With a gesture like that of Neptune when he bids the floods be still, the Queen commanded silence. She had not yet finished speaking.
"The goodness of Serapis," she said, "surpasses our hopes. He loves Egypt; he wishes for it greatness and prosperity. From him will come a warrior whose sword cannot know defeat."
A new burst of enthusiasm arose, which this time nothing could suppress. It was a general delirium, a reaching out toward joy, toward that great unknown happiness which the mass as well as the individual expects from the future.
The shield was again lowered. The Queen climbed up lightly, barely touching the three ivory steps of the wooden stool, then, with the fans waving above her head, the panther crouching at her feet, she took again the road leading to the palace. Shouts, flowers, and palms greeted her on every side, but she did not seem to see any of these things.
Lost in a world of thought, she was dreaming her own dreams. However skeptical she might have felt, she had been impressed by the words of the High Priest. Would a warrior really come? And if he did, who would he be? A name came to her mind. With curious persistence, past memories began to fill her fancy. Some details, almost forgotten, came back to her. One evening, nearly three years before, in the villa on the banks of the Tiber; the conversation between Cæsar and Trebonius had grown dull. The question had come up as to whether the committees would meet again or be abolished from the concourse. Suddenly the door was flung open and Mark Antony entered. It was a new life that came in. He was laughing; his hair fell over his forehead; his shoulders, cut like those of his ancestor, Hercules, were strong enough to carry the Nemean lion. His presence impregnated the atmosphere of the room with youth, with warm, glowing exuberance, and straightway Cleopatra had felt his covetous eyes fall on her, with that look which a woman always understands. How often since that first evening she had felt that same look, that frank admission on the part of the man that he was no longer master of himself. And another evening, when they had been left alone for a moment, she had felt the warm touch of his lips on her shoulder. Her surprise and embarrassment had been so great that, wishing to conceal them, she had sought refuge in flight. Since then he had been more reserved; but if he did not speak, if his manner were constrained, it was because his loyalty to Cæsar had put a seal upon his lips. How would he have dared do otherwise? And Cleopatra, though fully aware of his feeling, how would she have received an avowal of his love? Undoubtedly Cæsar's exalted position restrained his inferior officer, who owed everything to him, from trespassing on forbidden ground; just as it prevented Cleopatra from yielding to any passing fancy. However tempting the athletic beauty of Mark Antony, glory was her chief ambition. She would let nothing stand in the way of that. But to-day death had changed everything. Mark Antony stood in Cæsar's place; he had no master for a rival. Could it be that he was the saviour whom the god had promised?
Weary of her widowhood, a flood of hope, at this thought, swept over her heart. She wanted to be alone to give herself up to these dreams.
The sun had just set, and a crescent of silver was visible in the evening sky. One by one the high lamps, planted like trees along the avenues, shone out. Delicate, rose-coloured illuminations began to sparkle along the edges of the houses, where they hung like fruit among the thin branches of the plane trees. If the festivals of the daylight had been rich and attractive, the evening decorations satisfied the sensuous taste. The Queen had given orders that no expense be spared to give general pleasure. The fountains at the palace doors ran red with wine, and on the long tables in the inner courts, which led from the stables to the kitchen, meats, pastries, and cheese were served to the public. Order was carefully preserved and, after getting their portions, the people were compelled to move on. Many went to the theatres, where free performances were given; others preferred to linger by the street-shows, watching the farces; others wound up the evening's entertainment in some of the notorious resorts of the Rhakotis.
While the common people amused themselves thus, herded together in an atmosphere of dust and sweat, the rich people, to whom every day was a holiday, entertained themselves in a less vulgar manner. Many, at the hour of supper, left the crowded part of the city to linger along the aristocratic avenues on the west side of the great capital, which seemed half asleep among their silent gardens. A group of perfumed dandies stopped before a dwelling, small, but of charming proportions, surrounded by pine trees. A slave came out to open the gate. Crossing the vestibule, where a fountain was playing, they were introduced into a hall lined from floor to ceiling by thousands of rolls of papyrus. It was the library where Polydemus, who had made a fortune in perfumes, delighted to receive his guests. Those whom he had invited this evening belonged to various circles of society; for it was his pleasure that in his home all subjects should be discussed and all the topics of the day be passed upon freely. Except in art, where he had a preference for the Greek style, he was liberal-minded, and so unprejudiced that he did not hesitate to bring together men of opposing views. Consequently he numbered among his guests Apollodorus, the secretary of the Queen, whose devotion to her was well known; Demetrius, the lieutenant, who had fought him under Achillas; Sati, a Theban of ancient family, who was wedded to the old traditions and objected to all foreign influence; rhetoricians, noted for their Athenian culture; financiers and artists; philosophers, as little likely to hold the same views on any one subject as are men of political bent.
Behind drawn curtains the hall was brilliantly lighted. Between the delicate columns, busts of Homer, Pindar, Zeno, and Epicurus rested on bronze pedestals; and, alternating with them, as though to thank these great men for their indulgence, stood graceful statues of women.
The guests reclined on couches, placed around a table which was adorned with silver and painted pottery. In the middle stood an alabaster bowl, surrounded by branches of rose-bushes, some of which, as though too heavy to bear their own weight, fell in garlands on the snow-white table-cover. As soon as the banqueters were comfortably settled the first course was served. Eels from Lake Mareotis, just outside Alexandria, covered with a sauce flavoured with caraway seed; congers, fried in butter; roe, in tiny casseroles.