“If I am not mistaken in this Cimmerian blackness,” he muttered, “this is the spot....”
And at the same moment they heard, approaching from the opposite tomb, the sound of cautious steps.
A broad beam of light fell on the young man’s face.
“God be praised!” cried a woman’s voice; and in an instant Euterpe, darkening her lantern again, stood by the side of the two men. The young woman was trembling with wet and cold; her clothes clung to her limbs, and her hair hung in dark locks over her forehead and cheeks.
“Are you alone?” asked Quintus.
“With Thrax Barbatus. Here he comes.”
“In such weather!”
“God bless you!” said the old man, coming up to Quintus. “Who is this with you?”
“Blepyrus, my trusted friend. He will not betray us.”
“My lord, what return can I ever make....”
“Go on, push on!” was the young man’s answer. “Only look how the black clouds are driving over the hills; it gets worse every minute. Have we far to go?”
“About three thousand paces,” said Barbatus.
“Then lead the way, my good Euterpe. Come, old friend, lean on me. Blepyrus, support him on the left.”
“You are too careful of me, my lord,” said the old man, flinging his wet cloak over his shoulder. “A merciful Providence still grants me strength, that my white hairs belie, and I am used to rougher roads than you suppose. It is you, the son of a noble house, accustomed to tread only on polished marble or soft carpets....”
“Nonsense—why, even this storm is nothing to speak of.”
They turned eastwards, and leaving the high-road, soon reached a wooden bridge across the waters of the Almo,[351] a rivulet now swollen by the storm. From hence the path led them across the Via Latina and through a dense wood. The pine-tops sighed weirdly under the lashing wind that rocked and bowed them, while now and again, as one bough crashed against another, there was a sound as of distant axe-strokes. They first followed a foot-path, which crossed the wood in a south-easterly direction, but presently—about half way through the pine forest—their guide pushed aside the boughs of a sturdy laurel, that stood on the right side of the alley, and they plunged into the brushwood. Here another path was presently discernible, though overgrown by a seemingly impenetrable tangle of shrubs, and this presently brought them out close to a grass-grown mass of rocks. By walking round one of the huge boulders, they reached an opening into an old and long-disused stone-quarry. A low passage was visible, sloping down underground.
“Here we are,” said Euterpe. A gleam from her lantern revealed a high-piled mass of dèbris. “I will go in first.”
She placed her lantern, half open, on a shelf in the tufa rock, at such an angle as to light up the passage; then, stooping down, she disappeared in the doubtful shadow cast by a natural buttress on the rocky wall. Thrax, Quintus, and Blepyrus followed, the slave bringing the lantern in his hand. At the spot, where the flute-player had disappeared, the passage was cut in steps, which led abruptly downwards about thirty feet underground; then a broad and fairly lofty gallery ran about fifty paces on a level, opening into a cross gallery.
Quintus signed to his slave to remain where these cross-roads met, while he followed Thrax Barbatus to the right, where a dim light was visible at some considerable distance. Approaching nearer, he perceived that the source of this light lay somewhat on one side, where a large hall opened out, strangely decorated and lighted up by a few tapers. At the farther side, opposite the entrance, stood an altar hung with black, and over it was a wooden image of the crucified Christ. To the left was a brick-walled hearth, where a bright fire was blazing. The smoke rose in a tall column to a square opening in the roof. On the floor, in a niche on one side, Eurymachus—the slave who had escaped from Stephanus—lay on a straw mat, his pale face resting on his hand. Glauce, his betrothed, was occupied in mixing the juice of some fruit with water, to make a drink for the fevered sufferer, while Diphilus, kneeling in front of a rough-hewn wooden stool, was folding a broad strip of stuff to make a bandage. He rose as the new-comers entered.
“The Lord is merciful!” said Thrax to Eurymachus. “Greet our deliverer. All will be well. The night is stormy and dark; we can rest for a short while and dry our cloaks by the fire; then, by God’s help, we will set forth with a good courage.—By mid-day you will be in safety.”
The sick man’s features brightened; joyful surprise and eager gratitude sparkled in the dark eyes, which as suddenly closed again, as though dimmed by weakness. Euterpe had meanwhile taken the soaked and dripping cloaks from the shoulders of the two men, and had hung them over two seats in front of the fire. Then she fetched a little table and spread it with bread, fruit, and wine, while Glauce brought platters and cups from a cave in the wall.
“Do us the favor of accepting a little refreshment,” she said, pulling forward a bench.
Quintus, whose walk through the stormy night, and still more his anxious excitement, had made very thirsty, emptied his cup at a draught, and then turned sympathetically to Eurymachus.
“Do you know me again?” he asked smiling.
The slave drew a deep breath, and said in a weak voice:
“Yes, my lord, I know you. In such a moment of torture a man’s memory is sharpened. It was you, who on that awful day poured balm into my wounds, you and the fair youth with a grave, kind face....”
“My word for it, but you put me to shame! It was not I, but my companion, who first made his way through the hedge—it was not I, but my companion, who gave you that human consolation.”
“Not so,” replied Eurymachus solemnly. “Proud and haughty as you looked, in your heart there was some stirring of the sense of common humanity, which is our inheritance from our Heavenly Father. It was but a small matter, that betrayed this impulse, but—I know not why—it sank deeper into my soul, than even the brave words of your companion. In truth, noble Quintus, the touch of your hand, as you tried to drive away my greedy tormentors, fell like balm upon my heart; it fanned the dying spark of courage in my soul—aye, and I remembered it when, in Lycoris’ garden, they were preparing to nail me to the cross. You smile, my lord, and think me a raving enthusiast—but so it is. When you came towards me through the gap in the hedge, you appeared to me as the type of the illustrious Roman—handsome, haughty, absorbed in the natural desire for enjoyment, and with no heart to pity the sufferings of the baser millions. But when you turned to go, you left me with a revived belief, that the gulf, which severs the classes of men, may be bridged over. Often have I discussed it with Thrax Barbatus.—He declares, that the doctrine of Nazareth is destined to be the belief of all mankind; I, on the contrary, maintain that it will never be the creed of any but the wretched and oppressed. For the noble and wealthy—so I argue—will naturally cling to their luxury-loving idols, to whom they attribute their power, dominion, and riches. But since that hour, when Quintus Claudius came up to me filled with pity, a divine revelation lives and shines in my soul. And has not the current of my own fate justified this presentiment? The wealthiest and haughtiest youth of the City of the Seven Hills, the son of the all-powerful Flamen, is the deliverer of the wretched slave! Verily, Quintus, I say unto thee: Thou art, though thou knowest it not, a follower of the crucified Jesus.”
“I?” said Quintus startled and bewildered.
“Yea, my lord. ‘Not every one that saith unto me Lord, Lord, is my disciple,’ saith Jesus of Nazareth, ‘but he that doeth the will of my Father in Heaven.’”
“I do not altogether understand what you mean; the mysteries of your religion are as yet unknown to me.”
“The doctrine of Jesus is simple and clear. The Master himself has summed it up in two laws: ‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God above all things,’ and the second is like unto it: ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.’”
Quintus looked down in silence.
“You speak of God,” he said at last. “Which God do you mean, Eurymachus? Jupiter, whom our forefathers worshipped, is to you a mere idol. What name then do you give to the Divinity, who commands your love? And what proof have you, that he too is not a false God?”
“My lord,” said Eurymachus, “our God has no name by which he is known. A name is used for distinction, and to mark a difference from others of the same, kind; but He is one alone and eternal from the beginning. He reveals himself to us through the myriad marvels of the universe, which would never cease to rouse our awe-struck admiration, but that custom has dulled our sense. He is manifest in the impulses and emotions of our own nature, in the ardent yearning for immortality—that home-sickness of the soul which, in the midst of all the joys and blessings of this life, makes us aware of an infinite void, a gulf which nothing else can fill. It is He, whom we apprehend in the joy, that thrills us like a tender mother’s kiss, when we lift up our hearts to contemplate Him by faith. We know Him by the strength, the constancy, the scorn of death, that He can inspire, when every nerve of our frail body is quivering with pain. Think of our fellow-believers, who were butchered by Nero—the bloody slaughter in the Arena, the men burnt alive, buried alive! What upheld these martyrs through their unspeakable torments? The grace of God, the Almighty and All-merciful, whom Jesus Christ hath taught us to know.”
“Amen!” whispered Glauce, with an admiring glance at her lover, whose face glowed with enthusiasm.
Barbatus went anxiously up to him, and laid a hand on his brow.
“Do not agitate yourself,” he said with tender sympathy. “You have still much to go through.”
“Nay, it is well,” replied Eurymachus. “I feel strengthened since I have set eyes on my preserver.—Aye, noble Quintus, this is the God, whom the disciples of the Nazarene worship—this is the faith, which your empire brands as a crime. Conspirators, they call us, and traitors. We conspire, it is true, but not against Caesar, to whom we freely render the things that are Caesar’s, as our Master taught us; only against sin, against crime and evil-doing. We swear to each other by the memory of the Crucified,[352] not to betray each other, nor to lie, nor steal, nor bear false witness, nor commit adultery. We hate no man for his faith’s sake, for we know that grace is a gift of omnipotent God, and that, even in the shadow of the false god Jupiter, a gleam of divine truth may be seen. We are quiet, peaceful folk, who ask nothing more than to be allowed to live undisturbed in our faith and hope.”
“You forget one thing,” exclaimed Barbatus, as Eurymachus paused. “Christ teaches us, that we are all the children of God. In his sight all differences of high and low, rich and poor, lofty and humble are as nothing; and we, as true disciples of the Redeemer, must strive to work out this principle. We must try to found a state of human society, in which all the distinctions which have hitherto existed are utterly dissolved.”
“Nay, you are in error,” replied Eurymachus. “Those differences are not to be done away with. If you levelled them all to-day, they would originate again of their own accord to-morrow. Their form and aspect will be modified, but their existence is inevitable. Jesus of Nazareth never conceived of such changes. He only sought to revive in those, who have lost it in the varying chances and turmoil of life, some consciousness of the intrinsic worth of all that is truly human. As soon as the great ones of the earth learn to see, that even slaves are their brothers, that even the base-born are the children of the Almighty, all the most violent contrasts of class will be smoothed away, and things that now weigh upon us as a yoke, will be turned into a bond of union. ‘My Kingdom is not of this world,’ said Jesus of Nazareth. He will indeed regenerate man, but through his heart and spirit, and not with force or violent upheaval.”
“Then you insist on being miserable, come what may?” cried Barbatus vehemently.
“By no means. I only dispute the idea, that the teaching of Christ leads to such issues. Whether rich or poor, master or slave, matters not in the balance of our salvation. Many a one, who holds his head high and free, bears heavier fetters, than the convict in the mines of Sardinia.”
Quintus Claudius once more emptied the cup, which Glauce had filled. His brain was in a whirl, and his throat parched. The sight of this slave, lying on a straw mat, and weighing the future destinies of man, and the mystery of existence, with such calm decision, troubled and excited him to an extraordinary degree. At this moment he was in a wilder fever than Eurymachus. He looked down with admiration—almost with envy—at the pale face, which looked so radiant in the midst of suffering, so sublimely happy in spite of wretchedness. And he himself? Did not the saying about the convict in the mines apply to him? Was he not in fact more fettered and bound, than this fugitive slave? What was the liberty that Rome—that the whole world was ready to offer to him? Had he ever been able really to purchase release from that dark melancholy, which oppressed him like an ever-present incubus? What a God must He be, who uplifted the slave to such serene heights!
“It is time to start,” he said at last, waking from a deep reverie. “The roads are bad; I fear we can proceed but slowly; besides, we must not keep Caius Aurelius waiting too long. He shares our danger, and is watching in anxious uncertainty.”
“Noble Sir!” exclaimed the slave, deeply moved, “are you really prepared again to risk your life? You know, Father, how strongly I set my face against this project; and even now, at the eleventh hour, I entreat you: Consider well what you are doing.”
“It has all been considered,” said Thrax impatiently. “If you were to perish in this cavern, would not our fate also be sealed? Do you think, that Glauce would survive your death? Look at her; see how the mere thought frightens her.”
“But who talks of my dying? You should have waited eight or ten days, till the first fury of our persecutors had cooled.”
“And meanwhile you would have cooled, never to be warm again. Your wound, at first scarcely worth speaking of, has become so much worse in the unwholesome air of this vault....”
“And your fever increases every day,” interrupted Euterpe.
“Waste no more words!” cried Thrax angrily. “Help him, Diphilus. You see he can hardly drag himself up.”
Diphilus, zealously seconded by Euterpe, lifted the wounded man from his wretched couch, and they carried him carefully out into the gallery, where Blepyrus was wearily leaning against the rough-hewn wall. A litter was standing there with some thick woollen coverlets, and Eurymachus was laid upon it as comfortably as possible. Glauce, who had followed with a clay lamp, pressed a long kiss on his forehead, and then hurried away, crying bitterly. Quintus had also accompanied them, and as soon as he saw that all was ready for the start, ran back to fetch his hardly-dried cloak. But he involuntarily paused at the entrance of the cavern; the sight that met his eyes was as pathetic as it was fair to look upon. The young girl had fallen on her knees before the altar, her slender hands uplifted in prayer; she gazed up at the cross in a transport of devotion, smiling ecstatically, though tears rolled down her pale cheeks. Her lips moved, at first inaudibly, but presently in a low murmur.
“Saviour of the world,” she prayed, “Thou who hast died for us on the cross.—If Thou requirest a victim, take me, and let me suffer a thousand deaths, but spare, oh spare my Eurymachus!”
“Where are you, my lord?” called Blepyrus.
“I am coming,” answered Quintus in an agitated voice. “Forgive me, gentle worshipper, for interrupting your prayer. Your God will hear and grant it none the less.”
And as he spoke he went up to the fire-place, threw the cloak over his shoulders, and followed the litter which, borne by Blepyrus and Diphilus, had already reached the entrance of the quarry. Euterpe also was with the wounded fugitive. Only Thrax Barbatus remained behind in the underground cavern, to help Glauce, who had now recovered her cheerful composure, to deck the altar and throw wood on the fire. It was nearly midnight, the hour at which a little knot of believers in the Nazarene were wont to meet and keep the Feast of Love in memory of their Redeemer.
The little procession slowly made its way through the brushwood; Euterpe, indefatigable, led the way. In her left hand she carried the dark lantern, with which now and again she lighted up some especially perilous spot, while with her right hand she held aside the boughs of the shrubs. The gale was still blowing through the dripping trees, and squalls of rain swept over them with a rush and roar. After a short but difficult walk they reached the foot-bridge, and turned off to the east, leaving the brook Almo behind them, and then by degrees the forest grew thinner.
When at last they reached the open, they saw before them the arches of the Claudian aqueduct,[353] stretching black and ponderous across the plains. The wind had parted the clouds here and there over the eastern horizon, and a few stars shone fitfully through the rifts, but this made the darkness, which brooded over the whole creation, all the more sensible.
Again they went over a wooden bridge—then under an arch of the aqueduct, and a few minutes after through that of another, the Aqua Marcia.[354] So far they had kept to the road. Now, however, they quitted it, and for a time cut across fields and meadows, over wide pools and ditches, and through brushwood. A quarter of an hour, half an hour, a whole hour of this toil, and they had not yet reached the Labicanian Way,[355] towards which they were marching.
Diphilus held out bravely, but Blepyrus, who was not of the strongest, and who was accustomed only to the lightest toil, panted so painfully, that Quintus could not bear to see it.
“Give me hold,” he said with rough good nature. “Why, you are groaning like a mule dragging blocks of stone.”
“My lord!” said Blepyrus out of breath. “You see I can hold out a little longer.”
“I see just the reverse. Stop a minute, Diphilus—there! now get your breath again, Blepyrus, and fill your lungs. In ten minutes we will change again.”
“But, my lord, what are you thinking of?”
“Do not talk, but save your wind.”
Euterpe, always thoughtful, offered the exhausted man a draught of mead. Blepyrus drank it eagerly, and the strange convoy went on its way again through the silent night.
They were indeed a strange party for any one who could have seen them! A youth of senatorial rank serving as litter-bearer to one slave, while another walked idle by his side! Quintus thought of his friends and equals, and could not help smiling; but with his next breath he sighed, for he thought of his father. He knew indeed, that Titus Claudius would not have hesitated to lend a hand if needed for the rescue of the meanest of his dependents; Titus Claudius, no less, would have bent his shoulder to the strap of a slave’s litter in case of need. And yet, what bitter grief, what implacable resentment would that generous man feel, if only he could see—could guess...!
Quintus gazed vaguely up at the driving clouds, that scudded wildly along like a host of uneasy spirits. They packed and tumbled together, hiding the few stars which had peeped forth in the dark sky.
“I cannot help it,” thought Quintus, tightening his lips. “I have no choice in the matter. If the whole world round me crumbles into eternal night—I cannot help it!”
The wounded man, exhausted by his too eager talk with Thrax, lay meanwhile silent and motionless on his couch. Even when Quintus slipped the straps on to his own shoulders he seemed indifferent to the fact; only a faint cry of surprise betrayed, that he had not swooned or fallen asleep.
They had gained the Via Labicana at last, and were toiling up the slippery way. Blepyrus was just going to take his master’s share of the burden again, when he suddenly became aware of a shade at a few paces distance, which at first stole stooping down close to the hedge, and then suddenly made for the open country, bounding across the road with long steps.
“What was that?” asked Quintus, who had also observed the noise and running figure.
“Some wild creature perhaps,” said Euterpe.
“It was a man,” said Eurymachus.
Quintus stopped and gazed out into the darkness; then, turning to Eurymachus, he asked with evident anxiety:
“When did you first see him?”
“This minute, as we came upon the road.”
“I saw him before,” said Blepyrus in a whisper, as though a similar shade might at any moment start forth in the gloom. “Out there, by that bush in the middle of the field something moved and scudded past. I thought it was some night-bird.”
“They are sitting snugly in their nests,” said Diphilus. Blepyrus did not answer; he was considering.
“It seems to me,” he said at length, “that I have seen that peculiar skulking walk and sudden disappearance before. He vanished like lightning.”
“And he meant no good,” added the flute-player. “In short, it was a spy sent out by the slave-catchers, and before we can reach the gate the town-watch will be upon us.”
“Then we must be doubly careful,” said Quintus, forcing his pulses to beat more calmly. “We must toil across country again as far as the Via Praenestina.[356] It will be heavy walking, almost up to our knees in the soil.—But listen! is not that the tramp of horses? Coming from the city—not a thousand paces away.”
“Lord and Saviour!” groaned Euterpe. “The man must have flown like the wind.”
“He must indeed, if these horsemen have come at his call. No, the swiftest cannot be so swift as that. It is all the same; forewarned is forearmed. What is that to the right of the road?”
“A fountain, or something of the kind,” replied Blepyrus.
“We will hide behind the wall, till the horsemen have passed.”
In a few seconds they had reached the fountain, of which the basin was raised about three feet above the ground. By day it would have been a perfectly unavailing shelter, but in the darkness it was a sufficient cover. If the horsemen should have lanterns, to be sure—and this could not yet be seen for a rise in the ground—they might easily detect the track of the fugitives across the weeds and grass, and then....
For the first time in his life Quintus was aware of the presence of a great danger. Although he felt certain, that the unknown runner could not possibly have fetched the horsemen, who were now close upon them, there was an infinity of possibilities, of which the mere thought seized his heart with a cold grip. Even accident might here have played an important part. If the riders were really agents of the slave-takers, or even soldiers of the town-watch, the next few minutes were fateful indeed. The sinister vision that had passed them had made him anxious and undecided, and gloomy forebodings weighed on his mind. The thought flashed through his brain: How if you were now at home, standing by your own triclinium? Would you now appeal as you did to Blepyrus, or would you not rather seek some excuse for evading the work of rescue? But the question left him clear of all doubt; he did not regret the step he had taken, and let what might await him, he would persist now in the road on which he had started. This short meditation restored his peace of mind; he still was anxious, but it was not on his own account; it was for the task he had undertaken, the fugitive who lay in silence on the drenched couch, the faithful and brave souls who crouched with him for shelter. Suddenly he felt a trembling hand clasp his own, and press it with passionate fervor to quivering lips. It was Eurymachus, whose heart, in spite of every dread, was overflowing with exalted feeling. The slave’s grateful kiss fired a sacred glow through the young man’s veins, and it was with a sense of supreme indifference to all the sports of fate, that he heard the trample of hoofs coming nearer and nearer.
Blepyrus and the stalwart Diphilus held themselves in readiness to meet a possible onslaught. Euterpe sat on a low stone, half paralyzed; her heart beat audibly, her hands trembled convulsively.
The horses were now close upon them. Quintus leaned forward, and saw five or six dark forms mounted on small, nimble beasts. They were riding cautiously, at a short trot. Now they were passing the spot where the fugitives had turned aside from the high-road—Quintus fancied he saw them check their pace, and hastily felt for the weapon in his bosom. But it was a mistake. The riders trotted on, and did not diminish their pace till at some distance to the south-east, where the road mounted a hill. The hated sound of hoofs gradually died away in the distance.
“God be praised!” sighed Euterpe.
Diphilus hastened to reload himself.
“We might have spared ourselves the fright,” he said to Eurymachus. “In this darkness....”
“It was only on account of your fugitive,” said Blepyrus. “It may be, that the riders were only merchants or other harmless folk....”
“It is all the same,” interrupted Quintus. “Any man is to be regarded as suspicious. Do not lose another minute! Off! towards the Praenestian Way.”
And once more the little procession set forth across bog and briar. Thus they reached a foot-path, which led them past vineyards and at length down to the high-road. The Via Praenestina was little frequented at night, even in fine weather; the main traffic led past the towns of Toleria and Aricia. So they went on, relieved in mind, towards the town, which was still at about an hour’s distance. By degrees the south-westerly gale spent itself and lulled, no longer rushing in wild blasts across the plain, but blowing softly and steadily, like a long-drawn sigh of respite. The black clouds rolled away to the east and north, and the waning moon showed a haze-veiled sickle on the horizon.
Eurymachus as before lay in total silence; and neither Quintus, whose spirit was tossed by a thousand new and strange feelings, nor Blepyrus, who was straining every nerve to conceal his utter exhaustion, uttered a word as they walked on. Only Diphilus and Euterpe exchanged a few words in low tones. The flute-player described her terror; never in her life had she quaked so as on the stone by that fountain. After passing through such perils, she seemed to feel the need of showing all her love and good feeling to her worthy mate, and she even wished to relieve him of the litter straps, as Quintus had relieved Blepyrus, and harness her own shoulders. But Diphilus laughed shortly, and scorned the idea.
“Yes,” he growled good humoredly, “that is a good notion! You want to score your white shoulders with the marks of the strap. Think of business, child! Why, to-morrow you are to play at the house of the captain of the body-guard; you need not spoil your beauty to-night. It was mad enough, that you would not stay at home such a night as this.”
They were now close to the limits of the suburbs of Rome. The buildings on the Esquiline, dimly lighted by the moon, stood out sharper as they approached them against the western sky. Passing by the field, where Philippus, the son of Thrax Barbatus, lay buried, they made their way through the empty streets to the Caelian Hill, and at last reached the back entrance of the house inhabited by Caius Aurelius. The narrow path, which led to it across the hill, was entirely deserted; the houses stood detached, each in the midst of its garden, and shut off from the road by high walls.
Quintus went forward and knocked three times at the postern gate. The bolt was instantly drawn, and Magus, the Gothic slave, came joyfully to meet the strangers.
“Welcome, my lord,” he said in a whisper. “Your arrival relieves us of the greatest anxiety. I have been listening here at the gate these two hours.”
“Yes, yes—” said Quintus equally softly, “we are very late; but it could not be helped. Come, good people, make no noise—go in front, Magus.”
They all went into the garden, and the Goth barred the door again. Then they crossed the xystus[357] to the peristyle, and went along a carpeted corridor to the atrium. Here they were met by Herodianus, who with difficulty suppressed an exclamation of joy.
“At last!” he said, bustling to and fro with delight, like a busy mistress receiving guests. “We had begun to think, that you must have met with some misfortune. Aurelius, my illustrious friend, is in the greatest anxiety. But softly, for pity’s sake softly! everyone is sound asleep, and foresight is the mother of prudence.”
A light was shining in one of the rooms that surrounded the court-yard; before they could reach it, Aurelius appeared in the doorway and hurried out to embrace Quintus.
“What a fearful night!” he said with a sigh of relief. “How anxious I have been for you, my dear Quintus! A hundred possibilities, each more terrible than the last, have racked my brain. Be quick, Magus, lift the wounded man from his litter! Come, you must be quite tired out.—Such torrents of rain! Your cloak is as heavy as lead And here is our sweet little musician, as tender as a baby.—Come, warm yourselves, refresh yourselves!”
Herodianus had meanwhile hastened to open a cubiculum farther on in the corridor, while Magus took the place of Blepyrus, who was utterly exhausted. Eurymachus was laid in bed and soon fell asleep, after Euterpe and Diphilus had applied a fresh bandage and given him a cup of refreshing drink. Blepyrus, incapable of standing even a moment longer, threw off his cloak and sank at full-length on to one of the cushioned benches in the colonnade; he begged Herodianus, as he passed, to throw a coverlet over him. “I am more dead than alive,” he said. “When my master goes home, wake me.”
The freedman tried to persuade him to go into one of the rooms and lie on a bed; but Blepyrus heard no more. Deep, blank sleep had overpowered him at once. So Herodianus fetched a couple of warm rugs, in which he carefully wrapped the weary slave and then he joined Aurelius and Quintus.
The Gothic slave stayed to watch Eurymachus. Leaning back in a chair, resting his feet on a stuffed footstool, he sat gazing in the sleeper’s face which, faintly lighted by the glimmer of a small bronze lamp, was the picture of worn-out nature, but at the same time, of contentment and peaceful rest. Magus knew all the history of the hapless slave. He knew how Domitia’s steward had for years made life a burthen to him, and had at last condemned him to a martyr’s death. The immutable steadfastness of the sufferer had excited the enthusiastic admiration even of the simple Goth, and strange thoughts were surging in his soul.
“How still he lies there with his eyes tight shut,” thought the Goth, “quite shut, and yet I could fancy he saw through the lids. Veleda,[358] the prophetess, had just such eyes! When I was carrying him across the hall he looked up, and it was like a flash of fire, and yet soft and mild like the blue sea when the sun shines. If he were fair, he would be just like the priest in the grove of Nerthus.[359] He indeed was a favorite of the gods; he knew everything on earth and above the earth. I feel as if this man too must know all secrets, which make such men wise above all others. It is written on his forehead.—If only he were not so pale and feeble—if he had limbs as strong as mine, and hale northern blood in his veins! Odin should melt us down to make one man.—There would be a hero!”
So thought the worthy Gothic slave, while his eyes remained fixed on the features of the sleeper; but before long his own eyes also closed, and the ideas that had roused him to unwonted excitement remained in his mind in the realm of dreams. He saw Odin, with his wolves and raven, rushing down through the woods on the shores of the distant Baltic. He himself, Magus, was standing in the shadow of a sacred beech-tree, hand-in-hand with the wounded slave, who had dragged himself painfully through the underwood. As the god rushed past them, he lightly touched them with his sword; and they flowed and melted, as it were, into one, each feeling as though this had been their destiny from the beginning of things. And now, as the newly-created two-in-one looked up, behold! the mighty sword of the god hung to a branch of the beech-tree. He put out his hand, took it down, and with a giant’s strength, whirled it round his head. A flash of light shone through the grove, and the newly-formed being felt that he was stronger and mightier than all mortals, from the rising of the sun to the setting thereof.
“A foolish dream!” Magus whispered to himself, as he suddenly started wide awake. He gave his charge, who had begun to stir, a draught of water, and then fell asleep again.
Euterpe and Diphilus had meanwhile gone away, though the Batavian had begged them to take a change of clothes and rest under a comfortable roof for the rest of the night. After Quintus had changed his dress and refreshed himself with food and drink, he also wished to return home. But Aurelius detained him.
“Listen,” he said, in a tone of strange timidity: “With regard to our journey to-morrow to Ostia, I have a proposal to make to you. It is very true, that the mere fact that I am sending my ship off on her return to Trajectum is a sufficient reason—still—people might.... To be plain with you, my intimacy with Nerva and Cinna has attracted notice in certain quarters—I fear I may be watched, and therefore it would perhaps be better to give the whole affair the aspect of a pleasure excursion—if you only could persuade your sister, and perhaps your betrothed to accompany us. I have such a perfect disguise for Eurymachus, that neither of the young ladies can have the faintest suspicion. Besides—who troubles himself about a slave? It seems to me the plan is as admirable as it is simple.”
“It is masterly!” exclaimed Quintus. “Cornelia is crazy about the sea, and Claudia and Lucilia will have no objections. If only the weather improves...”
“Oh! the day will be splendid,” said Aurelius, going into the hall. “The wind has quite gone down, and the clouds are parting. I asked Magus just now.”
“The idea is delightful. The more openly and boldly we go to work, the better. About what hour should we start?”
“I thought about three hours after sunrise.”
“Very good. I will let Cornelia and my sisters know; the rest I leave entirely to you, my dear Caius.”
“You shall not be disappointed,” said Aurelius, radiant with satisfaction.
“And where shall we meet? Out beyond the tomb of Cestius?”
“It will perhaps be better that you should come here, and we will proceed all together to the place where vehicles wait; that will look least suspicious and most natural.”
“So be it: we will go to the gates in a little party. Now farewell—I am very tired, and wish I had my litter.”
“Shall I...?” Aurelius began.
“I should think so indeed! What! risk all that our exertions have so far accomplished for the sake of my selfish limbs! Nay, nay. I shall live through it, never fear. Farewell again, my dear Aurelius.”
The friends embraced. Blepyrus, awakened by Herodianus, who lent him a dry cloak, came dizzy with sleep, down the corridor and followed his master with a faint groan. Quintus, in spite of all he had gone through, walked on fresh and eager, and in five minutes they were at home.
In the house of Cornelius Cinna a slave had just announced that it was two hours after sunrise.[360] Cinna, though he had slept but badly, had long been out of bed, he would not, however, receive any of the numerous visitors, who were enquiring for him in the atrium, but was pacing the peristyle to and fro with his head sunk on his breast. Cornelia, who was taking breakfast in the dining-room with Chloe and one or two slave-girls, sent repeatedly to call her uncle.
“Directly—in a minute,” was all the answer, and Cinna began to walk up and down the colonnade.
His mind was principally occupied with an incident, which certainly seemed significant. Shortly before midnight his slave Charicles had brought him a mysterious note, which had been left with the door-keeper by a man concealed in a cloak. The paper, which was doubly tied round for safety, contained but a few words: “You are surrounded by spies; be on your guard.”
There was no signature, nor did the large thick writing—a feigned hand no doubt—afford any clew. “Surrounded by spies!” This idea, stated with such uncompromising plainness, haunted his excited fancy with urgent persistency. He had long known, that under Domitian’s rule espionage and underhand reporting everywhere spread their treacherous snares. And yet it came upon him now, as something impossible and shocking. In vain he racked his brain to guess who could be the sender of this mysterious warning, and at last he came to the conclusion, that the whole thing was perhaps the spiteful jest of some enemy—or a trap laid by Caesar himself.
While her uncle thus paced the arcade in gloomy displeasure, Cornelia eat her breakfast in the best of humors. The early day shone so gaily and invitingly into the room, the air, purified by the night’s rain, was so sweet! Besides, had not Cornelia, as she thought, the most particular reasons for seeing the whole world rose-colored to-day? The soft light in her eyes showed that she had recovered a peace of mind, a happy confidence, which for some time she had lost entirely.
“Chloe,” she said at last, when the girls had left the room: “Did you not notice anything yesterday? I mean when I came back into the sitting-room, after offering sacrifice?”
“Chloe raised her round head on her fat, short neck, and grinned like a simpleton. Cornelia, who was usually excessively annoyed by this behavior, seemed on the present occasion to be superior to all petty vexation. She went on pleasantly enough:
“The faith in the universal Mother has its mysteries. At our third visit you yourself saw how Barbillus can work by means of his divine mission. You fell to earth in awe-stricken terror, but the goddess smiled on you as she did on me, the first time I knelt before her in the holy of holies. So I venture to tell you, that my heart is full of unutterable peace and joy. Did you not see yesterday, that I was quite uplifted with happiness?”
Chloe grinned wider than ever.
“No,” she said with incredible stupidity.
“Then you must be stricken blind. I was almost beside myself; for Isis, the all-merciful, has bestowed on me the most precious of her gifts. She promises me protection against every danger, and in proof of her grace will send her divine brother Osiris to me with a message. He will lay his hands on my head, and so inspire into me a spark of his eternal light. Do you comprehend the immensity, the infinitude, of this celestial mercy? The divine miracle is to be accomplished at the next new moon, and then no farther penance or sacrifice will be needed. I shall henceforth be the sealed and adopted daughter of the goddess for ever.”
Chloe stared blankly in her face. “Yes,” she said, after a few minutes silence. “Barbillus is a great man! At first there were many things I thought impossible; but now that I have seen them with my own eyes, I believe in everything.—Everything, everything! If he were to tell me he could cut the moon in halves, or bring Berenice’s hair[361] down from heaven—I should not doubt, I should bow before the magician.”
“Oh! I am so happy!” said Cornelia, while the bright color mounted to her cheeks. “Only yesterday how sad I was; my heart was darker than the midnight sky, and the wailing of the storm found an echo in my soul. Now, to-day, all nature hardly smiles so brightly and happily as my refreshed and joyful spirit. This excursion to Ostia comes exactly at the right moment, as if I had planned it myself—it is as if Quintus had read my inmost soul. I want to be out in the open country by the everlasting sea, away, far away from this crush of houses.... Ah! and with him!”
“It is lucky then, that our stern master, your uncle, makes no difficulties. He is usually averse to all expeditions, which may extend till nightfall. I almost think he was inclined to say: ‘No.’ It was not till he heard that Caius Aurelius was to be of the party....”
“It is true,” said Cornelia. “And I myself was surprised to find how he was silent at once at the name of the Batavian.” She blushed scarlet. “It almost looks, as if he thought I needed some one to watch my behavior.”
“It is only that he is anxious,” said Chloe. “And he has a high opinion of Aurelius.”
“Oh! I know—he has told me often enough. It would be a heaven-sent boon to him, if I would throw over Quintus and condescend to marry Aurelius.”
“That would be a bad exchange!” cried Chloe. “The senatorial purple[362] for the ring of a provincial knight.”
A slave now announced, that Quintus Claudius was waiting in the atrium, that he sent his greetings, and wished to know whether Cornelia was ready to start, or whether Claudia and Lucilia should quit their litters and come into the house. Cornelia started up from her couch and flew to meet her lover.
“My uncle is in a very bad humor,” she said. “It will be best not to disturb him. Let us start without any leave-taking.”
“And Chloe?”
“We will leave her at home.”
Quintus smiled; as they stood there in the narrow passage, lighted only by one small window, he threw his arm round the tall, fine figure and, unseen by the ostiarius, pressed a burning kiss on her lips—but Chloe appeared with travelling-cloaks and Tyrian rugs, and the little caravan set forth at once.
There were four litters, one for each person, followed by a small escort of slaves. The Numidian guard of the Claudian household, and the Batavian’s Sicambrians, who were to accompany them into the country, were awaiting them, mounted on good horses, by the pyramid of Cestius, where the carriages also were standing.
They first stopped at the house of Aurelius, but here there was no delay. Hardly had they knocked at the door, when Aurelius came out to meet his friends, ready to start. He was followed by a litter, in which lay a fair-haired, weather-beaten, somewhat haggard-looking man.
“This is a seaman, who has brought me news from my native land,” said Aurelius to the ladies. “In all the wind and rain last night, he came up from Ostia, and as his ship sails to-day for Parthenope and Greece, he wants to return to the port as quickly as possible.”
“A fellow-countryman!” exclaimed Quintus. “You Batavians are not too numerous in Rome, and I can imagine that the meeting must have given you keen pleasure.”
“Great pleasure!” said Aurelius, as he got into another litter, “though the worthy Chamavus has found but ill-luck under my roof. Only think, as he came into the court-yard he slipped on the wet marble flags and injured his ankle. I begged him to remain and rest, but he assures me his voyage to Hellas admits of no delay....”
“Poor fellow!” said Lucilia glancing back at the litter. “He does certainly look very suffering.”
The flaxen-haired German bowed silently to the ladies, and then turned to Aurelius with a resigned shrug, as though to say, what could not be cured must be borne.
Meanwhile a crowd of idlers had, as usual, collected round the litters, and Aurelius felt his anxiety rising at every instant; he spoke almost angrily to one of the bearers, who could not settle the fastenings of his scarlet tunic to his satisfaction.
However, they were now fairly off. Past the temple of the Bona Dea[363] they turned into the Delphian Way,[364] as it was called, and on the farther side of the Aventine reached the huge monument—then already a century and a half old—which has survived the storms of so many historical cataclysms to the present day. At that time the pyramid of Cestius, cased from top to bottom in white marble, did not present the dismal aspect it now wears—a pile of weather-stained basalt—standing in silent dignity on the cemetery-like desert of the Campagna. A busy population stirred at its foot, and the morning sun shone brightly on the gilt inscription, which recorded that the deceased had been Praetor, Tribune, and member of the body of High Priests.
On the eastern side was a second inscription, less monumental and imposing than that on the north, but to Quintus and Aurelius of the most pressing interest. There was there an “album,” as it was called, one of the large square stones on which public announcements or notices were written, and here, in tall, red letters, the following advertisement might be read:
“Stephanus, the Empress’ steward, advertises for his escaped slave, Eurymachus. Whoever brings back the fugitive, dead or alive, will receive a reward of five hundred thousand sesterces. Eurymachus is tall and slight, lean and pale, with dark eyes and black hair. His back bears the scars of many floggings. In escaping, he is reported to have injured his foot.”
The statement of the reward stood out bright and fresh, while the rest was somewhat washed out; the sum was increased every day, and had been doubled since the previous evening. Magus and Blepyrus made every conceivable effort to clear a way through the mass of people[365] that crowded round this notice, and almost blocked the whole width of the road, shouting and gesticulating. In vain; the mob were so possessed by the one idea, that they had neither eyes nor ears for anything else.
“Five hundred thousand sesterces!”
“More than a knight’s portion!"[366]
“And how long ago did it happen?”
“Four days.”
“Impossible!”
“He must be above ground.”
“Bah—he has some patron who hides him.”
Pros and cons were discussed in loud confusion; the cries of the two slaves were lost in the storm of voices, and the procession came to a stand-still in the midst of the chaos.
“Use your elbows,” said Aurelius in Gothic. Magus faced about with a shrug, as much as to say there was indeed nothing else to be done. Then, with a contemptuous glance at the mob, above which he towered, with slow but irresistible force he elbowed his way.
“He works like a flail!” cried one, and “Oh! my ribs!” wailed another.
“They are the daughters of Titus Claudius.”
“What do I care? the road is for every one.”
“Certainly—for all alike. Let those who want to go on, get out and walk if the crowd is too great; it is only a hundred steps to the chariots.”
“Aye, get out!” cried a chorus. “We have as good a right to be here as our betters. Get out! Get out!”
The mob closed upon them threateningly from both sides; Quintus Claudius turned pale. If he could not succeed in scaring off the people, and if this irresponsible populace insisted on having their own way, all must be lost. The lame foot of the pretended seaman must inevitably attract the attention and rouse the suspicion of a rabble, whose heads were full of the notice and description before them—discovery was inevitable.
With a leap Quintus Claudius was standing on his feet, and went forward with calm dignity to face the tumult.
“What do you want?” he asked sternly. “Why do you dare to stop the public way?”
His cool self-possession worked wonders—their noisy audacity was quelled.
“Make way,” continued Claudius, while a faint flush rose to his brow. “I, Quintus Claudius, the friend of Caesar, command you.”
“Not Caesar himself would let our ribs be battered,” shrieked a croaking voice.
But the excuse came too late. Whether it was Caesar’s name, or the imposing and attractive presence of the young patrician, who stood unapproachable as an avenging Apollo, looking calmly on the tumult of his antagonists—the crowd parted with a dull murmur, and the road was free. Quintus and Aurelius had some difficulty in dissembling their joy.
“Stupid creatures!” said Lucilia. “What queer fancies men take.”
Cornelia smiled with an expression of supreme contempt. Nothing should have induced her to walk, she said, and she would have liked to see any one try to make her.
They safely reached the spot on the road to Ostia, where the chariots awaited them. Here again they found an excited crowd. Driving inside the city walls was prohibited by day, and they here found not only the carriages of the wealthier citizens, but vehicles for hire in numbers, from the lightest chariots to the heaviest conveyances for travelling or pleasure parties. The drivers noisily and vehemently offered their services to the passers-by, while sellers of eatables and cooling drinks carried their baskets round with monotonous cries, and eating and drinking went on in the arbors by the roadside. Laughter and song, scolding and cursing were audible in a variety of tones.
The party of excursionists got into a large four-wheeled chariot[367] belonging to Caius Aurelius. The fugitive was helped by Blepyrus and Magus into a two-wheeled vehicle, known as a cisium,[368] which stood somewhat apart loaded with provisions,[369] but which had room on its back-seat not only for Eurymachus, but for his two faithful assistants.
“He insisted on it,” said the Batavian to Lucilia; “the worthy man was anxious not to intrude on our party.”
“That was very wise of him,” replied Lucilia. “He is better off in a provision wagon with Magus and Blepyrus, than in the most splendid chariot—and really, here with us there is scarcely room for him.—Besides, it would seem he brought no slaves with him from Ostia?”
“All the crew were indispensable on board,” replied Aurelius coloring slightly.
Quintus felt that Aurelius could not carry on the deception any farther, without involving himself in inextricable discrepancies. He tried to divert the conversation into a less dangerous channel, and soon succeeded in so completely engaging the gay Lucilia’s talent for repartee, that the second vehicle and the traveller in it seemed entirely forgotten.
With eight Numidians as outriders, the little party made their way smoothly and unhindered along the fine high-road. The Sicambrians followed as a rear-guard. That valiant equestrian, Herodianus, who had been quite upset by his deeds of prowess the night before, remained at home against his usual custom.
Now again Quintus glanced back at Eurymachus, who had maintained a quite marvellous composure during the scene at the pyramid of Cestius. His disguise was, in fact, most successful. None but the most practised eye, or the scrutiny of the most suspicious, could have detected the pale, enfeebled fugitive under the fair, curling hair and tanned, weather-beaten face of the mariner.
The Cappadocian horses made a good pace. In an hour and a quarter they had reached the little town of Ficana,[370] and as soon as they had passed it they saw the marshes, which here border the coast of Latium and the distant houses of the seaport.
During their rapid drive they had overtaken several carriages and horsemen, and now the Numidian vanguard galloped past a man, whose light travelling-cloak hung carelessly over his shoulders, while a broad Thessalian hat[371] shaded his face from the sun, and who sat his horse comfortably rather than rigidly. Two slaves trotted by his side on mules. As the carriage gained upon him he turned his head, and Lucilia exclaimed:
“See, Quintus! there is Cneius Afranius!”
Quintus was unpleasantly startled, for he knew how keen the eye of the lawyer was, and how great his skill in solving the riddle of the most involved mystery. But a glance at Caius Aurelius reassured him.
“You know,” said Aurelius, “that his mother lives at Ostia. Besides,” he added in a whisper, “even if he were to notice ... I pledge my word, that Afranius will not betray us.”
The carriage had now overtaken the rider. Afranius, surprised and delighted, waved a well-shaped, though rather large hand, and set spurs in his horse in order to keep up with the carriage. His horse jibbed and resisted a little, but then fell into a steady canter.
“What an unexpected meeting!” cried Afranius. “Are you going to Ostia?”
“As you see,” replied Quintus.
“My trireme sails to-night,” said the Batavian gaily. “I am staying longer in Rome than I had intended, so I am sending it back—home to Trajectum. Our friends here have come with me for the sake of the delightful expedition. What a splendid day it is!”
Afranius nodded the Thessalian hat.
“Quite delightful!” said Lucilia.
“And you, my worthy friend Cneius,” continued the Batavian, “what brings you here to Ostia? Do you suffer from your old longing to embrace your mother? Are you—escaping the noise of the city? Or have you business to attend to.”
“Something of all three. I am riding out as much from duty as for pleasure. You know of my proceedings against Stephanus, Domitia’s steward. All I have hitherto been able to do has been in vain; but now, at last, a person whose name I will for the present keep to myself, has revealed to me certain facts which very probably—well, I will say no more. But at any rate I propose this very day to hear what certain citizens of Ostia have to say. If only I could get at all the witnesses equally easily, then indeed—or at any rate one, the most important of all. Unfortunately I see no hope for it.”
“Why!” asked Quintus.
“Because he has vanished and left no trace.”
“Then have him hunted up,” said Lucilia.
“Others are doing that already. Perhaps there were never before so many persons in search of one escaped slave, as there are after this wretched Eurymachus.”
Quintus turned pale, and even Aurelius felt a certain embarrassment at the sound of that name.
“But how is it,” asked Quintus, “that Eurymachus did not long since deliver his testimony? What can have induced him to spare his prosecutor?”
“Eurymachus did not learn the facts he now knows, till within a few days of his flight, and it was his highly inconvenient knowledge which gave cause for his sentence of death.”
“But he might have spoken some days before his escape.”
“Nay, but he could not; he lay in chains with a gag in his mouth, that might have smothered the voice of Stentor.”
“And are you certain,” persisted Aurelius, “that your informant did not deceive you?”
“Perfectly certain. So certain, that I would pay down five hundred thousand sesterces on the spot in hard cash—only unfortunately I do not own so much—if only I could have that daring rascal under my hand for five minutes. It is humiliating! Bah! Why need I lose my temper for nothing? He is safe on shore, by this time, at Utica[372] or Nicopolis[373] and I am heartily glad to think so. I only hope, that at the critical moment Stephanus may not follow his example. I am afraid, that model of all the civic virtues knows his way too, to foreign shores!”
And he set spurs into his horse, as if suddenly pressed by some urgent business. His thoughts had involuntarily reverted to that greater Stephanus, whose misdeeds had filled an empire with horror. He reflected on the boldly-planned conspiracy, of which the failure would clear the way for Domitia’s minion, since it must inevitably lead to the death, or at least the banishment, of his accuser. All the more prompt and resolute then must their immediate action be against the steward. Perhaps some combination might be devised which, come what might, would be fatal to that criminal, whatever the issue might be as regarded Domitian, and such a plot and attack on Stephanus would have this additional advantage: that his foes would appear politically guiltless. Every one must confess, that a man who could fight so vigorously for distinction in the forum, could not at the same time be forging plots, which might risk his whole career.
The lawyer’s last words had greatly disturbed and agitated Aurelius, and he appeared to be on the point of whispering something to Quintus. He thought better of it, however, and asked Cneius Afranius how it happened that Fabulla, his respected mother, still remained in Ostia in spite of the advanced season.
“It is strange, is it not?” answered Afranius. “With the metropolis of the world so near, to be so indifferent to it! Quite like Diogenes!”
“Has she never been to Rome?”
“Never once. She is accustomed to the quiet of Rodumna, and devoted to a country life, and she holds the City of the Seven Hills in invincible aversion. Ostia appeared to offer a suitable suburban residence; a cousin of hers, who has been staying in Egypt since March, has a small estate there, which she is taking care of in his absence, and is as happy doing it as Diana on the hill-tops; all the more so, as she fancies she would be a hindrance to my advancement, if she lived with me in Rome. However, when I am fairly launched and settled, I shall insist on her coming.”
“I understand,” said Aurelius; and he thought to himself: “You are waiting till our plot succeeds—or fails.”
Quintus, who was still very anxious lest Afranius might ride too near to the disguised slave, and ask him unpleasant questions—though there was nothing to fear from the advocate—did his best to engage his friend’s attention. He alluded to the last speech he had delivered before the centumvirate, paying him many polite compliments, which the other laughingly disclaimed; then the cause itself was discussed, and their debate became eager and almost business-like.
Cornelia had been unusually talkative; not long before Afranius had joined them she had, with considerable humor, given an account of an excursion to Pandataria,[374] that she had made not long since from Sinuessa,[375] with her uncle and the Senator Sextus Furius. Claudia and Lucilia too had chatted and laughed; only the two young men had been silent. Now the parts had suddenly changed, and Lucilia was almost cross, particularly as the lawyer, on his bony grey steed, would persist in talking to Quintus and Aurelius, instead of addressing Cornelia and Claudia as politeness required—not to mention herself; though even she, as it seemed to her, did not look so very badly to-day; for Baucis had coiled her hair with unprecedented skill and precision, and her new gold pin, with a handsome ruby head, suited her dark hair to admiration. To be sure, it was a pity that the careful folds in which she had arranged her stola to fall over her ankles could not be appreciated, while she sat in the carriage half covered by Cornelia’s fuller draperies...!
“Listen, Quintus,” she began, as her brother was again on the point of addressing Afranius: “You are frightfully uninteresting to-day. For the whole way you have hardly spoken a hundred words, and now, when Afranius has at last roused you from your drowsy dulness, you can talk of nothing but lawsuits.”
“You cannot imagine,” said Claudia with a sly glance at Lucilia, “what a sworn foe she is to all that concerns lawsuits. The mere name of the Centumvirate cuts her to the heart, and if she hears of a speech being made which lasts more than two, or at the outside three hours by the water-clock,[376] she faints outright.”
Lucilia had colored scarlet.
“You are quite mistaken,” she cried eagerly. “But everything at the proper time! On the contrary, I am devoted to the pursuit of law and justice, but not under this glorious sun and within sight of the sea. The sins and strife of men belong to the Forum, to the Basilica, to the Senate-house. Here, where all is bright and beautiful, I expect gay conversation and happy laughter.”
“She is right,” said Cornelia.
Afranius drew himself up to a rigid and military bearing.
“I crave your forgiveness, stern judge!” he said with mock gravity. “I am greatly grieved to have offended against so wise a clause in your code of social morals. I have justly merited your lecture, and could do no less than take myself off, if I were not humbly resolved to earn your forgiveness by proving my sincere penitence—how sincere you will see by my entertaining and amiable behavior for the future. I only crave that you will grant me the opportunity of showing my repentance.... Do me the favor then of allowing me to invite you, one and all, to pay a visit to my mother’s little country-house. I can promise you, that you will be charmed, enchanted, inspired! It is a tiny villa, but in the loveliest garden—quiet, rural, idyllic. The muraena and Lucrine oyster are unknown there, to be sure, but as for salads—lettuces as big as....” and with a flourish of his hand he described a vast circle in the air—“true Cappadocians, though grown at Ostia; and fresh eggs, pears as yellow as wax, and mighty loaves of country bread. A few pigeons or chickens are soon cooked.... You spoilt town’s-folk will positively revel in this rural simplicity! Then there are the alleys, where vines hang in wreaths from the trellis...!”
“It is heavenly!” cried Claudia, again glancing knowingly at Lucilia. “Quintus, we must really accept so tempting an invitation.”
“With pleasure; but first....”
“I understand,” interrupted Afranius. “I too must first attend to business here. But listen to what I propose. I will first conduct these ladies to my mother’s house, and then I will fly on the wings of the wind to speak to the good citizens of Ostia. You meanwhile....”
“Nay, that will not do,” interrupted Aurelius. “Before my trireme weighs anchor, I have a communication to make to you.”
“To me?”
“Yes, to you. A communication of the greatest importance, in connection with your action against Stephanus. Allow me, therefore, to amend your proposal. Write a few words of explanation to your mother on your wax tablets, and give it to your slave to deliver; he may then conduct the ladies. The men on horseback can escort them to her house, and then put up at the nearest tavern. You, meanwhile, accompany us to the ship. And,” he added after a pause for reflection as to what fiction he might put forward to the three girls, “we will, at the same time, see my fellow-countryman, the seaman from Trajectum, on board his own vessel, which is to sail to-day for the East.”
“Which seaman?” asked the lawyer looking round.
“That I will explain presently.”
“Well, whatever is agreeable to the ladies, is agreeable to me....”
“Oh! we are in the country here,” said Cornelia, “and may dispense with ceremony. Only your mother will be startled....”
“Delighted, you mean. She can wish for no more agreeable surprise.”
“So be it then!” cried Aurelius; “and when all is settled, we will join the festivities.”
The first houses of Ostia were now visible on either hand, and the bustle and stir in the road grew busier. Seamen of every nation, fishermen with red worsted caps, porters, and barrowmen, pushed and crowded each other. In five minutes they had reached the quay; at the farther end of the mole lay the trireme, gaily dressed with flags, and towering majestically above the fishing vessels and barges. The young men got out, and the carriage rolled away, escorted by the Sicambrians and Numidians, as far as the embowered villa, which it reached in a few minutes.