CHAPTER IV
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 Tápé, 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 Cæsar.
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 Cæsar."
"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.
