him.
Lying down in the shadow of a thick tamarisk bush, above which a tall
palm towered proudly, he stretched his limbs comfortably to rest in the
assurance that the people were now provided for, in war by his good
sword, in peace by the Law.  This was much, it renewed his hopes; yet,
no, no--it was not all, could not be the final goal.  The longer he
reflected, the more profoundly he felt that this was not enough to
satisfy him concerning those below, whom he cherished in his heart as if
they were brothers and sisters.  His broad brow again clouded, and roused
from his repose by fresh doubts, he gently shook his head.

No, again no!  The Law could not afford to those who were so dear to him
everything that he desired for them.  Something else was needed to make
their future as dignified and beautiful as he had beheld it before his
mind's eye on his journey to the mines.

But what was it, what name did this other need bear?

He began to rack his brain to discover it, and while, with closed lids,
he permitted his thoughts to rove to the other nations whom he had known
in war and peace, in order to seek among them the one thing his own
people lacked, sleep overpowered him and a dream showed him Miriam and a
lovely girl, who looked like Kasana as she had so often rushed to meet
him when a sweet, innocent child, followed by the white lamb which Nun
had given to his favorite many years before.

Both figures offered him a gift and asked him to choose one or the other.
Miriam's hand held a heavy gold tablet, at whose top was written in
flaming letters:  "The Law!"  and which she offered with stern severity.
The child extended one of the beautifully-curved palm-leaves which he had
often waved as a messenger of peace.

The sight of the tablet filled him with pious awe, the palm-branch waved
a friendly greeting and he quickly grasped it.  But scarcely was it in
his hand ere the figure of the prophetess melted into the air like mist,
which the morning breeze blows away.  In painful astonishment he now
gazed at the spot where she had stood, and surprised and troubled by his
strange choice, though he felt that he had made the right one, he asked
the child what her gift imported to him and to the people.

She waved her hand to him, pointed into the distance, and uttered three
words whose gentle musical sound sank deep into his heart.  Yet hard as
he strove to catch their purport, he did not succeed, and when he asked
the child to explain them the sound of his own voice roused him and he
returned to the camp, disappointed and thoughtful.

Afterwards he often tried to remember these words, but always in vain.
All his great powers, both mental and physical, he continued to devote to
the people; but his nephew Ephraim, as a powerful prince of his tribe,
who well deserved the high honors he enjoyed in after years, founded a
home of his own, where old Nun watched the growth of great-grand-
children, who promised a long perpetuation of his noble race.

Everyone is familiar with Joshua's later life, so rich in action, and how
he won in battle a new home for his people.

There in the Promised Land many centuries later was born, in Bethlehem,
another Jehoshua who bestowed on all mankind what the son of Nun had
vainly sought for the Hebrew nation.

The three words uttered by the child's lips which the chief had been
unable to comprehend were:

"Love, Mercy, Redemption!"





ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

Asenath, the wife of Joseph, had been an Egyptian
Most ready to be angry with those to whom we have been unjust
Pleasant sensation of being a woman, like any other woman
Woman's disapproving words were blown away by the wind






ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS FOR THE ENTIRE JOSHUA:

A school where people learned modesty
Asenath, the wife of Joseph, had been an Egyptian
Brief "eternity" of national covenants
But what do you men care for the suffering you inflict on others
Childhood already lies behind me, and youth will soon follow
Choose between too great or too small a recompense
Good advice is more frequently unheeded than followed
Hate, though never sated, can yet be gratified
I do not like to enquire about our fate beyond the grave
Most ready to be angry with those to whom we have been unjust
Omnipotent God, who had preferred his race above all others
Pleasant sensation of being a woman, like any other woman
Precepts and lessons which only a mother can give
Regard the utterances and mandates of age as wisdom
Should I be a man, if I forgot vengeance?
Then hate came; but it did not last long
There is no 'never,' no surely
To the mines meant to be doomed to a slow, torturing death
Voice of the senses, which drew them together, will soon be mute
What had formerly afforded me pleasure now seemed shallow
When hate and revenge speak, gratitude shrinks timidly
Who can prop another's house when his own is falling
Woman's disapproving words were blown away by the wind






CLEOPATRA

By Georg Ebers



Translated from the German by Mary J. Safford



PREFACE.

If the author should be told that the sentimental love of our day was
unknown to the pagan world, he would not cite last the two lovers, Antony
and Cleopatra, and the will of the powerful Roman general, in which he
expressed the desire, wherever he might die, to be buried beside the
woman whom he loved to his latest hour.  His wish was fulfilled, and the
love-life of these two distinguished mortals, which belongs to history,
has more than once afforded to art and poesy a welcome subject.

In regard to Cleopatra, especially, life was surrounded with an
atmosphere of romance bordering on the fabulous.  Even her bitterest foes
admire her beauty and rare gifts of intellect.  Her character, on the
contrary, presents one of the most difficult problems of psychology.  The
servility of Roman poets and authors, who were unwilling frankly to
acknowledge the light emanating so brilliantly from the foe of the state
and the Imperator, solved it to her disadvantage.  Everything that bore
the name of Egyptian was hateful or suspicious to the Roman, and it was
hard to forgive this woman, born on the banks of the Nile, for having
seen Julius Caesar at her feet and compelled Mark Antony to do her
bidding.  Other historians, Plutarch at their head, explained the enigma
more justly, and in many respects in her favour.

It was a delightful task to the author to scan more closely the
personality of the hapless Queen, and from the wealth of existing
information shape for himself a creature in whom he could believe.  Years
elapsed ere he succeeded; but now that he views the completed picture, he
thinks that many persons might be disposed to object to the brightness of
his colours.  Yet it would not be difficult for the writer to justify
every shade which he has used.  If, during his creative work, he learned
to love his heroine, it was because, the more distinctly he conjured
before his mind the image of this wonderful woman, the more keenly he
felt and the more distinctly he perceived how fully she merited not only
sympathy and admiration, but, in spite of all her sins and weaknesses,
the self-sacrificing affection which she inspired in so many hearts.

It was an author of no less importance than Horace who called Cleopatra
"non humilis mulier"--a woman capable of no baseness.  But the phrase
gains its greatest importance from the fact that it adorns the hymn which
the poet dedicated to Octavianus and his victory over Antony and
Cleopatra.  It was a bold act, in such an ode, to praise the victor's
foe.  Yet he did it, and his words, which are equivalent to a deed, are
among this greatly misjudged woman's fairest claims to renown.

Unfortunately it proved less potent than the opinion of Dio, who often
distorted what Plutarch related, but probably followed most closely the
farce or the popular tales which, in Rome, did not venture to show the
Egyptian in a favourable light.

The Greek Plutarch, who lived much nearer the period of our heroine than
Dio, estimated her more justly than most of the Roman historians.  His
grandfather had heard many tales of both Cleopatra and Antony from his
countryman Philotas, who, during the brilliant days when they revelled in
Alexandria, had lived there as a student.  Of all the writers who
describe the Queen, Plutarch is the most trustworthy, but even his
narrative must be used with caution.  We have closely followed the clear
and comprehensive description given by Plutarch of the last days of our
heroine.  It bears the impress of truth, and to deviate widely from it
would be arbitrary.

Unluckily, Egyptian records contain nothing which could have much weight
in estimating the character of Cleopatra, though we have likenesses
representing the Queen alone, or with her son Caesarion.  Very recently
(in 1892) the fragment of a colossal double statue was found in
Alexandria, which can scarcely be intended for any persons except
Cleopatra and Antony hand in hand.  The upper part of the female figure
is in a state of tolerable preservation, and shows a young and attractive
face.  The male figure was doubtless sacrificed to Octavianus's command
to destroy Antony's statues.  We are indebted to Herr Dr. Walther, in
Alexandria, for an excellent photograph of this remarkable piece of
sculpture.  Comparatively few other works of plastic art, in which we
here include coins, that could render us familiar with our heroine's
appearance, have been preserved.

Though the author must especially desire to render his creation a work of
art, it is also requisite to strive for fidelity.  As the heroine's
portrait must reveal her true character, so the life represented here
must correspond in every line with the civilization of the period
described.  For this purpose we placed Cleopatra in the centre of a
larger group of people, whom she influences, and who enable her
personality to be displayed in the various relations of life.

Should the author succeed in making the picture of the remarkable woman,
who was so differently judged, as "lifelike" and vivid as it stamped
itself upon his own imagination, he might remember with pleasure the
hours which he devoted to this book.

GEORG EBERS

TUTZING ON THE STARNBERGER SEE, October 5, 1893.




CLEOPATRA.


CHAPTER I.

Gorgias, the architect, had learned to bear the scorching sunbeams of the
Egyptian noonday.  Though not yet thirty, he had directed--first as his
late father's assistant and afterwards as his successor--the construction
of the huge buildings erected by Cleopatra in Alexandria.

Now he was overwhelmed with commissions; yet he had come hither ere the
hours of work were over, merely to oblige a youth who had barely passed
the confines of boyhood.

True, the person for whom he made this sacrifice was Caesarion, the son
whom Cleopatra had given to Julius Caesar.  Antony had honoured him with
the proud title of "King of kings"; yet he was permitted neither to rule
nor even to issue orders, for his mother kept him aloof from affairs of
state, and he himself had no desire to hold the sceptre.

Gorgias had granted his wish the more readily, because it was apparent
that he wanted to speak to him in private, though he had not the least
idea what Caesarion desired to confide, and, under any circumstances, he
could give him only a brief interview.  The fleet, at whose head the
Queen had set sail, with Mark Antony, for Greece, must have already met
Octavianus's galleys, and doubtless a battle wherein the destiny of the
world was decided had also been fought upon the land, Gorgias believed
that the victory would fall to Antony and the Queen, and wished the noble
pair success with his whole heart.  He was even obliged to act as if the
battle had been already determined in their favour, for the architectural
preparations for the reception of the conquerors were entrusted to his
charge, and that very day must witness the decision of the location of
the colossal statues which represented Antony hand in hand with his royal
love.

The epitrop Mardion, a eunuch, who as Regent, represented Cleopatra; and
Zeno, the Keeper of the Seal, who rarely opposed him, wished to have the
piece of sculpture erected in a different place from the one he favoured.
The principal objection to the choice made by the powerful head of the
government was that it had fallen on land owned by a private individual.
This might lead to difficulties, and Gorgias opposed it.  As an artist,
too, he did not approve Mardion's plan; for though, on Didymus's land,
the statues would have faced the sea, which the Regent and the Keeper of
the Seal regarded as very important, no fitting background could have
been obtained.

At any rate, the architect could now avail himself of Caesarion's
invitation to overlook from the appointed place of meeting--the lofty
steps of the Temple of Isis--the Bruchium, and seek the best site for the
twin statues.  He was anxious to select the most suitable one; the master
who had created this work of art had been his friend, and had closed his
eyes in death shortly after its completion.

The sanctuary whence Gorgias commenced his survey was in one of the
fairest portions of the Bruchium, the Alexandrian quarter, where stood
the royal palace with its extensive annexes, the finest temples--except
the Serapeum, situated in another part of the city-and the largest
theatres; the Forum invited the council of Macedonian citizens to its
assemblies, and the Museum afforded a resort for the scholars.

The little square closed in the east by the Temple of Isis was called the
"Corner of the Muses," on account of the two marble statues of women
before the entrance of the house, which, with its large garden facing the
square northward and extending along the sea, belonged to Didymus, an old
and highly respected scholar and member of the Museum.

The day had been hot, and the shade of the Temple of Isis was very
welcome to the architect.

This sanctuary rested upon a lofty foundation, and a long flight of steps
led to the cella.  The spot afforded Gorgias a wide prospect.

Most of the buildings within his vision belonged to the time of Alexander
and his successors in the house of the Ptolemies, but some, and by no
means the least stately, were the work of Gorgias himself or of his
father.  The artist's heart swelled with enthusiastic delight at the
sight of this portion of his native city.

He had been in Rome, and visited many other places numbered among the
world's fairest and most populous cities; but not one contained so many
superb works of art crowded together in so small a space.

"If one of the immortals themselves," he murmured, "should strive to
erect for the inhabitants of Olympus a quarter meet for their grandeur
and beauty, it could scarcely be much more superb or better fitted to
satisfy the artistic needs which we possess as their gift, and it would
surely be placed on the shore of such a sea."

While speaking, he shaded his keen eyes with his hand.  The architect,
who usually devoted his whole attention to the single object that claimed
his notice, now permitted himself the pleasure of enjoying the entire
picture in whose finishing touches he had himself borne a part; and, as
his practised eye perceived in every temple and colonnade the studied and
finished harmony of form, and the admirable grouping of the various
buildings and statues, he said to himself, with a sigh of satisfaction,
that his own art was the noblest and building the highest of royal
pleasures.  No doubt this belief was shared by the princes who, three
centuries before, had endeavoured to obtain an environment for their
palaces which should correspond with their vast power and overflowing
wealth, and at the same time give tangible expression to their reverence
for the gods and their delight in art and beauty.  No royal race in the
universe could boast of a more magnificent abode.  These thoughts passed
through Gorgias's mind as the deep azure hue of sea and sky blended with
the sunlight to bring into the strongest relief all that the skill and
brains of man, aided by exhaustless resources, had here created.

Waiting, usually a hard task for the busy architect, became a pleasure in
this spot; for the rays streaming lavishly in all directions from the
diadem of the sovereign sun flooded with dazzling radiance the thousands
of white marble statues on the temples and colonnades, and were reflected
from the surfaces of the polished granite of the obelisks and the equally
smooth walls of the white, yellow, and green marble, the syenite, and the
brown, speckled porphyry of sanctuaries and palaces.  They seemed to be
striving to melt the bright mosaic pictures which covered every foot Of
the ground, where no highway intersected and no tree shaded it, and
flashed back again from the glimmering metal or the smooth glaze in the
gay tiles on the roofs of the temples and houses.  Here they glittered on
the metal ornaments, yonder they seemed to be trying to rival the
brilliancy of the gilded domes, to lend to the superb green of the
tarnished bronze surfaces the sparkling lustre of the emerald, or to
transform the blue and red lines of the white marble temples into lapis-
lazuli and coral and their gilded decorations into topaz.  The pictures
in the mosaic pavement of the squares, and on the inner walls of the
colonnades, were doubly effective against the light masses of marble
surrounding them, which in their turn were indebted to the pictures for
affording the eye an attractive variety instead of dazzling monotony.

Here the light of the weltering sun enhanced the brilliancy of colour in
the flags and streamers which fluttered beside the obelisks and Egyptian
pylons, over the triumphal arches and the gates of the temples and
palaces.  Yet even the exquisite purplish blue of the banner waving above
the palace on the peninsula of Lochias, now occupied by Cleopatra's
children, was surpassed by the hue of the sea, whose deep azure near the
shore merged far away into bands of lighter and darker blue, blending
with dull or whitish green.

Gorgias was accustomed to grasp fully whatever he permitted to influence
him, and though still loyal to his custom of associating with his art
every remarkable work of the gods or man, he had not forgotten in his
enjoyment of the familiar scene the purpose of his presence in this spot.

No, the garden of Didymus was not the proper place for his friend's last
work.

While gazing at the lofty plane, sycamore, and mimosa trees which
surrounded the old scholar's home, the quiet square below him suddenly
became astir with noisy life, for all classes of the populace were
gathering in front of the sequestered house, as if some unusual spectacle
attracted them.

What could they want of the secluded philosopher?

Gorgias gazed earnestly at them, but soon turned away again; a gay voice
from below called his name.

A singular procession had approached the temple--a small body of armed
men, led by a short, stout fellow, whose big head, covered with bushy
curls, was crowned with a laurel wreath.  He was talking eagerly to a
younger man, but had paused with the others in front of the sanctuary to
greet the architect.  The latter shouted a few pleasant words in reply.
The laurel-crowned figure made a movement as if he intended to join him,
but his companion checked him, and, after a short parley, the older man
gave the younger one his hand, flung his heavy head back, and strutted
onward like a peacock, followed by his whole train.

The other looked after him, shrugging his shoulders; then called to
Gorgias, asking what boon he desired from the goddess.

"Your presence," replied the architect blithely.

"Then Isis will show herself gracious to you," was the answer, and the
next instant the two young men cordially grasped each other's hands.

Both were equally tall and well formed; the features bore witness to
their Greek origin; nay, they might have been taken for brothers, had not
the architect's whole appearance seemed sturdie and plainer than that of
his companion, whom he called "Dion" and friend.  As the latter heaped
merry sarcasms upon the figure wearing the laurel wreath who had just
left him, Anaxenor, the famous zither-player, on whom Antony had bestowed
the revenues of four cities and permission to keep body-guard, and
Gorgias's deeper voice sometime assented, sometimes opposed with sensible
objections, the difference between these two men of the same age and race
became clearly apparent.

Both showed a degree of self-reliance unusual, at their age; but the
architect's was the assurance which a man gains by toil and his own
merit, Dion's that which is bestowed by large possession and a high
position in society.  Those who were ignorant that the weight of Dion's
carefully prepared speech had more than once turned the scale in the city
councils would probably have been disposed to take him for one of the
careless worldlings who had no lack of representatives among the gilded
youth of Alexandria; while the architect's whole exterior, from his keen
eye to the stouter leather of his sandals, revealed earnest purpose and
unassuming ability.

Their friendship had commenced when Gorgias built a new palace for Dion.
During long business association people become well acquainted, even
though their conversations relate solely to direction and execution.
But in this case, he who gave the orders had been only the inspirer and
adviser, the architect the warm-hearted friend, eager to do his utmost to
realize what hovered before the other's mind as the highest attainable
excellence.  So the two young men became first dear, and finally almost
indispensable to each other.  As the architect discovered in the wealthy
man of the world many qualities whose existence he had not suspected, the
latter was agreeably surprised to find in the artist, associated with his
solidity of character, a jovial companion, who--this first made him
really beloved by his friend--had no lack of weaknesses.

When the palace was completed to Dion's satisfaction and became one of
the most lauded ornaments of the city, the young men's friendship assumed
a new form, and it would have been difficult to say which received the
most benefit.

Dion had just been stopped by the zither-player to ask for confirmation
of the tidings that the united forces of Antony and Cleopatra had gained
a great victory on sea and land.

In the eating-house at Kanopus, where he had breakfasted, everyone was
full of the joyful news, and rivers of wine had been drunk to the health
of the victors and the destruction of the malicious foe.  "In these
days," cried Dion, "not only weak-brained fellows, like the zither-
player, believe me omniscient, but many sensible men also.  And why?
Because, forsooth, I am the nephew of Zeno, the Keeper of the Seal, who
is on the brink of despair because he himself knows nothing, not even the
veriest trifle."

"Yet he stands nearest to the Regent," observed Gorgias, "and must learn,
if any one does, how the fleet fares."

"You too!" sighed his friend.  "Had I been standing so far above the
ground as you, the architect--by the dog, I should not have failed to
note the quarter whence the wind blew!  It has been southerly a whole
fortnight, and keeps back the galleys coming from the north.  The Regent
knows nothing, absolutely nothing, and my uncle, of course, no more.  But
if they do learn anything they will be shrewd enough not to enrich me
with it."

"True, there are other rumours afloat," said the architect thoughtfully.
"If I were in Mardion's place--"

"Thank the Olympians that you are not," laughed his companion.  "He has
as many cares as a fish has scales.  And one, the greatest.  That pert
young Antyllus was over-ready with his tongue yesterday at Barine's.
Poor fellow!  He'll have to answer for it to his tutor at home."

"You mean the remark about the Queen's accompanying the fleet?"

"St!" said Dion, putting his finger on his lips, for many men and women
were now ascending the temple steps.  Several carried flowers and cakes,
and the features of most expressed joyful emotion.  The news of the
victory had reached their ears, and they wanted to offer sacrifices to
the goddess whom Cleopatra, "the new Isis," preferred to all others.

The first court-yard of the sanctuary was astir with life.  They could
hear the ringing of the sistrum bells and the murmuring chant of the
priests.  The quiet fore-court of the little temple of the goddess, which
here, in the Greek quarter of palaces, had as few visitors as the great
Temple of Isis in the Rhakotis was overcrowded, had now become the worst
possible rendezvous for men who stood so near the rulers of the
government.  The remark made about the Queen the evening before by
Antyllus, Antony's nineteen-year-old son, at the house of Barine, a
beautiful young woman who attracted all the prominent men in Alexandria,
was the more imprudent because it coincided with the opinion of all the
wisest heads.  The reckless youth enthusiastically reverenced his father,
but Cleopatra, the object of Antony's love, and--in the Egyptians' eyes--
his wife, was not Antyllus's mother.  He was the son of Fulvia, his
father's first wife, and feeling himself a Roman, would have preferred a
thousand times to live on the banks of the Tiber.  Besides, it was
certain--Antony's stanchest friends made no attempt to conceal the fact--
that the Queen's presence with the army exerted a disturbing influence,
and could not fail to curb the daring courage of the brave general.
Antyllus, with the reckless frankness inherited from his father, had
expressed this view in the presence of all Barine's guests, and in a form
which would be only too quickly spread throughout Alexandria, whose
inhabitants relished such speeches.

These remarks would be slow in reaching the plain people who were
attracted to the temple by the news of the victory, yet many doubtless
knew Caesarion, whom the architect was awaiting here.  It would be wiser
to meet the prince at the foot of the steps.  Both men, therefore, went
down to the square, though the crowds seeking the temple and thronging
the space before Didymus's house made it more and more difficult to pace
to and fro.

They were anxious to learn whether the rumour that Didymus's garden was
to be taken for the twin statues had already spread abroad, and their
first questions revealed that this was the case.  It was even stated that
the old sage's house was to be torn down, and within a few hours.  This
was vehemently contradicted; but a tall, scrawny man seemed to have
undertaken to defend the ruler's violence.

The friends knew him well.  It was the Syrian Philostratus, a clever
extempore speaker and agitator of the people, who placed his clever
tongue at the disposal of the highest bidder.

"The rascal is probably now in my uncle's employ," said Dion.  "The idea
of putting the piece of sculpture there originated with him, and it is
difficult to turn him from such plans.  There is some secret object to be
gained here.  That is why they have brought Philostratus.  I wonder if
the conspiracy is connected in any way with Barine, whose husband--
unfortunately for her--he was before he cast her off."

"Cast her off!" exclaimed Gorgias wrathfully.  "How that sounds!  True,
he did it, but to persuade him the poor woman sacrificed half the fortune
her father had earned by his brush.  You know as well as I that life with
that scoundrel would be unbearable."

"Very true," replied Dion quietly.  "But as all Alexandria melted into
admiration after her singing of the 'yalemos' at the Adonis festival, she
no longer needed her contemptible consort."

"How can you take pleasure, whenever it is possible, in casting such
slurs upon a woman, whom but yesterday you called blameless, charming,
peerless?"

"That the light she sheds may not dazzle your eyes.  I know how sensitive
they are."

"Then spare, instead of irritating them.  Besides, your suggestion gives
food for thought Barine is the granddaughter of the man whose garden they
want, and the advocate would probably be glad to injure both.  But I'll
spoil his game.  It is my business to choose the site for the statues."

"Yours?" replied Dion.  "Unless some on who is more powerful opposes you.
I would try to win my uncle, but there are others superior to him.  The
Queen has gone, it is true; but Iras, whose commands do not die away in
empty air, told me this morning that she had her own ideas about the
errection of the statue."

"Then you bring Philostratus here!" cried the architect.

"I?" asked the other in amazement.

"Ay, you," asserted Gorgias.  "Did not you say that Iras, with whom you
played when a boy is now becoming troublesome by watching your every
step?  And then--you visit Barine constantly and she so evidently prefers
you, that the fact might easily reach the ears of Iras."

"As Argus has a hundred, jealousy has a thousand eyes," interrupted Dion,
"yet I seek nothing from Barine, save two pleasant hours when the day is
drawing towards its close.  No matter; Iras, I suppose, heard that I was
favoured by this much-admired woman.  Iras herself has some little regard
for me, so she bought Philostratus.  She is willing to pay something for
the sake of injuring the woman who stands between us, or the old man who
has the good or evil fortune of being her rival's grandfather.  No, no;
that would be too base!  And believe me, if Iras desired to ruin Barine,
she need not make so long a circuit.  Besides, she is not really a wicked
woman.  Or is she?  All I know is that where any advantage is to be
gained for the Queen, she does not shrink even from doubtful means, and
also that the hours speed swiftly for any one in her society.  Yes, Iras,
Iras--I like to utter the name.  Yet I do not love her, and she--loves
only herself, and--a thing few can say--another still more.  What is the
world, what am I to her, compared with the Queen, the idol of her heart?
Since Cleopatra's departure, Iras seems like the forsaken Ariadne, or a
young roe which has strayed from its mother.  But stop; she may have a
hand in the game: the Queen trusted her as if she were her sister, her
daughter.  No one knows what she and Charmian are to her.  They are
called waiting-women, but are their sovereign's dearest friends.  When,
on the departure of the fleet, Cleopatra was compelled to leave Iras
here--she was ill with a fever--she gave her the charge of her children,
even those whose beards were beginning to grow, the 'King of kings'
Caesarion, whose tutor punishes him for every act of disobedience; and
the unruly lad Antyllus, who has forced his way the last few evenings
into our friend's house."

"Antony, his own father, introduced him to her."

"Very true, and Antyllus took Caesarion there.  This vexed Iras, like
everything which may disturb the Queen.  Barine is troublesome on account
of Cleopatra, whom she wishes to spare every, annoyance, and perhaps she
dislikes her a little for my sake.  Now she wants to inflict on the old
man, Barine's grandfather, whom she loves, some injury which the spoiled,
imprudent woman will scarcely accept quietly, and which will rouse her to
commit some folly that can be used against her.  Iras will hardly seek
her life, but she may have in mind exile or something of that kind.  She
knows people as well as I know her, my neighbour and playmate, whom many
a time I was obliged to lift down from some tree into which the child had
climbed as nimbly as a kitten."

"I myself suggested this conjecture, yet I cannot credit her with such
unworthy intrigues," cried Gorgias.

"Credit her?" repeated Dion, shrugging his shoulders.  "I only transport
myself in imagination to the court and to the soul of the woman who helps
make rain and sunshine there.  You have columns rounded and beams hewed
that they may afterwards support the roof to which in due time you wish
to direct attention.  She and all who have a voice in the management of
court affairs look first at the roof and then seek anything to raise and
support it, though it should be corpses, ruined lives, and broken hearts.
The point is that the roof shall stand until the architect, the Queen,
sees and approves it.  As to the rest--But there is the carriage--It
doubtless brings--You were--"

He paused, laid his hand on his friend's arm, and whispered hastily:
"Iras is undoubtedly at the bottom of this, and it is not Antyllus, but
yonder dreaming lad, for whom she is moving.  When she spoke of the
statues just now, she asked in the same breath where I had seen him on
the evening of the day before yesterday, and that was the very time he
called on Barine.  The plot was made by her, and Iras is doing all the
work.  The mouse is not caught while the trap is closed, and she is just
raising her little hand to open it."

"If only she does not use some man's hand," replied the architect
wrathfully, and then turned towards the carriage and the elderly man who
had just left it, and was now approaching the two friends.




CHAPTER II.

When Caesarion's companion reached Dion and Gorgias, the former modestly
made a movement to retire.  But Archibius was acquainted with both, and
begged him to remain.  There was an air of precision and clearness in the
voice and quiet movements of this big, broad-shouldered man, with his
robust frame and well-developed limbs.  Though only a few years beyond
forty, not merely his grey hair but the calm, impressive dignity of his
whole manner indicated a more advanced age.

"The young King yonder," he began in a deep, musical voice, motioning
towards the equipage, "wished to speak to you here in person, Gorgias,
but by my advice he refrained from mingling with the crowd.  I have
brought him hither in a closed carriage.  If the plan suits you, enter it
and talk with him while I keep watch here.  Strange things seem to be
occurring, and yonder--or am I mistaken?  Has the monster dragged along
there any connection with the twin statues of the Queen and her friend?
Was it you who selected that place for them?"

"No," replied the architect.  "The order was issued over my head and
against my will."

"I thought so," replied the other.  "This is the very matter of which
Caesarion wishes to speak.  If you can prevent the erection of the
statues on Didymus's land, so much the better.  I will do everything in
my power to aid you, but in the Queen's absence that is little."

"Then what can be said of my influence?"  asked the architect.  "Who, in
these days, knows whether the sky will be blue or grey to-morrow?  I can
guarantee one thing only: I will do my best to prevent this injury of an
estimable citizen, interference with the laws of our city, and violation
of good taste."

"Say so to the young King, but express yourself cautiously," replied
Archibius as the architect turned towards the carriage.

As soon as Dion and the older man were alone, the latter inquired the
cause of the increasing uproar, and as, like every well-disposed
Alexandrian, he esteemed Archibius, and knew that he was intimately
acquainted with the owner of the imperilled garden, and therefore with
his granddaughter Barine, he confided his anxiety to him without reserve.

"Iras is your niece, it is true," he said in his open-hearted manner,
"but I know that you understand her character.  It suits her now to fling
a golden apple into the path of a person whom she dislikes and believes
incautious, that she may pick it up and thus afford her an opportunity to
bring a charge of theft."

Noting the inquiring glance Archibius fixed upon him as he made this
comparison, he changed his tone and continued more earnestly: "Zeus is