The charge was preposterous, and if sincere, shows the drunken condition of Antony's mind. Cleopatra loved Cæsar—he was to her the King of Kings, the one supreme and god-like man of earth. Her studious and splendid mind had matched his own; this cold, scholarly man of fifty-two had been her mate—the lover of her soul. Scarcely five short years before, she had attended him on his journey as he went away, and there on the banks of the Nile as they parted, her unborn babe responded to the stress of parting, no less than she.
Afterward she had followed him to Rome that he might see his son, Cæsario.
She was in Rome when Brutus and Cassius struck their fatal blows, and had fled, disguised, her baby in her arms—refusing to trust the precious life in the hands of hirelings.
And now that she should be accused of giving help to the murderer of her joy! She had execrated and despised Cassius, and now she hated, no less, the man who had wrongfully accused her.
But he was dictator—his summons must be obeyed. She would obey it, but she would humiliate him.
Antony waited at Cilicia on the day appointed, but Cleopatra did not appear. He waited two days—three—and very leisurely, up the river, the galleys of Cleopatra came.
But she did not come as suppliant.
Her curiously carved galley was studded with nails of gold; the oars were all tipped with silver; the sails were of purple silk. The rowers kept time to the music of flutes. The Queen in the gauzy dress of Venus reclined under a canopy, fanned by cupids. Her maids were dressed like the Graces, and fragrance of burning incense diffused the shores.
The whole city went down the river to meet this most gorgeous pageant, and Antony the proud was left at the tribunal alone.
On her arrival Cleopatra sent official word of her presence. Antony sent back word that she should come to him.