Cleopatra. Georg Ebers

the garden of Didymus was not the proper place for his friend’s last work.

      While gazing at the lofty plane, sycamore, and mimosa trees which surrounded the old scholar’s home, the quiet square below him suddenly became astir with noisy life, for all classes of the populace were gathering in front of the sequestered house, as if some unusual spectacle attracted them.

      What could they want of the secluded philosopher?

      Gorgias gazed earnestly at them, but soon turned away again; a gay voice from below called his name.

      A singular procession had approached the temple—a small body of armed men, led by a short, stout fellow, whose big head, covered with bushy curls, was crowned with a laurel wreath. He was talking eagerly to a younger man, but had paused with the others in front of the sanctuary to greet the architect. The latter shouted a few pleasant words in reply. The laurel-crowned figure made a movement as if he intended to join him, but his companion checked him, and, after a short parley, the older man gave the younger one his hand, flung his heavy head back, and strutted onward like a peacock, followed by his whole train.

      The other looked after him, shrugging his shoulders; then called to Gorgias, asking what boon he desired from the goddess.

      “Your presence,” replied the architect blithely.

      “Then Isis will show herself gracious to you,” was the answer, and the next instant the two young men cordially grasped each other’s hands.

      Both were equally tall and well formed; the features bore witness to their Greek origin; nay, they might have been taken for brothers, had not the architect’s whole appearance seemed sturdier and plainer than that of his companion, whom he called “Dion” and friend. As the latter heaped merry sarcasms upon the figure wearing the laurel wreath who had just left him, Anaxenor, the famous zither-player, on whom Antony had bestowed the revenues of four cities and permission to keep body-guard, and Gorgias’s deeper voice sometime assented, sometimes opposed with sensible objections, the difference between these two men of the same age and race became clearly apparent.

      Both showed a degree of self-reliance unusual, at their age; but the architect’s was the assurance which a man gains by toil and his own merit, Dion’s that which is bestowed by large possession and a high position in society. Those who were ignorant that the weight of Dion’s carefully prepared speech had more than once turned the scale in the city councils would probably have been disposed to take him for one of the careless worldlings who had no lack of representatives among the gilded youth of Alexandria; while the architect’s whole exterior, from his keen eye to the stouter leather of his sandals, revealed earnest purpose and unassuming ability.

      Their friendship had commenced when Gorgias built a new palace for Dion. During long business association people become well acquainted, even though their conversations relate solely to direction and execution. But in this case, he who gave the orders had been only the inspirer and adviser, the architect the warm-hearted friend, eager to do his utmost to realize what hovered before the other’s mind as the highest attainable excellence. So the two young men became first dear, and finally almost indispensable to each other. As the architect discovered in the wealthy man of the world many qualities whose existence he had not suspected, the latter was agreeably surprised to find in the artist, associated with his solidity of character, a jovial companion, who—this first made him really beloved by his friend—had no lack of weaknesses.

      When the palace was completed to Dion’s satisfaction and became one of the most lauded ornaments of the city, the young men’s friendship assumed a new form, and it would have been difficult to say which received the most benefit.

      Dion had just been stopped by the zither-player to ask for confirmation of the tidings that the united forces of Antony and Cleopatra had gained a great victory on sea and land.

      In the eating-house at Kanopus, where he had breakfasted, everyone was full of the joyful news, and rivers of wine had been drunk to the health of the victors and the destruction of the malicious foe.

      “In these days,” cried Dion, “not only weak-brained fellows, like the zither-player, believe me omniscient, but many sensible men also. And why? Because, forsooth, I am the nephew of Zeno, the Keeper of the Seal, who is on the brink of despair because he himself knows nothing, not even the veriest trifle.”

      “Yet he stands nearest to the Regent,” observed Gorgias, “and must learn, if any one does, how the fleet fares.”

      “You too!” sighed his friend. “Had I been standing so far above the ground as you, the architect—by the dog, I should not have failed to note the quarter whence the wind blew! It has been southerly a whole fortnight, and keeps back the galleys coming from the north. The Regent knows nothing, absolutely nothing, and my uncle, of course, no more. But if they do learn anything they will be shrewd enough not to enrich me with it.”

      “True, there are other rumours afloat,” said the architect thoughtfully. “If I were in Mardion’s place——”

      “Thank the Olympians that you are not,” laughed his companion. “He has as many cares as a fish has scales. And one, the greatest.—That pert young Antyllus was over-ready with his tongue yesterday at Barine’s. Poor fellow! He’ll have to answer for it to his tutor at home.”

      “You mean the remark about the Queen’s accompanying the fleet?”

      “St!” said Dion, putting his finger on his lips, for many men and women were now ascending the temple steps. Several carried flowers and cakes, and the features of most expressed joyful emotion. The news of the victory had reached their ears, and they wanted to offer sacrifices to the goddess whom Cleopatra, “the new Isis,” preferred to all others.

      The first court-yard of the sanctuary was astir with life. They could hear the ringing of the sistrum bells and the murmuring chant of the priests. The quiet fore-court of the little temple of the goddess, which here, in the Greek quarter of palaces, had as few visitors as the great Temple of Isis in the Rhakotis was overcrowded, had now become the worst possible rendezvous for men who stood so near the rulers of the government. The remark made about the Queen the evening before by Antyllus, Antony’s nineteen-year-old son, at the house of Barine, a beautiful young woman who attracted all the prominent men in Alexandria, was the more imprudent because it coincided with the opinion of all the wisest heads. The reckless youth enthusiastically reverenced his father, but Cleopatra, the object of Antony’s love, and—in the Egyptians’ eyes—his wife, was not Antyllus’s mother. He was the son of Fulvia, his father’s first wife, and feeling himself a Roman, would have preferred a thousand times to live on the banks of the Tiber. Besides, it was certain—Antony’s stanchest friends made no attempt to conceal the fact—that the Queen’s presence with the army exerted a disturbing influence, and could not fail to curb the daring courage of the brave general. Antyllus, with the reckless frankness inherited from his father, had expressed this view in the presence of all Barine’s guests, and in a form which would be only too quickly spread throughout Alexandria, whose inhabitants relished such speeches.

      These remarks would be slow in reaching the plain people who were attracted to the temple by the news of the victory, yet many doubtless knew Cæsarion, whom the architect was awaiting here. It would be wiser to meet the prince at the foot of the steps. Both men, therefore, went down to the square, though the crowds seeking the temple and thronging the space before Didymus’s house made it more and more difficult to pace to and fro.

      They were anxious to learn whether the rumour that Didymus’s garden was to be taken for the twin statues had already spread abroad, and their first questions revealed that this was the case. It was even stated that the old sage’s house was to be torn down, and within a few hours. This was vehemently contradicted; but a tall, scrawny man seemed to have undertaken to defend the ruler’s violence.

      The friends knew him well. It was the Syrian Philostratus, a clever extempore speaker and agitator of the people, who placed his clever tongue at the disposal of the highest bidder.

      “The rascal is probably now in my uncle’s employ,” said Dion. “The idea of putting