“Well, it certainly sounds less scandalous from that point of view. Quintus, I warn you. Now, if at any time, be on your guard against any deed, any expression, which may be construed as an insult to the religion of the state! Do not trust too much to the influence of my position or of my individuality. The law is mightier than the will of any one man. When what we are now planning takes form and life, severity, inexorable as iron, will decide in all such questions. That reckless jest sprang from a mind, which no longer holds dear the eternal truths of religion. Beware, Quintus, and conceal this indifference; do not come forward as a contemner of the gods. Once more I warn you.”
“Father....”
“Go now, my son, and ponder on what I have said.”
Quintus bowed and kissed the stern man’s hand. Then he left the room with a quick, firm step, and a look of devoted love, of passionate paternal pride followed him as he crossed the room, so tall, lovely and handsome.
Lycoris, the fair Gaul, was giving a splendid entertainment. Valerius Martialis, the greatest wit of the city of the Seven Hills, had recited his newest and most poignant epigrams with loud applause, and the company—more than a hundred persons—were reclining at supper on cushioned divans in the lavishly-decorated eating-room. The young Massilian lady presided. With her neck and shoulders half-veiled in transparent gauze[153] from Cos, her magnificent golden-yellow hair knotted up at the back of her head and wreathed simply with ivy, she smiled radiantly from the head of the table, the object of silent worship to many, and of eager admiration to all. A number of slaves, in handsome Alexandrian dresses, moved quickly and silently about the handsome hall, while across the supper table the conversation each instant grew more lively.
Among the guests was Caius Aurelius, the young Batavian. He had yielded to the pressure of curiosity or of fashion—particularly when the name of the famous epigrammatist had weighed down the scale.
“Really,” he was saying to his neighbor Norbanus—the commandant of the Praetorian guard—“really, Norbanus, till this hour I had esteemed myself rich, but here I feel by comparison a beggar. What splendor, what lavish outlay! Pillars of alabaster, enormous gold plates,[154] carpets worth an estate—my senses reel. Everything which elsewhere would appear rare and choice is here in every day use. By Hermes! but the father of Lycoris must have been a favorite of fortune.”
“Not so loud!” interrupted Lucius Norbanus. “See, Stephanus is looking this way with a meaning glance.”
“Stephanus![155] The Empress’s steward? What has he to do with Lycoris?”
“Ha! well, I will tell you that another time,” said the officer filling his mouth with a fine oyster,[156] “between ourselves, you know. Meanwhile, I strongly advise you to taste those delicious mollusks. If you are like me, laughing has made you ferociously hungry.”
“You certainly laughed most heartily,” replied Aurelius accepting some of the praised dish from a slave; "but I, for my part, cannot get up any taste for this kind of verse. Martial is full of wit and humor, but this perpetual mockery, this making a business of holding up all society to ridicule and contempt—no, my dear Norbanus, I cannot like it. More particularly does the way in which he speaks of women displease and vex me. If he is to be believed, there is not in all Rome one faithful wife, or one innocent girl."[157]
“Pah!” said Norbanus, with his mouth well filled: “There are some of course, but they are scarce, my dear Aurelius, remarkably scarce.”
“What is amusing you so much, Norbanus?” asked Quintus from his place opposite.
“The old theme—women! Aurelius thinks, that our laurel-wreathed poet has sinned basely against the ladies of Rome, by hinting in his epigrams his doubts of their virtue.”
“Who? What?” cried the poet himself, hastily looking round. “What Ravidus[158] is here, to take up the cudgels against my iambics?”
This quotation from Catullus, the favorite poet and model of the epigrammatist, did not fail of its point, for every one, with the single exception of the blushing Aurelius, was reminded by it that Ravidus was, in that passage, called a “crazed and witless wretch.”
“It was I,” said Aurelius coolly. “But it was not your verse that I criticised, but ... however, you heard. If a woman is no more to you than the beetle, the snake that wriggles in the dust, I can but pity your experience.”
“Yours then has been more fortunate?” laughed Martial.
“I should hope so, indeed!”
Lycoris, who, though at some distance, must have heard every word, was chatting vehemently with Stephanus, her neighbor on her left, who kept his gaze alert, though with an air of reserve and dignity. Two of her companions, pretty but by no means maidenly personages, stared contemptuously at Aurelius as if to say: “Well, what a booby!”
“Here is to your health, worthy Cato of the North!” cried Martial mockingly. “Reveal his name to me, O Muse! and I will dedicate to you five and twenty epigrams on his virtue.”
“He has a sharp muzzle,” muttered Norbanus to Aurelius. “You will get the worst of it.”
“No doubt of that,” said Aurelius. “Fencing with words was never my strong ground.”
“Just my case; and I cannot stand his accursed ribaldry. These fellows are like eels, it is impossible to hold them. It is the city tone, my dear friend! Our Stephanus now—only see how the man is made up—now, full in the light. By Castor! he is touched up and painted like a wench—Stephanus again, is a master in the war of words. But he gives you a pebble for a gem; everything about him is false, even his hair. But beware of him; he will try to make mince-meat of you.”
“I say, Martial,” said a harsh voice: “Who is going to publish the epigrams you gave us to-day?”
“I do not yet know. Possibly Tryphon."[159]
“Well, in the course of the month.”
“So soon? Listen, when the book comes out, may I send to you to borrow a copy?”
“You are too kind, my dear Lupercus; but why should you give yourself and a slave so much trouble? I live quite high up on the Quirinal.[160] You can get what you want much nearer to you. You pass every day by the Argiletum. There you will find a very interesting shop, exactly opposite the Forum of Caesar. Atrectus, the bookseller, will feel himself honored in selecting a beautiful copy for you—almost given away too, as I may say, for with purple letters and smoothly pumiced it costs but five or six denarii."[161]
“Six denarii!” exclaimed Lupercus. “That is too dear for me. I have to be saving with my money.”
“And I must be saving with my books.”
“It is not every one, who knows how to be obliging!”
“Nay, do not give up all hope,” retorted the epigrammatist scornfully. “Make your wants known at all the street-corners,[162] and perhaps some costermonger[163] will lend you a copy.”
“Why is Martial so hard upon him?” asked Aurelius of the praetorian guardsman. “This Lupercus seems to be in narrow circumstances.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Norbanus. “With an income of two hundred thousand sesterces....”
“Impossible! how can a man be at once so rich and so mean?”
“You are in Rome, Aurelius—do not forget that you are in Rome. Here extremes meet; here everything is possible, even the impossible.”
It was now growing dusk, and in a few minutes hundreds of costly bronze lamps were lighted, some hanging in candelabra from the ceiling, some elegantly arranged round the pilasters and columns. Indeed it was not till this moment, that the banquet really assumed the aspect intended by the artistic and extravagant imagination of the hostess. The beaten silver of the massive bowls[164] and platters gleamed brightly under the wreaths of flowers and garlands of foliage, while the huge wine-jars and costly Murrhine vases,[165] the jovial and purpled faces of the guests, the splendid dresses, the pearls and gems—all were doubly effective under the artificial light.
One costly delicacy was followed by another; all the productions of the remotest ends of the earth met at the banquet of Lycoris. Fish from the Atlantic ocean, Muraenae from Lake Lucrinus, Guinea-fowls from Numidia,[166] young kids from the province of Thesprotis[167] in Epirus, pheasants from the Caspian Sea,[168] Egyptian dates,[169] dainty cakes[170] from Picenum, figs from Chios,[171] pistachio nuts[172] from Palestine—were all here of the choicest quality and elaborately prepared. Euphemus,[173] Caesar’s own head-cook, could have done no more. Nor could anything be more perfect, than the grace with which the handsomely-dressed slaves offered each dainty on long slices of bread. After each dish had gone round, little boys with wings brought in magnificent onyx jars filled with perfumed water, which they poured over the hands of the guests. The long flowing hair of a female slave[174] served to dry them, in the place of the more usual linen or asbestos napkin. In such trifles as these Lycoris loved to be original.
During the meal an intermezzo had now and then interrupted the eager conversation. Black-haired girls from Gades and Hispalis[175] had come in, dancing to the cadence of castanets[176] and cymbals; flute-players, singers and reciters had given highly-applauded evidence of their talents. But now, when the business of eating was over and the commissatio, as it was called, the drinking in short, was about to begin, as was hinted by the distribution to the guests of fresh wreaths and of perfumed oils, a buffoon or jester[177] made his appearance, and soon filled the hall with Homeric laughter. His small and muscular form was clothed in gaily-colored scraps of raiment, and his face was painted in strong colors. Entering the room with a hop, skip and jump, he performed a series of somersaults with great skill; then leaping high over the guests’ heads, actually on to the table, he placed himself in front of Lycoris and began thus in a high, shrill voice:
“Highly-esteemed friends of this illustrious house, now that your empty stomachs are duly replenished your minds too are to be no less delightfully satisfied. I offer you the feast of self-knowledge; to each one of you here I will shortly and plainly tell your fortune. If I appear to you over-bold, attribute it to the functions of my office; for audacity is my vocation, as it is that of the most honored Martial.”
A storm of applause rang through the banqueting-hall, and Martial himself even laughed heartily.
“Capital, capital!” he exclaimed to the little man. “Your beginning is admirable and promises much,” and he stroked his grizzled beard with much complacency; the jester bowed and went on with his privileged impertinences. He flung some epigrammatic and pointed remark at one and another of the company, and was each time rewarded by more or less eager applause. When he came round to the young provincial, he grinned with vicious impudence.
“Oh, noble vestal virgin!” he exclaimed, holding his hand before his face in affected coyness. “How much a hundred weight does propriety cost in Trajectum?”
His former jests had been happier and more pointed, but not one had been so readily taken; the company laughed so immoderately, that the buffoon had some difficulty in making himself heard again. Aurelius, though he was disgusted with the fellow, had discretion and tact enough not to draw attention to himself; he laughed and applauded as heartily as any one. Not so, however, Herodianus, his freedman, who reclined at the lower end of the table and had given himself up to silent and unlimited enjoyment of the Caecubum.
“What, you foul-mouthed scoundrel!” he exclaimed in a voice of thunder. “Who are you scoffing at? My dear friend Aurelius compared to a woman! Go home, and let your mother teach you manners.”
The company were in so jovial a mood, that they at once turned this interference into account. When the Batavian was about to reprove Herodianus, he was talked down, while the indignant freedman was spurred on by half-ironical appeals and challenges.
“Let him alone,” said the captain of the guard: “He will serve the jester’s turn well enough.”
“Aye, that he will!” exclaimed another. “Only look at him knitting his brows. Is not he just like the Silenus in Stephanus’ dining-hall?”
“Just be so good as to hold your tongues,” cried Quintus, who had been excessively amused by Herodianus’ pugnacity. “The little man on the table is going to answer him.”
“Silence for the jester!” shouted a chorus.
The buffoon stood still with his hand up to his ear.
“Did I not hear a pug-dog barking?” he said with inimitable comic gravity. “Yes, there he lies, a Maltese pug! Come, Lailaps, come! Here are Lucanian sausages!”
Looking impartially at the freedman’s face, it was impossible to deny that the resemblance was well hit, but Herodianus could hardly be expected to take this unprejudiced view of the matter. Forgetting where and with whom he was, he sprang from his couch, struck his fist on the table, and shouted out, crimson with rage:
“Come on, you braggart, if you dare! I will teach you, I will show you that ... that.... By Hercules! if you do not jump down this minute, you are the most cowardly, contemptible toad under the sun.”
The little man sprang like lightning over Stephanus’ head on to the floor, turned up the sleeves of his particolored shirt and shouted in mockery:
“Come on, Lailaps, come on! I will give you a thrashing.”
For a moment Herodianus seemed to hesitate; then he suddenly flew at the jester like the storm of wind suggested by his Greek dog-name. The jester, however, slipped on one side as quick as lightning, and Herodianus, who, indeed, was not very steady on his feet, fell at full-length on the floor. In an instant the buffoon was sitting astride on his back.
“Pug, you are snappish!” he exclaimed in a triumphant tone, and he began vigorously to belabor every part of the hapless freedman, that he could reach with his powerful fists.
“The dog must be broken!” he exclaimed at each blow. “Quiet, Lailaps, down, my noble cur!”
Herodianus, who, besides, had in falling damaged his knees and elbows, roared like one possessed; in vain did he try to throw off his tormentor. The dwarf clung to him tightly with his legs. The whole scene was as irresistibly comical as though it had been planned for the delectation of a blasé and overwrought party of drinkers. But Aurelius could no longer contain himself; he rose and went up to the combatants with well-assumed coolness.
“You are going too far,” he said. “Be off with you, you little rascal.”
The jester paying no heed to these orders, found himself suddenly picked up by the girdle and with one effort lifted high into the air. His struggles and yells were of no avail; Aurelius carried him like a feather to the table, and there set him down among the cups and wine-jars. The strength and promptness of the proceeding diverted it of any vexatious interference; the dwarf, completely quelled, stood on the table like a stork that has had its wings cut, looking round half-frightened and half-angry. The young Northman’s grip had fairly taken his breath away, and a sign from Lycoris that he might withdraw was evidently welcome to him. He vanished between the crowd of slaves like a startled deer.
Aurelius had hastened to the rescue of Herodianus, who now, having been helped on his feet by some of the servants, found the greatest difficulty in keeping on them.
“Poor fellow!” he said kindly. “But you are really quite incorrigible.”
“Oh, my lord!” groaned Herodianus, “it was only on account of the Vestal virgin! I should not have cared about being called a pug! Oh ye gods! my knees.”
“I will take you in my litter. My own head aches, till it might split.”
“What! are you going?” said Quintus Claudius, coming up to him. “Do you not know that Lycoris has planned a magnificent surprise for her guests?”
“I know it, but I must beg to be excused. These sports are not to my taste. Farewell till we meet again.”
So speaking, he beckoned his Gothic slave, who took the limping freedman round the body and held him up with his usual strength of arm. The pair went first, and Aurelius followed them. All the company had by this time left their places, so his disappearance was almost unremarked; but the fair hostess kept her eye fixed on him, till she lost sight of her ungracious guest in the throng. Then, with an insidious smile, she turned to Quintus, laid her hand on his shoulder, and whispered maliciously: “What sort of foolish philosopher is that who comes here, of all places, to plead the cause of women and take up the cudgels for a freedman?”
“Your foolish philosopher,” replied Quintus, “is one of the noblest souls I ever knew, and beyond a doubt, the very noblest of the men who cross your threshold.”
“Indeed!” said Lycoris, somewhat abashed. “Well, we shall have time by and bye to discuss this paragon of merit!” And with a coquettish toss of her head she turned from Quintus and mingled with the crowd of guests, who were now streaming out into the illuminated gardens.
Outside, under the branches of the elm and sycamore-trees, which stretched in long avenues up the Viminal and down again on the farthest side, an ingenious intendant had devised much such an entertainment as in our days would be given under corresponding circumstances. Thousands of colored lamps hung in long festoons from tree to tree. The quaintly-clipped laurel and yew bushes, that stood between the six great avenues, were starred with semicircular lights, and the bronze and marble statues held torches and braziers of flame. The open space between the two centre avenues was screened by an immense curtain of purple stuff, which was fastened to two tall masts and waved mysteriously in the night air, casting strange reflections; to the right and left also a space was enclosed and screened from prying eyes by boards hung with tapestry.
“This promises something delightful,” said Clodianus, addressing Quintus for the first time during the evening. “She is a splendid creature, this Lycoris! Always ready to spend millions for the pleasure of her guests. Did you ever see handsomer hangings? Nero’s enormous velarium[178] was not more costly.”
“Oh! gold is all-powerful!” Quintus said absently. “Listen,” he went on, taking the officer on one side, “quite in confidence.—Is what I heard to-day at the baths of Titus[179] true?—that you had really been to Domitia?”
“As you say.”
“It is true then?”
“And why not? You know what happened in the Circus?”
“Of course; but I thought....”
“No, there was no help for it this time. I solemnly and formally offered her the hand of reconciliation in Caesar’s name.”
“And Domitia?”
“To-morrow she will return an answer to her husband’s message; but, of course, she is only too ready.”
At this moment the fair Massilian came up to them.
“Quintus, one word with you,” she begged with an engaging smile. “You will excuse him, Clodianus?”
The officer bowed.
“Listen,” said Lycoris, as she drew Quintus away, “you must tell me all you can about your provincial friend. The man is unbearable with his strictness and sobriety, and yet there is something in him—how can I explain it?—something that is wanting in every one of you others without exception; a balance of mind, a steadfast certainty—one may as well give in as soon as he opens his mouth.”
And as she spoke she laid her hand familiarly in the young man’s arm.
“Very true,” he said coldly. “Aurelius is not much like those oiled and perfumed gallants, who think themselves happy to kiss the dust on your sandals. But that boy is waiting to speak to you.”
Lycoris looked round; a young slave, who had slowly followed her, glanced at her significantly.
“Madam,” he said, “everything is ready.”
“Ah?” said the lady. “The actors are ready? Very good; then let the music begin.”
The slave bowed and vanished. Lycoris imperceptibly guided her companion into a thickly overgrown sidewalk.
“We have time to spare,” she said, “and the music sounds much better from here than up there from the terrace. What were we talking about?... oh! the Batavian.... Why did you not bring your strange specimen to my house sooner?”
“Because he has not long been in Rome.”
“In Rome....” repeated Lycoris vaguely. Her eyes were searching the shrubbery. Then, recollecting herself, she went on talking vivaciously. Thus the couple lost themselves farther and farther in the recesses of the garden; their conversation ceased, and they listened involuntarily to the Dionysiac hymn which reached them in softened tones from the distance. Out here even, in this remote alley, everything was festally illuminated; every leaf, every pebble in the path, shone in many-colored hues. And yet, how deserted, how lonely it was, in spite of the lights! there was something uncanny and ghostly in their doubtful flicker and sparkle. Suddenly Lycoris stood still.
“By the Styx!” she exclaimed. “I have lost my most valuable ring. Not two seconds since I saw it on my finger! Wait, you must have trodden on it; it cannot be twenty paces off and must be lying on the ground.” Before Quintus fairly understood what had happened, she had vanished down a side path. The young man waited. “Lycoris!” he called out presently.
No answer.
He went back to the turning—of Lycoris, not a sign.
“This is strange!” thought he. “What can it mean?”
Suddenly he stood stock-still, for in the middle of the path stood a girlish form, small, but well made and of the sweetest grace. She pressed her finger mysteriously to her rosebud lips, and then made unmistakable signs to the youth that he was to follow her.
“What do you want?” asked Quintus, going up to her.
“Above all things silence,” said the girl. “My errand is to you alone.”
“Speak on then.”
“Nay, not here, noble Quintus; consider a moment—with impenetrable hedges on each side of us! If any one came upon us, how could we escape?”
“And who are you?” asked Quintus with a meaning smile.
“Only a slave—named Polycharma. Will you come with me?”
“Certainly, Polycharma, I follow you.”
About a hundred yards farther on a small circular clearing opened to their right; the entrance to it was decorated with gold-colored festoons. Just before reaching this spot the path became so narrow, that a stout man could hardly pass along it; the wall of yew on each side had overgrown three-quarters of its width. Polycharma drew the folds of her dress more closely round her slim limbs, while the young man pushed aside the branches to the right and left. He looked round once more to see if he could discover Lycoris, but behind him all was silent and deserted. Even the sound of the music was only heard faintly and as if in a dream. Having reached the round plot, the slave girl took a letter out of her bosom. “My lord,” she said, “I must exact a solemn oath from you....”
“What about?”
“That you will keep my errand an absolute secret, and return me this letter when you have read it.”
“Good, I swear it by Jupiter!”
Polycharma handed him the note; the mere sight of it filled him with a suspicion of its origin. He hastily broke the seal and the silk thread, and by the light of the colored lamps which lighted the place, he read as follows:
“She who is wont only to command, humbles herself to the dust—so terrible is the power of love to change us. The cruel wretch who scorns me—he is the god of my aspirations! Have pity, O Quintus! have pity on the miserable woman, who is dying of love for you. Caesar, my husband, holds out his hand to me in reconciliation. It costs me but one word, and I shall be again, as I have been, the mistress of Rome and sovereign of the world. But behold, beloved Quintus, all this might and all this splendor I will cast from me and go into the remotest banishment without a tear, if you will give me, for one second only, the happy certainty of your love. Crush me, kill me, but ere you kill me say you are mine! Quintus, I await my sentence. At a sign, a glance, from you I reject all reconciliation.”
The young man was stunned; he stared speechless at the letter, which declared in such plain terms a consuming passion. And yet, in spite of the answering emotion which any love—even though it be rejected—must rouse in the recipient, he could not shake off the feeling which he had already experienced at Baiae. A dull, unutterable loathing remained paramount in his soul, and the foppish figure of Paris, the actor, rose clearly before his fancy. Had not the ear of that slave drunk in the same flattering words, as were now intended to intoxicate and ravish him? Miserable, contemptible woman—ah! how differently and how truly beat the proud heart of his Cornelia!
Cornelia!—The thought of her turned the balance finally; Quintus drew a wax tablet out of his bosom and wrote on it:
“I feel and acknowledge the greatness of the sacrifice, which your Highness proposes to make; but, as a true patriot, I must prefer the advantages which will ensue to the state from the reunion of the sovereign couple, even to the duties imposed by gratitude.”
He folded the tablet in the letter, tied it up again and gave it to Polycharma, who swiftly vanished. When her steps were no longer audible, Quintus pressed his hand over his eyes and sat down on a marble bench to reflect. Oh! that sly, intriguing Lycoris! She too, then, was paid by the Empress as well as by Stephanus! Subsidized by both, and a traitoress to both—for so much at any rate was certain: Stephanus knew nothing of this nocturnal meeting. He, the real instigator of the scene in the circus, could evidently have no part in an intrigue, of which the issue would be diametrically opposed to his own efforts.
Sunk in gloomy reflections on these unpleasing details, Quintus sat staring at the ground. Suddenly he heard footsteps, and confused cries were audible in the distance, mingled with the clatter of swords and arms. The next minute two dark figures ran across the entrance to the rotunda, and up the narrow path towards the top of the hill. They were followed by two others, who came less rapidly than the first.
“Leave me, for Christ’s sake, I can go no farther!” groaned a piteous voice, which touched the young man strangely, and at the same time the light of the lamps fell on a pale and suffering face. Quintus recognized the victim he had seen at Baiae tied to the stake.
“Courage, Eurymachus,” whispered his companion, a square, thick-set man who held him stoutly up. “Hang on to my shoulders; a hundred steps farther, and you are safe.” And they disappeared among the shrubbery.
Quintus was not a little bewildered.
“What is going on here?” thought he, rising and quitting the open plot for one of the side paths. “Is this park peopled with demons?”
Again he heard steps and voices, more numerous and wrathful than before. “This way, men! There, up the path between the hedges!”
“Do not let them get away. Ten thousand sesterces to the man, who brings the villains back alive!”
And shouting thus in loud confusion, a party of armed men came in sight, running in breathless haste through the narrow paths. The foremost of them was now standing in front of Quintus.
“Make way, my lord!” he exclaimed in eager hurry: “We are seeking a criminal,” and he tried to push past Quintus.
Strange! but Quintus, the proud and high-born Quintus, suddenly felt an unaccountable impulse to protect and shield the wretched and contemned slave.
“Insolent knave!” he exclaimed in well-feigned indignation: “Would you dare to touch Quintus Claudius?” And seizing the astonished man by the wrist he flung him violently from him. Meanwhile the others had come up. Quintus still barred the way simply by standing there. The band of men looked doubtfully now at the young nobleman, and then at their comrade, who got up, grumbling, from the stones. Thus a precious moment was gained. At last Quintus thought it as well to understand the situation.
“Idiots!” he exclaimed. “Why did you not explain at once what you wanted?—instead of that, you storm and rave like madmen....” And he stood aside.
The pursuers rushed by him in breathless fury.
“On with you!” he said to himself, as he looked after the armed men. “But unless I have reckoned very badly, the game has this time escaped the hunters.”
Quintus found the company in the greatest excitement; they were standing in agitated knots vehemently discussing something; uncertainty, alarm, and consternation were visible in all. The only man who appeared altogether calm and indifferent was Stephanus, haggard and diplomatically reserved. He was sitting apart, not far from the spot where the avenue by which Quintus returned, opened on to the terrace. A man of athletic build was lying on the ground, bleeding from numerous wounds; in his right hand he held the hilt of a broken sword and his left was pressed in speechless anguish to his breast, where the enemy’s blade had pierced him. Five or six slaves, who had carried him hither, were standing round him with expressive gestures, while Stephanus was making a pitiable abortive attempt to cross-examine the dying man. At about forty paces farther away four slaves, fearfully injured, were lying in their blood. One had had his skull cleft to the neck, and the others were covered with hideous and gaping wounds. All four were dead.
On the spot too, where just now the curtain of gold-tissue had waved, there was the greatest confusion. The curtain[180] had been lowered—the fanciful decorations of one side had been overthrown and nearly half-burnt, while hammers, nails, ropes, fragments of dresses, and rubbish of every kind strewed the stage. In the midst of this hideous disorder a tall cross[181] stood upright.
It was some time before Quintus could get any connected account of what had happened; at first ten voices were raised at once to their highest pitch of explanation. Lycoris was sulky and peevish, because the best effect of her whole programme had been spoilt. Her friend Leaina, on the contrary, swore by Hercules that Quintus had lost the finest sight in the world. His wily acquaintance Clodianus, who took every opportunity of assuming airs of frank bluntness, railed in threatening bass tones at the audacity of the rascals, and others wandered off into questions, so that Quintus at last lost patience. He went to the captain of the Praetorian guard, took him by the arm, and asked almost angrily:
“Norbanus, will you tell me in plain words? I was absent, in the remotest part of the wood, and on my return I find a perfect chaos. What does it all mean?”
“It means one more sign of the times. Rome is become a perfect Vesuvius; there are rumblings and mutterings on every side and in every corner. What do you think? We were sitting here very contentedly on the garden seats, enjoying the pleasures of digestion. Well, I was just wondering to myself what this Massilian bay mare could still have in reserve, and somewhat excited with curiosity, when the curtain was lowered. A grand burst of music! and a fellow dressed in scarlet came to the front and informed us in well-turned trimeters,[182] that a devilish funny piece was about to be performed, the capital punishment of a criminal slave[183] named Eurymachus....”
“What?” cried Quintus horrified.
“As I tell you—the execution of the slave Eurymachus, who had sinned gravely against his illustrious master Stephanus, and so had forfeited his life.”
“An execution as a garden comedy? This is something new, by Jupiter!”
“New indeed! hardly heard of since the days of the divine Nero.”
“Well, and what next?”
“The speaker announced that Lycoris had obtained leave from Parthenius, the head chamberlain, to have the execution carried out in the semblance of a jest before the eyes of her illustrious and noble guests; he begged our indulgence for the performers, bowed, and the entertainment began.—You know me, Quintus, and that I am no lover of such horrible buffoonery. I fought for many years against the Daci[184] and Germanii, and the gods know that the sight of death turns me cold. Merely to see an unarmed wretch butchered—do you know, Quintus, it always reminds me of slaughtering swine. When I sit there at my ease, looking on, a lump rises in my throat, even in the amphitheatre. It may be outrageously simple and quite out of fashion, but for the life of me I cannot help it.”
“Go on, go on!” cried Quintus in growing excitement.
“Well then; the performance began. They dragged the man in, half-naked and crowned with roses. I cannot say he looked to me like a dangerous character; quite the contrary—even at that moment, when his life was at stake, he was quite quiet; only his paleness betrayed that the proceedings were not altogether pleasant to him. Then all sorts of mocking and games began at his expense; men scourged him or kicked him—all with consummate grace—and half-naked girls danced and leaped round him like mad things, nipped and pinched him, boxed his ears, and played all kinds of stupid tricks. This went on for about ten minutes. Then the executioners set a ladder by the cross there, flung a rope round him under the arms, hauled him up, and the first blow of the hammer was on the point of hitting the nail in, when a part of the side scene fell in with a tremendous crash. Four men, with their faces blackened with soot, rushed in like a thunder-storm, seized Eurymachus—who was as pale as death—by the arms, and were gone before the pack of slaves had recovered their senses. The spectators thought at first that this was part of the entertainment, till they were enlightened by the angry shouts of Stephanus and Lycoris. Then it occurred to the half-stunned executioners, that they might pursue the men. But then they perceived, that in the breach made by the fallen scenery a tall giant of a man was standing. He received the pursuers with a perfect storm of sword-strokes. Rhodius, the gardener’s son, fell without a cry, and the second man fared no better; the uproar was general, and the scenery broke out in flames. The whole gang of them fell back before the one with a howl, like dogs before a wolf at bay. The tall fellow, however, retired through fire and smoke till he was safe outside it all, and then he planted himself up above at the entrance of the avenue of elms, sword in hand. Eight men rushed upon him at once, but for fully five minutes not one could get at him. Three of the assailants bit the dust, before a well-aimed thrust pierced the Hercules through the breast. He started, once more gathered himself together, and a fourth man fell in front of him, cleft through the skull. That was the last of it.”
“A noble ending truly to a friendly festival!” said Quintus glancing at Lycoris, who still was fuming over the disaster. “And the rash defender is dead?”
“Not yet,” said Clodianus joining them. “Stephanus is questioning him. But as the fellow refuses to give any information, they propose to torture him to make him speak.”
“Impossible!” cried Quintus furious. “His wound is mortal, he fought like a hero. At any rate leave him to die in peace!” Clodianus shrugged his shoulders.
“Settle that with Stephanus! If the villain will not confess, it is certainly permissible to egg on his loquacity.”
Quintus frowned. After a few minutes of reflection he went up to Stephanus, at the very instant when two slaves came on to the terrace with a steaming cauldron of water.
“A very painful incident!” said Claudius coolly.
“Most painful!” replied Stephanus in the same tone. “I mean to try, whether the error may not be remedied.” And as he spoke he gave a highly-significant nod to the slaves, who had set the cauldron down on the ground close to him. Quintus involuntarily stepped forward and put out his hand in remonstrance.
“I hope, my good friend,” he said, still perfectly coolly, “that you only intended to frighten this villain—good taste alone must prohibit....”
Stephanus changed color slightly, and the slaves looked terrified into his face. The tension of the situation was interrupted by the return of the armed men, who had been sent after the fugitives and now came back breathless and streaming with sweat.
“My lord,” the foremost began, “we return as jaded as a pack of hounds, but with empty hands.”
“So I see,” said Stephanus in chill tones. “And what tavern did you stop at, and what wenches did you stop to kiss.”
“Forgive us, my lord!” groaned another sinking on to his knees, partly from exhaustion, and partly from terror. “We rushed up the hill like blood-hounds,[185] but they had too much the start of us.”
Stephanus looked down.
“Was the gate on to the Patrician Way[186] locked?” he asked frowning.
“It is well. I will speak to your mistress. Woe to you, if you are in fault!”
“My lord,” the first speaker began again. “Grant me to say one word of explanation. In spite of the start the fugitives had gained, we might have caught them if an accident....”
He broke off and glanced at Quintus, who smiled and told him to go on. “Speak fearlessly,” he said kindly. “Accuse me, if you think well to do so—in fact, you have every right.”
The slave went on to relate how Quintus had delayed him and his comrades in the narrow hedge-grown passage. At each word Stephanus grew paler, and Quintus became more and more scornful in air and demeanor.
“Are this man’s assertions founded on fact?” asked Stephanus as the slave ceased speaking.
“How am I to interpret such a question?”
“Exactly as I ask it. I am interested to know whether a son of the noble Claudia gens can so far—condescend, as to abet the flight of a criminal?”
“That I did not say!” cried the slave, shocked.
“Never mind!” said Quintus reassuringly, to the excited narrator. “You have spoken the truth, and I will vouch for it at any moment. When I was loitering in the gardens of our fair hostess, how should I guess that certain persons, who came upon me quite suddenly, were chasing a runaway slave? And even if I had guessed it, what is there to compel me to step among the thorns and briars, in order to make way for your thief-catchers?”
“Politeness and a due regard for the interests of the commonwealth,” replied Stephanus drily. “However, what is done cannot be undone. It is all the more necessary to act promptly, in what yet remains to be done.”
As he spoke he went close up to the blood-stained Hun, who, with his last remaining strength, lifted himself up and cast a wild glance round him.
“You hardened hound,” he said in a rough, hoarse voice, “I will soften you! Do you see that cauldron? I ask you once more: Who are you? Who are your fellow-conspirators?” The gasping man’s breast heaved more rapidly.
“Will you speak?” repeated Stephanus furiously. And now, for the first time the victim spoke; till now he had not uttered a sound.
“No!” he cried with his last remnant of strength, and he sank back groaning.
“Very well; then abide by your destiny.” At this moment Quintus Claudius stepped up to the slaves who held the cauldron, his arms crossed on his breast.
“Enough of this horse-play!” he said curtly and vehemently. “Begone indoors, you parcel of idiots! I, Quintus Claudius, command you to go.”
“And I, Stephanus, command you in the name of your mistress: remain and obey! Rufus, Daedalus, lay hold!”
“We will solve this dilemma, as Alexander did in Gordium,” said Quintus scornfully, and with these words he pushed the slaves aside and gave the cauldron a mighty kick, so that the contents poured steaming out all over the terrace.
“This is violence!"[187] exclaimed Stephanus, involuntarily raising his hands.
“The violence of reason against bad taste and coarse feeling!” said Quintus with a scowling look. “I should advise you, freedman,[188] to keep your hand hidden away in the folds of your robe, or in the depths of your coffers and money-boxes, or Quintus Claudius might happen to squeeze that hand rather more tightly than you would like!”
At the word “freedman” Stephanus had turned as pale as a corpse. He closed his eyes and staggered. His lean fingers trembled and twitched, as if he were feeling for a dagger. Then, mastering his agitation with an almost superhuman effort, he said faintly:
“I do not altogether understand what it is that you mean, so I will not trouble myself to answer ... you. Meanwhile you have only given the slaves some unnecessary extra labor.—To work, men!—refill the cauldron.”
“Too late,” said Quintus. “Your victim has escaped you.”
“He is dead!” cried the slaves.
Stephanus muttered something unintelligible between his teeth; then he ordered that the body should be removed.
“Antinous,” said he to one of the slaves, a remarkably beautiful young fellow: “I look to you to report all that has happened here, fully and exactly to the authorities. If Eurymachus is delivered up to me alive, I promise you a hundred thousand sesterces.—Here comes Lycoris with the soldiers of the town-watch.[189] Speak to them; tell them all you know, and offer them gold; that will inspire the most dilatory.”
“I hear and obey, my lord.”
“I am tired and shall withdraw. In ten minutes I shall expect to see you.”
“I shall be with you in five.”
The file of men at arms—a division of a military body, who performed the duties of a town-watch, combining the functions of our modern firemen and police—came up just at the right moment to verify the death of the unknown victim, to take the statements of the assistants and spend an hour very comfortably in the atrium. The guests of the fair Lycoris had soon recovered from the unpleasant impression produced by the untoward incident. Amusements and sports of every kind effaced the last traces of its remembrance, and for a long time after the tones of luxurious music sounded through the starry night.
The morning was already grey over the distant Sabine hills[190] when Quintus, followed by his clients and slaves,[191] left the scene of festivity. With him came Clodianus and the poet Martial; the former accompanied, like himself, by a number of dependents and satellites, the latter by a single slave, whose smoky little lamp looked absurd enough by the side of the handsome lanterns and torches of the rest of the escort.
“A mad night!” sighed Martial, looking up. “The stars are already twinkling like eyes dim at leave-taking. Illustrious Clodianus, you will make my excuses to my patron, the chamberlain Parthenius, if I should fail to offer my morning greeting. Getting up early is my greatest torment,[192] even when I have crept between the coverlets at betimes, and to-day, after this unpardonable dissipation....”
Clodianus laughed.
“I will explain it to him,” he roared out in the fresh morning air. “However—I shall hardly see him before noon. I am as tired myself, as if I had been sawing stone all night.”
“Yes, it is frightful to be so tired! I would give ten years of my life, if I might only sleep half the day. But on the contrary, before cock-crow, I must be out of bed, fling my toga over my shoulders, and be bowing to noblemen! By Castor! if I were not an ass, I should long since have fled to the peace and quietness of my native town!”
“Well, sleep to-day till sundown! Just now Parthenius will be most willing to excuse you, for his head is so full of business, and Caesar makes such incessant claims upon his time, that he is glad when his best friends leave him in peace.”
“I heard the same thing from my father,” added Quintus. “Some great stroke seems to be in hand. Is nothing known of the facts?”
“Pah! it is the talk of the town. Plots dangerous to the state, treason to religion and society, conspiracies against Caesar....”
“But the facts—the details...?”
“You know,” said Clodianus laughing, “that in affairs of state, silence is as important, as valor is in battle!”
“Well said!” cried the poet.[193] “With a little suitable embellishment, that may be turned into a brilliant epigram. Now, noble friends, I will bid you farewell. Our roads are no longer the same. I must climb up here to the temple on the Quirinal, while you go down into the valley. In life it is just the reverse. Apollo preserve you!” He hastily turned up the street, while Clodianus and Quintus went on along the ‘Long Way.’
“Aye!” said the crafty Clodianus. “I have constantly to remind myself of the duty of silence; more than once has my rash tongue run away with me. I come of an easy-tempered race, which are apt to talk without stopping to think. It is wrong, by Hercules!—it is wrong!”
They had now reached the Subura.[194] The height of the five, six, or more-storied houses,[195] and the narrowness of the way here, only allowed the day to dawn slowly and late, and deep gloom still prevailed in the numerous taverns[196] and entries. At the same time busy life was already stirring on all sides; itinerant bakers[197] were wandering from door to door crying their fresh bread. Pedagogues,[198] with their writing implements and clay lamps, were leading files of boys to school. Here and there, from a side alley, might be heard the croaking chant of a teacher, and the babble of spelling children.[199] Groups of worshippers, on their way to perform their morning devotions in the neighboring temple of Isis, hurried across the loudly-echoing pavement.
“Day is coming upon us apace,” said Quintus, as he stopped in front of the entrance to the "Cyprius street"[200] and held out his hand to the adjutant.
“Our roads part here, and we must make haste if we mean to reach home before sunrise.”
“Will you be at the Baths at about noon?”
“Possibly.—If I get up in time.”
“Well then—let us hope that the wine-cup of Lycoris may leave you free of headache.”
“The same to you! Farewell.” And with these words Quintus went on his way, while Clodianus turned off to the right.
“Cyprius street” grew at every step more select and consequently more deserted; to the left the Baths of Titus stood up, a sharply-defined mass, against the rose-tinted sky. Each time that Quintus Claudius walked up the street, this vast pile seemed to have a fresh spell for him. The contrast between the ponderous mass, and the tender flush of Autumn dawn behind him, filled him with pleasurable admiration, and his eye followed a flock of pigeons, which for some few minutes soared to and fro above the great building and then, with sudden swiftness, flew across the road.
“They came from the left,” said he to one of his companions. “Now, if I believed in augury from the flight of birds, I should be forced to suppose that some evil was hanging over me.”
He was still speaking, when from the same side, where a narrow path came down from the great Baths, a muffled figure rushed upon him and hit him a blow with a bare poniard. Happily the ruffian at the same instant slipped on the sloping pavement—which was rendered even more slippery by the early morning dew—so that the dagger missed its aim, and instead of piercing the young man’s throat, passed across his left shoulder and through the folds of his toga, which it cut through as sharply as a razor. And before Quintus quite understood what had happened, the assassin had glided away between the slaves with the suppleness of a panther, and vanished in the direction of the Subura. The young man gazed at his arm, where the toga and under-garment hung in long strips; the wound was but skin-deep, a spot of blood had here and there oozed out.
“Let it be!” said Quintus to the slaves, who had crowded round him when their first stupified astonishment was over. “I know very well where that blade was sharpened, and for the future I will be more cautious. But one thing I must say to you; my good people, each and all, be silent as to this attack. You too, my excellent friends and clients—you know how easily my noble father is alarmed. If he knew that there was in all Rome a villain, who had threatened my life, he would never know another moment’s peace.”
“My lord, you know us!” exclaimed the slaves and freedmen, and the clients too professed their devotion.
“His revenge is prompt!” thought Quintus, as he went onwards. “I always knew him to be an example of audacity and ruthlessness—still, such impatience as this is somewhat a surprise to me.”
Then suddenly he stood still, as a new and almost impossible idea flashed across his mind.—“If it were ... supposing.... Could Domitia...?”
He pressed his hands over his eyes, and that which had at first seemed so plain, intelligible and obvious, now sank back into the mists of doubt and conjecture.
The slaves had by this time extinguished their torches and lanterns.—Broad daylight shone in cloudless beauty over the widely-spread city of the Seven Hills. The great temple of Isis lay flooded with gold; a procession of priests,[201] bearing the image of the goddess, came marching down the street.
“Get on!” cried Quintus. “I am tired to death. It was a folly, Blepyrus, to dismiss the litters.”
“It was wisdom, my lord!” said the slave. “If I still am honored with your confidence, I would again repeat....”
“Ah well!” Quintus interrupted. “Very likely you are right—you leeches are always right.[202] If only you attain a proportionate result! But if exercise were everything, I should be the lightest-hearted man in Europe. Nay, my good Blepyrus, this dissatisfaction, this intolerable sense of ill lies deeper....”
In a few minutes they had reached home. The ostiarius[203] was standing at the door, as if the master of the house were impatiently expected. Quintus was about to cross the threshold, when he heard himself loudly called by name.
“What do I see? Euterpe! All hail to you—so soon returned to Rome?”
“Yes, my lord, since yesterday,” answered the flute-player hastily. “And ever since I came, I have been incessantly trying to find you. Do you still remember,” she went on in a low voice, “what you promised me at Baiae?”
“Certainly, my pretty one. Quintus Claudius sticks to his bargain ... besides.... But who is the grey-headed old man with you there? Your husband or your father?”
“My husband is young, and my father is dead.—This is Thrax Barbatus, Glauce’s father.”
“And who is Glauce?”
“What—did I never tell you about Glauce—out there, on the hills by Baiae? I must have forgotten in the midst of all my trouble. Glauce is to be married to our Eurymachus....”
“Ah! the heroic sufferer, that Stephanus had flogged?”
“The very same, my lord! And you promised me to remember....”
“True, true—come to me in the course of the afternoon....”
“Ah! my lord, but that will be too late. Eurymachus is in danger of his life....”
“What, again!”
“Oh! be merciful, most noble Quintus! Give us only five minutes audience! You alone can save him.”
“Come in, then!”
He led the way through the atrium into his private room.
“My lord,” the flute-player began again, “I will tell my story shortly. Eurymachus rebelled against the Empress’ steward, who wanted to persuade him to all sorts of disgraceful conduct. Stephanus flogged him first, and then obtained permission to crucify him at the next festival. This I heard from the gate-keeper. But there was no festival fixed for yesterday, so there is still some hope, and we entreat you....”
“Be calm—for the present your friend is in safety.”
“Impossible—he is lying in chains....”
“He was lying in chains. His execution was fixed for yesterday, but at the last moment he was snatched from the jaws of peril.”
“What?” cried Thrax Barbatus, speaking for the first time. “Did I hear you rightly, snatched from his fetters! Then Glauce was able to carry out what she proposed.”
“Free?” said Euterpe, looking up at Quintus in bewilderment.
“As I tell you.”
“Oh, now I see it all!” cried Thrax Barbatus. “This pretended journey to Ostia—what had your husband to do in Ostia? And Philippus, my son, who has hardly been in Rome a week—why should he want to accompany Diphilus....” Then, seized with terror, he sank on the ground before Quintus and threw his arms round his knees.
“Oh, my lord! do not take advantage of the rash words of a miserable father!” he exclaimed vehemently. “Do not betray, what my tongue let slip in my fear and anxiety.”
“Be easy, old man!” said Quintus benevolently. “I am not one of the spies of the city-guard. Your friend is a hero, and courage always commands my sympathy.”
“Thanks, thanks!” sobbed the old man, covering the young noble’s hands with kisses. “But tell me, pray, how it all happened; how is it possible that, in the midst of such a crowd of servants....”
“All is possible to those who dare all. What I heard—and the merest accident prevented my being an eye witness—aroused as much astonishment in me, as in you. All the bystanders seemed to have been paralyzed. It was like an eagle in the Hyrcanian mountains,[204] swooping down on a lamb. One man particularly, a stalwart, broad-shouldered fellow, did wonders of valor....”
Thrax Barbatus drew himself up with the elasticity of youth. Happy pride sparkled in his eyes, and an expression—a radiance, as it were, of beatific affection illuminated his rugged and strongly-wrinkled features.
“That was Philippus, my son!” he said with a trembling voice. “Oh! it was not for nothing, that he fought for years against the Dacians, not in vain that he endured frost and heat. There is not a man in all the legion that is his match in skill and strength; not one that can beat him in running or in lance-throwing. But speak, my lord; you look so grave, so sad! What is it? Oh, for God’s sake, in Christ’s name—it is impossible! My son, my Philippus!—but he could stand against twenty—speak, my lord, or you will kill me....”
“Poor old man,” said Quintus much moved, “what good will it do to conceal the truth from you? Your son is dead. Scorning to fly, he exposed himself too long to his foes. He died like a hero.”
Thrax Barbatus uttered a soul-piercing cry, and fell backwards to the ground; Euterpe flung herself upon him and clasped his head to her heart, weeping bitterly.
“Thrax—dear, good friend,” she sobbed out: “Control yourself, collect yourself! Show yourself strong in this terrible trouble! Consider, you will have Glauce, and Eurymachus, who loves you like a son.”
The old man slowly pulled himself up; he pushed Euterpe violently aside, and then sinking on to his knees, raised his hands in passionate appeal to Heaven. His lips moved in prayer, but no sound was heard. Quintus, lost in astonishment, stood leaning against a pillar, while Euterpe wept silently, her face buried in her arm. A terrible storm seemed to be raging in the old man’s soul; his breast rose and fell like a wind-tossed sea, and a wild fire glowed in his eyes. But by degrees he grew calmer, and his features assumed an expression of sorrowing and silent resignation. It was as though a tender and beatific ray of forgiveness lighted them up, growing clearer each moment. After a time he rose.
“Pardon me, my lord,” he said slowly. “I was stricken down by the vastness of my grief. He fell like a hero, you said? And Eurymachus is safe?”
“He escaped,” replied Quintus, “which, alas! is not quite the same thing. Every effort will be made to recover possession of the fugitive. Well, we must see what can be done. Accident has enlisted me on your side, and I will play the part out to the end. For the present leave me; I am tired out, and a tired man is of no use as an adviser; but this evening, about the second vigil,[205] I will find my way to your dwelling, unaccompanied.”
“Father in Heaven, I thank Thee!” cried Thrax Barbatus vehemently. “Blessings, oh! blessings on the head of this noble and generous youth! Farewell, my lord! Never, never will I forget your gracious kindness to us helpless wretches.”
With these words he left the room, and Euterpe followed him. Quintus went at once to his curtained cubiculum,[206] undressed with the help of the faithful Blepyrus and soon fell asleep.