In spite of his lax morals and of his deplorable habit of hard drinking, Antony was not lacking in nobility. It was his enemy, Seneca, who recognized this and described him: Magnum virum ingenii nobilis. And what finer keynote to his character as a man could be found than his loyal submission to his chief, whose glory he never coveted? As long as Cæsar lived, his young comrade-in-arms recognized that his own place was in the second rank. He never had any idea of usurping Cæsar's power, and aspired to his place only when he had Octavius for a rival.
It was chiefly on the battle-field that his real character was shown. Patient, steady, imperturbable, a model both of endurance and of submission to discipline, Antony won universal admiration. His soldiers, who had seen him in dangerous crises, would have followed him to the ends of the earth. They looked on him as a god. A man of Antony's temperament naturally had violent reactions. The more he had been restrained, the more he demanded when he was free. During the heroic retreat from Modena he slept on the hard ground, drank stagnant water, lived on roots and herbs; but when it was over, and peace was declared, the high-liver demanded his rights, and the orgies he held were not exceeded by Silenus himself. Just as moderation is the safe rule for most men, Antony thrived on excess. From every fatigue, from every indulgence, he came forth stronger, more keenly alive, invigorated.
Nature, with all her generous gifts to this grandson of Jupiter and Semele, had, however, denied him the one thing needful, without which the others were practically useless: Mark Antony had no commonsense. How could he have made great decisions? His passions were so compelling that he was carried away by them before he had time to reflect. They were irresistible, bearing him on with the force of a hurricane which is appeased only after having devastated all that lies in its path. Two elements fought for mastery in his ardent yet weak spirit: ambition and sensuality. Each, in turn supreme, carried him to extremes. Ambition, pre-eminent in his youth, had inspired those valorous deeds which had made him a leader in the invasions of Gaul and Sicily, and at the death of Cæsar had rendered him all-powerful in subduing the conspirators; between two campaigns it had led him to follow in Alexander's path and undertake the conquest of Persia. But sensuality was the stronger and conquered him at last. Little by little it took possession of its noble prey, binding him, engrossing all his faculties, stifling them, one by one, and at the end throwing him into the abyss of despair.
The morning after the battle of Philippi, before he had set foot on the soil of that Orient which was to be his triumph and his undoing, Antony was well balanced. Though his senses were exultant, his mind was filled with mighty projects. As he left that wild Macedonian country, where victory had been gained only after cruel sacrifices, the memory of whose bitter cold still made him shiver, he dreamed of those sunny southern lands, with their warmth and abundance, which his valour had won. Which one should he visit first? Each had its own attraction, each shore held some new charm. On the other side of Ossa and Pelion, whose snow-capped summits shut him in, lay the fascination and culture of Greece; beyond that, the coast of Asia, crowded with cities, each richer and more famous than the other: Smyrna, Ephesus, Pergamus; then Syria, with her palm trees, her gardens filled with luscious fruits; Lebanon, the stopping-place of the caravans from the Far East, laden with silks and precious stones. Then Palestine, arid beneath her gray olive trees, but crowned by holy Jerusalem, that sacred shrine calling a perpetual pilgrimage of Jews from the four corners of the earth; and above all, Egypt, Egypt fragrant with incense and violets, the kingdom of the incomparable Cleopatra!
Ever since the catastrophe of the Ides of March had so abruptly separated them, Antony had dreamed of the beautiful Queen. Often, in the heat of battle, or during the dreary watches in his tent at night, he had conjured up her fair image. Sometimes he saw again that indefinable look with which, when quite sure that she was unobserved, the mistress of Cæsar had returned his passionate regard. Tender and enticing, her glance, which stole toward him from between her long, dark lashes, seemed to demand his adoration. So vivid had been his sensations that at moments he was thrilled by the memory. The unspoken words of those evenings at the Transtevera would come back to him and, with the hunger of unsatisfied desire, he went over those scenes again and again. Unceasingly he repeated to himself the comforting thought that what had been impossible to him in the lifetime of Cæsar, he was no longer barred from taking. Cleopatra was free, and he, in his turn, had become one of the pillars of the world, a man whom any woman, even were she a queen, would be proud to call her lord. Above all, he had that magic gift of youth, to which all things are possible, and that ever-buoyant hope which, dreaming of the fairest fortune that the future may hold, whispers: "Why should not this be mine?"
But Antony was tormented by one ever-recurring doubt: what did Cleopatra really feel in regard to him? She had always been most gracious in her manner, but discreet at all times, careful not to give Cæsar the least ground for jealousy. What had she thought of him that day when, alone together for a moment, he had not been able to resist kissing her exquisite bare shoulder? She seemed like a beautiful sphinx, as, without remonstrance, without a smile, she had turned away and silently left the room. Was it love of the great Cæsar that made her so prudent, or the fear of losing his powerful protection? He had never understood her complex personality; he could not forget her feline grace, and those eyes which had stirred his innermost depths and had left him wondering, as does the mysterious beauty of a night in spring. What had she been doing for the past two years? He was utterly ignorant of her life, of her interests, and he longed to see her once more.
Antony, however, was not yet entirely in the power of these desires. The duties and responsibilities of his position were the chief factors in his life. He was fully alive to the necessity of visiting the new provinces that had come under his care, of giving them the protection which they had a right to expect from him. What excuse did he have for going first to Egypt? It was not, strictly speaking, a Roman province and could well afford to wait. Besides, it was not a good season for crossing.
So Antony sailed for Greece. It was not his first visit to that noble country. He had already trod the fields of Thessaly when, as a young commander, he had opposed Pompey. He had seen the wonderful temples of Delphi, Corinth, Olympia, with their wealth of sculpture and incomparable jewels. He had lingered in the forest of Eleusis, and in the theatre of Epidaurus he had been transported in spirit to the prophetic realms of the art of Æschylus. How thrilling it would be to revisit all these scenes! To come to them, clothed in majesty and with unlimited power!
The Greeks had become accustomed to foreign rule and no longer hated their conquerors. Indeed they had a certain regard for this Roman soldier who was said to be as handsome as Alcibiades and comparable to Themistocles in his warlike virtues. Among a people who counted physical strength and beauty as the highest gifts the gods could bestow, this son of Hercules had every chance of winning all hearts. He was welcomed graciously according to the custom of the country. The villages sent groups of men, bearing branches by day and torches by night, to escort his litter. As he entered the cities young girls greeted him with showers of roses, and a chorus of young men sang and danced to the music of lyres.
These acclamations were accompanied by alternate petitions and songs of praise. Wishing to prove how worthy he was of the latter, he showed his characteristic generosity in granting the requests. Ten thousand talents were donated to restore the theatre at Megara; at Thebes and Larissa he rebuilt the dwellings which Pompey's hordes had burned; and at Corinth he restored the ancient temple devoted to the worship of Venus Pandenus. While thus scattering gold broadcast he quickened his march over the slopes of Hymettus, for beyond them lay Athens, and he was eager to hear her honey-sweet praises.