Stirred by alternate emotions, she sometimes felt as though all were lost; then again she exulted in the thought that her sorrows were almost over. The most cruel moment was when she heard of the reconciliation at Tarentum. She had been following with intense interest all the details of the fray and its results, and was planning to gather up the fragments of these broken alliances and construct a new power therefrom, and now this disappointment had come. It was a severe lesson and would have discouraged any one made of less stern stuff than this indomitable woman. She had, however, a gift of clairvoyance which could not be deceived for any length of time. Although the treaty to renew peace between the brothers-in-law was formally drawn up, although it was sealed with offerings to the gods, libations, and festivals, and, more important still, by betrothals of offspring which doubled and trebled the many bonds between the families of Julius and Antony, it was very evident that this reconciliation would only be a temporary alliance.
Antony had fulfilled his part of the contract at once. A hundred brass-prowed triremes, twenty despatch boats, and as many lighter vessels, lying in the harbour at Tarentum, had already been given over to Octavius. And what had Octavius offered in exchange? Promises, nothing but promises. Sixteen legions and a quantity of war supplies had been agreed upon in the treaty, but as yet none of these had materialized. There was nothing to do but trust in the good faith of Octavius, and to those who knew him there seemed small chance of these promises being carried out.
But Antony was confident that they would be. His own loyalty made him often the dupe of other people. At this time he was especially trustful, for he had Octavia as an intermediary and there could be no possible doubt as to her sincerity. He had no misgivings on that score and, counting on the promised reinforcements being forthcoming when required, he gave himself up to his own ambitious plans and left Italy for Antioch.
His wife went with him as far as Corcyra, proud of having been able to serve him, and more tenderly devoted to him than ever. There they parted, he to go on with his preparations for his coming campaign, she to return to Rome and see that the conditions of the treaty were carried out as promptly as possible.
Antony's first object was to procure money. Since the Imperators had persistently ravaged the cities and country, violated the temples and over-taxed the people, this necessary commodity of war had grown very scarce. To extort it from Italy was impossible. Greece had been exploited to its utmost resources. The provinces of Asia still remained; rich always, as a result of the advanced, scientific agriculture which made the land yield abundantly. But the land owners had been exasperated by toiling for Roman profit and there was a general effort to evade the taxes by violence and fraud. Many of these offenders had been executed for opposing the law, and these conditions had brought about disastrous results.
Antony found himself greatly embarrassed. To declare that it was his need of money alone that prompted him to return to Cleopatra would be to ignore the complexities of human nature. It is true that in those trying hours when the censors returned empty-handed, with accounts of money due, his thoughts naturally reverted to the overflowing treasury of the Egyptian Queen, with those accumulated riches buried in caverns beneath the earth. If he had not deserted Cleopatra this untold wealth would have been at his command. He could have employed it to sustain that army, which was, he firmly believed, to give him the empire of the world.
But why waste time in dreaming of that vanished opportunity which would come to him no more? Yet his mind went back again and again to those days spent in the palace of the Bruchium. He saw his enchanting hostess, with her dark, flashing eyes, her mocking smile, her golden-tinted flesh—that golden colour which made his blood hot at the mere thought of it. What was the mysterious magic of this woman that the very idea of her brought the sweat to his brow and stirred his innermost being, even after these years of separation? All the time he had been in Rome he had seen her in visions; embraced her in his dreams. Even when in Octavia's arms he had been ever conscious of the mistress whom he had deserted, and her phantom form would slip into the place of the actual woman by his side. These hallucinations had disturbed him. As a faithful husband he had tried to thrust them away from him. To-day, in this land of perfumed luxury that brought back the days he had spent at Tarsus, they had complete mastery over him. His blood ran faster; he was defenceless against these persistent memories of his mistress. He saw her in every possible posture; the cat-like grace of her movements; the exquisite colour and lines of her draperies. He heard the soft harmony of her voice, and all these images told him that he was powerless to withstand her spell.
But would the mere personal possession of her have satisfied him? Would it have sufficed in place of the social triumphs, interests, and ambitions that bound the Triumvir to Roman life? He was not certain as to this, but complications arose which freed him from further doubts and scruples.
The promised reënforcements from Octavius had not come and there were certain wise men who predicted that they never would come. These troubles increased the discontent that was fermenting in him. He not only nursed a fierce hatred against his treacherous colleague, whose delay was endangering all his projects, but he had a growing prejudice against everyone connected with him. Even Octavia, invaluable and faithful as she had been, did not escape his suspicion. It was unpardonable that she should be the sister of the most perfidious of men. Besides, at this great distance she was powerless to help him. If absence be a mirage which gives greater radiance to some images, it dims others, and often makes the more delicate ones vanish, as though they were swallowed up in mist. Each day was gradually effacing the gracious contour of his wife from Antony's mind, while the voluptuous outlines of his mistress grew clearer and more irresistible.
Fonteius Capito, who understood his master's anxiety, struck the decisive blow. Antony had just experienced a fresh disappointment in seeing promised confiscations for Peloponnesus reduced to a fourth of the original amount agreed upon. When Fonteius suggested that Cleopatra would be only too glad to lend any money that he needed, Antony staggered, as though he had received a sudden blow.