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On shore the cavalry had done the same as the soldiers on the sea–the infantry were routed.

Mark Antony was undone–he made his way back to the city, and as usual sought Cleopatra. The palace was deserted, save for a few servants. They said that the Queen had sent the children away some days before, and she was in the mausoleum.

To the unhappy man this meant that she was dead. He demanded that his one faithful valet, known by the fanciful name of Eros, should keep his promise and kill him. Eros drew his sword, and Antony bared his breast, but instead of striking the sword into the vitals of his master, Eros plunged the blade into his own body, and fell at his master’s feet.

At which Mark Antony exclaimed, “This was well done, Eros–thy heart would not permit thee to kill thy master, but thou hast set him an example!” So saying, he plunged his sword into his bowels.

The wound was not deep enough to cause immediate death, and Antony begged the gathered attendants to kill him.

Word had been carried to Cleopatra, who had moved into her mausoleum for safety. This monument and tomb had been erected some years before; it was made of square blocks of solid stone, and was the stoutest building in Alexandria. While Antony was outside the walls fighting, Cleopatra had carried into this building all of her jewelry, plate, costly silks, gold, silver, pearls, her private records and most valuable books. She had also carried into the mausoleum a large quantity of flax and several torches.

The intent was that, if Antony were defeated and the city taken by Caesar, the conqueror should not take the Queen alive, neither should he have her treasure. With her two women, Iras and Charmion, she entered the tomb, all agreeing that when the worst came they would fire the flax and die together.

When the Queen heard that Antony was at death’s door she ordered that he should be brought to her. He was carried on a litter to the iron gate of the tomb; but she, fearing treachery, would not unbar the door. Cords were let down from a window above, and the Queen and her two women, with much effort, drew the sorely stricken man up, and lifted him through the window.

Cleopatra embraced him, calling him her lord, her life, her king, her husband. She tried to stanch his wound, but the death-rattle was already in his throat. “Do not grieve,” he said; “remember our love–remember, too, I fought like a Roman and have been overcome only by a Roman!”

And so holding him in her arms, Antony died.

When Caesar heard that his enemy was dead, he put on mourning for the man who had been his comrade and colleague, and sent messages of condolence to Cleopatra. He set apart a day for the funeral and ordered that the day should be sacred, and Cleopatra should not be disturbed in any way.

Cleopatra prepared the body for burial with her own hands, dug the grave alone, and with her women laid the body to rest, and she alone gave the funeral address.

Caesar was gentle, gracious, kind. Assurances came that he would do neither the city nor the Queen the slightest harm.

Cleopatra demanded Egypt for her children, and for herself she wished only the privilege of living with her grief in obscurity. Caesar would make no promises for her children, but as for herself she should still be Queen–they were of one age–why should not Caesar and Cleopatra still rule, just as, indeed, a Caesar had ruled before!

But this woman had loved the Great Caesar, and now her heart was in the grave with Mark Antony–she scorned the soft, insinuating promises.

She clothed herself in her most costly robes, wearing the pearls and gems that Antony had given her, and upon her head was the diadem that proclaimed her Queen. A courier from Caesar’s camp knocked at the door of the mausoleum, but he knocked in vain.

Finally a ladder was procured, and he climbed to the window through which the body of Antony had been lifted.

In the lower room he saw the Queen seated in her golden chair of state, robed and serene, dead. At her feet lay Iras, lifeless. The faithful Charmion stood as if in waiting at the back of her mistress’ chair, giving a final touch to the diadem that sat upon the coils of her lustrous hair.

The messenger from Caesar stood in the door aghast–orders had been given that Cleopatra should not be harmed, neither should she be allowed to harm herself.

Now she had escaped!

“Charmion!” called the man in stern rebuke. “How was this done?”

“Done, sir,” said Charmion, “as became a daughter of the King of Egypt.”

As the woman spoke the words she reeled, caught at the chair, fell, and was dead.

Some said these women had taken a deadly poison invented by Cleopatra and held against this day; others, still, told of how a countryman had brought a basket of figs, by appointment, covered over with green leaves, and in the basket was hidden an asp, that deadliest of serpents. Cleopatra had placed the asp in her bosom, and the other women had followed her example.

Caesar, still wearing mourning for Mark Antony, went into retirement and for three days refused all visitors. But first he ordered that the body of Cleopatra, clothed as she had died, in her royal robes, should be placed in the grave beside the body of Mark Antony.

And it was so done.