A TALE OF SLAVE LIFE IN ROME.
CHAPTER XIV.
In an hour from that time the banqueting hall of the palace was prepared for its guests. Silken couches had been drawn up around the table. Upon it glittered a rich array of gold and silver. Between the dishes stood flasks of rare wines. Upon the buffet near by were other wines cooling in Apennine snow. Tall candelabras in worked and twisted bronze stood at the ends and sides of the table, and stretched overhead their arms hung with lamps. From the walls were suspended other lamps, lighting up the tapestries and frescoes. At one end of the hall, richly scented spices burned upon a tripod. With a readiness and celerity for which the Vanno palace was famous, a feast fit for the emperor had been improvised in a few minutes, and nothing was now wanting except the guests.
These now began to drop in one by one. The poet Emilius—the comedian Bassus—the proconsul Sardesus—others of lesser note; but not one who had not a claim to be present, by reason of intimate acquaintance or else some peculiarly valuable trait of conviviality. In collecting these, the armor bearer had made no mistake; and knowing his master's tastes and intimates, he had made up the roll of guests as discreetly as though their names had been given him. One he had met in the street—others he had found at their homes. None to whom he gave the invitation was backward in accepting it upon the spot, for there were few places in Rome where equal festal gratification could be obtained. To have been called to the house of Sergius Vanno and not to have gone there, was to have lost a day to be forever regretted. None, therefore, who had been spoken to, among that club of congenial spirits, was absent. Of those who did not come, one was sick and two were at their country villas. These, however, were lesser lights, valuable by themselves, perhaps, but of no account in comparison with others who had come; and therefore their absence was scarcely noticed.
Sergius stood at the door receiving his guests as each arrived. He had arrayed himself in his most festive costume, and had evidently resolved that whatever might happen on the morrow, that night at least should be passed in forgetfulness and unbridled enjoyment. Even now his face was flushed with the wine he had taken in anticipation, in the hope of giving an artificial elation to his spirits. But it seemed as though for that time the wine had lost its accustomed charm. Although at each greeting he strove to wreathe his face in smiles, yet it was but a feeble mask, and could not hide the more natural appearances of care and gloom which rested upon his features; and while his voice seemed to retain its old ring of joyous welcome, there was an undertone of sad discordance. As the guests entered and exchanged greetings with their host, each, after the first moment, looked askant at him, with the dim perception that, in some way, he was not as he was wont to be; and so, in a little while, they sank, one by one, into a troubled and apprehensive silence. He, too, upon his part, looked furtively at them, wondering whether they had yet heard the thing that had befallen him. It was but a short time ago, indeed, and yet in how few minutes might the unrestrained gossip of a slave have spread the ill tidings! For the moment, Sergius recoiled from the difficult task of entertainment which he had taken upon himself. Why, indeed, had he called these men around him? How could he sit and pledge them in deep draughts, and all the time suspect that each one knew his secret, and was laughing about it in his sleeve? And if they knew it not, so much the worse, for then he must tell the tale himself. Was it not partly for this purpose that he had assembled them? Far better to speak of it himself—to let them see how little he regarded the misfortune and the scandal—to treat it as a brave jest—to give his own version of it—than to have the matter leak out in the ordinary way, with all conceivable distortions and exaggerations. But how, in fact, could he tell it? Was there one among them who would not, while openly commiserating him, laugh at him in the heart? Did there not now sit before him the lieutenant Plautus, who, only a month before, had met with a like disgrace, and about whom he had composed derisive verses? Would not the lieutenant Plautus now rejoice to make retaliatory odes? Would it not b e better, then, after all, to forbear any mention of the matter, and, letting its announcement take the usual chance course, to devote this night, at least, to unbroken festivity? But what if they already knew it?
Thus wandering in his mind from one debate to another, and ever, in a moment, coming back to his original suspicion, he sat, essaying complimentary speeches and convivial jests, and moodily gazing from face to face, in a vain attempt to read their secret thoughts. He was wrong in his suspicions. Not one of them knew the reason of the burden upon his mind. All, however, perceived that something had occurred to disturb him, and his moody spirit shed its influence around, until the conversation once again flagged, and there was not one of the party who did not wish himself elsewhere. The costliest viands and wines spread out before them were ineffective to produce that festive gayety upon which they had calculated.
'By Parnassus!' exclaimed the poet Emilius, at length, pushing aside his plate of turbot, and draining his goblet 'Are we to sit here, hour after hour, winking and blinking at each other like owls over their mice? Was it merely to eat and drink that we have assembled? Hearken! I will read that to you which will raise your spirits, to a certainty. To-morrow the games and combats commence in the arena of the new amphitheatre. Well; and is it known to you that I am appointed to read a dedicatory ode before the emperor and in honor of that occasion? I will give you a pleasure, now. I will forestall your joy, and let you hear what I have written. And be assured that this is no small compliment to your intelligence, since no eye hath yet looked upon a single verse thereof.'
With that the poet dragged from his breast his silken bundle, and carefully began to unwind the covering.
'You will observe,' he said, as he brought the precious parchment to light, and smoothed it out upon the table before him, 'you will observe that I commence with an invocation to the emperor, whom I call the most illustrious of all the Cæsars, and liken to Jove. I then congratulate the spectators, not only upon the joy of living in his time, but also upon being there to bask in the effulgence of—'
'A truce to such mummery!' cried Sergius, suddenly arousing from his spiritual stupor and bursting into a shrill laugh. 'Do we care to listen to your miserable dactyls? Is it not a standing jest through Rome that, for the past month, you have daily read your verses to one person after another, with the same wretched pretence of exclusive favoritism? And do we not know that no warrant has ever been given to you to recite a single line before the emperor, either in or out of the arena? We are here to revel, not to listen to your stale aphorisms upon death and immortality. Ho, there, more wine! Take off these viands, which already pall upon us! Bring wine-more wine!'