Читать книгу Queen Cleopatra - Talbot Mundy - Страница 7

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Strength of purpose has no part in obstinacy. Obstinacy clings to what it sees, denying what it sees not. Strength of purpose, daughter of imagination, can deny what seems to be, because it knows what is.

—Fragment from The Diary Of Olympus.

"IF THE gods had anything more satisfying than this, and I had assurance of it, then I might believe in gods and break my only other rule," remarked Apollodorus. "As it is, I envy nobody and nothing. Do you feel the breeze?"

He was lying chin on elbow on a cushioned divan, in the place that Bopulos, the Greek purveyor, called the Royal Pavilion because royalty came there now and then. It looked like a temple in miniature, with its classic Corinthian columns; but instead of a wide flight of steps descending to the beach there was a marble balustrade to provide privacy.

Nothing had been spared to make of the Grove of Eleusis the most extravagantly luxurious summer resort in the world. Everything that had ever been seen or heard of, had been imitated or surpassed, and the fact that war was raging over half a world, with its consequences of extremes of wealth and poverty, of sudden fortunes and exorbitant high prices, had increased rather than diminished its popularity.

Colored lanterns were hung in the trees, with that irregularity that governs the arrangement of the stars and satisfies so much more subtly than an obvious design. Along the road that led past the cemetery and the Grove of Nemesis from Alexandria there came a scattered stream of torch-and-lantern-light that marked the chariots bringing the city's wealthy crowd to amuse itself for an evening.

In front of that Royal Pavilion, less than a bow-shot distant, Cleopatra's royal barge idled to and fro, dipping gilded oars that dripped silvery phosphorus into a dark purple sea. Its cabin lights, as seen through the yellow parchment covering the oval ports, were a sensuous, slowly moving mystery.

A widening path of moonlight danced away along the ripples to a dream horizon, and over on the left the Pharos beacon glowed like a great red jewel on the throat of night. Nightingales were singing passionately in the somber grove near by, and harps and flutes were stilled that men might listen to the birds.

Apollodorus looked magnificent, as he was scornfully aware.

"The stupidest things in the universe are men or women—I am not sure which," he went on. "Did you see that porpoise plunging in the moonlight? Which of you women can move with one ten thousandth of the same grace? People sing—shade of inglorious frogs and ravens, how they sing! But listen to the birds. The birds don't have to try; they simply do it. We are not even perfect in our stupidity. Consider the verses that our poets mix—a gluey mass of words!—like scullions who stir slaves' supper in an unclean pot, and add the onions and garlic to conceal the mawkiness! And as for statuary—look at that! O Cleopatra,—you who might be a mere woman if you had enough ambition,—look—look—and forswear art forever."

"Art!" snarled Diomedes' harsh voice. "What has art to do with this emergency? Art, jewelry, money, women—plunder, all of them—mere evils that bring foreign armies down on us!"

None commented. All eyes were watching an Egyptian slave, naked except for a cloth around his loins and an immeasurable dignity, who passed between pavilion and sea, carrying a great amphora filled with wine. Not far beyond him, to the right, at the beginning of the path of moonlight, men and women—Greeks—threw off their clothes and stood to let the ripples touch their toes a moment, before plunging, naked, ivory in purple, stirring liquid flames of phosphorus as they swam.

"Two things should never be attempted," said Apollodorus. "To be an artist or a queen. One is bound to fall short of either impertinence."

"Impertinence appears to be the air you breathe, although your sex may save you from the fate of Clytemnestra," remarked Diomedes.

Several women laughed, and one laugh rang among the rest so quietly musical as to make all others sound off key. The words that followed, spoken in a low voice, were melodiously freighted with the magic of the laugh:

"Then at least there is one man in Egypt whom I need not fear."

"Have no fear," said Diomedes' voice. "I posted the guards. There is not a Roman nor an Alexandrian among them—charcoal-black to a man—none from nearer than Tapé [Thebes]."

"We must make her afraid if we hope to see her fortunate," Apollodorus remarked, turning on his elbow. "Father Ptolemy the Piper showed us how to live long. He was afraid of everything except the wine-bowl. So the wine-bowl killed him. She should flatter papa's said-to-be-immortal shade by growing a stomach and dying drunk, after borrowing enormous sums of money from the Roman money-lenders with which to bribe the Roman senate. The honest Roman senators would spend all the money making hogs of themselves, and would grow too gouty and fat to have any ambition. Meanwhile, much water will have flowed down the Nile, and much else will have happened. We might all be dead, for instance. According to the shadowy Olympus the dead don't worry. Let us emulate the dead. I think that statesmanship. As official Connoisseur of Arts to Royal Egypt I advise artistic bribery of Rome instead of highfalutin guesswork. We know Romans will do anything for money."

"If I must buy Rome, I will not buy as my father did," said Cleopatra.

"Women's favors bring no premium in Rome," said Diomedes. "Any Roman can have all the women he wants for the mere impudence of asking. Money and corn and onions and armor—those are what Romans value."

"Rome is not worth the buying," Apollodorus objected. "Which of you has seen the place? Smells—narrow streets—malaria from the marshes—bricks, forever bricks and ugly temples wedged between despicable hovels—a nobility of bribe-fat parvenus, taught how to amuse themselves by Asian slaves—usurers who prate morality and practice twenty-five per cent.—bought votes—imported vice—the statuary that Pompey ravished out of Greece and set up beside the most awful Italian atrocities in wood that even this world ever saw—high-flying oratory (like our own, but even more inane) to distract attention from corrupt misgovernment—and a mob, smelling of imported onions, unwashed, and consisting of the riffraff of the earth and ruined legionaries, whose farms were stolen while they fought the money-lenders' wars! Rome? It would need a Heracles to clean it. It is no marvel that the Romans leave it to rob other people and find comfortable homes abroad!"

"The Romans are a race of soldiers, and only a soldier can understand them," said Diomedes. "They have great virtues, of which the first is discipline while under arms."

"I have slaves of my own who are better disciplined," remarked Apollodorus.

"Nevertheless, to mock them is not to conquer them," said Diomedes. "Whether Pompey or Caius Julius Caesar has been victorious, the fact remains that we have Ptolemy and his triumvirate to deal with. They have chosen Pompey. We should send a messenger to Caesar, who, if he has won the war, is master of the world."

"If I had ten men who were loyal to the Land of Khem, Caesar might have all the rest and I would defeat him nevertheless," said Cleopatra, with a strong thrill in her voice.

"Brave words, Royal Egypt! But the gods of the Land of Khem died long ago and the Romans have a god named Mars," Diomedes retorted. "He is a god who favors fighting men—a god who has seen many young queens walk on foot, in chains, behind a Roman general's chariot!"

For a moment Cleopatra did not answer. Then her low voice, carrying conviction, broke on the stillness—as calm as the night, and as sure as the sea that came leisurely laving the sand.

"I was born a Ptolemy and named the Sister of the Moon and Stars. Did I will that? Or are the Powers answerable? Do you think me thankless for a royal birth and for a great reign to accomplish? I believe the gods who sent me forth will never bring me down to such indignity as walking in a Roman's triumph. As I trust in proper time to feel a son's life swelling in my womb, I now feel greatness of another sort—not me, nor mine—a greatness charged upon me. I should be a traitress to avoid it. I accept the name Royal Egypt. I will not surrender it, though Rome send all her might to Alexandria and though I have no friend left."

She returned to the couch beneath the canopy, where Charmian and Lollianè sat in shadow and a pair of tall fans oscillated slowly in the hands of slaves. Then Diomedes took her place against the balustrade, his back toward it and his bronzed hands pressing on the marble. He extended both his sinewy arms in an heroic gesture of despair.

"If you were only a man!" he exploded, and then grinned apologetically.

"Diomedes is not easily ruled by women," remarked Apollodorus. "Three of his wives have died in the attempt. He has taken a fourth, who begins to look weary. But perhaps, if he lives long enough, the fifth or sixth—"

"Silence, fool!"

"No murder," said Cleopatra quietly. "I need all my friends. You are old-fashioned, Diomedes, and you have only one idea. Apollodorus is lazy. Olympus is a sort of bright oasis in the desert of his own gloom. But I am not afraid that one of you may poison me or sell me to the Romans—"

"Royal Egypt, you are sold already—and twice over!" exclaimed Diomedes. "Your father had sold you before you were born. He put a mortgage on you when he borrowed money from the Romans. And now Potheinos and Theodotus, Achillas and the rest of that crew who rule your brother, sit and count the profit they will gain by selling you dead or alive."

Apollodorus pointed to the curtains at the rear. They moved.

"Now news! Behold the shadowy Olympus!" he remarked cheerfully. "Good, bad or indifferent, he will make it interesting. Silence for the apologetic Sphinx!"

Olympus strode out from behind the curtains, bowing almost imperceptibly to right and left, and then stood motionless by Cleopatra's couch. She hardly moved her head to notice him.

"Tell me your news, Olympus."

The physician answered in a voice so free from emphasis that it was wonderful it should be audible at all; and yet each syllable he spoke was heard distinctly just as far away as he intended. It was a reassuring voice, devoid of any of the arrogance of erudition. "I came by sea. My boat is on the beach. Using the roof as I have often done, I overheard the three in conference: Theodotus, Achillas and Potheinos, busy seizing opportunity to re-enmesh themselves in old mistakes, their poison having failed."

"Violence next! Was I right? Now violence?" Cleopatra asked.

Olympus went on calmly:

"Potheinos' spies have reported to him that your baggage had been sent on board Tros' ship. So they have ordered war-ships to the harbor mouth to block the entrance, and they have sent archers along the Heptastadium to the Pharos lighthouse. As soon as they saw your barge leave they tempted the crews of your few remaining ships ashore and sunk the hulls in shallow water. They expect to catch your barge when you return on it tonight and to crush it between two war-ships. Failing that, and if you succeed in reaching Tros, they expect to sink his ship a little after midnight when he passes through the narrows."

"And does Tros know this?"

"Not unless he has guessed it," Olympus answered.

"Good!" she answered. "Good! You are wise, Olympus. If you had warned him, Tros might have—"

"No," Olympus interrupted. "Tros' father was a Prince of Samothrace. I did not stay to warn Tros because of lack of time and because I have no doubt of him. Tros is ready, and his provisions are on board, but to reach him by sea is impossible, because they lie in wait for you, to sink your barge. And if you should reach the palace, and linger there, they will storm your apartment to-night, having trebled the number of Ptolemy's guards, with that intention. But if you can reach Tros' ship—"

He paused because she stood up and confronted him. She stared into his eyes, attempting to probe the very soul behind the solemn mask. Some woman in the shadow, near where the slaves stood with the fans, uttered a stifled scream, and was rebuked by Charmian. Then Cleopatra turned away from Olympus and went to stand by the balustrade, to gaze in the direction of the city, where the Lochias Palace lights were a dim golden blur on the horizon.

Two stewards entered with a dozen slaves and all the furniture for a meal. They began to lay the table in the midst of the pavilion.

"Turn them out!" commanded Cleopatra.

Lollianè gestured to Apollodorus, who dismissed the stewards and Diomedes groaned aloud at the sight of supper vanishing.

The revelry outside, in the pavilions near by and on the beach, was growing riotous, as strong wine and the equally intoxicating beauty of the night stirred sensuous emotions. Men and women joined hands, dancing in the moonlight. Harps thrummed lustily, and hired, irreverent comedians sang the topical song of the moment, mocking a recent decision of the highest court. Two fat, accounted reputable citizens were dancing in the rôle of Dionysus, out of breath and shouting to their friends to judge which did it best.

Cleopatra freed herself from Charmian's embracing arm and began to pace the floor of the pavilion. She looked, one moment, like the genius of the scene, and the next, like someone utterly apart from it. A spirit in her rose and waned like the glow of a firefly—a mastery, that alternated with a sullen look of murder as the Ptolemy inheritance came uppermost. One moment she was young—unconquerably young; then ageless—an enigma.

Presently she stood again before Olympus.

"What say the stars?" she demanded.

"I have read the stars, O Egypt. But the stars have vast relation in an infinite design. We mortals are as particles in an immensity, and he who tells you he can read in starlight the unfolding of the next hour—or the next day, is as a trained ape jabbering for praise. I only know this is a period of deeds on which a world's fate hinges. And I saw a vision."

"Tell me!"

"I have seen the Nile outpouring floods into the sea, wind and sea striving against it, so that there was turbulence of waters surcharged with a golden mud. But in the end the sea prevailed. It swallowed up the Nile. But from the sea arose new corn land."

"Where was I? What has this vision to do with me?"

"You were at the meeting of the waters—a strong swimmer—now yielding to the current and now breasting waves—not always swimming wisely, but forever brave."

"And the end?"

"I did not see," Olympus answered. "Except that I saw corn land rising from the sea."

She turned away and stared toward Alexandria.

"Wait! Watch!" Apollodorus whispered, motioning for silence. There was something leopard-like about him now. His lazy, lithe, athletic figure was alert, for all his careless attitude, and there was one strong sinew on his neck that stood forth like a tightened bowstring.

Cleopatra faced them suddenly.

"Diomedes! Take Olympus' boat there on the beach and get word to the captain of my barge to row up the Canopic mouth of the Nile and anchor in hiding until I send for him. Go yourself! Explain nothing! Say he is to hide the barge and await my orders. Bid him put the lights out. Go, sir! Hasten back and gather up your guards. Then march to Pelusium hotfoot!"

"To Pelusium?" he wondered.

"Seize the fortress at Pelusium, and bide my coming!"

Diomedes made as if to answer her, but changed his mind. He laid a bronzed hand on the balustrade and vaulted over.

"Where is the boat?" he called back. "Which way?"

Olympus went to the balustrade and pointed.

"Apollodorus! Go and see what chariots are here. Pick out the best ones with the fastest horses. Never mind whose they are. Have them ready at the entrance before Diomedes comes!"

Apollodorus strode out like a young god, humming to himself. Olympus, standing close to Cleopatra, whispered to her while her women arranged a cloak over her shoulders. Cleopatra's eyes were on her royal barge, whose row of lights swung lazily offshore.

None spoke again until the barge swung suddenly in a maelstrom wake of phosphorescent fire and headed eastward, churning the dark purple water into silver streaks. There came a chorus of excited comment then, from the pavilions near by, and for a moment even the wanton music ceased. But the lights of the barge were extinguished one by one and curiosity gave place to revelry.

Then Diomedes came, Olympus helping him to climb the marble balustrade.

"Do you think I am old?" he grumbled. "Take your hands off me! What next?" he asked.

"Pelusium!" said Cleopatra.

Suddenly the curtains parted at the rear. Apollodorus entered.

"Art," he said, "has triumphed. There await nine chariots, one matter-of-fact vehicle for each immortal Muse."

Cleopatra almost ran from the pavilion. Apollodorus, seemingly more casual than ever, plucked Olympus' sleeve.

"No hurry!" he remarked. "Don't flatter destiny by breathing through your nose! Your stars are superstition and your high morality is pride, Olympus! Your visions are due to indigestion; I can tell by looking at your pale face that you eat too many onions and beans. But you know how to make life amusing, and of death a thing worth living for. What do you think is the next act in this drama?"

"Ask the gods," Olympus answered, smiling, as they strode together, following the women.

"But I don't know the gentlemen. I never met them."

"Are you sure?" asked Olympus.

"I am sure of nothing, except that it will amuse me to die when the time comes, and that I wish we had had supper!"

There was little conversation out there in the dark, but a deal of noise and movement. Guardsmen, blacker than the night, had formed themselves into a living screen that kept the curious at bay. A torch blazed by the chariot in which Cleopatra was already seated. Charmian stepped in beside her, and her other women scrambled into the chariots behind. A eunuch and a dozen other personal attendants tried to justify existence by getting into everybody's way, but that, as customary as the flies at noon, was only one more stimulating bustle added to the stamping of impatient hooves and the shouts from the darkness beyond the screen of guards. There were indignant Alexandrians out there in the night, demanding to know who had stolen their chariots and why.

Cleopatra beckoned to Apollodorus, who jumped into her chariot, turning out the charioteer, who wailed to the gods that his honor was gone, until the eunuch smote him on the mouth.

"Go now!" said Cleopatra.

Apollodorus shook the reins, and they were off, three milk-white horses recognizing mastery in the bit-feel of the bands that guided them. He laughed as he leaned his weight against the reins to swing the team around the sharp turn where the grove ceased and the moonlit road began.

"I approve—I commend—I endorse!" he cried gaily. "As Connoisseur of Arts I only ask you, is this comedy or tragedy? But who cares? Hi! Hi! Hi!"

He cracked the whip and sent the horses thundering full-pelt along the moonlit road toward the city, that was like a somber, flash-lit thunder-cloud on the horizon.