Quintus rose very early the morning after his visit to Thrax Barbatus, and the stars were still sparkling brightly, when he got into his litter and in a weary voice bid the slaves carry him to the palace. He almost fell asleep again within the curtains, so coolly and indifferently could he look forward to his interview with the awe-inspiring Caesar, who was always treated with a degree of cautious respect, even by his intimates and favorites—somewhat as a tame tiger is treated by its keepers. This coolness he derived from a sense of the justice of his cause; he was still young enough to have preserved that noble simplicity of a lofty nature, which attributes irresistible power to Truth, and which cannot use the specious defences, with which vulgar humanity is content to arm itself.
In the outer court of the palace a tumultuous crowd had already assembled—of magistrates, senators, and foreign ambassadors. Quintus gave one of the chamberlains on duty[291] a note from the Flamen Titus Claudius Mucianus, to deliver to Caesar in his audience chamber, and so powerful was the effect of this venerated name, that Domitian granted an immediate interview to the young patrician, in the midst of the terrific pressure of official receptions.
Quintus entered the presence chamber with a fearless and independent mien, but with the calm dignity and winning courtliness of the Roman aristocrat.
“My lord,” he said, as a sign from the emperor bid him speak, “it is as the son of Titus Claudius, that you have so readily granted me a hearing, but it is as the future husband of Cornelia, the niece of Cinna, that I craved an audience. I stand before you as a petitioner. Cornelius Cinna, the illustrious senator—whose intrinsic value you must certainly have discerned, even under the husk of some singularities—is suffering under the sense of an insult, as he deems it. That midnight banquet, of which all Rome is talking, was of course, no more than a harmless prelude to the Saturnalia[292]—the overflow of festive whimsicality. But Cinna, who is rigid and impervious to all joviality, regards the jest as a humiliation and dishonor. It lies in your power, my lord, to efface this painful feeling from the noble senator’s mind. One gracious word of explanation....”
Domitian did not let the bold youth finish his sentence. The mere mention of the name of Cinna had been enough to set his blood boiling. And now, what was this audacious, seditious, rebellious suggestion?—If he still kept some check on his anger, it was that the grave, steadfast figure of the Flamen floated, unbidden, before his eyes, and compelled his respect for all who bore his name. Still, the glance he threw at Quintus out of his cunning green eyes gave grounds for reflection.
“My dear Quintus,” he said with forced composure, “our time is too precious for such follies. It is not Caesar’s business, either to console Cinna or to offer him explanations. Remember that. And now leave us, lest the welfare of the commonwealth should suffer.” With these words he turned his back on Quintus.
Quintus was speechless; he angrily quitted the audience chamber, feeling as if every slave must read in his face how insultingly the emperor had treated him. Incapable from indignation, to judge accurately and fairly, he felt as a bitter disgrace, what was, in fact, the inevitable result of a false assumption. Standing apart as he did from the life of the court, and strongly influenced by his father’s views, he had always regarded Caesar in too favorable a light; still, he might have been shrewd and judicious enough, to have understood the folly and impossibility of his preposterous suggestion; he might have told himself that, even under the most favorable conditions, only those, who have sinned unintentionally, ever make advances towards reconciliation.
From the palace Quintus hastened on foot to his father’s residence, which lay at no great distance. He desired his clients and slaves to wait in the vestibule, and went first to the women’s large sitting-room, where he found his mother and the two girls, with Caius Aurelius in attendance. The Batavian was holding a book in his left hand, and with an awkward blush on his face was standing near the window, while the ladies leaned expectantly on their couches.
A shade of annoyance flitted across Claudia’s brow as her brother entered the room; the young Northman flushed a shade deeper, and dropped the hand which held the roll as he, not too warmly, returned his friend’s greeting.
“I am disturbing a recitation,” said Quintus apologetically.
“Oh! the day is before us!” cried Lucilia, and Octavia asked her son what had brought him so early to the house.
“Nothing of much importance,” said Quintus vaguely; “a request to my father. I am only waiting, till the atrium is perfectly clear. Pray go on reading, Aurelius. I will sit quite still in this corner and listen for a time. Meanwhile, will Lucilia fetch me a cup of mead[293]; my tongue is literally parched.”
“‘He spoke, and the dark-browed Kronion nodded assent![294]’” quoted Lucilia, going to a side door. “Baucis,” she called out, and gave her orders in a lower voice. Caius Aurelius, obeying Octavia’s glance of request, had already unrolled the book again, and he now began to read in a full and pleasant voice. In truth, the much-lauded Papius Statius might have been satisfied. He himself, a master in the art, could not have read his own poem better or more effectively. Quintus was astonished beyond words. What delightful tones, what various modulation, and above all what supreme intelligence of interpretation! and though Lucilia now and then struggled with a yawn, it was evidently from sheer physical fatigue, for it had been past midnight before she had gone to sleep.
When Aurelius had got to the end of the second canto of the poem, Quintus drank the remainder of his draught of mead and desired old Baucis to enquire in the atrium, whether Titus Claudius had not yet received the last of his morning visitors and, hearing that his father was alone, he took leave and hastened to the priest’s study. He found his father deep in work, even at his son’s greeting he only just raised his head.
“Welcome,” said he without interrupting himself: “One moment, Quintus—” and his reed[295] went gliding on over the yellow paper. Then he laid it across a little metal rest and rose.
“You find me dreadfully busy, my dear Quintus,” he said affectionately. “Hardly am I left apparently in peace, when I am overwhelmed with a mass of work, that will bear no delay. I must take advantage of every minute, for a decision on the great question of the day is now imminent.”
“I am sorry for that, father, for I came to you as a petitioner.”
“Speak on,” said the Flamen smiling. “I must find time for my son.”
“Thank you very much, but I fear that my petition may be too trivial, to engage your interest at this moment.”
“Nay, so much the better. Small matters need few words. Speak plainly and at once.”
“You know,” Quintus began, going a step nearer, “that the Empress’s steward Stephanus is in pursuit of a slave....”
“Yes, I know,” said the priest frowning: “A criminal, who was forcibly set free by some unknown hand. All Rome is horrified at such unheard-of atrocity.”
“It is certainly unheard of, that such an attempt should succeed. To escape in the midst of such a crowd—the cowardly crew of Lycoris’ slaves seemed thunderstruck.”
“Pah! who can say, if they were not concerned in the abominable conspiracy? My word for it, Quintus, all these villains have a secret understanding; they wait only for a watchword to rise and strike as one man, and to overthrow everything we hold sacred. If the state does not ere long exercise its authority in earnest, we shall have a Spartacus[296] on the throne of Rome.”
“You are jesting, father. Shall the Roman empire, borne by the eagles of her legions to the uttermost ends of the earth, the unconquerable daughter of Ares,[297] tremble before her own slaves?”
“She has trembled before now,” replied Titus Claudius. “Read the chronicles of the historians. The gladiator, who escaped with a handful of rabble from the school at Capua, collected an army, before the Senate had realized the fact. He beat the praetors, he defeated the quaestor Thoranius, he overran almost a third of the peninsula....”
“Then, and now; think of the difference,” exclaimed Quintus, to whom the unexpected turn taken by the conversation was most painful. “That was possible in the time of the Republic, but the strong hand of Caesar will be able to protect us. Besides, the slaves of our day lack the one thing needful—the irresistible Spartacus.”
“He will be forthcoming, when the time is ripe. Indeed, from all I hear, I fancy a candidate for the honor has already been discovered. He is called Eurymachus.”
“Really?” cried Quintus, who was fast losing all his presence of mind. “Do you really think....?”
“Yes, my son, I do think.... Does not the very mode of his rescue show how great and dangerous his personal influence must be? And I hear on all sides of this man’s defiant tenacity, contempt of suffering, strength and endurance. It is out of such rough wood as this, that a Spartacus is hewn. And a Spartacus to-day is more dangerous than his prototype; he can command a more mischievous force, against which sword and spear are wielded in vain: that of superstition. I cannot fail to see this plainly; for years I have watched the tendencies of the commonalty with all the keenness of suspicion. The creed of the Nazarenes ferments and spreads—the next Spartacus will be a Christian.”
“Father,” Quintus began after a pause, “I know that in this instance you are mistaken. This slave—I happen to know certainly—never conceived such a scheme. Besides, it seems to me, that the acumen of our statesmen is somewhat at fault, when it makes that sect responsible for everything that shocks or shakes society....”
“You do not know them,” interrupted his father, “and I do. Enough—we have digressed. What connection has all this with your request? Speak, for my time is precious.”
Quintus stood undecided. What could he hope for in this state of things? Well—he could but try.
“Father,” he began hesitatingly, “I came to speak in behalf of the very man, whom you are making every effort to brand as a Spartacus. I saw him two or three times in Baiae; he pleased me greatly, and I then determined to buy him of Stephanus. Then this most unlucky business occurred, and I lost the slave whom I had already begun to think of as my own. When I tell you, that Stephanus deliberately and maliciously tortured and punished him; when I swear to you solemnly, that the sentence of death....”
“What do you want?” asked his father coldly; “speak and have done.”
“Well, father; I want to become possessed of that slave at any price, and I ask you whether, in the event of his being captured, it would not be possible to mitigate the rigor of the law....”
“You astound me! For a mere whim you would endanger the state, cut a trench in the dyke which alone is able to protect us against the flood of rebellion? And you ask me—ME—to be your accomplice in such a proceeding? I admit, that Stephanus is brutal and tyrannical, nay—from my point of view—criminal. But then, are there not laws to protect slaves against such barbarities?”
“Laws, yes—” cried Quintus bitterly, “but they do not exist as against the rich and powerful.”
“Every earthly thing is of its nature imperfect. If Stephanus defies the law, that does not justify us in leaving the crime of Eurymachus unpunished. I lament deeply, that my own son should so utterly misunderstand the first and highest principles of my views of life. Go, my dear Quintus, and for the future consider twice, before you trouble your father with such follies. Eurymachus must die by the hand of the executioner, though you should pledge half your estates to buy him. Go, my son, and do not altogether forget that you are a Roman.”
Thus speaking, Titus Claudius sat down again to his desk. Quintus stood for a moment as if in absence of mind; then he slowly went towards the door.
“Farewell, father,” he said, as he left the room. His voice was sad, almost gloomy, as though they were parting for a long, sad interval. Titus Claudius, struck by the strangeness of his tone, raised his head in astonishment and gazed, like a man waking from a painful dream, at the door through which Quintus had departed; a vague presentiment fell on his spirit.
“I was too hard,” he said to himself. “His error springs from a noble source—from pity. I ought to have said a kind word to him before he went away,” and he hastily rose from his seat.
“Quintus, Quintus!” he called out into the hall. “Skopas, Athanasius, did you see my son?”
The slaves flew into the vestibule, but Quintus had long since disappeared in the bustle of the street. The Flamen returned to his sitting-room, oppressed with melancholy foreboding.
“I will tell him the very next time I see him.—He has the best and truest heart that ever beat, and the noblest souls are easiest wounded.—However, away with such thoughts now, and to work once more.”
Titus Claudius sat down again and bent over his table and, as he sat there, he might have been taken for a poet in the act of composition, for his fine face glowed with eager inspiration. But the words he wrote were not those which enchant the populace, but the eloquent flow of a mighty impeachment; what he was forging were not lines and verses, but terrific weapons against what he believed to be the most threatening foe of the Roman Empire; against Christianity.[298]
When Caius Aurelius had finished the fourth canto of the Thebais, Octavia put an end to the reading; breakfast was waiting in the little dining-room. The young man was invited to join them, and they passed a pleasant hour over the meal. They were all accustomed to their father’s absence, for business had lately so completely absorbed him, that he would hardly give himself time to drink a glass of Falernian, as he sat at work, or to snatch a morsel of food. Octavia lamented it, but, on the other hand, she was proud of it as well; she rejoiced too in the confident anticipation of a long period of rest and enjoyment to succeed this last great effort. Lucilia found dinner without him very dull, as she took an opportunity of whispering very pointedly to her sister. This was, in fact, rather strange, for Aurelius, whose tongue seemed to have been loosed by the reading of the heroic poem, displayed the greatest aptitude for all the accomplishments of social life. The triclinium positively sparkled with good humor, even Lucilia belied herself, for more than once she broke out into a merry laugh, the very reverse of dull. Herodianus, who had come to escort his master home, and who had the honor of being invited to share the meal, was astonished at the brilliancy of the young man, who was usually so silent and glanced suspiciously at the crystal cup, as if that might be accountable for so strange a phenomenon. And Baucis swore by the great Isis, that never in her life had she known a Roman knight with such delightful qualities as Aurelius, who had a kind word even for her, a stupid old woman, and who read poetry so divinely.
The Batavian took his leave about mid-day; he sent his respectful greetings through Octavia to the master of the house, fearing to disturb so busy a personage at this hour of the day.
“And what next?” cried Lucilia, as the door closed upon Aurelius. "Shall we lie down to sleep, sweet Claudia, or order the litter to go to the Campus Martius?"[299]
“Just which you please. The day is fine, and we might walk for an hour under the colonnade of Agrippa."[300]
“Will you come with us, dear mother?” asked Lucilia.
“How can I,” said Octavia smiling. “I must be on the spot, when your father leaves his work. If you are not content to go alone, Baucis may....”
“Oh no, no!” interrupted Claudia. “The worthy Baucis may remain at home. When we get into the laurel groves[301] we shall walk, and Baucis is so slow that she would be a hindrance.”
The litter was soon ready. Four Numidians, with waving feathers in their heads, marched in front, and they proceeded northwards, by the same way which Quintus had taken two days since, in the moonless night.
“I am glad that we left Baucis at home,” said Claudia in Greek. “We can talk undisturbed for once. You are so dreadfully sleepy, when we go to bed....”
“And with good reason,” replied Lucilia, also in Greek. “I am tired out and over-excited. The amusements of the last few days are telling on my nerves. First, there was the evening at Cornelia’s; then a recitation for two hours from the charming Claudia on the merits of Caius Aurelius....”
“I beg your pardon, but you are reversing the position. It was mistress Lucilia, who went on talking about Caius Afranius.”
“Indeed! and why? Simply and solely as a counterpoise, an antidote to Aurelius. Besides, with your kind permission, his name is not Caius, but Cneius Afranius. Of course, you have nothing but Caius running in your head.”
“That is just like you now,” said Claudia with a sigh. “Lately there has been no speaking a rational word to you.”
“I am over-tired,” Lucilia repeated. "Two cantos of Statius yesterday morning, two more again this morning; to-morrow, two cantos of Statius, that involves a fourth! It is a mercy, that the Thebais consists only of twelve altogether, so it must come to an end at last! Certainly, when we have done Statius, he might read us Virgil[302] and afterwards the Battle of the Frogs and Mice."[303]
“Go, Lucilia—you are quite odious—and I wanted to confess something to you.”
“A confession? my darling Claudia, a confession?” cried Lucilia, seizing her sister’s hand. “Will you own at last that you love him? That you are a perfect fool about him? Oh! silly child! did you not perceive, that I only wanted to punish you for trying to deceive me?”
Claudia colored deeply, and involuntarily drew the embroidered curtain, as if she feared that the litter-bearers might read her secret in her face.
“Not so loud!” she whispered, and then she softly kissed her cheek.
“You confess?” asked Lucilia. But the only answer was a closer caress and a fervent kiss on her lips.
“That is enough,” said Lucilia. “Your kiss says everything. No girl gives such a kiss as that, who is not desperately in love. It was meant for Caius Aurelius.”
“Hush!” Claudia entreated, laying her hand on the audacious girl’s mouth. “Promise me....”
“Not to mount the rostra[304] and proclaim in the Forum: Claudia is in love with Aurelius!...? You little fool! Just the reverse; I will keep it a dead secret, and do all I can to clear the road for you. For things will not run so smoothly as you think. A mere provincial knight, and Claudia, the daughter of the first senatorial house in Rome! You cannot take it ill in your father if he maintains the rights of his position, and intends his daughter to marry a consul."[305]
“But if his daughter objects?”
“Then Titus Claudius must give way, or the gentle Claudia is not incapable of running away with Caius Aurelius.”
“What are you saying!” exclaimed Claudia horrified. Then she sat looking thoughtfully into her lap.
“Do you suppose,” she said presently, “that his allusion, yesterday, to Sextus Furius was meant seriously?”
“What else could it mean? The worthy man is three times too old for you, to be sure, but the names of his ancestors have been splendid for centuries. Only think of Furius Camillus, the glorious conqueror of the Volscians and Aequians. Sextus Furius, to be sure, has conquered no insurgent nations, but the consulate undoubtedly lies before him, and his wealth is enormous.”
“Ah!” sighed Claudia. “We Roman girls have a bad time of it. How rarely do we have a free choice in the tie which lasts one’s life-long! A stern father or guardian brings a husband on the scene, before our hearts have a chance of deciding. Such a betrothal as that of Quintus and Cornelia is as rare as a white raven. How beautiful, how honest by comparison is the custom in the North, where the lover first wins the affection of a girl, and then seeks the approval of her parents. Aurelius has told me wonderful stories of the fidelity of the tawny-haired Rugian to the wife of his choice, and of how the treasure is often won in fights to the death, after years of constancy. It must be glorious to be loved and wooed in that northern fashion! Do you know that Aurelius has some Germanic blood in his veins...?”
“Indeed?” said Lucilia surprised.
“Yes, really. His grandmother was a Frisian, from the shores of the Baltic, where the Weser falls into the sea. There are large and wealthy families among them, valiant warriors and chiefs, who will bow their necks to no Roman consul. If only they were of one mind, Aurelius says, Rome herself might tremble before these tribes. But, strangely enough, though in their family life they are so loving and constant, their feuds are perennial, tribe against tribe and prince against prince. It is only under stress of imminent peril, that they league themselves under one banner, and woe then to the foe they turn upon! You have read of Varus[306] and how his legions were cut to pieces in the Saltus Teutoburgiensis, while he fell on his own sword?”
“Yes, Baucis has told us the story. But after all—who cares what goes on in Germania!—our legions are constantly engaged in fighting on the frontier, now against the Dacians and now against the Parthians[307]—I do not trouble myself about the where and the why. Moral struggles, the battles we must fight at home, interest me far more....”
“Particularly the law pleadings in the Senate, and before the court of the Centumvirate!” said Claudia smiling.
“Certainly! out there, brute force decides the matter, but in the Forum it is superior intellect that wins the day.”
“And one of the boldest champions is Cneius Afranius.”
“It is quite true; his whole individuality, his undaunted honesty, his unfailing energy....”
“Hey day! what eloquence. Before long we shall see you in the Basilica among the candidates for applause.”
“Laugh away, by all means! I assert my right and liberty to admire all that is noble. If I were better looking, I should very likely exert myself to achieve a conquest, for I frankly confess that I regard the future wife of Afranius as a woman to be envied.”
“You are frank indeed.”
“I always am. And I find it all the easier, since I do not allow my consciousness of my defects to destroy my peace of mind. The Gods are unjust? For aught I care! You have a mouth like a rose-bud, I have a muzzle like a Cantabrian bear![308] Fate we call that, or Ananke![309]—Well, it is a lovely day for us both alike! Just see what a crowd and bustle there are out here; I think we had better walk. There is the portico with its hundred columns.”
Claudia stopped the bearers, and the two girls walked on to the magnificent hall of Agrippa, followed at a short distance by the Numidian slaves. Arm in arm they walked along the arcades, by the famous mural paintings,[310] representing in the highest style of art, scenes from the stories of the Greek divinities—the rape of Europa, Cheiron the Centaur, and the voyage of the Argonauts. To the right they saw the marble enclosures—Septa[311] they were called—in the midst of which the Roman people assembled when the centuria[312] were called upon to vote. Lucilia hoped she might one day be present at some stormy debate here. Claudia found it more interesting, to linger over the gay booths[313] and bazaar for luxurious trifles at the northern end of the portico, where the precious produce of the remotest provinces of the empire was displayed.
Thus, chatting and laughing, they reached the shady avenues of plane and laurel, which extended almost to the shores of the river and, with their temples, columns, terraces and works of art, were the scene of enjoyment for a numerous throng of citizens. Here hundreds of handsome chariots—most of them with two wheels—rushed to and fro on a broad causeway; graceful horsemen dashed along the gravelled way, while the motley crowd of pedestrians slowly loitered along the side alleys. Here a following of young men pressed round the litter of some woman of rank; there a grave and morose-looking pedagogue led his flock to a grass-plot, where boys were exercising themselves in wrestling or throwing the discus.[314] Pairs of lovers strolled away hand in hand to remoter bowers; slaves—male and female—with their owners’ children, crowded round a juggler’s booth, applauding the skill with which Masthlion[315] balanced a heavy pole on his bare forehead, or the strength Ninus[316] displayed in supporting half a dozen boys upon his shoulders. Among the mob a legion of fruit and cake sellers wriggled and squeezed themselves; fortune-tellers twitched at the robe of the passer-by, urgently pressing their services on them; shipwrecked sailors sat begging by the wayside, with tablets on their knees[317] relating the history of their woes; flute-players piped their latest tunes from Gades; dark Egyptians exhibited tame snakes, which twined round the body, neck and arms of the owner to the measure of a dismal tom-tom.
Lucilia and Claudia followed the shady alley, that ran parallel to the main road, greatly amused at the dazzling, noisy and ever-new scenes that met them at every turn.
“Supposing we should meet your Aurelius—” said Lucilia.
“My Aurelius! My sweet child, pray do not get into the habit of saying such things.”
“Well, then—Caius Aurelius.”
“It is not likely. He rarely comes now to the plain of Mars.”
“Indeed. What has he to attend to of so much importance.”
“He is studying hard; and for the last few days he has been a good deal with Cornelius Cinna, who generally admits him at this hour. Cinna thinks very highly of him.”
“Well, for my part, I must confess I should prefer a ride here under the green trees, to all the harangues of that perverse old man.”
“Aurelius finds him most interesting; he considers him quite a genius.”
“What next?—A genius in the art of seeing the whole world black!”
“Nay, quite seriously. Cinna is initiating Caius into the mysteries of state-craft, teaching him philosophy and history. Caius said, that in the few hours he had been permitted to converse with Cinna, he had learnt more than in many years of solitary study.”
“Well; then our Caius—you yourself called him simply Caius—will soon begin to wrinkle his brows and to scent ruin and misery in everything. Do you know, child, this Cinna....”
She broke off suddenly, for some one called her by name; she looked round and saw Quintus, who came out from among the trees.
“Well? Are you often to be met out here? And always close to the highway! You must take an extraordinary interest in fine horses....”
“We do indeed!” said Lucilia pertly. “For instance, look at that noble grey just now turning into the avenue. What a head! what a mane!”
Claudia squeezed her saucy sister’s arm, for the rider, who came galloping towards them, was none other than Caius Aurelius. By his side rode Herodianus, rather roughly exercised on a tall, high-stepping steed; his empurpled face betrayed but little liking for the performance. Aurelius, by contrast, looked all the more radiant, guiding his noble horse as if it were child’s-play among the throng of vehicles, and enjoying to the utmost the sense of power and security.
He now caught sight of Claudia, and the blood mounted to his brow. He was so much occupied in looking at the two girls, to whom he bowed in agitated confusion, that he did not notice, that one of the very small horses, called by the Romans "mannie,"[318] was rushing towards him like an arrow. Its rider, a boy of about twelve, tried to turn the pony’s head, but not soon enough to avoid the grey, which tossed its head aside. So the pony’s mane just tickled the horse’s lower jaw, and the boy only escaped a violent collision by ducking widely on one side. The Batavian’s horse, at all times an irritable beast, gave an ominous snort, and reared straight up, trembling in every muscle, and in the next instant would inevitably have fallen backwards if Quintus had not made a bold leap over the brushwood, seized the horse by the bridle, and after a short struggle brought him to a stand-still on all fours again. Herodianus, meanwhile, who was frightened out of his senses, was thrown up from his saddle by a sudden spring of his steed, and reseated in front of it; he threw his arms round the beast’s neck, and remained a comical picture of woe. After Quintus had quieted the Batavian’s excited grey, he came to the freedman’s help.
“By Jove the avenger!” cried Herodianus, shuffling back into his saddle with much difficulty, “this wild horse of the Sun[319] was within a hair’s breadth of trampling me under his hoofs. Thanks, earnest and warmest thanks, heroic Quintus Claudius! I will drink a dozen bowls to your health this evening.”
“I have to thank you too,” said Aurelius with feeling. “If it is ever in my power to render you such a service....”
“By all the gods!” said Quintus. “It might be supposed....”
“Nay, but I saw how close my horse’s hoofs were to your head.”
“Really? However, do you know who the little dare-devil was who shot by you at such a pace? That was Burrhus, the son of Parthenius;[320] a scatter-brained little rascal. He inherits it from his mother.”
“Burrhus?—the boy that Martial praises so extravagantly?”
“The very same. He flatters the son, and so touches the father.”
“Well, if he hears that Burrhus nearly rode me down, it may perhaps afford him materials for fresh adulation. I, at any rate, have reason to be glad that his heroic attempt was not altogether successful; that I owe to you, my valiant and fearless friend! As I say, if ever you are in a position....”
“Say no more about such a trifle, I beg of you,” said Quintus. “Though indeed,” he added smiling, “it is not impossible, that I may claim your kind offices sooner than you expect, though not as a return for my performances as a horse-tamer.”
“I am happy to hear it. Come when you will, I am entirely at your disposal.”
“Very well then,” said Quintus with emphasis; “expect me this evening by the end of the second vigil.”
“Unfortunately I am engaged at that hour.”
“Later then, an hour before midnight?”
“That will do; I will expect you,” said Aurelius.
The two girls had stood quite still during this short dialogue. Claudia was still struggling with the remains of her agitation, even Lucilia had turned pale. Aurelius now stammered out a confused apology, bid them farewell, and set spurs to his horse, while the freedman dragged with all his might at the wolf’s-tooth bit[321] of his hard-mouthed jade. They vanished in the crowd, Aurelius as straight and free as a young centaur, and his companion like a clumsy bale of goods incessantly tossed and jolted.
“You are a fine fellow!” cried Claudia, clasping her brother’s hand with eager emotion. “What strength, what courage, what promptitude! Oh! my heart nearly stood still with terror, when the rearing brute’s hoofs hung just above your head—I shall never forget it!”
“I am sure I am very much obliged to you, my dear little sister. It is a long time, since I last heard you speak to me in such an enthusiastic key. Confess, Claudia—the fact that the rider’s name happened to be Caius Aurelius, does not diminish your ardent appreciation of the feat?”
“You may laugh at me, if you will. I respect and admire you, and forgive all your former sins.”
“Are you coming with us?” asked Lucilia.
“For ten minutes; then I must turn back again. Clodianus expects me at the Baths.”
“And where do you dine to-day?” asked Claudia.
“With Cinna.”
“It is a long time since you dined with us.”
“I will to-morrow, if it is convenient. I will see whether he will allow me to bring Cornelia with me....”
“Hardly,” said Lucilia. “Since the day before yesterday he has been in a desperately bad humor. This morning early I had a note from Cornelia, begging me to go and rescue her from the depths of melancholy.”
“What does Cornelia wish for?” said Quintus. “In my presence she is always cheerfulness itself.”
“That is the magic of love,” replied Lucilia. “Its charms conquer all griefs.”
“You seem highly experienced!”
“Theory—pure theory.”
They walked on towards the river. There they stood for a few minutes, watching the boats and gondolas, which gently drifted down to the Aelian bridge or struggled up stream under the stout strokes of the oarsmen. Beyond the opposite shore the beautiful hills, strewn with gardens and villas, smiled invitingly down on them, and farther off still rose the five peaks of Soracte.[322]
“They will soon be crowned with snow,” sighed Claudia.
“Yes, it is wearing into autumn,” said Quintus. “But now, my children, you must amuse yourselves without me. Till we meet to-morrow.”
“You fellows,” said Claudia, turning to the Numidians, when Quintus was lost in the crowd. “Do you know what? You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, down to the very ground. If it had not been for Quintus, Aurelius would have been under the horse’s hoofs. Cowards! By the gods, but I am minded to have you punished, that you may remember this hour!”
The Africans opened their wide thick mouths, and stared at their mistress as if some marvel had happened. None of her slaves had ever heard such words before from Claudia’s lips.
“That comes of her being betrothed to that rich Furius,” whispered one of them. “I always told you, that the gentlest turn haughty when there is a husband in sight.”
It was dark. In the dining-room of Cneius Afranius a small party had just risen from table. Six guests had shared the modest meal—men differing in age and position, but agreed in feeling, unanimous in their hatred of the imperial reign of terror, and alike in courage and strength of character. During the meal none but commonplace topics were discussed, convinced as Afranius was of the fidelity of his slaves; under Domitian’s rule, suspiciousness had risen to the dignity of a virtue. Even the commissatio—the friendly cup which, in accordance with time-honored custom, closed the meal—lent no impetus to the conversation. Each one was thinking of the discussion, that was now to follow.
They all went into the colonnade, if the small and unpretending court-yard deserved the name. Cneius Afranius, the son of a poor family of knightly rank of Gallia Lugdunensis,[323] would probably have been obliged to start on his career in Rome as a mere lodger in hired rooms, but that a childless friend of his father’s had bequeathed to him a small legacy,[324] which enabled him to purchase a little house, which had formerly belonged to a seaman, on the right bank of the Tiber, and in the midst of a very humble quarter.[325] The situation was crowded and almost squalid, and the little villa was only rendered rather less unattractive, by the visible care bestowed on its arrangement by its new owner, and yet more by the pretty little garden in its peristyle. Afranius was very conscious of its defects, but they did not distress him. That painful sensitiveness, which torments many men in narrow circumstances, when intercourse with other men of greater wealth reminds them of their poverty, was unknown to him. And as his dress was always in the best style, though of plain materials, those who met him elsewhere than in his own house supposed him to be well-to-do; this impression was partly the result of his general appearance and demeanor. Aurelius, who had crossed his threshold today for the first time, thought as he entered the vestibule, that he must have made a mistake; it seemed impossible that the self-possessed, easy-mannered Afranius could live in so humble a dwelling.
The six men went slowly and in order from the dining room to the study. First came the tall figure of the grey-haired Marcus Cocceius Nerva, leaning on the arm of Ulpius Trajanus; Publius Cornelius Cinna followed with Caius Aurelius, and last came the host with an old centurion, who had long served in the wars in Germania and Dacia, and had lost his left arm in the service. Now, robbed by Domitian of a pension which had formerly been granted to him, he had for years earned his living wearily as a teacher in an elementary school kept by a retired physician, until Ulpius Trajanus had granted the veteran free quarters in his own house.
The slaves were now strictly enjoined to admit no one to disturb the party, and Momus, the confidential servant of Afranius, posted himself at the door of the room, that no eavesdropping intruder might come too near.
“My friends,” began Marcus Cocceius Nerva, when they were all seated, “we have met expressly to hold pregnant and momentous council. Our aim is to find the ways and means of at last carrying into effect the steps, which we have been deliberating on for many months. The reign of terror of Domitian has from the first been well-nigh unendurable, and now his outrages, his unblushing insolence, have reached a pitch at which our very blood curdles in our veins. Two days since, we all heard from Cinna of the incredible insults offered by Caesar to the most illustrious members of the Senate and of the knightly order; since then other outrages have come to our ears. If Titus[326] once declared that he regarded a day as lost, in which he had done no good action, this, his degenerate brother,[327] accounts each day as misspent, in which he has not trampled justice under-foot, and crowned tyranny with boastful insolence. You all knew Junius Rusticus;[328] he was an excellent man, experienced in every branch of learning, generous, and of the loftiest morality. This illustrious philosopher was, yesterday, crucified. And why, my friends, why? Because he dared to assert that Paetus Thrasea, Nero’s noble victim, was a man of blameless character. For this, and this alone, Junius Rusticus died the death of the basest assassin.”
A gloomy murmur rose from the audience. All, with the exception of Aurelius, already knew the facts, but they sounded with renewed horror from the lips of the venerable man.
“Nor is this all,” Cocceius went on. “A second crime almost throws the murder of Rusticus into the shade. Not long since a man of fortune named Caepio,[329] of the order of Equites, died here. His heiress was his niece, a young girl of about fourteen. However, a man was found, who would declare openly that in Caepio’s lifetime he had frequently heard him say, that Caesar was to inherit his fortune.[330] On the strength of this lie, the property was unhesitatingly appropriated. The hapless girl, alone and inexperienced, fell into infamy. Sunk in wickedness, crushed by shame and sickness, a few days since she placed herself in the way, as Caesar was being borne to the Forum. She lifted up her hands to the throne on which he was carried, and cried in desperate accents for justice. She was seized by the body-guard, and flogged to death this morning.”
“Death to her murderer!” cried Cinna, shaking his fists in the direction of the palace. “The fate of this poor child may fall on you, O Nerva! on you, Ulpius Trajanus, on you, Cneius Afranius. In the empire of this tyrant there is but one law: the mad whim of a blood-hound.—To-day his Falernian has gone to his head—a beck, a nod, and the daughters of our noblest families are stolen[331] for his pleasure. To-morrow he has eaten and is full—he must be amused, and Rome breaks out in flames. Ah! hideous, bottomless pit of disgrace! Decide as you will, my resolution is taken. In the Senate, in the Forum, in the theatre—meet him where I may—I will kill him.”
“Be easy, my dear friend,” said Cocceius. “You are the last man, who would ever be allowed to get near enough. The suspicious tyrant, who has the walls of his sleeping-room lined with mirrors,[332] so that he may see what is going on behind him—he will know how to protect himself from Cinna. Besides, never let us stain our just cause with unnecessary bloodshed! The goal, that glimmers before us, can be reached without the murder of Caesar. If the revolted nation brings him presently before the judgment-seat of the Senate, he will be legally condemned to death, and then he may meet the fate he has merited a thousand times over. But we, whose purpose it is to open an era of freedom and justice, must, whenever it is in any way possible, keep our hands clean. We are conspirators against his throne, but not his executioners.”
Muttered words of approbation assured the orator, that he spoke the feelings of his friends. Even Cinna agreed.
“You are right,” he said frowning. “You are always clear and logical, when my heart seethes with rage. It is well, my worthy colleagues, that you did not put me at your head. I am good in action, or where energetic decision is needed; but in the history of the world well-meditated plans and calm resolve weigh heavier in the scale.”
“And their union will suffice to break our bonds,” added Afranius. “But I must confess I am burning to know how Ulpius has solved the problem.—I know how I should solve it....”
“Well?” asked Ulpius Trajanus. “You have always been the silent member at our meetings. Perhaps I may be able to avail myself of what you have to suggest, to strengthen my own web.”
“What I have to say is very little, but it seems to me all the clearer and more simple for that very reason. Rage, hatred, and desperation are fermenting in every soul The fuel is piled, nothing is needed but the spark. Let us fling the spark in among the masses. Let us boldly and unreservedly call the people of Rome to open rebellion.”
“Moderation!” exclaimed Cocceius Nerva. “Wildly as our hearts may throb, let us take no step which calm wisdom cannot approve! We must not act from sentiment! You are in error, Afranius, if you think that the populace, which clamors for bread and the Circus, will ever feel any enthusiasm for liberty. What has this rabble of idlers, this self-interested mob, that lives on the largesse of the State, to fear from Caesar? Lightning blasts oak-trees, but not the brushwood that cumbers the ground. Whether Titus or Domitian rules, whether the Senate is respected or insulted—it is all the same to the herd, so long as there are wrestling, running, and fighting to be seen. They would sell themselves bodily to the first Barbarian, who would buy them, so long as they had bread and amphitheatres, and a Sicambrian is just as good in their eyes as the direct descendants of Romulus. Alas! my friends, when I look out on the scene of confusion I am seized with sudden terror, and the outlook on the future waxes dim before my eyes. This indifference and want of patriotism is spreading on all sides; it has even tainted the army.—If some change for the better does not soon appear, it may well happen that this haughty city may ere long crumble into ruins—aye, my friends, into ruins—destroyed and sacked by the insolent rout of Germanic tribes, who are already thundering at our gates. They will overcome the small remains of our virtue with the sword, and the vast host of our crimes with their gold.”
He ceased; an expression of deep grief clouded his handsome features. Then, turning to Afranius, he said: “And so what I meant to say was, that the mob of the capital must, come what may, be kept out of the game.”
“You say the mob,” said Afranius, “but there is a class closely allied with the mob which, though small in number, is all the greater in force, high-mindedness, and dignity. Believe me, even among the third estate—among the fishermen and dealers, the artisans and handicraftsmen, there still are Romans to be found.”
“Very possibly. But large schemes cannot take account of so small a factor. The very way in which the State has developed, has thrown the chief power into the hands of the troops, and he who is master of the soldiery, is master of Rome and the Empire. You know how completely the legions in the provinces are dependent on the impression of an accomplished fact. It can scarcely be expected, that any single division of the army outside the walls of Rome will take up arms for Domitian, if once we have the metropolis in our power. We can gain over the Praetorian guard with a word. Ulpius, my beloved son, make known to us now, what you have attempted and achieved in this direction.”
Ulpius Trajanus leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms over his breast. His noble and frank countenance, stamped in every feature with generous honesty, suddenly grew anxious and grave. Lucilia had been right when she said incidentally, that Ulpius Trajanus reminded her of Caius Aurelius. Although considerably older and of a dark southern type, the Hispanian, like the young Northman, had that look of genuine human benevolence, which lends a bright and harmonious expression to any features.
“My friends,” began Ulpius Trajanus, coloring a little; “I can as yet, to my great regret, report nothing decisive. I came hither not to announce a success, but to hear what you had to say. Within the last few months many new recruits have joined the ranks of the Praetorians; magnificent gifts of money are distributed every week to the officers and men. Norbanus, the officer in command, is loaded with favors, so it would be difficult to find an opening—! Indeed, I am firmly convinced that Norbanus, who is an honest man, places the welfare of the country far above any other consideration; however, up to this moment, all my efforts to fathom him have been in vain. He speaks out more frankly than many others, it is true, but his openness always bears upon trifling matters. He instinctively knows the limits of discretion. It would be waste of words to tell you of every detail. I have given myself no rest from labor or vigilance, and it is not my fault if the rock repeatedly rolls back into the gulf.”
“Promise him the consulate,” muttered Cinna frowning; “trip him up, trample on him, hold the dagger to his breast....”
“The dagger’s point might only too easily be turned upon us,” said Trajanus smiling.
“He is right, Cinna,” Nerva threw in. “It is precisely his self-command and coolness, that fit him for the part assigned to him, and he must play it to the end in the spirit of those who have trusted him.”
“But self-command must come to an end and issue at last,” said Afranius, leaning his round chin on his hand. “I have no thought of even hinting a reproach to our worthy Ulpius; I only mean, that if Lucius Norbanus persists in the part of the mysterious oracle, and Trajanus waits for the spirit to move him, without giving it a helping hand, our work of redemption will remain in the clouds. Besides, nothing is more dangerous than a long-planned conspiracy. Before you can turn round the palace will have caught wind of it, and by the day after to-morrow, the splendid museum of Domitian’s victims will be increased by a few valuable specimens.”
Cornelius Cinna nodded assent.
“Excess is mischievous in anything, even excess of caution,” he said eagerly. “We must strike now, if not with the aid of the body-guard, why, then without it—or, if need be, against it. There are troops enough in Gallia Lugdunensis,[333] to defeat the few cohorts of Norbanus. Cinna is thought highly of by the legions, and I myself have many devoted allies among the officers; while not a few of the soldiers will remember, that I have always been a friend and supporter of the third estate.”
“I can answer for that,” said the old centurion, who had till this moment sat silent in his easy-chair. “Nor am I altogether devoid of adherents, though I cannot compete with Cinna. I should think it would not be difficult....”
“Enough!” interrupted Cocceius Nerva with a friendly wave of his hand. “I see that your opinions are divided. Allow me to make a suggestion. The danger of discovery does not seem so imminent, as to compel us to forego all attempt to rely on the support of Rome. Let us separate in the firm determination, to prepare and meditate everything that can help us towards our goal. I am chiefly thinking of Caius Aurelius, who made friends so rapidly with Norbanus, and who is regarded with less suspicion at the palace than Ulpius Trajanus. We will meet again fourteen days hence, here, in the house of Afranius, and at the same hour. If in the meanwhile our plan has made no progress, we will give up the City of the Seven Hills, and set to work in Gallia Lugdunensis.”
This proposal was unanimously agreed to.
“Yet one thing more. It is quite possible, that in the course of these fourteen days events might occur, on which it is impossible to reckon beforehand. I am perfectly convinced, that not a soul in the palace suspects anything as yet; but spies are innumerable, and an accident, a heedless word, a glance, a gesture, might betray us. Just at this time fresh suspicions have been roused in Caesar’s court. Let us be ready to fly at a moment’s notice.”
“To fly!” exclaimed Cinna. “Is that the road to victory?”
“I only say in the worst extremity....”
“That would indeed be the worst! Do you already know of any mischief? Do you know, that a spy has already betrayed us?”
“No, my dear Cinna, I know nothing; I was only considering possibilities.”
“But that possibility is exactly what is not to be borne! I feel now, twice as strongly as before, that our only safety is in action.”
“But can you act?” asked Cocceius. “Is Norbanus our ally? Are the legions under your command? If so, act, and at once, Cinna! Stand up on the platform in the Forum, and proclaim that Domitian is deposed.”
“You are very right,” snarled Cinna. “Right as usual! but what is to happen if the possibility becomes a fact? When flight has dispersed us to all the four winds...?”
“Then, my friend, the essential point is to agree on a spot, where we may all quietly meet again. Let that spot be Rodumna,[334] the native town of Afranius. It is in every respect favorable—at only a short distance from Lugdunensis, and yet so small as to be out of the turmoil of the world. There will we meet, rouse the legions to our support, and march upon Rome!”
“Good, good!” cried Cornelius Cinna.
“Rodumna!” echoed the rest.
Nerva rose.
“One word!” implored Caius Aurelius.
Nerva, who had already grasped their host’s hand in leave-taking, turned enquiringly to the young man.
“Worthy friends,” the Batavian went on. “Allow me to say, that down at Ostia lies my trireme. The captain and the crew are all men, whom we may blindly trust. If anything should occur to drive us hence, we could not do better than meet on board my bark and reach Gallia by sea.”
“That is a good idea,” said Nerva. “But still one question arises. Does any one in Rome know of the existence of this trireme?”
“Hardly a soul. The high-priest’s family, it is true, were on board with me, when I came from Baiae. But here, in Rome, where there is so much to distract the attention, so trivial a circumstance would scarcely dwell in their minds.”
“But the slaves!” cried Cinna. “If you are suspected at the palace, they have been cross-examined ere now....”
“I do not honestly believe, that I have been considered worthy of so much attention at the palace.”
“And even if it were so,” Nerva added, “there is a way of escape. To-morrow morning, spread a report among your friends and acquaintances, that your vessel is on the point of starting to return to Trajectum. Go to Ostia yourself, and let her set sail with all ceremony; then, at night, when she is well out at sea, order the captain, instead of steering southwards, to make a detour to the left and sail past the islands of Pontia[335] and back to Antium, as if he had come direct from Messana.[336] There he may wait till we need him. By the Appian Way and Aricia[337] and Lanuvium,[338] it is not more than twice the distance to Antium, that it is to Ostia. Give your captain the name of Rodumna as a password; whoever goes on board with that token is to be received unquestioned. What do you think of my plan?”
“Nothing could be better arranged, it seems to me,” exclaimed Cinna. “In this way we need neither fit out a vessel for ourselves, nor yet travel by land. The one would excite suspicion, and the other would be both dangerous and expensive. So let it stand: if the situation should seem in any way perilous, we meet on board the trireme in the harbor of Antium.”
The conspirators rose and slowly dispersed.
On the second day after the incidents just related dark clouds had risen over the Tyrrhenian sea and spread in long, heavy banks across the sky, which a short while since had been so deeply blue. A stiff south-westerly breeze blew up the stream of the Tiber, and tossed the little boats and flat-bottomed barges, which lay at anchor at the foot of the Aventine,[339] till they jostled and bumped each other. Sudden squalls of rain swept down at short intervals, and obliged the people to throw on their leather cowls or their long-haired woollen cloaks.[340] All the life of the streets took refuge in the arcades and pillared halls; the atria, with their slippery marble pavements, were deserted, and the water from the guttered roofs dripped dolefully into the overflowing impluvia.[341] A strange atmosphere of discomfort and oppression lay over the whole city. Some great races, which were to have been run in the Circus Maximus, were postponed at the last moment. The flow and ebb through the palace gates was less persistent than usual. The Senate even, notwithstanding the importance of the matters awaiting their debate, came in fewer numbers than usual to the sitting. In short, the air was full of that dull uneasiness, which infallibly accompanies the first symptoms of the decay of the year.
The storm increased as evening fell. Quintus, who had dined with no other company than two of his clients, stood, as it grew dusk, at the door of the dining-room, looking out at the dreary prospect. The clouds chased each other wildly, and the wind groaned and howled through the colonnade like the wailing of suffering humanity.
“Good!” said Quintus, turning back into the room. “And very good! The wilder the night, the better for our undertaking.”
He signed to the shrewd slave, Blepyrus, who at this moment passed along the passage with a brazier full of burning charcoal.[342]
“Where are you going?” he asked doubtfully; and when the slave answered: “To your study, my lord,” he said:
“Very good, I am coming—but take care that we are alone.”
Blepyrus went on through the arcade, and when he had reached his master’s private room, he carefully set the brazier on the floor. Two lads, who were standing idle, he promptly dismissed as Quintus came into the room.
“Listen, Blepyrus,” he began. “Just fancy for a moment, that to-day is the feast of Saturn.[343] Tell me your honest opinion, frankly and without reserve, just as if you were sitting at table after the old-fashioned custom, while I, your master, waited upon you?”
The slave looked up at him in bewilderment.
“You do not seem to understand me,” Quintus continued. “I want to hear from you, how far you are satisfied with your master. If I have been unjust, if I have hurt your feelings, or wronged you without cause—speak! I entreat you—nay, I command you.”
“My lord,” Blepyrus stammered out, “if I am to speak the truth, you have said many a hard word to your other slaves, but to me you have never been anything but a kind and just—indeed a considerate master. I could only say the same, even if the feast of Saturn really licensed me to complain.”
“I am glad to hear you say so, my good friend. I mean well by you all, and if I ever.... Ah! I remember now what you have in your mind. You are thinking of the evening, when I struck Allobrogus in the face[344] for breaking that precious vase.—You are right; the poor fellow’s teeth were more precious than the broken jar. It was my first angry impulse. Believe me, Blepyrus, I have never hurt or injured any one of you out of ill-will; and you, especially, have always been a friend rather than a slave. You shared my earliest sports—do you remember by the Pons Milvius[345] how I sprang to your assistance, when your arm was suddenly cramped in swimming? And then again, on the wrestling-ground in the Field of Mars, where we enacted the fight of Varus against the Germans? You snatched me up and rescued me from my foes, like a young god of war, when the game suddenly became earnest....”
“I remember, my lord,” said the slave with a gratified smile.
“Well,” continued Quintus, “then tell me one thing. Are you still ready to stand in the breach for your master? Understand me, Blepyrus—this time it is not a question of fisticuffs or even thrashed ribs. It is for life and death, old fellow. To be sure, your reward now should not be, as it was then, a saucerfull of Pontian cherries, but the best of all you can ask....”
“My lord,” said the slave, trembling with agitation, “I will do whatever you desire.”
“Can you hold your tongue, Blepyrus? Be silent, not merely with your tongue, but with your eyes—your very breath? You have done me good service before now, I well remember, which required secrecy—but only in trifling matters. This time it is not a tender note to the fair Camilla, not even an assignation with Lesbia or Lycoris. Swear by the spirit of your father, by all you hold sacred and dear, to be silent to the very death.”
“Then be ready; at the second vigil we must set out on an expedition—out into the storm and darkness. You can tell your comrades, that I am going by stealth to Lycoris. The rest you shall hear later.”
Three hours after this the little gate creaked open, which led from the cavaedium to the street, and Quintus and the slave, both wrapped in thick cloaks, slowly mounted the Caelian Hill,[346] and then took a side road into the valley. Here, on the southern slope, the storm attacked them with redoubled fury; the blast howled up the Clivus Martis and the Appian Way. The streets were almost deserted; only a solitary travelling-chariot now and then rolled thundering and clattering over the stones.
“We must mend our pace,” whispered Quintus, as the slave paused a moment, fairly brought to a standstill at the corner of the Via Latina[347] by a sudden squall of rain. “We have still far to go, Blepyrus; and we shall have it worse still out there in the open.”
The road gradually trended off to the right; that dark mass, that now lay to the left, was the tomb of the Scipios,[348] and there, in front of them, hardly visible in the darkness of night, rose the arch of Drusus,[349] through which the road led them. They were now outside the limits of the city itself—the fourteen regions, as they were called, of Augustus Caesar. But Rome, the illimitable metropolis, flung out her arms far beyond these prescribed boundaries. That undulating plain, which we now know as the Campagna, was then dotted over with villas and pleasure-gardens. The main artery of this straggling suburb was the magnificent Via Appia—the noble work of a Claudius—leading to the south. The greater number of these villas were at this time abandoned, and the tombs that stood by the road-side[350] on either hand were hardly more silent, than the dwelling places of the living, before whom these stone witnesses were set to remind them, that life is fleeting and must be enjoyed to the full while it lasts.
Quintus and his companion went onwards, still to the southwards. The country-houses became more and more scattered; they might now have walked about two Roman miles beyond the arch of Drusus. A heavily-laden wagon, with an escort of riders, had just driven past them, and the gleam of the lanterns was dwindling in the distance. Quintus stopped in front of a high-vaulted family tomb, of which the façade was decorated with a semicircular niche containing a marble seat.