THE DIVINE HISTORY OF JESUS CHRIST

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF CLEOPATRA, QUEEN OF EGYPT

PART II.

CLEOPATRA AND ANTONY

CHAPTER XIX.

OCTAVIAN’S INVASION OF EGYPT AND THE DEATH OF ANTONY.

The historian must feel some reluctance in discrediting the romantic story of the attachment of Cleopatra and Antony at this period; but nevertheless the fact cannot be denied that they had now decided to live apart from one another, and there seems very little doubt that each regarded the other with distrust and suspicion. Antony had lived so long alone in his Timonium that he was altogether out of touch with his wife’s projects; and she, on her part, had not, for many a month, admitted him fully into her confidence. Their relationship was marked, on his side, by mistrust, and on hers, by disdainful pity; and I can find no indication of that romantic passage, hand-in-hand to their doom, which has come to be regarded as the grand finale of their tragic tale. In its place, however, I would offer the spectacle of the Jlonely and courageous fight made by the little Queen against her fate, which must surely command the admiration of all men. Her husband having so signally failed her, the whole burden of the government of her country and of the organisation of her defence seems to have fallen upon her shoulders. Day and night she must have been harassed by fearful anxieties, and haunted by the thought of her probable doom; yet she conducted herself with undaunted courage, never deigning to consider the question of flight, and never once turning from the pathway of that personal and dynastic ambition which seems to me hardly able to be distinguished from her real duty to her country.

When Octavian was preparing in Syria, during the month of June BC 30, to invade Egypt, both Cleopatra and Antony attempted to open negotiations with him. They sent a certain Greek named Euphronius, who had been a tutor to one of the young princes, to the enemy bearing messages from them both. Cleopatra asked that, in return for her surrender, her son Caesarion might be allowed to retain the throne of Egypt; but Antony prayed only that he might be allowed to live the life of a private man, either at Alexandria or else in Athens. With this embassy Cleopatra sent her crown, her sceptre, and her state-chariot, in the hope that Octavian would bestow them again upon her son, if not upon herself. The mission, however, was a partial failure. Octavian would not listen to any proposals in regard to Antony; but to Cleopatra he sent a secret message, conveyed by one of his freedmen, named Thyrsus, indicating that he was well-disposed towards her, and would be inclined to leave her in possession of Egypt, if only she would cause Antony to be put to death. Actually, Octavian had no intention of showing any particular mercy to Cleopatra, and his suggestions were intended to deceive her. He seems to have made up his mind how to act. Antony would have to be murdered or made to take his own life: it would be awkward to have to condemn him to death and formally to execute him. Caesarion, his rival, would also have to meet with a violent end. Cleopatra ought to be captured alive so that he might display her in his Triumph, after which she would be sent into exile, while her country and its wealth would fall into his hands, the loot serving for the payment of his troops. In all his subsequent dealings with the Queen we shall observe his anxiety to take her alive, while towards Antony he will be seen to show a relentless hostility.

The freedman Thyrsus was a personage of tact and understanding, and with Cleopatra he was able to discuss the situation in all its aspects. The Queen was striving by every means to retain her throne, and she was quite capable of paying Octavian back in his own coin, deceiving him and leading him to suppose that she would trust herself to his mercy. She showed great attention to Thyrsus, giving him lengthy audiences, and treating him with considerable honour; and Antony, not being admitted to their secret discussions, grew daily more angry and suspicious. It is not likely that Cleopatra consented to the proposed assassination of her husband, but the situation was such that she could have had no great objection to the thought of his suicide, and I dare say she discussed quite frankly with Thyrsus the means of reminding him of his honourable obligations. It is said by Dion Cassius that Octavian actually conveyed messages of an amorous nature to Cleopatra, but this is probably incorrect, though Thyrsus may well have hinted that his master’s heart had been touched by the brave manner in which she had faced her misfortunes, and that he was eager to win her regard. Possibly a rumour of the nature of their conferences reached Antony, or maybe his jealousy was aroused by the freedman’s confidential attitude to the Queen; for he became even more suspicious than he had been before, and he appears to have conducted himself as though his mind were in a condition of extreme exasperation. Suddenly he caused Thyrsus to be seized by some of his men, and soundly thrashed, after which he sent him back to Octavian with a letter explaining his action. “The man’s inquisitive, impertinent ways provoked me,” he wrote, “and in my circumstances I cannot be expected to be very patient. But if it offend you, you have got my freedman, Hipparchus, with you: hang him up and whip him to make us even.” Hipparchus had probably deserted from Antony to Octavian, and the whipping of Thyrsus and the suggested retaliation constituted a piece of grim humour which seems to have appealed at once to Cleopatra’s instincts. The audacity of the action was of the kind which most delighted her; and she immediately began to pay more respect to her husband, who, she thus found, was still capable of asserting himself in a kingly manner. Plutarch tells us that to clear herself of his suspicions, which were quite unfounded, she now paid him more attention and humoured him in every way; and it seems that her change of attitude put new courage into his heart, substituting a brave bearing for that dejection of carriage which had lately been so noticeable. She seemed anxious to prove to him that she would not play him false, and to make her attitude clear to Octavian. When the anniversary of her birthday had occurred in the previous winter she had celebrated it very quietly; but Antony’s birthday, which fell at about this time of year, she celebrated in the most elaborate manner, giving great presents to all those who had enjoyed her hospitality. It was as though she desired all men to know that so long as Antony played the man, and entered into this last fight with that spirit of adventure which always marked her own actions, she would stand by him to the last; but that if he lacked the spirit to make a bid for success, then she could but wish him well out of her way. The thrashing of Thyrsus proved to be the occasion of a temporary reconciliation between the Queen and her husband,¹ and for a time Antony acted with something of his old energy and courage.

Hearing that the army under Cornelius Gallus was marching through Cyrenaica, the modern Tripoli, towards the western frontier of Egypt, he hastened with a few ships to Paraetonium in order to secure the defence of that place. But on landing and approaching the walls of the fortress and calling upon the commander to come out to him, his voice was drowned by a blare of trumpets from within. A few minutes later the garrison made a sortie, chased him and his men back to the harbour, set fire to some of his ships, and drove him with considerable loss from their shores. On returning to Alexandria he heard that Octavian was approaching Pelusium, the corresponding fortress on the eastern frontier of Egypt, which was under the command of a certain officer named Seleucus; and shortly after this, towards the middle of July, the news arrived that that stronghold had surrendered.

Thereupon Antony, whose nerves were in a very highly-strung condition, furiously accused Cleopatra of having betrayed him by arranging secretly with Seleucus to hand over the fortress to Octavian in the hope of placating the approaching enemy. Cleopatra denied the accusation, and, to prove the truth of her words, she caused the wife and children of Seleucus to be arrested and handed over to her husband, that he might put them to death if it were shown that she had had any secret correspondence with the traitor, a fact which seems to prove her innocence conclusively.

Antony’s suspicions, however, unnerved him once more, and drove the flickering courage from his heart. Dispirited and agitated, he sent Euphronius to Octavian a second time, accompanied on this occasion by the young Antyllus, and provided with a large sum of money with which he hoped to placate his enemy. Octavian took the money but would not listen to the pleading of Antyllus on behalf of his father. The embassy must have been most distasteful to Cleopatra, who could not easily understand how a man could fall so low as to attempt to buy off his enemy with gold—and gold, let it be remembered, belonging to his wife. Her surprise and pain, however, must have been greatly increased when she discovered that Antony had next sent in chains to Octavian a certain ex-senator, named Turullius, who had been one of the murderers of Julius Caesar, and was, in fact, the last survivor of all the assassins, each one of the others having met his death as though by the hand of a vengeful Providence. Turullius had now come into Antony’s power, and, since Cleopatra’s son was Julius Caesar’s heir, the man ought to have been handed over to the Queen for punishment. Instead, however, Antony had sent him on to his enemy in a manner which could only suggest that he admitted Octavian’s right to act as the Dictator’s representative. Octavian at once put Turullius to death, thereby performing the last necessary act of vengeance in behalf of the murdered Caesar; but to Antony he did not so much as send an acknowledgment of the prisoner’s reception. Receiving no assurance of mercy, Antony appears for a time to have thought of flying to Spain or to some other country where he could hide, or could carry on a guerilla warfare, until some change in the politics of Rome should enable him to reappear. His nobler nature, however, at length asserted itself, owing to the example set by Cleopatra, who was determined now to defend her capital; and once more he pulled himself together, as though to stand by the Queen’s side until the end. Their position, though bad, was not desperate. Alexandria was a strongly fortified city. The four Roman legions which had been left in Egypt during the war in Greece were still in the city; the Macedonian household troops were also stationed there; and no doubt a considerable body of Egyptian soldiers were garrisoned within the walls; while in the harbour lay the fleet which had retired from Actium, together with numerous other ships of war. Thus a formidable force was in readiness to defend the metropolis, and these men were so highly paid with the never-ending wealth of the Egyptian treasury that they were in much happier condition than were the legionaries of Octavian, whose wages were months overdue.

Cleopatra, nevertheless, did not expect to come through the ordeal alive; and although Octavian continued to send her assurances of his goodwill, the price which he asked for her safety was invariably the head of Antony, and this she was not prepared to pay. I do not think that the Queen’s temptation in this regard has been properly observed. Dion Cassius emphatically states that Octavian promised her that if she would kill Antony he would grant her both personal safety and the full maintenance of her undiminished authority; and Plutarch, with equal clearness, says that Octavian told her that there was no reasonable favour which she might not expect from him if only she would put Antony to death, or even expel him from his safe refuge in Egypt. Antony had proved himself a broken reed ; he had acted in a most cowardly manner; he was generally drunk and always unreliable; and he appeared to be of no further use to her or to her cause. Yet, although his removal meant immunity to herself, she was too loyal, too proud, to sanction his assassination; and her action practically amounted to this, that she defied Octavian, telling him that if he wanted her drunken husband’s useless head he must break down the walls of her city and hunt for it.

In accordance with the custom of the age the Queen had built herself, during recent years, a tomb and mortuary temple wherein her body should rest after death and her spirit should receive the usual sacrifices and priestly ministrations. This mausoleum, according to Plutarch, was surrounded by other buildings, apparently prepared for the royal family and for members of the court. They were not set up within the precincts of the Serna, or royal necropolis, which stood at the side of the Street of Canopus, but were erected beside the temple of Isis-Aphrodite, a building rising at the edge of the sea on the eastern side of the Lochias Promontory. I gather from the remarks of Plutarch that the Queen’s tomb actually formed part of the temple buildings; and, if this be so, Cleopatra must have had it in mind to be laid to rest within the precincts of the sanctuary of the goddess with whom she was identified. Thus, after her death, the worshippers in the temple of Isis would make their supplications, as it were, to her own spirit, and her mortal remains would become holy relics of their patron goddess. The mausoleum was remarkable for its height and for the beauty of its workmanship. It was probably constructed of valuable marbles, and appears to have consisted of several chambers. On the ground floor I should imagine that a pillared hall, entered through a double door of decorated cedar-wood, led to an inner shrine wherein the sarcophagus stood ready to receive the Queen’s body; and that from this hall a flight of stone stairs ascended to the upper chambers, whose flooring was formed of the great blocks of granite which constituted the roofing of the hall below. There was, perhaps, a third storey, the chambers of which, like those on the floor below, were intended to be used by the mortuary priests for the preparation of the incense, the offerings, and the vestments employed in their ceremonies. The large open casements in the walls of these upper chambers must have overlooked the sea on the one side and the courts of the Temple of Isis on the other; but, as was usual in Egyptianised buildings, there were no windows of any size in the lower hall and sanctuary, the light being admitted through the doorway and through small apertures close to the ceiling. The heat of these July days did not penetrate to any uncomfortable degree into this stone-built mausoleum, and the cool sea-wind must have blown continuously through the upper rooms, while the brilliant sunlight outside was here subdued and softened in its reflection upon the marble walls. The rhythmic beat of the breakers upon the stone embankment below the eastern windows, and the shrill cries of the gulls, echoed through the rooms; while from the western side the chanting of the priests in the adjoining temple, and the more distant hubbub of the town, intruded into the cool recesses of these wind-swept chambers like the sounds of a forsaken world.

Here Cleopatra decided to take up her residence so soon as Octavian should lay successful siege to the walls of the city. She had determined that in the event of defeat she would destroy herself; and, with this prospect in view, she now caused her treasures of gold, silver, ebony, ivory, and cinnamon, and her jewellery of pearls, emeralds, and precious stones, to be carried into the mausoleum, where they were laid upon a pyre of faggots and tow erected on the stone floor of one of the upper rooms. If it should be necessary for her to put an end to her miseries, she had decided to set the fangs of the deadly asp into her flesh, and, with her last efforts, to fire the tow, thus consuming her body and her wealth in a single conflagration. Meanwhile, however, she remained in the Palace, and busied herself in the preparations of the defence of the city.

In the last days of July Octavian’s forces arrived before the walls, and took up their quarters in and around the Hippodromos, which stood upon rocky ground to the east of the city. Faced with the crisis, Antony once more showed the flickering remnants of his former courage. Gathering his troops together he made a bold sortie from the city, and attacking Octavian’s cavalry, routed them with great slaughter and chased them back to their camp. He then returned to the Palace, where, meeting Cleopatra while still he was clad in his dusty and bloodstained armour, he threw his arms about her small form and kissed her in the sight of all men. He then commended to her especial favour one of his officers who had greatly distinguished himself in the fight; and the Queen at once presented the man with a magnificent helmet and breastplate of gold. That very night this officer donned his golden armour and fled to the camp of Octavian.

Upon the next morning Antony, with somewhat boyish effrontery, sent a messenger to Octavian challenging him to single combat, as he had done before the battle of Actium; but to this his enemy replied with the scathing remark that “ he might find several other ways of ending his life.” He thereupon decided to bring matters to a conclusion by a pitched battle on land and sea, rather than await the issue of a protracted siege; and, Cleopatra having agreed to this plan, orders were given for a general engagement upon August 1st. On the night before this date Antony, whose courage did not now fail him, bade the servants help him liberally at supper and not to be sparing with the wine, for that on the morrow they might be serving a new master, while he himself, the incarnation of Bacchus, the god of wine and festivity, lay dead upon the battlefield. At this his friends who were around him began to weep, but Antony hastily explained to them that he did not in the least expect to die, but hoped rather to lead them to glorious victory.

Late that night, when complete stillness had fallen upon the star-lit city, and the sea-wind had dropped, giving place to the hot silence of the summer darkness, on a sudden was heard the distant sound of pipes and cymbals, and of voices singing a rollicking tune. Nearer they came, and presently the pattering of dancing feet could be heard, while the shouts and cries of a multitude were blended with the wild music of a bacchanal song. The tumultuous procession, as Plutarch described it, seemed to take its course right through the middle of the city towards the Gate of Canopus; and there the commotion was most loudly heard. Then, suddenly, the sounds passed out, and were heard no more. But all those who had listened in the darkness to the wild music were assured that they had heard the passage of Bacchus as he and his ghostly attendants marched away from the army of his fallen incarnation, and joined that of the victorious Octavian.

The next morning, as soon as it was light, Antony marched his troops out of the eastern gates of the city, and formed them up on rising ground between the walls and the Hippodromos, a short distance back from the sea. From this position he watched his fleet sail out from the Great Harbour and make towards Octavian's ships, which were arrayed near the shore, two or three miles east of the city; but, to his dismay, the Alexandrian vessels made no attempt to deliver an attack upon the enemy as he had ordered them to do. Instead, they saluted Octavian’s fleet with their oars, and, on receiving a similar salutation in response, joined up with the enemy, all sailing thereupon towards the Great Harbour. Meanwhile, from his elevated position Antony saw the whole of his cavalry suddenly gallop over to Octavian’s lines, and he thus found himself left only with his infantry, who, of course, were no match for the enemy. It was useless to struggle further, and, giving up all hope, he fled back into the city, crying out that Cleopatra had betrayed him. As he rushed into the Palace, followed by his distracted officers, smiting his brow and calling down curses on the woman who, he declared, had delivered him into the hands of enemies made for her sake, the Queen fled before him from her apartments, as though she feared that in his fury and despair he might cut her down with his sword. Alone with her two waitingwomen, Iras and Charmion, she ran as fast as she could through the empty halls and corridors of the Palace, and at length, crossing the deserted courtyard, she reached the mausoleum adjoining the temple of Isis. The officials, servants, and guards, it would seem, had all fled at the moment when the cry had arisen that the fleet and the cavalry had deserted; and there were probably but a few scared priests in the vicinity of the temple, who could hardly have recognised the Queen as she panted to the open door of the tomb, deserted by the usual custodians. The three women rushed into the dimly-lighted hall, bolting and barring the door behind them, and no doubt barricading it with benches, offering-tables, and other pieces of sacerdotal furniture. They then made their way to the habitable rooms on the upper floor, where they must have flung themselves down upon the rich couches in a sort of delirium of horror and excitement, Cleopatra herself preparing for immediate suicide. From the window they must have seen some of Antony’s staff hastening towards them, for presently they were able to send a message to tell him that the Queen was on the point of killing herself. After a short time, however, when the tumult in her brain had somewhat subsided, Cleopatra made up her mind to wait awhile before taking the final step, so that she might ascertain Octavian’s attitude towards her; and, having determined upon this course of action, she seems to have composed herself as best she could, while through the eastern windows, her eyes staring over the summer sea, she watched the Egyptian ships and those of the enemy rowing side by side into the Great Harbour.

There is no reason to suppose that Cleopatra had betrayed her husband, or that she was in any way a party to the desertions which had just taken place. The sudden collapse of their resistance, while yet it was but midmorning, must have come to her as a staggering shock; and Antony’s accusations were doubtless felt to be only in keeping with the erratic behaviour which had characterised his last years. On the previous day Antony had offered a large sum of money to every one of Octavian’s legionaries who should desert; and it is more than likely that Octavian had made a similar offer to the Egyptian sailors and soldiers. Only a year previously these sailors had fraternised with the Romans of the Antonian party in the Gulf of Ambracia, and the latter, having deserted to Octavian after the battle of Actium, were now present in large numbers amongst the opposing fleet. The Egyptians were thus called upon to fight with their friends whose hospitality they had often accepted, and whose fighting qualities, now that they were combined with Octavian’s victorious forces, they had every reason to appreciate. Their desertion, therefore, needed no suggestion on the part of Cleopatra: it was almost inevitable.

Antony, however, was far too distracted and overwrought to guard his tongue, and he seems to have paced his apartments in the Palace in a condition bordering upon madness, cursing Cleopatra and her country, and calling down imprecations upon all who had deserted him. Presently those of his staff who had followed the Queen to her mausoleum brought him the news that she had killed herself, for so they had interpreted her message; and instantly Antony’s fury seems to have left him, the shock having caused a collapse of his energy. At first he was probably dazed by the tidings; but when their full significance had penetrated to his bewildered brain there was no place left for anger or suspicion. “Now Antony,” he cried, “why delay longer ? Fate has taken away the only thing for which you could say you still wanted to live.” And with these words he rushed into his bedchamber, eagerly tearing off his armour, and calling upon his slave Eros to assist him. Then, as he bared the upper part of his body, he was heard to talk aloud to the Queen, whom he believed to be dead. “ Cleopatra,” he said, “I am not sad to be parted from you now, for I shall soon be with you; but it troubles me that so great a general should have been found to have slower courage than a woman.” Not long previously he had made Eros solemnly promise to kill him when he should order him to do so; and now, turning to him, he gave him that order, reminding him of his oath. Eros drew his sword, as though he intended to do as he was bid, but suddenly turning round, he drove the blade into his own breast, and fell dying upon the floor. Thereupon Antony bent down over him and cried to him as he lost consciousness, “Well done, Eros! Well done! ” Then, picking up the sword, he added, “You have shown your master how to do what you had not the heart to do yourself;” and so saying, he drove the sword upwards into his breast from below the ribs, and fell back upon his bed.

The wound, however, was not immediately mortal, and presently, the flow of blood having ceased, he recovered consciousness. Some of the Egyptian servants had gathered around him, and now he implored them to put him out of his pain. But when they realised that he was not dead they rushed from the room, leaving him groaning and writhing where he lay. Some of them must have carried the news to the Queen as she sat at the window of the mausoleum, for, a few moments later, a certain Diomedes, one of her secretaries, came to Antony telling him that she had not yet killed herself, and that she desired his body to be brought to her. Thereupon Antony eagerly gave orders to the servants to carry him to her, and they, lifting him in their arms, placed him upon an improvised stretcher and hurried with him to the mausoleum. A crowd seems now to have collected around the door of the building, and when the Queen saw the group of men bringing her husband to her, she must have feared lest some of them, seeking a reward, would seize her as soon as they had entered her stronghold and carry her alive to Octavian. Perhaps, also, it was a difficult matter to shoot back the bolts of the door which in her excitement she had managed to drive deep into their sockets. She, therefore, was unable to admit Antony into the mausoleum; and there he lay below her window, groaning and entreating her to let him die in her arms. In the words of Plutarch, Cleopatra thereupon “let down ropes and cords to which Antony was fastened; and she and her two women, the only persons she had allowed to enter the mausoleum, drew him up. Those who were present say that nothing was ever more sad than this spectacle, to see Antony, covered all over with blood and just expiring, thus drawn up, still holding up his hands to her, and raising up his body with the little force he had left. And, indeed, it was no easy task for the women; for Cleopatra, with all her strength clinging to the rope and straining at it with her head bent towards the ground, with difficulty pulled him up, while those below encouraged her with their cries and joined in all her efforts and anxiety.” The window must have been a considerable distance from the ground, and I do not think that the three women could ever have succeeded in raising Antony’s great weight so far had not those below fetched ladders, I suppose, and helped to lift him up to her, thereafter, no doubt, watching the terrible scene from the head of these ladders outside the window.

Dragging him through the window the women carried him to the bed, upon which he probably swooned away after the agonies of the ascent. Cleopatra was distracted by the pitiful sight, and fell into uncontrolled weeping. Beating her breast and tearing her clothes, she made some attempts, at the same time, to stanch the scarlet stream which flowed from his wound; and soon her face and neck were smeared with his blood. Flinging herself down by his side she called him her lord, her husband, and her emperor. All her pity and much of her old love for him was aroused by his terrible sufferings, and so intent was she upon his pain that her own desperate situation was entirely forgotten. At last Antony came to his senses, and called for wine to drink; after which, having revived somewhat, he attempted to soothe the Queen’s wild lamentations, telling her to make her terms with Octavian, so far as might honourably be done, and advising her to trust only a certain Proculeius amongst all the friends of the conqueror. With his last breath, he begged her, says Plutarch, “not to pity him in this last turn of fate, but rather to rejoice for him in remembrance of his past happiness, who had been of all men the most illustrious and powerful, and in the end had fallen not ignobly, a Roman by a Roman vanquished.” With these words he lay back upon the bed, and soon had breathed his last in the arms of the woman whose interests he had so poorly served, and whom now he left to face alone the last great struggle for her throne and for the welfare of her son.

CHAPTER XX.

THE DEATH OF CLEOPATRA AND THE TRIUMPH OF OCTAVIAN.