CHAPTER XVI
OF THE PLAN OF CHARMION; OF THE CONFESSION OF CHARMION; AND
OF THE ANSWER OF HARMACHIS
For some while I sat with bowed head, and the last bitterness of shame
sank into my soul. This, then, was the end. For this I had betrayed my
oaths; for this I had told the secret of the pyramid; for this I had
lost my Crown, my Honour, and, perchance, my hope of Heaven! Could
there be another man in the wide world so steeped in sorrow as I was
that night? Surely not one! Where should I turn? What could I do? And
even through the tempest of my torn heart the bitter voice of jealousy
called aloud. For I loved this woman, to whom I had given all; and she
at this moment--she was---- Ah! I could not bear to think of it; and
in my utter agony, my heart burst in a river of tears such as are
terrible to weep!
Then Charmion drew near me, and I saw that she, too, was weeping.
"Weep not, Harmachis!" she sobbed, kneeling at my side. "I cannot
endure to see thee weep. Oh! why wouldst thou not be warned? Then
hadst thou been great and happy, and not as now. Listen, Harmachis!
Thou didst hear what that false and tigerish woman said--to-morrow she
hands thee over to the murderers!"
"It is well," I gasped.
"Nay: it is not well. Harmachis, give her not this last triumph over
thee. Thou hast lost all save life: but while life remains, hope
remains also, and with hope the chance of vengeance."
"Ah!" I said, starting from my seat. "I had not thought of that. Ay--
the chance of vengeance! It would be sweet to be avenged!"
"It would be sweet, Harmachis, and yet this--Vengeance is an arrow
that in falling oft pierces him who shot it. Myself--I know it," and
she sighed. "But a truce to talk and grief. There will be time for us
twain to grieve, if not to talk, in all the heavy coming years. Thou
must fly--before the coming of the light must thou fly. Here is a
plan. To-morrow, ere the dawn, a galley that but yesterday came from
Alexandria, bearing fruit and stores, sails thither again, and its
captain is known to me, but to thee he is not known. Now, I will find
thee the garb of a Syrian merchant, and cloak thee, as I know how, and
furnish thee with a letter to the captain of the galley. He shall give
thee passage to Alexandria; for to him thou wilt seem but as a
merchant going on the business of thy trade. Brennus is officer of the
guard to-night, and Brennus is a friend to me and thee. Perhaps he
will guess somewhat; or, perhaps, he will not guess; at the least, the
Syrian merchant shall safely pass the lines. What sayest thou?"
"It is well," I answered wearily; "little do I reck the issue."
"Rest thou, then, here, Harmachis, while I make these matters ready;
and, Harmachis, grieve not overmuch; there are others who should
grieve more heavily than thou." And she went, leaving me alone with my
agony which rent me like a torture-bed. Had it not been for that
fierce desire of vengeance which from time to time flashed across my
tormented mind as the lightning over a midnight sea, methinks my
reason had left me in that dark hour. At length I heard her footstep
at the door, and she entered, breathing heavily, for she bore a sack
of clothing in her arms.
"It is well," she said: "here is the garb with spare linen, and
writing-tablets, and all things needful. I have seen Brennus also, and
told him that a Syrian merchant would pass the guard an hour before
the dawn. And though he made pretence of sleep, I think he understood,
for he answered, yawning, that if they but had the pass-word,
'Antony,' fifty Syrian merchants might go through about their lawful
business. And here is the letter to the captain--thou canst not
mistake the galley, for she is moored along to the right--a small
galley, painted black, as thou dost enter on the great quay, and,
moreover, the sailors make ready for sailing. Now I will wait here
without, while thou dost put off the livery of thy service and array
thyself."
When she was gone I tore off my gorgeous garments and spat upon them
and trod them on the ground. Then I put on the modest robe of a
merchant, and bound the tablets round me, on my feet the sandals of
untanned hide, and at my waist the knife. When it was done Charmion
entered once again and looked on me.
"Too much art thou still the royal Harmachis," she said; "see, it must
be changed."
Then she took scissors from her tiring-table, and, bidding me be
seated, she cut off my locks, clipping the hair close to the head.
Next she found stains of such sort as women use to make dark the eyes,
and mixed them cunningly, rubbing the stuff on my face and hands and
on the white mark in my hair where the sword of Brennus had bitten to
the bone.
"Now thou art changed--somewhat for the worse, Harmachis," she said,
with a dreary laugh, "scarce myself should I know thee. Stay, there is
one more thing," and, going to a chest of garments, she drew thence a
heavy bag of gold.
"Take thou this," she said; "thou wilt have need of money."
"I cannot take thy gold, Charmion."
"Yes, take it. It was Sepa who gave it to me for the furtherance of
our cause, and therefore it is fitting that thou shouldst spend it.
Moreover, if I want money, doubtless Antony, who is henceforth my
master, will give me more; he is much beholden to me, and this he
knows well. There, waste not the precious time in haggling o'er the
pelf--not yet art thou all a merchant, Harmachis;" and, without more
words, she thrust the pieces into the leather bag that hung across my
shoulders. Then she made fast the sack containing the spare garments,
and, so womanly thoughtful was she, placed in it an alabaster jar of
pigment, with which I might stain my countenance afresh, and, taking
the broidered robes of my office that I had cast off, hid them in the
secret passage. And so at last all was made ready.
"Is it time that I should go," I asked.
"Not yet a while. Be patient, Harmachis, for but one little hour more
must thou endure my presence, and then, perchance, farewell for ever."
I made a gesture signifying that this was no time for sharp words.
"Forgive me my quick tongue," she said; "but from a salt spring bitter
waters well. Be seated, Harmachis; I have heavier words to speak to
thee before thou goest."
"Say on," I answered; "words, however heavy, can move me no more."
She stood before me with folded hands, and the lamp-light shone upon
her beauteous face. I noticed idly how great was its pallor and how
wide and dark were the rings about the deep black eyes. Twice she
lifted her white face and strove to speak, twice her voice failed her;
and when at last it came it was in a hoarse whisper.
"I cannot let thee go," she said--"I cannot let thee go unwitting of
the truth.
"/Harmachis, 'twas I who did betray thee!/"
I sprang to my feet, an oath upon my lips; but she caught me by the
hand.
"Oh, be seated," she said--"be seated and hear me; then, when thou
hast heart, do to me as thou wilt. Listen. From that evil moment when,
in the presence of thy uncle Sepa, for the second time I set eyes upon
thy face, I loved thee--how much, thou canst little guess. Think upon
thine own love for Cleopatra, and double it, and double it again, and
perchance thou mayst come near to my love's mighty sum. I loved thee,
day by day I loved thee more, till in thee and for thee alone I seemed
to live. But thou wast cold--thou wast worse than cold! thou didst
deal with me not as a breathing woman, but rather as the instrument to
an end--as a tool with which to grave thy fortunes. And then I saw--
yes, long before thou knewest it thyself--thy heart's tide was setting
strong towards that ruinous shore whereon to-day thy life is broken.
And at last that night came, that dreadful night when, hid within the
chamber, I saw thee cast my kerchief to the winds, and with sweet
words cherish my royal Rival's gift. Then--oh, thou knowest--in my
pain I betrayed the secret that thou wouldst not see, and thou didst
make a mock of me, Harmachis! Oh! the shame of it--thou in thy
foolishness didst make a mock of me! I went thence, and within me were
rising all the torments which can tear a woman's heart, for now I was
sure that thou didst love Cleopatra! Ay, and so mad was I, even that
night I was minded to betray thee: but I thought--not yet, not yet;
to-morrow he may soften. Then came the morrow, and all was ready for
the bursting of the great plot that should make thee Pharaoh. And I
too came--thou dost remember--and again thou didst put me away when I
spake to thee in parables, as something of little worth--as a thing
too small to claim a moment's weighty thought. And, knowing that this
was because--though thou knewest it not--thou didst love Cleopatra,
whom now thou must straightway slay, I grew mad, and a wicked Spirit
entered into me, possessing me utterly, so that I was myself no
longer, nor could control myself. And because thou hadst scorned me, I
did this, to my everlasting shame and sorrow!--I passed into
Cleopatra's presence and betrayed thee and those with thee, and our
holy cause, saying that I had found a writing which thou hadst let
fall and read all this therein."
I gasped and sat silent; and gazing sadly at me she went on:
"When she understood how great was the plot, and how deep its roots,
Cleopatra was much troubled; and, at first, she would have fled to
Sais or taken ship and run for Cyprus, but I showed her that the ways
were barred. Then she said she would cause thee to be slain, there, in
the chamber, and I left her so believing; for, at that hour, I was
glad that thou shouldst be slain--ay, even if I wept out my heart upon
thy grave, Harmachis. But what said I just now?--Vengeance is an arrow
that oft falls on him who looses it. So it was with me; for between my
going and thy coming Cleopatra hatched a deeper plan. She feared that
to slay thee would only be to light a fiercer fire of revolt; but she
saw that to bind thee to her, and, having left men awhile in doubt, to
show thee faithless, would strike the imminent danger at its roots and
wither it. This plot once formed, being great, she dared its doubtful
issue, and--need I go on? Thou knowest, Harmachis, how she won; and
thus the shaft of vengeance that I loosed fell upon my own head. For
on the morrow I knew that I had sinned for naught, that the burden of
my betrayal had been laid on the wretched Paulus, and that I had but
ruined the cause to which I was sworn and given the man I loved to the
arms of wanton Egypt."
She bowed her head awhile, and then, as I spoke not, once more went
on:
"Let all my sin be told, Harmachis, and then let justice come. See
now, this thing happened. Half did Cleopatra learn to love thee, and
deep in her heart she bethought her of taking thee to wedded husband.
For the sake of this half love of hers she spared the lives of those
in the plot whom she had meshed, bethinking her that if she wedded
thee she might use them and thee to draw the heart of Egypt, which
loves not her nor any Ptolemy. And then, once again she entrapped
thee, and in thy folly thou didst betray to her the secret of the
hidden wealth of Egypt, which to-day she squanders to delight the
luxurious Antony; and, of a truth, at that time she purposed to make
good her oath and marry thee. But on the very morn when Dellius came
for answer she sent for me, and telling me all--for my wit, above any,
she holds at price--demanded of me my judgment whether she should defy
Antony and wed thee, or whether she should put the thought away and
come to Antony. And I--now mark thou all my sin--I, in my bitter
jealousy, rather than I would see her thy wedded wife and thou her
loving lord, counselled her most strictly that she should come to
Antony, well knowing--for I had had speech with Dellius--that if she
came, this weak Antony would fall like a ripe fruit at her feet, as,
indeed, he has fallen. And but now I have shown thee the issue of the
scheme. Antony loves Cleopatra and Cleopatra loves Antony, and thou
art robbed, and matters have gone well for me, who of all women on the
earth to-night am the wretchedest by far. For when I saw how thy heart
broke but now, my heart seemed to break with thine, and I could no
longer bear the burden of my evil deeds, but knew that I must tell
them and take my punishment.
"And now, Harmachis, I have no more to say; save that I thank thee for
thy courtesy in hearkening, and this one thing I add. Driven by my
great love I have sinned against thee unto death! I have ruined thee,
I have ruined Khem, and myself also I have ruined! Let death reward
me! Slay thou me, Harmachis--I will gladly die upon thy sword; ay, and
kiss its blade! Slay thou me and go; for if thou slayest me not,
myself I will surely slay!" And she threw herself upon her knees,
lifting her fair breast toward me, that I might smite her with my
dagger. And, in my bitter fury, I was minded to strike; for, above
all, I thought how, when I was fallen, this woman, who herself was my
cause of shame, had scourged me with her whip of scorn. But it is hard
to slay a fair woman; and, even as I lifted my hand to strike, I
remembered that she had now twice saved my life.
"Woman! thou shameless woman!" I said, "arise! I slay thee not! Who am
I, that I should judge thy crime, that, with mine own, doth overtop
all earthly judgment?"
"Slay me, Harmachis!" she moaned; "slay me, or I slay myself! My
burden is too great for me to bear! Be not so deadly calm! Curse me,
and slay!"
"What was it that thou didst say to me just now, Charmion--that as I
had sown so I must reap? It is not lawful that thou shouldst slay
thyself; it is not lawful that I, thine equal in sin, should slay thee
because through thee I sinned. As /thou/ hast sown, Charmion, so must
/thou/ also reap. Base woman! whose cruel jealousy has brought all
these woes on me and Egypt, live--live on, and from year to year pluck
the bitter fruit of crime! Haunted be thy sleep by visions of thy
outraged Gods, whose vengeance awaits thee and me in their dim Amenti!
Haunted be thy days by memories of that man whom thy fierce love
brought to shame and ruin, and by the sight of Khem a prey to the
insatiate Cleopatra and a slave to Roman Antony."
"Oh, speak not thus, Harmachis! Thy words are sharper than any sword;
and more surely, if more slowly, shall they slay! Listen, Harmachis,"
and she grasped my robe: "when thou wast great, and all power lay
within thy grasp, thou didst reject me. Wilt reject me now that
Cleopatra hast cast thee from her--now that thou art poor and shamed
and with no pillow to thy head? Still am I fair, and still I worship
thee. Let me fly with thee, and make atonement for my lifelong love.
Or, if this be too great a thing to ask, let me be but as thy sister
and thy servant--thy very slave, so that I may still look upon thy
face, and share thy trouble and minister to thee. O Harmachis, let me
but come and I will brave all things and endure all things, and
nothing but Death himself shall stay me from thy side. For I do
believe that the love that sank me to so low a depth, dragging thee
with me, can yet lift me to an equal height, and thee with me!"
"Wouldst tempt me to fresh sin, woman? And dost thou think, Charmion,
that in some hovel where I must hide, I could bear, day by day, to
look upon thy fair face, and seeing, remember that those lips betrayed
me? Not thus easily shalt thou atone! This I know even now: many and
heavy shall be thy lonely days of penance! Perchance that hour of
vengeance yet may come, and perchance thou shalt live to play thy part
in it. Thou must still abide in the Court of Cleopatra; and, while
thou art there, if I yet live, I will from time to time find means to
give thee tidings. Perhaps a day may dawn when once more I shall need
thy service. Now, swear that, in this event, thou wilt not fail me a
second time."
"I swear, Harmachis!--I swear! May everlasting torments, too hideous
to be dreamed--more hideous, even, by far, than those that wring me
now--be my portion if I fail thee in one jot or tittle--ay, though I
wait a lifetime for thy word!"
"It is well; see that thou keep the oath--not twice may we betray. I
go to work out my fate; abide thou to work out thine. Perchance our
divers threads will once more mingle ere the web be spun. Charmion,
who unasked didst love me--and who, prompted by that gentle love of
thine, didst betray and ruin me--fare thee well!"
She gazed wildly upon my face--she stretched out her arms as though to
clasp me; then, in the agony of her despair, she cast herself at
length and grovelled upon the ground.
I took up the sack of clothing and the staff and gained the door, and,
as I passed it, I threw one last glance upon her. There she lay, with
arms outstretched--more white than her white robes--her dark hair
streaming about her, and her fair brows hidden in the dust.
And thus I left her, nor did I again set my eyes upon her till nine
long years had come and gone.
[Here ends the second and largest roll of papyrus.]
