The squall had completely died away; the waves were still tossing and tumbling in the bay, but the streamers of the crowd of barks, which lay under the shore, hardly fluttered in the breeze, and the fishing-boats were putting out to sea in little fleets.
Gay and busy was the scene on the quays of Baiae; distinguished visitors from every part of the vast empire were driving, riding or walking on the lava-paved[48] sea-wall, and the long roads round the harbor. Elegantly-dressed ladies in magnificent litters were borne by Sicambri[49] in red livery,[50] or by woolly-headed Ethiopians.[51] Lower down a crowd of sailors shouted and struggled, and weather-beaten porters in Phrygian caps urgently offered their services, while vendors of cakes and fruit shrilly advertised the quality of their fragrant goods. Behind this bustling foreground of unresting and eager activity rose the amphitheatre of buildings that composed the town. Aurelius had been charmed with Panormus and Gades, but he now had to confess that they both must yield the palm in comparison with this, the finest pleasure-resort and bathing-place in the world. Palace was ranged above palace, villa beyond villa, temple above temple. Amid an ocean of greenery stood statues, halls, theatres and baths;[52] as far round as the promontory of Misenum the shores of the bay were one long town of villas, gorgeous with the combined splendors of wealth, and of natural beauty.
The two ladies and their cortège proceeded for some distance along the shore of the harbor, and then turned up-hill in the direction of Cumae.[53] In front walked eight or ten slaves[54] who cleared the way; then came Octavia, her litter borne by six bronze-hued Lusitanians.[55] Claudia shared her litter with Baucis, while Herodianus, Magus, Octavia’s rowers, and a few servants with various bundles followed on foot. Aurelius had mounted his Hispanian horse and rode by the side of the little caravan, sometimes in front, sometimes behind, and enquiring the way, now of Octavia and now of Claudia and Baucis.
“Our villa is quite at the top of the ridge,” said Claudia. “There, where the holm oaks come down to the fig gardens.”
“What?” cried Aurelius in surprise. “That great pillared building, half buried in the woods to the left?”
“No, no,” said the girl laughing; “the gods have not housed us so magnificently. To the right—that little villa in the knoll.”
“Ah!” cried the Batavian; the disappointment was evidently a very pleasant one. “And whose is that vast palace?”
“It belongs to Domitia, Caesar’s wife. Since she has lived separate from her imperial lord, she always spends the summer here.”
The road grew steeper as they mounted.
“Oh merciful power!” sighed the worthy Baucis, “to think that these fine young men should be made to toil thus for an old woman! By Osiris! I am ashamed of myself. To carry you, sweet Claudia, is indeed a pleasure—but me, wrinkled old Baucis! If I had not sprained my ribs—as sure as I live … ! But I will reward them for it; each man shall have a little jar of Nile-water.”
“Do not be uneasy on their account,” said Herodianus, wiping his brow. “Our Northmen are used to heavier burdens!” Then, turning to Magus, he went on: “By all the gods, I entreat you—a draught of Caecubum![56] I am bound to carry this weary load,” and he slapped his round paunch, “this Erymanthian boar,[57] like a second Hercules, to the top of the hill on my own unaided legs! and I am dropping with exhaustion.”
The Goth smiled and signed to one of the slaves, who was carrying wine and other refreshments.
“The wine of Caecubus,” said Herodianus, “is especially good against fatigue. Dionysus,[58] gracious giver, I sacrifice to thee!” and as he spoke he shed a few drops as a libation[59] on the earth and then emptied the cup with the promptitude of a practised drinker.
In about twenty minutes more they reached Octavia’s house; in the vestibule[60] a young girl came running out to meet them.
“Mother, dear, sweet mother!” she cried excitedly, “and Claudia, my darling! Here you are at last. Oh! we have been so dreadfully frightened, Quintus and I; that awful storm! the whole bay was churned up, as white as milk. But oh! I am glad to have you safe again! Quintus! Quintus! …”
And she flew back into the house, where they heard her fresh, happy voice still calling: “Quintus!”
“My adopted daughter,"[61] said Octavia, in answer to an enquiring glance from Aurelius.
“Lucilia,” added Claudia, “whom I love as if she were my own real sister.”
Aurelius, who had sprung from his horse, throwing the bridle to his faithful Magus, was on the point of conducting Octavia into the atrium,[62] when a youth of remarkable beauty appeared in the door-way and silently clasped this lady in his arms. Then he pressed a long and loving kiss on Claudia’s lips, and it was not till after he had thus welcomed the mother and daughter, that he turned hesitatingly to Aurelius, who stood on one side blushing deeply; a sign from Octavia postponed all explanation. The whole party entered the house, and it was not till they were standing in the pillared hall, where marble seats piled with cushions invited them to repose, that Octavia said to the astonished youth with a certain solemnity of mien:
“Quintus, my son, it is to this stranger—the noble and illustrious Caius Aurelius Menapius, of Trajectum, in the land of the Batavi—that you owe it that you see us here now. He took us on board his trireme, for our boat was sinking. I declare myself his debtor henceforth forever. Do you, on your part, show him all the hospitality and regard that he deserves.” Quintus came forward and embraced Aurelius.
“I hope, my lord,” he said with an engaging smile, “that you will for some time give us the honor of your company and so give us, your debtors, the opportunity we desire of becoming your friends.”
“He has already promised to do so,” said Octavia.
Lucilia now joined them, having put on a handsomer dress in honor of the stranger, and stuck a rose into her chestnut hair; she sat down by Claudia and took her hand, leaning her head against her shoulder.
“But tell us the whole story!” cried Quintus. “I am burning to hear a full and exact account of your adventure.”
Octavia told her tale; one thing gave rise to another, and before they thought it possible, it was the hour for dinner—the first serious meal of the day, at about noon—and they adjourned to the triclinium.[63]
Under no circumstances do people so soon wax intimate as at meals. Aurelius, who until now had listened more than he had spoken, soon became talkative under the cool and comfortable vaulted roof of the eating-room, and he grew quite eager and vivacious as he told of his long and dangerous voyage, of the towns he had visited, and particularly of his distant home in the north. He spoke of his distinguished father, who, as a merchant, had travelled eastwards to the remote lands east of the peninsula of the Cimbri[64] and to the fog-veiled shores of the Guttoni,[65] the Aestui[66] and the Scandii;[67] indeed Aurelius himself knew much of the wonders and peculiarities of these little-visited lands, for he had three times accompanied his father. Many a time on these expeditions had they passed the night in lonely settlements or hamlets, where not a soul among the natives understood the Roman tongue, where the bear and the aurochs fought in the neighboring woods, or eternal terrors brooded over the boundless plain.
These pictures of inhospitable and desert regions, which Aurelius so vividly brought before their fancy, were those which best pleased his hearers. Here, close to the luxurious town, and surrounded by everything that could add comfort and enjoyment to life, the idea of perils so remote seemed to double their appreciation.[68] When they rose from table the ladies withdrew, to indulge in that private repose which was customary of an afternoon. Lucilia could not forbear whispering to her companion, that she would far rather have remained with the young men—that Aurelius was a quite delightful creature, modest and frank, and at the same time upright and steady—a rock in the sea on which the Pharos of a life’s happiness might be securely founded.
“You know,” she added earnestly, while her eyes sparkled with excitement from under her thick curls, “Quintus is far handsomer—he is exactly like the Apollo in the Golden House[69] by the Esquiline. But he is also like the gods, in that he is apt to vanish suddenly behind a cloud, and is gone. Now Aurelius, or my soul deceives me, would be constant to those he loved. It is a pity that his rank is no higher than that of knight, and that he is so unlucky as to be a native of Trajectum.”
“Oh! you thorough Roman!” laughed Claudia. "No one is good for anything in your eyes, that was not born within sight of the Seven Hills."[70]
She put her arm round her gay companion, and carried her off half-resisting to their quiet sleeping-room.
Neither Quintus nor Aurelius cared to follow the example of the ladies—not the Roman, for he had slept on late into the day—nor the stranger, for the excitement of this eventful morning had fevered his blood. Besides, there was the temptation of an atmosphere as of Paradise, uniting the glory and plenitude of summer with the fresh transparency of autumn. During dinner Aurelius had turned again and again to look through the wide door-way at the beautiful scene without, and now he crossed the threshold and filled his spirit with the loveliness before him. Here was not—as in the formal gardens of Rome[71]—a parterre where everything was planned by line and square; here were no trained trees and hedges, circular beds or clipped shrubs. All was free and wholesome Nature, lavish and thriving vitality. The paths alone, leading from the villa in three directions into the wood, betrayed the care of man. The whole vegetation of the happy land of Campania seemed to have been brought together on the slope below. Huge plane-trees, on which vines hung their garlands, lifted their heads above the holm-oaks and gnarled quinces. The broad-leaved fig glistened by the side of the grey-green olive; here stood a clump of stalwart pines, there wide-spreading walnuts and slender poplars. Below them was a wild confusion of brush-wood and creepers; ivy, periwinkle and acanthus entangled the giants of the wood with an inextricable network. Maiden-hair hung in luxuriant tufts above the myrtles and bays, and sombre evergreens contrasted with the brilliant centifolia. In short the whole plant-world of southern Italy here held an intoxicating orgy. Quintus seemed to divine the thoughts of the young Northman, and put his hand confidingly through his guest’s arm, and so they walked on, taking the middle path of the three before them, and gently mounting the hill.
“I can see,” said Quintus, “that you are a lover of Nature; I quite understand that a garden at Baiae must seem enchanting to you, who came hither from the region of Boreas himself, where the birch and the beech can scarcely thrive. But you can only form a complete idea of it from the top of the hill; we have built a sort of temple there and the view is unequalled. …”
“You are greatly to be envied,” said Aurelius. “And how is it that Titus Claudius, your illustrious father, does not enjoy himself on this lovely estate, instead of living in Rome as I hear he does?”
“As priest to the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus[72] he is tied to the capital. The rules forbid his ever quitting it for more than a night at a time. Dignity, you see, brings its own burdens, and not even the greatest can have everything their own way. Many a time has my father longed to be away from the turbulent metropolis—but no god has broken his chains. Unfulfilled desires are the lot of all men.”
He spoke with such emphasis, that the stranger glanced at him.
“What desire of yours can be unfulfilled?”
A meaning smile parted the Roman’s lips.
“If you are thinking of things which gold and silver will purchase, certainly I lack little. Everything may be had in Rome for money; everything—excepting one thing; the stilling of our craving for happiness.”
“What do you understand by that?”
“Can you ask me? I, here and as you see me, am a favorite of fortune, rich and independent by my grandfather’s will, which left me possessed of several millions at an early age—as free and healthy as a bird—strong and well-grown and expert in all that is expected of a young fellow in my position. I had hardly to do more than put out my hand, to acquire the most influential position and the highest offices and honors—to become Praetor or Consul.[73] I am well received at court, and look boldly in the face of Caesar, before whom so many tremble. I am betrothed to a maiden as fair as Aphrodite herself, and a hundred others, no less fair, would give years of their lives to call me their lover for a week—and yet—have you ever felt what it is to loathe your existence?”
“No!” said Aurelius.
“Then you are divine, among mortals. You see, weeks and months go by in the turmoil of enjoyment; the bewildered brain is incapable of following it all—then life is endurable. My cup wreathed with roses, a fiery-eyed dancer from Gades[74] by my side, floating on the giddy whirl of luxury, as mad and thoughtless as a thyrsus-bearer[75] at the feast of Dionysus—under such conditions I can bear it for a while. But here, where my unoccupied mind is thrown back upon itself. …”
“But what you say,” interrupted Aurelius, “proves not that you are satiated with the joys of life, so much as—you will forgive my plainness—that you are satiated with excess. You are betrothed, you say, and yet you can feel a flame for a fiery-eyed Gaditanian. In my country a man keeps away from all other girls, when he has chosen his bride.”
“Oh yes! I know that morality has taken refuge in the provinces,” said Quintus ironically. “But the youth of Rome go to work somewhat differently, and no one thinks the worse of us for it. Of course we avoid public comment, which otherwise is anxiously courted—but we live nevertheless just as the humor takes us.”
Aurelius shook his head doubtfully.
“Well, well,” said Quintus. “You good folks in the north have a stricter code—Tacitus describes the savage Germanic tribes as almost equally severe. But Rome is Roman.—No prayers can alter that; and after all you get used to it! I believe Cornelia herself would hardly scold if she heard. … Besides, it is in the air. Old Cato has long, long been forgotten, and the new Babylon by the Tiber wants pleasure—will have pleasure, for in pleasure alone can she find her vocation and the justification of her existence.”
“And does your bride live in the capital?” asked Aurelius after a pause.
“At Tibur,” replied Quintus. “Her uncle, Cornelius Cinna, avoids the neighborhood of the court on principle. The fact that Domitia resides here is quite enough to make him hate Baiae—although, as you know, Domitia has long ceased to belong to Caesar’s court.”
Aurelius was silent. Often had his worldly-wise father warned him never to speak of affairs of state or even of the throne, excepting in the narrowest circle of his most trusted friends; under the reign of terror of Domitian, the most trivial remark might prove fateful to the speaker. The numerous spies, known as delators, who had found their way everywhere, scenting their prey, had undermined all mutual confidence and trust to such an extent that friends feared each other; the patron trembled before his client, and the master before his slave. Although the manner and address of his host invited confidence, caution was always on the safe side, all the more so as the young Roman was evidently an ally of the court party. So the Northman checked the utterance of that fierce patriotism, which the hated name of Domitian had so painfully stirred in his soul. “Unhappy Rome!” thought he: "What can and must become of you, if men like this Quintus have no feeling for your disgrace and needs?”
The next turn in the path brought them within sight of the little temple; marble steps, half covered with creepers, led through a Corinthian portico into the airy hall within. The panorama from this spot was indeed magnificent; far below lay the blue waters of the bay, with the stupendous bridge of Nero;[76] farther away lay Baiae with its thousand palaces and the forest of masts by Puteoli; beyond these, Parthenope, beautiful Surrentum,[77] and the shining islands bathed by the boundless sea; the vaporous cloud from Vesuvius hung like a cone of snow in the still blue atmosphere. To the north the horizon was bounded by the bay of Caieta[78] the Lucrine lake and the wooded slopes of Cumae. The foreground was no less enchanting; all round the pavilion lay a verdurous and luxuriant wilderness, and hardly a hundred paces from the spot rose the colossal palace of the Empress, shaded by venerable trees. The mysterious silence of noon brooded over the whole landscape; only a faint hum of life came up from the seaport. All else was still, not a living creature seemed to breathe within ear-shot. …
Suddenly a sound came through the air, like a suppressed groan; Aurelius looked round—out there, there where the branches parted in an arch to form a vista down into the valley—there was a white object, something like a human form. The young foreigner involuntarily pointed that way.
“Look there, Quintus!” he whispered to his companion.
“That is part of the Empress’s grounds,” replied the Roman.
“But do you see nothing there by the trunk of that plane-tree? About six—eight paces on the other side of the laurel-hedge? Hark! there is that groan again.”
“Pah! Some slave or another who has been flogged. Stephanus, Domitia’s steward, is one of those who know how to make themselves obeyed.”
“But it was such a deep, heartrending sigh!”
“No doubt,” laughed Quintus; “Stephanus is no trifler. Where his lash falls the skin comes off; then he is apt to tie up the men he has flogged in the wood here, where the gnats. …”
“Hideous!” cried Aurelius interrupting him. “Let us run down and set the poor wretch free!”
“I will take good care to do nothing of the kind. We have no right in the world to do such a thing.”
“Well, at any rate, I will find out what he has done wrong. His torturer’s brutality makes me hot with indignation!”
So speaking he walked straight down the hill through the brushwood. Quintus followed, not over-pleased at the incident; and he was very near giving vent to his annoyance when a swaying branch hit him sharply on the forehead. But the native courtesy, the urbanity[79] or town breeding, which distinguished every Roman, prevailed, and in a few minutes they had reached the laurel-hedge. Quintus was surprised to find himself in front of a tolerably wide gap, which could not have been made by accident; but there the young men paused, for Quintus hesitated to trespass on the Empress’s grounds.
The sight which met his eyes was a common one enough to the blunted nerves of the Roman, but Aurelius was deeply moved. A pale, bearded man,[80] young, but with a singularly resolute expression, stood fettered to a wooden post, his back dreadfully lacerated by a stick or lash, while swarms of insects buzzed round his bleeding body.
“Hapless wretch!” cried Aurelius. “What have you done, that you should atone for it so cruelly?”
The slave groaned, glanced up to heaven and said in a choked voice:
“I did my duty.”
“And are men punished in your country for doing their duty?” asked the Batavian frowning, and, unable any longer to control himself, he went straight up to the victim and prepared to release him. The slave’s face lighted up with pleasure.
“I thank you, stranger,” he said with emotion, “but if you were to release me, it would be doing me an ill-turn. Fresh torture would be all that would come of it. Let me be; I have borne the like before now; I have only another hour to hold out. If you feel kindly towards me, go away, leave me! Woe is me if any one sees you here!”
Quintus now came up to him; this really heroic resignation excited his astonishment, nay, his admiration.
“Man,” said he, waving away the swarm of gnats with his hand, “are you a disciple of the Stoa,[81] or yourself a demi-god? Who in the world has taught you thus to contemn pain?”
“My lord,” replied the slave, “many better than I have endured greater suffering.” “Greater suffering—yes, but to greater ends. A Regulus, a Scaevola have suffered for their country; but you—a wretched slave, a grain of sand among millions—you, whose sufferings are of no more account than the death of a trapped jackal—where do you find this indomitable courage? What god has endowed you with such superhuman strength?”
A beatific smile stole over the man’s drawn features.
“The one true God,” he replied with fervent emphasis, “who has pity on the feeble; the all-merciful God, who loves the poor and abject.”
A step was heard approaching.
“Leave me here alone!” the slave implored them. “It is the overseer.”
Quintus and Aurelius withdrew silently, but from the top of the copse they could see a hump-backed figure that came muttering and grumbling up to where the slave was bound, released him presently from the stake and led him away into the gardens. For a minute or two longer the young men lingered under the pavilion and then, lost in thought, returned to the house. Their conversation could not be revived.
The house of Titus Claudius Mucianus, the high-priest of Jupiter, stood at no great distance from the precipitous Capitoline Hill,[125] looking over the Forum Romanum[126] and the Sacred Way.[127] Simple and yet magnificent, it showed in every detail the stamp of that quiet, self-sufficing and confident wealth, that ease of distinction, which is so unattainable to the parvenu.
It was now October. The sun was just appearing above the horizon. There was a motley turmoil in the house of the Flamen; the vast atrium positively swarmed with men. Most of these were professional morning visitors—waiters in the ante-chamber—known also from the gala dress in which they were expected to appear, as “Toga-wearers;” the poor relations of the house, clients and protégés.[128] Still, there were among them not a few persons of distinction, members of the senate and upper-class, court officials and magistrates. It was a scene of indescribable variety and bustle. The world of Rome in miniature. Petitioners from every point of the compass eagerly watched the slaves, on whom their admission depended. Rich farmers, who desired to bring a private offering to Jupiter Capitolinus, sat open-mouthed on the cushioned marble seats, gaping at the handsomely-dressed servants or the splendid wall-paintings and statues. Young knights from the provinces, whose ambition it was to be Tribune of a legion,[129] or to obtain some other honorable appointment, and who hoped for the high-priest’s protection, gazed with deep admiration at the endless series of ancestral images[130] in wax, which adorned the hall in shrines of ebony.
And in fact these portraits were well worthy of study, for they were an epitome of a portion of the history of the world. Those stern, inexorable features were those of Appius Claudius Sabinus, who, as consul, wreaked such fearful justice on his troops. Beside him stood his brother, the haughty patrician, Caius Claudius, knitting his thick brows—an embodiment of the protest of the nobles against the rights contended for by the popular party. There was the keen, eagle face of the infamous Decemvir, the persecutor of Virginia—a villain, but a daring and imperious villain.—Claudius Crassus, the cruel, resolute foe of the plebeians—Appius Claudius Caecus, who made the Appian Way—Claudius Pulcher, the witty sceptic, who flung the sacred fowls into the sea because they warned him of evil—Claudius Cento, the conqueror of Chalcis—Claudius Caesar, and a hundred other world-renowned names of old and modern times. … What an endless chain! And just as they now looked down, head beyond head from their frames, they had been, all without exception, stiff-necked contemners of the people, and staunch defenders of their senatorial privileges. A splendid, defiant and famous race! Even the tattooed native of Britain,[131] who came to offer fine amber chains[132] and broken rings of gold,[133] was sensible of an atmosphere of historic greatness.
One after another—the humbler folks in parties together—the visitors were led from the atrium into the carpeted reception-room, where the master of the house stood to welcome them in robes of dazzling whiteness[134] and wearing his priestly head-gear.[135] He had already dismissed a considerable number of important personages, when a tall officer, stout almost to clumsiness, was announced and at once admitted, interrupting as he did the strict order of succession. This was no less a person than Clodianus, the adjutant of Caesar himself. He came in noisily, embraced and kissed the priest and then, glancing round at the slaves, asked if he might be allowed a few words with Titus Claudius in private. The priest gave a sign; the slaves withdrew into a side room.
“There is no end to it all!” cried Clodianus, throwing himself into a large arm-chair. “Every day brings some fresh annoyance!”
“What am I to hear now?” sighed the high-priest.
“Oh! this time it has nothing to do with the outbreak among the Nazarenes and all the troubles of these last weeks. We can detect here and there extraordinary symptoms, and fabulous rumors … for instance … but, your word of honor that you will be silent … !”
“Can you doubt it?”
“Well, for instance, it sounds incredible … but Parthenius[136] brought it all from Lycoris the fair Gaul. … It is said that this Nazarene craze has seized the very highest personages. … They even name. …”
He stopped and looked round the room, as if he feared to be overheard.
“Well?” said the high-priest.
“They name Titus Flavius Clemens,[137] the Consul. …”
“Folly! a relation of Caesar’s. The man who spreads such a report should be found out and brought to condign punishment. …”
“Folly! that is what I said too! Infernal nonsense. Still the story is characteristic, and proves what the people conceive of as possible. …”
“Patience, patience, noble Clodianus! Things will alter as winter approaches. The wildest torrent may be dammed up. But we are digressing—what new annoyance?”
“Ah! to be sure,” interrupted Clodianus. “Then nothing of it has reached your ears?”
“No one has mentioned anything to me.”
“They dare not.”
“And why?”
“Because your views are well known. They know that you hate the populace—and the populace yesterday achieved a triumph.”
“And in what way?” asked Claudius frowning.
“In the circus.[138] I can tell you, my respected friend, it was a frightful scandal, a real storm in miniature! Caesar turned pale—nay he trembled.”
“Trembled!” cried Claudius indignantly.
“With rage of course,” said Clodianus in palliation. “The thing occurred thus. One of the charioteers[139] of the new party—those that wear purple—drove so magnificently, that Caesar was almost beside himself with delight. By Epona, the tutelary goddess of horses![140] but the fellow drove four horses that cannot be matched in the whole world. Incitatus,[141] old Caligula’s charger, was an ass in comparison, and the names of those splendid steeds are in every one’s mouth to-day like a proverb: Andraemon, Adsertor, Vastator and Passerinus[142]—you hear them in every market and alley; our poets might almost be envious. And the charioteer too, a free Greek in the service of Parthenius the head chamberlain, is a splendid fellow. He stood in his quadriga[143] like Ares rushing into battle. In short it was a stupendous sight, and then he was so far ahead of the rest—I tell you, no one has won by so great a length since Rome was a city. Scorpus[144] is the rascal’s name. Every one was fairly carried away. Caesar, the senators, the knights—all clapped till their hands were sore. Even strangers, the watery-eyed Sarmatians[145] and Hyperboreans[146] shouted with delight.”
“Well?” asked Titus Claudius, as the narrator paused.
“To be sure—the chief point. Well, it was known that Caesar would himself grant the winner some personal favor, and every one gazed at the imperial tribune in the greatest excitement. Caesar ordered the herald to command silence. ‘Scorpus,’ said he, when the uproar was lulled, ‘you have covered yourself with glory. Ask a favor of me,’ and Scorpus bowed his head and demanded in a firm voice, that Domitian should be reconciled to his wife.”
“Audacious!” cried Titus Claudius wrathfully.
“There is better still to come. Hardly had the charioteer spoken, when a thousand voices shouted from every bench: ‘Dost thou hear, oh Caesar? Leave thy intrigue with Julia![147] We want Domitia!’ There was quite a tumult,[148] a scandalous scene that defies description.”
“But what do the people mean? What has so suddenly brought them to make this demand?”
“Oh!” said Clodianus, “I see through the farce. The whole thing is merely a trick on the part of Stephanus, Domitia’s steward. That sly fox wants to regain for his mistress her lost influence. Of course he bribed Scorpus, and the gods alone know how many hundred thousand sesterces the game must have cost him. The spectators’ seats were filled on all sides with bribed wretches, and even among the better classes I saw some who looked to me suspicious.”
“This is bad news,” interrupted the high-priest. “And what answer did Domitian give the people?”
“I am almost afraid to tell you of his decision.”
“His decision could not be doubtful, I should suppose. By giving Scorpus leave to ask what he would, he pledged himself to grant his prayer. But how did he punish the howling mob that stormed around him? I too regret our sovereign’s connection with his niece, but what gives the populace the right to interfere in such matters?”
“You know,” replied the other, “how tenderly these theatre and circus demonstrations have always been dealt with. Domitian, too, thought it prudent to smother his just anger and to show clemency. When the herald had once more restored order, Caesar said in a loud voice: ‘Granted,’ and left his seat. But he was deeply vexed, noble Claudius.”
“Well and then?” asked the Flamen in anxious suspense.
“Well, the matter is so far carried out, that in the secretary’s[149] room to-day an imperial decree was drawn up, calling upon Domitia[150] to return to her rooms on the Palatine, and granting her pardon for all past offences.”
“And Julia?”
“By Hercules!” laughed Clodianus. "With regard to Julia, Caesar made no promises."[151]
“Then I greatly fear, that this reconciliation will only prove the germ of farther complications.”
“Very possibly. It has been the source of annoyance enough to me personally. Caesar is in the worst of humors. Do what you can to soothe him, noble Claudius. We all suffer under it. …”
“I will do all I can,” said the priest with a sigh. Clodianus noisily pushed back his chair. “Domitian is waiting for me,” he said as he jumped up. “Farewell, my illustrious friend. What times we live in now! How different things were only three or four years ago!”
Claudius escorted him to the door with cool formality. The slaves and freedmen now came back again into the room, and ranged themselves silently in the background, and the “nomenclator,” the “namer,” whose duty it was to introduce unknown visitors, came at once to Claudius and said hesitatingly:
“My lord, your son Quintus is waiting in the atrium and craves to be admitted.”
A shade of vexation clouded the high-priest’s brow.
“My son must wait,” he said decisively; “Quintus knows full well, that these morning hours belong neither to myself nor to my family.”
And Quintus, the proud, spoilt and wilful Quintus, was forced to have patience. The Flamen went on calmly receiving his numerous friends, clients and petitioners, who retired from his presence cheerful or hanging their heads, according as they had met with a favorable or an unfavorable reception. Not till the last had vanished was his son admitted to see him.
Quintus had meanwhile conquered his annoyance at the delay he had been compelled to brook, and offered his father his hand with an affectionate gesture; but Titus Claudius took no notice of his son’s advances.
“You are unusually early,” he observed in icy tones, “or perhaps you are but just returning from some cheerful entertainment—so-called.”
“That is the case,” replied Quintus coolly. “I have been at the house of Lucius Norbanus, the prefect of the body-guard. The noble Aurelius was also there,” he added with an ironical smile. “Our excellent friend Aurelius.”
“Do you think to excuse yourself by casting reflections on another? If Aurelius shares your dissipation once or twice a month, I have no objections to raise—I have no wish to deny the right of youth to its pleasures. But you, my son, have made a rule of what ought to be the exception. Since your return from Baiae, you have led a life which is a disgrace alike to yourself and to me.”
Quintus looked at the floor. His respect and his defiant temper were evidently fighting a hard battle.
“You paint it too black, father,” he said at last, in a trembling voice. “I enjoy my life—perhaps too wildly; but I do nothing that can disgrace you or myself. Your words are too hard, father.”
“Well then, I will allow that much; but you, on your part, must allow that the son of the high-priest is to be measured by another standard than the other youths of your own rank.”
“It might be so, if I lived under the same roof with you. But since I am independent and master of my own fortune. …”
“Aye, and that is your misfortune,” the priest interrupted. “Enough, you know my opinion. However, that which caused me to require your presence here to-day, was not your course of life in general. A particular instance of incredible folly has come to my ears; you are playing a wicked and dangerous game, and I sent for you to warn you.”
“Indeed, father, you excite my curiosity.”
“Your curiosity shall at once be satisfied. Is it true that you have been so rash, so audacious, as to address love-songs to Polyhymnia, the Vestal maiden?"[152]
Quintus bit his lip.
“Yes,” he said, “and no. Yes, if you consider the superscription of the verses. No, if you imagine that the poem ever reached her hands.”
The priest paced the room with wide strides.
“Quintus,” he said suddenly: “Do you know what punishment is inflicted on the wretch, who tempts a Vestal virgin to break her vows?”
“I do.”
“You know it!” said the priest with a groan.
“But father,” said Quintus eagerly: “You are branding a jest as a crime. In a merry mood, inspired by wine, I composed a poem in the style of Catullus, and to complete the audacity of it, instead of the name of Lycoris, I placed at the beginning that of our highly-revered Polyhymnia. And now report says—Pah! it is ridiculous! I grant you it was impudent, unbecoming, in the very worst taste if you will, but not calumny itself can say worse of it than that.”
“Well, it certainly sounds less scandalous from that point of view. Quintus, I warn you. Now, if at any time, be on your guard against any deed, any expression, which may be construed as an insult to the religion of the state! Do not trust too much to the influence of my position or of my individuality. The law is mightier than the will of any one man. When what we are now planning takes form and life, severity, inexorable as iron, will decide in all such questions. That reckless jest sprang from a mind, which no longer holds dear the eternal truths of religion. Beware, Quintus, and conceal this indifference; do not come forward as a contemner of the gods. Once more I warn you.”
“Father. …”
“Go now, my son, and ponder on what I have said.”
Quintus bowed and kissed the stern man’s hand. Then he left the room with a quick, firm step, and a look of devoted love, of passionate paternal pride followed him as he crossed the room, so tall, lovely and handsome.
Outside, under the branches of the elm and sycamore-trees, which stretched in long avenues up the Viminal and down again on the farthest side, an ingenious intendant had devised much such an entertainment as in our days would be given under corresponding circumstances. Thousands of colored lamps hung in long festoons from tree to tree. The quaintly-clipped laurel and yew bushes, that stood between the six great avenues, were starred with semicircular lights, and the bronze and marble statues held torches and braziers of flame. The open space between the two centre avenues was screened by an immense curtain of purple stuff, which was fastened to two tall masts and waved mysteriously in the night air, casting strange reflections; to the right and left also a space was enclosed and screened from prying eyes by boards hung with tapestry.
“This promises something delightful,” said Clodianus, addressing Quintus for the first time during the evening. “She is a splendid creature, this Lycoris! Always ready to spend millions for the pleasure of her guests. Did you ever see handsomer hangings? Nero’s enormous velarium[178] was not more costly.”
“Oh! gold is all-powerful!” Quintus said absently. “Listen,” he went on, taking the officer on one side, “quite in confidence.—Is what I heard to-day at the baths of Titus[179] true?—that you had really been to Domitia?”
“As you say.”
“It is true then?”
“And why not? You know what happened in the Circus?”
“Of course; but I thought. …”
“No, there was no help for it this time. I solemnly and formally offered her the hand of reconciliation in Caesar’s name.”
“And Domitia?”
“To-morrow she will return an answer to her husband’s message; but, of course, she is only too ready.”
At this moment the fair Massilian came up to them.
“Quintus, one word with you,” she begged with an engaging smile. “You will excuse him, Clodianus?”
The officer bowed.
“Listen,” said Lycoris, as she drew Quintus away, “you must tell me all you can about your provincial friend. The man is unbearable with his strictness and sobriety, and yet there is something in him—how can I explain it?—something that is wanting in every one of you others without exception; a balance of mind, a steadfast certainty—one may as well give in as soon as he opens his mouth.”
And as she spoke she laid her hand familiarly in the young man’s arm.
“Very true,” he said coldly. “Aurelius is not much like those oiled and perfumed gallants, who think themselves happy to kiss the dust on your sandals. But that boy is waiting to speak to you.”
Lycoris looked round; a young slave, who had slowly followed her, glanced at her significantly.
“Madam,” he said, “everything is ready.”
“Ah?” said the lady. “The actors are ready? Very good; then let the music begin.”
The slave bowed and vanished. Lycoris imperceptibly guided her companion into a thickly overgrown sidewalk.
“We have time to spare,” she said, “and the music sounds much better from here than up there from the terrace. What were we talking about? … oh! the Batavian. … Why did you not bring your strange specimen to my house sooner?”
“Because he has not long been in Rome.”
“In Rome. …” repeated Lycoris vaguely. Her eyes were searching the shrubbery. Then, recollecting herself, she went on talking vivaciously. Thus the couple lost themselves farther and farther in the recesses of the garden; their conversation ceased, and they listened involuntarily to the Dionysiac hymn which reached them in softened tones from the distance. Out here even, in this remote alley, everything was festally illuminated; every leaf, every pebble in the path, shone in many-colored hues. And yet, how deserted, how lonely it was, in spite of the lights! there was something uncanny and ghostly in their doubtful flicker and sparkle. Suddenly Lycoris stood still.
“By the Styx!” she exclaimed. “I have lost my most valuable ring. Not two seconds since I saw it on my finger! Wait, you must have trodden on it; it cannot be twenty paces off and must be lying on the ground.” Before Quintus fairly understood what had happened, she had vanished down a side path. The young man waited. “Lycoris!” he called out presently.
No answer.
He went back to the turning—of Lycoris, not a sign.
“This is strange!” thought he. “What can it mean?”
Suddenly he stood stock-still, for in the middle of the path stood a girlish form, small, but well made and of the sweetest grace. She pressed her finger mysteriously to her rosebud lips, and then made unmistakable signs to the youth that he was to follow her.
“What do you want?” asked Quintus, going up to her.
“Above all things silence,” said the girl. “My errand is to you alone.”
“Speak on then.”
“Nay, not here, noble Quintus; consider a moment—with impenetrable hedges on each side of us! If any one came upon us, how could we escape?”
“And who are you?” asked Quintus with a meaning smile.
“Only a slave—named Polycharma. Will you come with me?”
“Certainly, Polycharma, I follow you.”
About a hundred yards farther on a small circular clearing opened to their right; the entrance to it was decorated with gold-colored festoons. Just before reaching this spot the path became so narrow, that a stout man could hardly pass along it; the wall of yew on each side had overgrown three-quarters of its width. Polycharma drew the folds of her dress more closely round her slim limbs, while the young man pushed aside the branches to the right and left. He looked round once more to see if he could discover Lycoris, but behind him all was silent and deserted. Even the sound of the music was only heard faintly and as if in a dream. Having reached the round plot, the slave girl took a letter out of her bosom. “My lord,” she said, “I must exact a solemn oath from you. …”
“What about?”
“That you will keep my errand an absolute secret, and return me this letter when you have read it.”
“Good, I swear it by Jupiter!”
Polycharma handed him the note; the mere sight of it filled him with a suspicion of its origin. He hastily broke the seal and the silk thread, and by the light of the colored lamps which lighted the place, he read as follows:
“She who is wont only to command, humbles herself to the dust—so terrible is the power of love to change us. The cruel wretch who scorns me—he is the god of my aspirations! Have pity, O Quintus! have pity on the miserable woman, who is dying of love for you. Caesar, my husband, holds out his hand to me in reconciliation. It costs me but one word, and I shall be again, as I have been, the mistress of Rome and sovereign of the world. But behold, beloved Quintus, all this might and all this splendor I will cast from me and go into the remotest banishment without a tear, if you will give me, for one second only, the happy certainty of your love. Crush me, kill me, but ere you kill me say you are mine! Quintus, I await my sentence. At a sign, a glance, from you I reject all reconciliation.”
The young man was stunned; he stared speechless at the letter, which declared in such plain terms a consuming passion. And yet, in spite of the answering emotion which any love—even though it be rejected—must rouse in the recipient, he could not shake off the feeling which he had already experienced at Baiae. A dull, unutterable loathing remained paramount in his soul, and the foppish figure of Paris, the actor, rose clearly before his fancy. Had not the ear of that slave drunk in the same flattering words, as were now intended to intoxicate and ravish him? Miserable, contemptible woman—ah! how differently and how truly beat the proud heart of his Cornelia!
Cornelia!—The thought of her turned the balance finally; Quintus drew a wax tablet out of his bosom and wrote on it:
“I feel and acknowledge the greatness of the sacrifice, which your Highness proposes to make; but, as a true patriot, I must prefer the advantages which will ensue to the state from the reunion of the sovereign couple, even to the duties imposed by gratitude.”
He folded the tablet in the letter, tied it up again and gave it to Polycharma, who swiftly vanished. When her steps were no longer audible, Quintus pressed his hand over his eyes and sat down on a marble bench to reflect. Oh! that sly, intriguing Lycoris! She too, then, was paid by the Empress as well as by Stephanus! Subsidized by both, and a traitoress to both—for so much at any rate was certain: Stephanus knew nothing of this nocturnal meeting. He, the real instigator of the scene in the circus, could evidently have no part in an intrigue, of which the issue would be diametrically opposed to his own efforts.
Sunk in gloomy reflections on these unpleasing details, Quintus sat staring at the ground. Suddenly he heard footsteps, and confused cries were audible in the distance, mingled with the clatter of swords and arms. The next minute two dark figures ran across the entrance to the rotunda, and up the narrow path towards the top of the hill. They were followed by two others, who came less rapidly than the first.
“Leave me, for Christ’s sake, I can go no farther!” groaned a piteous voice, which touched the young man strangely, and at the same time the light of the lamps fell on a pale and suffering face. Quintus recognized the victim he had seen at Baiae tied to the stake.
“Courage, Eurymachus,” whispered his companion, a square, thick-set man who held him stoutly up. “Hang on to my shoulders; a hundred steps farther, and you are safe.” And they disappeared among the shrubbery.
Quintus was not a little bewildered.
“What is going on here?” thought he, rising and quitting the open plot for one of the side paths. “Is this park peopled with demons?”
Again he heard steps and voices, more numerous and wrathful than before. “This way, men! There, up the path between the hedges!”
“Do not let them get away. Ten thousand sesterces to the man, who brings the villains back alive!”
And shouting thus in loud confusion, a party of armed men came in sight, running in breathless haste through the narrow paths. The foremost of them was now standing in front of Quintus.
“Make way, my lord!” he exclaimed in eager hurry: “We are seeking a criminal,” and he tried to push past Quintus.
Strange! but Quintus, the proud and high-born Quintus, suddenly felt an unaccountable impulse to protect and shield the wretched and contemned slave.
“Insolent knave!” he exclaimed in well-feigned indignation: “Would you dare to touch Quintus Claudius?” And seizing the astonished man by the wrist he flung him violently from him. Meanwhile the others had come up. Quintus still barred the way simply by standing there. The band of men looked doubtfully now at the young nobleman, and then at their comrade, who got up, grumbling, from the stones. Thus a precious moment was gained. At last Quintus thought it as well to understand the situation.
“Idiots!” he exclaimed. “Why did you not explain at once what you wanted?—instead of that, you storm and rave like madmen. …” And he stood aside.
The pursuers rushed by him in breathless fury.
“On with you!” he said to himself, as he looked after the armed men. “But unless I have reckoned very badly, the game has this time escaped the hunters.”
Quintus found the company in the greatest excitement; they were standing in agitated knots vehemently discussing something; uncertainty, alarm, and consternation were visible in all. The only man who appeared altogether calm and indifferent was Stephanus, haggard and diplomatically reserved. He was sitting apart, not far from the spot where the avenue by which Quintus returned, opened on to the terrace. A man of athletic build was lying on the ground, bleeding from numerous wounds; in his right hand he held the hilt of a broken sword and his left was pressed in speechless anguish to his breast, where the enemy’s blade had pierced him. Five or six slaves, who had carried him hither, were standing round him with expressive gestures, while Stephanus was making a pitiable abortive attempt to cross-examine the dying man. At about forty paces farther away four slaves, fearfully injured, were lying in their blood. One had had his skull cleft to the neck, and the others were covered with hideous and gaping wounds. All four were dead.
On the spot too, where just now the curtain of gold-tissue had waved, there was the greatest confusion. The curtain[180][181]