How far was it wise to bring his mistress amongst such adverse opinions? Cæsar put the question to himself. He did not dare to expose her to a hostile reception; still less could he afford to disregard the enemies who were ready to resent his shortest absence in order to go to her.
And so the days went by and Cleopatra was filled with grief and indignation.
It was from her that the final decision came which solved the vexed question. Pretending that the conditions of her treaty with Rome had never been settled, she offered to come in person to discuss several disputable clauses. In order to obtain the title of socius republicæ (ally of the Republic) it was not in the least necessary for the Queen to go herself: the different ambassadors could have attended to the matter; but the Roman Senate, flattered by her preferring to deal directly with it, extended her an invitation. The trick had succeeded. There was nothing more to do but to start on the journey.
The June sun was shining brilliantly. With her Forum alive, her windows crowded, the multitudes ranged along the principal thoroughfares, Rome seemed to be holding a festival. Defiance, however, rather than sympathy, was the spirit of the crowd. Many strange stories were afloat concerning the coming visitor. To some, she was a courtesan, glittering with pearls and gold; to others, she was a sorceress, whose evil influence drove to distraction all those who came near her. For the majority, Cleopatra was simply the alien, the woman from the East, that is to say, the thing that the Roman people despised more than anything on earth. The procession was composed of black slaves wearing gold ear-rings; of eunuchs clothed in long robes, like those worn by women; of ministers with their heavy wigs; of half-naked soldiers (whose heads, adorned with antennae, resembled huge insects). When it began to file past, there were shouts of laughter. Derision greeted the appearance of the astronomers, whose pointed caps seemed reaching toward the sky, and the priests muffled in panther skins. The jeering grew louder at the sight of the standards on which sacred images were painted. What, those jackals, those hawks, those cows! They were meant for gods? And the Latin commonsense rebelled against a religion debased by such emblems.
But in the midst of the flashing splendour of spears and shields, the royal litter was seen. Silence reigned and all eyes were fixed on Cleopatra with her baby in her arms. This child, a cause of embarrassment to her at Alexandria, it was on his winning smile, on his astonishing likeness to Cæsar, that she had relied to gain a warm welcome from the Romans. And she was not mistaken. At this time Cæsar was the idol of Rome. Everything he did was approved, and if there were covert sneers and occasionally harsh criticisms, no one would have dared openly to attack his invited guests.
However beautiful she might be, the Queen of Egypt could not hope to please a people so infatuated with themselves as were the Romans, who looked on their own race as superior to all others. With her golden complexion, her eyes so painted with antimony that they seemed to touch her temples, her vivid red lips, her curious headdress, from which a snake of gold peered forth; her transparent tunic, which left her bosom bare, Cleopatra shocked and scandalized the Roman people. But, as Cæsar's orders made graciousness obligatory, they pretended to be absorbed in the tiny Cæsarion, whose fair skin and quick, intelligent expression indicated his divine ancestry.
Moreover, in order that there should be no mistake in regard to the respect due Cleopatra and her son, Cæsar had installed them in the palace which he had just had built on the left side of the Tiber, overlooking the magnificent gardens along the edge of the hill of Janiculum; those gardens which were left to the populace in his will, which generous gift the day after his death brought the people to their knees, in tears, to look upon his blood-stained toga.
On finding herself, at last, the honoured guest of Rome, Cleopatra felt that keen pleasure of achievement which follows a hard struggle for success. In spite of all obstacles she had, to her entire satisfaction, accomplished the first part of her undertaking.
But the essential thing, the real triumph, was yet to be carried out. She must bind her lover by that long-desired marriage which would make her twice a Queen. For a woman of her talent, accustomed to using her varied powers of fascination to gain her ends, the present situation was ideal. Rome, from the very moment that she had entered its gates, had ceased to be the austere stronghold, where each and every citizen, faithful to his Lares and Penates, was steadfast in revering ancient traditions. These traditions, which had made the strength and greatness of the Republic as well as its formidable power, were already losing their hold. The old religion was passing; although still acknowledged by the State, unbelievers were many, especially among the Aristocracy. If the people had still a certain fear of the gods, this did not prevent them from breaking the laws of their deities, or from desecrating their temples in moments of passion. The story of the cynical soldier who boasted of having stolen the statue of Diana and of having made a fortune by this godless act was a common tale. The inviolability of the marriage law was a thing of the past. On every hand, Senators, Consuls, high dignitaries, put away their wives on the slightest pretext. Cicero himself, the best, the gentlest of men, said to Terentia, his wife for thirty years, the cruel words of divorcement: "Go hence and take with you whatever belongs to you," in order to put a younger, more beautiful woman in her place.
This disregard of the morals and manners of the old régime was a general canker, pervading all classes of Roman society. Shocking scandals marked the closing days of the circus, when it was a common occurrence for the nobles to descend into the arena and measure arms with the gladiators. The immense fortunes, accumulated during the war, had wiped out the simple habits of former days. Gold was the god that reigned supreme. Originally used for the decoration of the temples only, it was now displayed in private houses, where furniture, ceilings, walls, everything, was gilded. As a protest against the wanton luxury of his contemporaries Cato made a practice of walking about bare-footed, in a torn toga; but no one followed his example! He was merely ridiculed, while the procession of gorgeous chariots rolled on. No longer restrained by the Oppian law, the women's extravagance in dress knew no limit. Encircling their arms, twisted in their hair, clasping their ankles, golden ornaments of Etruscan workmanship glittered over them from head to foot; about their necks fell jewelled chains, which had been brought, at fabulous cost, from the rich caverns of India.