At the hour when Cornelia was setting out on her expedition to the temple of Isis, Lucilia and Claudia, escorted by their brother, reached home. The Flamen was still at work in his study; his grave and anxious face could be seen through the half-open door, bowed over his table. Even the sound of steps, which rang through the silence of the atrium, did not interrupt his busy labors.
Quintus hesitated; he would gladly have gone in to embrace his father, but after brief reflection he decided not to interrupt his late studies. He bid his sisters good-night, waved his hand affectionately towards the motionless figure that leaned over the desk, and left the house. His slaves and freedmen were waiting for him outside.
“All go home!” he said shortly.
His people were accustomed to his moods, and no one was surprised. But Blepyrus reminded him, with a shudder, of the attack in the Cyprius street.
“Fear nothing,” replied Quintus; “I am armed. Besides, who could expect to meet me to-night in the streets.”
So his followers went on their way through the Forum Romanum, which was still crowded with people, while Quintus turned northwards across the Circus Flaminius[261] and the Field of Mars. He soon found himself in the heart of that city of marble, which Caesar Augustus had created here as if by magic. A sombre blue overarched the labyrinth of pillars and domes, of friezes and statues, of groves and glades, where by day such motley crowds were busy. No light but the pale glimmer of the stars—whose mist-veiled brightness gave warning of the autumn rains—fell on the chaos of ill-defined forms; the moon had not yet risen. Utter solitude, utter silence prevailed. The listener could almost fancy he heard the rush of the river Tiber past the piers of the Aelian Bridge[262]—or was it only the plash of water in one of the many aqueducts[263] which, at that time, were so splendid a feature of the city?—A mysterious dreamy whisper!
Possessed by the sense of this stilly solitude, Quintus Claudius went on till nearly on the shore of the river. Under the avenues of trees it was blackly dark, and the air came up chill and damp from the stream; Quintus shivered slightly. Then he turned off in the direction of the Via Lata—the Broad Way, now the Corso. He did not know what mysterious influence had driven him out into the darkness and silence. He had felt as though he must fly from the vast mass of Rome, from its numberless market-places, its proud temples and basilicas—and now he was seized with homesickness for the familiar, beloved and hated hive of two million human souls. He shook himself. All that was most dissatisfied and contradictory in his nature rose clearly before his conscience. It was exactly in this way, that he had worked through all the systems of philosophy in turn—now flying from what at first he had eagerly run after, and now craving for what he had but just cast from him; one day an enthusiastic disciple of Epicurus, and the next a follower of the Stoics. But in neither of these views of the world could he find rest and refreshment for his truth-seeking soul. Zeno’s contempt for all the joys of life seemed artificial to his ardent and poetic fancy, while the method and practice of Epicurus, ingeniously wreathing the mouth of the pit with roses to cover the depths below, stirred in him an irresistible impulse to sound those depths. That old Sphinx we call Life offered him a fresh riddle at every step, while forever denying all possibility of answering them. Thus, by degrees, he had wandered into that moral Via Lata—that broad way along which almost every educated Roman of that day walked, for better or for worse; that path of sceptical indifference, which made short work of every metaphysical belief, and lived so literally from day to day. Only a few men, like Titus Claudius the Flamen, clung to the old Latin religion and fulfilled its precepts in their highest sense, and so had effected a compromise with the needs of the times; most men looked down with contempt on the myths of popular belief without, however, being able to replace them by anything better. Nay, even the women of the educated class found no satisfaction in the worship they had inherited; they turned in crowds to the mystical rites of the old Egyptian goddess Isis, to whom a number of magnificent temples had been erected so early as at the time of the first Caesars. Quintus himself had drank of that shallow stream, but had found no comfort in it.
The shortest way to the house of Thrax Barbatus would have been across the Alta Semita[264] and past the temple on the Quirinal. But Quintus made a détour; after his late experiences he was anxious to avoid the less deserted streets; and not merely because fate had made him the accomplice in a deed, which by the laws of Rome was punished with the utmost severity; he could now no longer doubt that Eurymachus, Thrax Barbatus and Euterpe were attached to the sect of Nazarenes, and just at this very time the most stringent measures were in contemplation to suppress the disciples of the Nazarene. Indeed, if his father’s views met with approbation in the Senate, nothing short of a regular persecution must ensue. In that case his share in the escape and rescue of a Christian slave might very likely be construed as treason against the safety of the state; and though Quintus felt no fears as to what might be the issue for himself, the thought of his father’s grief filled him with anxiety.
He wrapped himself more closely in his ample cloak, and looked cautiously about him as he hastened along the northwestern declivity of the Quirinal hill. A company of the city-guard marched past him with an echoing tread, the smoke of their torches[265] blew hot in his face, but no one noticed or recognized him. The streets grew narrower and more tortuous, the houses more squalid, the whole neighborhood was visibly plebeian. At last he reached the old wall,[266] built—so tradition said—by Servius Tullius; this quarter, in the time of the emperors, was of the worst repute in all Rome. Quintus stole cautiously along under the wall, for a few drinking-shops were still open and busy. Wretched girls from Syria and Gades here plied their shameful trade by the light of flickering clay lamps, while wrinkled and watery-eyed old hags poured the muddy wine of Veii[267] out of red jugs. Drunken men lay snoring under the tables, and coarse songs were roared out from hoarse throats, half-drowned, however, by the uproarious shouts of two fellows who were playing the favorite game of odd and even[268] with copper coins.
Suddenly the noise became three times louder than ever; there was a wild uproar, and piercing shrieks. The gamblers had fallen out over their petty stakes. After a short squabble one had drawn his knife on the other and stabbed him in the side. The wounded man fell, howling, on the ground and the assassin took to his heels. But the dancing girls, heedless of the catastrophe, began at once to rattle their castanets once more, and sway and whirl in their disgraceful pantomime.
Quintus hurried on, filled with loathing. Never had the heartless turmoil of the great capital seemed so hideous as at this moment, in this obscure lair of humanity. Was not this squalid tragedy a reflection of all Rome—of the vast and mighty metropolis, with all its crimes, its contempt for the suffering of others, its mad lust of pleasure? It was but a short while since he had witnessed the very same scene, with more splendid surroundings and distinguished actors. For, had the events in Lycoris’s garden been at all less horrible? Had not a man lain there too, bleeding and dying, while a prostitute—aye! for the brilliant and elegant Gaul was nothing else—had bewitched a heartless crowd by her fascinations? There, no doubt, were all the splendor and luxury of wealth—here the foul brutality of misery; but, at the bottom, they were the self-same thing, at the bottom each was a sign, easy to read, of degeneracy, decrepitude and decay.
And suddenly Quintus felt transported, as it were, from the life which surrounded him, into a new and unfamiliar atmosphere and light; and, strangest thing of all, that light seemed to shine forth from a pale face that he had seen but twice in his life; from the face of the humble and despised slave, who had so loftily smiled down on his persecutors and executioners. Could it be that such a thing existed as some supernatural magic? Or was it only admiration for the fortitude of a heroic nature?
It was about midnight, when Quintus reached the house the flute-player had described to him. It was one of those tall, ill-constructed houses,[269] built by speculators to let in floors, and which abounded in the poorer parts of the city to the great risk of the public. Fairly substantial as to the ground floor, story towered over story till the topmost floor consisted of a single room, hardly better than a booth built of boards at a fair. The walls were cracked and sprung in many places, and here and there, where the wretched structure threatened to fall, the inhabitants had tried to prop them with beams, thus adding to their unsafe appearance.
The musician met the young man at the entrance; ninety steps—which, but for Euterpe’s little lamp, he could never have mounted without mishap—led him to her habitation.
“Stop here!” said Euterpe, as Quintus was about to go up to the topmost floor. "Thrax Barbatus does not live quite under the tiles;"[270] and as she spoke she knocked at a door. Thrax Barbatus opened it, looking calm, almost cheerful.
Quintus entered a room, of which the neat and comfortable aspect quite delighted him. A three-branched lamp hung from the low ceiling; the walls were neatly colored of a reddish brown; small, but beautifully-executed paintings of flowers and fruit, showed brightly and prettily against this background. The floor was covered by a carpet, somewhat worn, but so handsome as to tell of better days in the past. A table, a chair, a few low seats and a small chest of dark oak composed the furniture—humble, no doubt, in the eyes of a Roman of rank, but still much better than Quintus had expected after climbing to such a height.
“You are welcome to your servant’s house,” said the old man, to whom Quintus gave his hand. “We have looked for you with longing. I was almost afraid you might have repented....”
“You had my word that I should come,” said Quintus.
He sat down on a wooden bench, and Thrax Barbatus went to a door at the other end of the room, which he opened and called out: “Glauce.”
In a few minutes a young girl came into the room. Her face was sweet and pleasing, but bore traces of weeping; her brown hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and her tunic was ungirdled. Worn out with the anxiety and grief of the last few days, she had sunk on her bed and fallen asleep, and now, standing in the door-way, dazzled by the light and confused by the presence of the noble stranger, she was a pretty picture of maidenly bashfulness and timidity.
“Come, my sweet child, and welcome the protector of Eurymachus,” Thrax began in caressing tones; “this noble youth is Quintus Claudius, the friend of the helpless. He will save the persecuted victim, and obtain his freedom from Stephanus, and procure him Caesar’s pardon.”
Glauce stood motionless for a moment; a faint flush tinged her cheeks. Then, weeping loudly, she flung herself into her father’s arms and hid her face on his shoulder. Euterpe, meanwhile, had set a wine-jar and a dish of fruit on the table.
“It is but little, but heartily offered,” she said smiling, “and after your late walk you will not refuse such slight refreshment.”
Then, taking a pine-log from the hearth-place, she struck the floor three times at short intervals.
She listened—all was still.
“He is asleep,” she said to Thrax, who had soothed his daughter’s sobs, and now took a seat by the brightly-lighted table.
“He has earned it!” said Glauce.
Euterpe repeated the knocking, and this time with better success. Some one could be heard moving below. In two minutes the stairs creaked, and a weather-tanned figure of middle height cautiously entered the room. Euterpe met him and respectfully introduced him to Quintus. “This, my lord, is my husband,” she said modestly. “He too had a share in the bold attempt in the park, for he has the greatest reverence for Eurymachus.”
“To be sure—I recognize you! It was you, who offered the fugitive your arm to help him up the narrow path to the top of the ridge.”
Diphilus gazed astonished into the young man’s face.
“It is true, my lord,” he said hesitatingly. “But how should you know that?”
“Oh! I was nigh at hand. If I had come forward, I could easily have stopped the way.”
Diphilus sank on to the seat by the side of Thrax with an expression of unconcealed astonishment, fixing his eyes on the young man’s face, as if to stamp the features of this mysterious ally indelibly on his memory.
Thrax Barbatus now solemnly extended his bony hand over the table, like a speaker beginning his discourse. Then he said in a low voice:
“Above all, my friends, remember that in Rome every stone has eyes and ears,[271] and the thin walls of a lodging-house are as good as a spider’s web to the spy.”
The flute-player drew closer to her husband’s side.
“It is only too true,” she said with a sigh, “I could almost have sworn....”
“What?” asked Diphilus.
“That our pursuers are on our traces already."[272]
“How?”
“Nay, it is only my feeling about it. I am always in a state of mortal terror.”
Thrax Barbatus shook his head doubtfully. “Your fears are unfounded,” he said emphatically. “Not a man in Rome knows of our intimate relations with Eurymachus. My poor son, who left his home when he was hardly more than a boy and did not return for twenty years, when his own rather scarcely recognized him—no, Euterpe, the still face of the dead will betray nothing.” He passed his hand over his eyes.
“I know,” replied the flute-player. “And yet....”
“What is it?” asked the old man glancing hurriedly round.
“Alas!” said Euterpe, “I am afraid I was rash. Scold me, but I could not help it; when I heard that Philippus had been buried in the ground set apart for criminals and outcasts,[273] my heart was fairly broken, and I vowed that his grave should not be left bare of some pious offering. So this evening, at the end of the first vigil, I stole out to the Esquiline hill, carrying a consecrated palm-branch hidden in my dress to lay on his grave. I found it after a short search, laid the palm upon it, said a short prayer, and came away. Suddenly I heard steps and voices; I hurried on, but they followed me, and as chance would have it I met a litter with torch-bearers. The light fell full on my face, though I turned away. At the same moment I heard one of the men, who followed me, begin to run. Then I was seized with mortal terror; by the temple of Isis in the Via Moneta[274] I turned off to the left, and ran so fast into the next street, that I could hardly get out of the way of two women, who were at that instant coming out. The darkness protected me; I escaped and got home by a roundabout way. If the men who followed me were the city-watch, it does not matter. But supposing they were some of Stephanus’ people; they all knew me at Baiae, where I often played before their master. Oh! tell me, most illustrious patron, what shall we do if my fears are realized?”
These words were addressed to Quintus, for she saw that Thrax Barbatus was deeply touched by her loving attention to the dead, and she wished to escape being thanked.
Quintus Claudius, notwithstanding his strong sympathy with Thrax and Eurymachus, could not feel quite at his ease in his new and strange position. The idea that he—the member of a senatorial family, the son of one of the noblest houses in the empire—should make common cause with artizans, freedmen and slaves, was so preposterous in the state of society then existing, that even a lofty and magnanimous nature required time to enable it to subdue the sense of strangeness and even of repulsion. After some hesitation he addressed himself to Thrax, asking him—as though half conscious of a wish to justify himself in his own eyes:
“And will you answer for the perfect innocence of Eurymachus, on your solemn oath and pledge?”
“My lord,” said Barbatus, “he is as innocent and pure as the sun in the sky. I will swear it by the soul of my dead son! Ah, you do not know his persecutor, the ruthless Stephanus—if you did, you would have no doubts in the matter. The crimes that man has committed during the last ten years, cry to God for vengeance like the blood of the massacred lamb of Bethlehem! I, as you see me, have been the victim of that wretch!”
“You too? How did that happen?”
“In the way which might be called ‘the way of Stephanus.’[275] I had inherited a little fortune from my father, and had laid it out at interest; I intended to save it and add a little to it for Glauce, for I could earn my living as a smith. You know, my lord, how badly free labor is paid in Rome; however, no pressure of want had ever made me touch that little dowry. I only spent the interest even during five or six years, to make a comfortable home for Glauce and give her some education. Well, one day Stephanus produced a forged will, by which the money was left to him under some trivial pretext. He was a beginner in those days and tried his hand on small game, but since then he has grown greedy and gorges the fortunes of men of higher rank. However, everything turned out as was to be feared—false witnesses, cunning lawyers and bribed judges—I lost everything I possessed.”
“Atrocious!” exclaimed the young noble. “And did no one come forward to stand up for you? Did no young advocate defend the truth for truth’s sake?”
“No one. Oh! Stephanus went to work more craftily than you fancy. He bribed those, who might have opposed him, with imaginary legacies from the testator—some he frightened with mysterious threats—but in short, he has grown rich, a perfect Croesus, and all by forged wills. Hundreds of his victims have perished in despair and misery. He shuns neither violence nor treachery; and he sins unpunished, for he has powerful supporters. It is said that Parthenius, the chamberlain....”
“Enough!” interrupted Quintus. “His hour too will come; it would be well for your safety, no doubt, that it should strike soon.”
“We are not idle,” said Glauce. “My father has now found what he long hoped for in vain; a just and learned patron, whose liberality shrinks from no sacrifice. You must have heard of Cneius Afranius?”
“Cneius Afranius? I know him very well, and have met him repeatedly in the house of Cornelius Cinna. He is making himself talked about....”
“He has spoken in the Forum five or six times,” interrupted Thrax with eager warmth. “His success was splendid.—Ah! and what a feeling soul! What a heart overflowing with noble unselfishness. Merely for the sake of right and enthusiasm for the truth, he is indefatigable in his attacks on Stephanus, often as that cunning fox has succeeded in parrying the stroke. Twice, when Afranius was on the very point of opening his case in due form, some inscrutable power has intervened to stop him.—However, if it is true, that dropping water wears away a stone, even Stephanus must some day come to grief.”
Quintus sat silent for some time; he seemed to wish to reflect at leisure on all he had heard, and no one disturbed him.
“My friend,” he said at last: “I too am ready to help you in my way, as honestly as Cneius Afranius—but first tell me one thing. Is Eurymachus still in Rome?”
“In the neighborhood.”
“And you will not send him farther off as speedily as possible?”
“It is impossible, my lord,” said the old man sadly. “Stephanus has set every means to work. Hundreds of watchmen and slave-catchers are on the alert; notices on the walls offer large sums for the apprehension of the fugitive; even appeals have been made to the Vestal virgins[276] to pronounce their ban, so that he may be spellbound within Rome. In short, discovery would be certain....”
“It is so indeed, my lord,” added Diphilus. “And do you know why Stephanus is making this mighty stir? Eurymachus knows some secret of his life, some hideous crime, worse than all the rest he has ever committed. And it was for that reason, that even on the scene of his execution Eurymachus was gagged.”
“And moreover,” added the old man, “in his flight that night he wounded his foot badly. He could not leave his hiding-place at present, even if he wished it.”
“And what can I possibly do for you in these circumstances?”
“Procure his pardon, my lord!” cried Glauce, lifting her hands imploringly.
“Or a mild punishment,” added Diphilus.
“Perhaps,” Thrax went on, “you might even be able to help Afranius, by removing some of the obstacles which hinder the course of justice. Your illustrious father—cannot he do anything he chooses in such matters? And will not his generosity pardon Eurymachus for escaping, if you are his advocate? I know, of course, that Titus Claudius is the foe of the common herd; often, indeed, he has exercised the sternest severity towards guilty slaves; still, he is wise and far-seeing—at fitting times he can be merciful too....”
“I will see what can be done.”
“God’s blessing rest on your head!”
Quintus looked keenly at the speaker.
“Listen,” he said after a short pause; “am I mistaken, or do you belong—as appearances would indicate—to the sect of Nazarenes?”
“My lord,” said Barbatus, “in speaking to the generous preserver of our Eurymachus, I may surely forget that prudence compels us to keep our religion a secret. Yes—I will freely confess it, I am one of those highly-favored ones, whom the people designate as Nazarenes. We are Christians—I and mine—for so we call ourselves after the founder of our sacred religion, who suffered death under Pontius Pilate. Diphilus and Euterpe too have received baptism, the act of dedication which seals our reception under the covenant of faith. We are Christians, my lord, and no power on earth will ever lead us back to the altars of your idolatrous worship. Caesar may revive the times of Nero, he may stigmatize as criminals humble and innocent beings, whose only ambition is righteousness; he can never stay the spread of the Kingdom of Heaven. Nay, indeed, most noble youth, but I tell you that every drop of blood that is spilt, raises up new witnesses to the eternal and divine truth of our belief.”
The old man ceased. His withered cheek was flushed.
“Well,” said Quintus, looking down. “But tell me one thing; does not your creed contain the dangerous doctrine of equality? Does it not remove the ancient landmarks between the high-born and the lowly, between the freeman and the slave? Does it not aim at the subversion of society and the destruction of the existing state of things?”
“Yes, my lord; we do aim at the destruction of all that must inevitably fall, if the Kingdom of the Lord is to come. We teach the equality, freedom and brotherhood of all men born of woman. But what is this but a return to primitive truth, to undisguised nature? Nothing can oppose us, but the power of custom or of self-interest; God himself, and all that is best in man, is for us. Where and when did a higher power ever give you chosen ones a right to cast your brethren into fetters? Where is it written: ‘You are the master, and this other man, who feels joy and pain as you yourself do, is your slave and shall bow down to you?’ It sounds bold, I know, O Quintus; but I ask you: What essential difference is there between the son of the Claudia family and the hapless Eurymachus? That which sets you above him is purely fortuitous; that which constitutes your equality, is the divine will and act of God. Or do you really believe, that a slave can never be wiser, cleverer, more virtuous, courageous, and generous than the offspring of a senatorial house? Supposing you had been changed in the cradle, do you imagine that all the world would have read the slave’s humble birth stamped on his brow? Nay, noble youth! The distance between you, that looks like a gulf, is merely an artificial division, an illusory effect of fancy, which must vanish before the light of the new revelation. We, even we, the sons of the people—even those who are bondsmen and slaves, who toil and suffer in your factories and prisons[277]—all, all are alike called to be the sons of God. ‘Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden,’ saith the Saviour, ‘and I will give you rest.’ Yea, and his call shall not be in vain. Thousands and thousands answer to it[278]—In remotest Asia, in Egypt, in Greece, nay, even in Hispania and Lusitania, whole armies of martyrs are suffering for the cross—our symbol and token, to you Romans an ignominious instrument of death, but to us the emblem of hope and promise!
“And you too—the rich, the noble, the sovereigns of the world—do you need no comfort, no healing, no saving light? Are you indeed so happy in your splendor? Have you no secret craving for something, that shall be eternal? The time will come, when you too shall bow the head before the tree of disgrace and martyrdom, when you too shall know how gloriously the carpenter’s son of Nazareth has solved, for us, the dark riddle of human existence. You will soar above the dim confusion of the fleeting present, to the realms of hope and faith and divine grace.”
It was with a strange feeling of spellbound astonishment, that Quintus gazed into the speaker’s face, which was radiant with solemn but triumphant peace. Glauce had gently leaned her head on her father’s shoulder, as though it was in him that she sought and found her mainstay in the struggle with life; and in spite of the mournful feeling which still left its traces round her lips, silent contentment lay on the pure young brow. She sat with downcast eyes, her hands folded in gentle exhaustion. Euterpe and Diphilus hung in rapt reverence on the lips of the old man, who, to them, seemed to stand in the light of a radiance from heaven.
Quintus was unutterably impressed by the individuality of this strong, resolute and triumphantly happy believer. His aversion to this new doctrine of the universe began to melt like snow on Soracte in a spring breeze. Vigorously as self-love rebelled, conviction proved the stronger. In his hours of solitude the same reflections had often occurred to him, and commended themselves to his feelings, but the denunciation of the existing state of things had never before been so boldly presented to him. It must be a stout heart and a powerful mind, that could deny the intrinsic justification of a social order so complete as that of the Roman empire, and cry to a nation of nobles and slaves: “All men are brothers!” It would be worth while to see and hear more of this Nazarene Gracchus,[279] and to sound the depths of the mysterious power, which gave such staunch vitality to the new doctrine, even after the fearful persecutions of Nero.
All these reflections rushed in a tumultuous torrent through the young patrician’s soul. He could no longer bear the confinement of the low, hot room. He rose, trying to conceal under a smile of careless politeness how deeply he had been interested and absorbed; he paced up and down the little room once or twice, and then said with a certain condescension:
“I should be grateful to you if, at an early opportunity, you would tell me more concerning your doctrine; I am always glad to gain information at the fountainhead. For the present I bid you farewell. Early to-morrow morning I shall do my utmost for Eurymachus; pray to your God, that He may crown our efforts with success.”
Euterpe conducted the visitor down stairs again, and then flew back to the little room where Glauce and Diphilus had already moved the table and arranged a little altar for an offering for the dead, on behalf of the luckless Philippus.
While these good souls were kneeling in silent sorrow before the cross, Quintus walked homewards through the darkness with a throbbing heart; his head ached and a mighty struggle, such as he had never before experienced, seemed to rend his heart. At the top of the Esquiline he came to a stand-still, and as he leaned against the basin of a fountain graced with spouting tritons, he gazed westwards over the night-wrapped city, which lay spread abroad at his feet, like a colossus prone in rest. He could scarcely distinguish the huge buildings—the Flavian Amphitheatre, the palaces and the capitol. Mons Janiculus[280] stood out like a darker storm-cloud against the blue-black sky, and a dull moan and murmur rose upon the air like the breathing of the sleeping giant. A sense of infinite desertedness, of unspeakable longing and inexplicable dread fell upon him. “Yes, ye noble souls!” he groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I will return—I will soon rejoin your peaceful and blissful circle! By all the anguish I ever suffered, by all the torment that gnaws at my heart, I swear I will return!”
And with a sigh of relief like that of a man, who finds himself well again after long sickness, he went down into the valley.
On a purple couch, her right hand supporting her handsome head, while her left played mechanically with the folds of her robe, lay the Empress Domitia; Polycharma, her favorite slave, sat in silence on the floor, holding in her lap a red and blue bird, which now and then flapped its wings and gave a loud, strange cry. All else was silent, oppressed by sultry gloom and the steamy stillness of the air. In spite of its nearness, the noise of the Forum was dulled to a murmur like that of wind-rocked trees. The marble statue of Venus[281] by the door-way looked sleepily down under her drooping lids; even the little Eros with his lightly-tilted jar, seemed touched with melancholy. Outside, in the corridors and antechambers, there was scarcely a sound. The slaves glided cautiously about on tiptoe, and spoke in whispers or expressed themselves by signs. Their imperial mistress’s melancholy mood seemed to fill the very atmosphere with a subtle malaise and anxious forebodings.
A few hours since, the first meeting had taken place between the reconciled couple. They had met with dignity and a calm semblance of friendly regard on both sides; but between them lay the unspoken but bitter certainty that, after all that had passed, no real reconciliation could ever be possible. Caesar’s suspicious nature recoiled from Domitia’s superiority of intellect and vehement temper—which flashed ominously in her eyes in spite of conventional smiles and smoothness—and from the scathing irony of her proud and revengeful spirit. She, on the other hand, knew the Emperor’s hatred and implacable malice; she knew that, once aggrieved, Domitian had the tenacity of a tiger in ambush, never weary of watching for an opportunity for the fatal spring. Added to this there was the remembrance of her own humiliations—her banishment from the palace, the execution of Paris, and the emperor’s passion for his niece Julia. And now, to be forgiven by him whom she so thoroughly despised—to accept the clemency of Domitian—this was the worst and deepest humiliation of all....
So, listless and silent, she lay on her pillows, reviewing in imagination the events of the last few hours in pictures that seemed to mock her as they passed. The Apollo-like figure of the young patrician, who had fired her fancy at Baiae, seemed to smile at her contemptuously; she sighed and closed her eyes, as though to escape the vision. Till a few hours ago, she had believed that she had conquered that madness. Her spirit had found strength in resolving on revenge, and she had felt like a goddess bent on punishing the presumption of a mortal. But now—in this new mood—she was conscious of a subtle change, the desire for revenge remained, but now there was nothing lofty, no sense of superiority in the feeling—the goddess had given place to a vain, lovesick woman, full of annoyance and petty spite. This change was a result of her altered circumstances; the sight of her husband had reminded her of the fact which she had striven to the utmost to ignore; that one word from that adored youth would have sufficed to make this reconciliation an impossibility. Shame and hatred, rage and passion, seethed in her soul, and her self-tormenting fancy painted alternately the most enchanting and the most horrible pictures. As in some hideous dream, the form and features of Quintus were mixed up with those of her former lover, the executed actor. She saw herself in tears, kneeling wildly at his feet—he raised her, kissed her, her senses reeled. Then he scornfully flung her from him—she shuddered from head to foot, and stabbed him desperately with her poniard....
Then again she recalled the occasion, when Polycharma had returned to her with the little tablet that Quintus had given to the slave-girl in the park, the answer to her last passionate letter—that tablet had been her death-warrant—but no, not hers—his! "He must die!"—she seemed to see the words traced between those fatal lines.
Then everything faded from her vision like a landscape shrouded in mist. Instead of the slave-girl, it was the flute-player, who stood before her with a triumphant sparkle in her eyes, as her cheek flushed under the traitor’s touch—as she had seen her stand, the bold hussy, on the hill at Cumae—happy, no doubt, in the love that she, the Empress, pined for.
The thought was intolerable; the miserable woman writhed under the clutch of the demon of jealousy. She groaned and struggled for breath. Polycharma started to her feet.
“Lady, mistress—what is the matter?” she asked, gazing helplessly at Domitia’s distorted features. But the sound of a voice broke the spell; Domitia controlled herself. Not a soul on earth, not even this trusted slave, should ever know how low she could be brought. She would hold herself proudly and defiantly—aye, though she should suffocate in the effort. Polycharma should suppose that the adventure in the gardens of Lycoris was a mere whim, a comedy; never would she betray the anguish of her unrequited passion and deep humiliation.
She raised herself on the pillows and sighed deeply again, as if to prove that the groan which had escaped her had not been involuntary.
“I am afraid,” she said in a low voice, “that I am too much accustomed to liberty, ever to make myself happy again within the bars of this golden cage. I have too long been a free and unfettered woman, to have retained any talent for being Empress. The marble walls of a palace weigh upon me like lead. Ah! Polycharma! I am longing already for my quiet retreat on the Quirinal, or for Baiae and its delicious wilderness.”
“Oh! I understand that,” exclaimed the girl. “Particularly for Baiae—is there a more heavenly spot on earth? The bench under the hedge of bay, with that lovely view over the blue sea! And when the full moon rises over the hill—it is beyond words. And do you remember the young knight from Mediolanum,[282] who recited to us the woes of Queen Dido,[283] and whom you permitted to kiss this white hand as his reward? He trembled like an aspen in the evening breeze. Ah! and Xanthios, the beautiful young Greek from Cumae! How desperately the boy was in love with me!”
Domitia tried to smile.
“Poor child,” she said sadly. “And you too will find out what it is to live at Caesar’s court.”
“Ah well!” said Polycharma airily, “by the grace of the gods, we will be able to retain some fragment of our lost freedom. Your steward is a very shrewd and clever man, and he will see what can be managed. And for your sake, Sovereign Mistress, he would be ready to burn down Rome.”
“Indeed? What makes you think so?”
“Well—of course we all have our own ideas.—Stephanus lives and toils for nothing but your Highness, and for the glory of your name. It was he, who conquered Caesar’s obstinacy and made your return possible. And confess, gracious mistress—Baiae may be lovely, and the evening hours in the park there were indeed delightful, but to share the throne of Caesar, the ruler of the world—that is yet more lovely and delightful!”
“Who can tell....” said Domitia.
“Stephanus, at any rate, thought so.”
“I do not understand you.”
“Well, I mean that he has always done his best....”
“But it seems to me, that it is no more than his duty.”
“Certainly. Still, there is a way of doing one’s duty—a devotedness....”
“What are you aiming at?” asked the Empress. “First you speak as if you wanted to keep silence, and then you break off as if you wished to speak....”
“I only thought....”
“Speak out boldly, Polycharma, and have done with this mysterious behavior, which is like the incoherence of a sibyl."[284]
“By the gods! but I dare not. Besides I only guess at it; he could never be so bold....”
“You are talking in riddles. Speak out; I command you!”
“Oh!” cried the girl contritely. “How am I to say it? Stephanus is consumed by a hopeless passion. He is dying of silent love for the charms of his imperial mistress.”
Domitia’s features did not show a shade of feeling, and Polycharma glanced in terror at the expressionless face, for not the twinkle of an eyelash, not a twitch of the lips, betrayed what emotion might have been roused by this explanation.
“You are mistaken,” replied the Empress after a long pause. “My steward is a faithful servant, and his zeal and devotion are seen by your youthful fancy in a too poetical light.—Go, have done with your foolish imaginings; take your lute, and sing me one of your gayest songs.”
The girl retired a little distance, and an arch smile lighted up her shrewd little face. She fetched the cithara out of its carved case and returned, lightly tuning the strings.
“Some one is knocking,” she said pausing, and she went to the door. “What is it? You know, Strato, that our mistress does not choose to be disturbed.”
A short whispered colloquy was carried on outside the curtain, that hung before the entrance; then Polycharma came to announce that Stephanus begged an audience on a matter of great importance.
Domitia did not at once reply. Then she suddenly looked up, as if struck by some new idea.
“Desire him to come in,” she said eagerly. “Polycharma, leave us together.”
The same meaning smile again parted the girl’s lips. She quietly leaned the lute against the wall and hastened to the door, where she lifted the curtain with mock exaggeration of respect and let the steward pass in front of her. Then she slipped out, shut and fastened the door and joined two other slave-girls, who were sitting in the anteroom on red leather cushions, and carrying on a laughing flirtation with a flaxen-haired Sicambrian belonging to the praetorian guard.
Stephanus stood just within the door and bowed low. It was difficult to recognize in him the cool and unblenching man, never at a loss in his perfect knowledge of court manners and gossip, and accomplished in the arts of intrigue. In Domitia’s presence the freedman was a slave again; all his presence of mind, all the easy demeanor he had acquired in the school of life, he had left outside that door. The man, who went forward in obedience to a nod from the Empress, was a servile, creeping slave, a pitiable wretch, who tried in vain to find utterance.
“What ails you?” asked the Empress with a fascinating smile. “You look as pale as if you had lain awake all night. I fear your zeal prompts you to work too hard.”
“Gracious mistress,” replied Stephanus, “I am distressed indeed if I intrude....”
“I am always ready to listen to the faithful servant, who toils for me so devotedly. What brings you here, Stephanus?”
The freedman was startled; if he had read aright Polycharma’s cunning glance, this reception promised him such happiness, that the mere thought of it turned him giddy.
“You hesitate,” the Empress went on. “I understand—you fear lest there should be listeners in the anteroom. Your errand is serious and important.”
She rose and led the way to a side chamber. Stephanus followed. The fairy-like fittings of the beautiful room had exercised an intoxicating charm over the senses even of a spoilt courtier like Stephanus. The whole boudoir was like a luxurious bouquet—walls, floor, ceiling were all hung and covered with diaphanous rose-colored stuff, on which sparkling stones were sprinkled like dew-drops. A tender twilight and the heady scent of roses completed the irresistible witchery of the scene.
The beautiful creature, who stood in the midst of all this dazzling splendor, with her white arms faintly tinged with the rosy reflection, and her flowing drapery clinging closely to the grand forms of her limbs, might, without any great effort of fancy, have been taken for Aphrodite, the goddess of love, incarnate in this adorable person.
Stephanus breathed hard; the empress sank on to a rose-colored couch, and beckoned him to approach.
“Now,” she said graciously, “we are alone, proceed.”
“Sovereign lady,” said Stephanus, hardly possessed of all his senses, “my duty.... An hour ago your humble servant was with Lycoris. She ... I know not how ... but lately we have met with some obstacle ... it was only with the greatest difficulty that I succeeded.... The chamberlain is this evening to be her guest.... She promised me ... but she made conditions....”
“It matters not,” said Domitia. “You will strain every nerve to engage Parthenius on our side, I know, and that is enough for me. The details I trust to your acumen. If you do not succeed the first time, you will try again. A failure, even a blunder, needs no excuses. You have my unlimited confidence.”
“I am overwhelmed by the greatness of your favors.”
He bowed to the ground and humbly kissed the hem of her robe, which fell in ample folds, leaving a small part of her sandal and snowy foot bare. A strange mixture of pain and triumph lurked in her eyes, as the thought flashed through her mind: Ah, why, hapless, adoring wretch, are you not Quintus? But then a terrible satisfaction gained the upperhand; her lips moved as she swore to herself an unspoken vow—she clenched her fist as though she held a dagger—a dagger for hatred and revenge. Stephanus could not know, that at that moment she had formed a sinister resolve.
“Nay—not that!” she whispered insinuatingly, as Stephanus rose again. “That is service to the gods. Among friends a frank and honest hand-shake....”
As she spoke she offered the astonished steward the tips of her fingers. He looked into her eyes like one dazed. What a change! This unapproachable woman, this divinity—till this hour so cold and repellent, was now all melting softness, dreamy and tender graciousness.
“Adored lady!” he groaned, pressing her hand to his pale lips. “Kill me, but I can no longer conceal it! Death would be bliss as compared with the torment of silence. Glorious Domitia—more beautiful than Cypria herself—I love you!”
He fell at the feet of the haughty sovereign, as though stunned by his own audacity, and leaned his forehead on her footstool. His brow by chance touched her foot, which she hastily withdrew with an involuntary gesture of aversion. But again a gleam of triumphant delight passed over her features.
“Stand up,” she said, dissimulating her excitement. “Your confession has taken away my breath. I hardly know whether I should be angry, or whether this heart—too tender, alas!—should forgive your boldness. You love me! It sounds sweetly simple, like the greeting of a friend—but think out the whole meaning of that short and simple word, and tell me then, if you do not tremble like a pine tree before the gale. Love craves for a return—answer me, Stephanus, do you esteem yourself so favored by the gods, as to dare to hope for Domitia’s favors?”
The freedman had slowly risen to his feet. His thin hair, artificially darkened, hung loosely over his throbbing temples; his eyes were fixed and glazed.
“I know,” he said in hollow tones, “that I am unworthy of your grace. But the gods themselves choose blindly, without any regard for merit and worth. Their mercies are dispensed blindfold—not only Ares the slayer, but the humble Anchises[285]....”
“Enough!” said Domitia, who fancied she could still feel the hot, bald forehead against her foot. “If the gods have chosen, you need entreat no more. Listen to me, Stephanus. I too will be gracious—Call it a whim or sympathetic tenderness, as you please;—it is all the same.—You shall clasp the Empress in your arms and be happy, Stephanus—on one single condition you shall realize your dream. But it will require the utmost exertion of your talents....”
Stephanus heard no more; overpowered by this dazzling vision of happiness, he had fallen back on one of the rose-colored seats. His head thrown back, his eyes closed, he lay a pitiable image of human passion and weakness. The haze of unconsciousness veiled the strange and erratic brain, that was so unceasingly tossed and torn by cruelty, ambition, avarice, and sensual greed. The corpse-like figure, in its long Tarentine toga, was an object of unutterable horror in the beauty-loving eyes of Domitia—the sharp chin, the eagle nose, the hard, fleshless brow, now no longer vivified by the sparkle of the fiery eyes, all filled her excited senses with the horror, that blooming and joyous youth feels for the bony hand of a skeleton. She almost repented of her decision. Still, the recollection of Quintus, gave her strength to deny herself the craving of her inmost nature, and to persist in the road she had set out on. Perhaps, too, she had a lurking hope that she might cheat the tool of her vengeance, of the promised reward.
The steward did not remain unconscious more than a minute; when he opened his eyes, Domitia was mistress of herself and the situation. With her right hand she commanded silence.
“You need rest,” she said kindly. “And what I have to say can be said in a very few words. Quintus Claudius, the son of the Flamen, has insulted me mortally. How, where, and when, must remain my secret. Help me to triumph over this hated and unpardonable foe, and Domitia shall be yours. Throw your toils round him, watch him wherever he goes, miss no opportunity of ruining him.—How you will be able to accomplish this I cannot even guess, but you, I know, can do anything. Will you fulfil this commission?”
“I will, sovereign mistress!” cried Stephanus in a choking voice. “Your hatred is one with mine, for I too loathe this man as if he were plague-stricken. He shall die under the dagger of my meanest slave, and when he lies gasping in the dust, I will cry to him: Remember Domitia!”
The Empress started to her feet, and put out her hands with a gesture of horror.
“No, oh no!” she cried vehemently. “Death by the hand of an assassin, the mean fate of a merchant waylaid and flung from his cart by robbers near the Three Taverns—that would be a satisfaction too mean for this aching heart! I must feast my soul on his misery, set my feet upon his neck. A dagger-thrust—what is that to him? Do you know the man and his proud contempt of life? Look but once in his face, and ask yourself whether I am to be avenged by a stab. He would die, as another man would get up and take his leave at a banquet; he would die, and then it would be no worse for him, than if he had never breathed. No, Stephanus; go and devise some better plan than that! wound him, crush him in that which he loves best; overwhelm him with disgrace; break his towering pride—then you will have done all I can ask of your skill and devotion!”
“I will try. As yet I have not the faintest idea of the way to do it, but I have no doubt I can find it And when I have fulfilled the task you have set me....”
“In conquering my enemy, you will conquer my heart,” said Domitia smiling graciously.
“I will conquer or perish.”
He flung his toga over his shoulder with an air, and went to the door. The Empress watched him with a fixed, almost a vacant stare. No sooner had the curtain fallen and the door closed upon him, than she dropped into the nearest seat, sobbing convulsively, and set her teeth deep into the cushion in which she hid her face, while a torrent of scalding tears rushed from her half-closed eyelids.
Before Stephanus went through to the anteroom, where Polycharma was waiting with the other slaves, he paused a moment to recover his breath. He drew himself up, and his face resumed its usual expression of supercilious indifference. He now could measure with calmer blood the extent of his success; that which, a few minutes since, had deprived him of his senses, now filled his spirit with elasticity, and he told himself that he had selected, with infinite psychological insight, the moment for realizing his long-cherished purpose—the moment in fact, when her first meeting with her husband had shaken the proud woman’s nature to the foundations. He believed, that the happy result was obviously to be ascribed to this fortunate coincidence, and this doubled his good opinion of his own judgment. His glance lingered with supreme satisfaction on the magnificent room, the statue of Venus, the little Eros and the purple pillows on the divans. The inarticulate language of the smile, that played upon his thin lips, was easy to interpret—it told of his hope ere long to rule as master in this apartment, as the declared favorite of its lovely mistress—lovelier and grander than the marble goddess there, and oh! a thousand times warmer and more gracious.
He dropped his right arm, letting his white robe sweep the ground like the mantle of an eastern prince, and went on to the anteroom. He favored the wily Polycharma with a gracious nod, marching past the other girls with the strut of a promoted peacock. The Sicambrian stared at him open-mouthed.
The steward’s apartments were on the farther side of the peristyle, on the side towards the Circus Maximus. His offices were lower down still, on the Quirinal, where the Empress had been living since her separation from her husband, excepting when she went every summer to her villa at Baiae. The elaborate paraphernalia of official papers made a prompt removal impossible, and only certain small branches of the steward’s business had as yet been reinstated in the palace.
Stephanus went into his private room, laid aside his toga, and stretched himself at full-length on a comfortable couch. His restless brain was already seething with a thousand plans, which chased each other like a flight of crows. Numbers of impressions and motives, which hitherto had lurked unheeded, started up in his memory as possible starting points for future operations; but foremost of all the figure of Eurymachus, as yet irretrievably lost, occupied his thoughts. To judge from the reports of the slaves, who had followed the fugitive, the behavior of Quintus Claudius had been strange enough to suggest its connection with the slave’s successful escape, even if no direct connection existed. Stephanus dimly felt, that here lay the fulcrum for his lever—but how could he use it? Well, he had solved harder problems than this in his time. The son of so influential a man as the Flamen was, no doubt, a more difficult subject to deal with than Thrax Barbatus, whose cries had easily been drowned; still—the higher the obstacle, the greater the triumph.
He lay gazing thoughtfully at the tips of his fingers. Wholly possessed by the idea of avenging Domitia, he had forgotten for the moment, that the escape of Eurymachus was of importance to him on far graver grounds, than the use he could make of it to injure Quintus; now, this consciousness pressed with double weight on his soul. He would have given half his fortune, to learn that Eurymachus was silent forever. By some accident, which to Stephanus remained an unsolved mystery, Eurymachus had learned a momentous secret.—Supposing that now, when he was no longer gagged, he should make himself heard—supposing he should shout it out in the ears of the world. A hundred times did the steward curse the fatal idea, of making the execution of his slave an entertainment for Lycoris’ guests. Quietly strangled, or thrown into a tank to feed the lampreys—that would have been the rational thing, and more like his usual good sense. To be sure, hatred and rage had spoken loudly, and Lycoris had entreated him so earnestly.—Still it was folly, madness. Who could tell what Fate might bring out of it, if such precious material should happen to fall into the hands of Cneius Afranius—that cruel vampire who, for more than six months, had had his clutches on the steward’s neck. His eyes were fixed vacantly on the ceiling, as the long train of his crimes passed before him. Each separate deed appeared clothed in flesh and blood, incarnate in the form of Cneius Afranius, who seized him by the hair and dragged him before the Senate; till, at last, the direst deed of all came forth and cried to Heaven, till the great city shook to its foundations, and Domitian himself, the blood-stained tyrant, hid his face in horror.
Stephanus started up.
“Be still, mad brain!” he exclaimed, striking his forehead with his fist. “I have been too easy; a prudent man should strike and hold; till now I only kept out of the way of the arrows of Afranius, now—let him see to it, that he hides himself from mine. Quintus and he! The same stroke may by good hap fall on both at once.”
He paced his room uneasily; suddenly he stood still—before him stood a lad with soft and girlish features.
“Antinous!” cried the freedman. “You glide about like a weasel.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but I had asked three times to be admitted. I heard you speaking to yourself....”
“You heard?”
“Not a word, my lord. You muttered through your teeth—only disconnected words—I thought you were vexed and angry with the slaves....”
“And you came to comfort me?” asked Stephanus smiling. “It is well that I have you; for the next few weeks you will have heavy work on hand. Shut the door and sit down on the couch there.”
“Heavy work?” asked the boy disconsolately. “What, am I to carry water; or till the fields? Am I to be as miserable as the others are?”
Stephanus laughed, and patted the lad’s beardless cheek.
“Not yet, my boy. I have chosen you for something better than that. What I have for you to do is serious and very difficult, but amusing and interesting; and if you accomplish the task, you shall be—well, you shall be free. Do you hear, Antinous, free? And rich besides, for I will give you an estate....”
“My lord, you know that my devotion is boundless. Only a few hours since I risked my life for two thousand miserable sesterces....”
“Not too rashly, I imagine. You thought that discretion was the better part of valor!”
“Pardon me, but you are mistaken. I rushed down upon him, when he was surrounded by his clients and slaves; and if I had not slipped away at the very instant....”
The boy shuddered.
“What is the matter?” asked Stephanus.
“I do not know, but I shiver whenever I think of it. As I struck him, I met his eye—so cool and contemptuous.—If at that moment he had seized me, I should have been lost....”
“You are childish, Antinous. I am afraid, that if you are so excitable you will not earn your freedom in a hurry.”
“What, again must I...?”
“No, his life is spared. You must do more than that.”
“More?” said the lad in astonishment.
“Aye, more, boy. Why any bandit from the Appian Way could stab him; what I want you to do requires not only zeal, skill and courage, but intelligence, readiness, and the craftiness of Ulysses[286]. Greek blood flows in your veins[287]—you are at once panther and fox. You shall hear the details in the course of the day; I shall expect you to dinner with me here in the study. Enough for the present. Now tell me where you have been so long? You had no sooner told me that your blow had missed, than, you rushed away again. I waited in vain ... you really abuse my kindness....”
“Oh! my lord, are you angry?” said the boy coaxingly. “Indeed, if I sinned, it was not from insolence, but from fear. I felt irresistibly driven to his house; I mixed with the people, that I might learn whether information had reached the prefects of the attack upon him....”
“Well?”
“Up to the present hour no one knows of it. Quintus Claudius seems inclined to keep it a secret. Even the gate-keeper, whom I began to talk to....”
“Are you mad?” interrupted Stephanus. “Do you want to find yourself imprisoned and crucified?”
“Nay, my lord. Antinous does not go to work so clumsily. When I stopped to talk to the gate-keeper, I was in girl’s clothes.”
“It is all the same; the whole thing was aimless.”
“Not altogether, an accident rewarded my daring. Only think, as I was standing there talking over the weather—he took me, as sure as I am alive, for some street hussy—a woman came towards us through the ostium, with an old man with a snow-white beard. As soon as I saw her, I knew her to be that saucy Euterpe, who so often played the flute for us at Baiae; do you not remember? The pretty girl from Cumae, who always looked so shy and stupid, when you praised her shape....”
“Well, and what does she matter to me?”
“Euterpe? nothing whatever; but the old man.—As they came past us, a vague remembrance crossed my mind. I said to myself: I must surely know that man. Then he used some little gesture, and at once I had found the trace. It was none other than Thrax Barbatus, that obstinate fool who wanted, a little while since, to force his way in to see you....”
“Thrax! with Quintus Claudius?” cried the steward horrified. “Ah! I understand now! Claudius and Afranius are plotting together, to restore the old idiot to his rights. The Flamen’s son has long honored me with his hatred. A reason the more, for disarming and disabling him....” Then he suddenly checked himself, pushed his fingers through his hair, and scowled.
“Listen,” he began eagerly. “I have an idea. Was it not Euterpe, who troubled herself so much about Eurymachus, when I had him flogged?”
“To be sure, Euterpe, the pretty Cumaean! He was supposed to be her lover, and while he was laid up she brought him herbs and salves; and she cried....”
Stephanus drew a deep breath.
“What more do you know of all this?”
“Very little,” said Antinous. “In Baiae I had something better to do, than to trouble myself about anything so commonplace as the love affairs of a flute-playing hussy. At any rate, the noble Eurymachus does not seem to have been very eager. Astraeus heard him once scolding her soundly.”
“Why?”
“It had something to do with her salves and ointments. She had bought the stuff of some Egyptian magician, and that vexed her lover....”
Stephanus nodded, and a gleam of malicious satisfaction lighted up his vulture face.
“Ah! I was not mistaken,” he muttered between his teeth; then, turning to the slave, he added: “And is that all you learnt from Astraeus?”
“All.”
“Very good, then I will question him myself; I foresee great results. Go now, Antinous; my head whirls with a multiplicity of wonderful possibilities. Claudius, Afranius, Thrax, Euterpe—you must watch them all with the eye of an Argus.”
“My lord, your confidence in me makes me vain. You have only to command, and I will obey. I will climb the Capitol like the invading Gauls[288]; I will dive to the depths of the sea and bring you a message from Thetis.[289] But then, do not forget your promise.”
“I will keep it,” replied Stephanus, stroking the lad’s cheek. “Freedom and gold are the charms, that give wings to your services.”
“You are the kindest master[290] in the whole Roman Empire! Farewell.”
He nodded to Stephanus with saucy familiarity, danced across the room with a graceful step, leaped lightly over one of the broad couches, and slipped out of the door like an eel.
“Hail, all hail to thee, Quintus!” Stephanus muttered mockingly. “This is a better beginning, than I dared to hope for. And if Fortune continues to favor me, I will raise on this foundation such a structure as you need not disdain to take your pleasure in.”