirth, we mingled unrecognized among the joyous throng! What
Olympic delight elated our hearts when the plaudits of thousands greeted
us! What joys satiated our minds and senses in our own apartments! What
pure, unalloyed nectar of the soul was bestowed upon us by our
children--bliss which we shared with and imparted to each other until
neither knew which was the giver and which the receiver! Everything sad
and painful seemed to be effaced from the book of memory; and the child's
dream, the fairy-tale woven by the power of imagination, stood before my
soul as a reality--the same reality, I repeat, which I call my past life.

"And, Charmian, if death comes to-morrow, should I say that he appeared
too early--summoned me ere he permitted life to bestow all its best gifts
upon me? No, no, and again no! Whoever, in the last hour of existence,
can say that the fairest dreams of childhood were surpassed by a long
portion of actual life, may consider himself happy, even in the deepest
need and on the verge of the grave.

"The aspiration to be first and highest among the women of her own time,
which had already thrilled the young girl's heart, was fulfilled. The
ardent longing for love which, even at that period, pervaded my whole
being, was satisfied when I became a loving wife, mother, and Queen, and
friendship, through the favour of Destiny, also bestowed upon me its
greatest blessings by the hands of Archibius, Charmian, and Iras.

"Now I care not what may happen. This evening taught me that life had
fulfilled its pledges. But others, too, must be enabled to remember the
most brilliant of queens, who was also the most fervently beloved of
women. For this I will provide: the mausoleum which Gorgias is erecting
for me will stand like an indestructible wall between the Cleopatra who
to-day still proudly wears the crown and her approaching humiliation and
disgrace.

"Now I will go to sleep. If my awakening brings defeat, sorrow, and
death, I have no reason to accuse my fate. It denied me one thing only
the painless peace which the child and the young girl recognized as the
chief good; yet Cleopatra will possess that also. The domain of death,
which, as the Egyptians say, loves silence, is opening its doors to me.
The most absolute peace begins upon its threshold--who knows where it
ends? The vision of the intellect does not extend far enough to discover
the boundary where, at the end of eternity--which in truth is endless--it
is replaced by something else."

While speaking, the Queen had motioned to her friend to accompany her
into her chamber, from which a door led into the children's room. An
irresistible impulse constrained her to open it and gaze into the dark,
empty apartment.

She felt an icy chill run through her veins. Taking a light from the hand
of one of the maids who attended her, she went to little Alexander's
couch. Like the others, it was empty, deserted. Her head sank on her
breast, the courageous calmness with which she had surveyed her whole
past life failed and, like the luxuriant riot in the sky of the most
brilliant hues, ere the glow of sunset suddenly yields to darkness,
Cleopatra's soul, after the lofty elation of the last few hours,
underwent a sudden transition and, overwhelmed by deep, sorrowful
depression, she threw herself down before the twins' bed, where she lay
weeping softly until Charmian, as day began to dawn, urged her to retire
to rest. Cleopatra slowly rose, dried her eyes, and said: "My past life
seemed to me just now like a magnificent garden, but how many serpents
suddenly stretched out their flat heads with glittering eyes and forked
tongues! Who tore away the flowers beneath which they lay concealed? I
think, Charmian, it was a mysterious power which here, in the children's
apartment, rules so strongly the most trivial as well as the strongest
emotions, it was--when did I last hear that ominous word?--it was
conscience. Here, in this abode of innocence and purity, whatever
resembles a spot stands forth distinctly before the eyes. Here, O
Charmian!--if the children were but here! If I could only--yet, no, no!
It is fortunate, very fortunate that they have gone. I must be strong;
and their sweet grace would rob me of my energy. But the light grows
brighter and brighter. Dress me for the day. It would be easier for me to
sleep in a falling house than with such a tumult in my heart."

While she was being attired in the dark robes she had ordered, loud
shouts arose from the royal harbour below, blended with the blasts of the
tuba and other signals directing the movements of the fleet and the army,
a large body of troops having been marched during the night to the
neighbouring hills overlooking the sea.

The notes sounded bold and warlike. The well-armed galleys presented a
stately appearance. How often Cleopatra had seen unexpected events occur,
apparent impossibilities become possible! Had not the victory of
Octavianus at Actium been a miracle? What if Fate, like a capricious
ruler, now changed from frowns to smiles? What if Antony proved himself
the hero of yesterday, the general he had been in days of yore?

She had refused to see him again before the battle, that she might not
divert his thoughts from the great task approaching. But now, as she
beheld him, clad in glittering armour like the god of war himself, ride
before the troops on his fiery Barbary charger, greeting them with the
gay salutation whose warmth sprung from the heart and which had so often
kindled the warriors to glowing enthusiasm, she was forced to do violence
to her own feelings to avoid calling him and saying that her thoughts
would follow his course. But she refrained, and when his purple cloak
vanished from her sight her head drooped again. How different in former
days were the cheers of the troops when he showed himself to them! This
lukewarm response to his gay, glad greeting was no omen of victory.



CHAPTER XXII.

Dion, too, witnessed the departure of the troops. Gorgias, whom he had
found among the Ephebi, accompanied him and, like the Queen, they saw, in
the cautious manner with which the army greeted the general, a bad omen
for the result of the battle. The architect had presented Dion to the
youths as the ghost of a dead man, who, as soon as he was asked whence he
came or whither he was going, would be compelled to vanish in the form of
a fly. He could venture to do this; he knew the Ephebi--there was no
traitor in their ranks.

Dion, the former head of the society, had been welcomed like a beloved
brother risen from the dead, and he had the gratification, after so long
a time, of turning the scale as speaker in a debate. True, he had
encountered very little opposition, for the resolve to hold aloof from
the battle against the Romans had been urged upon the Ephebi by the Queen
herself through Antyllus, who, however, had already left the meeting when
Dion joined it. It had seemed to Cleopatra a crime to claim the blood of
the noblest sons of the city for a cause which she herself deemed lost.
She knew the parents of many, and feared that Octavianus would inflict a
terrible punishment upon them if, not being enrolled in the army, they
fell into his power with arms in their hands.

The stars were already setting when the Ephebi accompanied their friend,
singing in chorus the Hymenaeus, which they had been unable to chant on
his wedding day. The melody of lutes accompanied the voices, and this
nocturnal music was the source of the rumour that the god Dionysus, to
whom Mark Antony felt specially akin, and in whose form he had so often
appeared to the people, had abandoned him amid songs and music.

The youths left Dion in front of the Temple of Isis. Gorgias alone
remained with him. The architect led his friend to the Queen's mausoleum
near the sanctuary, where men were toiling busily by torchlight. Alight
scaffolding still surrounded it, but the lofty first story, containing
the real tomb, was completed, and Dion admired the art with which the
exterior of the edifice suggested its purpose. Huge blocks of dark-grey
granite formed the walls. The broad front-solemn, almost gloomy in
aspect-rose, sloping slightly, above the massive lofty door, surmounted
by a moulding bearing the winged disk of the sun. On either side were
niches containing statues of Antony and Cleopatra cast in dark bronze,
and above the cornice were brazen figures of Love and Death, Fame and
Silence, ennobling the Egyptian forms with exquisite works of Hellenic
art.

The massive door, adorned with brass figures in relief, would have
resisted a battering-ram. On the side of the steps leading to it lay
Sphinxes of dark-green diorite. Everything connected with this building,
dedicated to death, was grave and massive, suggesting by its
indestructibility the idea of eternity.

The second story was not yet finished; masons and stone-cutters were
engaged in covering the strong walls with dark serpentine and black
marble. The huge windlass stood ready to raise a masterpiece of
Alexandrian art. This was intended for the pediment, and represented
Venus Victrix with helmet, shield, and lance, leading a band of winged
gods of love, little archers at whose head Eros himself was discharging
arrows, and victoriously fighting against the three-headed Cerberus,
death, already bleeding from many wounds.

There was no time to see the interior of the building, for Pyrrhus
expected his guest to join him at the harbour at sunrise, and the eastern
sky was already brightening with the approach of dawn.

As the friends reached the landing-place the brass dome of the Serapeum,
which towered above everything, was glittering with dazzling splendour.

The pennons and masts of the fleet which was about to set sail from the
harbour seemed steeped in a sea of golden light. Tremulous reflections of
the brazen and gilded figures on the prows of the vessels were mirrored
in the undulating surface of the sea, and the long shadows of the banks
of oars united galley after galley on the surface of the water like the
meshes of a net.

Here the friends parted, and Dion walked down the quay alone to meet the
freedman, who must have found it difficult to guide his boat out of this
labyrinth of vessels. The inspection of the mausoleum had detained the
young father too long and, though disguised beyond recognition, he
reproached himself for having recklessly incurred a danger whose
consequences--he felt this to-day for the first time--would not injure
himself alone. The whole fleet was awaiting the signal for departure. The
vessels which did not belong to it had been obliged to moor in front of
the Temple of Poseidon, and all were strictly forbidden to leave the
anchorage.

Pyrrhus's fishing-boat was in the midst, and return to the Serpent Island
was impossible at present.

How vexatious! Barine was ignorant of his trip to the city, and to be
compelled to leave her alone while a naval battle was in progress
directly before her eyes distressed him as much as it could not fail to
alarm her.

In fact, the young mother had waited from early dawn with increasing
anxiety for her husband. As the sun rose higher, and the strokes of the
oars propelling two hundred galleys, the shrill whistle of the flutes
marking the time, the deep voices of the captains shouting orders, and
the blasts of the trumpets filling the air, were heard far and near
around the island, she became so overwhelmed with uneasiness that she
insisted upon going to the shore, though hitherto she had not been
permitted to take the air except under the awning stretched for the
purpose on the shady side of the house.

In vain the women urged her not to let her fears gain the mastery and to
have patience. But she would have resisted even force in order to look
for him who, with her child, now comprised her world.

When, leaning on Helena's arm, she reached the shore, no boat was in
sight. The sea was covered with ships of war, floating fortresses, moving
onward like dragons with a thousand legs whose feet were the countless
rowers arranged in three or five sets. Each of the larger galleys was
surrounded by smaller ones, from most of which darted dazzling flashes of
light, for they were crowded with armed men, and from the prows of the
strong boarding vessels the sunbeams glittered on the large shining metal
points whose office was to pierce the wooden sides of the foe. The gilded
statues in the prows of the large galleys shone and sparkled in the broad
radiance of the day-star, and flashes of light also came from the low
hills on the shore. Here Mark Antony's soldiers were stationed, and the
sunbeams reflected from the helmets, coats of mail, and lance-heads of
the infantry, and the armour of the horsemen quivered with dazzling
brilliancy in the hot air of the first day of an Egyptian August.

Amid this blazing, flashing, and sparkling in the morning air, so steeped
in warmth and radiance, the sounds of warlike preparations from the land
and fleet constantly grew louder. Barine, exhausted, had just sunk into a
chair which Dione, the fisherman's daughter, had placed in the shade of
the highest rock on the northwestern shore of the flat island, when a
crashing blast of the tuba suddenly echoed from all the galleys in the
Egyptian fleet, and the whole array of vessels filed past the Pharos at
the opening of the harbour into the open sea.

There the narrow ranks of the wooden giants separated and moved onward in
broader lines. This was done quietly and in the same faultless order as a
few days before, when a similar manoeuvre had been executed under the
eyes of Mark Antony.

The longing for combat seemed to urge them steadily forward.

The hostile fleet, lying motionless, awaited the attack. But the Egyptian
assailants had advanced majestically only a few ships lengths towards the
Roman foe when another signal rent the air. The women whose ears caught
the waves of sound said afterwards that it seemed like a cry of agony--it
had given the signal for a deed of unequalled treachery. The slaves,
criminals, and the basest of the mercenaries on the rowers' benches in
the hold had doubtless long listened intently for it, and, when it
finally came, the men on the upper benches raised their long oars and
held them aloft, which stopped the work of those below, and every galley
paused, pointing at the next with the wooden oars outstretched like
fingers, as if seized with horror. The celerity and faultless order with
which the raising of the oars was executed and vessel after vessel
brought to a stand would have been a credit to an honourable captain, but
the manoeuvre introduced one of the basest acts ever recorded in history;
and the women, who had witnessed many a naumachza and understood its
meaning, exclaimed as if with a single voice: "Treachery! They are going
over to the enemy!"

Mark Antony's fleet, created for him by Cleopatra, surrendered, down to
the last galley, to Caesar's heir, the victor of Actium; and the man to
whom the sailors had vowed allegiance, who had drilled them, and only
yesterday had urged them to offer a gallant resistance, saw from one of
the downs on the shore the strong weapons on which he had based the
fairest hopes, not shattered, but delivered into the hands of the enemy!

The surrender of the fleet to the foe--he knew it--sealed his
destruction; and the women on the shore of the Serpent Island, who were
so closely connected with those on whom this misfortune fell, suspected
the same thing. The hearts of both were stirred, and their eyes grew dim
with tears of indignation and sorrow. They were Alexandrians, and did not
desire to be ruled by Rome. Cleopatra, daughter of the Macedonian house
of the Ptolemies, had the sole right to govern the city of her ancestors,
founded by the great Macedonian. The sorrow they had themselves endured
through her sank into insignificance beside the tremendous blow of Fate
which in this hour reached the Queen.

The Roman and Egyptian fleet returned to the harbour as one vast squadron
under the same commander, and anchored in the roadstead of the city,
which was now its precious booty.

Barine had seen enough, and returned to the house with drooping head. Her
heart was heavy, and her anxiety for the man she loved hourly increased.

It seemed as if the very day-star shrank from illuminating so infamous a
deed with friendly light; for the dazzling, searching sun of the first of
August veiled its radiant face with a greyish-white mist, and the
desecrated sea wrinkled its brow, changed its pure azure robe to
yellowish grey and blackish green, while the white foam hissed on the
crests of the angry waves.

As twilight began to approach, the anxiety of the deserted wife became
unendurable. Not only Helena's wise words of caution, but the sight of
her child, failed to exert their usual influence; and Barine had already
summoned the son of Pyrrhus to persuade him to take her in his boat to
the city, when Dione saw a boat approaching the Serpent Island from the
direction of the sea.

A short time after, Dion sprang on shore and kissed from his young wife's
lips the reproaches with which she greeted him.

He had heard of the treachery of the fleet while entering a hired boat
with the freedman in the harbour of Eunostus, Pyrrhus's having been
detained with the other craft before the Temple of Poseidon.

The experienced pilot had been obliged to steer the boat in a wider curve
against the wind through the open sea, and was delayed a long time by a
number of the war vessels of the fleet.

Danger and separation were now passed, and they rejoiced in the happiness
of meeting, yet could not feel genuine joy. Their souls were oppressed by
anxiety concerning the fate of the Queen and their native city.

As night closed in the dogs barked violently, and they heard loud voices
on the shore. Dion, with a presentiment that misfortune was threatening
himself and his dear ones, obeyed the summons.

No star illumined the darkness. Only the wavering light of a lantern on
the strand and another on the nearest island illumined the immediate
vicinity, while southward the lights in the city shone as brightly as
ever.

Pyrrhus and his youngest son were just pushing a boat into the water to
release from the sands another which had run aground in a shallow near
the neighbouring island.

Dion sprang in with them, and soon recognized in the hail the voice of
the architect Gorgias.

The young father shouted a joyous greeting to his friend, but there was
no reply.

Soon after, Pyrrhus landed his belated guest on the shore. He had
escaped--as the fisherman explained--a great danger; for had he gone to
the other island, which swarmed with venomous serpents, he might easily
have fallen a victim to the bite of one of the reptiles.

Gorgias grasped Dion's hand but, in reply to his gay invitation to
accompany him to the house at once, he begged him to listen to his story
before joining the ladies.

Dion was startled. He knew his friend. When his deep voice had such a
tone of gloomy discouragement, and his head drooped so mournfully, some
terrible event had befallen him.

His foreboding had been correct. The first tidings pierced his own soul
deeply.

He was not surprised to learn that the Romans ruled Alexandria; but a
small band of the conquerors, who had been ordered to conduct themselves
as if they were in a friendly country, had forced their way into the
architect's large house to occupy the quarters assigned to them. The deaf
grandmother of Helena and Barine, who had but half comprehended what
threatened the citizens, terrified by the noisy entrance of the soldiers,
had had another attack of apoplexy, and closed her eyes in death before
Gorgias set out for the island.

But it was not only this sad event, which must grieve the hearts of the
two sisters, that had brought the architect in a stranger's boat to the
Serpent Island at so late an hour. His soul was so agitated by the
horrible incidents of the day that he needed to seek consolation among
those from whom he was sure to find sympathy.

Nor was it wholly the terrible things Fate had compelled him to witness
which induced him to venture out upon the sea so recklessly, but still
more the desire to bring to the fugitives the happy news that they might
return with safety to their native city.

Deeply agitated--nay, confused and overpowered by all he had seen and
experienced--the architect, usually so clear and, with all his mental
vivacity, so circumspect, began his story. A remonstrance from Dion
induced him to collect his thoughts and describe events in the order in
which they had befallen him.



     ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

     Fairest dreams of childhood were surpassed
     Golden chariot drawn by tamed lions
     Life had fulfilled its pledges
     Until neither knew which was the giver and which the receiver



CLEOPATRA

By Georg Ebers

Volume 9.



CHAPTER XXIII.

After accompanying Dion to the harbour, the architect had gone to the
Forum to converse with the men he met there, and learn what they feared
and expected in regard to the future fate of the city.

All news reached this meeting-place first, and he found a large number of
Macedonian citizens who, like himself, wished to discuss passing events
in these decisive hours.

The scene was very animated, for the most contradictory messages were
constantly arriving from the fleet and the army.

At first they were very favourable; then came the news of the treason,
and soon after of the desertion of the cavalry and foot soldiers.

A distinguished citizen had seen Mark Antony, accompanied by several
friends, dashing down the quay. The goal of their flight was the little
palace on the Choma.

Grave men, whose opinion met with little opposition, thought that it was
the duty of the Imperator--now that Fate had decided against him, and
nothing remained save a life sullied by disgrace--to put himself to death
with his own hand, like Brutus and so many other noble Romans. Tidings
soon came that he had attempted to do what the best citizens expected.

Gorgias could not endure to remain longer in the Forum, but hastened to
the Choma, though it was difficult to force his way to the wall, where a
breach had been made. He had found the portion of the shore from which
the promontory ran densely crowded with people--from whom he learned that
Antony was no longer in the palace--and the sea filled with boats.

A corpse was just being borne out of the little palace on the Street of
the King and, among those who followed, Gorgias recognized one of
Antony's slaves. The man's eyes were red with weeping. He readily obeyed
the architect's sign and, sobbing bitterly, told him that the hapless
general, after his army had betrayed him, fled hither. When he heard in
the palace that Cleopatra had preceded him to Hades, he ordered his
body-slave Eros to put an end to his life also. The worthy man drew back,
pierced his own breast with his sword, and sank dying at his master's
feet; but Antony, exclaiming that Eros's example had taught him his duty,
thrust the short sword into his breast with his own hand. Yet deep and
severe as was the wound, it did not destroy the tremendous vitality of
the gigantic Roman. With touching entreaties he implored the bystanders
to kill him, but no one could bring himself to commit the deed. Meanwhile
Cleopatra's name, coupled with the wish to follow her, was constantly on
the lips of the Imperator.

At last Diomedes, the Queen's private secretary, appeared, to bring him,
by her orders, to the mausoleum where she had taken refuge.

Antony, as if animated with fresh vigour, assented, and while being
carried thither gave orders that Eros should have a worthy burial. Even
though dying, it would have been impossible for the most generous of
masters to permit any kindness rendered to pass unrequited.

The slave again wept aloud as he uttered the words, but Gorgias hastened
at once to the tomb. The nearest way, the Street of the King, had become
so crowded with people who had been forced back by Roman soldiers,
between the Theatre of Dionysus and the Corner of the Muses, that he had
been compelled to reach the building through a side street.

The quay was already unrecognizable, and even in the other streets the
populace showed a foreign aspect. Instead of peaceful citizens, Roman
soldiers in full armour were met everywhere. Instead of Greek, Egyptian,
and Syrian faces, fair and dark visages of alien appearance were seen.

The city seemed transformed into a camp. Here he met a cohort of
fair-haired Germans; yonder another with locks of red whose home he did
not know; and again a vexil of Numidian or Pannonian horsemen.

At the Temple of the Dioscuri he was stopped. A Hispanian maniple had
just seized Antony's son Antyllus and, after a hasty court-martial,
killed him. His tutor, Theodotus, had betrayed him to the Romans, but the
infamous fellow was being led with bound hands after the corpse of the
hapless youth, because he was caught in the act of hiding in his girdle a
costly jewel which he had taken from his neck. Before his departure for
the island Gorgias heard that the scoundrel had been sentenced to
crucifixion.

At last he succeeded in forcing a passage to the tomb, which he found
surrounded on all sides by Roman lictors and the Scythian guards of the
city, who, however, permitted him, as the architect, to pass.

The numerous obstacles by which he had been delayed spared him from
becoming an eye-witness of the most terrible scenes of the tragedy which
had just ended; but he received a minute description from the Queen's
private secretary, a well-disposed Macedonian, who had accompanied the
wounded Antony, and with whom Gorgias had become intimately acquainted
during the building of the mausoleum.

Cleopatra had fled to the tomb as soon as the fortune of war turned in
favour of Octavianus. No one was permitted to accompany her except
Charmian and Iras, who had helped her close the heavy brazen door of the
massive building. The false report of her death, which had induced Antony
to put an end to his life, had perhaps arisen from the fact that the
Queen was literally in the tomb.

When, borne in the arms of his faithful servants, he reached the
mausoleum, mortally wounded, the Queen and her attendants vainly
endeavoured to open the heavy brazen portal. But Cleopatra ardently
longed to see her dying lover. She wished to have him near to render the
last services, assure him once more of her devotion, close his eyes, and,
if it was so ordered, die with him.

So she and her attendants had searched the place, and when Iras spoke of
the windlass which stood on the scaffold to raise the heavy brass plate
bearing the bas-relief of Love conquering Death, the Queen and her
friends hastened up the stairs, the bearer below fastened the wounded man
to the rope, and Cleopatra herself stood at the windlass to raise him,
aided by her faithful companions.

Diomedes averred that he had never beheld a more piteous spectacle than
the gigantic man hovering between heaven and earth in the agonies of
death and, while suffering the most terrible torture, extending his arms
longingly towards the woman he loved. Though scarcely able to speak, he
tenderly called her name, but she made no reply; like Iras and Charmian,
she was exerting her whole strength at the windlass in the most
passionate effort to raise him. The rope running over the pulley cut her
tender hands; her beautiful face was terribly distorted; but she did not
pause until they had succeeded in lifting the burden of the dying man
higher and higher till he reached the floor of the scaffolding. The
frantic exertion by which the three women had succeeded in accomplishing
an act far beyond their strength, though it was doubled by the power of
the most earnest will and ardent longing, would nevertheless have failed
in attaining its object had not Diomedes, at the last moment, come to
their assistance. He was a strong man, and by his aid the dying Roman was
seized, drawn upon the scaffolding, and carried down the staircase to the
tomb in the first story.

When the wounded general had been laid on one of the couches with which
the great hall was already furnished, the private secretary retired, but
remained on the staircase, an unnoticed spectator, in order to be at hand
in case the Queen again needed his assistance. Flushed from the terrible
exertion which she had just made, with tangled, dishevelled locks,
gasping and moaning, Cleopatra, as if out of her senses, tore open her
robe, beat her breast, and lacerated it with her nails. Then, pressing
her own beautiful face on her lover's wound to stanch the flowing blood,
she lavished upon him all the endearing names which she had bestowed on
their love.

His terrible suffering made her forget her own and the sad fate
impending. Tears of pity fell like the refreshing drops of a shower upon
the still unwithered blossoms of their love, and brought those which,
during the preceding night, had revived anew, to their last magnificent
unfolding.

Boundless, limitless as her former passion for this man, was now the
grief with which his agonizing death filled her heart.

All that Mark Antony had been to her in the heyday of life, all their
mutual experiences, all that each had received from the other, had
returned to her memory in clear and vivid hues during the banquet which
had closed a few hours ago. Now these scenes, condensed into a narrow
compass, again passed before her mental vision, but only to reveal more
distinctly the depth of misery of this hour. At last anguish forced even
the clearest memories into oblivion: she saw nothing save the tortures of
her lover; her brain, still active, revealed solely the gulf at her feet,
and the tomb which yawned not only for Antony, but for herself.

Unable to think of the happiness enjoyed in the past or to hope for it in
the future, she gave herself up to uncontrolled despair, and no woman of
the people could have yielded more absolutely to the consuming grief
which rent her heart, or expressed it in wilder, more frantic language,
than did this great Queen, this woman who as a child had been so
sensitive to the slightest suffering, and whose after-life had certainly
not taught her to bear sorrow with patience. After Charmian, at the dying
man's request, had given him some wine, he found strength to speak
coherently, instead of moaning and sighing.

He tenderly urged Cleopatra to secure her own safety, if it could be done
without dishonour, and mentioned Proculejus as the man most worthy of her
confidence among the friends of Octavianus. Then he entreated her not to
mourn for him, but to consider him happy; for he had enjoyed the richest
favours of Fortune. He owed his brightest hours to her love; but he had
also been the first and most powerful man on earth. Now he was dying in
the arms of Love, honourable as a Roman who succumbed to Romans.

In this conviction he died after a short struggle.

Cleopatra had watched his last breath, closed his eyes, and then thrown
herself tearlessly on her lover's body. At last she fainted, and lay
unconscious with her head upon his marble breast.

The private secretary had witnessed all this, and then returned with
tearful eyes to the second story. There he met Gorgias, who had climbed
the scaffolding, and told him what he had seen and heard from the stairs.
But his story was scarcely ended when a carriage stopped at the Corner of
the Muses and an aristocratic Roman alighted. This was the very
Proculejus whom the dying Antony had recommended to the woman he loved as
worthy of her confidence.

"In fact," Gorgias continued, "he seemed in form and features one of the
noblest of his haughty race. He came commissioned by Octavianus, and is
said to be warmly devoted to the Caesar, and a well-disposed man. We have
also heard him mentioned as a poet and a brother-in-law of Maecenas. A
wealthy aristocrat, he is a generous patron of literature, and also holds
art and science in high esteem. Timagenes lauds his culture and noble
nature. Perhaps the historian was right; but where the object in question
is the state and its advantage, what we here regard as worthy of a free
man appears to be considered of little moment at the court of Octavianus.
The lord to whom he gives his services intrusted him with a difficult
task, and Proculejus doubtless considered it his duty to make every
effort to perform it--and yet----If I see aright, a day will come when he
will curse this, and the obedience with which he, a free man, aided
Caesar But listen.

"Erect and haughty in his splendid suit of armour, he knocked at the door
of the tomb. Cleopatra had regained consciousness and asked--she must
have known him in Rome--what he desired.

"He had come, he answered courteously, by the command of Octavianus, to
negotiate with her, and the Queen expressed her willingness to listen,
but refused to admit him into the mausoleum.

"So they talked with each other through the door. With dignified
composure, she asked to have the sons whom she had given to Antony--not
Caasarion--acknowledged as Kings of Egypt.

"Proculejus instantly promised to convey her wishes to Caesar, and gave
hopes of their fulfilment.

"While she was speaking of the children and their claims--she did not
mention her own future--the Roman questioned her about Mark Antony's
death, and then described the destruction of the dead man's army and
other matters of trivial importance. Proculejus did not look like a
babbler, but I felt a suspicion that he was intentionally trying to hold
the attention of the Queen. This proved to be his design; he had been
merely waiting for Cornelius Gallus, the commander of the fleet, of whom
you have heard. He, too, ranks among the chief men in Rome, and yet he
made himself the accomplice of Proculejus.

"The latter retired as soon as he had presented the new-comer to the
hapless woman.

"I remained at my post and now heard Gallus assure Cleopatra of his
master's sympathy. With the most bombastic exaggeration he described how
bitterly Octavianus mourned in Mark Antony the friend, the
brother-in-law, the co-ruler and sharer in so many important enterprises.
He had shed burning tears over the tidings of his death. Never had more
sincere ones coursed down any man's cheeks.

"Gallus, too, seemed to me to be intentionally prolonging the
conversation.

"Then, while I was listening intently to understand Cleopatra's brief
replies, my foreman, who, when the workmen were driven away by the
Romans, had concealed himself between two blocks of granite, came to me
and said that Proculejus had just climbed a ladder to the scaffold in the
rear of the monument. Two servants followed, and they had all stolen down
into the hall.

"I hastily started up. I had been lying on the floor with my head
outstretched to listen.

"Cost what it might, the Queen must be warned. Treachery was certainly at
work here.

"But I came too late.

"O Dion! If I had only been informed a few minutes before, perhaps
something still more terrible might have happened, but the Queen would
have been spared what now threatens her. What can she expect from the
conqueror who, in order to seize her alive, condescends to outwit a
noble, defenceless woman, who has succumbed to superior power?

"Death would have released the unhappy Queen from sore trouble and
horrible shame. And she had already raised the dagger against her life.
Before my eyes she flung aloft her beautiful arm with the flashing steel,
which glittered in the light of the candles in the many-branched
candelabra beside the sarcophagi. But I will try to remain calm! You
shall hear what happened in regular order. My thoughts grow confused as
the terrible scene recurs to my memory. To describe it as I saw it, I
should need to be a poet, an artist in words; for what passed before me
happened on a stage--you know, it was a tomb. The walls were of dark
stone-dark, too, were the pillars and ceiling--all dark and glittering;
most portions were smoothly polished stone, shining like a mirror. Near
the sarcophagi, and around the candelabra as far as the vicinity of the
door, where the rascally trick was played, the light was brilliant as in
a festal hall. Every blood-stain on the hand, every scratch, every wound
which the desperate woman had torn with her own nails on her bosom, which
gleamed snow-white from her black robes, was distinctly visible. Farther
away, on the right and left, the light was dim, and near the side walls
the darkness was as intense as in a real tomb. On the smooth porphyry
columns, the glittering black marble and serpentine--here, there, and
everywhere--flickered the wavering reflection of the candlelight. The
draught kept it continually in motion, and it wavered to and fro in the
hall, like the restless souls of the damned. Wherever the eye turned it
met darkness. The end of the hall seemed black--black as the anteroom of
Hades--yet through it pierced a brilliant moving bar; sunbeams which
streamed from the stairway into the tomb and amid which danced tiny
motes. How the scene impressed the eye! The home of gloomy Hecate! And
the Queen and her impending fate. A picture flooded with light, standing
forth in radiant relief against the darkness of the heavy, majestic forms
surrounding it in a wide circle. This tomb in this light would be a
palace meet for the gloomy rule of the king of the troop of demons
conjured up by the power of a magician--if they have a ruler. But where
am I wandering? 'The artist!' I hear you exclaim again, 'the artist!
Instead of rushing forward and interposing, he stands studying the light
and its effects in the royal tomb.' Yes, yes; I had come too late, too
late--far too late! On the stairs leading to the lower story of the
building I saw it, but I was not to blame for the delay--not in the
least!

"At first I had been unable to see the men--or even a shadow; but I
beheld plainly in the brightest glare of the light the body of Mark
Antony on the couch and, in the dusk farther towards the right, Iras and
Charmian trying to raise a trapdoor. It was the one which closed the
passage leading to the combustible materials stored in the cellar. A sign
from the Queen had commanded them to fire it. The first steps of the
staircase, down which I was hastening, were already behind me--then--then
Proculejus, with two men, suddenly dashed from the intense darkness on
the other side. Scarcely able to control myself, I sprang down the
remaining steps, and while Iras's shrill cry, 'Poor Cleopatra, they will
capture you!' still rang in my ears, I saw the betrayed Queen turn from
the door through which, resolved on death, she was saying something to
Gallus, perceive Proculejus close behind her, thrust her hand into her
girdle, and with the speed of lightning--you have already heard so--throw
up her arm with the little dagger to bury the sharp blade in her breast.
What a picture! In the full radiance of the brilliant light, she
resembled a statue of triumphant victory or of noble pride in great deeds
accomplished; and then, then, only an instant later, what an outrage was
inflicted!

"Like a robber, an assassin, Proculejus rushed upon her, seized her arm,
and wrested the weapon from her grasp. His tall figure concealed her from
me. But when, struggling to escape from the ruffian's clutch, she again
turned her face towards the hall, what a transformation had occurred! Her
eyes--you know how large they are--were twice their usual size, and
blazed with scorn, fury, and hatred for the traitor. The cheering light
had become a consuming fire. So I imagine the vengeance, the curse which
calls down ruin upon the head of a foe. And Proculejus, the great lord,
the poet whose noble nature is praised by the authors on the banks of the
Tiber, held the defenceless woman, the worthy daughter of a brilliant
line of kings, in a firm grasp, as if it required the exertion of all his
strength to master this delicate embodiment of charming womanhood. True,
the proud blood of the outwitted lioness urged her to resist this
profanation, and Proculejus--an enviable honour--made her feel the
superior strength of his arm. I am no prophet, but Dion, I repeat, this
shameful struggle and the glances which flashed upon him will be
remembered to his dying hour. Had they been darted at me, I should have
cursed my life.

"They blanched even the Roman's cheeks. He was lividly pale as he
completed what he deemed his duty. His own aristocratic hands were
degraded to the menial task of searching the garments of a woman, the
Queen, for forbidden wares, poisons or weapons. He was aided by one of
Caesar's freedmen, Epaphroditus, who is said to stand so high in the
favour of Octavianus.

"The scoundrel also searched Iras and Charmian, yet all the time both
Romans constantly spoke in cajoling terms of Caesar's favour; and his
desire to grant Cleopatra everything which was due a Queen.

"At last she was taken back to Lochias, but I felt like a madman; for the
image of the unfortunate woman pursued me like my shadow. It was no
longer a vision of the bewitching sovereign nay, it resembled the
incarnation of despair, tearless anguish, wrath demanding vengeance. I
will not describe it; but those eyes, those flashing, threatening eyes,
and the tangled hair on which Antony's blood had flowed-terrible,
horrible! My heart grew chill, as if I had seen upon Athene's shield the
head of the Medusa with its serpent locks.

"It had been impossible for me to warn her in time, or even to seize the
traitor's arm--I have already said so--and yet, yet her shining image
gazed reproachfully at me for my cowardly delay. Her glance still haunts
me, robbing me of calmness and peace. Not until I gaze into Helena's
pure, calm eyes will that terrible vision of the face, flooded by light
in the midst of the tomb, cease to haunt me."

His friend laid his hand on his arm, spoke soothingly to him, and
reminded him of the blessings which this terrible day--he had said so
himself--had brought.

Dion was right to give this warning; for Gorgias's bearing and the very
tone of his voice changed as he eagerly declared that the frightful
events had been followed by more than happy ones for the city, his
friend, and Barine.

Then, with a sigh of relief, he continued: "I pursued my way home like a
drunken man. Every attempt to approach the Queen or her attendants was
baffled, but I learned from Charmian's clever Nubian that Cleopatra had
been permitted, in Caesar's name, to choose the palace she desired to
occupy, and had selected the one at Lochias.

"I did not make much progress towards my house; the crowd in front of the
great gymnasium stopped me. Octavianus had gone into the city, and the
people, I heard, had greeted him with acclamations and flung themselves
on their knees before him. Our stiff-necked Alexandrians in the dust
before the victor! It enraged me, but my resentment was diminished.

"The members of the gymnasium all knew me. They made way and, ere I was
aware of it, I had passed through the door. Tall Phryxus had drawn my arm
through his. He appears and vanishes at will, is as alert as he is rich,
sees and hears everything, and manages to secure the best places. This
time he had again succeeded; for when he released me we were standing
opposite to a newly erected tribune.

"They were waiting for Octavianus, who was still in the hypostyle of
Euergetes receiving the homage of the epitrop, the members of the
Council, the gymnasiarch, and I know not how many others.

"Phryxus said that on Caesar's entry he had held out his hand to his
former tutor, bade him accompany him, and commanded that his sons should
be presented. The philosopher had been distinguished above every one
else, and this will benefit you and yours; for he is Berenike's brother,
and therefore your wife's uncle. What he desires is sure to be granted.
You will hear at once how studiously the Caesar distinguishes him. I do
not grudge it to the man; he interceded boldly for Barine; he is lauded
as an able scholar, and he does not lack courage. In spite of Actium and
the only disgraceful deed with which, to my knowledge, Mark Antony could
be reproached--I mean the surader of Turullius--Arius remained here,
though the Imperator might have held the friend of Julius Caesar's nephew
as a hostage as easily as he gave up the Emperor's assassin.

"Since Octavianus encamped before the city, your uncle has been in
serious danger, and his sons shared his peril. Surely you must know the
handsome, vigorous young Ephebi.

"We were not obliged to wait long in the gymnasium ere the Caesar
appeared on the platform; and now--if your hand clenches, it is only what
I expect--now all fell on their knees. Our turbulent, rebellious rabble
raised their hands like pleading beggars, and grave, dignified men
followed their example. Whoever saw me and Phryxus will remember us among
the kneeling lickspittles; for had we remained standing we should
certainly have been dragged down. So we followed the example of the
others."

"And Octavianus?" asked Dion eagerly.

"A man of regal bearing and youthful aspect; beardless face of the finest
chiselling, a profile as beautiful as if created for the coin-maker; all
the lines sharp and yet pleasing; every inch an aristocrat; but the very
mirror of a cold nature, incapable of any lofty aspiration, any warm
emotion, any tenderness of feeling. All in all, a handsome, haughty,
calculating man, whose friendship would hardly benefit the heart, but
from whose enmity may the immortals guard all we love!

"Again he led Arius by the hand. The philosopher's sons followed the
pair. When he stood on the stage, looking down upon the thousands
kneeling before him, not a muscle of his noble face--it is certainly
that--betrayed the slightest emotion. He gazed at us like a farmer
surveying his flocks and, after a long silence, said curtly in excellent
Greek that he absolved the Alexandrians from all guilt towards him:
first--he counted as if he were summoning individual veterans to reward
them--from respect for the illustrious founder of our city, Alexander,
the conqueror of the world; secondly, because the greatness and beauty of
Alexandria filled him with admiration; and, thirdly--he turned to Arius
as he spoke--to give pleasure to his admirable and beloved friend.

"Then shouts of joy burst forth.

"Every one, from the humblest to the greatest, had had a heavy burden
removed from his mind, and the throng had scarcely left the gymnasium
when they were again laughing saucily enough, and there was no lack of
biting and innocent jests.

"The fat carpenter, Memnon--who furnished the wood-work for your
palace--exclaimed close beside me that formerly a dolphin had saved Arius
from the pirates; now Arius was saving marine Alexandria from the
robbers. So the sport went on. Philostratus, Barine's first husband,
offered the best butt for jests. The agitator had good reason to fear the
worst; and now, clad in black mourning robes, ran after Arius, whom but a
few months ago he persecuted with the most vindictive hatred, continually
repeating this shallow bit of verse:

     "'If he is a wise man, let the wise aid the wise.'

"Reaching home was not easy. The street was swarming with Roman soldiers.
They fared well enough; for in the joy of their hearts many a prosperous
citizen who saw his property saved invited individual warriors, or even a
whole maniple, to the taverns or cook-shops, and the stock of wine in
Alexandrian cellars will be considerably diminished to-night.

"Many, as I have already said, had been quartered in the houses, with
orders to spare the property of the citizens; and it was in this way that
the misfortune with which I commenced my narrative befell the
grandmother. She died before my departure.

"All the gates of the city will now stand open to you, and the niece of
Arius and her husband will be received with ovations. I don't grudge
Barine the good fortune; for the way in which your noble wife, who had
cast her spell over me too, flung aside what is always dear to the
admired city beauty and found on the loneliest of islands a new world in
love, is worthy of all admiration and praise. For yourself, I dread new
happiness and honours; if they are added to those which Fate bestowed
upon you in such a wife and your son Pyrrhus, the gods would not be
themselves if they did not pursue you with their envy. I have less reason
to fear them."

"Ungrateful fellow!" interrupted his friend. "There will be numerous
mortals to grudge you Helena. As for me, I have already felt many a
slight foreboding; but we have already paid by no means a small tribute
to the divine ones. The lamp is still burning in the sitting-room. Inform
the sisters of their grandmother's death, and tell them the pleasant
tidings you have brought us, but reserve until the morning a description
of the terrible scenes you witnessed. We will not spoil their sleep. Mark
my words! Helena's silent grief and her joy at our escape will lighten
your heart."

And so it proved. True, Gorgias lived over again in his dreams the
frightful spectacle witnessed the day before; but when the sun of the 2d
day of August rose in full radiance over Alexandria and, early in the
morning, boat after boat reached the Serpent Island, landing first
Berenike and her nephews, the sons of the honoured philosopher Arius,
then clients, officials, and friends of Dion, and former favourite guests
of Barine, to greet the young pair and escort them from the refuge which
had so long sheltered them back to the city and their midst, new and
pleasant impressions robbed the gloomy picture of a large portion of its
terrors.

"Tall Phryxus" had rapidly spread the news of the place where Dion and
Barine had vanished, and that they had long been happily wedded. Many
deemed it well worth a short voyage to see the actors in so strange an
adventure and be the first to greet them. Besides, those who knew Barine
and her husband were curious to learn how two persons accustomed to the
life of a great capital had endured for months such complete solitude.
Many feared or expected to see them emaciated and careworn, haggard or
sunk in melancholy, and hence there were a number of astonished faces
among those whose boats the freedman Pyrrhus guided as pilot through the
shallows which protected his island.

The return of this rare couple to their home would have afforded an
excellent opportunity for gay festivities. Sincerely as the majority of
the populace mourned the fate of the Queen, and gravely as the more
thoughtful feared for Alexandria's freedom under Roman rule, all rejoiced
over the lenient treatment of the city. Their lives and property were
safe, and the celebration of festivals had become a life habit with all
classes. But the news of the death of Didymus's wife and the illness of
the old man, who could not bear up under the loss of his faithful
companion, gave Dion a right to refuse any gay welcome at his home.

Barine's sorrow was his also, and Didymus died a few days after his wife,
with whom he had lived in the bonds of love for more than half a
century--people said, "of a broken heart."

So Dion and his young wife entered his beautiful palace with no noisy
festivities. Instead of the jubilant hymenaeus, the voice of his own
child greeted him on the threshold.

The mourning garments in which Barine welcomed him in the women's
apartment reminded him of the envy of the gods which his friend had
feared for him. But he often fancied that his mother's statue in the
tablinum looked specially happy when the young mistress of the house
entered it.

Barine, too, felt that her happiness as wife and mother in her
magnificent home would have been overwhelming had not a wise destiny
imposed upon her, just at this time, grief for those whom she loved.

Dion instantly devoted himself again to the affairs of the city and his
own business. He and the woman he loved, who had first become really his
own during a time of sore privation, had run into the harbour and gazed
quietly at the storms of life. The anchor of love, which moored their
ship to the solid earth, had been tested in the solitude of the Serpent
Island.



CHAPTER XXIV.

The fisherman and his family had watched the departure of their beloved
guests with sorrowful hearts, and the women had shed many tears, although
the sons of Pyrrhus had been dismissed from the fleet and were again
helping their father at home, as in former times.

Besides, Dion had made the faithful freedman a prosperous man, and given
his daughter, Dione, a marriage dowry. She was soon to become the wife of
the captain of the Epicurus, Archibius's swift galley, whose acquaintance
she had made when the vessel, on several occasions, brought Charmian's
Nubian maid to the island. Anukis's object in making these visits was not
only to see her friend, but to induce him to catch one of the poisonous
serpents in the neighbouring island and keep it ready for the Queen.

Since Cleopatra had ascertained that no poison caused a less painful
death than the fangs of the asp, she had resolved that the bite of one of
these reptiles should release her from the burden of life. The clever
Ethiopian had thought of inducing her friend Pyrrhus to procure the
adder, but it had required all Aisopion's skill in persuasion, and the
touching manner in which she understood how to describe the Queen's
terrible situation and severe suffering, to conquer the reluctance of the
upright man. At last she succeeded in persuading him to measure a queen
by a different standard from a woman of the people, and inducing him to
arrange the manner and time of conveying the serpent into the
well-guarded palace. A signal was to inform him when the decisive hour
arrived. After that he was to be ready with the asp in the fish-market
every day. Probably his service would soon be claimed; for Octavianus's
delay was scarcely an indication of a favourable decision of Cleopatra's
fate.

True, she was permitted to live in royal state at Lochias, and had even
been allowed to have the children, the twins, and little Alexander sent
back to her with the promise that life and liberty would be granted them;
but Caesarion--whose treacherous tutor Rhodon lured him from the journey
southward back to Alexandria by all sorts of representations, among them
the return of Barine--was held prisoner in his father's temple, where he
had sought refuge. This news, and the fact that Octavianus had condemned
to death the youth who bore so striking a resemblance to Caesar, had not
remained concealed from the unhappy mother. She was also informed of the
words in which the philosopher Arius had encouraged Caesar's desire to
rid himself of the son of his famous uncle. They referred to the Homeric
saying concerning the disadvantage of having many rulers.

Everything which Cleopatra desired to know concerning events in the city
reached her ears; for she was allowed much liberty-only she was closely
watched day and night, and all the servants and officials to whom she
granted an audience were carefully searched to keep from her all means of
self-destruction.

True, it was very evident that she had closed her account with life. Her
attempt to take no food and die of starvation must have been noticed.
Threats directed against the children, through whom she could be most
easily influenced, finally induced her to eat again. Octavianus was
informed of all these things, and his conduct proved his anxiety to keep
her from suicide.

Several Asiatic princes vied with each other in the desire to honour Mark
Antony by a magnificent funeral, but Octavianus had allowed Cleopatra to
provide the most superb obsequies. In the time of her deepest anguish it
afforded her comfort and satisfaction to arrange everything herself, and
even perform some offices with her own hands. The funeral had been as
gorgeous as the dead man's love of splendour could have desired.

Iras and Charmian were often unable to understand how the Queen--who,
since Antony's death, had suffered not only from the wounds she had
inflicted upon herself in her despair, but also after her baffled attempt
at starvation from a slow fever--had succeeded in resisting the severe
exertions and mental agitation to which she had been subjected by
Antony's funeral.

The return of Archibius with the children, however, had visibly
reanimated her flagging energy. She often went to Didymus's garden, which
was now connected with the palace at Lochias, to watch their work and
share whatever interested their young hearts.

But the gayest of mothers, who had understood how to enter so thoroughly
into her children's pursuits, had now become a sorrowful, grave monitor.
Though the lessons she urged upon them were often beautiful and wise,
they were little suited to the ages of Archibius's pupils, for they
usually referred to death and to questions of philosophy not easily
understood by children.

She herself felt that she no longer struck the right key; but whenever
she tried to change it and jest with them as usual, she could endure the
forced gaiety only a short time; a painful revulsion, frequently
accompanied by tears, followed, and she was obliged to leave her
darlings.

The life her foe granted her seemed like an intrusive gift, an oppressive
debt, which we desire to pay a troublesome creditor as soon as possible.
She seemed calmer and apparently content only when permitted to talk with
the companions of her youth concerning bygone days, or with them and Iras
of death, and how it would be possible to put an end to an unwelcome
existence.

After such conversations Iras and Charmian left her with bleeding hearts.
They had long since resolved to share the fate of their royal mistress,
whatever it might be. Their common suffering was the bond which again
united them in affection. Iras had provided poisoned pins which had
speedily destroyed the animals upon which they had been tried. Cleopatra
knew of their existence, but she herself preferred the painless death
bestowed by the serpent's bite, and it was long since her friends had
seen the eyes of their beloved sovereign sparkle so brightly as when
Charmian told her that away had been found to obtain the uraeus serpent
as soon as it was needed. Put it was not yet imperative to adopt the last
expedient. Octavianus wished to be considered lenient, and perhaps might
still be prevailed upon to grant the Queen and her children a future meet
for their royal birth.

Cleopatra's reply was an incredulous smile, yet a faint hope which saved
her from despair began to bud in her soul.

Dolabella, an aristocratic Roman, a scion of the noble Cornelius family,
was in the Caesar's train, and had been presented to the Egyptian Queen.
In former years his father was a friend of Cleopatra; nay, she had placed
him under obligations by sending him, after the murder of Julius Caesar,
the military force at her command to be used against Cassius. True, her
legions, by messengers from Dolabella himself, were despatched in another
direction; but Cleopatra had not withdrawn her favour from Dolabella's
father on that account. The latter had known her in Rome before the death
of Caesar, and had enthusiastically described the charms of the
bewitching Egyptian sovereign. Though the youth found her only a mourning
widow, ill in body and mind, he was so strongly attracted and deeply
moved by her beauty, her brilliant intellect, her grace of bearing, her
misfortunes and sufferings, that he devoted many hours to her, and would
have considered it a happiness to render her greater services than
circumstances permitted. He often accompanied her to the children, whose
hearts had been completely won by his frank, cheerful nature; and so it
happened that he soon became one of the most welcome guests at Lochias.
He confided without reserve every feeling that stirred his soul to the
warm-hearted woman who was so many years his senior, and through him she
learned many things connected with Octavianus and his surroundings.
Without permitting himself to be used as a tool, he became an advocate
for the unfortunate woman whom he so deeply esteemed.

In intercourse with her he made every effort to inspire confidence in
Octavianus, who favoured him, enjoyed his society, and in whose
magnanimity the youth firmly believed.

He anticipated the best results from an interview between the Queen and
the Caesar; for he deemed it impossible that the successful conqueror
could part untouched, and with no desire to mitigate her sad fate, from
the woman who, in earlier years, had so fascinated his father, and whom
he himself, though she might almost have been his mother, deemed peerless
in her bewitching and gracious charm.

Cleopatra, on the contrary, shrank from meeting the man who had brought
so much misfortune upon Mark Antony and herself, and inflicted upon her
insults which were only too well calculated to make her doubt his
clemency and truth. On the other hand, she could not deny Dolabella's
assertion that it would be far less easy for Octavianus to refuse her in
person the wishes she cherished for her children's future than through
mediators. Proculejus had learned that Antony had named him to the Queen
as the person most worthy of her confidence, and more keenly felt the
wrong which, as the tool and obedient friend of Octavianus, he had
inflicted upon the hapless woman. The memory of his unworthy deed, which
history would chronicle, had robbed the sensitive man, the author and
patron of budding Roman poetry, of many an hour's sleep, and therefore he
also now laboured zealously to oblige the Queen and mitigate her hard
fate. He, like the freedman Epaphroditus, who by Caesar's orders watched
carefully to prevent any attempt upon her life, seemed to base great
hopes on such an interview, and endeavoured to persuade her to request an
audience from the Caesar.

Archibius said that, even in the worst case, it could not render the
present state of affairs darker. Experience, he said to Charmian, proved
that no man of any feeling could wholly resist the charm of her nature,
and to him at least she had never seemed more winning than now. Who could
have gazed unmoved into the beautiful face, so eloquent in its silent
suffering, whose soul would not have been deeply touched by the sorrowful
tones of her sweet voice? Besides, her sable mourning robes were so well
suited to the slight tinge of melancholy which pervaded her whole aspect.
When the fever flushed her cheeks, Archibius, spite of the ravages which
grief, anxiety, and fear had made upon her charms, thought that he had
never seen her look more beautiful. He knew her thoroughly, and was aware
that her desire to follow the man she loved into the realm of death was
sincere; nay, that it dominated her whole being. She clung to life only
to die as soon as possible. The decision which, after her resolve to
build the monument, she had recognized in the temple of Berenike as the
right one, had become the rule of conduct of her life. Every thought,
every conversation, led her back to the past. The future seemed to exist
no longer. If Archibius succeeded in directing her thoughts to
approaching days she occupied herself wholly with her children's fate.
For herself she expected nothing, felt absolved from every duty except
the one of protecting herself and her name from dishonour and
humiliation.

The fact that Octavianus, when he doomed Caesarion to death, permitted
the other children to return to her with the assurance that no harm
should befall them, proved that he made a distinction between them and
his uncle's son, and had no fears that they threatened his own safety.
She might expect important results in their favour from an interview with
Octavianus, so she at last authorized Proculejus to request an audience.

The Imperator's answer came the very same day. It was his place to seek
her--so ran the Caesar's message. This meeting must decide her fate.
Cleopatra was aware of this, and begged Charmian to remember the asp.

Her attendants had been forbidden to leave Lochias, but Epaphroditus
permitted them to receive visitors. The Nubian's merry, amusing talk had
made friends for her among the Roman guards, who allowed her to pass in
and out unmolested. On her return, of course, she was searched with the
utmost care, like every one who entered Lochias.

The decisive hour was close at hand. Charmian knew what she must do in
any event, but there was still one desire for whose fulfilment she
longed. She wished to greet Barine and see her boy.

To spare Iras, she had hitherto refrained from sending for Dion's wife.
The sight of the mother and child might have reopened wounds still
unhealed, and she would not inflict this sorrow upon her niece, who for a
long time had once more been loyally devoted to her.

Octavianus did not hasten to fulfil his assurance. But, at the end of a
week, Proculejus brought the news that he could promise a visit from the
Caesar that afternoon. The Queen was deeply agitated, and desired before
the interview to pay a visit to her tomb. Iras offered to accompany her,
and as Cleopatra intended to remain an hour or longer, Charmian thought
it a favourable opportunity to see Barine and her boy.

Dion's wife had been informed of her friend's wish, and Anukis, who was
to take her to Lochias, did not wait long for the mother and child.

Didymus's garden--now the property of the royal children--was the scene
of the meeting. In the shade of the familiar trees the young mother sank
upon the breast of her faithful friend, and Charmian could not gaze her
fill at the boy, or weary of tracing in his features a resemblance to his
grandfather Leonax.

How much these two women, to whom Fate had allotted lives so widely
different, found to tell each other! The older felt transported to the
past, the younger seemed to have naught save a present rich in blessing
and a future green with hope. She had good news to tell of her sister
also. Helena had long been the happy wife of Gorgias who, however, spite
of the love with which he surrounded the young mistress of his house,
numbered among his most blissful hours those which were devoted to
overseeing the progress of the work on the mausoleum, where he met
Cleopatra.

Time flew swiftly to the two women, and it was a painful surprise when
one of the eunuchs on guard announced that the Queen had returned. Again
Charmian embraced her lover's grandson, blessed him and the young mother,
sent messages of remembrance to Dion, begged Barine to think of her
affectionately when she had passed from earth and, if her heart prompted
her to the act, to anoint or adorn with a ribbon or flower the tombstone
of the woman who had no friend to render her such a service.

Deeply moved by the firmness with which Charmian witnessed the approach
of death, Barine listened in silence, but suddenly started as the sharp
tones of a well-known voice called her friend's name and, as she turned,
Iras stood before her. Pallid and emaciated, she looked in her long,
floating black robes the very incarnation of misery.

The sight pierced the heart of the happy wife and mother. She felt as if
much of the joy which Iras lacked had fallen to her own lot, and all the
grief and woe she had ever endured had been transferred to her foe. She
would fain have approached humbly and said something very kind and
friendly; but when she saw the tall, haggard woman gazing at her child,
and noticed the disagreeable expression which had formerly induced her to
compare her to a sharp thorn, a terrible dread of this woman's evil eye
which might harm her boy seized the mother's heart and, overwhelmed by an
impulse beyond control, she covered his face with her own veil.

Iras saw it, and after Barine had answered her question, "Dion's child?"
in the affirmative, with a glance beseeching forbearance, the girl drew
up her slender figure, saying with arrogant coldness "What do I care for
the child? We have more important matters on our hearts."

Then she turned to Charmian to inform her, in the tone of an official
announcement, that during the approaching interview the Queen desired her
attendance also.

Octavianus had appointed sunset for the interview, and it still lacked
several hours of the time. The suffering Queen felt wearied by her visit
to the mausoleum, where she had implored the spirit of Antony, if he had
any power over the conqueror's heart, to induce him to release her from
this torturing uncertainty and promise the children a happy fate.

To Dolabella, who had accompanied her from the tomb to the palace, she
said that she expected only one thing from this meeting, and then won
from him a promise which strengthened her courage and seemed the most
precious boon which could be granted at this time.

She had expressed the fear that Octavianus would still leave her in
doubt. The youth spoke vehemently in Caesar's defence, and closed with
the exclamation, "If he should still keep you in suspense, he would be
not only cool and circumspect--"

"Then," Cleopatra interrupted, "be nobler, be less cruel, and release
your father's friend from these tortures. If he does not reveal to me
what awaits me and you learn it, then--you will not say no, you cannot
refuse me--then you, yes, you will inform me?"

Promptly and firmly came the reply: "What have I been able to do for you
until now? But I will release you from this torture, if possible." Then
he hastily turned his back, that he might not be compelled to see the
eunuchs stationed at the palace gate search the garments of the royal
captive.

His promise sustained the failing courage of the wearied, anxious Queen,
and she reclined upon the cushions of a lounge to recover from the
exhausting expedition; but she had scarcely closed her eyes when the
pavement of the court-yard rang under the hoofs of the four horses which
bore the Caesar to Lochias. Cleopatra had not expected the visit so
early.

She had just been consulting with her attendants about the best mode of
receiving him. At first she had been disposed to do so on the throne,
clad in her royal attire, but she afterwards thought that she was too ill
and weak to bear the heavy ornaments. Besides, the man and successful
conqueror would show himself more indulgent and gracious to the suffering
woman than to the princess.

There was much to palliate the course which she had pursued in former
days, and she had carefully planned the defence by which she hoped to
influence his calm but not unjust nature. Many things in her favour were
contained in the letters from Caesar and Antony which, after her
husband's death, she had read again and again during so many wakeful
nights, and they had just been brought to her.

Both Archibius and the Roman Proculejus had counselled her not to receive
him entirely alone. The latter did not express his opinion in words, but
he knew that Octavianus was more readily induced to noble and lenient
deeds when there was no lack of witnesses to report them to the world. It
was advisable to provide spectators for the most consummate actor of his
day.

Therefore the Queen had retained Iras, Charmian, and some of the
officials nearest to her person, among them the steward Seleukus, who
could give information if any question arose concerning the delivery of
the treasure.

She had also intended, after she had somewhat recovered from the visit to
the tomb, to be robed in fresh garments. This was prevented by the
Caesar's unexpected arrival. Now, even had time permitted, she would have
been unable to have her hair arranged, she felt so weak and yet so
feverishly excited.

The blood coursed hotly through her veins and flushed her cheeks. When
told that the Caesar was close at hand, she had only time to raise
herself a little higher on her cushions, push back her hair, and let
Iras, with a few hasty touches, adjust the folds of her mourning robes.
Had she attempted to advance to meet him, her limbs would have failed to
support her.

When the Caesar at last entered, she could greet him only by a wave of
her hand; but Octavianus, who had uttered the usual salutations from the
threshold, quickly broke the painful silence, saying with a courteous
bow:

"You summoned me--I came. Every one is subject to beauty--even the
victor."

Cleopatra's head drooped in shame as she answered distinctly, yet in a
tone of modest denial: "I only asked the favour of an audience. I did not
summon. I thank you for granting the request. If it is dangerous for man
to bow to woman's charms, no peril threatens you here. Beauty cannot
withstand tortures such as those which have been imposed on me--barely
can life remain. But you prevented my casting it from me. If you are
just, you will grant to the woman whom you would not permit to die an
existence whose burden will not exceed her power to endure."

The Caesar again bowed silently and answered courteously:

"I intend to make it worthy of you."

"Then," cried Cleopatra impetuously, "release me from this torturing
uncertainty. You are not one of the men who never look beyond to-day and
to-morrow."

"You are thinking," said Octavianus harshly, "of one who perhaps would
still be among us, if with wiser caution--"

Cleopatra's eyes, which hitherto had met the victor's cold gaze with
modest entreaty, flashed angrily, and a majestic: "Let the past rest!"
interrupted him.

But she soon mastered the indignation which had stirred her passionate
blood, and in a totally different tone, not wholly free from gentle
persuasion, she continued:

"The provident intellect of the man whose nod the universe obeys grasps
the future as well as the present. Must not he, therefore, have decided
the children's fate ere he consented to see their mother? The only
obstacle in your path, the son of your great uncle--"

"His doom was a necessity," interrupted the conqueror in a tone of
sincere regret. "As I mourned Antony, I grieve for the unfortunate boy."

"If that is true," replied Cleopatra eagerly, "it does honour to the
kindness of your heart. When Proculejus wrested the dagger from my grasp
he blamed me because I attributed to the most clement of conquerors
harshness and implacability."

"Two qualities," the Caesar protested, "which are wholly alien to my
nature."

"And which--even if you possessed them--you neither could nor ought to
use," cried Cleopatra, "if you really mean the beautiful words you so
often utter that, as the nephew and heir of the great Julius Caesar, you
intend to walk in his footsteps. Caesarion--there is his bust--was the
image in every feature of his father, your illustrious model. To me, the
hapless woman now awaiting my sentence from his nephew's lips, the gods
granted, as the most precious of all gifts, the love of your divine
uncle. And what love! The world knew not what I was to his great heart,
but my wish to defend myself from misconception bids me show it to you,
his heir. From you I expect my sentence. You are the judge. These letters
are my strongest defence. I rely upon them to show myself to you as I was
and am, not as envy and slander describe me.--The little ivory casket,
Iras! It contains the precious proofs of Caesar's love, his letters to
me."

She raised the lid with trembling hands and, as these mementoes carried
her back to the past, she continued in lower tones:

"Among all my treasures this simple little coffer has been for half a
lifetime my most valued jewel. He gave it to me. It was in the midst of
the fierce contest here at the Bruchium."

Then, while unfolding the first roll, she directed Octavianus's attention
to it and the remainder of the contents of the little casket, exclaiming:

"Silent pages, yet how eloquent! Each one a peerless picture, the
powerful thinker, the man of action, who permits his restless intellect
to repose, and suffers his heart to overflow with the love of youth! Were
I vain, Octavianus, I might call each one of these letters a trophy of
victory, an Olympic garland. The woman to whom Julius Caesar owned his
subjugation might well hold her head higher than the unhappy, vanquished
Queen who, save the permission to die--"

"Do not part with the letters," said Octavianus kindly. "Who can doubt
that they are a precious treasure--"

"The most precious and at the same time the advocate of the accused,"
replied Cleopatra eagerly; "on them--as you have already heard--rests my
vindication. I will commence with their contents. How terrible it is to
make what is sacred to us and intended only to elevate our own hearts
serve a purpose, to do what has always been repugnant to us! But I need
an advocate and, Octavianus, these letters will restore to the wretched,
suffering beggar the dignity and majesty of the Queen. The world knows
but two powers to which Julius Caesar bowed--the thrall of the pitiable
woman on this couch, and of all-conquering death. An unpleasant
fellowship--but I do not shrink from it; for death robbed him of life,
and from my hand--I ask only a brief moment. How gladly I would spare
myself my own praises, and you the necessity of listening to them! Yes,
here it is: 'Through you, you irresistible woman,' he writes, 'I learned
for the first time, after youth was over, how beautiful life can be.'"

Cleopatra, as she spoke, handed Caesar the letter. But while she was
still searching hastily for another he returned the first, saying:

"I understand only too well your reluctance to allow such confidential
effusions to play the part of defender. I can imagine their purport, and
they shall influence me as if I had read them all. However eloquent they
may be, they are needless witnesses. Is any written testimony required in
behalf of charms whose magic is still potent?"

A bewitching smile, which seemed like a confirmation of the haughty young
conqueror's flattering words, flitted over Cleopatra's face. Octavianus
noticed it. This woman indeed possessed enthralling charms, and he felt
the slight flush that suffused his cheeks.

This unhappy captive, this suffering supplicant, could still draw into
her net any man who did not possess the cool watchfulness which panoplied
his soul. Was it the marvellous melody of her voice, the changeful lustre
of her tearful eyes, the aristocratic grace of the noble figure, the
exquisite symmetry of the hands and feet, the weakness of the prostrate
sufferer, strangely blended with truly royal majesty, or the thought that
love for her had found earth's greatest and loftiest men with
indissoluble fetters, which lent this fragile woman, who had long since
passed the boundaries of youth, so powerful a spell of attraction?

At any rate, however certain of himself he might be, he must guard his
feelings. He understood how to bridle passion far better than the uncle
who was so greatly his superior.

Yet it was of the utmost importance to keep her alive, and therefore to
maintain her belief in his admiration. He wished to show the world and
the Great Queen of the East, who had just boasted of conquering, like
death, even the most mighty, its own supremacy as man and victor. But he
must also be gentle, in order not to endanger the object for which he
wanted her. She must accompany him to Rome. She and her children promised
to render his triumph the most brilliant and memorable one which any
conqueror had ever displayed to the senate and the people. In a light
tone which, however, revealed the emotion of his soul, he answered: "My
illustrious uncle was known as a friend of fair women. His stern life was
crowned with flowers by many hands, and he acknowledged these favours
verbally and perhaps--as he did to you in all these letters--with the
reed. His genius was greater, at any rate more many-sided and mobile,
than mine. He succeeded, too, in pursuing different objects at the same
time with equal devotion. I am wholly absorbed in the cares of state, of
government, and war. I feel grateful when I can permit our poets to adorn
my leisure for a brief space. Overburdened with toil, I have no time to
yield myself captive, as my uncle did in these very rooms, to the most
charming of women. If I could follow my own will, you would be the first
from whom I would seek the gifts of Eros. But it may not be! We Romans
learn to curb even the most ardent wishes when duty and morality command.
There is no city in the world where half so many gods are worshipped as
here; and what strange deities are numbered among them! It needs a
special effort of the intellect to understand them. But the simple duties
of the domestic hearth!--they are too prosaic for you Alexandrians, who
imbibe philosophy with your mothers' milk. What marvel, if I looked for
them in vain? True, they would find little satisfaction--our household
gods I mean--here, where the rigid demands of Hymen are mute before the
ardent pleadings of Eros. Marriage is scarcely reckoned among the sacred
things of life. But this opinion seems to displease you."

"Because it is false," cried Cleopatra, repressing with difficulty a
fresh outburst of indignation. "Yet, if I see aright, your reproach is
aimed only at the bond which united me to the man who was called your
sister's husband. But I will I would gladly remain silent, but you force
me to speak, and I will do so, though your own friend, Proculejus, is
signing to me to be cautious. I--I, Cleopatra, was the wife of Mark
Antony according to the customs of this country, when you wedded him to
the widow of Marcellus, who had scarcely closed his eyes. Not she, but I,
was the deserted wife--I to whom his heart belonged until the hour of his
death, not the unloved consort wedded--" Here her voice fell. She had
yielded to the passionate impulse which urged her to express her feelings
in the matter, and now continued in a tone of gentle explanation: "I know
that you proposed this alliance solely for the peace and welfare of
Rome--"

"To guard both, and to spare the blood of tens of thousands," Octavianus
added with proud decision. "Your clear brain perceived the true state of
affairs. If, spite of the grave importance of these motives, you--But
what voices would not that of the heart silence with you women! The man,
the Roman, succeeded in closing his ears to its siren song. Were it
otherwise, I would never have chosen for my sister a husband by whom I
knew her happiness would be so ill-guarded--I would, as I have already
said, be unable to master my own admiration of the loveliest of women.
But I ought scarcely to boast of that. I fear that a heart like yours
opens less quickly to the modest Octavianus than to a Julius Caesar or
the brilliant Mark Antony. Yet I may be permitted to confess that perhaps
I might have avoided conducting this unhappy war against my friend to the
end under my own guidance, and appearing myself in Egypt, had I not been
urged by the longing to see once more the woman who had dazzled my boyish
eyes. Now, in my mature manhood, I desired to comprehend those marvellous
gifts of mind, that matchless sagacity--"

"Sagacity!" interrupted the Queen, shrugging her shoulders mournfully.
"You possess a far greater share of what is commonly called by that name.
My fate proves it. The pliant intellect which the gods bestowed on me
would ill sustain the test in this hour of anguish. But if you really
care to learn what mental power Cleopatra once possessed, relieve me of
this terrible burden of uncertainty, and grant me a position in life
which will permit my paralyzed soul to move freely once more."

"It depends solely on yourself," Octavian eagerly responded, "to make
your future life, not only free from care, but beautiful."

"On me?" asked Cleopatra in astonishment.  "Our weal and woe are in your
hands alone. I am modest and ask nothing save to know what you intend for
our future, what you mean by the lot which you term beautiful."

"Nothing less," replied the Caesar quietly, "than what seems to lie
nearest to your own heart--a life of that freedom of soul to which you
aspire."

The breath of the agitated Queen began come more quickly and, no longer
able to contr the impatience which overpowered her, she exclaimed, "With
the assurance of your favour on your lips, you refuse to discuss the
question which interests, me beyond any other--for which, if any you must
have been prepared when you came here--"

"Reproaches?" asked Octavianus with we feigned surprise. "Would it not
rather be my place to complain? It is precisely because I am thoroughly
sincere in the friendly disposition which you read aright from my words,
that some of your measures cannot fail to wound me. Your treasures were
to be committed to the flames. It would be unfair to expect tokens of
friendship from the vanquished; but can you deny that even the bitterest
hatred could scarcely succeed in devising anything more hostile?"

"Let the past rest! Who would not seek in war to diminish the enemy's
booty?" pleaded the Queen in a soothing tone. But as Octavianus delayed
his answer, she continued more eagerly: "It is said that the ibex in the
mountains, when in mortal peril, rushes upon the hunter and hurls him
with it down the precipice. The same impulse is natural to human beings,
and praiseworthy, I think, in both. Forget the past, as I will try to do,
I repeat with uplifted hands. Say that you will permit the sons whom I
gave to Antony to ascend the Egyptian throne, not under their mother's
guardianship, but that of Rome, and grant me freedom wherever I may live,
and I will gladly transfer to you, down to the veriest trifles, all the
property and treasures I possess."

She clenched her little hand impatiently under the folds of her robe as
she spoke; but Octavianus lowered his eyes, saying carelessly: "In war
the victor disposes of the property of the vanquished; but my heart
restrains me from applying the universal law to you, who are so far above
ordinary mortals. Your wealth is said to be vast, though the foolish war
which Antony, with your aid, so greatly prolonged, devoured vast sums. In
this country squandered gold seems like the grass which, when mowed,
springs up anew."

"You speak," replied Cleopatra, more and more deeply incensed, with proud
composure, "of the treasures which my ancestors, the powerful monarchs of
a wealthy country, amassed during three hundred years for their noble
race and for the adornment of the women of their line. Parsimony did not
accord with the generosity and lofty nature of an Antony, yet avarice
itself would not deem the portion still remaining insignificant. Every
article is registered."

While speaking, she took a manuscript from the hand of Seleukus and
passed it to Octavianus who, with a slight bend of the head, received it
in silence. But he had scarcely begun to read it when the steward, a
little corpulent man with twinkling eyes half buried in his fat cheeks,
raised his short forefinger, pointed insolently at the Queen, and
asserted that she was trying to conceal some things, and had ordered him
not to place them on the list. Every tinge of colour faded from the lips
and cheeks of the agitated and passionate woman; tortured by feverish
impatience and no longer able to control her emotions, she raised herself
and, with her own dainty hand, struck the accuser--whom she had lifted
from poverty and obscurity to his present high position--again and again
in the face, till Octavianus, with a smile of superiority, begged her,
much as the man deserved his punishment, to desist.

The unfortunate woman, thus thrown off her guard, flung herself back on
her couch and, panting for breath, with tears streaming from her eyes,
sobbed aloud, declaring that in the presence of such unendurable insult,
such contemptible baseness, she fairly loathed herself. Then pressing her
clenched hands upon her temples, she exclaimed "Before the eyes of the
foe my royal dignity, which I have maintained all my life, falls from me
like a borrowed mantle. Yet what am I? What shall I be to-morrow, what
later? But who beneath the sun who has warm blood in his veins can
preserve his composure when juicy grapes are held before his thirsting
lips to be withdrawn, as from Tantalus, ere he can taste them? You came
hither with the assurance of your favour; but the flattering words of
promise which you bestowed upon the unhappy woman were probably only the
drops of poppy-juice given to soothe the ravings of fever. Was the favour
which you permitted me to see and anticipate for the future merely
intended to delude a miserable--"

But she went no further; Octavianus, with dignified bearing and loud,
clear tones, interrupted "Whoever believes the heir of Caesar capable of
shamefully deceiving a noble woman, a queen, the object of his
illustrious uncle's love, insults and wounds him; but the just anger
which overmastered you may serve as your apology. Ay," he added in a
totally different tone, "I might even have cause to be grateful for this
indignation, and to wish for another opportunity to witness the outbreak
of passion though in its unbridled fierceness--the royal lioness is
scarcely aware of her own beauty when the tempest of wrath sweeps her
away. What must she be when it is love that constrains the flame of her
glowing soul to burst into a blaze?"

"Her glowing soul!" Cleopatra eagerly repeated, and the desire awoke to
subjugate this man who had so confidently boasted of his power of
resistance. Though he might be stronger than many others, he certainly
was not invincible. And aware of her still unbroken sway over the hearts
of men, her eyes sparkled with the alluring radiance of love, and a
bewitching smile brightened her face.

The young Imperator's heart began to chafe under the curb and to beat
more quickly, his cheeks flushed and paled by turns. How she gazed at
him! What if she loved the nephew as she had once loved the uncle who,
through her, had learned what bliss life can offer? Ay, it must be
happiness to kiss those lips, to be clasped in those exquisite arms, to
hear one's own name tenderly spoken by those musical tones. Even the
magnificent marble statue of Ariadne, which he had seen in Athens, had
not displayed to his gaze lines more beautiful than those of the woman
reclining on yonder pillows. Who could venture to speak in her presence
of vanished charms? Ah, no! The spell which had conquered Julius Caesar
was as vivid, as potent as ever. He himself felt its power; he was young,
and after such unremitting exertions he too yearned to quaff the nectar
of the noblest joys, to steep body and soul in peerless bliss.

So, with a hasty movement, he took one step towards her couch, resolved
to grasp her hands and raise them to his lips. His ardent gaze answered
hers; but surprised by the power which, though so heavily burdened with
physical and mental suffering, she still possessed over the strongest and
coldest of men, she perceived what was passing in his soul, and a smile
of triumph, blended with the most bitter contempt, hovered around her
beautiful lips. Should she dupe him into granting her wishes by feigning
love for the first time? Should she yield to the man who had insulted
her, in order to induce him to accord the children their rights? Should
she, to gratify her lover's foe, relinquish the sacred grief which was
drawing her after him, give posterity and her children the right to call
her, instead of the most loyal of the loyal, a dishonoured woman, who
sold herself for power?

To all these questions came a prompt denial. The single stride which
Octavianus had made towards her, his eyes aflame with love, gave her the
right to feel that she had vanquished the victor, and the proud delight
of triumph was too plainly reflected in her mobile features to escape the
penetrating, distrustful gaze of the subjugated Caesar.

But he had scarcely perceived what threatened him, and remembered her
words concerning his famous uncle's surrender only to her and to death,
when he succeeded in conquering his quickly kindled senses. Blushing at
his own weakness, he averted his eyes from the Queen, and when he met
those of Proculejus and the other witnesses of the scene, he realized the
abyss on whose verge he stood. He had half succumbed to the danger of
losing, by a moment's weakness, the fruit of great sacrifices and severe
exertions.

His expressive eyes, which had just rested rapturously upon a beautiful
woman, now scanned the spectators with the stern glance of a monarch and,
apparently wishing to moderate an excess of flattering recognition which
might be misinterpreted, he said in an almost pedagogical tone:

"Yet we would rather see the noble lioness in the majestic repose which
best suits all sovereigns. It is difficult for a calm, deliberate nature
like mine to understand an ardent, quickly kindling heart."

Cleopatra had watched this sudden transition with more surprise than
disappointment. Octavianus had half surrendered to her, but recovered his
self-command in time, and a man of his temperament does not readily
succumb twice to a danger which he barely escaped. And this was well! He
should learn that he had misunderstood the glance which fired his heart;
so she answered distantly, with majestic dignity:

"Misery such as mine quenches all ardour. And love? Woman's heart is ever
open to it, save where it has lost the desire for power and pleasure. You
are young and happy, therefore your soul still yearns for love--I know
that--though not for mine. To me, on the contrary, one suitor only is
welcome, he with the lowered torch, whom you keep aloof from me. With him
alone is to be found the boon for which this soul has longed from
childhood--painless peace! You smile. My past gives you the right to do
so. I will not lessen it. Each individual lives his or her own life. Few
understand the changes of their own existence, far less those of a
stranger's. The world has witnessed how Peace fled from my path, or I
from hers, and yet I see the possibility of finding the way. I am safe
from the only things which would debar me from those joys--humiliation
and disgrace." Here she hesitated; then, as if in explanation, continued
in the sweetest tones at her command: "Your generosity, I think, will
guard from these two foes the woman whom just now--I did not fail to see
it--you considered worthy of a more than gracious glance. I shall
treasure it among memories which will never fade. But now, illustrious
Imperator! tell me, what is your decision concerning me and the children?
What may we hope from your favour?"

"That Octavianus will be more and more warmly animated by the desire to
accord you and yours a worthy destiny, the more firmly you expect that he
will attest his generosity."

"And if I fulfil this desire and expect from you everything that is great
and noble--the condition is not difficult--what proofs of your
graciousness will then await us?"

"Paint them with all the fervour of that vivid power of imagination which
interpreted even my glance in your favour, and devised the marvels by
which you rendered the greatest and most brilliant man in Rome the
happiest of mortals. But--by Zeus!--it is the fourth hour after noonday!"

A glance from the window had caused the exclamation. Then, pressing his
hand upon his heart, he continued in a tone of the most sincere regret
"How gladly I would prolong this fascinating conversation, but important
matters which, unfortunately, cannot be deferred, summon me--"

"And your answer?" cried Cleopatra, panting for breath and gazing at him
with eyes full of expectation.

"Must I repeat it?" he asked with impatient haste. "Very well, then. In
return for implicit confidence on your part, favour, forgiveness,
cordiality, every consideration which you can justly desire. Your heart
is so rich in warmth of feeling, grant me but a small share of it and ask
tangible gifts in return. They are already bestowed." Then greeting her
like a friend who is reluctant to say farewell, he hastily left the
apartment.

"Gone--gone!" cried Iras as the door closed behind him. "An eel that
slips from the hand which strives to hold him."

"Northern ice," added Cleopatra gloomily as Charmian aided her to find a
more comfortable position. "As smooth as it is cold; there is nothing
more to hope."

"Yes, my royal mistress, yes," Iras eagerly protested. "Dolabella is
waiting for him in the Philadelphus court-yard. From him--you have his
promise--we shall learn what Octavianus has in store for you."

In truth, the Caesar did find the youth at the first gate of the palace,
inspecting his superb Cyrenean horses.

"Magnificent animals!" cried Octavianus; "a gift from the city! Will you
drive with me?--A remarkable, a very remarkable woman!"

"Isn't she?" asked Dolabella eagerly.

"Undoubtedly," replied the Caesar. "But though she might almost be your
mother, an uncommonly dangerous one for youths of your age. What a
melting voice, what versatility, what fervour! And yet such regal grace
in every movement! But I wish to stifle, not to fan, the spark which
perhaps has already fallen into your heart. And the play, the farce which
she just enacted before me in the midst of most serious matters!"

He uttered a low, short laugh; but Dolabella exclaimed expectantly: "You
rarely laugh, but this conversation--apparently--excites your mirth. So
the result was satisfactory?"

"Let us hope so. I was as gracious to her as possible."

"That is delightful. May I know in what manner your kindness and wisdom
have shaped her future? Or, rather, what did you promise the vanquished
Queen?"

"My favour, if she will trust me."

"Proculejus and I will continue to strengthen her confidence. And if we
succeed--?"

"Then, as I have said, she will have my favour--a generous abundance of
favour."

"But her future destiny? What fate will you bestow on her and her
children?"

"Whatever the degree of her confidence deserves."

Here he hesitated, for he met Dolabella's earnest, troubled gaze, which
was blended with a shade of reproach.

Octavianus desired to retain the enthusiastic admiration of the youth,
who perhaps was destined to lofty achievements, so he continued in a
confidential tone: "To you, my young friend, I can venture to speak more
frankly. I will gladly grant the most aspiring wishes of this fascinating
and, I repeat, very remarkable woman, but first I need her for my
triumph. The Romans would have cause to reproach me if I deprived them of
the sight of this Queen, this peerless woman, in many respects the first
of her time. We shall soon set out for Syria. The Queen and her children
I shall send in three days to Rome. If, in the triumphal procession
there, she creates the sensation I anticipate from a spectacle so worthy
of admiration, she shall learn how I reward those who oblige me."

Dolabella had listened in silence. When the Caesar entered the carriage,
he requested permission to remain behind.

Octavianus drove alone eastward to the camp where, in the vicinity of the
Hippodrome, men were surveying the ground on which the suburb of
Nikopolis--city of victory--was to be built to commemorate for future
generations the victory of the first Emperor over Antony and Cleopatra.
It grew, but never attained any great importance.

The noble Cornelius gazed indignantly after his sovereign's fiery steeds;
then, drawing up his stately figure to its full height, he entered the
palace with a firm step. The act might cost him his life, but he would do
what he believed to be his duty to the noble woman who had honoured him
with her friendship. This rare sovereign was too good to feast the eyes
of the rabble.

A few minutes later Cleopatra knew her impending ignominy.



CHAPTER XXV.

The next morning the Queen had many whispered conversations with
Charmian, and the latter with Anukis. The day before, Archibius's
gardener had brought to his master's sister some unusually fine figs,
which grew in the old garden of Epicurus. This fruit was also mentioned,
and Anukis went to Kanopus, and thence, in the steward's carriage, with a
basket of the very best ones to the fish-market. There she had a great
deal to say to Pyrrhus, and the freedman went to his boat with the figs.

Shortly after the Nubian's return the Queen came back to the palace from
the mausoleum. Her features bore an impress of resolution usually alien
to them; nay, the firmly compressed lips gave them an expression of
actual sternness. She knew what duty required, and regarded her
approaching end as an inevitable necessity. Death seemed to her like a
journey which she must take in order to escape the most terrible
disgrace. Besides, life after the death of Antony was no longer the same;
it had been only a tiresome delay and waiting for the children's sake.

The visit to the tomb had been intended, as it were, to announce her
coming to her husband. She had remained a long time in the silent hall,
where she had garlanded the coffin with flowers, kissed it, talked to the
dead man as if he were still alive, and told him that the day had come
when what he had mentioned in his will as the warmest desire of his
heart--to rest beside her in the same tomb--would be fulfilled. Among the
thousand forms of suffering which had assailed her, nothing had seemed so
hard to bear as to be deprived of his society and love.

Then she had gone into the garden, embraced and kissed the children, and
entreated them to remember her tenderly. Her purpose had not been
concealed from Archibius, but Charmian had told him the menace of the
future, and he approved her decision. By the exertion of all his innate
strength of will, he succeeded in concealing the grief which rent his
faithful heart. She must die. The thought of seeing her adorn the
triumphal procession of Octavianus was unbearable to him also. Her thanks
and entreaties to be an affectionate guardian to the children were
received with an external calmness which afterwards seemed to him utterly
incomprehensible.

When she spoke of her approaching meeting with her lover, he asked
whether she had entirely abandoned the teachings of Epicurus, who
believed that death absolutely ended existence.

Cleopatra eagerly assented, saying: "Absence of pain has ceased to appear
to me the chief earthly blessing, since I have known that love does not
bring pleasure only, since I have learned that pain is the inseparable
companion of love. I will not give it up, nor will I part from my lover.
Whoever experiences what fate has allotted to me has learned to know
other gods than those whom the master described as dwelling happily in
undisturbed repose. Rather eternal torture in another world, united to
the man I love, than painless, joyless mere existence in a desolate,
incomprehensible, unknown region! You will be the last to teach the
children to yearn for freedom from pain--"

"Because, like you," cried Archibius, "I have learned how great a
blessing is love, and that love is pain."

As he spoke he bent over her hand to kiss it, but she took his temples
between her hands and, bending hastily, pressed her lips on his broad
brow.

Then his self-control vanished, and, sobbing aloud, he hurried back to
the children.

Cleopatra gazed after him with a sorrowful smile, and leaning on
Charmian's arm, she entered the palace.

There she was bathed and, robed in costly mourning garments, reclined
among her cushions to take breakfast, which was usually served at this
hour. Iras and Charmian shared it.

When dessert was carried in, the Nubian brought a basket filled with
delicious figs. A peasant, she told Epaphroditus, who was watching the
meal, had given them to her because they were so remarkably fine. Some
had already been snatched by the guards.

The Queen and her companions ate a little of the fruit, and Proculejus,
who had come to greet Cleopatra, was also persuaded to taste one of the
finest figs.

At the end of the meal Cleopatra wished to rest. The Roman gentlemen and
the guards retired. At last the women were alone, and gazed at each other
silently.

Charmian timidly lifted the upper layer of the fruit, but the Queen said
mournfully:

"The wife of Antony dragged through the streets of Rome behind the
victor's chariot, a spectacle for the populace and envious matrons!"
Then, starting up, she exclaimed: "What a thought! Was it too great for
Octavianus, or too petty? He who so loudly boasts his knowledge of
mankind expects this impossibility from the woman who revealed her inmost
soul to him as fully as he concealed his from her. We will show him how
small is his comprehension of human nature, and teach him modesty."

A contemptuous smile flitted over her beautiful lips as, with rapid
movements, she flung handful after handful of figs on the table, till she
saw some thing stirring under the fruit, and with a sigh of relief
exclaimed under her breath:

"There it is!" as with hasty resolution she held out her arm towards the
asp, which hissed at her.

While gazing intently at the movements of the viper, which seemed afraid
to fulfil the dread office, she said to her attendants:

"I thank you-thank you for everything. Be calm. You know, Iras, it will
cause no pain. They say it is like falling asleep." Then she shuddered
slightly, adding: "Death is a solemn thing; yet it must be. Why does the
serpent delay? There, there; I will keep firm. Ambition and love were the
moving forces of my life. Men shall praise my memory.--I follow you, Mark
Antony!" Charmian bent over the left arm of her royal mistress, which
hung loosely at her side, and, weeping aloud, covered it with kisses,
while Cleopatra, watching the motions of the asp still more closely,
added:

"The peace of our garden of Epicurus will begin to-day. Whether it will
be painless, who can tell? Yet--there I agree with Archibius--life's
greatest joy--love--is blended with pain, as yonder branch of exquisite
roses from Dolabella, the last gift of friendship, has its sharp thorns.
I think you have both experienced this. The twins and my little
darling--When they think of their mother and her end, will not the
children--"

Here she uttered a low cry. The asp had struck its fangs into the upper
part of her arm like an icy flash of lightning, and a few instants later
Cleopatra sank back upon her pillows lifeless.

Iras, pale but calm, pointed to her, saying "Like a sleeping child.
Bewitching even in death. Fate itself was constrained to do her will and
fulfil the last desire of the great Queen, the victorious woman, whom no
heart resisted. Its decree shatters the presumptuous plan of Octavianus.
The victor will show himself to the Romans without thee, thou dear one."

Sobbing violently, she bent over the inanimate form, closed the eyes, and
kissed the lips and brow. The weeping Charmian did the same.

Then the footsteps of men were heard in the anteroom, and Iras, who was
the first to notice them, cried eagerly:

"The moment is approaching! I am glad it is close at hand. Does it not
seem to you also as if the very sun in the heavens was darkened?"
Charmian nodded assent, and whispered, "The poison?"

"Here!" replied Iras calmly, holding out a plain pin. "One little prick,
and the deed will be done. Look! But no. You once inflicted the deepest
suffering upon me. You know--Dion, the playmate of my childhood--It is
forgiven. But now--you will do me a kindness. You will spare my using the
pin myself. Will you not? I will repay you. If you wish, my hand shall
render you the same service."

Charmian clasped her niece to her heart, kissed her, pricked her arm
lightly, and gave her the other pin, saying:

"Now it is your turn. Our hearts were filled with love for one who
understood how to bestow it as none other ever did, and our love was
returned. What matters all else that we sacrificed? Those on whom the sun
shines need no other light. Love is pain," she said in dying, "but this
pain--especially that of renunciation for love's sake--bears with it a
joy, an exquisite joy, which renders death easy. To me it seems as if it
were merely following the Queen to--Oh, that hurt!" Iras's pin had
pricked her.

The poison did its work quickly. Iras was seized with giddiness, and
could scarcely stand. Charmian had just sunk on her knees, when some one
knocked loudly at the closed door, and the voices of Epaphroditus and
Proculejus imperiously demanded admittance.

When no answer followed, the lock was hastily burst open.

Charmian was found lying pale and distorted at the feet of her royal
mistress; but Iras, tottering and half stupefied by the poison, was
adjusting the diadem, which had slipped from its place. To keep from her
beloved Queen everything that could detract from her beauty had been her
last care.

Enraged, fairly frantic with wrath, the Romans rushed towards the women.
Epaphroditus had seen Iras still occupied in arranging Cleopatra's
ornaments. Now he endeavoured to raise her companion, saying
reproachfully, "Charmian, was this well done?" Summoning her last
strength, she answered in a faltering voice, "Perfectly well, and worthy
a descendant of Egyptian kings." Her eyes closed, but Proculejus, the
author, who had gazed long with deep emotion into the beautiful proud
face of the Queen whom he had so greatly wronged, said: "No other woman
on earth was ever so admired by the greatest, so loved by the loftiest.
Her fame echoed from nation to nation throughout the world. It will
continue to resound from generation to generation; but however loudly men
may extol the bewitching charm, the fervour of the love which survived
death, her intellect, her knowledge, the heroic courage with which she
preferred the tomb to ignominy--the praise of these two must not be
forgotten. Their fidelity deserves it. By their marvellous end they
unconsciously erected the most beautiful monument to their mistress; for
what genuine goodness and lovableness must have been possessed by the
woman who, after the greatest reverses, made it seem more desirable to
those nearest to her person to die than to live without her!"

   [The Roman's exclamation and the answer of the loyal dying Charmian
   are taken literally from Plutarch's narrative.]

The news of the death of their beloved, admired sovereign transformed
Alexandria into a house of mourning. Obsequies of unprecedented
magnificence and solemnity, at which many tears of sincere grief flowed,
honoured her memory. One of Octavianus's most brilliant plans was
frustrated by her death, and he had raved furiously when he read the
letter in which Cleopatra, with her own hand, informed him of her
intention to die. But he owed it to his reputation for generosity to
grant her a funeral worthy of her rank. To the dead, who had ceased to be
dangerous, he was ready to show an excess of magnanimity.

The treatment which he accorded to Cleopatra's children also won the
world's admiration. His sister Octavia received them into her own house
and intrusted their education to Archibius.

When the order to destroy the statues of Antony and Cleopatra was issued,
Octavianus gave his contemporaries another proof of his disposition to be
lenient, for he ordered that the numerous statues of the Queen in
Alexandria and Egypt should be preserved. True, he had been influenced by
the large sum of two thousand talents paid by an Alexandrian to secure
this act of generosity. Archibius was the name of the rare friend who had
impoverished himself to render this service to the memory of the beloved
dead.

In later times the statues of the unfortunate Queen adorned the places
where they had been erected.

The sarcophagi of Cleopatra and Mark Antony, by whose side rested Iras
and Charmian, were constantly heaped with flowers and offerings to the
dead. The women of Alexandria, especially, went to the tomb of their
beloved Queen as if it were a pilgrimage; but in after-days faithful
mourners also came from a distance to visit it, among them the children
of the famous lovers whom death here united--Cleopatra Selene, now the
wife of the learned Numidian Prince Juba, Helios Antony, and Alexander,
who had reached manhood. Their friend and teacher, Archibius, accompanied
them. He taught them to hold their mother's memory dear, and had so
reared them that, in their maturity, he could lead them with head erect
to the sarcophagus of the friend who had confided them to his charge.



     ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

     Pain is the inseparable companion of love



     ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS FOR THE COMPLETE CLEOPATRA:

     Aspect obnoxious to the gaze will pour water on the fire
     Contempt had become too deep for hate
     Epicurus, who believed that with death all things ended
     Everything that exists moves onward to destruction and decay
     Fairest dreams of childhood were surpassed
     From Epicurus to Aristippus, is but a short step
     Golden chariot drawn by tamed lions
     Jealousy has a thousand eyes
     Life had fulfilled its pledges
     No, she was not created to grow old
     Nothing in life is either great or small
     Pain is the inseparable companion of love
     Preferred a winding path to a straight one
     Priests: in order to curb the unruly conduct of the populace
     See facts as they are and treat them like figures in a sum
     Shadow of the candlestick caught her eye before the light
     She would not purchase a few more years of valueless life
     Soul which ceases to regard death as a misfortune finds peace
     To govern the world one must have less need of sleep
     Trouble does not enhance beauty
     Until neither knew which was the giver and which the receiver
     What changes so quickly as joy and sorrow
     Without heeding the opinion of mortals
     Zeus does not hear the vows of lovers





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