by Jack Lindsay
The Senator blinked his small eyes. “That is so, Dionusos.”
Antonius guffawed. “But not the goddess. She doesn’t die. She’s the everlasting earth. Do you hear that, Queen of Egypt? “
Cleopatra, who always drank very little, paid no attention. Antonius called for more of the wine, an almost-black resinous vintage which many of the guests refused. Victor saw that the petition would have to be again postponed. He and Eros helped Antonius to bed; and after they had finished, Cleopatra came. They had not expected her to come. They took their stand behind the door-curtains, and listened. Cleopatra was talking, pleading about something. Then Antonius could be heard, pleading in turn. He called out for the doors to be shut.
Next morning the pages found him lying on the floor, with marks across his back. Cleopatra had returned to her own room by a side-door.
Again Victor postponed his petition. It seemed impossible to find the right time. He wept in his room, utterly despondent; and yet could never broach the subject when face to face with Antonius. The standard of things changed so unaccountably between the moment of sobbing in his room and the moment of facing Antonius. In his room, nothing else whatever mattered but Daphne, and brave speeches of persuasion came without effort to his tongue; but before Antonius, there were so many other things in the world, even though Daphne still remained the centre of his being. In the sense of unreality that seized him he wasn’t even sure whether he really wanted to be free; but as soon as he was alone again, he wept for freedom as the solution of all his afflictions.
When he grew utterly hopeless, he had an overmastering impulse to go at once to the scent-girl, who would console him; but as soon as he rose to go, he felt that things weren’t hopeless after all, that somehow Daphne would be his after all, and that if he went to the scent-girl he’d finally spoil things, he’d throw Daphne away. He couldn’t go.
Then came news that Pelusion had fallen, had opened its gates to Octavianus. The invaders were on Egyptian soil Antonius in an uprush of energy determined to drive them back while crossing desert-ground; but his energy dissipated itself in making the arrangements. He could not settle his mind unless Cleopatra was at his side, and twice he had to send the officers out of the room and to draw the curtains for an hour, before he could proceed with the deliberations. He grew more haggard.
Cleopatra too was showing the effects of the strain. No cosmetics could hide the dark rings round her eyes; her mouth was looser, and she pouted it coarsely in an effort to present an aspect of strength. In the midst of issuing orders Antonius once said with glazed eyes, “The god must feed the world, his blood must feed the earth, the everlasting earth,” and went on, unaware of what he had said, “Bring the men round to the other side of the Lake...”
Cleopatra had developed a weakness of the chest. She kept coughing, moistening her lips with her tongue and then wiping them with a kerchief.
When the officers returned to report that everything was ready, Antonius had gone off with Cleopatra and left instructions that he wasn’t to be disturbed.
Victor was outside the door when it was opened at length. Antonius was cursing Cleopatra. “You wanted to stop me going...Delayed me...Traitress.”
Cleopatra said nothing. She coughed a few times, then said something in a low voice. Antonius calmed and returned to kiss her, then rushed out. Victor, standing in the doorway, saw Cleopatra smile sadly and then go towards her toilet-table. He had the impression that she no longer cared what Antonius said or did, that her thoughts were elsewhere, and that she was ready listlessly to humour him.
*
Eros and Borios rode out behind Antonius, but Victor managed to stay in the Palace, watching Cleopatra’s girls and trying not to think. His conscience ceaselessly told him that he ought to be doing something for Daphne, but what could he do? Charmion flicked him once with a fan, but even she was subdued. Then came the astonishing news. Antonius had been successful, he had driven back the advance-guard of the enemy. Alexandria went wild with joy, but Cleopatra seemed untouched, Victor noticed, though she smiled. Antonius came riding back at dusk, bloodstained and jovial; and Cleopatra was dutifully on the palace-steps to greet him as he leapt radiant from his horse.
She did her best to fall in with his swashbuckling mood. She gave her hand to an officer whom Antonius pointed out to her as specially gallant, and ordered him to be presented with a carved helmet and a corselet of gold. The next day, swore Antonius, Egyptian soil would be cleared of the invaders.
Now was the moment to approach him, Victor’s conscience urged; but still reasons for delay interposed. Give Antonius time. He was too excited, probably wouldn’t listen, would blame Victor for an ill-omen if anything went wrong afterwards. Wait till things were settled. Wait at least till next morning.
During the night the troops of Octavianus, mustering in mass, marched closer and invested the city; and the officer who had been armoured in gold for his gallantry opened one of the gates and deserted to Octavianus.
The spirit of Antonius remained hectically assured. He declared against manning the walls and accepting a siege; he swore that he would drive Octavianus from Egypt. He set feverishly to work reorganising the soldiers and the fleet, determined to make a simultaneous assault by sea and land in three days’ time. On the appointed day he led out his forces through the eastern gate and ranged them between the walls and the Racecourse, in sight of the sea. The navy sailed out of the harbour and made towards the Roman fleet, which was already drawn up in battle-line; but as the Egyptian ships neared their waiting opponents, they ceased the pretence of warlike display. The sailors and marines crowded the prows with cheers of friendship. The two fleets met without a missile thrown; the Egyptian ships turned, and the united fleets rowed on towards the Great Harbour. The chains were down, and no effort of defence was made. Antonius, aghast on the shore, realised that Alexandria had fallen. His troops were unable to withstand such a sight. They were wavering, and there was nothing for him to do but to ride headlong back into the city to escape capture.
Cleopatra had watched from a palace-tower. Victor was there, with other pages, the girls and eunuchs. He saw Cleopatra’s lips curl with scorn; he saw misery dark in her eyes; but he saw no astonishment when the fleets fraternised. With a curt gesture, she turned and descended, not waiting to see more. When Victor tried to find out where she had gone, no one knew.
Antonius had plunged through the hall, shouting the same question. Then he collapsed on a couch. “I never want to see her again. God help me. I wanted to kill her. She’s betrayed me.” Victor and Borios helped him back to his quarters; but they had no sooner reached the bedroom than Eros entered.
“She’s killed herself. Charmion says so.”
Antonius looked up with gaping mouth and wide eyes. For a moment a savage hope gleamed across his eyes, then darkness fell for ever.
“I praise her at last,” he said, and struggled to his feet. “She was the woman for me. And she’s dead.” He tugged at his sword. The pages moved towards him, but he turned on them, crouching, with an animal-growl. “Keep away from the dying lion. Would you sell me alive to your new master?”
Before the rigid despair that he showed they felt helpless, could only wish to aid him quickly out of a life so intolerable, so degraded.
“Come, Eros,” he said, sternly, suppressing a wild note of appeal. “You swore to kill me. When I bade you. Obey me now. Kill me.”
Eros gave a little gasp and drew his sword, with eyes brightly inturned. Moving lightly, like a dancer, he looked at Antonius with a soft beseeching glance, as if all his life were deprecatingly laid bare. He shortened the sword, stabbed himself in the heart, and tumbled to the floor.
Antonius gazed at the corpse with a half-frown, sagged for a moment and then drew himself up to his full height.
“Well done, Eros,” he said gravely. “A fitting rebuke.” He unsheathed his own sword, pressed the point under his ribs, and fell on it.
Victor looked away. H
e heard Antonius groaning, calling for help. But he couldn’t bear to go near the dying man. Sick and weak, he ran for the door, vaguely aware that Borios was tending Antonius. All he could consider were the consequences to himself. Who would he the heir of Antonius to claim the slaves? Victor could surely count himself free if only he could find somewhere to hide, some means of earning a livelihood. It was the question of livelihood that was abhorrent. Fearfully Victor longed that Antonius would not die, that he, Victor, might be able to stay a slave, not thrown on to the world to share the terrible lot of a paid labourer. Even if he managed to find sufficient work to keep himself alive, he would be more cut off from Daphne than ever. Of course he needn’t run away; he could wait till Octavianus claimed the estate of Antonius; but his conscience protested that now was his chance, he must take it...
He heard cries and shouts, and hid himself in his room, drawing a coverlet over his head.
*
He was lying on his back, staring blindly at the ceiling, when he realised that someone had entered and was standing before him. It was Lucilius.
“Well, lad, I’m off to the farm. I thought I’d speak to you first. Are you coming?”
“I can’t go yet.” Victor sat up, still staring-eyed. He felt like a ghost belated in the streets of earthly life, genuinely unable to see any meaning whatever in the movements about him. But something out of the uncomprehended past, a frail voice crying “ please,” drew him a little closer. “I’ll come later on.”
“All right.” Lucilius moved across to the wall and struck it. “But I’m in a hurry. I can’t bear this loathsome air a moment longer.” He paused. “Ah, he was a good fellow, but mad—mad like us all.” He rushed to the door.
“I must get away to my cabbages. Come if you want to come.” With a wave of the hand he was gone.
Victor wanted to run after him, to make him stop and hear the whole story of Daphne. Why hadn’t he thought of Lucilius when he was feeling the need of a friend so badly? Lucilius would have done something. Then another wish came over Victor, driving him to the door. He wanted to go off at once with Lucilius and forget all about Daphne. After all what could he do? It was useless to remain. If only Lucilius had returned for another word, Victor would have gone with him. There was still time to catch him up.
Victor did not move. With Lucilius, as with the scent-girl, he could only desire to act, but the strength left his limbs as soon as he tried to actualise the desire. He felt himself drowning, saw the great water-rings spreading above as he sank deeper, into no lap of love, into the squelching lair of bloodsucking monsters, shark and octopus (under the waters beside the Pharos, O lost day); sank with his eyes open, blind.
The commotion outside was ceasing somewhat. A trumpet-note snapped in half. Sunlight filled with motes. His leg was cramped, darting with prickling pains as he moved it. If he put out his hand, the world moved away. Antonius was dead.
*
Antonius was not yet dead. They had hauled him up with creaking ropes into the upper-storey of the Mausoleum where Cleopatra had taken refuge with Eiras and Charmion. She was afraid to open the door below. The room was piled with golden ingots, rare perfumes, and chests of jewels; she had had her treasury transported here a week ago. Antonius lay on the couch and groaned, a mess of blood, his face contorted, unrecognisable.
The two girls, embraced in dismay, listened to the voices which sounded so emptied of life in the large room, menacing but powerless.
“You betrayed me.”
“No, no.” She wrung her hands. “They would not fight. Ah, don’t leave me now. I love you.”
“Why did you tell the lie...that you were dead?”
“I didn’t think that you’d kill yourself. I wanted to see—if you loved me.”
“You knew. You must have known.”
“I don’t know why I did it. Don’t die. Forgive me and don’t die.”
“It’s too late.” He tried to raise himself. “And I’m glad. Glad that I lost.” A tremulous joy crept into his voice, as though he were triumphing in the end, over Cleopatra if not over Octavianus—triumphing over himself. “I’m a Roman. I’ve always been a Roman. The god cursed me when I turned on Rome. Rightly.”
She wrung her hands, then grew angry. “You wrote to him: ‘What does it matter which woman a man...’.” She tried to make herself repeat the obscene word that he had used; failed; bent down and hissed it into his ear.
He shuddered. “Political necessity...How did you find out?”
“I have spies. How did you dare do it?”
“It was years ago.”
“But a man doesn’t change. You wrote that of me.” Her voice challenged him fiercely, bringing a brief note of life into the dim chamber.
But his attention had wandered. “Fancy having twins. I’d always laughed at others....”
She pressed her knuckles against her temples. “You mustn’t die. I don’t care what you wrote.”
His eyes opened, and he stiffened. “O god, what pain. I’m dying, Cleopatra. Here.” Obediently she bent her head, and he whispered, “Dying...but you...earth everlasting. Bury me.”
She fell to the floor, with arms outstretched. Darker grew the room, darkening with the nearness of death; the silent girls against the back-wall remained embraced, saved by the warmth of each other’s bodies from the threat of the corpse chilling the darkness. Cleopatra lay alone on the floor, beside her dead.
*
As dusk came on, Victor felt that he must do something. He was haunted by the memory of Eros falling, the light of love in his broken eyes, the body on the floor cere-wrapped in its strange immobility. “Well done, Eros.” How he’d despised Eros of late, who was yet capable of a finalising gesture; poor body mouldering, all bravery gone. He still felt Eros at his side, a bleeding carcass, whom no touch could warm; he wanted him to return to life if only to be despised again, to be mocked. “Of course you didn’t die, lads like you don’t stab themselves out of a deluded loyalty, you’re a butt for my laughter, you...O, well done, Eros.”
Without any plan, he rose and hastened out of the Palace, seeking the city and its clamour, but not surprised to stray along deserted streets, for the open space relieved him. Everyone was afraid, except thieves and harlots, who were always afraid, hiding behind a brittle mask of gaiety, drink and paint. Antonius was dead. Cleopatra too, it was said. The great bird of dusk folded its wings over Alexandria, rustling faintly.
He found the familiar door and watched it for a while; then suddenly knocked. Simon opened. He knew Victor even in the dusk. He shut the door at once and retreated upstairs. Victor waited, turned to flee, waited. The door opened again; and someone heavier was there, speaking in a rough guttural voice.
“What do you want?”
“Daphne,” answered Victor boldly, stiff with terror.
“What right have you to ask to see my daughter?”
Victor’s tongue grew unloosed; he could not believe that anyone, even a father, could want to separate him and Daphne, if only the simple truth were told.
“I love her, and she loves me. You know all about it. Please have mercy on us. Please...”
Nicias listened coldly, with intense interest. Daphne had refused to say who her lover was, however she was beaten. Not that her beatings would have ceased, even if she had told. Perhaps she had known that, the sly one. Nicias had had no intention of following up the information. He felt no rage personally against the lover, but only against the act of loving, against Daphne in the act. He had scarcely conceived the lover as a person at all, and that was why he listened so sharply to Victor now. He didn’t believe that Victor was Daphne’s lover, but that he was someone sent by Daphne in her slyness to deceive him. He wanted to find out why. But it was all irrelevant to the main thing. The growing horror of life, the approach to the great moment of release and purification...
He scowled at the youth who claimed to be Daphne’s seducer; cut him short.
“You are a slave.”
/>
Victor faltered. “Yes.”
“What was your birth?”
“My mother was from Gaul. My father was Aulus Cornelius Fronto...I think. He was her master.”
“A Roman?”
“Yes,” said Victor eagerly.
“Scum of the earth! Destroyers!”
Nicias at last felt his rage turn upon the youth before him, and he knew Victor as an enemy, still without visualising him in Daphne’s arms, still believing that every word said by him was a lie...The Romans were coming to destroy the last refuge of the Greek tradition. This Roman bastard had been an instrument in ending the domestic peace of Nicias. It was all part of the same thing. Life was real enough now, too poignantly real, demanding the final toss of the game, the victim, the vicarious death. Tragic drama had leaped from the verses of papyrus-rolls, to incarnate itself in the flesh and blood of the reader, the participant. There was supreme irony in it all somewhere, and pity for Daphne, who must be saved.
“Go away!” he shouted thickly. “I have nothing to say to you. I do not know you. If I find you lurking here, it will be the worse for you. Go.”
“Please…” begged Victor. “We love one another. Please.”
Nicias could not shake off a sense of dread before this stranger, this destroying shadow, who had no place in the scheme of things. “Go away.” His rage increased. He lifted his hands. “I’m an old man....Go, you leching bastard!”
He slammed the door with a mighty effort and stood back panting. Above, Simon was leaning over the stair-head, waiting to see if any help would he required. Nicias beat at the air. He would have liked to kill the Roman by-blow; but after all such creatures did not matter. It was on Daphne that his life was concentrated. Thinking of her, he forgot about Victor and the reasons for his unexplained visit; and he climbed the stairs slowly, his tongue moistening his dry lips, a gleam of crafty expectation in his eyes.
11 A WORLD DIES
