Cleopatra: Chapter 4

Chapter 4

OF THE MEETING OF CHARMION WITH THE LEARNED OLYMPUS; OF HER SPEECH WITH
HIM; OF THE COMING OF OLYMPUS INTO THE PRESENCE OF CLEOPATRA; AND OF THE
COMMANDS OF CLEOPATRA.

Clad in my plain black robe, I sat in the guest-chamber of the house
that had been made ready for me. I sat in a carven lion-footed chair,
and looked upon the swinging lamps of scented oil, the pictured
tapestries, the rich Syrian rugs--and, amidst all this luxury, bethought
me of that tomb of the Harpers which is at T�p�, and of the nine long
years of dark loneliness and preparation. I sat; and crouched upon a rug
near to the door, lay the aged Atoua. Her hair was white as snow, and
shrivelled with age was the wrinkled countenance of the woman who, when
all deserted me, had yet clung to me, in her great love forgetting my
great sins. Nine years! nine long years! and now, once again, I set my
foot in Alexandria! Once again in the appointed circle of things I came
forth from the solitude of preparation to be a fate to Cleopatra; and
this second time I came not forth to fail.

And yet how changed the circumstance! I was out of the story: my part
now was but the part of the sword in the hands of Justice; I might no
more hope to make Egypt free and great and sit upon my lawful throne.
Khem was lost, and lost was I, Harmachis. In the rush and turmoil of
events, the great plot of which I had been the pivot was covered up and
forgotten; scarce a memory of it remained. The curtain of dark night
was closing in upon the history of my ancient Race; its very Gods were
tottering to their fall; I could already, in the spirit, hear the shriek
of the Roman eagles as they flapped their wings above the furthest banks
of Sihor.

Presently I roused myself and bade Atoua go seek a mirror and bring it
to me, that I might look therein.

And I saw this: a face shrunken and pallid, on which no smile came;
great eyes grown wan with gazing into darkness looking out beneath
the shaven head, emptily, as the hollow eye-pits of a skull; a wizened
halting form wasted by abstinence, sorrow, and prayer; a long wild beard
of iron grey; thin blue-veined hands that ever trembled like a leaf;
bowed shoulders and lessened limbs. Time and grief had done their
work indeed; scarce could I think myself the same as when, the royal
Harmachis--in all the splendour of my strength and youthful beauty--I
first had looked upon the woman's loveliness that did destroy me. And
yet within me burned the same fire as of yore; yet I was not changed,
for time and grief have no power to alter the immortal spirit of man.
Seasons may come and go; Hope, like a bird, may fly away; Passion may
break its wings against the iron bars of Fate; Illusions may crumble
as the cloudy towers of sunset flame; Faith, as running water, may slip
from beneath our feet; Solitude may stretch itself around us like the
measureless desert sand; Old Age may creep as the gathering night over
our bowed heads grown hoary in their shame--yea, bound to Fortune's
wheel, we may taste of every turn of chance--now rule as Kings, now
serve as Slaves; now love, now hate; now prosper, and now perish. But
still, through all, we are the same; for this is the marvel of Identity.

And as I sat and thought these things in bitterness of heart, there came
a knocking at the door.

"Open, Atoua!" I said.

She rose and did my bidding; and a woman entered, clad in Grecian robes.
It was Charmion, still beautiful as of old, but sad faced now and very
sweet to see, with a patient fire slumbering in her downcast eyes.

She entered unattended; and, speaking no word, the old wife pointed to
where I sat, and went.

"Old man," she said, addressing me, "lead me to the learned Olympus. I
come upon the Queen's business."

I rose, and, lifting my head, looked upon her.

She gazed, and gave a little cry.

"Surely," she whispered, glancing round, "surely thou art not that----"
And she paused.

"That Harmachis whom once thy foolish heart did love, O Charmion? Yes,
I am he and what thou seest, most fair lady. Yet is Harmachis dead
whom thou didst love; but Olympus, the skilled Egyptian, waits upon thy
words!"

"Cease!" she said, "and of the past but one word, and then--why, let
it lie. Not well, with all thy wisdom, canst thou know a true woman's
heart, if thou dost believe, Harmachis, that it can change with the
changes of the outer form, for then assuredly could no love follow its
beloved to that last place of change--the Grave. Know thou, learned
Physician, I am of that sort who, loving once, love always, and being
not beloved again, go virgin to the death."

She ceased, and having naught to say, I bowed my head in answer. Yet
though I said nothing and though this woman's passionate folly had been
the cause of all our ruin, to speak truth, in secret I was thankful
to her who, wooed of all and living in this shameless Court, had still
through the long years poured out her unreturned love upon an outcast,
and who, when that poor broken slave of Fortune came back in such
unlovely guise, held him yet dear at heart. For what man is there who
does not prize that gift most rare and beautiful, that one perfect thing
which no gold can buy--a woman's unfeigned love?

"I thank thee that thou dost not answer," she said; "for the bitter
words which thou didst pour upon me in those days that long are dead,
and far away in Tarsus, have not lost their poisonous sting, and in my
heart is no more place for the arrows of thy scorn, new venomed through
thy solitary years. So let it be. Behold! I put it from me, that wild
passion of my soul," and she looked up and stretched out her hands as
though to press some unseen presence back, "I put it from me--though
forget it I may not! There, 'tis done, Harmachis; no more shall my love
trouble thee. Enough for me that once more my eyes behold thee, before
sleep seals thee from their sight. Dost remember how, when I would have
died by thy dear hand, thou wouldst not slay, but didst bid me live to
pluck the bitter fruit of crime, and be accursed by visions of the evil
I had wrought and memories of thee whom I have ruined?"

"Ay, Charmion, I remember well."

"Surely the cup of punishment has been filled. Oh! couldst thou see
into the record of my heart, and read in it the suffering that I
have borne--borne with a smiling face--thy justice would be satisfied
indeed!"

"And yet, if report be true, Charmion, thou art the first of all the
Court, and therein the most powerful and beloved. Does not Octavianus
give it out that he makes war, not on Antony, nor even on his mistress,
Cleopatra, but on Charmion and Iras?"

"Yes, Harmachis, and think that it has been to me thus, because of my
oath to thee, to be forced to eat the bread and do the tasks of one whom
so bitterly I hate!--one who robbed me of thee, and who, through the
workings of my jealousy, brought me to be that which I am, brought
thee to shame, and all Egypt to its ruin! Can jewels and riches and the
flattery of princes and nobles bring happiness to such a one as I, who
am more wretched than the meanest scullion wench? Oh, I have often wept
till I was blind; and then, when the hour came, I must arise and tire
me, and, with a smile, go do the bidding of the Queen and that heavy
Antony. May the Gods grant me to see them dead--ay, the twain of
them!--then myself I shall be content to die! Thy lot has been hard,
Harmachis; but at least thou have been free, and many is the time that I
have envied thee the quiet of thy haunted cave."

"I do perceive, O Charmion, that thou art mindful of thy oaths; and it
is well, for the hour of vengeance is at hand."

"I am mindful, and in all things I have worked for thee in secret--for
thee, and for the utter ruin of Cleopatra and the Roman. I have fanned
his passion and her jealousy, I have egged her on to wickedness and
him to folly, and of all have I caused report to be brought to C�sar.
Listen! thus stands the matter. Thou knowest how went the fight at
Actium. Thither went Cleopatra with her fleet, sorely against the will
of Antony. But, as thou sentest me word, I entreated him for the Queen,
vowing to him, with tears, that, did he leave her, she would die of
grief; and he, poor slave, believed me. And so she went, and in the
thick of the fight, for what cause I know not, though perchance thou
knowest, Harmachis, she made signal to her squadron, and, putting about
fled from the battle, sailing for Peloponnesus. And now, mark the end!
When Antony saw that she was gone, he, in his madness, took a galley,
and deserting all, followed hard after her, leaving his fleet to be
shattered and sunk, and his great army in Greece, of twenty legions
and twelve thousand horse, without a leader. And all this no man would
believe, that Antony, the smitten of the Gods, had fallen so deep in
shame. Therefore for a while the army tarried, and but now to-night
comes news brought by Canidius, the General, that, worn with doubt and
being at length sure that Antony had deserted them, the whole of his
great force has yielded to C�sar."

"And where, then, is Antony?"

"He has built him a habitation on a little isle in the Great Harbour and
named it Timonium; because, forsooth, like Timon, he cries out at the
ingratitude of mankind that has forsaken him. And there he lies smitten
by a fever of the mind, and thither thou must go at dawn, so wills the
Queen, to cure him of his ills and draw him to her arms; for he will
not see her, nor knows he yet the full measure of his woe. But first
my bidding is to lead thee instantly to Cleopatra, who would ask thy
counsel."

"I come," I answered, rising. "Lead thou on."

And so we passed the palace gates and along the Alabaster Hall, and
presently once again I stood before the door of Cleopatra's chamber, and
once again Charmion left me to warn her of my coming.

Presently she came back and beckoned to me. "Make strong thy heart," she
whispered, "and see that thou dost not betray thyself, for still are the
eyes of Cleopatra keen. Enter!"

"Keen, indeed, must they be to find Harmachis in the learned Olympus!
Had I not willed it, thyself thou hadst not known me, Charmion," I made
answer.

Then I entered that remembered place and listened once more to the plash
of the fountain, the song of the nightingale, and the murmur of the
summer sea. With bowed head and halting gait I came, till at length I
stood before the couch of Cleopatra--that same golden couch on which
she had sat the night she overcame me. Then I gathered my strength, and
looked up. There before me was Cleopatra, glorious as of old, but, oh!
how changed since that night when I saw Antony clasp her in his arms at
Tarsus! Her beauty still clothed her like a garment; the eyes were yet
deep and unfathomable as the blue sea, the face still splendid in its
great loveliness. And yet all was changed. Time, that could not touch
her charms, had stamped upon her presence such a look of weary grief as
may not be written. Passion, beating ever in that fierce heart of hers,
had written his record on her brow, and in her eyes shone the sad lights
of sorrow.

I bowed low before this most royal woman, who once had been my love and
destruction, and yet knew me not.

She looked up wearily, and spoke in her slow, well remembered voice:

"So thou art come at length, Physician. How callest thou
thyself?--Olympus? 'Tis a name of promise, for surely now that the Gods
of Egypt have deserted us, we do need aid from Olympus. Well, thou hast
a learned air, for learning does not with beauty. Strange, too, there is
that about thee which recalls what I know not. Say, Olympus, have we met
before?"

"Never, O Queen, have my eyes fallen on thee in the body," I answered
in a feigned voice. "Never till this hour, when I come forth from my
solitude to do thy bidding and cure thee of thy ills!"

"Strange! and even in the voice--Pshaw! 'tis some memory that I cannot
catch. In the body, thou sayest? then, perchance, I knew thee in a
dream?"

"Ay, O Queen; we have met in dreams."

"Thou art a strange man, who talkest thus, but, if what I hear be true,
one well learned; and, indeed, I mind me of thy counsel when thou didst
bid me join my Lord Antony in Syria, and how things befell according to
thy word. Skilled must thou be in the casting of nativities and in the
law of auguries, of which these Alexandrian fools have little knowledge.
Once I knew such another man, one Harmachis," and she sighed: "but he is
long dead--as I would I were also!--and at times I sorrow for him."

She paused, while I sank my head upon my breast and stood silent.

"Interpret me this, Olympus. In the battle at that accursed Actium, just
as the fight raged thickest and Victory began to smile upon us, a great
terror seized my heart, and thick darkness seemed to fall before
my eyes, while in my ears a voice, ay, the voice of that long dead
Harmachis, cried '_Fly! fly, or perish!_' and I fled. But from my heart
the terror leapt to the heart of Antony, and he followed after me, and
thus was the battle lost. Say, then, what God brought this evil thing
about?"

"Nay, O Queen," I answered, "it was no God--for wherein hast thou
angered the Gods of Egypt? Hast thou robbed the temples of their Faith?
Hast thou betrayed the trust of Egypt? Having done none of these things,
how, then, can the Gods of Egypt be wroth with thee? Fear not, it was
nothing but some natural vapour of the mind that overcame thy gentle
soul, made sick with the sight and sound of slaughter; and as for the
noble Antony, where thou didst go needs must that he should follow."

And as I spoke, Cleopatra turned white and trembled, glancing at me
the while to find my meaning. But I well knew that the thing was of the
avenging Gods, working through me, their instrument.

"Learned Olympus," she said, not answering my words; "my Lord Antony is
sick and crazed with grief. Like some poor hunted slave he hides himself
in yonder sea-girt Tower and shuns mankind--yes, he shuns even me, who,
for his sake, endure so many woes. Now, this is my bidding to thee.
To-morrow, at the coming of the light, do thou, led by Charmion, my
waiting-lady, take boat and row thee to the Tower and there crave entry,
saying that ye bring tidings from the army. Then he will cause you to
be let in, and thou, Charmion, must break this heavy news that Canidius
bears; for Canidius himself I dare not send. And when his grief is past,
do thou, Olympus, soothe his fevered frame with thy draughts of value,
and his soul with honeyed words, and draw him back to me, and all will
yet be well. Do thou this, and thou shalt have gifts more than thou
canst count, for I am yet a Queen and yet can pay back those who serve
my will."

"Fear not, O Queen," I answered, "this thing shall be done, and I ask no
reward, who have come hither to do thy bidding to the end."

So I bowed and went and, summoning Atoua, made ready a certain potion.

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