“And of this Harmachis,” I asked; “where is he now, O Queen?”
“Where is he? In Amenti, forsooth—making his peace with Isis, perchance. At Tarsus I saw Antony, and loved him; and from that moment I loathed the sight of the Egyptian, and swore to make an end of him; for a lover done with should be a lover dead. And, being jealous, he spoke some words of evil omen, even at that Feast of the Pearl; and on the same night I would have slain him, but before the deed was done, he was gone.”
“And whither was he gone?”
“Nay; that know not I. Brennus—he who led my guard, and last year sailed North to join his own people—Brennus swore he saw him float to the skies; but in this matter I misdoubted me of Brennus, for methinks he loved the man. Nay, he sank off Cyprus, and was drowned; perchance Charmion can tell us how?”
“I can tell thee nothing, O Queen; Harmachis is lost.”
“And well lost, Charmion, for he was an evil man to play with—ay, although I bettered him I say it! Well he served my purpose; but I loved him not, and even now I fear him; for it seemed to me that I heard his voice summoning me to fly, through the din of the fight at Actium. Thanks be to the Gods, as thou sayest, he is lost, and can no more be found.”
But I, listening, put forth my strength, and, by the arts I have, cast the shadow of my Spirit upon the Spirit of Cleopatra so that she felt the presence of the lost Harmachis.
“Nay, what is it?” she said. “By Serapis! I grow afraid! It seems to me that I feel Harmachis here! His memory overwhelms me like a flood of waters, and he these ten years dead! Oh! at such a time it is unholy!”
“Nay, O Queen,” I answered, “if he be dead then he is everywhere, and well at such a time—the time of thy own death—may his Spirit draw near to welcome thine at its going.”
“Speak not thus, Olympus. I would see Harmachis no more; the count between us is too heavy, and in another world than this more evenly, perchance should we be matched. Ah, the terror passes! I was but unnerved. Well the fool’s story hath served to wile away the heaviest of our hours, the hour which ends in death. Sing to me, Charmion, sing, for thy voice is very sweet, and I would soothe my soul to sleep. The memory of that Harmachis has wrung me strangely! Sing, then, the last song I shall hear from those tuneful lips of thine, the last of so many songs.”
“It is a sad hour for song, O Queen!” said Charmion; but, nevertheless, she took her harp and sang. And thus she sang, very soft and low, the dirge of the sweet-tongued Syrian Meleager:
Tears for my lady dead,
Heliodore!
Salt tears and strange to shed,
Over and o’er;
Go tears and low lament
Fare from her tomb,
Wend where my lady went,
Down through the gloom—
Sighs for my lady dead,
Tears do I send,
Long love remembered,
Mistress and friend!
Sad are the songs we sing,
Tears that we shed,
Empty the gifts we bring—
Gifts to the dead!
Ah, for my flower, my Love,
Hades hath taken,
Ah, for the dust above,
Scattered and shaken!
Mother of blade and grass,
Earth, in thy breast
Lull her that gentlest was,
Gently to rest!
The music of her voice died away, and it was so sweet and sad that Iras began to weep and the bright tears stood in Cleopatra’s stormy eyes. Only I wept not; my tears were dry.
“ ’Tis a heavy song of thine, Charmion,” said the Queen. “Well, as thou saidst, it is a sad hour for song, and thy dirge is fitted to the hour. Sing it over me once again when I lie dead, Charmion. And now farewell to music, and on to the end. Olympus, take yonder parchment and write what I shall say.”
I took the parchment and the reed, and wrote thus in the Roman tongue:
“Cleopatra to Octavianus, greeting.
“This is the state of life. At length there comes an hour when, rather than endure those burdens that overwhelm us, putting off the body we would take wing into forgetfulness. Caesar, thou hast conquered: take thou the spoils of victory. But in thy triumph Cleopatra cannot walk. When all is lost, then we must go to seek the lost. Thus in the desert of Despair the brave do harvest Resolution. Cleopatra hath been great as Antony was great, nor shall her fame be minished in the manner of her end. Slaves live to endure their wrong; but Princes, treading with a firmer step, pass through the gates of Wrong into the royal Dwellings of the Dead. This only doth Egypt ask of Caesar—that he suffer her to lie in the tomb of Antony. Farewell!”
This I wrote, and having sealed the writing, Cleopatra bade me go find a messenger, despatch it to Caesar, and then return. So I went, and at the door of the tomb I called a soldier who was not on duty, and, giving him money, bade him take the letter to Caesar. Then I went back, and there in the chamber the three women stood in silence, Cleopatra clinging to the arm of Iras, and Charmion a little apart watching the twain.
“If indeed thou art minded to make an end, O Queen,” I said, “the time is short, for presently Caesar will send his servants in answer to thy letter,” and I drew forth the phial of white and deadly bane and set it upon the board.
She took it in her hand and gazed thereon. “How innocent it seems!” she said; “and yet therein lies my death. ’Tis strange.”
“Ay, Queen, and the death of ten other folk. No need to take so long a
