Unlike most Romans, Antony wore a full beard.  His forehead was large, and his nose was of the distinctive Roman type.  His look was so bold and masculine that people likened him to Hercules.  His democratic manners endeared him to the army.  He wore a plain tunic covered with a large, coarse mantle, and carried a huge sword at his side, despising ostentation.  Even his faults and follies added to his popularity.  He would sit down at the common soldiers’ mess and drink with them, telling them stories and clapping them on the back.  He spent money like water, quickly recognizing any daring deed which his legionaries performed.  In this respect he was like Napoleon; and, like Napoleon, he had a vein of florid eloquence which was criticized by literary men, but which went straight to the heart of the private soldier.  In a word, he was a powerful, virile, passionate, able man, rough, as were nearly all his countrymen, but strong and true.

It was to this general that Cleopatra was to answer, and with a firm reliance on the charms which had subdued Antony’s great commander, Caesar, she set out in person for Cilicia, in Asia Minor, sailing up the river Cydnus to the place where Antony was encamped with his army.  Making all allowance for the exaggeration of historians, there can be no doubt that she appeared to him like some dreamy vision.  Her barge was gilded, and was wafted on its way by swelling sails of Tyrian purple.  The oars which smote the water were of shining silver.  As she drew near the Roman general’s camp the languorous music of flutes and harps breathed forth a strain of invitation.

Cleopatra herself lay upon a divan set upon the deck of the barge beneath a canopy of woven gold.  She was dressed to resemble Venus, while girls about her personated nymphs and Graces.  Delicate perfumes diffused themselves from the vessel; and at last, as she drew near the shore, all the people for miles about were gathered there, leaving Antony to sit alone in the tribunal where he was dispensing justice.

Word was brought to him that Venus had come to feast with Bacchus.  Antony, though still suspicious of Cleopatra, sent her an invitation to dine with him in state.  With graceful tact she sent him a counter-invitation, and he came.  The magnificence of his reception dazzled the man who had so long known only a soldier’s fare, or at most the crude entertainments which he had enjoyed in Rome.  A marvelous display of lights was made.  Thousands upon thousands of candles shone brilliantly, arranged in squares and circles; while the banquet itself was one that symbolized the studied luxury of the East.

At this time Cleopatra was twenty-seven years of age—­a period of life which modern physiologists have called the crisis in a woman’s growth.  She had never really loved before, since she had given herself to Caesar, not because she cared for him, but to save her kingdom.  She now came into the presence of one whose manly beauty and strong passions were matched by her own subtlety and appealing charm.