She would gladly have been a beggar, content with the barley bread of Epicurus, she said to herself, if in return she could but have inspired her son even with the views of the reckless blusterer Antyllus.  Her worst fears had not pictured Caesarion so weak, so insignificant.  She could no longer rest upon her cushions; and while, with drooping head, she gazed backward over the past, the accusing voice in her own breast cried out that she was reaping what she had sowed.  She had repressed, curbed the boy’s awakening will to secure his obedience; understood how to prevent any exercise of his ability or efforts in wider circles.

True, it had been done on many a pretext.  Why should not her son taste the quiet happiness which she had enjoyed in the garden of Epicurus?  And was not the requirement that whoever is to command must first learn to obey, based upon old experiences?

But this was a day of reckoning and insight, and for the first time she found courage to confess that her own burning ambition had marked out the course of Caesarion’s education.  She had not repressed his talents from cool calculation, but it had been pleasant to her to see him grow up free from aspirations.  She had granted the dreamer repose without arousing him.  How often she had rejoiced over the certainty that this son, on whom Antony, after his victory over the Parthians, had bestowed the title of Co-Regent, would never rebel against his mother’s guardianship!  The welfare of the state had doubtless been better secured in her trained hands than in those of an inexperienced boy.  And the proud consciousness of power!  Her heart swelled.  So long as she lived she would remain Queen.  To transfer the sovereignty to another, whatever name he might bear, had seemed to her impossible.  Now she knew how little her son yearned for lofty things.  Her heart contracted.  The saying “You reap what you sowed” gave her no peace, and wherever she turned in her past life she perceived the fruit of the seeds which she had buried in the ground.  The field was sinking under the burden of the ears of misfortune.  The harvest was ripe for the reaper; but, ere he raised the sickle, the owner’s claim must be preserved.  Gorgias must hasten the building of the tomb; the end could not be long deferred.  How to shape this worthily, if the victor left her no other choice, had just been pointed out by the son of whom she was ashamed.  His father’s noble blood forbade him to bear the deepest ignominy with the patience his mother had inculcated.

It had grown late ere she admitted Antony’s body-slave, but for her the business of the night was just commencing.  After he had gone she would be engaged for hours with the commanders of the army, the fleet, the fortifications.  The soliciting of allies, too, must be carried on by means of letters containing the most stirring appeals to the heart.

Eros, Antony’s body-slave, appeared.  His kind eyes filled with tears at the sight of the Queen.  Grief had not lessened the roundness of his handsome face, but the expression of mischievous, often insolent, gaiety had given place to a sorrowful droop of the lips, and his fair hair had begun to turn grey.