Antony's divorcing the sister of Octavius was equivalent to a declaration of war. In spite of the totally different natures of the two Triumvirs, their rivalries, deceptions, the tricks they had played on each other, this gentle woman had been a powerful bond between them. With her and through her there had always been the hope of maintaining a balance. Now everything was upset. The violent shock had dislodged the masks and the bare faces showed fear.
Which would be master? Although the real cause of the quarrel was the desire for supremacy, there was now great pretence of its being a struggle for ideals. The words "honour," "patriotism," a "return to republican institutions," were in the mouths of the people. It was difficult to choose between two competitors when each claimed to be fighting to save the honour of the country. Octavius lied when he declared that he was ready to lay aside his power; and Antony was not honest when he stood forth as the champion of liberty. As in the great contentions between Cæsar and Pompey, the public was divided, each voter selecting the chief who seemed most likely to advance his interests. The feeling was such that even the children had their share in it. Athenodorus tells of seeing two little street urchins in a vigorous fisticuff. "Why are you beating each other like that?" he asked. "We are playing; I am Octavius," replied one, who had just been chased to the edge of a ditch. "And I am Antony," joined in the other, tilting his little chin proudly.
Although the divorce had produced a most unfavourable impression and had lessened the number of Antony's partisans, yet public opinion was not altogether against him. His glorious past, his strength, his riches, made him an adversary to be feared, and one to be attacked only on ground that was wholly unprepared. To destroy his good name and to vilify him as the slave of Egypt's Queen was Octavius's policy.
However patient he had sworn to be, Octavius was growing tired of working underground like a mole, when suddenly the gods, who seemed on his side, sent him an unexpected assistant. Munatius Plancus, who in the Egyptian celebrations, clad in green silk and crowned with reeds, had played the role of Glaucus, "the handy man" as Cleopatra had scornfully called him, had just arrived in Rome. Whether from a desire to avenge his wounded vanity, or a capacity for seeing which way the wind was turning, this contemptible creature, suddenly separated from his former companions, told vile tales about them which made him a welcome guest in the halls of Rome. But this social success was not sufficient for a man as poverty-stricken as he was vulgar. He knew that a discovered treason would mean money to him, so he gained the ear of Octavius and told him about a document of great importance. It was the will which Antony had revised on the eve of his departure for Persia, a will making Cleopatra his sole heir, dividing the Oriental empire between her and her children, and, infatuated even in death, commanding that in whatever land he should die his body be transported to rest near his beloved mistress. Plancus did not have the actual document in his possession, for, faithful to his mission three years before, he had deposited it safely in the hands of the Vestal Virgins; but he knew every word of it and could reproduce it to the letter.
The Romans attached great importance to the ceremony of burial. It was their universal desire to rest near their own people, in the sacred ground of their ancestors, and where their children would lie in their turn. The thought of dying and of having their graves in foreign lands was horrible to all soldiers, and every one who could afford it left directions for his body to be brought back to Italy.
Of all Antony's follies through his mad love for Cleopatra, this desire to be buried in Egypt was the most detestable, and the one that influenced public opinion most bitterly. Octavius felt that if it were moved by this sacrilege he could count on rousing the wrath of the Senate and turning the vote against the author of such a crime. The difficulty was to procure the proof.
The Temple of Vesta, modelled after the one at Delphi, stood near the Forum, at the foot of the Palatine hill. Octavius had only to cross the Via Sacra to be at its doors. He set forth with an escort and preceded by twelve lictors, resplendent with the insignia of the Government. On reaching the entrance he signalled for them to remain without, and wrapped in his purple toga he mounted the sacred steps unattended.
The priestesses of Vesta lived in the shadow of the altars. They were young girls of noble birth, clad in snow-white robes with veils over their heads. They had profound reverence for their different duties. These consisted in keeping a perpetual flame burning before the altar, and guarding the Palladium, that sacred statue of Pallas Athene saved from burning Troy. They were held in such high esteem that whenever any of the Roman Pontiffs, Proconsuls, or Generals were called away from Rome, they confided their most precious treasures and priceless papers to their care, rather than risk the chances of travelling with them. For what safer place could be found than this temple whose guardians had for their motto the words: "Die rather than break your oath."
When Octavius made known the object of his visit these noble women were filled with righteous indignation. What! Give up anything left in their care! Be false to their faith! Betray the confidence which had relied on their word!
The wily visitor pleaded that in a case of service to one's country such scruples were absurd; but the Vestal Virgins were not to be persuaded. Force alone could drag from them what they had sworn to guard.