A Friend of Caesar by William Stearns Davis

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The light was too dim to discover in the distance anything new in the
face of the queen. She wore a loose, long gown of some light blue
silken stuff; and her belt, shoes, neck, breast, and ears were all
glittering with gems. At the foot of the dais was a group of half a
dozen showily dressed chamberlains and courtiers, who made a slight
motion of greeting when the two guests darkened the doorway. One of
these functionaries advanced to Cornelia.

"Your ladyship," he began, in a smooth, colourless voice, "I have the
honour to be the Royal Introducing Chamberlain. In approaching the
queen, do as I shall direct. First, before advancing to the dais bow
slightly; then at the foot of the dais it is proper--"

"Sir," interrupted Cornelia, drawing herself up to her full height, "I
am not accustomed to your prostrations and genuflections, and of them
my countrymen make sorry work; pray excuse me." And without waiting
for reply or expostulation she advanced straight toward the dais. The
hall was small, the steps from the door to the queen's chair few; but
never did Cornelia fare on more tedious journey. She knew that a
half-horrified titter was passing through the group of courtiers She
knew that Cleopatra herself had stirred in her seat, as if to rise.
But one word sounded in Cornelia's ears, and that word was "Rome."
Were not Roman citizens nobles among nobles, and Roman senators peers
of kings! And she, daughter of the Cornelii and Claudii, whose
ancestors had broken the might of Antiochus the Great and
Mithridates--should she not look in the face the heiress of the
Lagidae? Had not one hundred years before Popilius, the Roman
commissioner, come unarmed into the presence of Antiochus Epiphanes,
while he was advancing to the gates of defenceless Alexandria, drawn a
circle in the dust about the king, and bidden him answer, before he
stepped over, whether he would court destruction or obey the mandate
of the Republic and leave Egypt in peace? And had not the great king
obeyed--humbly? Why, then, should not a Roman patrician maiden look
down on a mere monarch, who was a pawn in the hands of her kinsfolk
and countrymen?

To repeat these things is long. The mind moves faster than the
sunlight. Cornelia came to the dais, and there gave the slightest
inclination of her head--the greeting of a mistress to slaves--to the
group of courtiers. She advanced straight toward the royal chair and
stretched forth her hand.

"I am your debtor, O queen, for a kindness that I may not soon, I
fear, repay--unless you come to Rome."

She spoke as a superior addressing an inferior who had rendered some
slight service. The queen rose from her seat and took the proffered
hand without the least hesitation.

"And I will ask for none other reward than that you do honour to my
entertainment."

The voice was wonderfully soft, modulated, and ringing; like an
instrument of many strings. Every syllable blended into the next in
perfect harmony; to hear a few words was like listening unto music.

Cornelia knew later, when she was older and had thought more, that the
queen had instantly caught the defiant mood of her guest, and
thereupon left nothing unspared to conciliate it. At that moment,
however, she attempted no such analysis of motive. She was conscious
of only one thing: the luminous personality of Cleopatra. The queen
was all that Cornelia had noticed her to be when they met at the Great
Square; but she was more than a beautiful woman. In fact, in mere
bodily perfection Monime or Berenice might well have stood beside her.
The glance of the queen went through and through her guests like
arrows of softly burning light. It was impossible to withdraw one's
eyes from her; impossible to shake off the spell of an enjoyable
magnetism. If she moved her long, shapely fingers, it was speech; if
she raised her hand, eloquence. As shade after shade of varying
emotion seemed to pass across Cleopatra's face, it was as if one saw
the workings of a masterful spirit as in a mirror; and now could cry,
"This is one of the Graces," and now "This is one of the Fates," as
half-girlish candour and sweetness was followed by a lightning flash
from the eyes, disclosing the deep, far-recessed subtleties of the
soul within. Cornelia had entered the hall haughty, defiant; a word
and a look--she was the most obedient vassal.

Cornelia had seen many a splendid banquet and dinner party in Rome.
Even Oriental kings had not a great deal to teach the "masters of the
toga" in ostentatious luxury. Perhaps the queen had realized this. The
present occasion called, indeed for very little formality, for,
besides Cornelia, Cleomenes was the only guest; and when that
gentleman inquired politely if his Majesty, the King Ptolemaeus, was to
honour them with his presence, Cleopatra replied, with an eloquent
raising of the eyebrows:--

"The king will be to-night, as he always is, with his
tutor--Pothinus."

There was indescribable scorn in the last word.

The doors of the reception hall had been flung back on noiseless
pivots by unseen hands. The banqueting room disclosed within was not
so much a room as a garden. Flowers, flowers were everywhere, roses,
violets, narcissuses, and a score of others breathing forth a heavy
fragrance. Overhead, the goldstudded ceiling was converted into a vast
arbour of blending flowery tints. The room was large, very large for
only three banqueters; on the walls, from out between the potted
tropical plants, shone marvellous marble reliefs, one hundred in all;
and in betwixt them were matchless paintings. Framing, after a
fashion, the pictures, were equally perfect embroideries, portraying
in silk and fine linen the stories of Thebes, the kingly house of
Argos, and many another myth of fame. The pillars of the room
represented palm trees and Bacchic thyrsi; skins of wild beasts were
fastened high up to the walls; and everywhere was the sheen of silver
and gold, the splendour of scarlet and purple tapestries.

"The decorations of this room," said the queen, as her two guests
entered, "are nearly all preserved from the great banqueting pavilion
of Ptolemaeus Philadelphus, which he erected for the grand festival
that ushered in his reign."

Cornelia drew back as her foot crossed the threshold. Her sandals trod
on the fair white cup of a blooming lily. The queen laughed as merrily
as a little girl at her confusion.

"In Rome, I doubt not," she said, smiling, "there are not flowers
enough at this time of year to have them for a carpet. But this is
Alexandria. Flowers are never out of bloom."

So Cornelia advanced, but perhaps it grieved her more to tread on the
innocent flowers, than any small thing had since she left Baiae.

And then the banquet, if such it may be termed when there are but
three to enjoy it, began. Cleopatra knew well that she could not
overwhelm her Roman guest with show of plate and gems, nor did she
try. But Cornelia forgot about such things long before they rose. For
the queen displayed to her a myriad dainty perfections and refinements
that never had endeared themselves to the grosser Italian gourmands.
Cleomenes had whispered to his companion, before they reached the
palace, "Plato tells of four sorts of flattery; but I can promise you
a thousand sorts from Cleopatra if she but cares to win your
friendship." And surely the queen did thus desire. For Cornelia was
surfeited with strange dishes, and rare sherbets, flowers, and music;
surfeited with everything save the words that fell from the lips of
Cleopatra.

The more the queen spoke, the more complete became the vassalage of
her guest. Cornelia discovered that this woman, who was but little
older than she, could speak fluently seven languages, and carried
about with her an exceedingly accurate knowledge, not merely of the
administration of Egypt, but of the politics of Rome, and the details
of the great contest racking the Republic. When Cleopatra asked
questions concerning Roman affairs, Cornelia was fain to confess
ignorance and be put to shame. And as the evening advanced, Cornelia
found herself talking with more and more confidence to this woman that
she had never addressed until an hour before. Cleopatra of course
knew, as all Alexandria knew, that Cornelia and Fabia were Roman
ladies of the highest rank, who had been forced to take refuge abroad
until the political crisis was over. But now Cornelia told the queen
the true reasons that had led her to be willing to submit to
Demetrius's friendly kidnapping; and when, in a burst of
frankness,--which in a saner moment Cornelia would have deemed
unwise,--she told of her betrothal to Drusus and willingness to wait
long for him, if they might only come together in the end, the queen
seemed unable to speak with her usual bright vivacity. Presently she
said:--

"So you love this young man as none other? You are willing to be all
your life his handmaid, his slave?"

"I love him, assuredly," said Cornelia, with a little heat. "And so
far as being all my life his slave, I've given that never so much as a
thought. Where love is, there slavery cannot be."

"And where love is not, there slavery must be, doubtless you wish to
add?" broke in the queen.

"I should be very miserable if I had nothing to love, which I might
love purely, and feel myself the nobler and happier thereby."

"Then pity us poor mortals who cannot climb up to your Olympus! Eh, my
very noble Cleomenes," went on the queen, addressing the Greek, "do I
not deserve compassion, that I have not been able to find some
Tigranes of Armenia, or Parthian prince, who will be all in all to me,
and make me forget everything in worshipping him?"

These were the first words that evening that had grated on Cornelia. A
little ruffled, she replied:--

"I fear, O queen, that if you are awaiting a Tigranes or an Artavasdes
to sue for your hand, you will indeed never find a lord to worship.
Quintus Drusus is indeed wealthy at Rome, his family noble, he may
rise to great things; but I would not lay down my life for him because
of his wealth, his lineage, or his fair prospects. It is not these
things which make a common woman love a man."

"But I am not a common woman," responded Cleopatra, with emphasis. "I
am ambitious, not to be led, but to lead. I must rule or I must die. I
cannot love a master, only fear him. Why, because I was born a woman,
must I give up all my royal aspirations to rise to a great place among
princes, to build up a great empire in the East, to make Alexandria a
capital with the power of Rome, the culture of Athens, the splendour
of Babylon, all in one? It is because I have these hopes stirring in
me that I may love no man, can love no man! Nothing shall stand in my
way; nothing shall oppose me. Whoever thwarts my ambitions, the worse
for him; let him die--all things must die, but not I, until I have won
my power and glory!"

For once, at least, the queen's emotions had run away with her; she
spoke hotly, passionately, as though tearing her words from the
recesses of her throbbing heart. Her wonderful voice was keyed in
half-bitter defiance. For the moment Cornelia was mistress, and not
the queen.

"O queen," broke in the young Roman, "would you know how I feel toward
you?"

Cleopatra looked at her with dilated eyes.

"I feel for you a very great sorrow. I know not whether you will or
will not do as you wish--set your empire over the far East, a rival,
friendly, I hope, to our Rome; but this I know, that with your glory,
and with your renown among men for all time, you will go down to your
grave with an empty heart. And I know not what may compensate for
that."

Cleomenes was clearly a little disturbed at this turn to the
conversation; but Cleopatra bowed her head on her hands. It was only
for an instant. When she looked up once more there were tears in her
eyes, which she made no effort to conceal. The look of high defiance
had faded from her face.

"Think kindly of me, Lady Cornelia," she said; "I am but a wilful girl
with many things to learn. Perhaps you yourself know that purple robes
do not make a light heart."

"That I know well and sadly."

"Therefore," went on the queen, "if I forget myself, and half envy a
cup of happiness that seems dashed from my lips, do not be over
blameful."

"Never," responded the young Roman.

"Time advances," said the queen; "let us forget that any barriers shut
us out from perfect bliss. Let us call in the Egyptian musicians; and
cry out upon me if my looks grow sad!"

Whereat a whole section in the side of the room turned on a pivot, and
there entered three native harpers and eight pretty Egyptian girls, in
gauzy dresses, who danced in intricate figures, and juggled with
balls; now with two, now with three, catching them with their hands
crossed. Boys ran in and out and sprinkled _kyphi_[174] on the heads
of the three feasters, and flung huge wreaths of flowers round their
necks, and thrust lotus flowers in their hair. And all the time the
girls sang sweetly.

[174] A mixture of myrrh, frankincense, and other aromatic materials.

The queen kept her guests very late.

"We of Alexandria," said she, "make little difference between night
and day. Our city is a new Sybaris."

And all through the evening Cleopatra kept close to Cornelia, often
with her hand upon her, as though extremely loath to let her go. At
last the moon crept up into the heavens, and as the queen and her
guests roved out of the heated banqueting hall into the cool gardens,
the pale yellow light gently bathed the sweep of the city, which lay
in full view of the palace terrace.

"All sleep," said Cleopatra, "all but ourselves. Let there be one more
song, and then farewell!--but soon to meet again."

The chorus of maidens, which followed them, sang, in Greek, the hymn
of Onomacritus:[175]--

[175] Elton, translator.

"Heavenly Selene! goddess queen! that shed'st abroad the light!
Bull-horned moon! air-habiting! thou wanderer through the night!
Moon bearer of mighty torch! thou star-encircled maid!
Woman thou, yet male the same, still fresh and undecayed!
Thou that in thy steeds delightest, as they travel through the sky,
Clothed in brightness! mighty mother of the rapid years that fly;
Fruit dispenser! amber-visaged! melancholy, yet serene!
All beholding! sleep-enamour'd! still with trooping planets seen!
Quiet loving; who in pleasance and in plenty tak'st delight;
Joy diffusing! Fruit maturing! Sparkling ornament of night!
Swiftly pacing! ample-vested! star-bright! all divining maid!
Come benignant! come spontaneous! with starry sheen arrayed!
Sweetly shining! save us virgin, give thy holy suppliants aid!"

"Yes," said Cleopatra, passing her hand over her brow, "give us aid,
either thou, O moon, or some other power, for we are full weak
ourselves."

When the queen parted with her guests she put her arms around
Cornelia's waist and kissed her on the forehead.

"I sent for you," said Cleopatra, "half intending to amuse myself with
the boorishness and clumsy insolence which I conceived a noble Roman
lady to possess. I have been punished. Promise to come to see me
often, very often, or I shall call my body-guards and keep you
prisoner. For I have very few friends."

While the chariot was bearing the two guests away, Cleomenes asked
Cornelia what she thought of the queen.

"She is the most wonderful woman I have ever met," was her answer,
enthusiastic and characteristically feminine. "I admire her. I am
almost her slave."

The frequency of Cornelia's visits to the palace on following days
seemed to prove that the admiration was not unreciprocated. Indeed,
Monime and Berenice grew jealous of the queen for stealing their new
friend from them.

Chapter XXI

How Ulamhala's Words Came True

I

The sentries were going their rounds; the camp-fires were burning low.
Over on the western hills bounding the Thessalian plain-land lingered
the last bars of light. It was oppressively warm, and man and beast
were utterly fatigued. Quintus Drusus stripped off his armour, and
flung himself on the turf inside his tattered leather tent. Vast had
been the changes eighteen months of campaigning had made in him. He
had fought in Italy, in Spain, in the long blockade of the Pompeians
at Dyrrachium. He had learned the art of war in no gentle school. He
had ceased even so much as to grumble inwardly at the hardships
endured by the hard-pressed Caesarian army. The campaign was not going
well. Pompeius had broken through the blockade; and now the two armies
had been executing tedious manoeuvres, fencing for a vantage-ground
before joining pitched battle.

Drusus was exceedingly weary. The events of the past two
years,--loves, hates, pleasures, perils, battles,--all coursed through
his mind; the fairest and most hideous of things were blended into
buzzing confusion; and out of that confusion came a dull consciousness
that he, Quintus Drusus, was thoroughly weary of everything and
anything--was heavy of heart, was consumed with hatred, was chafing
against a hundred barriers of time, space, and circumstance, and was
utterly impotent to contend against them.

The Imperator--how he loved and adored him! Through all the
campaigning nothing could seem to break the strength of that nervous,
agile, finely strung physique. Sleeping in carriages or litters; ever
moving; dictating continually books and letters to a secretary if for
an hour there was a halt; dictating even while on horseback, in fact,
and composing two letters at the same time; riding the most
ungovernable horses fearlessly and without a fall; galloping at full
speed with his hands clasped behind his back,--these were the mere
external traits that made him wonderful among men. Worthy of all
praise was the discipline by which the Imperator had held his troops
to him by bonds firmer than iron; neither noticing all petty
transgressions, nor punishing according to a rigid rule; swift and
sure to apprehend mutineers and deserters; certain to relax the tight
bands of discipline after a hard-fought battle with the genial remark
that "his soldiers fought none the worse for being well oiled "; ever
treating the troops as comrades, and addressing them as
"fellow-soldiers," as if they were but sharers with him in the honour
of struggling for a single great end. Drusus had known him to ride one
hundred miles a day in a light chariot without baggage, march
continually at the head of his legions on foot, sharing their fatigues
in the most malignant weather, swim a swollen river on a float of
inflated skins, always travelling faster than the news of his coming
might fly before him. Tireless, unsleeping, all providing, all
accomplishing, omniscient,--this was what made Drusus look upon his
general as a being raised up by the Fates, to go up and down the
world, destroying here and building there. The immediate future might
be sombre enough, with all the military advantages falling, one after
another, into Pompeius's lap; but doubt the ultimate triumph of Caesar?
The young Livian would have as readily questioned his own existence.

Some one thrust back the flaps of the tent, and called inside into the
darkness:--

"Are you here, Drusus?"

"I am," was the wearied answer. "Is that Antonius?"

"Yes. Come out. We may as well dispose of our cold _puls_ before the
moon rises, and while we can imagine it peacocks, Lucrine oysters, or
what not."

"If sight were the only sense!" grumbled Drusus, as he pulled himself
together by a considerable effort, and staggered to his feet.

Outside the tent Antonius was waiting with a helmet half full of the
delectable viand, which the two friends proceeded to share together as
equally as they might in the increasing darkness.

"You are over sober to-night," said Antonius, when this scarcely
elaborate meal was nearly finished.

"_Perpol!_" replied Drusus, "have I been as a rule drunken of late? My
throat hardly knows the feeling of good Falernian, it is so long since
I have tasted any."

"I doubt if there is so much as a draught of _posca_[176] in the
army," said Antonius, yawning. "I imagine that among our friends, the
Pompeians, there is plenty, and more to spare. _Mehercle_, I feel that
we must storm their camp just to get something worth drinking. But I
would stake my best villa that you have not been so gloomy for mere
lack of victuals, unless you have just joined the Pythagoreans, and
have taken a vow not to eat fish or beans."

[176] A drink of vinegar and water very common among the soldiers.

"I do not know that I am especially gloomy to-night," replied Drusus,
a bit testily. "I know little whereon to make merry."

"The arrows of Amor," hinted Antonius, "sink deep in the soul, and the
god is unfair; he shoots venomed darts; the poison ever makes the pain
greater."

"I would you could endure your own troubles," retorted the other, "and
let me care for mine!"

"_Perpol,_ friend," replied Antonius, "don't be vexed! I see it is a
case of your wanting little said on a sore point. Well, keep silent, I
won't tease you. Doesn't Theognis declare:--

"'Caress me not with words, while far away
Thy heart is absent and thy feelings stray'?[177]

[177] Elton, translator.

And doubtless you would reverse the saying and put 'my heart' for 'thy
heart.' Forgive me."

But Drusus, now that the ice was broken, was glad to talk.

"Now, amice, I won't harbour any ill feeling. I know that you don't
look at women the way I do. If you had ever fallen in love with one
like Cornelia, it would have been different. As it is, you can only
stare at me, and say to yourself, 'How strange a sensible fellow like
Drusus should care for a girl from whom he has been parted for nearly
two years!' That's why I doubt if your sympathy can be of any great
solace to me."

"Well," said Antonius, washing down his _puls_ with a draught of water
from a second helmet at hand, "I can't say that I would be full of
grief two years from the day my beloved Fulvia was taken from me. But
there are women of many a sort. Some are vipers to sting your breast,
some are playthings, some are--what shall I call them--goddesses? no,
one may not kiss Juno; flowers? they fade too early; silver and gold?
that is rubbish. I have no name for them. But believe me, Quintus, I
have met this Cornelia of yours once or twice, and I believe that she
is one of those women for whom my words grow weak."

"Then you can sympathize, can feel, for me," said Drusus, as he lay
back with his head on the dark green sward.

"Yes, as a poor man who has always possessed nothing can feel for a
rich merchant whose whole fortune is about to founder at sea. Do not
spurn my feeble sort of pity. But do you know nothing of her, not a
word, a sign? Is she alive or dead? Much less, does she still care for
you?"

"Nothing!" answered Drusus, and the sense of vexation and helplessness
choked his utterance. "She vanished out of sight at Baiae, as a flash
of lightning passes away in the sky. I cannot imagine the cause of her
disappearance. The pirates, indeed, might have wished to take her for
ransom; but no, they bore her off with never a demand for money from
any friend or relative. I have tried to trace them--the Pompeian ships
on every sea make it impossible. I have questioned many prisoners and
spies; she is not at the Pompeian camp with her uncle. Neither can I
discover that her kinsmen among the enemy themselves know where she
is. And to this is added that other mystery: whither has my Aunt Fabia
vanished? How much of the account of those who followed her to the
river dock is to be believed--that pirates saved her from Gabinius,
and then abducted her? Upon all, my clever freedman Agias is
gone--gone without ever a word, though I counted him faithful as my
own soul!"

"And what then do you expect?" asked Antonius, not without friendly
interest.

"What can a man, who dares to look the situation in the face, expect,
except something too horrible to utter?" and Drusus groaned in his
agony.

"You mean--" began his friend.

"That the pirates have kept Cornelia and perhaps Fabia in their vile
clutches until this hour; unless, indeed, the Fates have been merciful
and they are dead! Do you wonder at my pain?"

"_Phui!_ we will not imagine any such disagreeable thing!" said
Antonius, in a sickly effort to make banter at the other's fears.

"Don't speak again unless you want me your enemy," threatened Drusus,
springing up in fury. Antonius knew his own interests enough to keep
quiet; besides, his friend's pain cut him to the heart, and he knew
himself that Drusus's dread was justified under the circumstances.

"Do you think there will be a battle to-morrow?" demanded Drusus,
after some interval of gloomy silence.

"I would to the gods it might be so," was his answer; "are you
thirsting for blood?"

Drusus half drew his short sword, which even in camp never left the
side of officer or private during that campaign.

"Thirst for blood?" he growled. "Yes, for the lives of Lucius
Lentulus, and Domitius and his accursed younger son. I am hot as an
old gladiator for a chance to spill their blood! If Cornelia suffers
woe unutterable, it will be they--they who brought the evil upon her!
It may not be a philosophic mood, but all the animal has risen within
me, and rises more and more the longer I think upon them and on
_her_."

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