CHAPTER XXI.
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.
CHAPTER XXII.
“Do not be uneasy, Quintus,” Aurelius whispered, as Cneius Afranius dismounted and threw the bridle to his slave. “By all the gods, this man is as trustworthy as you and I are! It would be perfect madness, not to give him an opportunity for an interview with Eurymachus. His fight with Stephanus is in the interest of common humanity, and particularly in that of our protégé.”
“It is all the same; I do not like the business at all.”
“Then, so far as you personally are concerned, you can keep altogether aloof.”
Quintus looked enquiringly at him.
“Why are you so surprised?” Aurelius continued. “It seems to me a very simple matter. I will put myself forward as his protector, and you can play the part of entire innocence. You need not frown, as if I had suggested some cowardly action; if the whole matter ever comes to be known, it will make wonderfully little difference, whether Afranius is in possession of the whole or only of half the truth. You will save yourself nothing but immediate embarrassment. I, for my part, am so perfectly intimate with Afranius, so completely his friend....”
“If you suppose....”
“Only explain the case to your slave, Blepyrus. He must not be implicated. Your best way to avoid difficulties will be not to come on board. I could not even have invited you to come on with me, if I had not felt it a duty to inform you of my intentions.”
Quintus nodded.
“Very good,” he said thoughtfully. “Then tell our friend, Eurymachus, not to mention my name. I, meanwhile, will part from Afranius as though I had business to attend to, and I will wait for you on shore. How long will you remain on board?”
“Twenty minutes. Afranius must get through his examination as quickly as possible.”
This brief dialogue had been carried on in haste and in a whisper. Afranius had been giving instructions to his slave, as to how to treat his hired nag, which was somewhat overtired, and he now joined Quintus, while Aurelius hurried off to the two slaves, who carried, rather than led, Eurymachus. Three words sufficed to explain the situation. The wounded man cast a look of mournful gratitude at his preserver, Quintus, who bowed to him with feigned indifference; then he released Blepyrus, and rested his arm on the Batavian’s shoulder. Blepyrus turned to follow his master, who went off with long strides landwards along the high-street.
By every human calculation the perilous work was now happily finished; all the rest might be considered and carried out at leisure. If Stephanus could be really unmasked in all his villany, they might yet succeed in bending the severity of the law in procuring the fugitive’s return, and in securing him the happiness of a free and independent existence. Quintus drew a deep breath; that would be a worthy end to his bold beginning. He felt that Eurymachus, now that he had seen him again, was far more to him than a high-souled slave. He felt a spiritual sympathy, a sort of ideal friendship for him, like that of a disciple for his master. His last struggle to resist the overpowering urgency of this sentiment had died effete.
After walking about ten minutes, Quintus turned back again, and just as he reached the strand the boat came to shore with Afranius, Aurelius, and the Goth. Eurymachus, then, was safe on board, and if the lawyer’s radiant expression did not belie him, his interview with the fugitive had yielded a rich harvest. As the men stepped on land, he turned eagerly to Aurelius and asked him when the trireme was to start.
“Everything was made ready yesterday,” replied Aurelius. “In five minutes they will be off with all the oars plied.”
He looked across the waters, and raised his right hand to wave a farewell.
“Good-luck go with you!” he said in a low voice, but loud enough for Quintus to hear him. “Greet Trajectum fondly from me.”
In a few minutes the trireme began to move. Slowly at first she made her way through the crowd of merchant and fishing-vessels, which lay at anchor. But the captain’s hammer-strokes beat faster and faster, and the oars dipped deeper and more strongly in the dashing waves. Now, gliding past the jetty at the end of the quay, the trireme was afloat on the open sea, and rode the broad blue waters like a swan. The men still stood gazing after the proud and beautiful vessel—Aurelius, for his part, not altogether without a vague and melancholy homesick feeling. Although he knew, that within a few hours the trireme would turn aside from her course and steer for the roads of Antium, still, the dear north-country and the image of the mother he had left behind him, suddenly seemed brought nearer to him. He had but spoken the name of his home—but it had filled his soul with yearning. He thought of the immediate future.—Ere long he too might be a fugitive, weary and persecuted like Eurymachus, escaping on board that very ship, and thanking the gods if he might only flee unrecognized. And then Rome, and all that it contained of dear and fair, would be closed against him forever. All—Claudia? the thought sank down on his soul like lead. Claudia in Rome, and he hundreds of miles away, with the fearful certainty of never seeing her again! But if she loved him—then indeed...! If she would follow him, as Peponilla[377] had followed her banished husband, amid the ice-hills of Scandia, or on the barren shores of Thule,[378] spring would blossom for him more exquisite than the rose-gardens of Paestum! But what was there to justify his hopes of such immeasurable happiness? She had given him proofs of her friendship, no doubt, and when he was reading the Thebais, or when he spoke to her of his northern home, she had a way of listening—it had often brought light and warmth to his soul like a ray of promise—but then the revulsion had been all the more violent; her greeting would sound distant and measured, her smile would seem cold and haughty. Oh! if only he might have time to conquer this indifference.
But a voice was now calling him to the scene of action, and if that action were to result in failure!—He almost regretted having so unresistingly yielded to the eloquence of Cinna and to his own passionate patriotism—though indeed, as he told himself, his eager passion for Claudia was not the least of the motives that urged him to action, nay, but for that passion he might still have been hesitating. As it was, it had dragged him with the force of a possession into the whirlpool of conspiracy. He longed to stand before her—his chosen love—as a victor over tyranny, as a liberator of the empire, and say to her: “Now, noble heart, I may sue for thy love, for I have a grand advocate in the gratitude of my country.”
All this swept through his mind like a waking dream, as he gazed in silence at the immeasurable sea. Then, coming to himself, and turning round, his eyes met those of Quintus. They were the very eyes—those dear, beautiful, unforgettable eyes—of his loved Claudia, only less sweetly thoughtful, less tenderly dreamy. Suddenly his resolve was taken. As soon as it should be possible, this very day if it might be, he would learn his fate from the woman he loved, and make an end of this miserable uncertainty.
“Was all prepared?” asked Quintus, as Cneius Afranius withdrew to one side and wrote some notes on his tablets.
“All quite ready,” replied Aurelius. “He will be cared for, as if he were my own brother.”
“And what did he tell Afranius?”
“I do not know; they were alone together. Afranius begged to keep it secret, until he had everything ready to complete his case against Stephanus.”
Afranius seemed to be entirely absorbed in thinking over what he had learnt on board the trireme, and Aurelius had to call him twice by name, before he roused him from his reverie.
They were now walking along the quay in the direction previously taken by the chariot The two-wheeled cisium, which had been waiting on the opposite side of the market-place in front of a tavern, followed them with Magus and Blepyrus, while Afranius’ slave led the grey hack and his own mule.
“What a tremendous crowd and bustle!” exclaimed the lawyer. “Not such an emporium as Puteoli, to be sure, but busy enough and not less noisy! Look at that barge with those gigantic blocks of marble—each big enough to fill an average store-room! And there—that is really stupendous!”
He pointed to a spot on the quay, where the crowd was thickest. A crane there stood up, from which a gigantic rhinoceros was hanging in mid-air, supported by broad bands and girths.
“A cargo of beasts for the centennial games,"[379] said Quintus. “There, to the left, are a dozen of iron cages ready to receive them. Half Asia and Africa have been plundered for the amphitheatres.”
They went nearer, for an interest in wild beasts was a natural instinct, in all who had ever breathed the air of Rome. The hum and clatter of the seaport were dully drowned now and again by a hoarse roar—the growl of one of the lions from Gaetulia, restlessly pacing up and down behind the bars of their prison, which had just been landed.
“That is something like a cageful!” said the Batavian.
“The freight of two vessels,” remarked Quintus, glancing at the two large ships, one of which had already unloaded and gone to its moorings. “Our gladiators may pray for good-luck.”
Another deep roar, as wild and hungry as ever resounded through the midnight desert, drowned his voice. They were now within a few paces of the landing-place, and from hence they could command a complete view of the enormous array of cages, loaded on low trucks, which were waiting to be transported to their destination by road. Hyrcanian tigers pressed their glossy striped coats against the iron bars; Cantabrian bears, standing on their hind legs, poked their sharp muzzles between the railings; leopards from Mauritania, hyænas, panthers and lynxes gnashed their blood-thirsty jaws; aurochs and buffaloes whetted their sheathless horns, or stared in lazy indifference on the strange surroundings. There were a few rhinoceroses too, a great rarity at Rome; and some enormous crocodiles, which excited the astonishment and curiosity of the maritime populace. Farther off, fastened together in long rows, were numbers of wild asses from the hills of Numidia, wild horses, giraffes and zebras; for even such beasts as these had their part in the mighty fights in the Flavian amphitheatre.
Quintus and Aurelius lounged idly towards the cages, while Afranius studied the movements of the crane, which was now beginning to lower the grotesque monster. The two young men came to a stand in front of a lion of unusual size, which was snorting at the bars of its cage, and standing in a haughty and threatening attitude, its head and tangled mane held high in the air. It was, in fact, the same beast as had just now sent out that terrific roar. His keeper, leaning against the corner of the cage at a respectful distance, had tried to coax and pacify the brute, and as the two gentlemen approached the cage he respectfully withdrew to one side. The lion watched him as he moved, and then, as he turned his head and perceived the two strangers so close to the bars, he drew back a pace as if startled, bellowed out for the third time his thundering and appalling roar; and blind with fury, rushed at the iron railing.
Quintus and Aurelius smiled and looked at each other—but they had both turned pale at the brute’s unexpected onslaught.
“He seems to have some personal objection to me,” said Quintus. “His fiery glare is steadily fixed on me. My word! but it increases my respect for our gladiators; to stand face to face with such a beast in the arena, must have an unpleasant effect on the nerves. Here we see nature in all its unmitigated ferocity.”
The lion was, in fact, standing with a burning eye fixed on Quintus, as though in him he recognized an old enemy.
“Let us go,” said the young man, frowning. “It is only a dumb, unconscious brute, and I am ashamed to have been so shaken by his mere roar. Aye, blink away, you hairy old villain. Thirty inches of steel between your ribs will reduce even you to silence, and that must be your fate at last, however wildly you may rage and foam over bleeding men first.”
“That is a thorough bad one,” said the negro keeper, who spoke Latin with difficulty. “I have tamed more than fifty; but all trouble is thrown away on this one. He is one of the mountain lions, and his father was a magician. I saw that at once, when the hunters brought him, that black tuft on his forehead shows it plainly.”
And, in fact, a tangled lock of black hair hung from the brute’s mane between his eyes.
“Is it your business to tame lions?” asked Quintus.
“I tame the mildest, and the fierce ones are kept for the fights. I have brought up three tame ones for the centennial games—as high as this—and they do the most wonderful things that have ever been shown in Rome. They take live hares[380] in their jaws and carry them three times round the arena, without even squeezing them.”
But Quintus was not listening; he had turned away. The brute’s scowl, as he kept his glaring eyes fixed on him, filled him with an uneasy feeling. Cneius Afranius appealed to him, too—with a pressing reminder, that a welcome was awaiting him—not to forget the young ladies and his mother in favor of rhinoceroses and giraffes; so they got away from the crowd and back to the high-road, where the chariot was waiting with the slaves.
The venerable Fabulla had received her guests at the garden gate, and had conducted them with repeated effusions of delight and gratitude to her pretty little house, almost hidden among olives and holm oaks, and bowered in ivy and vines. Here the young girls were seated under an autumn-tinted arbor-porch, and helped themselves to the grapes which hung within reach overhead. In front of them, on a round-table of pine-wood, stood a wicker basket of sweet-smelling wheat-bread, a half-emptied bowl of milk, and a dish of apples and pears. Near them lay a distaff, tied round with scarlet ribbons, and a spindle, for Fabulla was never for an instant idle, and spun her yarn even in the presence of such illustrious strangers.
“Children,” said Cneius Afranius, “this is the true Elysium.... The shade, the dull green of the olives, the vine-garlands, the delicious air, the fresh milk—it is superb! But to feel fully equipped for the enjoyment of it all, I must first get rid of all my business; for the present, then, I leave you to your fate. I must drink a cup of this milk—and then farewell. We shall live to meet again! Within an hour I shall be here again.” And with the tragic air of an actor playing the dying Socrates, he took up one of the red clay cups and solemnly lifted it to his lips.
“Stop, stop!” cried the good mistress. “You are taking mistress Lucilia’s cup.”
“Ah!” cried Afranius, replacing the cup he had drained on the table with mock penitence. "Mistress Lucilia will not be too severe, I hope, to forgive the mistake on the ground of my thirst and absence of mind.... Mother, your cows are improving, decidedly improving. Never did this nectar taste so truly Olympian as to-day. Great Pan himself must bless them."[381]
And with these words he quitted them.
When Quintus and Aurelius had also refreshed themselves, they all rose to wander through the garden under Fabulla’s guidance. Quintus and Cornelia led the way, followed by Aurelius and Claudia. The mistress of the house came last with Lucilia, who was in the highest spirits, and never tired of praising the beautiful curly kale and the splendid heads of lettuce, or of singing fantastical rhapsodies in praise of the autumn pears and late figs. She had at once detected the happy pride, with which Fabulla regarded the pretty little estate, a pride which found an unmistakable echo in Afranius’ jesting praises. A strange impulse prompted her to humor this natural vanity, and give the worthy lady, whom she found particularly attractive, a simple and genuine pleasure. At the bottom of her heart agriculture and horticulture were as absolutely indifferent to her as any other form of human industry; but she had a happy gift of throwing herself into sympathy with every sphere of feeling. She spoke with delight of the charms of a country-life, and declared quite seriously, that the noise of the city was irritating and exhausting—an assertion to which her blooming appearance emphatically gave the lie.
Fabulla was perfectly enchanted with the girl’s ways and manners; she had never thought it possible, that so fresh, sweet, and unpretending a creature could come out of Rome—that den of wickedness and perversion—still less out of the house of a Senator, and under the very thunder-bolts, so to speak, of the Capitoline Jupiter. She took the bright, young creature to her heart with all the fervor of a convert; all the more eagerly because Claudia, though beautiful, was somewhat taciturn, and Cornelia, with all her graciousness, was still the unapproachable great lady, mysteriously shut up within an invisible wall against the advances of strangers.
Lucilia was, in fact, absolutely overflowing with amiability and graciousness. When, after a quarter of an hour of wandering, Fabulla explained that she must now go indoors to make some arrangements for their mid-day meal, Lucilia begged to be allowed to make herself of use, and to take the opportunity for seeing the kitchen, the store-rooms, and the slaves’ apartments. Fabulla was enchanted; she pressed a kiss on her new friend’s brow, and said in a tone of melancholy:
“You are just like-my sweet Erotion![382] She was not so pretty as you are, to be sure, nor so elegant, but her eyes were like yours, and she was just as bright, and had the same love for the garden and for house-keeping.—Ah! and such a good heart! How often have I dreamed of future happiness for her when she has come, tired out with play, and sat on my lap and laid her head on my breast. Then she would go to sleep, and I would sing some old song, and sit dreaming and hoping till darkness fell. But the gods would not have it so! A handful of ashes in a marble urn is all that is left me of my sweet little girl.”
She ceased speaking, and wiped her kind, honest eyes with the back of her hand. Lucilia gazed thoughtfully at the ground.
“It is a long time since,” Fabulla added presently. “Twenty-two years next March; but every now and then a feeling comes over me, as if I had lost the dear child only yesterday.”
“Poor mother!” sighed Lucilia.
Fabulla affectionately stroked her thick, waving hair.
“Do not mind me!” she said; “such dismal reflections do not suit well with the gaiety of youth.”
“Mirth and sadness dwell side by side,” replied Lucilia, “and to enjoy what is pleasant and endure what is sorrowful is the only sensible way.”
Then they went on between the box-hedged garden-beds.
The two couples meanwhile had wandered apart. Quintus and Cornelia were sitting at the farthest side of the orchard, on a rough stone bench in the deepest shade of the fruit trees, while Aurelius and Claudia remained meditatively pacing up and down the main walk.
“How happy I feel!” said Cornelia. “Quintus, my dear love, what more has the world to offer us? If it will only leave us undisturbed, so that we may enjoy the gifts of the gods in peace! But you are very silent, my dearest; must I wake you from your dreams with a kiss? Has happiness struck you dumb? Only think—before the year is out I shall be your wife! Yes, your wife; and I may call you my own forever. I need never give you up again, as I must now, when every hour of happiness ends in a parting.”
She clung fondly to him, and looked into his face with radiant devotion. Her eyes glowed with feeling, and the fair marble of her throat and arms gleamed so softly bright, that Quintus, overcome by the inspiration of the moment, clasped her passionately in his arms, and their lips met in a long and eager kiss.
“Cornelia—fairest and dearest of mortal creatures!” he whispered tenderly, as she released herself, “you draw the very soul out of my body with your perfect, heaven-sent love! Oh! my sweetheart, I too can picture no purer or more noble delight, than that of living one in spirit and hope with you. Aye, Cornelia, I am weary of the bustle of this fevered world, of the vacuous comedy of ambition, of dominion, of all this parcel-gilt vulgarity. I long for rest and solitude in a peaceful home. I ask no splendor, no pomp of triumphs, nor lictors with their fasces. I only want to be at peace with myself—I only seek that glorious harmony, which reconciles all the discords of life. And that peace, that respite and rest, I hope to find with you, my sweetest Cornelia.”
“My whole being, body and soul, are yours,” replied Cornelia. “Do what you will with me. If love can bring peace, your hopes must certainly be fulfilled. But tell me, my dearest, do you really so utterly contemn fame and glory? Will you never make any effort to attain what, merely as a Claudian, you must desire: the triumph of an immortal name? Are peace and the joys of love so absolutely antagonistic to the winning of laurels? Do not yet abandon the post, where the gods have placed you. Be all they have created you to be: a son of that glorious race, which, not so long ago, gave us an Emperor! You know me well, my dearest; you know I would worship you still, even if the Fates deprived you of all—everything; if you were a fugitive, a beggar, scorned, hated, I am still and forever yours. But, as it is, you are rich and noble, and why should I deny, that fame and pomp and splendor have a charm for me? Even the outward gifts of fortune are bestowed by the gods, and the best thanks we can offer is to enjoy.”
“Nay, do not misunderstand me, sweet soul! I do not wish to retire into the desert like an eastern penitent, nor to fling away the last drinking-cup like the philosopher of Sinope.[383] It is only empty and fruitless activity that I long to escape, the mad whirl of a life which swallows men up to the very last fibre, and leaves them not a second for reflection. It is only from afar, that you know that heart and brain-consuming turmoil. Cinna is one of those who contemn it, and you have grown up under his roof. But I see it close, and I shudder at the sight. Is it worth while to have lived at all, when our last hour only cuts the thread of a tissue of follies? To what end this hollow, noisy and bewildering drama? There would be more consolation and refreshment in studying the inside of an ant-hill.”
“You are so serious,” said Cornelia. “What can be the matter with you? You used to say things like this, but only as a man out of conceit with his surroundings. And now you look so strange, so mysterious....”
“You are right, dear heart; I am too grave for so sweet an-hour. Forgive me, my darling. In time you will know better what it is, that I ... I cannot explain to you at present.”
And he drew her once more to his breast, and kissed her passionately.
Aurelius and Claudia had behaved with far greater coolness and propriety. Behind this moderation, it is true, lurked an unrest which now and again betrayed itself in small details. As the Batavian, by way of opening the conversation, tried to paint the particular beauties of the autumn season, a faint flush mounted to his brow, and Claudia made some observations on the noble dimensions of three pumpkins in a voice that trembled, as though she were craving some favor from Caesar. Both were in that mood of self-conscious confusion, which is peculiar to lovers in anticipation of an important explanation. And Claudia was still more obviously embarrassed, when Caius Aurelius observed that such gourds grew at Trajectum too.
“It might happen,” he went on after a pause, “that circumstances might require me to return home sooner, than I at first intended....”
Claudia pulled the leaves off an olive-branch.
“That would be a pity,” she said in a constrained tone. Then she colored, and went on eagerly: “For, in fact, many interesting features of our metropolis are still unknown to you.”
“Oh,” replied Aurelius, “I am not particularly devoted to seeing features of interest. What I far more regret, is taking leave of so many excellent friends, so many hospitable houses where I have passed hours of delightful intercourse, and heard so many noble ideas....”
“Ah, yes, of course,” said Claudia, breaking the olive-twig into little pieces. The Batavian sighed.
“Above all,” he went on, “I can never forget how kindly your illustrious father received me....”
“Oh!” exclaimed Claudia.
“And your mother.... You cannot imagine how deeply I reverence that noble matron, how grateful I am to her for allowing me daily admission and intimacy in her house. Ah! sweet mistress, how happy I have been in that family circle! Your brother, I may venture to believe, has become my best and truest friend; even Lucilia, who generally is so severely critical, has not been unkind to me.... You may laugh at me, but I swear to you, that when I am forced to leave I shall leave a piece of my heart behind!”
Claudia looked down and walked on in silence, her hand shook.
“Madam,” the young man went on, and his voice trembled with agitation, “when I am gone—forever, when miles of land and sea divide us—will you sometimes think with kindness of the stranger....? Will you recall the hour in which we met, our happy days at Baiae, and this blissful time in Rome...?”
“Indeed I shall,” Claudia murmured almost inaudibly.
They had now reached the southern end of the broad walk, where a brick wall was visible through a screen of shrubs; the patches of light, which the sun cast on the gravel through the leaves, were visibly aslant to the left, and the observation struck Aurelius to the heart; from the register afforded by this natural time-keeper, he perceived that the best of the day had slipped by unused. He was suddenly seized with a kind of panic: these rays of light symbolized his happiness. It was escaping him, vanishing fast—he must lose it, if he did not then and there find some spell to command and keep it.
He stood still.
“Listen!” he said with an effort. “I cannot help it.... Before I go, I must ask you a question. I almost feel as though I could foresee the answer.—It is all the same, I must speak. Only one thing I would beg beforehand: Do not laugh at my blind self-deceit. You know me—I am neither highly gifted nor of noble birth, but I have a faithful nature and a heart full of never-failing devotion—and you are the object of that devotion. Therefore I must ask: could you bear to make up your mind to be my wife? I ask no promise, Claudia, no binding vows—only a word to give me hope, a single word of comfort and encouragement. If you can, oh Claudia, speak it! If you cannot, at any rate I shall be free from the anguish of uncertainty.”
Claudia had listened to him in rigid silence, but as he ended, she gave him her hand—looked up in his face—and smiled through her tears. Aurelius stood in speechless surprise; he tried to speak, but in vain. This transcendent happiness seemed to have paralyzed his powers.
“You dear, foolish man,” said Claudia with glowing cheeks. “What have I done, that you should put a poor girl like me to the blush? I, who have looked up to you in all humility....”
“Claudia!” cried the Batavian, trembling with rapture. “Am I not cheated by a dream? You—mine? I am delirious—raving.”
“Nay, it is the truth. I am yours now and till death.”
“Quintus, Claudia, Cornelia,” shouted a clear, girlish voice, “are you playing at hide-and-seek? or has some tricky god turned you all into trees? Come forth, Fauns[384] and Dryads![385] The couches are ready in the triclinium, and a banquet is prepared, that is worthy of Olympus.”
Aurelius did not seem particularly interested in the information. How gladly would he have dreamed away the remainder of the day out here under the verdurous shade! But society asserts its rights, and love, particularly when it is a secret, must early learn to take patience.
“Let us be prudent and say nothing of this,” said Claudia as they went in. “My father has certain schemes in his head, as perhaps you know—he has not spoken out about them as yet, but Lucilia told me she was sure of it, and Lucilia has eyes like a Pannonian lynx.[386] Sextus Furius, the senator—you know him—wants, they say, to make me his wife, and my father is not averse to it. We shall have a fight for it, dear Caius....”
“And you say it as calmly....”
“Shall I worry beforehand over things I cannot prevent? But I will do my utmost to win my father over. He is stern, but he loves me, and for his daughter’s happiness he would make a sacrifice—a sacrifice I say advisedly, for you know how strictly he adheres to his principles, and one of his principles is a prejudice against the class of knights....”
“And if your hopes deceive you—if all is in vain?”
“Then I remember that the old saying: ‘Where you, Caius, are, there will I, Caia, be’[387] is a pledge no less sacred than obedience to parents; and I too am of the race of Claudius!”
They had reached the open plot in front of the house, where Cneius Afranius was standing with Lucilia and his mother, cutting ripe grapes into a basket with a sharp knife. Dressed in a flowered tunic, the city lawyer was humming the air of a Gaulish popular song; every now and then he interrupted himself with a cry of surprise at the huge size of the grapes, or a jesting word to the young girl, and all the time his jolly pleasant face, ruddy with the exertion and with the October sun, shone like a living tribute to Bacchus.
“There!” he exclaimed, as Quintus and Cornelia also appeared upon the scene, “now, a few leaves, and men Zeuxis[388] himself could not paint a prettier picture! Aha! here are our peripatetic[389] philosophers! Come along, our country dining-room is quite ready! Come, Quintus, and see if Fabulla’s spelt porridge and cabbage sprouts[390] are to your liking; I am credibly informed too, that there is a fish salad with chopped eggs and leeks. Such a cybium[391] as my mother makes, you have never tasted. Even the great Euphemus, with all his art, must yield to that triumph of culinary skill. Walk in, most worshipful company, walk in, for here too the gods abide!”