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Title: Quintus Claudius: A Romance of Imperial Rome. Volume 1

Author: Ernst Eckstein

Translator: Clara Bell

Release date: October 29, 2014 [eBook #47221]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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Transcriber’s Note

Errors and inconsistencies in punctuation have been attributed to printer’s errors, and
corrected.
The Greek circumflex, which appears in the text as an inverted breve (^), is rendered here
using a tilde (~).
Please note the publisher’s decision to place footnotes at the bottom of each page, as
well as the author’s note on this topic in the Preface. In keeping with his intent, footnotes
have been moved to the end of this file.
The cover image has been modified to include the volume number, and is placed in the
public domain.
Please consult the notes at the bottom of this text for more details on the handling of
textual issues.

WORKS
BY
ERNST ECKSTEIN.
CYPARISSUS. From the German by Mary J. Safford. One
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QUINTUS CLAUDIUS. From the German by Clara Bell.
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APHRODITE. From the German by Mary J. Safford. One
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ECKSTEIN’S ROMANCES,
12 volumes, cloth binding, in box, $9.50

Quintus Claudius
A ROMANCE OF IMPERIAL ROME
BY

ERNST ECKSTEIN

From the German by Clara Bell

IN TWO VOLUMES—VOL. I.
REVISED AND CORRECTED IN THE UNITED STATES

NEW YORK

GEO. GOTTSBERGER PECK, Publisher

117 CHAMBERS STREET
Copyright, 1882, by William S. Gottsberger

THIS TRANSLATION WAS MADE EXPRESSLY FOR THE PUBLISHER

PREFACE
TO THE FIRST GERMAN EDITION.
It was in Rome itself, in the sublime solemnity of the Colosseum, among
the ruins of the palaces of the Caesars and crumbling pillars of the temples
of the gods, that the first dreamy outlines rose before my fancy of the
figures here offered to the reader’s contemplation. Each visit added strength
to the mysterious impulse, to conjure up from their tombs these shadows of
a mighty past, and afterwards, at home, where the throng of impressions
sorted and grouped themselves at leisure, my impulse ripened to fulfilment.
I will not pause here to dwell on the fact, that the period of Imperial rule in
Rome bears, in its whole aspect, a stronger resemblance to the XIXth
century than perhaps any other epoch before the Reformation; for, without
reference to this internal affinity, we should be justified in using it for the
purpose of Romance simply by the fact, that hardly another period has ever
been equally full of the stirring conflict of purely human interest, and of
dramatic contrasts in thought, feeling and purpose.
I must be permitted to add a word as to the notes.[A]
I purposely avoided disturbing the reader of the story by references in the
text, and indeed the narrative is perfectly intelligible without any
explanation. The notes, in short, are not intended as explanatory, but merely
to instruct the reader, and complete the picture; they also supply the
sources, and give the evidence on which I have drawn. From this point of
view they may have some interest for the general public, unfamiliar with
the authorities.
Leipzig, June 15, 1881.
ERNST ECKSTEIN.

[A] The publisher of this translation has, for the reader’s convenience, placed all
the notes at the foot of the pages containing the corresponding text.

QUINTUS CLAUDIUS.

CHAPTER I.
It was the morning of the 12th of September in the Year of Our Lord 95; the
first cold gleam of dawn was shining on the steel-grey surface of the
Tyrrhenian sea. To the east, over the gently undulating coast of Campania,
the sky was tinged with that tender dewy-green which follows on the paling
of the stars; to the west the waters still lay in impenetrable darkness. Their
almost unruffled face was swiftly parted by a large trireme,[1] just now
making its way from the south and opposite to Salernum, between the
Posidium[2] promontory and the Island of Capreae.[3] The oars of the crew,
who sat in rows on three ranks of benches, rose and fell in rhythm to a
melancholy chant; the steersman yawned as he looked into the distance,
hoping for the moment of release.
A small hatchway—fitted with silver ornaments—now opened on to the
deck from the cabin between decks; a fat round head with short hair showed
itself in the opening, and a pair of blinking eyes looked curiously round in
every direction. Presently the head was followed by a body, of which the
squat rotundity matched the odd head.
“Well, Chrysostomus, is Puteoli[4] in sight yet?” asked the stout man,
stepping on to the deck and looking across to the blue-black rocks of
Capreae.
“Ask again in three hours time,” replied the steersman. “Unless you can
succeed in looking round the corner, like the magician of Tyana,[5] you must
need wait till we have the island yonder behind us.”
“What!” exclaimed the other, drawing a little ivory map[6] from his tunic.[7]
“Are those rocks only Capreae?”
“Thou sayest, O Herodianus! Out there on the heights to the right, hardly
visible yet, stands the palace of the glorified Caesar Tiberius.[8] Do you see
that steep cliff, straight down to the sea? That was where such useless
fellows as you were dropped over into the water by Caesar’s slaves.”

“Chrysostomus, do not be impudent! How dare you, a common ship’s-mate,
make so bold as to scoff at me, the companion and confidential friend of the
illustrious Caius Aurelius? By the gods![9] but it is beneath me to hold
conversation with you, an ignorant seaman—a man who carries no wax-
tablets[10] about him, who only knows how to handle the tiller and not the
stylus—a common Gaul who is ignorant of all history of the gods—such a
man ought not even to exist, so far as the friend of Aurelius is concerned.”
“Oho! you are dreaming! you are not his friend, but his freedman."[11]
Herodianus bit his lip; as he stood there, his face flushed with anger and
turned to the growing day, he might have been taken for an ill-natured and
vindictive man. But good temper and a genial nature soon reasserted
themselves.
“You are an insolent fellow,” he said laughing, "but I know you mean no
harm. You sea-folks are a rough race. I will burn a thank-offering to all the
gods when this accursed sea-saw on the waves is over at last. Was there
ever such a voyage! from Trajectum[12] to Gades[13] without landing once!
And at Gades hardly had we set foot on shore, when we were ordered on
board again! And if Aurelius, our noble master, had not had business to
settle in Panormus[14] with his deceased father’s host, I believe we should
have made the whole voyage from Hispania to Rome without a break. I will
dance like the Corybantes,[15] when I am once more allowed to feel like a
man among men! How long will it be yet before we reach Ostia?”[16]
“Two days, not more,” replied Chrysostomus.
“Aphrodite Euploia be most fervently thanked!”
“What are you talking about? Who is that you are blessing?”
“To be sure, my good Chrysostomus,” replied the other with a triumphant
smile, “I was forgetting that a seaman from the land of the Gauls is not
likely to understand Greek. Euploia, being interpreted, means the goddess
who grants us a good voyage. Do not take my observation ill, but surely
you might have picked up so much Greek as that in the course of your many
voyages with the lamented father of our lord Aurelius.”

“Silly stuff!” retorted Chrysostomus. “Besides, I never sailed in the Greek
seas. Ten times to Ostia, eight times to Massilia,[17] twelve times to
Panormus and a score of times northwards to the seas of the Goths up by
the land of the Rugii[18]—that is the sum total of my annals. But Latin is
spoken everywhere; even the Frisii[19] can make themselves understood
more or less in the language of Rome; among the Rugii, to be sure, we
talked in Gothic.”
“A poor excuse!” said Herodianus pathetically. “However I have talked till I
am thirsty! I will be on the spot again when the master appears.”
He carefully replaced his little ivory map in the bosom of his under-
garment, and was about to withdraw, when a tall youth, followed by two or
three slaves, appeared on the steps from below. The ship’s crew hailed their
master with a loud shout, and Caius Aurelius, thanking them for their
greeting, went forward while the slaves prepared breakfast[20] under an
awning over the cabin roof; only one of them followed him.
It was by this time broad daylight; the whole eastern sky glowed with flame
behind the blue Campanian hills, a light breeze curled the no less glowing
sea into a thousand waves and ripples, and the prow of the galley, which
was decorated with a colossal ram’s-head[21] in brass, threw up the water in
sparks of liquid gold. The palace of Tiberius on the top of the rocky isle
seemed caught in sudden fire, at every instant the glory spread lower,
kindling fresh peaks and towers, and up rose the sun in all the majesty and
splendor of his southern might from behind the heights of Salernum.
Herodianus, who had taken his place officiously close to his master,
appeared to promise himself immense satisfaction in interpreting the young
man’s mood of devout admiration by a long quotation of Greek poetry. He
had already thrown himself into a pathetic attitude and laid his finger
meditatively on his cheek, when Aurelius signed to him that he wished to be
left undisturbed. The freedman, somewhat offended, drew back a step or
two while Aurelius, standing by the side of his favorite slave Magus,[22]
who preserved a discreet silence, leaned over the bulwark for a long space
lost in thought, letting his eye wander over the open sea and linger for a
while on the fantastic shapes of the rocks and mountains, which constantly
shifted in form and grouping as the swift galley flew onwards.

Capreae was already on their right hand, and the broad bay of Parthenope,
[23] with its endless perspective of towns and villas, opened before them like
a huge pearly shell; the dark ashy cone of Vesuvius[24] stood up defiantly
over the plain where, a short time since, it had engulfed the blooming towns
of Herculaneum, Pompeii and Stabiae. Now there rose from its summit only
a filmy cloud of smoke, ruddy in the light of the mounting sun. Farther on,
the quays of Puteoli were discernible, the stately buildings of Baiae[25] and
the islands of Aenaria and Prochyta.[26] On the left hand the distance was
unlimited; vessels laden with provisions from Alexandria[27] and merchant-
ships from Massilia slowly crossed the horizon like visions; others, with
every sail set, flew across the bay to disembark their precious freight in the
emporium of Puteoli, whence it would be carried to lay at the feet of Rome,
the all-absorbing and insatiable mistress of the world.
Meanwhile the slaves had laid the table under the awning with fine cloths,
had arranged couches and seats and strewn the spot with a few flowers, and
were now standing ready to serve the morning meal at a sign from their
young master. The weary night-rowers had half an hour ago been relieved
by a fresh crew, and the fine boat flew on with double rapidity, for a fresh
breeze had risen and filled the sails. In an instant the whole face of the
waters had changed, and as far as the eye could reach danced crest on crest
of foam.
Aurelius wrapped himself more closely in his Tarentine travelling-cloak[28]
and involuntarily glanced at Magus, the Gothic slave who stood by his side;
but Magus did not seem to see his master’s look, he was gazing motionless
and with knitted brows in the direction of Baiae. Then he shaded his eyes
from the glare with his right hand.
“Hva gasaihvis.[29] What do you see?” asked Aurelius, who sometimes
spoke in Gothic to the man.
“Gasaihva leitil skipκύβιον,” answered the Goth. “A little boat out there not
far from the point. If it is the same in your southern seas, as in our northern
ones, these good folks would be wise to get their cockleshell to shore as fast
as may be. When the sea is covered with eider-down in such a short time, it
generally means mischief.”

“You have eyes like a northern sea-eagle. It is indeed, a small boat, hardly
visible among the tossing waves, it cannot have more than eight oarsmen at
most.”
“There are but four, my lord,” said the Goth. “And with them three ladies.”
The wind was rising every instant; the trireme parted the water like an
arrow, and the prow, now rising and now sinking on the billows, dipped in
them far above the large metal ornaments.
“It may indeed be a serious matter,” said Aurelius; “not for us—it must be
something worse than this that puts the proud ‘Batavia’[30] in peril—but for
the ladies in that little bark....”
He turned round. “Amsivarius,” he cried to the head oarsman. “Tell your
men to give way with a will; and you, Magus, go and desire Chrysostomus
to alter our course.”
In a few seconds the vessel’s head was turned round a quarter of a circle
and was making her way straight into the bay. The accelerated thud of the
time-keeper’s hammer sounded a dull accompaniment to the piping wind;
the sea surged and tossed, and the deep-blue sky, where there still was not a
cloud to be seen, beamed incongruously bright over the stormy main. They
were now within a hundred yards of the small boat, which was one of the
elegant pleasure-barks used by the gay visitors to Baiae for short excursions
in the bay. As the trireme came up with them, the rowers gave up their futile
struggle with the raging elements and only tried to avoid being capsized.
The ladies, it could be seen were much agitated; two of them, a richly-
dressed woman of about forty and a young and blooming girl sat clinging to
each other, while the third, tumbled into a heap at the bottom of the boat,
held an amulet[31] in her hand, which she again and again pressed fervently
to her lips.
Aurelius gave a shout from the trireme, which the boatmen eagerly
answered, and a sailor on board the Batavia flung a rope with a practised
hand to the fore[Pg 15]most of the men in the smaller vessel—the slave
hastily tied it fast and cried out “ready,” the sailor pulled firmly and
steadily, the rope stretched taut, the little boat came on and in a few minutes
lay under the lee of the galley like a fish judiciously hooked and landed. In

two minutes more it was fast to the side of the trireme, and the ladies and
the crew were placed in safety.
Aurelius, leaning against the stern-bulwark, had watched the proceedings
with anxious interest and now, as the ladies, exhausted by the tossing they
had had, sank on to the couches under the canopy, he politely went forward
and invited his unexpected visitors to go down into the more sheltered cabin
rooms of the trireme. The younger lady rose at once, and with a dignified
eagerness expressed their thanks. Nor was it long before the elder had quite
recovered herself; only the old woman who held the amulet hid her pale
face in the pillows as if she were stunned, while she trembled and quaked in
every limb.
“Come, stand up, Baucis,” said the young girl kindly. “The danger is over.”
“Merciful Isis[32] save and defend us!” groaned the old woman, turning the
amulet in her fingers. “Preserve us from sudden death and deliver us in
danger! I will offer thee a waxen ship,[33] and sacrifice lambs and fruits as
much as thou canst desire!”
“Oh, you superstitious simpleton!” said the girl in her ear. “How am I to
bring you to your senses? Pray rather to the almighty Jupiter, that he may
enlighten your ignorance! But come now—the noble stranger who has
taken us on board his ship is growing impatient.”
A shrill cry was the only answer, for the vessel had given a sudden lurch
and the old woman, who was sitting with her legs under her on the couch,
was thrown off somewhat roughly.
“Oh, Isis of a thousand names!” she whimpered piteously. “That has cost
me two or three ribs at least and a score of weeks on a sick-bed! Barbillus—
you false priest—is that all the good your amulet is? Was it for this that I
had my forehead sprinkled with water out of the sacred Nile,[34] and paid
fifty sesterces[35] for each sprinkling? Was it for this that I laid fresh bread
on the altars? Oh woe is me, what pain I am in!”
While she was thus besieging heaven with complaints, Magus the Goth had
with a strong hand picked up the little woman and set her on her feet.

“There, leave off crying, mother,” said he good-humoredly. “Roman bones
are not so easily broken! But make haste and get below; the storm is
increasing fast. See, my master is leading your ladies down now.” And as
Baucis gave no sign of acting on the slave’s advice, she suddenly found
herself lifted up like a feather in his strong and sinewy arms and carried to
the hatchway, to the great amusement of the bystanders.
“Madam,” said Aurelius to the elder lady, when his guests were snugly
under shelter in the eating-room, “I am a Roman knight[36] from the town of
Trajectum in Batavia, far north of this, not far from the frontier of the
Belgae. My name is Caius Aurelius Menapius, and I am on my way to
Rome as being the centre of the inhabited world, in order to improve and
extend my knowledge and perhaps to serve my mother-country. May I
venture now to ask you and your fair companion, to tell me who you are
that kind fortune has thus thrown in my way?”
"My lord,"[37] said the matron, with a gravity that was almost solemn, “we
can boast of senatorial rank. I am Octavia, the wife of Titus Claudius
Mucianus,[38] the priest of Jupiter, and this is our daughter. We have been
staying at Baiae since the end of April for the sake of my health. The sea-
air, the aromatic breath of the woods and the delightful quiet of our country-
house, which is somewhat secluded, soon restored my strength, and I take a
particular pleasure in morning excursions on the bay. We started to-day in
lovely weather to sail as far as Prochyta; then the storm overtook us, as you
know, at some distance from the shore, and we owe it to you and to your
good ship, that we are so well out of the danger. Accept once more our
warmest thanks, and pray give us the opportunity of returning in our villa at
Baiae the hospitality you have shown us on board your galley.”
“With the greatest pleasure,” said Aurelius eagerly, “and all the more so, as
I purposed remaining to rest at Baiae—” but he colored as he spoke, for this
was not the truth—he looked round in some embarrassment at Magus, who
was standing humbly in a corner of the room and preparing to serve some
refreshment. The eyes of the master and the slave met, and the master
colored more deeply, while the slave laughed to himself with a certain
satisfaction. Two other servants placed seats round the table in the old
Roman fashion, for the custom of lying on a couch at meals was by no

means universal in the provinces, and Aurelius knew that even in Rome
women of high rank and strict conduct contemned this luxurious habit.
The rocking of the vessel had ceased, for it had been steered into a sheltered
cove of the bay, and before long a tempting breakfast was spread on the
embroidered cloth; fish, milk, honey, eggs, fruit and a dish of boiled cray-
fish, of which the scarlet mail contrasted picturesquely with the artistically-
embossed silver-platter on which they were served.
Aurelius begged his guests to be seated and led Octavia to the seat of honor
at the upper end of the table. On her left hand her daughter, the fair Claudia,
took her seat; Aurelius sat on the other hand and at the side of the table.
Herodianus and Baucis, who was still very much discomposed, took their
places at the other end of the table and at a respectful distance.
“You must take what little I can offer you, ladies,” said the Batavian. “We
Northmen are plain folks....”
“You are joking!” interrupted Octavia. "Do you imagine, that all the
inhabitants of the imperial city are gourmands after the fashion of Gavius
Apicius?"[39]
“Well,” said Aurelius in some confusion, “we know at any rate that Rome is
the acknowledged mistress of all the arts of refined enjoyment, and above
all of the most extravagant luxury in food....”
“Not half so much so as you believe,” said Octavia. “You gentlemen from
the provinces fall, without exception, into that strange mistake. A Roman
lady in the same way is to you the type of all that is atrocious, because a
few reckless women have made themselves talked about. You forget that it
is in the very nature of virtue to remain concealed and ignored. But tell me,
my lord, whence do you procure this delicious honey?”
“It comes from Hymettus,"[40] replied Aurelius, who was somewhat
disconcerted by the lady’s airs and manners. “My friend here, the worthy
Herodianus, procured it at Panormus.”
“Ah!” said Octavia, raising a polished emerald[41] mounted in gold to her
eye, for she was short-sighted: “Your friend understands the subject, that I
must confess—do you not think so, Claudia my love?”

The young lady answered with vague abstraction, for some minutes she had
sat lost in thought. She had hardly touched the delicacies that had been set
before her, and she now silently waved a refusal to the slave who offered
the much-praised honey. Even the vigorous struggle in which Herodianus
was engaged with an enormous lobster[42] failed to bring a smile to her lips,
and yet her expression had never been brighter or more radiant. Once and
again her eyes rested on the face of the young Batavian, who was engaged
in such eager conversation with her mother, and then they returned to the
loop-hole in the cabin roof, where the pane of crystal[43] shone like a
diamond in the sunshine.
Octavia was talking of Rome, while Herodianus entertained Baucis with an
account of Menander’s[44] comedies; thus Claudia could pursue her day-
dream at her pleasure. She was in fancy again living through the events of
the last hour—she pictured herself in the small open boat tossed on the
angry waves; far away across the seething waters she saw the tall trireme—
saw it tack to enter the bay. It was all vividly before her. And then the
moment when the slave flung the rescuing rope! who was the man who
stood, calm and proud, leaning over the bulwarks, undisturbed by the wrath
of Nature? She remembered exactly how he had looked—how at the sight
of that noble figure, which seemed as though it could rule the storm, a
sudden sense of safety had come over her, like a magical spell. Then, when
she found herself on board! At first she had felt ready to sob and cry like
Baucis; but the sound of his voice, the wonderful look of gentle strength
that shone in his face, controlled her to composure. Only once in her life
had she ever felt like this before; it was two or three years since, when she
was out on an excursion to Tibur[45] with her illustrious father. Their
Cappadocian horses[46] had shied, reared, and then galloped off like the
whirlwind. The driver was flung from his seat—the chariot was being torn
along close to the edge of a towering cliff—her father had seized the
floating reins just in time, and quietly saying: “Do not be frightened, my
child,” in five seconds the horses were standing still as if rooted to the spot.
The feeling she had had then, had to-day been vividly revived—and yet,
how dissimilar were the two men in age, appearance and position!—It was
strange. And once more she glanced at the face of their host, which was
glowing with animation as he talked.

Suddenly the head oarsman’s time-marking hammer ceased; the bright spot
of light cast by the sun through the glass skylight on to the panelled wall,
described a brief orbit and then vanished; the vessel had swung round and
was at anchor.
“Madam,” said Aurelius to Octavia, “allow me to offer you my services. We
Northmen rarely use litters,[47] still—on the principle that a wise man
should be ready for all emergencies—Herodianus has provided my galley
with that convenience.”
“And the litters are already awaiting your commands on deck,” added the
freedman.
“You have surpassed yourself, Herodianus! Well, then, whenever it is your
pleasure....”
“Then it is settled,” said Octavia, going to the door. “For a few days you
will be my guest.”
“For as long as you will allow,” Aurelius would have said; but he thought
better of it and only bowed in answer.

CHAPTER II.
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.

CHAPTER III.
The second serious meal of the day, the coena[82] or supper had begun; the
party had betaken themselves to the cavaedium,[83] where it was now
beginning to grow dusk. This airy colonnade—the handsomest portion
perhaps, of an old Roman house—was here very pleasingly decorated with
flowers and plants of ornamental foliage. The arcades, which surrounded
the open space in the middle, were green with ivy, while an emerald grass-
plot, with cypresses and laurels, magnolias in full bloom, pomegranates and
roses, filled up half the quadrangle. Twelve statues of bronze gilt served to
hold lamps, and a fountain tossed its sparkling jet as high as the tallest trees.
For some time the party sat chatting in the dusk; then two slaves came in
with torches and lighted the lamps of the twelve statues; two others lighted
up the arcades so that the painted walls and their purplish backgrounds were
visible far across the court-yard. A flute-player from Cumae now played to
them in a tender mode; she stood in the entrance, dressed in the Greek
fashion, with her abundant hair gathered into a knot and her slender fingers
gliding up and down the stops of the instrument. Her features were sweet
and pleasing, her manner soft and harmonious; only from time to time a
strange expression of weariness and absence of mind passed over her face.
When she had done playing, she was conducted by Baucis to the back gate.
She took the piece of silver which she received in payment with an air of
indifference, and then bent her way down the hill towards Cumae, which
already lay in darkness.
“Allow me to ask,” said Herodianus to Quintus, “what is the name of this
tunefully-gifted damsel?”
“She is called Euterpe, after the muse who presides over her art.”
“Her name is Arachne,” added Lucilia, “but Euterpe sounds more poetical.”
“Euterpe!” breathed the worthy Herodianus. “Heavenly consonance! Is she
a Greek?”

“She is from Etruria, and was formerly the slave of Marcus Cocceius
Nerva, who freed her. She married in Cumae not long since.”
“As strictly historical as the annals of Tacitus,” laughed Claudia.
“I heard it all from Baucis.”
“Wretched old magpie!” exclaimed Quintus, intentionally raising his voice.
“If she could not gossip, she would lose the breath of life.”
“By all the gods, my lord!” exclaimed Baucis, laying her hands on her
heart, “you are calumniating me greatly—do you grudge me a little
harmless chat? All-merciful Isis! am I to close my lips with wax? No, by
Typhon[84] the cruel! Besides, I must instruct the daughters of the house; it
is for that that I eat the bitter crust of dependence in my old age. Oh! Baucis
knows her duties; have I not taught Claudia to sing and play the cithara?
Have I not taught Lucilia more than a dozen Egyptian formulas and
charms? and now I add to this a little sprinkling of knowledge of the world
and of men—and you call it gossip! You young men of the present day are
polite, I must say!”
"Then you sing to the cithara?"[85] said Aurelius, turning to Claudia. “Oh,
let me, I beg of you, hear one of your songs!”
“With pleasure,” said the girl coloring slightly. “With your permission, dear
mother...?”
“You know my weakness,” replied Octavia. “I am always only too glad to
hear you sing. If our noble guest’s request is not merely politeness....”
“It is a most heartfelt wish,” cried Aurelius. “Your daughter’s voice is music
when she only speaks—in singing it must be enchanting.”
“I think so too, indeed,” added Herodianus. “Oh, we Northmen are
connoisseurs in music. The Camenae visit other spots than Helicon and the
seven hills of Rome; they have taken Trajectum too under their protection.
Had I but been born in Hellas, where Zeus so lavishly decked the
cornucopia of the arts with such pure and ideal perfection....”
“Herodianus, you are talking nonsense!” interrupted the young Batavian. “I
am afraid that the old Falernian we drank at dinner, was too strong for your

brain.”
“I beg your pardon! that would be very unlike me. Since Apollo first laid
me in my cradle, temperance has been my most conspicuous virtue....”
A slave girl had meanwhile brought in the nine-stringed cithara and the
ivory plectrum; Claudia took them from her with some eagerness, put the
ribbon of the lute round her neck and sat upright on her easy-chair. She
turned the pegs here and there to put the instrument in tune, struck a few
chords and runs as a prelude, and began a Greek song—the delightful
Spring-greeting of Ibycus the Sicilian:[86]

“Spring returns, and the gnarled quince[87]
Fed by purling and playful brooks
Decks its boughs with its rosy flowers
Where, beneath in the twilight gloom,
Nymph-like circles of maidens dance;
While the sprays of the budding grape
Hide ’mid shadowy vine leaves.

Ruthless Eros doth disregard
Spring’s sweet tokens and hints of peace.
Down he rushes like winter blasts—
Thracian storms with their searing flash—
Aphrodite’s resistless son
Falls on me in his fury and fire—
Racks my heart with his torments.”

Claudia ceased; the accompaniment on the cithara died away in soft full
chords. Caius Aurelius sat spellbound. Never had he dreamed of the
daughters of the fever-tossed metropolis as so simple, so natural, so genuine
and genial. The strain almost resembled, in coy tenderness, those northern
love-songs which he had been wont to hear from the lips of Gothic and
Ampsivaric maidens. In those, to be sure, a vein of rebellion and
melancholy ran through the melody and pierced through the charm, while in
this all was perfect harmony, exquisite contentment—an intoxicating
concord of joy, youth and love. In this he heard the echo of the smiling
waves below, of the glistening leaves, and of heart-stirring spring airs.
“A second Sappho!” exclaimed Herodianus, as his master sat speechless. “I
can but compare the sweetness of that voice with the luscious Falernian we
drank at dinner. That was a nectar worthy of the gods! Besides, indeed—the

Hispanian wine—out there, what do you call the place—you know, my lord
—what is the name of it—that was delicious too—and seen against the
light.... What was I saying? I had an aunt, she sang too to the cithara—yes
she did, why not?—She was free to do that, of course, quite free to do it—
and a very good woman too was old Pris—Pris—Priscilla. Only she could
not endure, that any one should talk when she blew the cithara....”
Octavia was frowning; Aurelius had turned crimson and nodded to his
Gothic slave, who was standing aside under the arcade. Magus quietly came
up to Herodianus and whispered a few words in his ear.
“That shows a profound, a remarkably profound power of observation!”
cried the freedman excitedly. “In fact, what does music prove after all? I
play the water-organ,[88] and—hold me up, Magus. This floor is remarkably
slippery for a respectable cavaedium. It might be paved with eels or
polished mirrors!”
“You are a very good fellow,” muttered the Goth as he led him slowly away,
“but you carry it a little too far....”
“What? Ah! you have no sense of the sublime? You are not a philosopher,
but only a—a—a—a man. But, by Pluto! you need not break my arm. I—
take care of that, that.... Will you let go, you misbegotten villain!”
But the Goth was not to be got rid of; he held the drunken man like an iron
vice and so guided him in a tolerably straight course. When they
disappeared in the corridor leading to the atrium, Aurelius was anxious to
apologize for him, but Octavia laughed it off.
“We are at Baiae,"[89] she said, “and Baiae is famous for its worship of
Bacchus.”
“It is impossible to be vexed with him,” added Lucilia; “he is so
exceedingly funny, and has such a confiding twinkle in his eyes.”
“I am only annoyed,” said Aurelius, “that he should have disturbed us at so
delicious a moment. Indeed madam, your voice is enchantment; and what a
heavenly melody! who is the musician who composed it?”

“You make me blush,” said Claudia: “I myself put the words to music, and I
am delighted that you should like it. Quintus thought it detestable.”
“Nay, nay—” murmured Quintus.
“Yes indeed!” said the saucy Lucilia. “It was too soft and womanly for your
taste.”
“You are misrepresenting me; I only said, that the air did not suit the words.
It is a man who is here complaining of the torments of love, while what
Claudia sings does not sound like a Thracian winter storm, but like the
lamentations of a love-lorn maiden.”
“Nonsense!” laughed Lucilia. “Love is love, just as air is air! whether you
breathe it or I, it is all the same.”
“But with this difference, that rather more of it is needed to fill my lungs
than yours. However, for aught I care the song is perfect.”
“You are most kind, to be sure! And you may thank the gods that you have
nothing to do but to listen to it. I have no doubt, that at the drinking-bouts
of some of your boon companions the songs have a more Titanic ring and
roar.”
“You little hypocrite! Do you want to play the part now of a female Cato?
Why, how often have you confessed to me, that you would give your eyes
to be one of such a party if only it were permissible!”
“Mother,” said Lucilia, “do not allow him to make a laughing stock of me
in this heartless way. ‘If only I were a man,’ you mean, not ‘if it were
permissible.’”
“Very good!” replied Quintus.
Caius Aurelius now expressed a wish to hear Claudia sing a Latin song, and
she selected one of which the words were by the much-admired poet
Statius,[90] who at that time was, with Martial,[91] the reigning favorite in
the taste of the highest circles. With this the stranger seemed equally
delighted.

When Claudia had ended, he himself seized the instrument and plectrum,
and with eager enthusiasm in a full, strong voice sang a battle-song. The
powerful tones rang through the evening silence like the rush of a mountain
torrent. His hearers saw in fancy the swaying struggle—the captain of the
legion is in the thick of the fray—“Comrades,” cries one of the combatants,
“our chief is in danger! Help! help for our chief!—One last furious
onslaught, and the battle is won!”
The two girls shrank closer to each other.
As the notes slowly died away, a figure appeared high above them in the
moonlight, leaning over the parapet of the upper story.
“By the gods! my lord!” cried Herodianus, “I am coming!—If only I knew
where Magus has hidden my sword! Hold your own, stand steady, and we
will beat them yet!”
The party burst out laughing.
“Go to bed, Herodianus!” shouted his master. “You are talking in your
dreams!”
“Apollo be praised then!” stuttered the other, “but I heard you with my own
ears, shouting desperately for help.” And with these words he withdrew
from the parapet, still muttering and fighting the air with his arms; and
Lucilia declared that she should positively die of laughing if this
extraordinary sleep-walker went through any farther adventures. The moon
was already high in the sky, when the party separated. Quintus led his
visitor to the strangers’ rooms, wished him goodnight, and went to his own
cubiculum[92] where his slaves stood yawning as they waited for him. For a
time, however, he paced his room in meditation; then pausing in his walk,
he looked undecidedly through the open doorway and asked: “What is the
hour?”
“It wants half an hour of midnight,” replied Blepyrus, his body-servant.
“Very good—I do not want to sleep yet. Open the window; the air here is
suffocating. Blepyrus, give me my dagger.”
“The Syrian dagger?”

“A useless question—when do I ever use any other?”
“Here, my lord,” said Blepyrus, taking the dagger out of a closet in the wall.
“It is only as a precaution. Lately all sorts of wild rabble have haunted
Baiae and the neighborhood. I am going to take a walk for an hour or so,”
and he went to the door. “But mind,” he added, “this late expedition is a
secret.”
The slaves bowed.
“You know us, my lord!” they said with one accord.
Quintus went out again into the arcades. The colonnaded court lay white
and dream-like in the moonshine, the shadows of the statues fell blackly
sharp on the dewy grass-plot and the chequered outlines of the mosaic
pavement. Quintus hastened noiselessly to the postern-gate, which led from
the peristyle into the park; he pushed back the bolt and was out on the
terrace. Complete silence reigned around; only the very tops of the trees
bent to the soft night-breeze. Quintus looked down upon Baiae. Here and
there a light twinkled in the harbor; otherwise it was like a city of the dead.
Then he looked down the black darkness of the shrubbery paths into the
wilderness and seemed to waver, but he drew a little letter out of the belt of
his tunic and studied it, meditating.
“In fact,” said he to himself, “the whole affair wears the aspect of a mad
adventure; it would not be the first time that malice had assumed such a
disguise! But no! Such a scheme would be too clumsy; what warranty
would the traitor have, that I should come alone? Besides, if I have any
knowledge of love-intrigue, these lines were undoubtedly written by a
woman’s hand.”
He opened the note,[93] which was written on pale yellow Alexandrian
paper with the finest ink. The red silk that tied it was sealed with yellow
wax, and bore the impression of a finely-cut intaglio. The handwriting
betrayed practice, and the whole thing looked as if it had come from the
hands of a cultivated and distinguished fine lady. The contents answered to
this supposition; the style was marked by aristocratic affectations and
rhetorical grace, while it revealed that vein of eager, jealous passion, which
stamps the Roman woman to this day.

“There is no doubt about it,” muttered Quintus, when he had once more
carefully examined every detail. “This is in hot earnest, and she commands
me to meet her with the assurance of a goddess. And with all her
domineering confidence, what sweet coaxing—what inviting tenderness! It
would be treason to the divine influences of Venus to hesitate. Nay, fair
unknown!—for you must surely be fair—beautiful as the goddess whose
inspiration fires your blood! Nothing but beauty can give a woman courage
to write such words as these!”
He replaced the note in his bosom and took the same path that he had
trodden a few hours since with Aurelius; listening sharply on each side as
he got farther into the thicket, and keeping his hand on his dagger, he
slowly mounted the hill. All nature seemed to be sleeping, and the distant
cry of a night-bird sounded as if in a dream. Before long he had reached the
spot where the path turned off to the pavilion. The little temple stood out in
the moonlight as sharply as by day against the dark-blue sky, like an
erection of gleaming silver and snow; the light seemed to ripple on the
marble like living, translucent dew—and, in the middle, the goddess sat
enthroned!—a tall form robed in white, her face veiled, motionless as
though indeed a statue. Quintus paused for an instant; then he mounted to
the top and said bowing low:
“Unknown one, I greet thee!”
“And I thee, Quintus Claudius!” answered a voice that was tremulous with
agitation.
“You, madam, have commanded, and I, Quintus Claudius, have obeyed.
Now, will you not reveal the secret I am burning to discover?”
The veiled lady took the young man gently by the hand and drew him
tenderly to a seat.
“My secret!” she repeated with a sigh. “Can you not guess it? Quintus,
divinest, most adorable Quintus—I love you!”
“Your favors confound me!” said Quintus in the tone of a man to whom
such phrases were familiar. His unknown companion threw her arms round
him, leaned her head on his shoulder, and burst into tears.

“Oh, happy, intoxicating hour!” she breathed in a rapturous undertone.
“You, the noblest of men, my idol, whom I have thought of so long,
watched with such eager eyes—you, Quintus, mine—mine at last! It is too
much happiness!”
Quintus, under the stormy fervor of this declaration, felt an uneasy mistrust
which he tried in vain to repress. This despotic “mine—mine” gave him a
sensation as of the grip of a siren. He involuntarily rose.
“My good fortune takes my breath away!” he said in flattering accents;
doubly flattering to atone for the hasty impulse by which he had stood up.
“But now grant my bold desire, and let me see your face. Let me know who
it is, that vouchsafes me such unparalleled favors.”
“You cannot guess?” she whispered reproachfully. “And yet it is said, that
the eyes of love are keen. Quintus, my beloved, Fate denies us all open and
unchecked happiness; it is in secret only that your lips may ever meet mine.
But you know that true love mocks at obstacles—nay more, the flowers that
blossom in the very valley of death are those that smell sweetest.”
Quintus drew back a step.
“Once more,” he insisted, “tell me who you are?”
The tall figure raised a beautiful arm, that shone like Parian marble in the
moonlight, and slowly lifted her veil.
“The Empress!"[94] cried Quintus dismayed.
“Not ‘the Empress’ to you, my Quintus—to you Domitia, hapless, devoted
Domitia, who could die of love at your feet.”
Quintus stood immovable.
“Fear nothing,” she said smiling. “No listener is near to desecrate the
perfect bliss of this moonlit night.”
“Fear?” retorted Quintus. “I am not a girl, to go into fits in a thunder-storm.
What I resolve on I carry out to the end, though the end be death! Besides, I
know full well, that your favors bloom in secret places—as silent and as
harmless as the roses in a private garden.”

Domitia turned pale.
“And what do you mean by that?” she asked shuddering.
“You live far away from Caesar, your husband; you are served by spies;
your palace is a labyrinth with a hundred impenetrable chambers....”
“Indeed!” said Domitia, controlling her excitement. “But still, I saw you
start. What dismayed you so much, if it was not the suspicion of danger?”
“You know,” answered the young man hesitating, “that I am one of those
who are ranked as Caesar’s friends.[95] A friend—though merely an official
friend—cannot betray the man he is bound to defend.”
Domitia laughed loudly.
“Fine speeches, on my word!” she exclaimed scornfully. “Friendship, for
the executioner who cuts your head off! Fidelity to a bloodthirsty ruffian!
No, Quintus—I know better. You are staunch, but not from fidelity—from
prudence!”
Quintus struck his breast proudly with his hand.
“You force me,” he said, “to speak the truth, in spite of my desire to spare
you. You must know then, that Quintus Claudius thinks better of himself
than to stoop to be the successor of an actor!”
“Mad fool! what are you saying....”
“What I was bound to say. You thought I was afraid; I am only proud. No,
and if you were Cypris[96] in person I should disdain you no less, in spite of
every charm. Never will I touch the lips, that have been kissed by a buffoon
—a slave."[97]
Domitia did not stir; she seemed paralyzed by the fury of this attack.—At
last, however, she rose.
“You are very right, Quintus,” she said. “It was too much to expect. Go and
sleep, and dream of your wedding. But the gods, you know, are envious.
They often grant us joys in our dreams and deny the reality. But now, before
you go, kneel to the Empress!” and as she spoke a stiletto flashed

ominously in her hand. Quintus, however, had with equal swiftness drawn
his dagger.
“Fair and gently!” he said drawing back. “The honor of being stabbed by
the fair hand of Domitia is a temptation no doubt....” She colored and
dropped the weapon.
“Leave me!” she said, going to lean against the balustrade. “I do not know
what I am doing; my brain is reeling. Forgive me—forgive me!” Quintus
made no reply, and casting a glance of furious hatred at him she hurried
down the steps, glided through the gap in the brushwood into the deserted
park, and vanished among the shrubs.
Quintus stood looking after her.
“One foe the more!” said he to himself. “Well, what does it matter? Either
to be made an end of by the knife of an assassin—or to live on, my very
soul sickened with it all.... Pah!”
And he made his way homewards, singing a Greek drinking-song as he
went.

CHAPTER IV.
Next morning Quintus was up long before the sun, while in the atrium the
slaves were still busy cleaning the walls and the mosaic pavement, so he
lingered for a while in the peristyle. His eye dreamily watched the soft
swaying of the trees in melancholy relief against the blue-green sky; light
fleecy clouds floated in the transparent air, and here and there above his
head a star still twinkled fitfully. Quintus sat on a bench with his head
thrown back, for he was tired and over-excited; an unwonted restlessness
had brought him out of bed. How calm and pure was this early gloaming! In
Rome, so thought Quintus, there was something uncanny and dreary in the
early morning—the grey of dawn came as the closing effect of a wild night
of revelry. Here, on the hills of Baiae, the stars winked like kindly eyes and
the twilight soothed the spirit! And yet, no; for here too was the great
capital; here too were storms and unrest. Rome, that monstrous polypus,
stretched its greedy arms out to the uttermost ends of the world, and even
into the calmest and most peaceful solitudes. Even here, by the sea,
wantonness had spread its glittering snares; here too duty and truth were
forsworn, and intrigue and inhumanity held their orgies. Quintus thought of
the tortured slave.... That pale and pain-stricken face had sunk deep into his
soul; strangely enough! for his eye had long been accustomed to such sights
of anguish and horror. The bloody contests of gladiators had never roused
him to any other interest than that in a public entertainment. But this
particular picture forced itself on his memory, though—from the point of
view of any Roman of distinction—it had no interesting features whatever,
for of what account in the Roman Empire was a slave? And especially in
the sight of Quintus, rich, handsome and brilliant? It was in short most
strange—but that white, bearded face, with its lofty, unflinching expression
never faded from his memory, and his inward eye found it impossible not to
gaze upon it. Then, suddenly another figure stood side by side with it: The
white-armed Cypris Domitia, the passion-stirred Empress. Here were pain,
misery, silent abnegation—there were feverish desires and passions,
reckless, greedy, all-absorbing selfishness.... By the gods—there they stood
before him—the slave and the imperial woman—both so distinct that he

could have touched them as it seemed.—The slave had broken his bonds
and put out his hand with a smile of beatitude, while the woman shrank
away and her white arms writhed like snakes of marble. She threw herself
on the earth, and her fair gold hair fell loose over the bleeding feet of the
slave....
Quintus started up, the murmur of the fountain had lulled him to sleep, and
now, as he rubbed his hand across his eyes, a woman’s figure was in fact
before him, not so stately and tall as the moonlighted Domitia, but as fresh
and sweet as a rose.
“Lucilia! Up so early?”
“I could not sleep and stole away softly from Claudia’s side. She is still
asleep, for she came to bed very late. But you, my respected friend—what
has brought you out before daybreak? You, the latest sleeper of all the sons
of Rome?”
“I was just like you. I think the strong liquor we drank at supper last
night....”
“A vain excuse,” said Lucilia. “When ever did good wine rob you of a
night’s rest? Sooner could I believe that you were thinking of Cornelia!”
“What should make you think that?”
“Well, it is a natural inference. For what else are you her betrothed? To be
sure you do not play the part with much zeal.”
“How so?”
“Well, do you not go to see Lycoris just as much now as ever you did?”
“Pah!”
“‘Pah!’ What need have you to say ‘Pah!’ in that way? Is that right? Is that
horrid, shameless creature, who seems to turn all the men’s heads, a fit
companion for a man who is betrothed? I know you love Cornelia—but this
is a spiteful world, and supposing Cornelia were to learn....”

“Well, and if she did?” said Quintus smiling. “Is it a crime to frequent gay
society, to see a few leaps and turns of Gades dancers and to eat stewed
muraenae?[98] Is there anything atrocious in fireworks or flute-playing?”
“How eloquent you can be! You might almost make black seem white. But I
abide by my words; it is most unbecoming, and if you would but hear
reason you would give this woman up.”
“But pray believe me, there never was a pretty girl for whom I cared less
than for Lycoris.”
“Indeed! and that is why you are as constantly in her house as a client in
that of his patron."[99]
“The comparison is not flattering.”
“But exact. Why should you frequent her house so constantly, if you are so
indifferent to her?”
“Child, you do not understand such matters. Her house is the centre of all
the wit and talent in Rome. Everything that is interesting or remarkable
meets there; it is in her rooms that Martial[100] utters his most pregnant
jests, and Statius reads his finest verses. Everyone who lays any claim to
talent or wit, whether statesmen or courtiers, knights or senators, uses the
atrium of Lycoris as a rendezvous. Last autumn I even met Asprenas[101] the
consul there. Where such men as these are to be seen, Quintus Claudius, at
three and twenty, may certainly be allowed to go.”
“Quite the contrary,” cried Lucilia. “If you had grey hair, like Nonius
Asprenas, I would not waste words on the matter. But as it is, the Gaulish
Circe will end by falling in love with you, and then you will be past praying
for.” Quintus looked gaily at the girl’s smiling, mocking face.
“You mean just the reverse,” he said. “For I know you regard me as far
from dangerous. Well! I can bear even that blow.”
“That is your new mood! There is no touching you in any way. If you had
only half as much constancy of mind as Aurelius!”
“Ah! you like him then?”

“Particularly. Do you know it would be delightful if he could remain here a
little longer—I mean for six or eight days. Then he could travel with us to
Rome.”
“Indeed?” said Quintus significantly.
“Now, what are you thinking of?”
“I? of nothing at all.”
“Go, there is no doing anything with you. Do not you see that I only meant,
the long days of travelling all by ourselves—Claudia turns over a book, and
you, you old lazy-bones, lie on a couch like an invalid—I find it desperately
dull. A travelling companion seems to me to be the most desirable thing in
the world—or do you dislike Caius Aurelius?”
“Oh no. If only his trireme had wheels and could travel over land.”
“His ship will take care of itself. He can come with us in the travelling
chariot, and then he will be able to see part of the Appian way.[102] It is a
thousand times more interesting than a sea-voyage.—Now, do it to please
me and turn the conversation on the subject at dinner to-day.”
“If you like,” said Quintus.
A slave now appeared on the threshold of the passage, which led from the
peristyle to the atrium.
“My lord,” he said: “Letters have arrived from Rome—and for you too,
Madam....”
“Then bring them out here.”
They were three very dissimilar letters, that Blepyrus handed to the two
young people. Lucilia’s was from the high-priest of Jupiter; Titus Claudius
Mucianus wrote as follows to his adopted daughter:
“Health and Blessings![103] I promised you lately, through Octavia,
your excellent mother, that my next letter should be addressed to you,
my dear daughter. I know that you value such proofs of my fatherly
remembrance, and I am glad that it should be so. However, what I have

to write does not concern you alone, my sweet Lucilia, but all of you.
The preparations for the magnificent Centennial Festival,[104] which
the Emperor Domitian—as you know—proposes to hold in the course
of next year, have so completely taken up my time during the last few
weeks, that I am sorely in need of the rest and comfort of regular
family life. In addition to this, political disturbances of all kinds have
occurred. Caesar has sent for me six times to Albanum,[105] and I
assure you it has been incessant travelling to and fro. The matter is an
open secret; all Rome is discussing the decrees from the Palatine[106]
against the Nazarenes.[107] You may remember that superstitious sect
of whom Baucis spoke to you—a revolutionary faction, who, a score
or so of years since, stirred up the whole city and gave occasion for the
stern enactments of the divine Nero? Now again they are stirring up
revolt as if they were mad; they are shaking the very foundations of
society, and threaten to overturn all that we have till now held most
sacred. I must be silent as to personal affairs; enough to say that I am
weary and overwrought, and that my heart longs to see you all again. I
beg you therefore to make ready to start and return as soon as possible
to the City of the Seven Hills. Your mother is now tolerably well again
—thanks to all-merciful Jupiter—and Quintus will not be vexed to
learn that Cornelia is now staying in Rome again. People are quitting
their country homes somewhat early this year; it is long since I have
passed the month of September so endurably. I shall expect you then,
at latest, by Tuesday in next week. Allowing three days for the journey,
I thus give you two days to prepare for it.
“Pray greet your mother and your sister lovingly from me. This letter
will, I hope, find you all in perfect health. I, for my part, am quite well.
“Written at Rome, on the 11th September, in the year 848 after the
building of the city.”
The second letter was from Cornelia, Quintus’ betrothed, and ran as
follows:
“Cornelia embraces her dear Quintus a thousand times. Here I am in
Rome again, my beloved! My term of banishment to that odious desert
at Tibur is ended. But, woe is me! Rome is dead and deserted too since

you, my treasure, my idol, linger still far from the Seven Hills! Oh!
how glad I am to hear from your father, that he is recalling you from
Baiae sooner than was intended. Oh! Quintus, if you felt only one
thousandth part of what I feel, you would fly on the wings of the storm
to the arms of your love-sick Cornelia. The days at Tibur were more
dreary than ever. My uncle seemed to me so depressed and tormented
by gloomy thoughts. To crown my misery, old Cocceius Nerva[108]
must come and pay us a visit of eight mortal days. I shall never forget
that week as long as I live! You know that when those two old men sit
together, the house is as silent as a tomb; every one goes about on
tiptoe. This Cocceius Nerva has the worst effect on my uncle. Only
fancy what happened on the day when he left. My uncle had
accompanied him to his chariot, and when he came back into the house
he happened to pass my room, where Chloe was just putting some
fresh roses into my hair. When he saw this, he fell into an
indescribable fit of rage. ‘You old fool!’ he exclaimed pushing my
good Chloe aside: ‘Have you women nothing to think of but finery?
Do you deck yourselves out like beasts for sacrifice? Away with your
rubbish! the house of Cornelius Cinna is no place for roses!’ And then
he turned upon me in a tone which expressed volumes—‘Wait a
while!’ he said. ‘You will soon be able to do whatever pleases your
fancy!’ You understand Quintus, he meant to refer to you. His words
cut me to the heart, for I have known a long time that my uncle is not
pleased at our connection. If my blessed mother had not made him
swear, on her deathbed, that he would leave my choice perfectly free,
who knows what might not have happened. Nevertheless, it is always a
fresh pang to me when I see how he cherishes a bitter feeling against
you—for, in spite of everything, I respect and love him.
“Take good care of yourself, dearest Quintus, till we meet again, soon,
on the shores of the Tiber. Greet your circle from me, and particularly
lively Lucilia. I remember her fresh, frank nature with special
affection.”
The third letter, also addressed to Quintus, was from Lucius Norbanus,[109]
the captain of the praetorian guard.[110]

“Have you taken root in your horrid country villa"—so wrote the
officer in his rough fun—“or have you drowned, in Vesuvian wine, all
remembrance that there is such a place as the Roman Forum? How I
envy you your unbridled wild-horse-like liberty! You live like the
swallows, while I—it is pitiable! Day after day at my post, and for the
last few weeks leading a perfect dog’s life! Almost a third of the legion
are new recruits, for again every hole and corner seems haunted.
Today, I breathe again for the first time, but alas! my best friends are
still absent. Above all Clodianus,[111] who lately has never been
allowed to leave Caesar’s side. I am commissioned by our charmer
Lycoris, to inform you that Martial’s recitation[112] on the sixteenth of
October is proceeding to admiration. A hundred epigrams, and half
Rome lashed by them! The banquet, which is to close the recitation, is
to be magnificent. I can take her word for it; we know our fair Gaul.
Farewell!”
“That is capital!” said Quintus, folding up the letter. Lucilia retired with her
adopted father’s letter to the sleeping-rooms, where Claudia and Octavia
must by this time be up. Quintus went into the atrium and sat down by the
fountain, to wait till Caius Aurelius should appear.

CHAPTER V.
The day of their departure came. Aurelius had hailed the idea of travelling
with his new friends with an eagerness, that had brought a saucy smile to
the lips of the shrewd Lucilia. But he had nevertheless preferred the more
comfortable sea-voyage to a journey by land, and he had urged it so
pressingly and yet so modestly that Octavia, after some hesitation, had
yielded.
The second hour after sunrise[113] had been fixed for their start, and before
daybreak the slaves were already busied in packing the baggage mules and
preparing the litters in the forecourt. The noise and bustle aroused Quintus,
and being unable to get to sleep again he rose, dressed for the journey, and
went out to the pillared court, where Lucilia was overlooking the slaves at
their work and urging the dilatory to haste in cheerful tones.
“Restless being!” said Quintus in Greek: “Are you pursued by the gadfly of
Juno,[114] that you set all the house in an uproar in the darkness of dawn?
You must be afraid lest Aurelius’ vessel should row of without us.”
“And do you complain of my carefulness?” retorted Lucilia. “Punctuality is
the first virtue of a house mistress.”
“Aha! and since Lucilia’s ambitions aim at that high dignity....”
“Laugh away! A well-ordered home is very desirable for you; and it will be
a real mercy when you get married. Since you have lived alone, you have
got into all sorts of mischief. But what is it that you want here, you ugly
Satyr? Do you not see that you are dreadfully in the way? There, now you
are treading on the travelling-cloaks! I entreat you leave the room to the
household gods!”
“What! I am in your way? That is your view of the matter; but it is you who
are really the spoil-peace, the eternally restless storm who have so often
come sweeping down on our idyllic calm. Of all the things, which remind
us here of Rome, you are the most Roman. You have nothing but your little

snub-nose to redeem you a little. But, by Hercules! when I see you bustling
around here, I can picture to myself all the fevered turmoil of the great
city[115] with its two million inhabitants. Well, I will taste the sea-breezes
once more—once more, for a brief space, enjoy peace and quietness.”
“How?”
“I will wait for sunrise at the top of the hill, where the road turns down to
Cumae. In Rome it rises through smoke and mist; while here—oh! how
grandly and gloriously it mounts from behind the cone of Vesuvius....”
“And rises there through smoke and mist!” laughed Lucilia. “Well, make
haste and come back again, or we shall set off without you.”
She turned once more to the slaves. Quintus wrapped himself in his ample
lacerna,[116] waved his hand to her, and went out.
The high-road was absolutely deserted; he drew a deep breath. It was a
delicious morning. His wish to bid farewell, as it were, to the sun and air of
Baiae was not affected; like all Romans he raved about the sea.[117] Its shore
was to him the one real Museion—as Pliny the younger[118] had once
expressed it—the true abode of the Muses, where the celestial powers
seemed nearest to him; here, if anywhere, while watching the waves, he
found time and opportunity for self-study and reflection. He had now been
living with his family in their quiet villa ever since the end of April, and had
spent many hours in serious meditation, in congenial literary pleasures and
diligent study. He had once more learned the real value of retirement, which
in Rome was so unattainable. A long winter of dissipation had left him
satiated, and Baiae’s aromatic air, a simple existence in the bosom of his
family, and the spirit of Greek poetry had combined to restore his palled
senses and overexcited nerves. And now, as the moment of return
approached, he was seized more and more with the old spirit of unrest. He
felt that the omnipotent sway of that demon called Rome would drag him
back again into the vortex of aimless tragi-comedy, and now a last glance at
the smiling and slumbering sea was a positive craving of his heart.
He slowly climbed the hill. At about a hundred paces up, there was a spot
whence he could see over the roofs of the tallest villas and down into the
valley. His eye, though his purpose was to look far away and across the sea,

was irresistibly riveted by an object that was quite close at hand. To his
right a by-path led down towards the palace of the Empress, and the huge
portico, with its Corinthian columns, gleamed pale and visionary in the
doubtful light. But what attracted the young man’s attention was a little
side-door, which slowly turned on its pivot[119] with a slight noise, letting a
female figure in Greek dress pass out into the road. Quintus recognized
Euterpe, the flute-player. Limp and weary she climbed the steep slope, her
eyes fixed on the ground, and as she came closer, Quintus could see that she
had been weeping bitterly.
“Good morning, all hail!” he cried, when the young woman was within a
few steps of him. Euterpe gave a little cry.
“It is you, my lord!” she said with a faint smile. “Returning so late from
Cumae?”
“No, my good Euterpe. I am up not late, but early. But what in the world
have you been doing at this hour in Domitia’s palace? Has she been giving
a feast? You do not look as if you had gathered a harvest of gold or
flowers.”
“Indeed, my lord, no!” replied Euterpe, again melting into tears. “I have
been to visit a friend, who is suffering terribly. Down in Baiae, where I was
playing at night in the house of the wealthy Timotheus, Agathon the seer
gave me herbs and salves—they cost me a heavy sum—and since then I
have been in there.... Oh! his wounds are horrible.... But what am I talking
about! He is only a slave, my lord; what can Quintus Claudius care...?”
“Do you think so?” said Quintus, interrupting the agitated speaker. “But I
am not made of stone; I know full well, that though among slaves there is
many a scamp, there are also worthy and excellent men. And if, to crown
all, he is the friend[120] of so charming a creature....”
“Nay, my lord, you will have your jest—but if you could only see him, poor
Eurymachus! If you could know how faithful he is, and how noble!”
“Well, I call that being desperately in love!”
Euterpe colored. “No,” she said modestly. “I can accuse myself of many
sins, but Eurymachus—no evil thought ever entered his mind.”

“Is love a sin then?”
“I am married.”
“Here—you were not wont to be so strict!”
“And the greater pity! If I had always known Eurymachus, as I know him
now....”
“Indeed! and how do you know him now?”
“He has opened my eyes; I know now how deeply I have sinned....”
“He is a philosopher then, who converts fair sinners from their evil ways?”
“He is a hero!” exclaimed Euterpe with enthusiasm.
“You do not stint your praise. Does he belong to the Empress?”
“To her steward, Stephanus. Ah! my lord, he is a tyrant....”
“So they say.”
“How he treated the poor fellow! It beats all description. For one single
word he had him flogged till he was raw, and then tied him up in the park in
the noontide sun. The gnats and flies....” But at the woman’s last words
Quintus had gone nearer to her.
“Listen,” he said hurriedly: “I believe I know your Eurymachus—a pale
face with a dark beard—quiet, contemning pain—standing by the stake like
a martyr....”
“You saw him?” cried Euterpe, smiling through her tears. “Yes, it was he
indeed. No one else has that extraordinary power of defying every torment.
Now he is lying half-dead on his bed; his whole back is one dreadful
wound, and yet not a complaint, not a word of reproach! Fortunately the
gate-keeper is my very good friend. He sent me a message; otherwise very
likely Eurymachus might have died in his misery, without my knowing it.
But I hope, I hope the charm may save him.”
“Listen, child,” said Quintus after a pause: “You shall see, that I know how
to value courage, even in the person of a slave. Here, take this gold and

spend it for the benefit of the sufferer, and by and bye, when he is well
again, write to me in Rome; then we will see what can be done next.”
“Oh, my lord!” cried the flute-player vehemently, “you are like the gods for
graciousness and kindness. Do I understand rightly, that we may hope from
your goodness....”
“Understand all you please,” interrupted the youth kindly. “The chief point
is, that you should remind me of it at the right moment. In Rome a man
forgets his nearest relations.”
“I will remind you,” said Euterpe, radiant. “Sooner should I forget to eat
and drink. About the middle of next month I am going to the capital with
Diphilus, my husband. He is a master-carpenter, and will have work to do
on the grand erections for the Centenary Festival. If you will allow me, I
will myself remind you in person.”
“Do so, Euterpe.”
“Oh, my lord! I thank you from the bottom of my heart. The man who is
protected by Quintus Claudius, is as safe as a child in its cradle.”
Joy lent so sweet an expression to the young creature’s face, that Quintus
was irresistibly moved to stroke her cheek, and in the excess of her delight
she submitted to the caress, though, as we know, she had vowed henceforth
to give Diphilus no cause for complaint.
At this moment a magnificent litter, borne by eight gigantic negroes,
appeared on the highest level of the road. It was escorted by four men-at-
arms, and in it, leaning on the purple cushions and only half-veiled, reclined
Domitia. The seething fever of her passion and anger had driven her to seek
the air soon after midnight, and for hours the slaves had to carry her about
the wooded ravines of the landward side of the hills, or along the deserted
roads, until, wearied out at last, she was fain to turn homewards. Quintus,
somewhat abashed, withdrew to one side; not so quickly, however, but that
Domitia had observed his light caress of Euterpe. She turned pale and
looked away. The young man, who made ready to bow to the Empress,
remained unnoticed, and Euterpe stood as if turned to stone.

Quintus looked coolly after her as she was borne away, and shrugged his
shoulders; then he took Euterpe by the hand.
“It is a bargain then,” he said in distinct tones. “You will find me in Rome!
Now, farewell—till we meet again.”
He turned towards home; sea and sunrise were alike forgotten. Euterpe
hurried down to Cumae, and disappeared behind the ridge at the same
instant as the Empress within the Corinthian portico of the palace.
In a few minutes the Claudia family were sitting in the triclinium to take a
slight breakfast before starting. Octavia was thoughtful; her husband’s letter
had made her anxious. She knew how stern a view Titus Claudius took of
his duties, and how much would devolve upon him in these agitated times.
Claudia too was graver than usual. Only Aurelius and Lucilia looked bright
and contented.—Lucilia, warm and rosy from her busy exertions in the
court-yard and atrium—and in her excitement she would not give herself
time to do more than drink a cup of milk and swallow a morsel of sesame-
cake.[121]
The respectable Herodianus too, against his custom, was silent. What could
be so absorbing to that simple and garrulous nature? From time to time he
frowned and stared at the ceiling, moving his lips in silent speech like a
priest of the Pythian oracle. The honey, generally his favorite dainty—he
left untouched; the egg he was about to empty with a spoon[122] broke under
his fingers. Aurelius was on the point of taking the matter seriously, when
the mystery found a natural solution. When, presently, Blepyrus appeared to
announce that it was time to start, the ponderous ponderer rose, went to the
door, and began to exclaim with terrible pathos a valedictory poem of his
own composition. It was based on the model of the world-renowned
Hymenaeus[123] of Catullus;[124] and its climax was the most extravagant
refrain, that the Muse of occasional verse ever hatched in mortal brain.
For a few minutes the party listened in respectful silence to the cadences of
this solemn effusion; but as it went on and on, apparently endless, Lucilia,
who from the first had had great difficulty in keeping countenance, broke
into a fit of laughter, and Aurelius good-naturedly put a stop to the
freedman’s recitation.

“I mean no offence, my excellent Herodianus; but though poetry is said to
be the mirror of reality, it must not interfere too much with the progress of
real events. Twelve times already have you resolutely asserted: ‘Far must
we wander, far from hence!’ but our feet are still rooted to the spot. You
may give us the rest of your poem on board the vessel, but for the present
make way and take this ring as the prize for your effusion.”
Herodianus, who had at first been half inclined to take the interruption in
ill-part, felt himself fully indemnified by his master’s gift, but his gaze
lingered for a while in silent protest on Lucilia. However, he presently
joined the rest of the party, who were mounting their horses or settling
themselves in litters, and soon they were all fairly in motion.
They went down the hill in a long file. Baiae, now in full sunshine, seemed
to nestle in a golden shell; the sea was as smooth as a mirror, and the clear
atmosphere promised a prosperous voyage. They soon reached the stone
quay, where the motley crowd of the harbor was already at high tide of
noise and bustle. There lay the proud trireme before their surprised eyes,
gaily dressed out like a bride waiting for the bridegroom. Long garlands of
flowers floated from the spars, tied with purple knots and blue streamers;
magnificent carpets from Alexandria and Massilia hung from the poop, and
the crew were all dressed in holiday garments. When they had got into the
boats and were fast approaching the vessel, strains of music were heard
greeting the visitors. Claudia colored deeply; she recognized her own song
—that impassioned address to the Spring, which she had sung the first
evening in the peristyle.
In ten minutes the Batavia had weighed anchor and was being rowed in
majestic style past the quays and mole. Quintus, Claudia and Lucilia leaned
silently over the side, while Aurelius sat under the awning with Octavia,
talking of Rome. Beautiful Baiae sank farther and farther into the
background with all its palaces and temples. Still, above the trees, a corner
of the snug villa they had left was visible, and to the left Domitia’s palace.
Then the vessel shifted its course, and the shining speck grew smaller and
smaller till it was lost to sight.
Claudia wiped away a stealing tear, while Lucilia in a clear, ringing voice
shouted across the waters:

“Farewell, lovely Baiae!”

CHAPTER VI.
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.

CHAPTER VII.
Lycoris, the fair Gaul, was giving a splendid entertainment. Valerius
Martialis, the greatest wit of the city of the Seven Hills, had recited his
newest and most poignant epigrams with loud applause, and the company—
more than a hundred persons—were reclining at supper on cushioned
divans in the lavishly-decorated eating-room. The young Massilian lady
presided. With her neck and shoulders half-veiled in transparent gauze[153]
from Cos, her magnificent golden-yellow hair knotted up at the back of her
head and wreathed simply with ivy, she smiled radiantly from the head of
the table, the object of silent worship to many, and of eager admiration to
all. A number of slaves, in handsome Alexandrian dresses, moved quickly
and silently about the handsome hall, while across the supper table the
conversation each instant grew more lively.
Among the guests was Caius Aurelius, the young Batavian. He had yielded
to the pressure of curiosity or of fashion—particularly when the name of the
famous epigrammatist had weighed down the scale.
“Really,” he was saying to his neighbor Norbanus—the commandant of the
Praetorian guard—“really, Norbanus, till this hour I had esteemed myself
rich, but here I feel by comparison a beggar. What splendor, what lavish
outlay! Pillars of alabaster, enormous gold plates,[154] carpets worth an
estate—my senses reel. Everything which elsewhere would appear rare and
choice is here in every day use. By Hermes! but the father of Lycoris must
have been a favorite of fortune.”
“Not so loud!” interrupted Lucius Norbanus. “See, Stephanus is looking
this way with a meaning glance.”
“Stephanus![155] The Empress’s steward? What has he to do with Lycoris?”
“Ha! well, I will tell you that another time,” said the officer filling his
mouth with a fine oyster,[156] “between ourselves, you know. Meanwhile, I
strongly advise you to taste those delicious mollusks. If you are like me,
laughing has made you ferociously hungry.”

“You certainly laughed most heartily,” replied Aurelius accepting some of
the praised dish from a slave; "but I, for my part, cannot get up any taste for
this kind of verse. Martial is full of wit and humor, but this perpetual
mockery, this making a business of holding up all society to ridicule and
contempt—no, my dear Norbanus, I cannot like it. More particularly does
the way in which he speaks of women displease and vex me. If he is to be
believed, there is not in all Rome one faithful wife, or one innocent girl."
[157]

“Pah!” said Norbanus, with his mouth well filled: “There are some of
course, but they are scarce, my dear Aurelius, remarkably scarce.”
“What is amusing you so much, Norbanus?” asked Quintus from his place
opposite.
“The old theme—women! Aurelius thinks, that our laurel-wreathed poet has
sinned basely against the ladies of Rome, by hinting in his epigrams his
doubts of their virtue.”
“Who? What?” cried the poet himself, hastily looking round. “What
Ravidus[158] is here, to take up the cudgels against my iambics?”
This quotation from Catullus, the favorite poet and model of the
epigrammatist, did not fail of its point, for every one, with the single
exception of the blushing Aurelius, was reminded by it that Ravidus was, in
that passage, called a “crazed and witless wretch.”
“It was I,” said Aurelius coolly. “But it was not your verse that I criticised,
but ... however, you heard. If a woman is no more to you than the beetle, the
snake that wriggles in the dust, I can but pity your experience.”
“Yours then has been more fortunate?” laughed Martial.
“I should hope so, indeed!”
Lycoris, who, though at some distance, must have heard every word, was
chatting vehemently with Stephanus, her neighbor on her left, who kept his
gaze alert, though with an air of reserve and dignity. Two of her
companions, pretty but by no means maidenly personages, stared
contemptuously at Aurelius as if to say: “Well, what a booby!”

“Here is to your health, worthy Cato of the North!” cried Martial
mockingly. “Reveal his name to me, O Muse! and I will dedicate to you
five and twenty epigrams on his virtue.”
“He has a sharp muzzle,” muttered Norbanus to Aurelius. “You will get the
worst of it.”
“No doubt of that,” said Aurelius. “Fencing with words was never my
strong ground.”
“Just my case; and I cannot stand his accursed ribaldry. These fellows are
like eels, it is impossible to hold them. It is the city tone, my dear friend!
Our Stephanus now—only see how the man is made up—now, full in the
light. By Castor! he is touched up and painted like a wench—Stephanus
again, is a master in the war of words. But he gives you a pebble for a gem;
everything about him is false, even his hair. But beware of him; he will try
to make mince-meat of you.”
“I say, Martial,” said a harsh voice: “Who is going to publish the epigrams
you gave us to-day?”
“I do not yet know. Possibly Tryphon."[159]
“And when, my friend?”
“Well, in the course of the month.”
“So soon? Listen, when the book comes out, may I send to you to borrow a
copy?”
“You are too kind, my dear Lupercus; but why should you give yourself and
a slave so much trouble? I live quite high up on the Quirinal.[160] You can
get what you want much nearer to you. You pass every day by the
Argiletum. There you will find a very interesting shop, exactly opposite the
Forum of Caesar. Atrectus, the bookseller, will feel himself honored in
selecting a beautiful copy for you—almost given away too, as I may say, for
with purple letters and smoothly pumiced it costs but five or six denarii."
[161]

“Six denarii!” exclaimed Lupercus. “That is too dear for me. I have to be
saving with my money.”

“And I must be saving with my books.”
“It is not every one, who knows how to be obliging!”
“Nay, do not give up all hope,” retorted the epigrammatist scornfully.
“Make your wants known at all the street-corners,[162] and perhaps some
costermonger[163] will lend you a copy.”
“Why is Martial so hard upon him?” asked Aurelius of the praetorian
guardsman. “This Lupercus seems to be in narrow circumstances.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed Norbanus. “With an income of two hundred thousand
sesterces....”
“Impossible! how can a man be at once so rich and so mean?”
“You are in Rome, Aurelius—do not forget that you are in Rome. Here
extremes meet; here everything is possible, even the impossible.”
It was now growing dusk, and in a few minutes hundreds of costly bronze
lamps were lighted, some hanging in candelabra from the ceiling, some
elegantly arranged round the pilasters and columns. Indeed it was not till
this moment, that the banquet really assumed the aspect intended by the
artistic and extravagant imagination of the hostess. The beaten silver of the
massive bowls[164] and platters gleamed brightly under the wreaths of
flowers and garlands of foliage, while the huge wine-jars and costly
Murrhine vases,[165] the jovial and purpled faces of the guests, the splendid
dresses, the pearls and gems—all were doubly effective under the artificial
light.
One costly delicacy was followed by another; all the productions of the
remotest ends of the earth met at the banquet of Lycoris. Fish from the
Atlantic ocean, Muraenae from Lake Lucrinus, Guinea-fowls from
Numidia,[166] young kids from the province of Thesprotis[167] in Epirus,
pheasants from the Caspian Sea,[168] Egyptian dates,[169] dainty cakes[170]
from Picenum, figs from Chios,[171] pistachio nuts[172] from Palestine—
were all here of the choicest quality and elaborately prepared. Euphemus,
[173] Caesar’s own head-cook, could have done no more. Nor could
anything be more perfect, than the grace with which the handsomely-
dressed slaves offered each dainty on long slices of bread. After each dish

had gone round, little boys with wings brought in magnificent onyx jars
filled with perfumed water, which they poured over the hands of the guests.
The long flowing hair of a female slave[174] served to dry them, in the place
of the more usual linen or asbestos napkin. In such trifles as these Lycoris
loved to be original.
During the meal an intermezzo had now and then interrupted the eager
conversation. Black-haired girls from Gades and Hispalis[175] had come in,
dancing to the cadence of castanets[176] and cymbals; flute-players, singers
and reciters had given highly-applauded evidence of their talents. But now,
when the business of eating was over and the commissatio, as it was called,
the drinking in short, was about to begin, as was hinted by the distribution
to the guests of fresh wreaths and of perfumed oils, a buffoon or jester[177]
made his appearance, and soon filled the hall with Homeric laughter. His
small and muscular form was clothed in gaily-colored scraps of raiment,
and his face was painted in strong colors. Entering the room with a hop,
skip and jump, he performed a series of somersaults with great skill; then
leaping high over the guests’ heads, actually on to the table, he placed
himself in front of Lycoris and began thus in a high, shrill voice:
“Highly-esteemed friends of this illustrious house, now that your empty
stomachs are duly replenished your minds too are to be no less delightfully
satisfied. I offer you the feast of self-knowledge; to each one of you here I
will shortly and plainly tell your fortune. If I appear to you over-bold,
attribute it to the functions of my office; for audacity is my vocation, as it is
that of the most honored Martial.”
A storm of applause rang through the banqueting-hall, and Martial himself
even laughed heartily.
“Capital, capital!” he exclaimed to the little man. “Your beginning is
admirable and promises much,” and he stroked his grizzled beard with
much complacency; the jester bowed and went on with his privileged
impertinences. He flung some epigrammatic and pointed remark at one and
another of the company, and was each time rewarded by more or less eager
applause. When he came round to the young provincial, he grinned with
vicious impudence.

“Oh, noble vestal virgin!” he exclaimed, holding his hand before his face in
affected coyness. “How much a hundred weight does propriety cost in
Trajectum?”
His former jests had been happier and more pointed, but not one had been
so readily taken; the company laughed so immoderately, that the buffoon
had some difficulty in making himself heard again. Aurelius, though he was
disgusted with the fellow, had discretion and tact enough not to draw
attention to himself; he laughed and applauded as heartily as any one. Not
so, however, Herodianus, his freedman, who reclined at the lower end of the
table and had given himself up to silent and unlimited enjoyment of the
Caecubum.
“What, you foul-mouthed scoundrel!” he exclaimed in a voice of thunder.
“Who are you scoffing at? My dear friend Aurelius compared to a woman!
Go home, and let your mother teach you manners.”
The company were in so jovial a mood, that they at once turned this
interference into account. When the Batavian was about to reprove
Herodianus, he was talked down, while the indignant freedman was spurred
on by half-ironical appeals and challenges.
“Let him alone,” said the captain of the guard: “He will serve the jester’s
turn well enough.”
“Aye, that he will!” exclaimed another. “Only look at him knitting his
brows. Is not he just like the Silenus in Stephanus’ dining-hall?”
“Just be so good as to hold your tongues,” cried Quintus, who had been
excessively amused by Herodianus’ pugnacity. “The little man on the table
is going to answer him.”
“Silence for the jester!” shouted a chorus.
The buffoon stood still with his hand up to his ear.
“Did I not hear a pug-dog barking?” he said with inimitable comic gravity.
“Yes, there he lies, a Maltese pug! Come, Lailaps, come! Here are Lucanian
sausages!”

Looking impartially at the freedman’s face, it was impossible to deny that
the resemblance was well hit, but Herodianus could hardly be expected to
take this unprejudiced view of the matter. Forgetting where and with whom
he was, he sprang from his couch, struck his fist on the table, and shouted
out, crimson with rage:
“Come on, you braggart, if you dare! I will teach you, I will show you that
... that.... By Hercules! if you do not jump down this minute, you are the
most cowardly, contemptible toad under the sun.”
The little man sprang like lightning over Stephanus’ head on to the floor,
turned up the sleeves of his particolored shirt and shouted in mockery:
“Come on, Lailaps, come on! I will give you a thrashing.”
For a moment Herodianus seemed to hesitate; then he suddenly flew at the
jester like the storm of wind suggested by his Greek dog-name. The jester,
however, slipped on one side as quick as lightning, and Herodianus, who,
indeed, was not very steady on his feet, fell at full-length on the floor. In an
instant the buffoon was sitting astride on his back.
“Pug, you are snappish!” he exclaimed in a triumphant tone, and he began
vigorously to belabor every part of the hapless freedman, that he could
reach with his powerful fists.
“The dog must be broken!” he exclaimed at each blow. “Quiet, Lailaps,
down, my noble cur!”
Herodianus, who, besides, had in falling damaged his knees and elbows,
roared like one possessed; in vain did he try to throw off his tormentor. The
dwarf clung to him tightly with his legs. The whole scene was as irresistibly
comical as though it had been planned for the delectation of a blasé and
overwrought party of drinkers. But Aurelius could no longer contain
himself; he rose and went up to the combatants with well-assumed
coolness.
“You are going too far,” he said. “Be off with you, you little rascal.”
The jester paying no heed to these orders, found himself suddenly picked up
by the girdle and with one effort lifted high into the air. His struggles and

yells were of no avail; Aurelius carried him like a feather to the table, and
there set him down among the cups and wine-jars. The strength and
promptness of the proceeding diverted it of any vexatious interference; the
dwarf, completely quelled, stood on the table like a stork that has had its
wings cut, looking round half-frightened and half-angry. The young
Northman’s grip had fairly taken his breath away, and a sign from Lycoris
that he might withdraw was evidently welcome to him. He vanished
between the crowd of slaves like a startled deer.
Aurelius had hastened to the rescue of Herodianus, who now, having been
helped on his feet by some of the servants, found the greatest difficulty in
keeping on them.
“Poor fellow!” he said kindly. “But you are really quite incorrigible.”
“Oh, my lord!” groaned Herodianus, “it was only on account of the Vestal
virgin! I should not have cared about being called a pug! Oh ye gods! my
knees.”
“I will take you in my litter. My own head aches, till it might split.”
“What! are you going?” said Quintus Claudius, coming up to him. “Do you
not know that Lycoris has planned a magnificent surprise for her guests?”
“I know it, but I must beg to be excused. These sports are not to my taste.
Farewell till we meet again.”
So speaking, he beckoned his Gothic slave, who took the limping freedman
round the body and held him up with his usual strength of arm. The pair
went first, and Aurelius followed them. All the company had by this time
left their places, so his disappearance was almost unremarked; but the fair
hostess kept her eye fixed on him, till she lost sight of her ungracious guest
in the throng. Then, with an insidious smile, she turned to Quintus, laid her
hand on his shoulder, and whispered maliciously: “What sort of foolish
philosopher is that who comes here, of all places, to plead the cause of
women and take up the cudgels for a freedman?”
“Your foolish philosopher,” replied Quintus, “is one of the noblest souls I
ever knew, and beyond a doubt, the very noblest of the men who cross your
threshold.”

“Indeed!” said Lycoris, somewhat abashed. “Well, we shall have time by
and bye to discuss this paragon of merit!” And with a coquettish toss of her
head she turned from Quintus and mingled with the crowd of guests, who
were now streaming out into the illuminated gardens.

CHAPTER VIII.
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] had been lowered—the fanciful
decorations of one side had been overthrown and nearly half-burnt, while
hammers, nails, ropes, fragments of dresses, and rubbish of every kind

strewed the stage. In the midst of this hideous disorder a tall cross[181] stood
upright.
It was some time before Quintus could get any connected account of what
had happened; at first ten voices were raised at once to their highest pitch of
explanation. Lycoris was sulky and peevish, because the best effect of her
whole programme had been spoilt. Her friend Leaina, on the contrary,
swore by Hercules that Quintus had lost the finest sight in the world. His
wily acquaintance Clodianus, who took every opportunity of assuming airs
of frank bluntness, railed in threatening bass tones at the audacity of the
rascals, and others wandered off into questions, so that Quintus at last lost
patience. He went to the captain of the Praetorian guard, took him by the
arm, and asked almost angrily:
“Norbanus, will you tell me in plain words? I was absent, in the remotest
part of the wood, and on my return I find a perfect chaos. What does it all
mean?”
“It means one more sign of the times. Rome is become a perfect Vesuvius;
there are rumblings and mutterings on every side and in every corner. What
do you think? We were sitting here very contentedly on the garden seats,
enjoying the pleasures of digestion. Well, I was just wondering to myself
what this Massilian bay mare could still have in reserve, and somewhat
excited with curiosity, when the curtain was lowered. A grand burst of
music! and a fellow dressed in scarlet came to the front and informed us in
well-turned trimeters,[182] that a devilish funny piece was about to be
performed, the capital punishment of a criminal slave[183] named
Eurymachus....”
“What?” cried Quintus horrified.
“As I tell you—the execution of the slave Eurymachus, who had sinned
gravely against his illustrious master Stephanus, and so had forfeited his
life.”
“An execution as a garden comedy? This is something new, by Jupiter!”
“New indeed! hardly heard of since the days of the divine Nero.”
“Well, and what next?”

“The speaker announced that Lycoris had obtained leave from Parthenius,
the head chamberlain, to have the execution carried out in the semblance of
a jest before the eyes of her illustrious and noble guests; he begged our
indulgence for the performers, bowed, and the entertainment began.—You
know me, Quintus, and that I am no lover of such horrible buffoonery. I
fought for many years against the Daci[184] and Germanii, and the gods
know that the sight of death turns me cold. Merely to see an unarmed
wretch butchered—do you know, Quintus, it always reminds me of
slaughtering swine. When I sit there at my ease, looking on, a lump rises in
my throat, even in the amphitheatre. It may be outrageously simple and
quite out of fashion, but for the life of me I cannot help it.”
“Go on, go on!” cried Quintus in growing excitement.
“Well then; the performance began. They dragged the man in, half-naked
and crowned with roses. I cannot say he looked to me like a dangerous
character; quite the contrary—even at that moment, when his life was at
stake, he was quite quiet; only his paleness betrayed that the proceedings
were not altogether pleasant to him. Then all sorts of mocking and games
began at his expense; men scourged him or kicked him—all with
consummate grace—and half-naked girls danced and leaped round him like
mad things, nipped and pinched him, boxed his ears, and played all kinds of
stupid tricks. This went on for about ten minutes. Then the executioners set
a ladder by the cross there, flung a rope round him under the arms, hauled
him up, and the first blow of the hammer was on the point of hitting the nail
in, when a part of the side scene fell in with a tremendous crash. Four men,
with their faces blackened with soot, rushed in like a thunder-storm, seized
Eurymachus—who was as pale as death—by the arms, and were gone
before the pack of slaves had recovered their senses. The spectators thought
at first that this was part of the entertainment, till they were enlightened by
the angry shouts of Stephanus and Lycoris. Then it occurred to the half-
stunned executioners, that they might pursue the men. But then they
perceived, that in the breach made by the fallen scenery a tall giant of a man
was standing. He received the pursuers with a perfect storm of sword-
strokes. Rhodius, the gardener’s son, fell without a cry, and the second man
fared no better; the uproar was general, and the scenery broke out in flames.
The whole gang of them fell back before the one with a howl, like dogs
before a wolf at bay. The tall fellow, however, retired through fire and

smoke till he was safe outside it all, and then he planted himself up above at
the entrance of the avenue of elms, sword in hand. Eight men rushed upon
him at once, but for fully five minutes not one could get at him. Three of the
assailants bit the dust, before a well-aimed thrust pierced the Hercules
through the breast. He started, once more gathered himself together, and a
fourth man fell in front of him, cleft through the skull. That was the last of
it.”
“A noble ending truly to a friendly festival!” said Quintus glancing at
Lycoris, who still was fuming over the disaster. “And the rash defender is
dead?”
“Not yet,” said Clodianus joining them. “Stephanus is questioning him. But
as the fellow refuses to give any information, they propose to torture him to
make him speak.”
“Impossible!” cried Quintus furious. “His wound is mortal, he fought like a
hero. At any rate leave him to die in peace!” Clodianus shrugged his
shoulders.
“Settle that with Stephanus! If the villain will not confess, it is certainly
permissible to egg on his loquacity.”
Quintus frowned. After a few minutes of reflection he went up to
Stephanus, at the very instant when two slaves came on to the terrace with a
steaming cauldron of water.
“A very painful incident!” said Claudius coolly.
“Most painful!” replied Stephanus in the same tone. “I mean to try, whether
the error may not be remedied.” And as he spoke he gave a highly-
significant nod to the slaves, who had set the cauldron down on the ground
close to him. Quintus involuntarily stepped forward and put out his hand in
remonstrance.
“I hope, my good friend,” he said, still perfectly coolly, “that you only
intended to frighten this villain—good taste alone must prohibit....”
Stephanus changed color slightly, and the slaves looked terrified into his
face. The tension of the situation was interrupted by the return of the armed

men, who had been sent after the fugitives and now came back breathless
and streaming with sweat.
“My lord,” the foremost began, “we return as jaded as a pack of hounds, but
with empty hands.”
“So I see,” said Stephanus in chill tones. “And what tavern did you stop at,
and what wenches did you stop to kiss.”
“Forgive us, my lord!” groaned another sinking on to his knees, partly from
exhaustion, and partly from terror. “We rushed up the hill like blood-
hounds,[185] but they had too much the start of us.”
Stephanus looked down.
“Was the gate on to the Patrician Way[186] locked?” he asked frowning.
“Fast locked.”
“It is well. I will speak to your mistress. Woe to you, if you are in fault!”
“My lord,” the first speaker began again. “Grant me to say one word of
explanation. In spite of the start the fugitives had gained, we might have
caught them if an accident....”
He broke off and glanced at Quintus, who smiled and told him to go on.
“Speak fearlessly,” he said kindly. “Accuse me, if you think well to do so—
in fact, you have every right.”
The slave went on to relate how Quintus had delayed him and his comrades
in the narrow hedge-grown passage. At each word Stephanus grew paler,
and Quintus became more and more scornful in air and demeanor.
“Are this man’s assertions founded on fact?” asked Stephanus as the slave
ceased speaking.
“How am I to interpret such a question?”
“Exactly as I ask it. I am interested to know whether a son of the noble
Claudia gens can so far—condescend, as to abet the flight of a criminal?”
“That I did not say!” cried the slave, shocked.

“Never mind!” said Quintus reassuringly, to the excited narrator. “You have
spoken the truth, and I will vouch for it at any moment. When I was
loitering in the gardens of our fair hostess, how should I guess that certain
persons, who came upon me quite suddenly, were chasing a runaway slave?
And even if I had guessed it, what is there to compel me to step among the
thorns and briars, in order to make way for your thief-catchers?”
“Politeness and a due regard for the interests of the commonwealth,”
replied Stephanus drily. “However, what is done cannot be undone. It is all
the more necessary to act promptly, in what yet remains to be done.”
As he spoke he went close up to the blood-stained Hun, who, with his last
remaining strength, lifted himself up and cast a wild glance round him.
“You hardened hound,” he said in a rough, hoarse voice, “I will soften you!
Do you see that cauldron? I ask you once more: Who are you? Who are
your fellow-conspirators?” The gasping man’s breast heaved more rapidly.
“Will you speak?” repeated Stephanus furiously. And now, for the first time
the victim spoke; till now he had not uttered a sound.
“No!” he cried with his last remnant of strength, and he sank back groaning.
“Very well; then abide by your destiny.” At this moment Quintus Claudius
stepped up to the slaves who held the cauldron, his arms crossed on his
breast.
“Enough of this horse-play!” he said curtly and vehemently. “Begone
indoors, you parcel of idiots! I, Quintus Claudius, command you to go.”
“And I, Stephanus, command you in the name of your mistress: remain and
obey! Rufus, Daedalus, lay hold!”
“We will solve this dilemma, as Alexander did in Gordium,” said Quintus
scornfully, and with these words he pushed the slaves aside and gave the
cauldron a mighty kick, so that the contents poured steaming out all over
the terrace.
“This is violence!"[187] exclaimed Stephanus, involuntarily raising his
hands.

“The violence of reason against bad taste and coarse feeling!” said Quintus
with a scowling look. “I should advise you, freedman,[188] to keep your
hand hidden away in the folds of your robe, or in the depths of your coffers
and money-boxes, or Quintus Claudius might happen to squeeze that hand
rather more tightly than you would like!”
At the word “freedman” Stephanus had turned as pale as a corpse. He
closed his eyes and staggered. His lean fingers trembled and twitched, as if
he were feeling for a dagger. Then, mastering his agitation with an almost
superhuman effort, he said faintly:
“I do not altogether understand what it is that you mean, so I will not
trouble myself to answer ... you. Meanwhile you have only given the slaves
some unnecessary extra labor.—To work, men!—refill the cauldron.”
“Too late,” said Quintus. “Your victim has escaped you.”
“He is dead!” cried the slaves.
Stephanus muttered something unintelligible between his teeth; then he
ordered that the body should be removed.
“Antinous,” said he to one of the slaves, a remarkably beautiful young
fellow: “I look to you to report all that has happened here, fully and exactly
to the authorities. If Eurymachus is delivered up to me alive, I promise you
a hundred thousand sesterces.—Here comes Lycoris with the soldiers of the
town-watch.[189] Speak to them; tell them all you know, and offer them
gold; that will inspire the most dilatory.”
“I hear and obey, my lord.”
“I am tired and shall withdraw. In ten minutes I shall expect to see you.”
“I shall be with you in five.”
The file of men at arms—a division of a military body, who performed the
duties of a town-watch, combining the functions of our modern firemen and
police—came up just at the right moment to verify the death of the
unknown victim, to take the statements of the assistants and spend an hour
very comfortably in the atrium. The guests of the fair Lycoris had soon
recovered from the unpleasant impression produced by the untoward

incident. Amusements and sports of every kind effaced the last traces of its
remembrance, and for a long time after the tones of luxurious music
sounded through the starry night.

CHAPTER IX.
The morning was already grey over the distant Sabine hills[190] when
Quintus, followed by his clients and slaves,[191] left the scene of festivity.
With him came Clodianus and the poet Martial; the former accompanied,
like himself, by a number of dependents and satellites, the latter by a single
slave, whose smoky little lamp looked absurd enough by the side of the
handsome lanterns and torches of the rest of the escort.
“A mad night!” sighed Martial, looking up. “The stars are already twinkling
like eyes dim at leave-taking. Illustrious Clodianus, you will make my
excuses to my patron, the chamberlain Parthenius, if I should fail to offer
my morning greeting. Getting up early is my greatest torment,[192] even
when I have crept between the coverlets at betimes, and to-day, after this
unpardonable dissipation....”
Clodianus laughed.
“I will explain it to him,” he roared out in the fresh morning air. “However
—I shall hardly see him before noon. I am as tired myself, as if I had been
sawing stone all night.”
“Yes, it is frightful to be so tired! I would give ten years of my life, if I
might only sleep half the day. But on the contrary, before cock-crow, I must
be out of bed, fling my toga over my shoulders, and be bowing to
noblemen! By Castor! if I were not an ass, I should long since have fled to
the peace and quietness of my native town!”
“Well, sleep to-day till sundown! Just now Parthenius will be most willing
to excuse you, for his head is so full of business, and Caesar makes such
incessant claims upon his time, that he is glad when his best friends leave
him in peace.”
“I heard the same thing from my father,” added Quintus. “Some great stroke
seems to be in hand. Is nothing known of the facts?”

“Pah! it is the talk of the town. Plots dangerous to the state, treason to
religion and society, conspiracies against Caesar....”
“But the facts—the details...?”
“You know,” said Clodianus laughing, “that in affairs of state, silence is as
important, as valor is in battle!”
“Well said!” cried the poet.[193] “With a little suitable embellishment, that
may be turned into a brilliant epigram. Now, noble friends, I will bid you
farewell. Our roads are no longer the same. I must climb up here to the
temple on the Quirinal, while you go down into the valley. In life it is just
the reverse. Apollo preserve you!” He hastily turned up the street, while
Clodianus and Quintus went on along the ‘Long Way.’
“Aye!” said the crafty Clodianus. “I have constantly to remind myself of the
duty of silence; more than once has my rash tongue run away with me. I
come of an easy-tempered race, which are apt to talk without stopping to
think. It is wrong, by Hercules!—it is wrong!”
They had now reached the Subura.[194] The height of the five, six, or more-
storied houses,[195] and the narrowness of the way here, only allowed the
day to dawn slowly and late, and deep gloom still prevailed in the numerous
taverns[196] and entries. At the same time busy life was already stirring on
all sides; itinerant bakers[197] were wandering from door to door crying their
fresh bread. Pedagogues,[198] with their writing implements and clay lamps,
were leading files of boys to school. Here and there, from a side alley,
might be heard the croaking chant of a teacher, and the babble of spelling
children.[199] Groups of worshippers, on their way to perform their morning
devotions in the neighboring temple of Isis, hurried across the loudly-
echoing pavement.
“Day is coming upon us apace,” said Quintus, as he stopped in front of the
entrance to the "Cyprius street"[200] and held out his hand to the adjutant.
“Our roads part here, and we must make haste if we mean to reach home
before sunrise.”
“Will you be at the Baths at about noon?”

“Possibly.—If I get up in time.”
“Well then—let us hope that the wine-cup of Lycoris may leave you free of
headache.”
“The same to you! Farewell.” And with these words Quintus went on his
way, while Clodianus turned off to the right.
“Cyprius street” grew at every step more select and consequently more
deserted; to the left the Baths of Titus stood up, a sharply-defined mass,
against the rose-tinted sky. Each time that Quintus Claudius walked up the
street, this vast pile seemed to have a fresh spell for him. The contrast
between the ponderous mass, and the tender flush of Autumn dawn behind
him, filled him with pleasurable admiration, and his eye followed a flock of
pigeons, which for some few minutes soared to and fro above the great
building and then, with sudden swiftness, flew across the road.
“They came from the left,” said he to one of his companions. “Now, if I
believed in augury from the flight of birds, I should be forced to suppose
that some evil was hanging over me.”
He was still speaking, when from the same side, where a narrow path came
down from the great Baths, a muffled figure rushed upon him and hit him a
blow with a bare poniard. Happily the ruffian at the same instant slipped on
the sloping pavement—which was rendered even more slippery by the early
morning dew—so that the dagger missed its aim, and instead of piercing the
young man’s throat, passed across his left shoulder and through the folds of
his toga, which it cut through as sharply as a razor. And before Quintus
quite understood what had happened, the assassin had glided away between
the slaves with the suppleness of a panther, and vanished in the direction of
the Subura. The young man gazed at his arm, where the toga and under-
garment hung in long strips; the wound was but skin-deep, a spot of blood
had here and there oozed out.
“Let it be!” said Quintus to the slaves, who had crowded round him when
their first stupified astonishment was over. “I know very well where that
blade was sharpened, and for the future I will be more cautious. But one
thing I must say to you; my good people, each and all, be silent as to this
attack. You too, my excellent friends and clients—you know how easily my

noble father is alarmed. If he knew that there was in all Rome a villain, who
had threatened my life, he would never know another moment’s peace.”
“My lord, you know us!” exclaimed the slaves and freedmen, and the
clients too professed their devotion.
“His revenge is prompt!” thought Quintus, as he went onwards. “I always
knew him to be an example of audacity and ruthlessness—still, such
impatience as this is somewhat a surprise to me.”
Then suddenly he stood still, as a new and almost impossible idea flashed
across his mind.—“If it were ... supposing.... Could Domitia...?”
He pressed his hands over his eyes, and that which had at first seemed so
plain, intelligible and obvious, now sank back into the mists of doubt and
conjecture.
The slaves had by this time extinguished their torches and lanterns.—Broad
daylight shone in cloudless beauty over the widely-spread city of the Seven
Hills. The great temple of Isis lay flooded with gold; a procession of priests,
[201] bearing the image of the goddess, came marching down the street.

“Get on!” cried Quintus. “I am tired to death. It was a folly, Blepyrus, to
dismiss the litters.”
“It was wisdom, my lord!” said the slave. “If I still am honored with your
confidence, I would again repeat....”
“Ah well!” Quintus interrupted. “Very likely you are right—you leeches are
always right.[202] If only you attain a proportionate result! But if exercise
were everything, I should be the lightest-hearted man in Europe. Nay, my
good Blepyrus, this dissatisfaction, this intolerable sense of ill lies
deeper....”
In a few minutes they had reached home. The ostiarius[203] was standing at
the door, as if the master of the house were impatiently expected. Quintus
was about to cross the threshold, when he heard himself loudly called by
name.
“What do I see? Euterpe! All hail to you—so soon returned to Rome?”

“Yes, my lord, since yesterday,” answered the flute-player hastily. “And
ever since I came, I have been incessantly trying to find you. Do you still
remember,” she went on in a low voice, “what you promised me at Baiae?”
“Certainly, my pretty one. Quintus Claudius sticks to his bargain ...
besides.... But who is the grey-headed old man with you there? Your
husband or your father?”
“My husband is young, and my father is dead.—This is Thrax Barbatus,
Glauce’s father.”
“And who is Glauce?”
“What—did I never tell you about Glauce—out there, on the hills by Baiae?
I must have forgotten in the midst of all my trouble. Glauce is to be married
to our Eurymachus....”
“Ah! the heroic sufferer, that Stephanus had flogged?”
“The very same, my lord! And you promised me to remember....”
“True, true—come to me in the course of the afternoon....”
“Ah! my lord, but that will be too late. Eurymachus is in danger of his
life....”
“What, again!”
“Oh! be merciful, most noble Quintus! Give us only five minutes audience!
You alone can save him.”
“Come in, then!”
He led the way through the atrium into his private room.
“My lord,” the flute-player began again, “I will tell my story shortly.
Eurymachus rebelled against the Empress’ steward, who wanted to persuade
him to all sorts of disgraceful conduct. Stephanus flogged him first, and
then obtained permission to crucify him at the next festival. This I heard
from the gate-keeper. But there was no festival fixed for yesterday, so there
is still some hope, and we entreat you....”

“Be calm—for the present your friend is in safety.”
“Impossible—he is lying in chains....”
“He was lying in chains. His execution was fixed for yesterday, but at the
last moment he was snatched from the jaws of peril.”
“What?” cried Thrax Barbatus, speaking for the first time. “Did I hear you
rightly, snatched from his fetters! Then Glauce was able to carry out what
she proposed.”
“Free?” said Euterpe, looking up at Quintus in bewilderment.
“As I tell you.”
“Oh, now I see it all!” cried Thrax Barbatus. “This pretended journey to
Ostia—what had your husband to do in Ostia? And Philippus, my son, who
has hardly been in Rome a week—why should he want to accompany
Diphilus....” Then, seized with terror, he sank on the ground before Quintus
and threw his arms round his knees.
“Oh, my lord! do not take advantage of the rash words of a miserable
father!” he exclaimed vehemently. “Do not betray, what my tongue let slip
in my fear and anxiety.”
“Be easy, old man!” said Quintus benevolently. “I am not one of the spies of
the city-guard. Your friend is a hero, and courage always commands my
sympathy.”
“Thanks, thanks!” sobbed the old man, covering the young noble’s hands
with kisses. “But tell me, pray, how it all happened; how is it possible that,
in the midst of such a crowd of servants....”
“All is possible to those who dare all. What I heard—and the merest
accident prevented my being an eye witness—aroused as much
astonishment in me, as in you. All the bystanders seemed to have been
paralyzed. It was like an eagle in the Hyrcanian mountains,[204] swooping
down on a lamb. One man particularly, a stalwart, broad-shouldered fellow,
did wonders of valor....”

Thrax Barbatus drew himself up with the elasticity of youth. Happy pride
sparkled in his eyes, and an expression—a radiance, as it were, of beatific
affection illuminated his rugged and strongly-wrinkled features.
“That was Philippus, my son!” he said with a trembling voice. “Oh! it was
not for nothing, that he fought for years against the Dacians, not in vain that
he endured frost and heat. There is not a man in all the legion that is his
match in skill and strength; not one that can beat him in running or in lance-
throwing. But speak, my lord; you look so grave, so sad! What is it? Oh, for
God’s sake, in Christ’s name—it is impossible! My son, my Philippus!—
but he could stand against twenty—speak, my lord, or you will kill me....”
“Poor old man,” said Quintus much moved, “what good will it do to
conceal the truth from you? Your son is dead. Scorning to fly, he exposed
himself too long to his foes. He died like a hero.”
Thrax Barbatus uttered a soul-piercing cry, and fell backwards to the
ground; Euterpe flung herself upon him and clasped his head to her heart,
weeping bitterly.
“Thrax—dear, good friend,” she sobbed out: “Control yourself, collect
yourself! Show yourself strong in this terrible trouble! Consider, you will
have Glauce, and Eurymachus, who loves you like a son.”
The old man slowly pulled himself up; he pushed Euterpe violently aside,
and then sinking on to his knees, raised his hands in passionate appeal to
Heaven. His lips moved in prayer, but no sound was heard. Quintus, lost in
astonishment, stood leaning against a pillar, while Euterpe wept silently, her
face buried in her arm. A terrible storm seemed to be raging in the old
man’s soul; his breast rose and fell like a wind-tossed sea, and a wild fire
glowed in his eyes. But by degrees he grew calmer, and his features
assumed an expression of sorrowing and silent resignation. It was as though
a tender and beatific ray of forgiveness lighted them up, growing clearer
each moment. After a time he rose.
“Pardon me, my lord,” he said slowly. “I was stricken down by the vastness
of my grief. He fell like a hero, you said? And Eurymachus is safe?”
“He escaped,” replied Quintus, “which, alas! is not quite the same thing.
Every effort will be made to recover possession of the fugitive. Well, we

must see what can be done. Accident has enlisted me on your side, and I
will play the part out to the end. For the present leave me; I am tired out,
and a tired man is of no use as an adviser; but this evening, about the
second vigil,[205] I will find my way to your dwelling, unaccompanied.”
“Father in Heaven, I thank Thee!” cried Thrax Barbatus vehemently.
“Blessings, oh! blessings on the head of this noble and generous youth!
Farewell, my lord! Never, never will I forget your gracious kindness to us
helpless wretches.”
With these words he left the room, and Euterpe followed him. Quintus went
at once to his curtained cubiculum,[206] undressed with the help of the
faithful Blepyrus and soon fell asleep.

CHAPTER X.
“Really, Baucis, you are very clumsy again today!” cried Lucilia, half-
vexed and half-saucily. “Do you want to pull that fine, luxuriant hair, that
the greatest poet might rave about, all out by the roots. I have shown you a
hundred times how the arrow is to be put through, and you always towzle
my hair as old Orbilius[207] does the schoolboys!”
“Ingratitude for thanks, all the world over!” muttered the old slave, casting
a last glance at Lucilia’s curls, her successful handiwork. “I suppose you
would like to stick a pin into me.[208] Really, the young people of the
present day are like babies or dolls. And if the gold pin slips and the plaits
come down, then it is the old woman who is to blame and there is no end of
the fuss. Ah! you naughty girl,[209] how do you expect to get on when you
are married, you impatient little thing! Many a time will you have to sigh,
when your husband is out of temper! Many a time will you say to yourself:
‘Ah! if only I had learned a little patience when I was younger!’”
“You are greatly mistaken,” said Lucilia in a declamatory tone. “The days
are over, when the husband was master over everything in the house. What
woman now-a-days will submit to a wedding with offerings of corn?[210]
We have grown wiser, and know what such offerings are meant to
symbolize—we are to surrender our liberty to the very last grain! So I
should think! If ever I marry.... But what are you about? Will you ever have
done fidgetting with that tiresome necklace? Do look, Claudia, how she is
tormenting me!”
Claudia was sitting in holiday attire in front of a handsome citrus-wood[211]
table, holding in her hands the ivory roller of an elegantly-written book.
When Lucilia spoke to her she absently raised her soft, fawn-like eyes, laid
the roll aside and stood up.
“You look like Melpomene,” cried Lucilia enthusiastically, while Baucis
draped her stola.[212] “If I were Aurelius, I should have my head turned by
the sight of you. How well the folds of your dress fall, and how admirably
the border lies on the ground, oh! and your hair! Do you know I am quite in

love myself with that hair; it goes so beautifully with the soft brown of your
eyes. That dark fair hair, with a kind of dim lustre, is too lovely; my stupid,
every-day brown looks no better by the side of it than a cabbage next a rose.
Of course, too, Baucis takes three times as much pains with you as with me.
Tell me yourself, is not this arrow all askew again?”
So speaking she took a polished metal mirror[213] from the table, and
studied her coiffure first from the right and then from the left, while one of
the young slave-girls, who stood round Baucis, came to her assistance with
a second mirror.
“It is quite horrid!” she said crossly. “In short every single thing is wanting
in me to-day, that could please the fancy of any human being. Never was
my fatal snub-nose so short and broad, never was my mouth so wide and
vulgar. And listen, Claudia, in spite of all its beauty, I can do without going
to Baiae for the future. I gained twenty pounds in weight there, and brought
home three dozen freckles. It is a lucky thing, that I have a philosophic
soul! If I were in love now with some son of the gods, by Socrates’ cup of
hemlock I should be desperate with rage!”
“You are only fishing for praise,” said Claudia, stroking her sister’s cheek.
“But you know I am but ill-skilled in the art of paying compliments.”
“Silly girl!” said Lucilia. “As if praise could mend an evil. Do you suppose
I want to do as the young law students do, who hire flatterers to praise
them?[214] Nay, no bribery is possible, when we stand before the
Centumvirate[215] who judge of beauty.—And, my good Baucis, what are
you staring at now, like a country cousin at a circus. Make haste and get
dressed, you old sinner, or Cinna’s cook will have burnt the pasty.”
“I shall be ready in an instant,” replied Baucis. “At my time of life dressing
need not take long. Who looks at the hawthorn, I wonder, when roses are in
bloom?” and she hurried away.
Lucilia and Claudia went out into the colonnade where, arm in arm, they
slowly paced the gleaming marble pavement. As they turned the farther
corner of the quadrangle, they saw their mother coming towards them at a
leisurely pace.
“Quintus is ready and waiting,” she said pleasantly.

“And you, dear mother?” asked Lucilia. “Do you really mean to stay at
home?”
“It is such a pity,” added Claudia. “We are accustomed, alas! to my father’s
never accompanying us to see Cornelia, but you—what need you care about
the debates in the senate? Besides, Cornelius Cinna is related to your
family. Your views as to what contributes to the prosperity of the Roman
people differ no doubt....”
“In Jupiter’s name, child!” cried Octavia horrified. “Claudia, what are you
saying? If your father were to hear you....”
“But, my dear mother,” answered the girl, “I am only speaking the truth.
There are many very estimable men....”
“Be silent—when and where did you pick up such notions? Attend to your
music and your poets, give your mind to the flowers you twist into your
hair, but never meddle with the mysteries of state-craft.”
The young girl looked down in some confusion.
“Do not pay any heed to it, mother dear!” said Lucilia. “She chatters
without thinking. But, once more—do come with us. Cornelius Cinna will
very likely not be visible; you know how strangely the old man behaves.
Come, mother—and remember, dear little mother, it is Cornelia’s birthday.
She will certainly feel hurt, if the mother of her future husband lets the day
pass without going to embrace her.”
“It is of no use; your father’s wishes have always been my law. Believe me,
my sweet child, the utmost I can do is to allow you to visit at that house....”
“Come, that would be too bad, mother! I really believe, that if he had not
formally released Quintus from his filial bondage, he would have been
capable of forbidding the marriage.”
“It is quite possible,” replied Octavia. “That noble soul places the
commonwealth above every other consideration. You can hardly imagine,
how unswervingly he goes on the road he believes to be the right one.”
“Oh yes! I know his resolute nature,” said Claudia, “and I honor and admire
it. Say no more, Lucilia; mother is right. A man must never yield even a

hand-breadth, and silent obedience is a wife’s first duty.”
“You are my dear good child,” said Octavia much touched. “And believe
me when I say, that the fulfilment of this duty, hard as it seems, is a heartfelt
joy when such a man as your father is the husband. He is strict and firm, but
not a tyrant; he is always ready to listen to reason, and to take council with
the chosen companion of his life. Nay, he is not above learning from the
humblest. On one point only he stands like a rock against which the surf
beats in vain, and that point is Duty.”
“Here comes Baucis!” cried Lucilia with a laugh of saucy amusement.
“Hail, oh fairest of brides, clad in the garb of rejoicing! Baucis in sky-blue!
If this does not procure her a Philemon, I must despair of the fate of
humanity.”
“You hear, mistress, how shamefully she mocks your waiting-woman,” said
Baucis in lamentable tones. “I can never do anything right. If I wear grey,
she hints at an ass; if I put on a handsome dress, she laughs at me to my
face. However, what I had to say is, that the litters are at the door and the
young master has asked three times if his sisters were coming.”
“We are quite ready,” said Claudia.
A dense crowd had gathered outside the vestibule. Quintus, with only three
of his slaves, was waiting impatiently in the entrance. The twelve litter-
bearers in their red livery stood by the poles, and eight negroes—the van
and rear-guard of the procession—were staring vacantly into the air. A
number of idlers had collected round these—the inquisitive gapers who
always swarmed wherever there was anything to be seen, however trivial.
These were the class who, not choosing to work, lived on the corn given
away by the state;[216] the uproarious mob who filled the upper rows of
seats in the theatres and circus; the populace whose suffrages no Caesar was
too proud to court, since it was among these that arbitrary despotism had its
most staunch adherents, in the struggle against the last remnants of a free
and freedom-loving aristocracy.
“Oh! how handsome she is!” ran from mouth to mouth among the loiterers,
as Claudia stepped into the foremost litter; Lucilia took her place by her

adopted sister’s side. The second litter was to carry Baucis and a young
slave girl.
“Make way!” cried the principal runner, stepping among the crowd, who
fell back, and the procession set out. Quintus followed on foot at a short
distance.
Their way led them through the Forum and past the venerable temple of
Saturn, where the Roman state-treasure was kept. To the right on the
Palatine, spread the enormous palaces of the Caesars, and among them the
capitol and the splendid but scarcely-finished residence of Domitian.
Proceeding but slowly, they reached the Arch of Titus[217] and then, leaving
the fountain of the Meta Sudans[218] and the vast Flavian amphitheatre[219]
to the right, they turned into the street leading to the Caelimontana Gate.
[220] The throng of humanity, which in the neighborhood of the Forum
defied all description, here became somewhat thinner; and the litter-bearers
mended their pace. In about ten minutes they stopped at a house, which in
point of magnificence was hardly inferior to that of the Flamen Titus
Claudius Mucianus. In the vestibule, beside the door-keeper, there stood a
stout little woman, who hailed the visitors from afar with a broad grin, and
was most eager to be of use to the young ladies as they alighted. This little
woman was Chloe, Cornelia’s maid; her mistress now appeared on the
scene, a tall and finely-made young girl, with hair as black as night, dressed
entirely in white and wearing no ornament but a string of large, softly-
gleaming pearls. The girls embraced each other warmly.
Quintus had by this time joined them; with a tender light in his eyes he went
straight up to his betrothed and kissed her gravely on the forehead. “All
health, happiness and blessing on you, on your birthday,[221] my sweet
Cornelia!” he said affectionately; then taking her hand he led her into the
atrium. This was festally decorated with flowers; in the middle stood a
hearth[222] after the old fashion, but there were no images of the Lares and
Penates. Cornelius Cinna held the opinions and views of the world at large,
which had been taught by Lucretius[223] and Pliny the Elder;[224] he thought
it folly to enquire curiously as to the form and aspect of the Divinity, or
even of any particular god or goddess; since, if there be indeed a Power
beyond and behind Nature, that Power must be Force and Wisdom pure and
simple. Hence he contemned all the ordinary household gods.

Eight or ten guests were already assembled in the atrium, among them
Caius Aurelius and his faithful follower Herodianus.
The young Batavian did not at first seem to observe the new arrivals. He
was standing in grave conversation with the master of the house, whose
gloomy and almost sinister countenance by no means harmonized with the
gay decorations of the hearth and the Corinthian columns.
“I thank you,” said Cinna offering the young man his hand. “Your words
have done me good. But now, ask no farther....”
“As you desire....”
“One thing more, my dear Caius—Quintus Claudius too must know how
strongly I feel on this point. After dinner bring him, as if by chance, into my
study....”
“Trust to me.”
“Very good; and now for a few hours I will try to banish these memories
from my soul. As you see me, Caius, you may think it a miracle that I am
not choked by the insult! And not a soul that could sympathize with me!
Nerva, my old friend, was absent. Even Trajan was so far off as
Antium[225]....”
“And Caius Aurelius was too young and too much a stranger?” said the
Batavian laughing.
“Yes, I must confess that it was so. From the first, it is true, I saw you to be
an admirable youth, and I thank my friend at Gades, who sent you with
letters of introduction to me; but I could not guess how early ripe and truly
noble your whole nature was, how fervent your patriotism and how
unconquerable your pride.—But in all truth, Aurelius, from this day forth—
here comes Quintus and his sisters; we part for the present, but do not
forget!”
His face, which had brightened somewhat as he spoke, fell again to the
expression of grave, almost sinister determination, which characterized his
strongly-marked features. He crossed the atrium to the entrance where the
young people, surrounded by their guests, were chatting gaily. Cinna

pressed the hand of his niece’s lover—kindly, but yet with a certain reserve
—and addressed a few half-jesting words to the girls; but when Claudia
attempted to offer such apology as best she might for her mother’s absence,
he turned away as if he did not hear.
At this moment the noble figure of an old man appeared in the doorway;
with a gleaming white toga over his shoulders and flowing snowy locks, his
towering height gave him a majestic presence.
“Cocceius Nerva,” whispered the Batavian to Herodianus, who came up to
him to ask.
“By Castor!” said the freedman, “but if I had met this man on arriving here,
I should have said that he and no other must be the ruler of the world.”
“Remember, we are in Rome, and you will do well to keep such ideas to
yourself.”
Cornelius Cinna led the illustrious senator to a handsome marble seat
covered with carpets, and a circle of reverent friends formed round him at
once.
“By all the gods,” muttered Herodianus, “may I perish if that marble seat
does not look for all the world like a throne; and they stand round him like
the guard round Caesar.—And now, as he raises his right hand! If he were
but thirty years younger, he would be like that image of Zeus we bought a
while since in Gades; he only lacks the thunderbolt.”
“Silence!” repeated Aurelius angrily. “You have had no wine yet to-day—
what will you not say when you have played your part at dinner, if you are
as thirsty as usual?”
“I will not say another word,” replied the freedman.
Claudia, who till this instant had been talking eagerly with Ulpius Trajanus,
a Hispanian friend of Cinna’s, of Cocceius Nerva’s—too eagerly, Aurelius
thought—now went off with Cornelia under the colonnade to see the
birthday gifts which, in accordance with an old Roman custom, had been
sent to Cornelia early in the day. They were tastefully laid out in the arcade
on brazen tables; gold brooches and necklaces among exquisite flowers;

tissues mixed with silk;[226] handsome books with purple edges, rolled on
cylinders of amber and ebony; little slippers worked with pearls; beaten
silver vessels from the hand of Mentor,[227] the esteemed silversmith;
Arabian and Indian perfumes from the stores of Niceros,[228] the famous
druggist; ribbons and trimmings of amethyst-purple;[229] stuffed birds, fruits
from Asia Minor, and a hundred other costly trifles from every quarter of
the world made up the tribute sent to this spoilt daughter of a senatorial
house.
Aurelius took advantage of the opportunity, and went to join the young
girls. Claudia affected great surprise at seeing him, but immediately after
gave the young man her hand with frank warmth, as though ashamed in
truth of any disingenuous coquetry towards such a man as Aurelius. Still,
the conversation they began was not particularly lively; they stood in front
of the tables and made the usual remarks—this present was charming, that
offering was splendid. Cornelia declared, that prettiest of all were the
exquisite roses[230] that Quintus had given her—and Claudia sighed, very
softly, still she sighed.
At this moment a grinning head appeared in the frame of a door close by.
This was Chloe, Cornelia’s maid.
“I beg your pardon,” she said with comical importance. “But if I disturb
you, it is from sheer necessity. The steward of the tables[231] cannot arrange
the places for the company.”
“Indeed, how is that?” asked Cornelia severely. “Did I not give him full and
exact instructions? He seems to have a short memory.”
“Excuse us, dear mistress—but he had not counted on Cocceius Nerva.
Come and help us, pray.”
Cornelia frowned, but did as she was requested; her pallid face colored
scarlet; such a question seemed to her vulgar and trivial, and she felt that
shock to her taste which jars on a superior nature, when the details of daily
life intrude on a moment of exalted feeling. Those roses from Paestum,[232]
that thought of Quintus! what a delicious flood of happy feeling they
symbolized! And Chloe’s appearance, in the very midst of this beauty and

happiness, wounded her like the empty farcicality of an Atellanian buffoon.
[233]

Aurelius and Claudia were left to gaze at the display of birthday gifts with
redoubled attention; you might have fancied they had never before seen
such things as flowers or bracelets.
“How delicious!” said Claudia breathing the perfume of a splendid rose-
bush.
“Delicious!” echoed Aurelius, putting his face close to the flowers. “And
look at this strange bird! How naturally it sits with its wings spread out—
exactly as if it were alive.”
“It is a parrot from the banks of the Indus.”
“Or a phoenix[234]....”
“A phoenix? I thought that story of Tacitus’ was a mere fable.”
“Nay, not altogether. The marvellous bird, which burns its father or itself
and then rises from its ashes in renewed youth, is no doubt a myth. But does
not Pliny tell us of a real phoenix, which builds its nest at the sources of the
Nile and shines like pure gold?”
“What, seriously?” and she gently stroked the neck of the stuffed bird with
her finger.
“How soft it feels!” she said.
“Like crape from Cos,"[235] said Aurelius, doing the same. His hand touched
hers, and Claudia colored. She hastily stooped over a book lying close by—
the “Thebais” of Statius—and read the title, written in gold on the outside
of the roll.
“A capital work,” said the Batavian, “I read it some time since in
Trajectum.”
“And to me, a Roman, it remains unknown.”
“If you only desire it, I will go to-morrow morning to the bookseller in the
Argiletum and bring you the best copy I can find.”

“Oh! you are too kind!” replied Claudia.
Then there was a pause, while Aurelius examined with the greatest interest
the quality of some flaxen cloth from Cordova. At last he began
hesitatingly:
“If you will not think it too bold, allow me to propose....”
“Speak on,” said Claudia, again bending over the “Thebais.”
“I should be only too happy, if I might be allowed to read this masterpiece
of Statius aloud to you. Without wishing to boast, I have had a good deal of
practice in reading and declamation, and,—as you know, epic[236] poetry
was originally intended for recitation.”
“Of course; it is for that very reason called epic. I may own too, that there is
nothing I like better than to hear good reading. Quintus reads very well, but
he rarely has time or is in the humor.”
“You will allow me then?”
“I beg you to be so good.”
“And when?”
“That we will settle presently; just now, I see, they are going to table.”
“Where have you hidden yourselves?” cried Lucilia flying into the hall as
lightly as a deer. “I have been seeking you everywhere. Come, make haste;
I am desperately hungry.”
“She is hungry!” thought Claudia with a glance up to heaven. “I hardly
know whether to envy her or to pity her!”

CHAPTER XI.
The meal was ended; Cocceius Nerva had proposed the health of Cornelia
as the heroine of the day. After offering a libation, according to the ancient
custom, he invoked the favor and mercy of the Immortals on the young girl;
then he rose and left the triclinium. The whole company followed him, to
listen to the sweet tones of soft music in the fresher air of the peristyle, and
to walk up and down on the inlaid marble floor, chatting in low tones.
Bronze lamps shed their light from between the Corinthian pillars, and the
stars shone down from the cloudless skies; in the court itself a confidential
twilight prevailed.
“Now, my sweet Claudia, tell me, how do you like Trajan?"[237] whispered
Lucilia in her sister’s ear as she stood meditatively by the fountain.
“I have only seen him to-day for the third time—how can I judge?”
“To me he is quite too delightful. What a pity that he is already married.—
To be sure, even then he would be too old....”
“Do you think so?” said Claudia absently.
“Why, you seem to have forgotten that he was consul a long time ago.”
“Was he?”
“Yes, of course, with Glabrio. How often your father has spoken of him.”
“I do not happen to remember it.”
“To be sure, we were still in the nursery, and stories of Cupid and
Psyche[238] interested us more than the virtues of a statesman.”
Claudia sighed: “Happy childhood!” she said sadly.
“Nerva even—old Nerva—thinks great things of him,” Lucilia went on,
without observing this diversion. “He calls him his son, and is always ready
to listen to his counsels—and in fact it is well worth while to listen to what

Trajan has to say. You cannot think how cleverly, how wisely and
judiciously he can talk. And at the same time he is so honest, so simple, so
unpretentious! No one would imagine from his appearance, that he once
was the commander-in-chief of all the forces in Germany, with unlimited
authority, and won a glorious victory.”
“Where in the world did you acquire all this information as to his merits?—
Whenever I looked across at you, you were chatting with Caius Afranius.”
“Cneius, not Caius.”
“I thought it was Caius. Considering it was your first meeting, your
conversation with this Afranius was somewhat eager.”
“Oh! I had met him before—a week or more ago; do you not remember?
The day you had a headache. He is intimate with Cornelius. He has been in
Rome since the beginning of March, and is already beginning to play an
important part in the Forum.”[239]
“Is he a jurist?” asked Claudia.
“A defender of the oppressed and accuser of the criminal!” answered
Lucilia warmly. “He has even gained a cause, quite lately, against
Clodianus, Caesar’s adjutant. His eloquence and powerful argument won
him the victory, in spite of all his adversary’s art, and the impression he
made was so tremendous, that for the moment every one forgot how
dangerous it is to have Clodianus for an enemy. The whole Basilica[240]
shook with the applause.”
“Did he himself tell you this?”
“Certainly not! I heard it from Ulpius Trajanus.”
“And that no doubt is what makes you think Trajan so amiable?”
“Silly child! Do you suppose...? You know, my dear, that when folks are in
love, they see the whole world from one point of view.”
“What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean that you would say with Theognis[241] of Megara, that
amiable poet:
‘Temper the pangs of love and assuage the torments, O Goddess,
That gnaw my heart! Oh! restore my joy and contentment.’”

“You are incorrigible!” said Claudia.
But Lucilia, with a merry twinkle in her eye, laid her hand on her
companion’s shoulder, saying softly: “Ah! fluttering heart, it is vain to try
concealment! Your Lucilia’s experience and knowledge of mankind can see
through every disguise. ‘Restore my joy, bring Aurelius to my side.’ It is the
wolf in the fable—he comes softly down on his prey with a tender, elegiac
grace! Sigh again—with Sappho this time—:
‘Woe is me! my tremulous heart beats faintly—
Thou art near! My faltering voice refuses utterance even!’”

And she glided off, while Claudia stood gazing fixedly at the sparkling
water in the basin. In her somewhat hasty retreat, Lucilia ran up against the
broad back of Herodianus, who was clinging convulsively to the back of a
chair with both hands, and leaning over it gazed up, as if spellbound, in
silent contemplation at the star-spangled sky.
“I beg your pardon, old sinner!"[242] said the girl saucily, as she passed on;
but a deep sigh from the freedman made her pause.
“What is the matter, oh! boon companion from the North? Are you suffering
from apoplexy? or do you wish to become a mathematician?[243] Why are
you staring so dolefully up at the Pleiades?”
“Ah! sweet mistress—what is it the Greek sage says? ‘All things flow
away!’[244] I too am flowing away. I do not know how I feel.”
“The wine-cup could answer that perhaps,” suggested Lucilia.
“No indeed—my feeble constitution to be sure—and that Caecubum was
excellent. Perhaps it has flowed through all my limbs—but with all respect
be it said, I am used to that.—And a sense of propriety—but you see,
mistress, I cannot stir from the spot, and at the same time—oh no! it is not
the wine, for I feel full of lofty ideas; my head is clear—uplifted, I might

say, to Olympian heights—like Pelion piled on Ossa. Oh fair lady! you who
are kindness itself, allow me to ask you one question...!”
“Speak, you shameless toper; but first sit down, for I foresee the moment
when, if you do not, the chair will slide away on the polished pavement and
you will fall on the top of it.”
“You are right, mistress—and it is all in my knees! my miserable legs—you
are very right, the pavement is slippery. Why are pavements so polished, I
wonder? Very well, then I will sit down. Excuse me if I seem to have some
difficulty in doing so.—The gods have doomed the fat to labor and sweat.—
There, now I am seated.”
“By Lyaeus,[245] but you are a scandal! Here, even here, in the house of
Cinna, where temperance reigns supreme....”
“Temperance is good—I knew that long ago, fair Lucilia.—But now, lend
me your ear. Who—who—was that magnificent creature—that splendidly-
developed woman who sat at the end, quite at the bottom of the table, not
far from your worthy—your—what is her name—Baucis. She wore a
brown dress—an elegant bracelet clasped her arm....”
“Who can you mean?” asked Lucilia, looking round her; Herodianus also
looked about.
“There, there she is,” he whispered rapturously: “She is talking to Ulpius
Trajanus. Ye gods! what a form! what grace and dignity!”
Lucilia made a desperate effort and swallowed her laughter.
“That?” she said, irresistibly tempted to carry on the jest: “That short, stout
woman by the pillar?”
“Just going into the hall.”
“That is Chloe, who brought up our sweet friend Cornelia. She is a native of
Antium, the daughter of a freedman, six and thirty years of age, unmarried,
and possessor of a little fortune—what more can heart desire? In truth,
Herodianus, I admire your distinguished taste: that round face, that short fat
throat, that wide mouth—wider even than mine—are these not heaven-sent
gifts from Cypris herself?”

“To me she is divine. Past the first bud of youth, mature in body and mind;
Chloe stirs my soul to feelings, which till this hour I had never appreciated.
Fifty years old—and even now unblest with the joys of family life! Oh
Chloe! Chloe! If only you had crossed my path earlier!... I ... I might not
have drunk so much Caecubum and Falernian! When Hymen opens his
bosom to receive us, the rock of offence fades away.... Alas mistress, if the
spring-tide of life could but blossom for me once more! If I could again rest
my head on the bosom of a loving woman...! Trajectum, city of my heart,
home of my youth! I remember to this day how my mother—for the last
time—cut my hair. It was up in the little corner room. How long, long ago!
Oh! if only I were away, far away from here! What have I left to live for in
this world? A cup of wine! Oh! woe is me!”
And he began to cry copiously, but noiselessly.
Lucilia thought it advisable to leave the man’s strange mood to run its
course. “Is it in earnest or a mere craze?” she thought, as she shook her
head. Then she danced off to join Cornelia, who was sitting under the
arcade, listening with half indifferent attention to the muttered counsels of
Baucis.
“What Pythian wisdom are you uttering now, O blue-robed Baucis?” asked
Lucilia, patting the slave-woman lightly on the shoulder.
“Wisdom that you would do well to profit by,” retorted Baucis. “A new veil
or an amusing book is, I know, dearer to you far than the most sacred
oracles.”
“Indeed? Who told you that? Chatter away in all confidence!—on the
contrary—if what you told me the other day about Barbillus,[246] the priest
of Isis, is true....”
“I was just speaking of that very thing. Our noble Cornelia is astounded at
the extraordinary miracle. Exactly at the very moment, that Barbillus had
foretold, I fell in a swoon, as he had said, and saw the mysterious vision. I
saw the goddess floating above me in shining white. O, ye immortals! I
knew of course that it was not she herself, only her image in a dream; for
how should Isis, the all powerful, condescend to come down to me, a
humble slave, and to speak with me—and in Greek too! Still, I could almost

have sworn that it was she, I saw her so plainly—the folds of her silvery
robe, and her noble and gentle face, so lovely, oh, so lovely! as beautiful as
you are, noble Cornelia. No, I maintain it; I will never apply to any other
priest than Barbillus, the favorite of the gods. He will reveal my whole
future life to me—only think, noble Cornelia, for the ridiculously small
price of two hundred sesterces—but I did not happen to have so much about
me just then. Besides—what can I expect should happen to me at my time
of life? My dear Quintus has his sweet Cornelia; our darling Claudia sooner
or later—well, well, I meant nothing—and you, bright Lucilia—I cannot be
anxious about you. You bear your own happiness in yourself. Well, so I said
very humbly: ‘Oh! my lord,’ said I, ‘no future lies before me. But I will tell
the fair Cornelia, betrothed to our Quintus, that you are a true prophet—our
Cornelia, who is so full of melancholy fancies, and who prays so fervently
and humbly to the beneficent goddess.’ Then Barbillus gave me this
precious amulet.—It is only made of horn, but the power that resides in it
makes it precious.”
Cornelia had listened to her in silence, and her face was as pale as death.
“Listen,” she began after a pause: “You are advanced in age and rich in
experience, and for many a year you have had to do with the chosen
servants of the goddess. What do you advise me? Last night I had a
dream[247]—a mysterious dream. I was standing alone on a vast untilled
plain; everything was deserted and silent. There was not a tree, not a shrub,
not a herb—rotting bones and nothing else lay hideous on the ground, but
far away on the horizon shone the walls and towers of a splendid town.”
“That is full of meaning,” observed Baucis.
“Listen to the end. As I gazed at the distant and radiant city, I felt my heart
swell with fervent and unspeakable longing. I struggled breathlessly to get
forwards, but my feet seemed rooted to the ground. I was seized with terror,
and trembling with fear I looked upwards; there I saw Quintus, high above
me, but coming across the waste like Helios in the sun-chariot, and
beckoning to me lovingly. I struggled, I groaned, I screamed. In vain! I held
up my hands and cried out with the fervor of anguish: ‘Isis, mother of the
universe! Isis, save me!’—But the goddess was deaf. At last, after a long

agony, I heard Chloe’s voice; the good soul was standing by my bed. I
awoke groaning....”
“A hideous dream,” said Baucis.
“And when I question my heart, it seems to me that it bodes evil.”
“Folly!” laughed Lucilia. “I have dreamed worse things than that a hundred
times, and no great event has ever happened to me. What does it mean?
Why, that you were lying uncomfortably, or had read something the day
before....”
Cornelia rose gravely.
“My dearest, you are not cross with me?” cried Lucilia following her.
“Not at all,” said Cornelia with a polite smile. “No, indeed, certainly not,”
she added less coldly, as her eyes met Lucilia’s affectionate glance. “Come,
let us be moving. Such discourse ill-beseems a festival, and to-day is to be a
festival, my birthday.”
Meanwhile Caius Aurelius had found a pretext—in agreement with his
promise to Cinna—for taking Quintus Claudius into his host’s study, and a
minute later Cinna himself came in, accompanied by Marcus Cocceius
Nerva.
“At last!” cried Cinna when all were seated. “It has been sticking in my
throat like a mouthful of poison. Quintus, you too must hear what I have to
say. The facts are perhaps known to you, for the house of Titus Claudius is
intimately allied with the palace....”
“I know nothing, I can assure you,” interrupted Quintus, somewhat coldly.
“Well then, hear them now. I know you to be a young man of proved
courage and of excellent understanding.—Until now you have taken the
darkness for light and bitter for sweet, as not discerning them; your father’s
strong spirit has influenced you, and his errors of judgment have descended
to you. But now, my friend, use your own judgment, and ask yourself on
your honor: Is Rome still Rome?”

“You really excite my curiosity,” said the young man, with more reserve
than ever.
Cornelius Cinna shut the doors; then he went on in a mysterious and
trembling voice:
“It was last night. Happily for you, Nerva, your ailing health had taken you
into the country, and so saved you from the worst. I was lying in bed, but I
could not sleep; I was tormented by a ceaseless whirl of confused thoughts,
and was on the point of calling to Charicles, that he might read to me.
Suddenly I heard heavy blows on the house door.... ‘Porter, wake up, make
haste, a message from Caesar!’”
Cocceius Nerva leaned forward eagerly in his chair; his breath came
quicker and deeper as he listened. Cornelius Cinna went on.
“My bedroom door was opened, so I heard every word. I heard the porter
refuse admittance. ‘Caesar requires your master’s presence at the palace,’
said a voice outside. I sprang up and ordered him to open the door. I had
hardly time to throw on my toga, when Caesar’s messengers came into the
atrium—men at arms belonging to the praetorian guard. ‘Our god and
master Domitian[248] requires you to attend immediately,’ said the officer.
‘Is the state in danger?’ I asked angrily. The soldier shrugged his shoulders;
‘I do not know,’ he said; ‘our orders are to fetch you; no reasons were
given. Do not delay, noble Cinna, the litter is at the door.’”
“Unheard-of!—” murmured Nerva, passing his fingers through his grey
hair.
“I wanted to refuse; my own chair and bearers were ready—‘That will not
do,’ said the soldier: ‘You are to come alone, with no followers.’ Cinna
without followers! I considered a moment, but only for a moment—then I
had decided.—The situation was serious, I looked on the whole thing as a
plot. ‘Caesar,’ said I to myself, ‘counts on your defying him, and hopes thus
to find a pretext for your destruction—long since determined on. He will
avail himself of that. He shrinks from dealing you an arbitrary blow for no
reason at all, for he knows that the Romans love you, and he dreads the
public resentment. Hence, if you refuse to obey, you will supply him with
an excuse...!’ Well—I obeyed.... Cornelius Cinna obeyed! And after all it

might concern the weal or woe of the state.—As a precaution, however, I
hid a phial of poison in my dress and then I told the men at arms that I was
ready.”
“You acted very wisely,” said Cocceius Nerva.
“It was the wisdom of necessity. Now, listen to what seems incredible.
When I reached the palace, I was received by slaves dressed all in black;
they led me into a hall hung with black, where I found all the leading men
of the senate and of the knightly order assembled and waiting in agonized
expectation. They all, like me, had been abruptly fetched from their beds
and brought thither in litters sent by Caesar. Presently we were desired to sit
down, and a black column was placed in front of each man, with his name
engraved upon it. Two sepulchral lamps were then lighted and youths,
dressed in black, performed a solemn dance, and a funeral banquet,[249]
served on black dishes, closed the hideous farce. Caesar himself, calm and
haughty, took the head of the table. Every one seemed paralyzed; each one
expected to meet his death the next instant. Sextus, who sat by my side, was
sobbing like a woman. I whispered to him to be calm—that the whole thing
was a mere brutal jest, but he was not to be convinced and broke into tears.”
“He is but a coward—I know him well!” said Nerva.
“A stammering child! As for me, I really do not know myself, what gave me
a conviction from the very first, that we were in no danger. Caesar would
talk of nothing but things which referred to death and murder and yet, in
spite of that, my confidence grew each moment. But I was burning with
rage, with revengeful fury, that I could scarcely control or conceal.”
“I wonder indeed that you could bear it,” cried Nerva, drawing a deep
breath. “Knowing you as I do, it is nothing less than a miracle.”
“A miracle indeed! But the Fates would not have it that Cornelius Cinna
should fall into so stupid a trap.—I mastered myself. At last Caesar rose
from the table and dismissed us, and the guard escorted us home again.—I
was choking with shame and wrath. What am I, my friend Nerva, that I am
to submit to such treatment? Am I a Roman or no? Am I Cornelius Cinna—
or a slave, a dog? Was such base buffoonery ever heard of even under a
Nero, or Caligula? Nay, my endurance is at an end! Sooner would I be a

street porter in the meanest suburb,[250] than remain senator under the
burden of this intolerable yoke!”
He sank back in his chair with a groan, and covered his face. There was a
long pause, which Quintus was the first to break.
“What!” he said with a scowl. “Did Caesar dare to do such things? I have
long known, that he was liable to fits of extravagant whims and fancies, but
—as I understood—only in his treatment of the foes of the throne. I
believed in the wisdom of my venerable and learned father, when he
assured me that some injustice, both apparent and real, was inevitable in the
conduct of so vast an empire; that the good of the commonwealth was
paramount over the fate of individuals.—But now, by the gods, Cinna! but
if your indignation has not painted the picture too darkly....”
“Too darkly!” exclaimed Cinna starting up. “To be sure, you are the son of
Titus Claudius. But hear me to the end. Hardly had Charicles once more put
out the lamp, when I again heard a knocking at the door. Would you believe
it? another message from Caesar. His gracious majesty this time sent me the
fellow who had led the dance in black as a present, and begged to know
how I had liked the midnight supper. By the great name of Brutus! A tipsy
reveller never spurned a beggar with more utter contempt;[251] in the first
burst of anger I could have flung the boy on the ground. But I recollected
myself. Cornelius Cinna will never let the weapon atone for the arm that
wields it....”
Nerva rose and clasped his excited and angry friend in his arms.
“Be calm,” he said in a deep voice. Then, going up to Quintus he said
loftily:
“And you, noble youth, give me your right hand in pledge of silence! Not
that Cornelius Cinna has said anything that need shun the light of day—but
you know the danger to which freedom of speech is exposed. His
indignation and bitter feeling must remain a secret....”
“A secret? and why? To-morrow I propose seeing Caesar at his great
reception. I will hear from his own lips the meaning of this mysterious
midnight banquet. I will insist on satisfaction for Cinna....”

“Madman, what are you thinking of?” cried Nerva horrified.
“Of my duty—rely on my discretion. Caesar owes something to me....”
“Domitian owes you something!” laughed Cinna scornfully. “Do you not
know, that he hates those most who have rendered him a service? Do not I
know it by my own experience?”
“It is worth trying, at any rate,” said Quintus. “But now allow me to breathe
the fresh air; I am suffocating in here.” And as he spoke he unbarred the
door and quitted the room.
“You must dissuade him!” said Nerva, as the door closed upon him.
“He is mad,” said Cinna. Then, turning to Aurelius, he went on: “You, my
friend, go now and mingle with the guests. Amuse yourself, refresh and rest
yourself. You are young, and youth claims its dues. To-morrow—you know
—at the house of Afranius....”
“Yes, I know,” answered Aurelius, drawing a deep breath, “and I thank you,
noble friends, for honoring me by admitting me to your society and
confidence.”
He went slowly out into the atrium, where the darkness was but dimly
broken by a few lamps hanging under the colonnade. A cold chill fell on his
heart, for, from the peristyle, he heard a girl’s voice singing a graceful
melody to the chords of a cithara. It was the same air that had charmed his
heart before now, at Baiae—the Spring song of Ibycus; it was the same
voice—the voice of his beautiful, adored and peerless Claudia. These few
weeks had wrought an entire change in him. He had been unresistingly
drawn into the vortex of two engulfing passions. On one hand was the noble
girl whom he worshipped and perhaps might never win, on the other were
the proud nobles—men inspired with the most fervid patriotism, who had
taken him spellbound as by some sacred magic; the champions of liberty, of
manly dignity, of proud Roman virtue, among a degenerate rabble of slaves.
What a storm and whirl of feeling in the present, and what a struggle to be
fought in the future!
He stood still to listen; a faint murmur coming up through the peaceful
night, was all that could be heard of the tumult of the busy city that

surrounded them, and the sweet girlish voice rose clear and strong—as pure
and holy as though in all the earth there was no such thing as sorrow, as
remorse and crime. The song, as it soared up fresh and strong from the
innocent soul, seemed to rise to heaven in atonement for the infinite
wickedness of the two million souls in the city, and for the foul and bloody
deeds of its tyrants. Aurelius quivered in every nerve, and tears sprang to
his eyes; but he instantly struck his breast resolutely and defiantly, and
dashing his hand across his wet lashes, went through the corridor into the
peristyle.

CHAPTER XII.
It was the middle of the second vigil—between ten and eleven o’clock at
night by our reckoning of time—and the house of Cornelius Cinna was
sunk in silent repose. The lamp in the peristyle was extinguished, and the
last guests—Claudia, Lucilia and Quintus—had left about half an hour
since....
There was a sound of steps in the colonnade—soft, cautious, and
mysterious. Two women wrapped in large cloaks went to the back door,[252]
followed by a sturdy slave.
“Oh! my sweet mistress,” whispered Chloe, as she opened the little gate,
“you may believe it or not, but my knees shake beneath me. If your uncle
were to discover us...! It would be the death of me!”
“Silence!” replied Cornelia. “My uncle is sound asleep. And even if he were
to find out....”
“Oh yes! I know very well, you are not afraid of his anger. And in fact what
could he do to you? But I—ye merciful gods!—Are you quite certain that
the priest expects us?”
“Perfectly certain. Aspasia brought me a quite distinct message.”
“Well then—I wash my hands in innocence. It is fearfully dark out here—I
shall be truly thankful, if nothing dreadful happens to us.”
“Silly thing! The Temple of Isis is quite near at hand, and Parmenio is with
us.”
Chloe closed the door behind her and sighed deeply; still she made one
more attempt to stop her mistress. “Must it be to-day?” she said plaintively.
“Yes, this very hour. When the day is done in which the dream was seen,
the seer’s power is gone. You heard Baucis say so.”
“Baucis!” said Chloe contemptuously.

“She only repeated the priest’s words. Make haste; minutes are precious. Go
in front, my good Parmenio.”
They went down the street and turned to the right along a narrow alley,
which zigzagged between high walls and led them to the back of the temple
of Isis. They presently reached the vestibule of Barbillus, where a slave was
waiting behind the door with a gilt lantern; he bowed low and led them,
without speaking a word, to an upper room.
Barbillus—a man of marked eastern type, handsome and tall, with waving
locks, like an oriental Zeus—received his guests with an admirable
combination of affability and dignified reserve. He desired Chloe and the
astonished slave to wait in an outer room, while he opened a side door and
led the way into another. Cornelia followed him with a beating heart,
through a perfect labyrinth of dimly-lighted rooms and corridors, till at
length they came into a hall mysteriously fitted up as a sanctuary, and well
calculated to impress the senses with a magical spell. Dark curtains,
embroidered with dead silver, hung over the walls on every side, and in a
niche, on a silver pedestal, sat a statue of the goddess closely wrapped in
veils, while, to the right and left of the figure, magnificent censers stood on
brazen tripods. A lamp hanging from the star-spangled ceiling cast a ghostly
blue light on the scene.
“Pray here, my daughter,” said Barbillus in a deep voice; “beseech the all-
merciful mother of the universe to enlighten our spirits; mine, that I may
see and speak, thine, that thou mayest hear and learn. I will leave thee to
meditate alone, fair Cornelia.” And he quitted the room, slowly closing the
tapestried door.
Hardly had he left her, when Cornelia sank on her knees in fervent
devotion. The mystical surroundings, the dim blue light, the perfume of
incense,[253] which loaded the air with stupifying sweetness, and the veiled
and silent presence of the divinity—all combined to impress her profoundly.
Her heart was full to bursting.
Suddenly the air was filled with a sound as of the music of the spheres. A
delicious harmony seemed to proceed from the walls, the floor beneath her,
and the statue itself, and to cradle her soul in lulling witchery; while, at the

same instant, pale tongues of flame broke out over the two censers and
danced fitfully, but, as it seemed, lovingly up to the shrouded goddess.
“Isis! O Isis!” sobbed the girl, raising her snowy arms to the divinity. “First-
born of the ages![254] Highest among the Immortals! Sovereign lady of
departed souls! One and perfect revelation of all the gods and goddesses!
Almighty Queen, whose nod the heavens and earth obey! Eternal Power,
who art blest under a thousand forms and by a thousand names, by the sages
of every land! Hear, O hear me! I have all thou canst bestow of earthly joys;
I am young, fair and rich, and have the love of the noblest and best heart
that beats among the youth of Rome! And yet, one thing is lacking to me, O
Goddess! One thing, which I crave of thy mercy with floods of tears: Peace,
inward, all-sufficient peace of heart. Isis! mother of heaven, hear me! Over
my head there lowers a forecast of evil; my spirit wanders groping in
darkness. Thou hast sent me a dream, a warning; but alas! thine ignorant
child strives in vain to read it.—Teach me thyself to know thy will; reveal
thyself to me! Give me peace and the calm beatitude, the grace of heaven!
Save, oh! save me! All that I dare call mine must ere long fade.—The
storms of time must sweep it away! Give me salvation, the true love which
is eternal! Isis, all-loving Isis, have pity on me!”
The goddess’s veil was lifted a little from her face; half-appalled, half-
fascinated, Cornelia gazed up at it. A tender radiance like moonlight fell
upon the pale, marble features, and a benevolent smile parted the lips. But
before the tremulous worshipper was fully aware of what was happening,
the light vanished, the veil was softly dropped—it was all gone like a
dream, and the music as suddenly ceased. Cornelia was aware of a violent
shock as of an earthquake. Hardly mistress of herself, she closed her eyes
and pressed her forehead against the pedestal of the statue. When she
looked up again, Barbillus was standing by her side in a white robe[255]
made of byssus tissue, and he smiled as he held out his hand to her.
“The goddess has heard your prayer,” he said in an agitated voice. “Tell me
now what the vision was, and listen to the words of her servant.”
As he spoke he drew the curtain aside from a studded door, and led Cornelia
up a narrow stair to an attic room, where he carefully closed the shutters
and desired Cornelia to be seated on a couch. No sooner had she obeyed,

than the tapers on a small altar were lighted—as the censers before had
been—without any visible agency.
Barbillus knelt down, bowing his face over a sacred book which lay
unrolled between the tapers, and he remained in this position, while
Cornelia related her dream. Then, after putting up a silent prayer, he
suddenly went up to the girl, bending down over her in such a way that she
could perceive the small tonsure[256] on the crown of his head in the middle
of his dark curls.
“Daughter!” he said, as he drew himself up again, “your dream betokens no
good. A fatality is hovering over you and yours, which can only be averted
by the direct intervention of the goddess. To this end it is needful that you
should, for the next four weeks, bring an offering daily at the same hour as
to-night. Gold, incense and roses are pleasing in the eyes of the divinity.”
“I knew it, oh! I knew it,” groaned Cornelia. “Not for nothing has my heart
been held in a cold and deathlike grasp! But, tell me, what is the meaning of
the desert place, of the shining city, and of my lover’s appearance?”
“All this I will tell you, when the month is out. Trust me, daughter, and do
that which you are enjoined.”
“Oh! I will do it!” cried Cornelia ecstatically, and she pressed the priest’s
hand to her lips. “My pearls, my jewels—everything will I sacrifice
joyfully, if only I may appease Fate. Ah! my lord, you could never, never
guess how sad my soul is! Tell me only one thing, I entreat you, does the
danger threaten me through my beloved Quintus?”
The priest closed his eyes.
“I dare not answer you,” he said with an effort. “My part is only to
announce inevitable doom; when I am still permitted to hope that the favor
of the all-gracious mother may yet prevail, silence is the first duty of my
office.”
“Well then, I must submit. Meanwhile—as a proof of my infinite gratitude
—accept this trifling offering. Pray for me, Barbillus, intercede for me with
the almighty goddess.”

She gave him a costly brooch set with rubies, emeralds and chrysolites,[257]
and as she stood—her eyes cast down in maidenly shyness—she did not see
the flash of greed that sparkled under the Asiatic’s long fine lashes, giving
place immediately to the lofty and dignified expression, that usually
characterized him.
“Thanks, my daughter,” he said graciously. “I will offer the gifts on the
shrine of the goddess. And you too, my child, do not fail to entreat the
immortals that all may yet be well.”
He gave her his hand, and led her by a circuitous route back again to the
anteroom, where Parmenio stood in a corner, as upright as a soldier on
guard, while Chloe had gone to sleep in her comfortable seat. “Come,” said
Cornelia, shaking her by the shoulder.
Chloe started up.
“You have been a long time,” she exclaimed. “It cannot be far short of
midnight.”
Just as the three were about to step out into the street again, a female form
flew past them, and close behind, puffing and panting, ran a man, while
farther away, where the streets crossed, they heard loud laughter.
“Give it up, the roe is too fleet!” cried a coarse bass voice, and the pursuer
turned on his heel, while two other men slowly came to meet him. All three
were wrapped in thick cloaks,[258] with the hoods pulled down in spite of
the heat. For a second Cornelia hesitated; then she boldly went forth and
walked past the strange trio. They were talking together in an undertone,
and yet not so softly but that Cornelia could hear a few words.
“By Pluto!” said one. “There goes a beauty! I saw her face, as the boy’s
lantern lighted it up.”
“Aphrodite is gracious,” said the second, “to give us a substitute for the one
who has escaped. I am just in the mood for an adventure. Let us follow the
fair one.”
Cornelia hastened her step, but before she had reached the main road she
was surrounded.

“Well, pretty pigeon,” a harsh voice croaked in her ear. “Out and about so
late! And where are you flying, if I am allowed to ask?”
Cornelia was at once aware, that these were not highway plunderers, but
idle adventurers, and evidently men of rank and position. This at once
restored her presence of mind, and she walked on faster than ever. But in
vain. The man who had addressed her, a stout figure of medium height, with
an extraordinarily confident and swaggering address, came close up to her
and laid his left hand on her shoulder to detain her. Furious indignation
boiled in her soul; she shook herself free and stood still.
“Parmenio,” she said resolutely, “as you love your life, do as I bid you—I,
the niece of the illustrious Cornelius Cinna. The first man who dares to lay
a finger on the hem of this robe—strike him dead.”
“That can be done in no time!” cried Parmenio, taking the bold intruder by
the throat. The other two started back as if struck by lightning.
“Mad fool, you shall die on the cross!” shrieked the man he had seized,
directing a well-aimed blow with his fist. The slave dropped his arm in
terror. There was a ring of such wild and tiger-like ferocity in the harsh
tones, that the sturdy nature of the man was for the moment paralyzed.
Cornelia and Chloe meanwhile had reached the high-road; Parmenio caught
them up in a few strides, and they reached home safely under cover of the
darkness.
“You helpless idiots!” exclaimed the worsted victim, feeling at his throat.
“What do you mean by staring as if it were a good joke, when a villain
throttles me? You, Clodianus, have I loaded you with every honor and heaps
of gold, that you should leave me in the lurch in this fashion? Take that for
your loutish cowardice!”
And Domitian flew at him with the fury of a panther, and struck him a
tremendous blow in the face. Clodianus shrank back.
“Forgive me!” he stammered, groaning with pain and rage. “I was so
confounded at the man’s daring....”
“Away! traitor.—Never let me set eyes on you again.”

“Nay, pardon, my lord!” entreated the other, forgetting all else in his dread
of losing his place. “Pardon and grace, my lord and god, I beseech thee. Do
not withdraw thy favors from the most faithful of thy servants.”
“Yes, my lord and god,” added Parthenius, the chamberlain. “Forgive us,
for nothing but reverence and consternation could have betrayed us into
such a crime. Do not let it spoil a jovial night. It is the first time for long,
that we have wandered through the streets in disguise, and shall a spiteful
accident....”
“You are right,” interrupted the Emperor. “I was in the best of humors....”
“Then bid it return. Even his moods must surely obey the sovereign, whose
sway extends over the whole world....”
“Curse it all! To think that of all women in the world.... Cinna’s niece?... I
did not even know, that the old fool had a niece. Whose house had she come
out of?”
“That of Barbillus, the priest of Isis.”
“Ah ha! One of the praying ninnies, that the juggler knows how to beguile
so well! Capital! The girl pleases me. I should like—if it were only to spite
the old curmudgeon—I hate Cinna like poison. He wants a lesson—he
always carries his head as high as a conqueror in a triumph. As if it were not
in my power to see those haughty iron features flung in the dust at my feet
—Parthenius, we will talk of that, again. But now, away with all gloomy
reflections, and long live folly!”
“Thanks, all thanks!” cried Clodianus, kissing the sovereign’s hand.
“Pull the hood over my face, so—now my cloak over my chin—and we will
go back into the streets. I should like to see the man, who can discover
Caesar in such a guise. We must find an adventure yet, Parthenius—[259]
some mad and absurd diversion, if it were only that the lips, which
pronounce the fate of nations, should kiss some swarthy negress."[260]
He led the way, and the others followed. Domitian did not see how his
companions clenched their fists under their cloaks, nor hear the bitter
curses, hardly uttered by their quivering lips.

CHAPTER XIII.
At the hour when Cornelia was setting out on her expedition to the temple
of Isis, Lucilia and Claudia, escorted by their brother, reached home. The
Flamen was still at work in his study; his grave and anxious face could be
seen through the half-open door, bowed over his table. Even the sound of
steps, which rang through the silence of the atrium, did not interrupt his
busy labors.
Quintus hesitated; he would gladly have gone in to embrace his father, but
after brief reflection he decided not to interrupt his late studies. He bid his
sisters good-night, waved his hand affectionately towards the motionless
figure that leaned over the desk, and left the house. His slaves and freedmen
were waiting for him outside.
“All go home!” he said shortly.
His people were accustomed to his moods, and no one was surprised. But
Blepyrus reminded him, with a shudder, of the attack in the Cyprius street.
“Fear nothing,” replied Quintus; “I am armed. Besides, who could expect to
meet me to-night in the streets.”
So his followers went on their way through the Forum Romanum, which
was still crowded with people, while Quintus turned northwards across the
Circus Flaminius[261] and the Field of Mars. He soon found himself in the
heart of that city of marble, which Caesar Augustus had created here as if
by magic. A sombre blue overarched the labyrinth of pillars and domes, of
friezes and statues, of groves and glades, where by day such motley crowds
were busy. No light but the pale glimmer of the stars—whose mist-veiled
brightness gave warning of the autumn rains—fell on the chaos of ill-
defined forms; the moon had not yet risen. Utter solitude, utter silence
prevailed. The listener could almost fancy he heard the rush of the river
Tiber past the piers of the Aelian Bridge[262]—or was it only the plash of
water in one of the many aqueducts[263] which, at that time, were so
splendid a feature of the city?—A mysterious dreamy whisper!

Possessed by the sense of this stilly solitude, Quintus Claudius went on till
nearly on the shore of the river. Under the avenues of trees it was blackly
dark, and the air came up chill and damp from the stream; Quintus shivered
slightly. Then he turned off in the direction of the Via Lata—the Broad Way,
now the Corso. He did not know what mysterious influence had driven him
out into the darkness and silence. He had felt as though he must fly from the
vast mass of Rome, from its numberless market-places, its proud temples
and basilicas—and now he was seized with homesickness for the familiar,
beloved and hated hive of two million human souls. He shook himself. All
that was most dissatisfied and contradictory in his nature rose clearly before
his conscience. It was exactly in this way, that he had worked through all
the systems of philosophy in turn—now flying from what at first he had
eagerly run after, and now craving for what he had but just cast from him;
one day an enthusiastic disciple of Epicurus, and the next a follower of the
Stoics. But in neither of these views of the world could he find rest and
refreshment for his truth-seeking soul. Zeno’s contempt for all the joys of
life seemed artificial to his ardent and poetic fancy, while the method and
practice of Epicurus, ingeniously wreathing the mouth of the pit with roses
to cover the depths below, stirred in him an irresistible impulse to sound
those depths. That old Sphinx we call Life offered him a fresh riddle at
every step, while forever denying all possibility of answering them. Thus,
by degrees, he had wandered into that moral Via Lata—that broad way
along which almost every educated Roman of that day walked, for better or
for worse; that path of sceptical indifference, which made short work of
every metaphysical belief, and lived so literally from day to day. Only a few
men, like Titus Claudius the Flamen, clung to the old Latin religion and
fulfilled its precepts in their highest sense, and so had effected a
compromise with the needs of the times; most men looked down with
contempt on the myths of popular belief without, however, being able to
replace them by anything better. Nay, even the women of the educated class
found no satisfaction in the worship they had inherited; they turned in
crowds to the mystical rites of the old Egyptian goddess Isis, to whom a
number of magnificent temples had been erected so early as at the time of
the first Caesars. Quintus himself had drank of that shallow stream, but had
found no comfort in it.

The shortest way to the house of Thrax Barbatus would have been across
the Alta Semita[264] and past the temple on the Quirinal. But Quintus made
a détour; after his late experiences he was anxious to avoid the less deserted
streets; and not merely because fate had made him the accomplice in a
deed, which by the laws of Rome was punished with the utmost severity; he
could now no longer doubt that Eurymachus, Thrax Barbatus and Euterpe
were attached to the sect of Nazarenes, and just at this very time the most
stringent measures were in contemplation to suppress the disciples of the
Nazarene. Indeed, if his father’s views met with approbation in the Senate,
nothing short of a regular persecution must ensue. In that case his share in
the escape and rescue of a Christian slave might very likely be construed as
treason against the safety of the state; and though Quintus felt no fears as to
what might be the issue for himself, the thought of his father’s grief filled
him with anxiety.
He wrapped himself more closely in his ample cloak, and looked cautiously
about him as he hastened along the northwestern declivity of the Quirinal
hill. A company of the city-guard marched past him with an echoing tread,
the smoke of their torches[265] blew hot in his face, but no one noticed or
recognized him. The streets grew narrower and more tortuous, the houses
more squalid, the whole neighborhood was visibly plebeian. At last he
reached the old wall,[266] built—so tradition said—by Servius Tullius; this
quarter, in the time of the emperors, was of the worst repute in all Rome.
Quintus stole cautiously along under the wall, for a few drinking-shops
were still open and busy. Wretched girls from Syria and Gades here plied
their shameful trade by the light of flickering clay lamps, while wrinkled
and watery-eyed old hags poured the muddy wine of Veii[267] out of red
jugs. Drunken men lay snoring under the tables, and coarse songs were
roared out from hoarse throats, half-drowned, however, by the uproarious
shouts of two fellows who were playing the favorite game of odd and
even[268] with copper coins.
Suddenly the noise became three times louder than ever; there was a wild
uproar, and piercing shrieks. The gamblers had fallen out over their petty
stakes. After a short squabble one had drawn his knife on the other and
stabbed him in the side. The wounded man fell, howling, on the ground and
the assassin took to his heels. But the dancing girls, heedless of the

catastrophe, began at once to rattle their castanets once more, and sway and
whirl in their disgraceful pantomime.
Quintus hurried on, filled with loathing. Never had the heartless turmoil of
the great capital seemed so hideous as at this moment, in this obscure lair of
humanity. Was not this squalid tragedy a reflection of all Rome—of the vast
and mighty metropolis, with all its crimes, its contempt for the suffering of
others, its mad lust of pleasure? It was but a short while since he had
witnessed the very same scene, with more splendid surroundings and
distinguished actors. For, had the events in Lycoris’s garden been at all less
horrible? Had not a man lain there too, bleeding and dying, while a
prostitute—aye! for the brilliant and elegant Gaul was nothing else—had
bewitched a heartless crowd by her fascinations? There, no doubt, were all
the splendor and luxury of wealth—here the foul brutality of misery; but, at
the bottom, they were the self-same thing, at the bottom each was a sign,
easy to read, of degeneracy, decrepitude and decay.
And suddenly Quintus felt transported, as it were, from the life which
surrounded him, into a new and unfamiliar atmosphere and light; and,
strangest thing of all, that light seemed to shine forth from a pale face that
he had seen but twice in his life; from the face of the humble and despised
slave, who had so loftily smiled down on his persecutors and executioners.
Could it be that such a thing existed as some supernatural magic? Or was it
only admiration for the fortitude of a heroic nature?
It was about midnight, when Quintus reached the house the flute-player had
described to him. It was one of those tall, ill-constructed houses,[269] built
by speculators to let in floors, and which abounded in the poorer parts of the
city to the great risk of the public. Fairly substantial as to the ground floor,
story towered over story till the topmost floor consisted of a single room,
hardly better than a booth built of boards at a fair. The walls were cracked
and sprung in many places, and here and there, where the wretched
structure threatened to fall, the inhabitants had tried to prop them with
beams, thus adding to their unsafe appearance.
The musician met the young man at the entrance; ninety steps—which, but
for Euterpe’s little lamp, he could never have mounted without mishap—led
him to her habitation.

“Stop here!” said Euterpe, as Quintus was about to go up to the topmost
floor. "Thrax Barbatus does not live quite under the tiles;"[270] and as she
spoke she knocked at a door. Thrax Barbatus opened it, looking calm,
almost cheerful.
Quintus entered a room, of which the neat and comfortable aspect quite
delighted him. A three-branched lamp hung from the low ceiling; the walls
were neatly colored of a reddish brown; small, but beautifully-executed
paintings of flowers and fruit, showed brightly and prettily against this
background. The floor was covered by a carpet, somewhat worn, but so
handsome as to tell of better days in the past. A table, a chair, a few low
seats and a small chest of dark oak composed the furniture—humble, no
doubt, in the eyes of a Roman of rank, but still much better than Quintus
had expected after climbing to such a height.
“You are welcome to your servant’s house,” said the old man, to whom
Quintus gave his hand. “We have looked for you with longing. I was almost
afraid you might have repented....”
“You had my word that I should come,” said Quintus.
He sat down on a wooden bench, and Thrax Barbatus went to a door at the
other end of the room, which he opened and called out: “Glauce.”
In a few minutes a young girl came into the room. Her face was sweet and
pleasing, but bore traces of weeping; her brown hair fell loosely over her
shoulders, and her tunic was ungirdled. Worn out with the anxiety and grief
of the last few days, she had sunk on her bed and fallen asleep, and now,
standing in the door-way, dazzled by the light and confused by the presence
of the noble stranger, she was a pretty picture of maidenly bashfulness and
timidity.
“Come, my sweet child, and welcome the protector of Eurymachus,” Thrax
began in caressing tones; “this noble youth is Quintus Claudius, the friend
of the helpless. He will save the persecuted victim, and obtain his freedom
from Stephanus, and procure him Caesar’s pardon.”
Glauce stood motionless for a moment; a faint flush tinged her cheeks.
Then, weeping loudly, she flung herself into her father’s arms and hid her

face on his shoulder. Euterpe, meanwhile, had set a wine-jar and a dish of
fruit on the table.
“It is but little, but heartily offered,” she said smiling, “and after your late
walk you will not refuse such slight refreshment.”
Then, taking a pine-log from the hearth-place, she struck the floor three
times at short intervals.
She listened—all was still.
“He is asleep,” she said to Thrax, who had soothed his daughter’s sobs, and
now took a seat by the brightly-lighted table.
“He has earned it!” said Glauce.
Euterpe repeated the knocking, and this time with better success. Some one
could be heard moving below. In two minutes the stairs creaked, and a
weather-tanned figure of middle height cautiously entered the room.
Euterpe met him and respectfully introduced him to Quintus. “This, my
lord, is my husband,” she said modestly. “He too had a share in the bold
attempt in the park, for he has the greatest reverence for Eurymachus.”
“To be sure—I recognize you! It was you, who offered the fugitive your
arm to help him up the narrow path to the top of the ridge.”
Diphilus gazed astonished into the young man’s face.
“It is true, my lord,” he said hesitatingly. “But how should you know that?”
“Oh! I was nigh at hand. If I had come forward, I could easily have stopped
the way.”
Diphilus sank on to the seat by the side of Thrax with an expression of
unconcealed astonishment, fixing his eyes on the young man’s face, as if to
stamp the features of this mysterious ally indelibly on his memory.
Thrax Barbatus now solemnly extended his bony hand over the table, like a
speaker beginning his discourse. Then he said in a low voice:
“Above all, my friends, remember that in Rome every stone has eyes and
ears,[271] and the thin walls of a lodging-house are as good as a spider’s web

to the spy.”
The flute-player drew closer to her husband’s side.
“It is only too true,” she said with a sigh, “I could almost have sworn....”
“What?” asked Diphilus.
“That our pursuers are on our traces already."[272]
“How?”
“Nay, it is only my feeling about it. I am always in a state of mortal terror.”
Thrax Barbatus shook his head doubtfully. “Your fears are unfounded,” he
said emphatically. “Not a man in Rome knows of our intimate relations with
Eurymachus. My poor son, who left his home when he was hardly more
than a boy and did not return for twenty years, when his own rather scarcely
recognized him—no, Euterpe, the still face of the dead will betray nothing.”
He passed his hand over his eyes.
“I know,” replied the flute-player. “And yet....”
“What is it?” asked the old man glancing hurriedly round.
“Alas!” said Euterpe, “I am afraid I was rash. Scold me, but I could not help
it; when I heard that Philippus had been buried in the ground set apart for
criminals and outcasts,[273] my heart was fairly broken, and I vowed that his
grave should not be left bare of some pious offering. So this evening, at the
end of the first vigil, I stole out to the Esquiline hill, carrying a consecrated
palm-branch hidden in my dress to lay on his grave. I found it after a short
search, laid the palm upon it, said a short prayer, and came away. Suddenly
I heard steps and voices; I hurried on, but they followed me, and as chance
would have it I met a litter with torch-bearers. The light fell full on my face,
though I turned away. At the same moment I heard one of the men, who
followed me, begin to run. Then I was seized with mortal terror; by the
temple of Isis in the Via Moneta[274] I turned off to the left, and ran so fast
into the next street, that I could hardly get out of the way of two women,
who were at that instant coming out. The darkness protected me; I escaped
and got home by a roundabout way. If the men who followed me were the
city-watch, it does not matter. But supposing they were some of Stephanus’

people; they all knew me at Baiae, where I often played before their master.
Oh! tell me, most illustrious patron, what shall we do if my fears are
realized?”
These words were addressed to Quintus, for she saw that Thrax Barbatus
was deeply touched by her loving attention to the dead, and she wished to
escape being thanked.
Quintus Claudius, notwithstanding his strong sympathy with Thrax and
Eurymachus, could not feel quite at his ease in his new and strange position.
The idea that he—the member of a senatorial family, the son of one of the
noblest houses in the empire—should make common cause with artizans,
freedmen and slaves, was so preposterous in the state of society then
existing, that even a lofty and magnanimous nature required time to enable
it to subdue the sense of strangeness and even of repulsion. After some
hesitation he addressed himself to Thrax, asking him—as though half
conscious of a wish to justify himself in his own eyes:
“And will you answer for the perfect innocence of Eurymachus, on your
solemn oath and pledge?”
“My lord,” said Barbatus, “he is as innocent and pure as the sun in the sky. I
will swear it by the soul of my dead son! Ah, you do not know his
persecutor, the ruthless Stephanus—if you did, you would have no doubts
in the matter. The crimes that man has committed during the last ten years,
cry to God for vengeance like the blood of the massacred lamb of
Bethlehem! I, as you see me, have been the victim of that wretch!”
“You too? How did that happen?”
“In the way which might be called ‘the way of Stephanus.’[275] I had
inherited a little fortune from my father, and had laid it out at interest; I
intended to save it and add a little to it for Glauce, for I could earn my
living as a smith. You know, my lord, how badly free labor is paid in Rome;
however, no pressure of want had ever made me touch that little dowry. I
only spent the interest even during five or six years, to make a comfortable
home for Glauce and give her some education. Well, one day Stephanus
produced a forged will, by which the money was left to him under some
trivial pretext. He was a beginner in those days and tried his hand on small

game, but since then he has grown greedy and gorges the fortunes of men of
higher rank. However, everything turned out as was to be feared—false
witnesses, cunning lawyers and bribed judges—I lost everything I
possessed.”
“Atrocious!” exclaimed the young noble. “And did no one come forward to
stand up for you? Did no young advocate defend the truth for truth’s sake?”
“No one. Oh! Stephanus went to work more craftily than you fancy. He
bribed those, who might have opposed him, with imaginary legacies from
the testator—some he frightened with mysterious threats—but in short, he
has grown rich, a perfect Croesus, and all by forged wills. Hundreds of his
victims have perished in despair and misery. He shuns neither violence nor
treachery; and he sins unpunished, for he has powerful supporters. It is said
that Parthenius, the chamberlain....”
“Enough!” interrupted Quintus. “His hour too will come; it would be well
for your safety, no doubt, that it should strike soon.”
“We are not idle,” said Glauce. “My father has now found what he long
hoped for in vain; a just and learned patron, whose liberality shrinks from
no sacrifice. You must have heard of Cneius Afranius?”
“Cneius Afranius? I know him very well, and have met him repeatedly in
the house of Cornelius Cinna. He is making himself talked about....”
“He has spoken in the Forum five or six times,” interrupted Thrax with
eager warmth. “His success was splendid.—Ah! and what a feeling soul!
What a heart overflowing with noble unselfishness. Merely for the sake of
right and enthusiasm for the truth, he is indefatigable in his attacks on
Stephanus, often as that cunning fox has succeeded in parrying the stroke.
Twice, when Afranius was on the very point of opening his case in due
form, some inscrutable power has intervened to stop him.—However, if it is
true, that dropping water wears away a stone, even Stephanus must some
day come to grief.”
Quintus sat silent for some time; he seemed to wish to reflect at leisure on
all he had heard, and no one disturbed him.

“My friend,” he said at last: “I too am ready to help you in my way, as
honestly as Cneius Afranius—but first tell me one thing. Is Eurymachus
still in Rome?”
“In the neighborhood.”
“And you will not send him farther off as speedily as possible?”
“It is impossible, my lord,” said the old man sadly. “Stephanus has set every
means to work. Hundreds of watchmen and slave-catchers are on the alert;
notices on the walls offer large sums for the apprehension of the fugitive;
even appeals have been made to the Vestal virgins[276] to pronounce their
ban, so that he may be spellbound within Rome. In short, discovery would
be certain....”
“It is so indeed, my lord,” added Diphilus. “And do you know why
Stephanus is making this mighty stir? Eurymachus knows some secret of
his life, some hideous crime, worse than all the rest he has ever committed.
And it was for that reason, that even on the scene of his execution
Eurymachus was gagged.”
“And moreover,” added the old man, “in his flight that night he wounded
his foot badly. He could not leave his hiding-place at present, even if he
wished it.”
“And what can I possibly do for you in these circumstances?”
“Procure his pardon, my lord!” cried Glauce, lifting her hands imploringly.
“Or a mild punishment,” added Diphilus.
“Perhaps,” Thrax went on, “you might even be able to help Afranius, by
removing some of the obstacles which hinder the course of justice. Your
illustrious father—cannot he do anything he chooses in such matters? And
will not his generosity pardon Eurymachus for escaping, if you are his
advocate? I know, of course, that Titus Claudius is the foe of the common
herd; often, indeed, he has exercised the sternest severity towards guilty
slaves; still, he is wise and far-seeing—at fitting times he can be merciful
too....”
“I will see what can be done.”

“God’s blessing rest on your head!”
Quintus looked keenly at the speaker.
“Listen,” he said after a short pause; “am I mistaken, or do you belong—as
appearances would indicate—to the sect of Nazarenes?”
“My lord,” said Barbatus, “in speaking to the generous preserver of our
Eurymachus, I may surely forget that prudence compels us to keep our
religion a secret. Yes—I will freely confess it, I am one of those highly-
favored ones, whom the people designate as Nazarenes. We are Christians
—I and mine—for so we call ourselves after the founder of our sacred
religion, who suffered death under Pontius Pilate. Diphilus and Euterpe too
have received baptism, the act of dedication which seals our reception
under the covenant of faith. We are Christians, my lord, and no power on
earth will ever lead us back to the altars of your idolatrous worship. Caesar
may revive the times of Nero, he may stigmatize as criminals humble and
innocent beings, whose only ambition is righteousness; he can never stay
the spread of the Kingdom of Heaven. Nay, indeed, most noble youth, but I
tell you that every drop of blood that is spilt, raises up new witnesses to the
eternal and divine truth of our belief.”
The old man ceased. His withered cheek was flushed.
“Well,” said Quintus, looking down. “But tell me one thing; does not your
creed contain the dangerous doctrine of equality? Does it not remove the
ancient landmarks between the high-born and the lowly, between the
freeman and the slave? Does it not aim at the subversion of society and the
destruction of the existing state of things?”
“Yes, my lord; we do aim at the destruction of all that must inevitably fall,
if the Kingdom of the Lord is to come. We teach the equality, freedom and
brotherhood of all men born of woman. But what is this but a return to
primitive truth, to undisguised nature? Nothing can oppose us, but the
power of custom or of self-interest; God himself, and all that is best in man,
is for us. Where and when did a higher power ever give you chosen ones a
right to cast your brethren into fetters? Where is it written: ‘You are the
master, and this other man, who feels joy and pain as you yourself do, is
your slave and shall bow down to you?’ It sounds bold, I know, O Quintus;

but I ask you: What essential difference is there between the son of the
Claudia family and the hapless Eurymachus? That which sets you above
him is purely fortuitous; that which constitutes your equality, is the divine
will and act of God. Or do you really believe, that a slave can never be
wiser, cleverer, more virtuous, courageous, and generous than the offspring
of a senatorial house? Supposing you had been changed in the cradle, do
you imagine that all the world would have read the slave’s humble birth
stamped on his brow? Nay, noble youth! The distance between you, that
looks like a gulf, is merely an artificial division, an illusory effect of fancy,
which must vanish before the light of the new revelation. We, even we, the
sons of the people—even those who are bondsmen and slaves, who toil and
suffer in your factories and prisons[277]—all, all are alike called to be the
sons of God. ‘Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden,’ saith
the Saviour, ‘and I will give you rest.’ Yea, and his call shall not be in vain.
Thousands and thousands answer to it[278]—In remotest Asia, in Egypt, in
Greece, nay, even in Hispania and Lusitania, whole armies of martyrs are
suffering for the cross—our symbol and token, to you Romans an
ignominious instrument of death, but to us the emblem of hope and
promise!
“And you too—the rich, the noble, the sovereigns of the world—do you
need no comfort, no healing, no saving light? Are you indeed so happy in
your splendor? Have you no secret craving for something, that shall be
eternal? The time will come, when you too shall bow the head before the
tree of disgrace and martyrdom, when you too shall know how gloriously
the carpenter’s son of Nazareth has solved, for us, the dark riddle of human
existence. You will soar above the dim confusion of the fleeting present, to
the realms of hope and faith and divine grace.”
It was with a strange feeling of spellbound astonishment, that Quintus
gazed into the speaker’s face, which was radiant with solemn but
triumphant peace. Glauce had gently leaned her head on her father’s
shoulder, as though it was in him that she sought and found her mainstay in
the struggle with life; and in spite of the mournful feeling which still left its
traces round her lips, silent contentment lay on the pure young brow. She
sat with downcast eyes, her hands folded in gentle exhaustion. Euterpe and
Diphilus hung in rapt reverence on the lips of the old man, who, to them,
seemed to stand in the light of a radiance from heaven.

Quintus was unutterably impressed by the individuality of this strong,
resolute and triumphantly happy believer. His aversion to this new doctrine
of the universe began to melt like snow on Soracte in a spring breeze.
Vigorously as self-love rebelled, conviction proved the stronger. In his
hours of solitude the same reflections had often occurred to him, and
commended themselves to his feelings, but the denunciation of the existing
state of things had never before been so boldly presented to him. It must be
a stout heart and a powerful mind, that could deny the intrinsic justification
of a social order so complete as that of the Roman empire, and cry to a
nation of nobles and slaves: “All men are brothers!” It would be worth
while to see and hear more of this Nazarene Gracchus,[279] and to sound the
depths of the mysterious power, which gave such staunch vitality to the new
doctrine, even after the fearful persecutions of Nero.
All these reflections rushed in a tumultuous torrent through the young
patrician’s soul. He could no longer bear the confinement of the low, hot
room. He rose, trying to conceal under a smile of careless politeness how
deeply he had been interested and absorbed; he paced up and down the little
room once or twice, and then said with a certain condescension:
“I should be grateful to you if, at an early opportunity, you would tell me
more concerning your doctrine; I am always glad to gain information at the
fountainhead. For the present I bid you farewell. Early to-morrow morning I
shall do my utmost for Eurymachus; pray to your God, that He may crown
our efforts with success.”
Euterpe conducted the visitor down stairs again, and then flew back to the
little room where Glauce and Diphilus had already moved the table and
arranged a little altar for an offering for the dead, on behalf of the luckless
Philippus.
While these good souls were kneeling in silent sorrow before the cross,
Quintus walked homewards through the darkness with a throbbing heart;
his head ached and a mighty struggle, such as he had never before
experienced, seemed to rend his heart. At the top of the Esquiline he came
to a stand-still, and as he leaned against the basin of a fountain graced with
spouting tritons, he gazed westwards over the night-wrapped city, which lay
spread abroad at his feet, like a colossus prone in rest. He could scarcely

distinguish the huge buildings—the Flavian Amphitheatre, the palaces and
the capitol. Mons Janiculus[280] stood out like a darker storm-cloud against
the blue-black sky, and a dull moan and murmur rose upon the air like the
breathing of the sleeping giant. A sense of infinite desertedness, of
unspeakable longing and inexplicable dread fell upon him. “Yes, ye noble
souls!” he groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I will return—I will
soon rejoin your peaceful and blissful circle! By all the anguish I ever
suffered, by all the torment that gnaws at my heart, I swear I will return!”
And with a sigh of relief like that of a man, who finds himself well again
after long sickness, he went down into the valley.

CHAPTER XIV.
On a purple couch, her right hand supporting her handsome head, while her
left played mechanically with the folds of her robe, lay the Empress
Domitia; Polycharma, her favorite slave, sat in silence on the floor, holding
in her lap a red and blue bird, which now and then flapped its wings and
gave a loud, strange cry. All else was silent, oppressed by sultry gloom and
the steamy stillness of the air. In spite of its nearness, the noise of the
Forum was dulled to a murmur like that of wind-rocked trees. The marble
statue of Venus[281] by the door-way looked sleepily down under her
drooping lids; even the little Eros with his lightly-tilted jar, seemed touched
with melancholy. Outside, in the corridors and antechambers, there was
scarcely a sound. The slaves glided cautiously about on tiptoe, and spoke in
whispers or expressed themselves by signs. Their imperial mistress’s
melancholy mood seemed to fill the very atmosphere with a subtle malaise
and anxious forebodings.
A few hours since, the first meeting had taken place between the reconciled
couple. They had met with dignity and a calm semblance of friendly regard
on both sides; but between them lay the unspoken but bitter certainty that,
after all that had passed, no real reconciliation could ever be possible.
Caesar’s suspicious nature recoiled from Domitia’s superiority of intellect
and vehement temper—which flashed ominously in her eyes in spite of
conventional smiles and smoothness—and from the scathing irony of her
proud and revengeful spirit. She, on the other hand, knew the Emperor’s
hatred and implacable malice; she knew that, once aggrieved, Domitian had
the tenacity of a tiger in ambush, never weary of watching for an
opportunity for the fatal spring. Added to this there was the remembrance of
her own humiliations—her banishment from the palace, the execution of
Paris, and the emperor’s passion for his niece Julia. And now, to be forgiven
by him whom she so thoroughly despised—to accept the clemency of
Domitian—this was the worst and deepest humiliation of all....
So, listless and silent, she lay on her pillows, reviewing in imagination the
events of the last few hours in pictures that seemed to mock her as they

passed. The Apollo-like figure of the young patrician, who had fired her
fancy at Baiae, seemed to smile at her contemptuously; she sighed and
closed her eyes, as though to escape the vision. Till a few hours ago, she
had believed that she had conquered that madness. Her spirit had found
strength in resolving on revenge, and she had felt like a goddess bent on
punishing the presumption of a mortal. But now—in this new mood—she
was conscious of a subtle change, the desire for revenge remained, but now
there was nothing lofty, no sense of superiority in the feeling—the goddess
had given place to a vain, lovesick woman, full of annoyance and petty
spite. This change was a result of her altered circumstances; the sight of her
husband had reminded her of the fact which she had striven to the utmost to
ignore; that one word from that adored youth would have sufficed to make
this reconciliation an impossibility. Shame and hatred, rage and passion,
seethed in her soul, and her self-tormenting fancy painted alternately the
most enchanting and the most horrible pictures. As in some hideous dream,
the form and features of Quintus were mixed up with those of her former
lover, the executed actor. She saw herself in tears, kneeling wildly at his
feet—he raised her, kissed her, her senses reeled. Then he scornfully flung
her from him—she shuddered from head to foot, and stabbed him
desperately with her poniard....
Then again she recalled the occasion, when Polycharma had returned to her
with the little tablet that Quintus had given to the slave-girl in the park, the
answer to her last passionate letter—that tablet had been her death-warrant
—but no, not hers—his! "He must die!"—she seemed to see the words
traced between those fatal lines.
Then everything faded from her vision like a landscape shrouded in mist.
Instead of the slave-girl, it was the flute-player, who stood before her with a
triumphant sparkle in her eyes, as her cheek flushed under the traitor’s
touch—as she had seen her stand, the bold hussy, on the hill at Cumae—
happy, no doubt, in the love that she, the Empress, pined for.
The thought was intolerable; the miserable woman writhed under the clutch
of the demon of jealousy. She groaned and struggled for breath. Polycharma
started to her feet.

“Lady, mistress—what is the matter?” she asked, gazing helplessly at
Domitia’s distorted features. But the sound of a voice broke the spell;
Domitia controlled herself. Not a soul on earth, not even this trusted slave,
should ever know how low she could be brought. She would hold herself
proudly and defiantly—aye, though she should suffocate in the effort.
Polycharma should suppose that the adventure in the gardens of Lycoris
was a mere whim, a comedy; never would she betray the anguish of her
unrequited passion and deep humiliation.
She raised herself on the pillows and sighed deeply again, as if to prove that
the groan which had escaped her had not been involuntary.
“I am afraid,” she said in a low voice, “that I am too much accustomed to
liberty, ever to make myself happy again within the bars of this golden
cage. I have too long been a free and unfettered woman, to have retained
any talent for being Empress. The marble walls of a palace weigh upon me
like lead. Ah! Polycharma! I am longing already for my quiet retreat on the
Quirinal, or for Baiae and its delicious wilderness.”
“Oh! I understand that,” exclaimed the girl. “Particularly for Baiae—is
there a more heavenly spot on earth? The bench under the hedge of bay,
with that lovely view over the blue sea! And when the full moon rises over
the hill—it is beyond words. And do you remember the young knight from
Mediolanum,[282] who recited to us the woes of Queen Dido,[283] and whom
you permitted to kiss this white hand as his reward? He trembled like an
aspen in the evening breeze. Ah! and Xanthios, the beautiful young Greek
from Cumae! How desperately the boy was in love with me!”
Domitia tried to smile.
“Poor child,” she said sadly. “And you too will find out what it is to live at
Caesar’s court.”
“Ah well!” said Polycharma airily, “by the grace of the gods, we will be
able to retain some fragment of our lost freedom. Your steward is a very
shrewd and clever man, and he will see what can be managed. And for your
sake, Sovereign Mistress, he would be ready to burn down Rome.”
“Indeed? What makes you think so?”

“Well—of course we all have our own ideas.—Stephanus lives and toils for
nothing but your Highness, and for the glory of your name. It was he, who
conquered Caesar’s obstinacy and made your return possible. And confess,
gracious mistress—Baiae may be lovely, and the evening hours in the park
there were indeed delightful, but to share the throne of Caesar, the ruler of
the world—that is yet more lovely and delightful!”
“Who can tell....” said Domitia.
“Stephanus, at any rate, thought so.”
“I do not understand you.”
“Well, I mean that he has always done his best....”
“But it seems to me, that it is no more than his duty.”
“Certainly. Still, there is a way of doing one’s duty—a devotedness....”
“What are you aiming at?” asked the Empress. “First you speak as if you
wanted to keep silence, and then you break off as if you wished to speak....”
“I only thought....”
“Speak out boldly, Polycharma, and have done with this mysterious
behavior, which is like the incoherence of a sibyl."[284]
“By the gods! but I dare not. Besides I only guess at it; he could never be so
bold....”
“You are talking in riddles. Speak out; I command you!”
“Oh!” cried the girl contritely. “How am I to say it? Stephanus is consumed
by a hopeless passion. He is dying of silent love for the charms of his
imperial mistress.”
Domitia’s features did not show a shade of feeling, and Polycharma glanced
in terror at the expressionless face, for not the twinkle of an eyelash, not a
twitch of the lips, betrayed what emotion might have been roused by this
explanation.

“You are mistaken,” replied the Empress after a long pause. “My steward is
a faithful servant, and his zeal and devotion are seen by your youthful fancy
in a too poetical light.—Go, have done with your foolish imaginings; take
your lute, and sing me one of your gayest songs.”
The girl retired a little distance, and an arch smile lighted up her shrewd
little face. She fetched the cithara out of its carved case and returned, lightly
tuning the strings.
“Some one is knocking,” she said pausing, and she went to the door. “What
is it? You know, Strato, that our mistress does not choose to be disturbed.”
A short whispered colloquy was carried on outside the curtain, that hung
before the entrance; then Polycharma came to announce that Stephanus
begged an audience on a matter of great importance.
Domitia did not at once reply. Then she suddenly looked up, as if struck by
some new idea.
“Desire him to come in,” she said eagerly. “Polycharma, leave us together.”
The same meaning smile again parted the girl’s lips. She quietly leaned the
lute against the wall and hastened to the door, where she lifted the curtain
with mock exaggeration of respect and let the steward pass in front of her.
Then she slipped out, shut and fastened the door and joined two other slave-
girls, who were sitting in the anteroom on red leather cushions, and carrying
on a laughing flirtation with a flaxen-haired Sicambrian belonging to the
praetorian guard.
Stephanus stood just within the door and bowed low. It was difficult to
recognize in him the cool and unblenching man, never at a loss in his
perfect knowledge of court manners and gossip, and accomplished in the
arts of intrigue. In Domitia’s presence the freedman was a slave again; all
his presence of mind, all the easy demeanor he had acquired in the school of
life, he had left outside that door. The man, who went forward in obedience
to a nod from the Empress, was a servile, creeping slave, a pitiable wretch,
who tried in vain to find utterance.
“What ails you?” asked the Empress with a fascinating smile. “You look as
pale as if you had lain awake all night. I fear your zeal prompts you to work

too hard.”
“Gracious mistress,” replied Stephanus, “I am distressed indeed if I
intrude....”
“I am always ready to listen to the faithful servant, who toils for me so
devotedly. What brings you here, Stephanus?”
The freedman was startled; if he had read aright Polycharma’s cunning
glance, this reception promised him such happiness, that the mere thought
of it turned him giddy.
“You hesitate,” the Empress went on. “I understand—you fear lest there
should be listeners in the anteroom. Your errand is serious and important.”
She rose and led the way to a side chamber. Stephanus followed. The fairy-
like fittings of the beautiful room had exercised an intoxicating charm over
the senses even of a spoilt courtier like Stephanus. The whole boudoir was
like a luxurious bouquet—walls, floor, ceiling were all hung and covered
with diaphanous rose-colored stuff, on which sparkling stones were
sprinkled like dew-drops. A tender twilight and the heady scent of roses
completed the irresistible witchery of the scene.
The beautiful creature, who stood in the midst of all this dazzling splendor,
with her white arms faintly tinged with the rosy reflection, and her flowing
drapery clinging closely to the grand forms of her limbs, might, without any
great effort of fancy, have been taken for Aphrodite, the goddess of love,
incarnate in this adorable person.
Stephanus breathed hard; the empress sank on to a rose-colored couch, and
beckoned him to approach.
“Now,” she said graciously, “we are alone, proceed.”
“Sovereign lady,” said Stephanus, hardly possessed of all his senses, “my
duty.... An hour ago your humble servant was with Lycoris. She ... I know
not how ... but lately we have met with some obstacle ... it was only with
the greatest difficulty that I succeeded.... The chamberlain is this evening to
be her guest.... She promised me ... but she made conditions....”

“It matters not,” said Domitia. “You will strain every nerve to engage
Parthenius on our side, I know, and that is enough for me. The details I trust
to your acumen. If you do not succeed the first time, you will try again. A
failure, even a blunder, needs no excuses. You have my unlimited
confidence.”
“I am overwhelmed by the greatness of your favors.”
He bowed to the ground and humbly kissed the hem of her robe, which fell
in ample folds, leaving a small part of her sandal and snowy foot bare. A
strange mixture of pain and triumph lurked in her eyes, as the thought
flashed through her mind: Ah, why, hapless, adoring wretch, are you not
Quintus? But then a terrible satisfaction gained the upperhand; her lips
moved as she swore to herself an unspoken vow—she clenched her fist as
though she held a dagger—a dagger for hatred and revenge. Stephanus
could not know, that at that moment she had formed a sinister resolve.
“Nay—not that!” she whispered insinuatingly, as Stephanus rose again.
“That is service to the gods. Among friends a frank and honest hand-
shake....”
As she spoke she offered the astonished steward the tips of her fingers. He
looked into her eyes like one dazed. What a change! This unapproachable
woman, this divinity—till this hour so cold and repellent, was now all
melting softness, dreamy and tender graciousness.
“Adored lady!” he groaned, pressing her hand to his pale lips. “Kill me, but
I can no longer conceal it! Death would be bliss as compared with the
torment of silence. Glorious Domitia—more beautiful than Cypria herself—
I love you!”
He fell at the feet of the haughty sovereign, as though stunned by his own
audacity, and leaned his forehead on her footstool. His brow by chance
touched her foot, which she hastily withdrew with an involuntary gesture of
aversion. But again a gleam of triumphant delight passed over her features.
“Stand up,” she said, dissimulating her excitement. “Your confession has
taken away my breath. I hardly know whether I should be angry, or whether
this heart—too tender, alas!—should forgive your boldness. You love me! It
sounds sweetly simple, like the greeting of a friend—but think out the

whole meaning of that short and simple word, and tell me then, if you do
not tremble like a pine tree before the gale. Love craves for a return—
answer me, Stephanus, do you esteem yourself so favored by the gods, as to
dare to hope for Domitia’s favors?”
The freedman had slowly risen to his feet. His thin hair, artificially
darkened, hung loosely over his throbbing temples; his eyes were fixed and
glazed.
“I know,” he said in hollow tones, “that I am unworthy of your grace. But
the gods themselves choose blindly, without any regard for merit and worth.
Their mercies are dispensed blindfold—not only Ares the slayer, but the
humble Anchises[285]....”
“Enough!” said Domitia, who fancied she could still feel the hot, bald
forehead against her foot. “If the gods have chosen, you need entreat no
more. Listen to me, Stephanus. I too will be gracious—Call it a whim or
sympathetic tenderness, as you please;—it is all the same.—You shall clasp
the Empress in your arms and be happy, Stephanus—on one single
condition you shall realize your dream. But it will require the utmost
exertion of your talents....”
Stephanus heard no more; overpowered by this dazzling vision of
happiness, he had fallen back on one of the rose-colored seats. His head
thrown back, his eyes closed, he lay a pitiable image of human passion and
weakness. The haze of unconsciousness veiled the strange and erratic brain,
that was so unceasingly tossed and torn by cruelty, ambition, avarice, and
sensual greed. The corpse-like figure, in its long Tarentine toga, was an
object of unutterable horror in the beauty-loving eyes of Domitia—the
sharp chin, the eagle nose, the hard, fleshless brow, now no longer vivified
by the sparkle of the fiery eyes, all filled her excited senses with the horror,
that blooming and joyous youth feels for the bony hand of a skeleton. She
almost repented of her decision. Still, the recollection of Quintus, gave her
strength to deny herself the craving of her inmost nature, and to persist in
the road she had set out on. Perhaps, too, she had a lurking hope that she
might cheat the tool of her vengeance, of the promised reward.
The steward did not remain unconscious more than a minute; when he
opened his eyes, Domitia was mistress of herself and the situation. With her

right hand she commanded silence.
“You need rest,” she said kindly. “And what I have to say can be said in a
very few words. Quintus Claudius, the son of the Flamen, has insulted me
mortally. How, where, and when, must remain my secret. Help me to
triumph over this hated and unpardonable foe, and Domitia shall be yours.
Throw your toils round him, watch him wherever he goes, miss no
opportunity of ruining him.—How you will be able to accomplish this I
cannot even guess, but you, I know, can do anything. Will you fulfil this
commission?”
“I will, sovereign mistress!” cried Stephanus in a choking voice. “Your
hatred is one with mine, for I too loathe this man as if he were plague-
stricken. He shall die under the dagger of my meanest slave, and when he
lies gasping in the dust, I will cry to him: Remember Domitia!”
The Empress started to her feet, and put out her hands with a gesture of
horror.
“No, oh no!” she cried vehemently. “Death by the hand of an assassin, the
mean fate of a merchant waylaid and flung from his cart by robbers near the
Three Taverns—that would be a satisfaction too mean for this aching heart!
I must feast my soul on his misery, set my feet upon his neck. A dagger-
thrust—what is that to him? Do you know the man and his proud contempt
of life? Look but once in his face, and ask yourself whether I am to be
avenged by a stab. He would die, as another man would get up and take his
leave at a banquet; he would die, and then it would be no worse for him,
than if he had never breathed. No, Stephanus; go and devise some better
plan than that! wound him, crush him in that which he loves best;
overwhelm him with disgrace; break his towering pride—then you will
have done all I can ask of your skill and devotion!”
“I will try. As yet I have not the faintest idea of the way to do it, but I have
no doubt I can find it And when I have fulfilled the task you have set me....”
“In conquering my enemy, you will conquer my heart,” said Domitia
smiling graciously.
“I will conquer or perish.”

He flung his toga over his shoulder with an air, and went to the door. The
Empress watched him with a fixed, almost a vacant stare. No sooner had the
curtain fallen and the door closed upon him, than she dropped into the
nearest seat, sobbing convulsively, and set her teeth deep into the cushion in
which she hid her face, while a torrent of scalding tears rushed from her
half-closed eyelids.

CHAPTER XV.
Before Stephanus went through to the anteroom, where Polycharma was
waiting with the other slaves, he paused a moment to recover his breath. He
drew himself up, and his face resumed its usual expression of supercilious
indifference. He now could measure with calmer blood the extent of his
success; that which, a few minutes since, had deprived him of his senses,
now filled his spirit with elasticity, and he told himself that he had selected,
with infinite psychological insight, the moment for realizing his long-
cherished purpose—the moment in fact, when her first meeting with her
husband had shaken the proud woman’s nature to the foundations. He
believed, that the happy result was obviously to be ascribed to this fortunate
coincidence, and this doubled his good opinion of his own judgment. His
glance lingered with supreme satisfaction on the magnificent room, the
statue of Venus, the little Eros and the purple pillows on the divans. The
inarticulate language of the smile, that played upon his thin lips, was easy to
interpret—it told of his hope ere long to rule as master in this apartment, as
the declared favorite of its lovely mistress—lovelier and grander than the
marble goddess there, and oh! a thousand times warmer and more gracious.
He dropped his right arm, letting his white robe sweep the ground like the
mantle of an eastern prince, and went on to the anteroom. He favored the
wily Polycharma with a gracious nod, marching past the other girls with the
strut of a promoted peacock. The Sicambrian stared at him open-mouthed.
The steward’s apartments were on the farther side of the peristyle, on the
side towards the Circus Maximus. His offices were lower down still, on the
Quirinal, where the Empress had been living since her separation from her
husband, excepting when she went every summer to her villa at Baiae. The
elaborate paraphernalia of official papers made a prompt removal
impossible, and only certain small branches of the steward’s business had as
yet been reinstated in the palace.
Stephanus went into his private room, laid aside his toga, and stretched
himself at full-length on a comfortable couch. His restless brain was already

seething with a thousand plans, which chased each other like a flight of
crows. Numbers of impressions and motives, which hitherto had lurked
unheeded, started up in his memory as possible starting points for future
operations; but foremost of all the figure of Eurymachus, as yet
irretrievably lost, occupied his thoughts. To judge from the reports of the
slaves, who had followed the fugitive, the behavior of Quintus Claudius had
been strange enough to suggest its connection with the slave’s successful
escape, even if no direct connection existed. Stephanus dimly felt, that here
lay the fulcrum for his lever—but how could he use it? Well, he had solved
harder problems than this in his time. The son of so influential a man as the
Flamen was, no doubt, a more difficult subject to deal with than Thrax
Barbatus, whose cries had easily been drowned; still—the higher the
obstacle, the greater the triumph.
He lay gazing thoughtfully at the tips of his fingers. Wholly possessed by
the idea of avenging Domitia, he had forgotten for the moment, that the
escape of Eurymachus was of importance to him on far graver grounds,
than the use he could make of it to injure Quintus; now, this consciousness
pressed with double weight on his soul. He would have given half his
fortune, to learn that Eurymachus was silent forever. By some accident,
which to Stephanus remained an unsolved mystery, Eurymachus had
learned a momentous secret.—Supposing that now, when he was no longer
gagged, he should make himself heard—supposing he should shout it out in
the ears of the world. A hundred times did the steward curse the fatal idea,
of making the execution of his slave an entertainment for Lycoris’ guests.
Quietly strangled, or thrown into a tank to feed the lampreys—that would
have been the rational thing, and more like his usual good sense. To be sure,
hatred and rage had spoken loudly, and Lycoris had entreated him so
earnestly.—Still it was folly, madness. Who could tell what Fate might
bring out of it, if such precious material should happen to fall into the hands
of Cneius Afranius—that cruel vampire who, for more than six months, had
had his clutches on the steward’s neck. His eyes were fixed vacantly on the
ceiling, as the long train of his crimes passed before him. Each separate
deed appeared clothed in flesh and blood, incarnate in the form of Cneius
Afranius, who seized him by the hair and dragged him before the Senate;
till, at last, the direst deed of all came forth and cried to Heaven, till the

great city shook to its foundations, and Domitian himself, the blood-stained
tyrant, hid his face in horror.
Stephanus started up.
“Be still, mad brain!” he exclaimed, striking his forehead with his fist. “I
have been too easy; a prudent man should strike and hold; till now I only
kept out of the way of the arrows of Afranius, now—let him see to it, that
he hides himself from mine. Quintus and he! The same stroke may by good
hap fall on both at once.”
He paced his room uneasily; suddenly he stood still—before him stood a
lad with soft and girlish features.
“Antinous!” cried the freedman. “You glide about like a weasel.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but I had asked three times to be admitted. I heard
you speaking to yourself....”
“You heard?”
“Not a word, my lord. You muttered through your teeth—only disconnected
words—I thought you were vexed and angry with the slaves....”
“And you came to comfort me?” asked Stephanus smiling. “It is well that I
have you; for the next few weeks you will have heavy work on hand. Shut
the door and sit down on the couch there.”
“Heavy work?” asked the boy disconsolately. “What, am I to carry water; or
till the fields? Am I to be as miserable as the others are?”
Stephanus laughed, and patted the lad’s beardless cheek.
“Not yet, my boy. I have chosen you for something better than that. What I
have for you to do is serious and very difficult, but amusing and interesting;
and if you accomplish the task, you shall be—well, you shall be free. Do
you hear, Antinous, free? And rich besides, for I will give you an estate....”
“My lord, you know that my devotion is boundless. Only a few hours since
I risked my life for two thousand miserable sesterces....”

“Not too rashly, I imagine. You thought that discretion was the better part of
valor!”
“Pardon me, but you are mistaken. I rushed down upon him, when he was
surrounded by his clients and slaves; and if I had not slipped away at the
very instant....”
The boy shuddered.
“What is the matter?” asked Stephanus.
“I do not know, but I shiver whenever I think of it. As I struck him, I met
his eye—so cool and contemptuous.—If at that moment he had seized me, I
should have been lost....”
“You are childish, Antinous. I am afraid, that if you are so excitable you
will not earn your freedom in a hurry.”
“What, again must I...?”
“No, his life is spared. You must do more than that.”
“More?” said the lad in astonishment.
“Aye, more, boy. Why any bandit from the Appian Way could stab him;
what I want you to do requires not only zeal, skill and courage, but
intelligence, readiness, and the craftiness of Ulysses[286]. Greek blood flows
in your veins[287]—you are at once panther and fox. You shall hear the
details in the course of the day; I shall expect you to dinner with me here in
the study. Enough for the present. Now tell me where you have been so
long? You had no sooner told me that your blow had missed, than, you
rushed away again. I waited in vain ... you really abuse my kindness....”
“Oh! my lord, are you angry?” said the boy coaxingly. “Indeed, if I sinned,
it was not from insolence, but from fear. I felt irresistibly driven to his
house; I mixed with the people, that I might learn whether information had
reached the prefects of the attack upon him....”
“Well?”

“Up to the present hour no one knows of it. Quintus Claudius seems
inclined to keep it a secret. Even the gate-keeper, whom I began to talk
to....”
“Are you mad?” interrupted Stephanus. “Do you want to find yourself
imprisoned and crucified?”
“Nay, my lord. Antinous does not go to work so clumsily. When I stopped
to talk to the gate-keeper, I was in girl’s clothes.”
“It is all the same; the whole thing was aimless.”
“Not altogether, an accident rewarded my daring. Only think, as I was
standing there talking over the weather—he took me, as sure as I am alive,
for some street hussy—a woman came towards us through the ostium, with
an old man with a snow-white beard. As soon as I saw her, I knew her to be
that saucy Euterpe, who so often played the flute for us at Baiae; do you not
remember? The pretty girl from Cumae, who always looked so shy and
stupid, when you praised her shape....”
“Well, and what does she matter to me?”
“Euterpe? nothing whatever; but the old man.—As they came past us, a
vague remembrance crossed my mind. I said to myself: I must surely know
that man. Then he used some little gesture, and at once I had found the
trace. It was none other than Thrax Barbatus, that obstinate fool who
wanted, a little while since, to force his way in to see you....”
“Thrax! with Quintus Claudius?” cried the steward horrified. “Ah! I
understand now! Claudius and Afranius are plotting together, to restore the
old idiot to his rights. The Flamen’s son has long honored me with his
hatred. A reason the more, for disarming and disabling him....” Then he
suddenly checked himself, pushed his fingers through his hair, and scowled.
“Listen,” he began eagerly. “I have an idea. Was it not Euterpe, who
troubled herself so much about Eurymachus, when I had him flogged?”
“To be sure, Euterpe, the pretty Cumaean! He was supposed to be her lover,
and while he was laid up she brought him herbs and salves; and she
cried....”

Stephanus drew a deep breath.
“What more do you know of all this?”
“Very little,” said Antinous. “In Baiae I had something better to do, than to
trouble myself about anything so commonplace as the love affairs of a flute-
playing hussy. At any rate, the noble Eurymachus does not seem to have
been very eager. Astraeus heard him once scolding her soundly.”
“Why?”
“It had something to do with her salves and ointments. She had bought the
stuff of some Egyptian magician, and that vexed her lover....”
Stephanus nodded, and a gleam of malicious satisfaction lighted up his
vulture face.
“Ah! I was not mistaken,” he muttered between his teeth; then, turning to
the slave, he added: “And is that all you learnt from Astraeus?”
“All.”
“Very good, then I will question him myself; I foresee great results. Go
now, Antinous; my head whirls with a multiplicity of wonderful
possibilities. Claudius, Afranius, Thrax, Euterpe—you must watch them all
with the eye of an Argus.”
“My lord, your confidence in me makes me vain. You have only to
command, and I will obey. I will climb the Capitol like the invading
Gauls[288]; I will dive to the depths of the sea and bring you a message from
Thetis.[289] But then, do not forget your promise.”
“I will keep it,” replied Stephanus, stroking the lad’s cheek. “Freedom and
gold are the charms, that give wings to your services.”
“You are the kindest master[290] in the whole Roman Empire! Farewell.”
He nodded to Stephanus with saucy familiarity, danced across the room
with a graceful step, leaped lightly over one of the broad couches, and
slipped out of the door like an eel.

“Hail, all hail to thee, Quintus!” Stephanus muttered mockingly. “This is a
better beginning, than I dared to hope for. And if Fortune continues to favor
me, I will raise on this foundation such a structure as you need not disdain
to take your pleasure in.”

CHAPTER XVI.
Quintus rose very early the morning after his visit to Thrax Barbatus, and
the stars were still sparkling brightly, when he got into his litter and in a
weary voice bid the slaves carry him to the palace. He almost fell asleep
again within the curtains, so coolly and indifferently could he look forward
to his interview with the awe-inspiring Caesar, who was always treated with
a degree of cautious respect, even by his intimates and favorites—
somewhat as a tame tiger is treated by its keepers. This coolness he derived
from a sense of the justice of his cause; he was still young enough to have
preserved that noble simplicity of a lofty nature, which attributes irresistible
power to Truth, and which cannot use the specious defences, with which
vulgar humanity is content to arm itself.
In the outer court of the palace a tumultuous crowd had already assembled
—of magistrates, senators, and foreign ambassadors. Quintus gave one of
the chamberlains on duty[291] a note from the Flamen Titus Claudius
Mucianus, to deliver to Caesar in his audience chamber, and so powerful
was the effect of this venerated name, that Domitian granted an immediate
interview to the young patrician, in the midst of the terrific pressure of
official receptions.
Quintus entered the presence chamber with a fearless and independent
mien, but with the calm dignity and winning courtliness of the Roman
aristocrat.
“My lord,” he said, as a sign from the emperor bid him speak, “it is as the
son of Titus Claudius, that you have so readily granted me a hearing, but it
is as the future husband of Cornelia, the niece of Cinna, that I craved an
audience. I stand before you as a petitioner. Cornelius Cinna, the illustrious
senator—whose intrinsic value you must certainly have discerned, even
under the husk of some singularities—is suffering under the sense of an
insult, as he deems it. That midnight banquet, of which all Rome is talking,
was of course, no more than a harmless prelude to the Saturnalia[292]—the
overflow of festive whimsicality. But Cinna, who is rigid and impervious to

all joviality, regards the jest as a humiliation and dishonor. It lies in your
power, my lord, to efface this painful feeling from the noble senator’s mind.
One gracious word of explanation....”
Domitian did not let the bold youth finish his sentence. The mere mention
of the name of Cinna had been enough to set his blood boiling. And now,
what was this audacious, seditious, rebellious suggestion?—If he still kept
some check on his anger, it was that the grave, steadfast figure of the
Flamen floated, unbidden, before his eyes, and compelled his respect for all
who bore his name. Still, the glance he threw at Quintus out of his cunning
green eyes gave grounds for reflection.
“My dear Quintus,” he said with forced composure, “our time is too
precious for such follies. It is not Caesar’s business, either to console Cinna
or to offer him explanations. Remember that. And now leave us, lest the
welfare of the commonwealth should suffer.” With these words he turned
his back on Quintus.
Quintus was speechless; he angrily quitted the audience chamber, feeling as
if every slave must read in his face how insultingly the emperor had treated
him. Incapable from indignation, to judge accurately and fairly, he felt as a
bitter disgrace, what was, in fact, the inevitable result of a false assumption.
Standing apart as he did from the life of the court, and strongly influenced
by his father’s views, he had always regarded Caesar in too favorable a
light; still, he might have been shrewd and judicious enough, to have
understood the folly and impossibility of his preposterous suggestion; he
might have told himself that, even under the most favorable conditions,
only those, who have sinned unintentionally, ever make advances towards
reconciliation.
From the palace Quintus hastened on foot to his father’s residence, which
lay at no great distance. He desired his clients and slaves to wait in the
vestibule, and went first to the women’s large sitting-room, where he found
his mother and the two girls, with Caius Aurelius in attendance. The
Batavian was holding a book in his left hand, and with an awkward blush
on his face was standing near the window, while the ladies leaned
expectantly on their couches.

A shade of annoyance flitted across Claudia’s brow as her brother entered
the room; the young Northman flushed a shade deeper, and dropped the
hand which held the roll as he, not too warmly, returned his friend’s
greeting.
“I am disturbing a recitation,” said Quintus apologetically.
“Oh! the day is before us!” cried Lucilia, and Octavia asked her son what
had brought him so early to the house.
“Nothing of much importance,” said Quintus vaguely; “a request to my
father. I am only waiting, till the atrium is perfectly clear. Pray go on
reading, Aurelius. I will sit quite still in this corner and listen for a time.
Meanwhile, will Lucilia fetch me a cup of mead[293]; my tongue is literally
parched.”
“‘He spoke, and the dark-browed Kronion nodded assent![294]’” quoted
Lucilia, going to a side door. “Baucis,” she called out, and gave her orders
in a lower voice. Caius Aurelius, obeying Octavia’s glance of request, had
already unrolled the book again, and he now began to read in a full and
pleasant voice. In truth, the much-lauded Papius Statius might have been
satisfied. He himself, a master in the art, could not have read his own poem
better or more effectively. Quintus was astonished beyond words. What
delightful tones, what various modulation, and above all what supreme
intelligence of interpretation! and though Lucilia now and then struggled
with a yawn, it was evidently from sheer physical fatigue, for it had been
past midnight before she had gone to sleep.
When Aurelius had got to the end of the second canto of the poem, Quintus
drank the remainder of his draught of mead and desired old Baucis to
enquire in the atrium, whether Titus Claudius had not yet received the last
of his morning visitors and, hearing that his father was alone, he took leave
and hastened to the priest’s study. He found his father deep in work, even at
his son’s greeting he only just raised his head.
“Welcome,” said he without interrupting himself: “One moment, Quintus
—” and his reed[295] went gliding on over the yellow paper. Then he laid it
across a little metal rest and rose.

“You find me dreadfully busy, my dear Quintus,” he said affectionately.
“Hardly am I left apparently in peace, when I am overwhelmed with a mass
of work, that will bear no delay. I must take advantage of every minute, for
a decision on the great question of the day is now imminent.”
“I am sorry for that, father, for I came to you as a petitioner.”
“Speak on,” said the Flamen smiling. “I must find time for my son.”
“Thank you very much, but I fear that my petition may be too trivial, to
engage your interest at this moment.”
“Nay, so much the better. Small matters need few words. Speak plainly and
at once.”
“You know,” Quintus began, going a step nearer, “that the Empress’s
steward Stephanus is in pursuit of a slave....”
“Yes, I know,” said the priest frowning: “A criminal, who was forcibly set
free by some unknown hand. All Rome is horrified at such unheard-of
atrocity.”
“It is certainly unheard of, that such an attempt should succeed. To escape
in the midst of such a crowd—the cowardly crew of Lycoris’ slaves seemed
thunderstruck.”
“Pah! who can say, if they were not concerned in the abominable
conspiracy? My word for it, Quintus, all these villains have a secret
understanding; they wait only for a watchword to rise and strike as one
man, and to overthrow everything we hold sacred. If the state does not ere
long exercise its authority in earnest, we shall have a Spartacus[296] on the
throne of Rome.”
“You are jesting, father. Shall the Roman empire, borne by the eagles of her
legions to the uttermost ends of the earth, the unconquerable daughter of
Ares,[297] tremble before her own slaves?”
“She has trembled before now,” replied Titus Claudius. “Read the
chronicles of the historians. The gladiator, who escaped with a handful of
rabble from the school at Capua, collected an army, before the Senate had

realized the fact. He beat the praetors, he defeated the quaestor Thoranius,
he overran almost a third of the peninsula....”
“Then, and now; think of the difference,” exclaimed Quintus, to whom the
unexpected turn taken by the conversation was most painful. “That was
possible in the time of the Republic, but the strong hand of Caesar will be
able to protect us. Besides, the slaves of our day lack the one thing needful
—the irresistible Spartacus.”
“He will be forthcoming, when the time is ripe. Indeed, from all I hear, I
fancy a candidate for the honor has already been discovered. He is called
Eurymachus.”
“Really?” cried Quintus, who was fast losing all his presence of mind. “Do
you really think....?”
“Yes, my son, I do think.... Does not the very mode of his rescue show how
great and dangerous his personal influence must be? And I hear on all sides
of this man’s defiant tenacity, contempt of suffering, strength and
endurance. It is out of such rough wood as this, that a Spartacus is hewn.
And a Spartacus to-day is more dangerous than his prototype; he can
command a more mischievous force, against which sword and spear are
wielded in vain: that of superstition. I cannot fail to see this plainly; for
years I have watched the tendencies of the commonalty with all the
keenness of suspicion. The creed of the Nazarenes ferments and spreads—
the next Spartacus will be a Christian.”
“Father,” Quintus began after a pause, “I know that in this instance you are
mistaken. This slave—I happen to know certainly—never conceived such a
scheme. Besides, it seems to me, that the acumen of our statesmen is
somewhat at fault, when it makes that sect responsible for everything that
shocks or shakes society....”
“You do not know them,” interrupted his father, “and I do. Enough—we
have digressed. What connection has all this with your request? Speak, for
my time is precious.”
Quintus stood undecided. What could he hope for in this state of things?
Well—he could but try.

“Father,” he began hesitatingly, “I came to speak in behalf of the very man,
whom you are making every effort to brand as a Spartacus. I saw him two
or three times in Baiae; he pleased me greatly, and I then determined to buy
him of Stephanus. Then this most unlucky business occurred, and I lost the
slave whom I had already begun to think of as my own. When I tell you,
that Stephanus deliberately and maliciously tortured and punished him;
when I swear to you solemnly, that the sentence of death....”
“What do you want?” asked his father coldly; “speak and have done.”
“Well, father; I want to become possessed of that slave at any price, and I
ask you whether, in the event of his being captured, it would not be possible
to mitigate the rigor of the law....”
“You astound me! For a mere whim you would endanger the state, cut a
trench in the dyke which alone is able to protect us against the flood of
rebellion? And you ask me—ME—to be your accomplice in such a
proceeding? I admit, that Stephanus is brutal and tyrannical, nay—from my
point of view—criminal. But then, are there not laws to protect slaves
against such barbarities?”
“Laws, yes—” cried Quintus bitterly, “but they do not exist as against the
rich and powerful.”
“Every earthly thing is of its nature imperfect. If Stephanus defies the law,
that does not justify us in leaving the crime of Eurymachus unpunished. I
lament deeply, that my own son should so utterly misunderstand the first
and highest principles of my views of life. Go, my dear Quintus, and for the
future consider twice, before you trouble your father with such follies.
Eurymachus must die by the hand of the executioner, though you should
pledge half your estates to buy him. Go, my son, and do not altogether
forget that you are a Roman.”
Thus speaking, Titus Claudius sat down again to his desk. Quintus stood for
a moment as if in absence of mind; then he slowly went towards the door.
“Farewell, father,” he said, as he left the room. His voice was sad, almost
gloomy, as though they were parting for a long, sad interval. Titus Claudius,
struck by the strangeness of his tone, raised his head in astonishment and

gazed, like a man waking from a painful dream, at the door through which
Quintus had departed; a vague presentiment fell on his spirit.
“I was too hard,” he said to himself. “His error springs from a noble source
—from pity. I ought to have said a kind word to him before he went away,”
and he hastily rose from his seat.
“Quintus, Quintus!” he called out into the hall. “Skopas, Athanasius, did
you see my son?”
The slaves flew into the vestibule, but Quintus had long since disappeared
in the bustle of the street. The Flamen returned to his sitting-room,
oppressed with melancholy foreboding.
“I will tell him the very next time I see him.—He has the best and truest
heart that ever beat, and the noblest souls are easiest wounded.—However,
away with such thoughts now, and to work once more.”
Titus Claudius sat down again and bent over his table and, as he sat there,
he might have been taken for a poet in the act of composition, for his fine
face glowed with eager inspiration. But the words he wrote were not those
which enchant the populace, but the eloquent flow of a mighty
impeachment; what he was forging were not lines and verses, but terrific
weapons against what he believed to be the most threatening foe of the
Roman Empire; against Christianity.[298]

CHAPTER XVII.
When Caius Aurelius had finished the fourth canto of the Thebais, Octavia
put an end to the reading; breakfast was waiting in the little dining-room.
The young man was invited to join them, and they passed a pleasant hour
over the meal. They were all accustomed to their father’s absence, for
business had lately so completely absorbed him, that he would hardly give
himself time to drink a glass of Falernian, as he sat at work, or to snatch a
morsel of food. Octavia lamented it, but, on the other hand, she was proud
of it as well; she rejoiced too in the confident anticipation of a long period
of rest and enjoyment to succeed this last great effort. Lucilia found dinner
without him very dull, as she took an opportunity of whispering very
pointedly to her sister. This was, in fact, rather strange, for Aurelius, whose
tongue seemed to have been loosed by the reading of the heroic poem,
displayed the greatest aptitude for all the accomplishments of social life.
The triclinium positively sparkled with good humor, even Lucilia belied
herself, for more than once she broke out into a merry laugh, the very
reverse of dull. Herodianus, who had come to escort his master home, and
who had the honor of being invited to share the meal, was astonished at the
brilliancy of the young man, who was usually so silent and glanced
suspiciously at the crystal cup, as if that might be accountable for so strange
a phenomenon. And Baucis swore by the great Isis, that never in her life
had she known a Roman knight with such delightful qualities as Aurelius,
who had a kind word even for her, a stupid old woman, and who read poetry
so divinely.
The Batavian took his leave about mid-day; he sent his respectful greetings
through Octavia to the master of the house, fearing to disturb so busy a
personage at this hour of the day.
“And what next?” cried Lucilia, as the door closed upon Aurelius. "Shall we
lie down to sleep, sweet Claudia, or order the litter to go to the Campus
Martius?"[299]

“Just which you please. The day is fine, and we might walk for an hour
under the colonnade of Agrippa."[300]
“Will you come with us, dear mother?” asked Lucilia.
“How can I,” said Octavia smiling. “I must be on the spot, when your father
leaves his work. If you are not content to go alone, Baucis may....”
“Oh no, no!” interrupted Claudia. “The worthy Baucis may remain at home.
When we get into the laurel groves[301] we shall walk, and Baucis is so slow
that she would be a hindrance.”
The litter was soon ready. Four Numidians, with waving feathers in their
heads, marched in front, and they proceeded northwards, by the same way
which Quintus had taken two days since, in the moonless night.
“I am glad that we left Baucis at home,” said Claudia in Greek. “We can
talk undisturbed for once. You are so dreadfully sleepy, when we go to
bed....”
“And with good reason,” replied Lucilia, also in Greek. “I am tired out and
over-excited. The amusements of the last few days are telling on my nerves.
First, there was the evening at Cornelia’s; then a recitation for two hours
from the charming Claudia on the merits of Caius Aurelius....”
“I beg your pardon, but you are reversing the position. It was mistress
Lucilia, who went on talking about Caius Afranius.”
“Indeed! and why? Simply and solely as a counterpoise, an antidote to
Aurelius. Besides, with your kind permission, his name is not Caius, but
Cneius Afranius. Of course, you have nothing but Caius running in your
head.”
“That is just like you now,” said Claudia with a sigh. “Lately there has been
no speaking a rational word to you.”
“I am over-tired,” Lucilia repeated. "Two cantos of Statius yesterday
morning, two more again this morning; to-morrow, two cantos of Statius,
that involves a fourth! It is a mercy, that the Thebais consists only of twelve
altogether, so it must come to an end at last! Certainly, when we have done

Statius, he might read us Virgil[302] and afterwards the Battle of the Frogs
and Mice."[303]
“Go, Lucilia—you are quite odious—and I wanted to confess something to
you.”
“A confession? my darling Claudia, a confession?” cried Lucilia, seizing
her sister’s hand. “Will you own at last that you love him? That you are a
perfect fool about him? Oh! silly child! did you not perceive, that I only
wanted to punish you for trying to deceive me?”
Claudia colored deeply, and involuntarily drew the embroidered curtain, as
if she feared that the litter-bearers might read her secret in her face.
“Not so loud!” she whispered, and then she softly kissed her cheek.
“You confess?” asked Lucilia. But the only answer was a closer caress and
a fervent kiss on her lips.
“That is enough,” said Lucilia. “Your kiss says everything. No girl gives
such a kiss as that, who is not desperately in love. It was meant for Caius
Aurelius.”
“Hush!” Claudia entreated, laying her hand on the audacious girl’s mouth.
“Promise me....”
“Not to mount the rostra[304] and proclaim in the Forum: Claudia is in love
with Aurelius!...? You little fool! Just the reverse; I will keep it a dead
secret, and do all I can to clear the road for you. For things will not run so
smoothly as you think. A mere provincial knight, and Claudia, the daughter
of the first senatorial house in Rome! You cannot take it ill in your father if
he maintains the rights of his position, and intends his daughter to marry a
consul."[305]
“But if his daughter objects?”
“Then Titus Claudius must give way, or the gentle Claudia is not incapable
of running away with Caius Aurelius.”
“What are you saying!” exclaimed Claudia horrified. Then she sat looking
thoughtfully into her lap.

“Do you suppose,” she said presently, “that his allusion, yesterday, to
Sextus Furius was meant seriously?”
“What else could it mean? The worthy man is three times too old for you, to
be sure, but the names of his ancestors have been splendid for centuries.
Only think of Furius Camillus, the glorious conqueror of the Volscians and
Aequians. Sextus Furius, to be sure, has conquered no insurgent nations, but
the consulate undoubtedly lies before him, and his wealth is enormous.”
“Ah!” sighed Claudia. “We Roman girls have a bad time of it. How rarely
do we have a free choice in the tie which lasts one’s life-long! A stern father
or guardian brings a husband on the scene, before our hearts have a chance
of deciding. Such a betrothal as that of Quintus and Cornelia is as rare as a
white raven. How beautiful, how honest by comparison is the custom in the
North, where the lover first wins the affection of a girl, and then seeks the
approval of her parents. Aurelius has told me wonderful stories of the
fidelity of the tawny-haired Rugian to the wife of his choice, and of how the
treasure is often won in fights to the death, after years of constancy. It must
be glorious to be loved and wooed in that northern fashion! Do you know
that Aurelius has some Germanic blood in his veins...?”
“Indeed?” said Lucilia surprised.
“Yes, really. His grandmother was a Frisian, from the shores of the Baltic,
where the Weser falls into the sea. There are large and wealthy families
among them, valiant warriors and chiefs, who will bow their necks to no
Roman consul. If only they were of one mind, Aurelius says, Rome herself
might tremble before these tribes. But, strangely enough, though in their
family life they are so loving and constant, their feuds are perennial, tribe
against tribe and prince against prince. It is only under stress of imminent
peril, that they league themselves under one banner, and woe then to the foe
they turn upon! You have read of Varus[306] and how his legions were cut to
pieces in the Saltus Teutoburgiensis, while he fell on his own sword?”
“Yes, Baucis has told us the story. But after all—who cares what goes on in
Germania!—our legions are constantly engaged in fighting on the frontier,
now against the Dacians and now against the Parthians[307]—I do not
trouble myself about the where and the why. Moral struggles, the battles we
must fight at home, interest me far more....”

“Particularly the law pleadings in the Senate, and before the court of the
Centumvirate!” said Claudia smiling.
“Certainly! out there, brute force decides the matter, but in the Forum it is
superior intellect that wins the day.”
“And one of the boldest champions is Cneius Afranius.”
“It is quite true; his whole individuality, his undaunted honesty, his
unfailing energy....”
“Hey day! what eloquence. Before long we shall see you in the Basilica
among the candidates for applause.”
“Laugh away, by all means! I assert my right and liberty to admire all that is
noble. If I were better looking, I should very likely exert myself to achieve
a conquest, for I frankly confess that I regard the future wife of Afranius as
a woman to be envied.”
“You are frank indeed.”
“I always am. And I find it all the easier, since I do not allow my
consciousness of my defects to destroy my peace of mind. The Gods are
unjust? For aught I care! You have a mouth like a rose-bud, I have a muzzle
like a Cantabrian bear![308] Fate we call that, or Ananke![309]—Well, it is a
lovely day for us both alike! Just see what a crowd and bustle there are out
here; I think we had better walk. There is the portico with its hundred
columns.”
Claudia stopped the bearers, and the two girls walked on to the magnificent
hall of Agrippa, followed at a short distance by the Numidian slaves. Arm in
arm they walked along the arcades, by the famous mural paintings,[310]
representing in the highest style of art, scenes from the stories of the Greek
divinities—the rape of Europa, Cheiron the Centaur, and the voyage of the
Argonauts. To the right they saw the marble enclosures—Septa[311] they
were called—in the midst of which the Roman people assembled when the
centuria[312] were called upon to vote. Lucilia hoped she might one day be
present at some stormy debate here. Claudia found it more interesting, to
linger over the gay booths[313] and bazaar for luxurious trifles at the

northern end of the portico, where the precious produce of the remotest
provinces of the empire was displayed.
Thus, chatting and laughing, they reached the shady avenues of plane and
laurel, which extended almost to the shores of the river and, with their
temples, columns, terraces and works of art, were the scene of enjoyment
for a numerous throng of citizens. Here hundreds of handsome chariots—
most of them with two wheels—rushed to and fro on a broad causeway;
graceful horsemen dashed along the gravelled way, while the motley crowd
of pedestrians slowly loitered along the side alleys. Here a following of
young men pressed round the litter of some woman of rank; there a grave
and morose-looking pedagogue led his flock to a grass-plot, where boys
were exercising themselves in wrestling or throwing the discus.[314] Pairs of
lovers strolled away hand in hand to remoter bowers; slaves—male and
female—with their owners’ children, crowded round a juggler’s booth,
applauding the skill with which Masthlion[315] balanced a heavy pole on his
bare forehead, or the strength Ninus[316] displayed in supporting half a
dozen boys upon his shoulders. Among the mob a legion of fruit and cake
sellers wriggled and squeezed themselves; fortune-tellers twitched at the
robe of the passer-by, urgently pressing their services on them; shipwrecked
sailors sat begging by the wayside, with tablets on their knees[317] relating
the history of their woes; flute-players piped their latest tunes from Gades;
dark Egyptians exhibited tame snakes, which twined round the body, neck
and arms of the owner to the measure of a dismal tom-tom.
Lucilia and Claudia followed the shady alley, that ran parallel to the main
road, greatly amused at the dazzling, noisy and ever-new scenes that met
them at every turn.
“Supposing we should meet your Aurelius—” said Lucilia.
“My Aurelius! My sweet child, pray do not get into the habit of saying such
things.”
“Well, then—Caius Aurelius.”
“It is not likely. He rarely comes now to the plain of Mars.”
“Indeed. What has he to attend to of so much importance.”

“He is studying hard; and for the last few days he has been a good deal with
Cornelius Cinna, who generally admits him at this hour. Cinna thinks very
highly of him.”
“Well, for my part, I must confess I should prefer a ride here under the
green trees, to all the harangues of that perverse old man.”
“Aurelius finds him most interesting; he considers him quite a genius.”
“What next?—A genius in the art of seeing the whole world black!”
“Nay, quite seriously. Cinna is initiating Caius into the mysteries of state-
craft, teaching him philosophy and history. Caius said, that in the few hours
he had been permitted to converse with Cinna, he had learnt more than in
many years of solitary study.”
“Well; then our Caius—you yourself called him simply Caius—will soon
begin to wrinkle his brows and to scent ruin and misery in everything. Do
you know, child, this Cinna....”
She broke off suddenly, for some one called her by name; she looked round
and saw Quintus, who came out from among the trees.
“Well? Are you often to be met out here? And always close to the highway!
You must take an extraordinary interest in fine horses....”
“We do indeed!” said Lucilia pertly. “For instance, look at that noble grey
just now turning into the avenue. What a head! what a mane!”
Claudia squeezed her saucy sister’s arm, for the rider, who came galloping
towards them, was none other than Caius Aurelius. By his side rode
Herodianus, rather roughly exercised on a tall, high-stepping steed; his
empurpled face betrayed but little liking for the performance. Aurelius, by
contrast, looked all the more radiant, guiding his noble horse as if it were
child’s-play among the throng of vehicles, and enjoying to the utmost the
sense of power and security.
He now caught sight of Claudia, and the blood mounted to his brow. He
was so much occupied in looking at the two girls, to whom he bowed in
agitated confusion, that he did not notice, that one of the very small horses,
called by the Romans "mannie,"[318] was rushing towards him like an arrow.

Its rider, a boy of about twelve, tried to turn the pony’s head, but not soon
enough to avoid the grey, which tossed its head aside. So the pony’s mane
just tickled the horse’s lower jaw, and the boy only escaped a violent
collision by ducking widely on one side. The Batavian’s horse, at all times
an irritable beast, gave an ominous snort, and reared straight up, trembling
in every muscle, and in the next instant would inevitably have fallen
backwards if Quintus had not made a bold leap over the brushwood, seized
the horse by the bridle, and after a short struggle brought him to a stand-still
on all fours again. Herodianus, meanwhile, who was frightened out of his
senses, was thrown up from his saddle by a sudden spring of his steed, and
reseated in front of it; he threw his arms round the beast’s neck, and
remained a comical picture of woe. After Quintus had quieted the
Batavian’s excited grey, he came to the freedman’s help.
“By Jove the avenger!” cried Herodianus, shuffling back into his saddle
with much difficulty, “this wild horse of the Sun[319] was within a hair’s
breadth of trampling me under his hoofs. Thanks, earnest and warmest
thanks, heroic Quintus Claudius! I will drink a dozen bowls to your health
this evening.”
“I have to thank you too,” said Aurelius with feeling. “If it is ever in my
power to render you such a service....”
“By all the gods!” said Quintus. “It might be supposed....”
“Nay, but I saw how close my horse’s hoofs were to your head.”
“Really? However, do you know who the little dare-devil was who shot by
you at such a pace? That was Burrhus, the son of Parthenius;[320] a scatter-
brained little rascal. He inherits it from his mother.”
“Burrhus?—the boy that Martial praises so extravagantly?”
“The very same. He flatters the son, and so touches the father.”
“Well, if he hears that Burrhus nearly rode me down, it may perhaps afford
him materials for fresh adulation. I, at any rate, have reason to be glad that
his heroic attempt was not altogether successful; that I owe to you, my
valiant and fearless friend! As I say, if ever you are in a position....”

“Say no more about such a trifle, I beg of you,” said Quintus. “Though
indeed,” he added smiling, “it is not impossible, that I may claim your kind
offices sooner than you expect, though not as a return for my performances
as a horse-tamer.”
“I am happy to hear it. Come when you will, I am entirely at your disposal.”
“Very well then,” said Quintus with emphasis; “expect me this evening by
the end of the second vigil.”
“Unfortunately I am engaged at that hour.”
“Later then, an hour before midnight?”
“That will do; I will expect you,” said Aurelius.
The two girls had stood quite still during this short dialogue. Claudia was
still struggling with the remains of her agitation, even Lucilia had turned
pale. Aurelius now stammered out a confused apology, bid them farewell,
and set spurs to his horse, while the freedman dragged with all his might at
the wolf’s-tooth bit[321] of his hard-mouthed jade. They vanished in the
crowd, Aurelius as straight and free as a young centaur, and his companion
like a clumsy bale of goods incessantly tossed and jolted.
“You are a fine fellow!” cried Claudia, clasping her brother’s hand with
eager emotion. “What strength, what courage, what promptitude! Oh! my
heart nearly stood still with terror, when the rearing brute’s hoofs hung just
above your head—I shall never forget it!”
“I am sure I am very much obliged to you, my dear little sister. It is a long
time, since I last heard you speak to me in such an enthusiastic key.
Confess, Claudia—the fact that the rider’s name happened to be Caius
Aurelius, does not diminish your ardent appreciation of the feat?”
“You may laugh at me, if you will. I respect and admire you, and forgive all
your former sins.”
“Are you coming with us?” asked Lucilia.
“For ten minutes; then I must turn back again. Clodianus expects me at the
Baths.”

“And where do you dine to-day?” asked Claudia.
“With Cinna.”
“It is a long time since you dined with us.”
“I will to-morrow, if it is convenient. I will see whether he will allow me to
bring Cornelia with me....”
“Hardly,” said Lucilia. “Since the day before yesterday he has been in a
desperately bad humor. This morning early I had a note from Cornelia,
begging me to go and rescue her from the depths of melancholy.”
“What does Cornelia wish for?” said Quintus. “In my presence she is
always cheerfulness itself.”
“That is the magic of love,” replied Lucilia. “Its charms conquer all griefs.”
“You seem highly experienced!”
“Theory—pure theory.”
They walked on towards the river. There they stood for a few minutes,
watching the boats and gondolas, which gently drifted down to the Aelian
bridge or struggled up stream under the stout strokes of the oarsmen.
Beyond the opposite shore the beautiful hills, strewn with gardens and
villas, smiled invitingly down on them, and farther off still rose the five
peaks of Soracte.[322]
“They will soon be crowned with snow,” sighed Claudia.
“Yes, it is wearing into autumn,” said Quintus. “But now, my children, you
must amuse yourselves without me. Till we meet to-morrow.”
“You fellows,” said Claudia, turning to the Numidians, when Quintus was
lost in the crowd. “Do you know what? You ought to be ashamed of
yourselves, down to the very ground. If it had not been for Quintus,
Aurelius would have been under the horse’s hoofs. Cowards! By the gods,
but I am minded to have you punished, that you may remember this hour!”
The Africans opened their wide thick mouths, and stared at their mistress as
if some marvel had happened. None of her slaves had ever heard such

words before from Claudia’s lips.
“That comes of her being betrothed to that rich Furius,” whispered one of
them. “I always told you, that the gentlest turn haughty when there is a
husband in sight.”

CHAPTER XVIII.
It was dark. In the dining-room of Cneius Afranius a small party had just
risen from table. Six guests had shared the modest meal—men differing in
age and position, but agreed in feeling, unanimous in their hatred of the
imperial reign of terror, and alike in courage and strength of character.
During the meal none but commonplace topics were discussed, convinced
as Afranius was of the fidelity of his slaves; under Domitian’s rule,
suspiciousness had risen to the dignity of a virtue. Even the commissatio—
the friendly cup which, in accordance with time-honored custom, closed the
meal—lent no impetus to the conversation. Each one was thinking of the
discussion, that was now to follow.
They all went into the colonnade, if the small and unpretending court-yard
deserved the name. Cneius Afranius, the son of a poor family of knightly
rank of Gallia Lugdunensis,[323] would probably have been obliged to start
on his career in Rome as a mere lodger in hired rooms, but that a childless
friend of his father’s had bequeathed to him a small legacy,[324] which
enabled him to purchase a little house, which had formerly belonged to a
seaman, on the right bank of the Tiber, and in the midst of a very humble
quarter.[325] The situation was crowded and almost squalid, and the little
villa was only rendered rather less unattractive, by the visible care bestowed
on its arrangement by its new owner, and yet more by the pretty little
garden in its peristyle. Afranius was very conscious of its defects, but they
did not distress him. That painful sensitiveness, which torments many men
in narrow circumstances, when intercourse with other men of greater wealth
reminds them of their poverty, was unknown to him. And as his dress was
always in the best style, though of plain materials, those who met him
elsewhere than in his own house supposed him to be well-to-do; this
impression was partly the result of his general appearance and demeanor.
Aurelius, who had crossed his threshold today for the first time, thought as
he entered the vestibule, that he must have made a mistake; it seemed
impossible that the self-possessed, easy-mannered Afranius could live in so
humble a dwelling.

The six men went slowly and in order from the dining room to the study.
First came the tall figure of the grey-haired Marcus Cocceius Nerva,
leaning on the arm of Ulpius Trajanus; Publius Cornelius Cinna followed
with Caius Aurelius, and last came the host with an old centurion, who had
long served in the wars in Germania and Dacia, and had lost his left arm in
the service. Now, robbed by Domitian of a pension which had formerly
been granted to him, he had for years earned his living wearily as a teacher
in an elementary school kept by a retired physician, until Ulpius Trajanus
had granted the veteran free quarters in his own house.
The slaves were now strictly enjoined to admit no one to disturb the party,
and Momus, the confidential servant of Afranius, posted himself at the door
of the room, that no eavesdropping intruder might come too near.
“My friends,” began Marcus Cocceius Nerva, when they were all seated,
“we have met expressly to hold pregnant and momentous council. Our aim
is to find the ways and means of at last carrying into effect the steps, which
we have been deliberating on for many months. The reign of terror of
Domitian has from the first been well-nigh unendurable, and now his
outrages, his unblushing insolence, have reached a pitch at which our very
blood curdles in our veins. Two days since, we all heard from Cinna of the
incredible insults offered by Caesar to the most illustrious members of the
Senate and of the knightly order; since then other outrages have come to our
ears. If Titus[326] once declared that he regarded a day as lost, in which he
had done no good action, this, his degenerate brother,[327] accounts each day
as misspent, in which he has not trampled justice under-foot, and crowned
tyranny with boastful insolence. You all knew Junius Rusticus;[328] he was
an excellent man, experienced in every branch of learning, generous, and of
the loftiest morality. This illustrious philosopher was, yesterday, crucified.
And why, my friends, why? Because he dared to assert that Paetus Thrasea,
Nero’s noble victim, was a man of blameless character. For this, and this
alone, Junius Rusticus died the death of the basest assassin.”
A gloomy murmur rose from the audience. All, with the exception of
Aurelius, already knew the facts, but they sounded with renewed horror
from the lips of the venerable man.

“Nor is this all,” Cocceius went on. “A second crime almost throws the
murder of Rusticus into the shade. Not long since a man of fortune named
Caepio,[329] of the order of Equites, died here. His heiress was his niece, a
young girl of about fourteen. However, a man was found, who would
declare openly that in Caepio’s lifetime he had frequently heard him say,
that Caesar was to inherit his fortune.[330] On the strength of this lie, the
property was unhesitatingly appropriated. The hapless girl, alone and
inexperienced, fell into infamy. Sunk in wickedness, crushed by shame and
sickness, a few days since she placed herself in the way, as Caesar was
being borne to the Forum. She lifted up her hands to the throne on which he
was carried, and cried in desperate accents for justice. She was seized by
the body-guard, and flogged to death this morning.”
“Death to her murderer!” cried Cinna, shaking his fists in the direction of
the palace. “The fate of this poor child may fall on you, O Nerva! on you,
Ulpius Trajanus, on you, Cneius Afranius. In the empire of this tyrant there
is but one law: the mad whim of a blood-hound.—To-day his Falernian has
gone to his head—a beck, a nod, and the daughters of our noblest families
are stolen[331] for his pleasure. To-morrow he has eaten and is full—he must
be amused, and Rome breaks out in flames. Ah! hideous, bottomless pit of
disgrace! Decide as you will, my resolution is taken. In the Senate, in the
Forum, in the theatre—meet him where I may—I will kill him.”
“Be easy, my dear friend,” said Cocceius. “You are the last man, who would
ever be allowed to get near enough. The suspicious tyrant, who has the
walls of his sleeping-room lined with mirrors,[332] so that he may see what
is going on behind him—he will know how to protect himself from Cinna.
Besides, never let us stain our just cause with unnecessary bloodshed! The
goal, that glimmers before us, can be reached without the murder of Caesar.
If the revolted nation brings him presently before the judgment-seat of the
Senate, he will be legally condemned to death, and then he may meet the
fate he has merited a thousand times over. But we, whose purpose it is to
open an era of freedom and justice, must, whenever it is in any way
possible, keep our hands clean. We are conspirators against his throne, but
not his executioners.”
Muttered words of approbation assured the orator, that he spoke the feelings
of his friends. Even Cinna agreed.

“You are right,” he said frowning. “You are always clear and logical, when
my heart seethes with rage. It is well, my worthy colleagues, that you did
not put me at your head. I am good in action, or where energetic decision is
needed; but in the history of the world well-meditated plans and calm
resolve weigh heavier in the scale.”
“And their union will suffice to break our bonds,” added Afranius. “But I
must confess I am burning to know how Ulpius has solved the problem.—I
know how I should solve it....”
“Well?” asked Ulpius Trajanus. “You have always been the silent member
at our meetings. Perhaps I may be able to avail myself of what you have to
suggest, to strengthen my own web.”
“What I have to say is very little, but it seems to me all the clearer and more
simple for that very reason. Rage, hatred, and desperation are fermenting in
every soul The fuel is piled, nothing is needed but the spark. Let us fling the
spark in among the masses. Let us boldly and unreservedly call the people
of Rome to open rebellion.”
“Moderation!” exclaimed Cocceius Nerva. “Wildly as our hearts may throb,
let us take no step which calm wisdom cannot approve! We must not act
from sentiment! You are in error, Afranius, if you think that the populace,
which clamors for bread and the Circus, will ever feel any enthusiasm for
liberty. What has this rabble of idlers, this self-interested mob, that lives on
the largesse of the State, to fear from Caesar? Lightning blasts oak-trees,
but not the brushwood that cumbers the ground. Whether Titus or Domitian
rules, whether the Senate is respected or insulted—it is all the same to the
herd, so long as there are wrestling, running, and fighting to be seen. They
would sell themselves bodily to the first Barbarian, who would buy them,
so long as they had bread and amphitheatres, and a Sicambrian is just as
good in their eyes as the direct descendants of Romulus. Alas! my friends,
when I look out on the scene of confusion I am seized with sudden terror,
and the outlook on the future waxes dim before my eyes. This indifference
and want of patriotism is spreading on all sides; it has even tainted the
army.—If some change for the better does not soon appear, it may well
happen that this haughty city may ere long crumble into ruins—aye, my
friends, into ruins—destroyed and sacked by the insolent rout of Germanic

tribes, who are already thundering at our gates. They will overcome the
small remains of our virtue with the sword, and the vast host of our crimes
with their gold.”
He ceased; an expression of deep grief clouded his handsome features.
Then, turning to Afranius, he said: “And so what I meant to say was, that
the mob of the capital must, come what may, be kept out of the game.”
“You say the mob,” said Afranius, “but there is a class closely allied with
the mob which, though small in number, is all the greater in force, high-
mindedness, and dignity. Believe me, even among the third estate—among
the fishermen and dealers, the artisans and handicraftsmen, there still are
Romans to be found.”
“Very possibly. But large schemes cannot take account of so small a factor.
The very way in which the State has developed, has thrown the chief power
into the hands of the troops, and he who is master of the soldiery, is master
of Rome and the Empire. You know how completely the legions in the
provinces are dependent on the impression of an accomplished fact. It can
scarcely be expected, that any single division of the army outside the walls
of Rome will take up arms for Domitian, if once we have the metropolis in
our power. We can gain over the Praetorian guard with a word. Ulpius, my
beloved son, make known to us now, what you have attempted and
achieved in this direction.”
Ulpius Trajanus leaned back in his chair, and crossed his arms over his
breast. His noble and frank countenance, stamped in every feature with
generous honesty, suddenly grew anxious and grave. Lucilia had been right
when she said incidentally, that Ulpius Trajanus reminded her of Caius
Aurelius. Although considerably older and of a dark southern type, the
Hispanian, like the young Northman, had that look of genuine human
benevolence, which lends a bright and harmonious expression to any
features.
“My friends,” began Ulpius Trajanus, coloring a little; “I can as yet, to my
great regret, report nothing decisive. I came hither not to announce a
success, but to hear what you had to say. Within the last few months many
new recruits have joined the ranks of the Praetorians; magnificent gifts of
money are distributed every week to the officers and men. Norbanus, the

officer in command, is loaded with favors, so it would be difficult to find an
opening—! Indeed, I am firmly convinced that Norbanus, who is an honest
man, places the welfare of the country far above any other consideration;
however, up to this moment, all my efforts to fathom him have been in vain.
He speaks out more frankly than many others, it is true, but his openness
always bears upon trifling matters. He instinctively knows the limits of
discretion. It would be waste of words to tell you of every detail. I have
given myself no rest from labor or vigilance, and it is not my fault if the
rock repeatedly rolls back into the gulf.”
“Promise him the consulate,” muttered Cinna frowning; “trip him up,
trample on him, hold the dagger to his breast....”
“The dagger’s point might only too easily be turned upon us,” said Trajanus
smiling.
“He is right, Cinna,” Nerva threw in. “It is precisely his self-command and
coolness, that fit him for the part assigned to him, and he must play it to the
end in the spirit of those who have trusted him.”
“But self-command must come to an end and issue at last,” said Afranius,
leaning his round chin on his hand. “I have no thought of even hinting a
reproach to our worthy Ulpius; I only mean, that if Lucius Norbanus
persists in the part of the mysterious oracle, and Trajanus waits for the spirit
to move him, without giving it a helping hand, our work of redemption will
remain in the clouds. Besides, nothing is more dangerous than a long-
planned conspiracy. Before you can turn round the palace will have caught
wind of it, and by the day after to-morrow, the splendid museum of
Domitian’s victims will be increased by a few valuable specimens.”
Cornelius Cinna nodded assent.
“Excess is mischievous in anything, even excess of caution,” he said
eagerly. “We must strike now, if not with the aid of the body-guard, why,
then without it—or, if need be, against it. There are troops enough in Gallia
Lugdunensis,[333] to defeat the few cohorts of Norbanus. Cinna is thought
highly of by the legions, and I myself have many devoted allies among the
officers; while not a few of the soldiers will remember, that I have always
been a friend and supporter of the third estate.”

“I can answer for that,” said the old centurion, who had till this moment sat
silent in his easy-chair. “Nor am I altogether devoid of adherents, though I
cannot compete with Cinna. I should think it would not be difficult....”
“Enough!” interrupted Cocceius Nerva with a friendly wave of his hand. “I
see that your opinions are divided. Allow me to make a suggestion. The
danger of discovery does not seem so imminent, as to compel us to forego
all attempt to rely on the support of Rome. Let us separate in the firm
determination, to prepare and meditate everything that can help us towards
our goal. I am chiefly thinking of Caius Aurelius, who made friends so
rapidly with Norbanus, and who is regarded with less suspicion at the
palace than Ulpius Trajanus. We will meet again fourteen days hence, here,
in the house of Afranius, and at the same hour. If in the meanwhile our plan
has made no progress, we will give up the City of the Seven Hills, and set
to work in Gallia Lugdunensis.”
This proposal was unanimously agreed to.
“Yet one thing more. It is quite possible, that in the course of these fourteen
days events might occur, on which it is impossible to reckon beforehand. I
am perfectly convinced, that not a soul in the palace suspects anything as
yet; but spies are innumerable, and an accident, a heedless word, a glance, a
gesture, might betray us. Just at this time fresh suspicions have been roused
in Caesar’s court. Let us be ready to fly at a moment’s notice.”
“To fly!” exclaimed Cinna. “Is that the road to victory?”
“I only say in the worst extremity....”
“That would indeed be the worst! Do you already know of any mischief?
Do you know, that a spy has already betrayed us?”
“No, my dear Cinna, I know nothing; I was only considering possibilities.”
“But that possibility is exactly what is not to be borne! I feel now, twice as
strongly as before, that our only safety is in action.”
“But can you act?” asked Cocceius. “Is Norbanus our ally? Are the legions
under your command? If so, act, and at once, Cinna! Stand up on the
platform in the Forum, and proclaim that Domitian is deposed.”

“You are very right,” snarled Cinna. “Right as usual! but what is to happen
if the possibility becomes a fact? When flight has dispersed us to all the
four winds...?”
“Then, my friend, the essential point is to agree on a spot, where we may all
quietly meet again. Let that spot be Rodumna,[334] the native town of
Afranius. It is in every respect favorable—at only a short distance from
Lugdunensis, and yet so small as to be out of the turmoil of the world.
There will we meet, rouse the legions to our support, and march upon
Rome!”
“Good, good!” cried Cornelius Cinna.
“Rodumna!” echoed the rest.
Nerva rose.
“One word!” implored Caius Aurelius.
Nerva, who had already grasped their host’s hand in leave-taking, turned
enquiringly to the young man.
“Worthy friends,” the Batavian went on. “Allow me to say, that down at
Ostia lies my trireme. The captain and the crew are all men, whom we may
blindly trust. If anything should occur to drive us hence, we could not do
better than meet on board my bark and reach Gallia by sea.”
“That is a good idea,” said Nerva. “But still one question arises. Does any
one in Rome know of the existence of this trireme?”
“Hardly a soul. The high-priest’s family, it is true, were on board with me,
when I came from Baiae. But here, in Rome, where there is so much to
distract the attention, so trivial a circumstance would scarcely dwell in their
minds.”
“But the slaves!” cried Cinna. “If you are suspected at the palace, they have
been cross-examined ere now....”
“I do not honestly believe, that I have been considered worthy of so much
attention at the palace.”

“And even if it were so,” Nerva added, “there is a way of escape. To-
morrow morning, spread a report among your friends and acquaintances,
that your vessel is on the point of starting to return to Trajectum. Go to
Ostia yourself, and let her set sail with all ceremony; then, at night, when
she is well out at sea, order the captain, instead of steering southwards, to
make a detour to the left and sail past the islands of Pontia[335] and back to
Antium, as if he had come direct from Messana.[336] There he may wait till
we need him. By the Appian Way and Aricia[337] and Lanuvium,[338] it is
not more than twice the distance to Antium, that it is to Ostia. Give your
captain the name of Rodumna as a password; whoever goes on board with
that token is to be received unquestioned. What do you think of my plan?”
“Nothing could be better arranged, it seems to me,” exclaimed Cinna. “In
this way we need neither fit out a vessel for ourselves, nor yet travel by
land. The one would excite suspicion, and the other would be both
dangerous and expensive. So let it stand: if the situation should seem in any
way perilous, we meet on board the trireme in the harbor of Antium.”
The conspirators rose and slowly dispersed.

CHAPTER XIX.
On the second day after the incidents just related dark clouds had risen over
the Tyrrhenian sea and spread in long, heavy banks across the sky, which a
short while since had been so deeply blue. A stiff south-westerly breeze
blew up the stream of the Tiber, and tossed the little boats and flat-bottomed
barges, which lay at anchor at the foot of the Aventine,[339] till they jostled
and bumped each other. Sudden squalls of rain swept down at short
intervals, and obliged the people to throw on their leather cowls or their
long-haired woollen cloaks.[340] All the life of the streets took refuge in the
arcades and pillared halls; the atria, with their slippery marble pavements,
were deserted, and the water from the guttered roofs dripped dolefully into
the overflowing impluvia.[341] A strange atmosphere of discomfort and
oppression lay over the whole city. Some great races, which were to have
been run in the Circus Maximus, were postponed at the last moment. The
flow and ebb through the palace gates was less persistent than usual. The
Senate even, notwithstanding the importance of the matters awaiting their
debate, came in fewer numbers than usual to the sitting. In short, the air was
full of that dull uneasiness, which infallibly accompanies the first symptoms
of the decay of the year.
The storm increased as evening fell. Quintus, who had dined with no other
company than two of his clients, stood, as it grew dusk, at the door of the
dining-room, looking out at the dreary prospect. The clouds chased each
other wildly, and the wind groaned and howled through the colonnade like
the wailing of suffering humanity.
“Good!” said Quintus, turning back into the room. “And very good! The
wilder the night, the better for our undertaking.”
He signed to the shrewd slave, Blepyrus, who at this moment passed along
the passage with a brazier full of burning charcoal.[342]
“Where are you going?” he asked doubtfully; and when the slave answered:
“To your study, my lord,” he said:

“Very good, I am coming—but take care that we are alone.”
Blepyrus went on through the arcade, and when he had reached his master’s
private room, he carefully set the brazier on the floor. Two lads, who were
standing idle, he promptly dismissed as Quintus came into the room.
“Listen, Blepyrus,” he began. “Just fancy for a moment, that to-day is the
feast of Saturn.[343] Tell me your honest opinion, frankly and without
reserve, just as if you were sitting at table after the old-fashioned custom,
while I, your master, waited upon you?”
The slave looked up at him in bewilderment.
“You do not seem to understand me,” Quintus continued. “I want to hear
from you, how far you are satisfied with your master. If I have been unjust,
if I have hurt your feelings, or wronged you without cause—speak! I entreat
you—nay, I command you.”
“My lord,” Blepyrus stammered out, “if I am to speak the truth, you have
said many a hard word to your other slaves, but to me you have never been
anything but a kind and just—indeed a considerate master. I could only say
the same, even if the feast of Saturn really licensed me to complain.”
“I am glad to hear you say so, my good friend. I mean well by you all, and
if I ever.... Ah! I remember now what you have in your mind. You are
thinking of the evening, when I struck Allobrogus in the face[344] for
breaking that precious vase.—You are right; the poor fellow’s teeth were
more precious than the broken jar. It was my first angry impulse. Believe
me, Blepyrus, I have never hurt or injured any one of you out of ill-will;
and you, especially, have always been a friend rather than a slave. You
shared my earliest sports—do you remember by the Pons Milvius[345] how I
sprang to your assistance, when your arm was suddenly cramped in
swimming? And then again, on the wrestling-ground in the Field of Mars,
where we enacted the fight of Varus against the Germans? You snatched me
up and rescued me from my foes, like a young god of war, when the game
suddenly became earnest....”
“I remember, my lord,” said the slave with a gratified smile.

“Well,” continued Quintus, “then tell me one thing. Are you still ready to
stand in the breach for your master? Understand me, Blepyrus—this time it
is not a question of fisticuffs or even thrashed ribs. It is for life and death,
old fellow. To be sure, your reward now should not be, as it was then, a
saucerfull of Pontian cherries, but the best of all you can ask....”
“My lord,” said the slave, trembling with agitation, “I will do whatever you
desire.”
“Can you hold your tongue, Blepyrus? Be silent, not merely with your
tongue, but with your eyes—your very breath? You have done me good
service before now, I well remember, which required secrecy—but only in
trifling matters. This time it is not a tender note to the fair Camilla, not even
an assignation with Lesbia or Lycoris. Swear by the spirit of your father, by
all you hold sacred and dear, to be silent to the very death.”
“I swear it.”
“Then be ready; at the second vigil we must set out on an expedition—out
into the storm and darkness. You can tell your comrades, that I am going by
stealth to Lycoris. The rest you shall hear later.”
Three hours after this the little gate creaked open, which led from the
cavaedium to the street, and Quintus and the slave, both wrapped in thick
cloaks, slowly mounted the Caelian Hill,[346] and then took a side road into
the valley. Here, on the southern slope, the storm attacked them with
redoubled fury; the blast howled up the Clivus Martis and the Appian Way.
The streets were almost deserted; only a solitary travelling-chariot now and
then rolled thundering and clattering over the stones.
“We must mend our pace,” whispered Quintus, as the slave paused a
moment, fairly brought to a standstill at the corner of the Via Latina[347] by
a sudden squall of rain. “We have still far to go, Blepyrus; and we shall
have it worse still out there in the open.”
The road gradually trended off to the right; that dark mass, that now lay to
the left, was the tomb of the Scipios,[348] and there, in front of them, hardly
visible in the darkness of night, rose the arch of Drusus,[349] through which
the road led them. They were now outside the limits of the city itself—the
fourteen regions, as they were called, of Augustus Caesar. But Rome, the

illimitable metropolis, flung out her arms far beyond these prescribed
boundaries. That undulating plain, which we now know as the Campagna,
was then dotted over with villas and pleasure-gardens. The main artery of
this straggling suburb was the magnificent Via Appia—the noble work of a
Claudius—leading to the south. The greater number of these villas were at
this time abandoned, and the tombs that stood by the road-side[350] on either
hand were hardly more silent, than the dwelling places of the living, before
whom these stone witnesses were set to remind them, that life is fleeting
and must be enjoyed to the full while it lasts.
Quintus and his companion went onwards, still to the southwards. The
country-houses became more and more scattered; they might now have
walked about two Roman miles beyond the arch of Drusus. A heavily-laden
wagon, with an escort of riders, had just driven past them, and the gleam of
the lanterns was dwindling in the distance. Quintus stopped in front of a
high-vaulted family tomb, of which the façade was decorated with a
semicircular niche containing a marble seat.
“If I am not mistaken in this Cimmerian blackness,” he muttered, “this is
the spot....”
And at the same moment they heard, approaching from the opposite tomb,
the sound of cautious steps.
A broad beam of light fell on the young man’s face.
“God be praised!” cried a woman’s voice; and in an instant Euterpe,
darkening her lantern again, stood by the side of the two men. The young
woman was trembling with wet and cold; her clothes clung to her limbs,
and her hair hung in dark locks over her forehead and cheeks.
“Are you alone?” asked Quintus.
“With Thrax Barbatus. Here he comes.”
“In such weather!”
“God bless you!” said the old man, coming up to Quintus. “Who is this with
you?”
“Blepyrus, my trusted friend. He will not betray us.”

“My lord, what return can I ever make....”
“Go on, push on!” was the young man’s answer. “Only look how the black
clouds are driving over the hills; it gets worse every minute. Have we far to
go?”
“About three thousand paces,” said Barbatus.
“Then lead the way, my good Euterpe. Come, old friend, lean on me.
Blepyrus, support him on the left.”
“You are too careful of me, my lord,” said the old man, flinging his wet
cloak over his shoulder. “A merciful Providence still grants me strength,
that my white hairs belie, and I am used to rougher roads than you suppose.
It is you, the son of a noble house, accustomed to tread only on polished
marble or soft carpets....”
“Nonsense—why, even this storm is nothing to speak of.”
They turned eastwards, and leaving the high-road, soon reached a wooden
bridge across the waters of the Almo,[351] a rivulet now swollen by the
storm. From hence the path led them across the Via Latina and through a
dense wood. The pine-tops sighed weirdly under the lashing wind that
rocked and bowed them, while now and again, as one bough crashed
against another, there was a sound as of distant axe-strokes. They first
followed a foot-path, which crossed the wood in a south-easterly direction,
but presently—about half way through the pine forest—their guide pushed
aside the boughs of a sturdy laurel, that stood on the right side of the alley,
and they plunged into the brushwood. Here another path was presently
discernible, though overgrown by a seemingly impenetrable tangle of
shrubs, and this presently brought them out close to a grass-grown mass of
rocks. By walking round one of the huge boulders, they reached an opening
into an old and long-disused stone-quarry. A low passage was visible,
sloping down underground.
“Here we are,” said Euterpe. A gleam from her lantern revealed a high-piled
mass of dèbris. “I will go in first.”
She placed her lantern, half open, on a shelf in the tufa rock, at such an
angle as to light up the passage; then, stooping down, she disappeared in the

doubtful shadow cast by a natural buttress on the rocky wall. Thrax,
Quintus, and Blepyrus followed, the slave bringing the lantern in his hand.
At the spot, where the flute-player had disappeared, the passage was cut in
steps, which led abruptly downwards about thirty feet underground; then a
broad and fairly lofty gallery ran about fifty paces on a level, opening into a
cross gallery.
Quintus signed to his slave to remain where these cross-roads met, while he
followed Thrax Barbatus to the right, where a dim light was visible at some
considerable distance. Approaching nearer, he perceived that the source of
this light lay somewhat on one side, where a large hall opened out,
strangely decorated and lighted up by a few tapers. At the farther side,
opposite the entrance, stood an altar hung with black, and over it was a
wooden image of the crucified Christ. To the left was a brick-walled hearth,
where a bright fire was blazing. The smoke rose in a tall column to a square
opening in the roof. On the floor, in a niche on one side, Eurymachus—the
slave who had escaped from Stephanus—lay on a straw mat, his pale face
resting on his hand. Glauce, his betrothed, was occupied in mixing the juice
of some fruit with water, to make a drink for the fevered sufferer, while
Diphilus, kneeling in front of a rough-hewn wooden stool, was folding a
broad strip of stuff to make a bandage. He rose as the new-comers entered.
“The Lord is merciful!” said Thrax to Eurymachus. “Greet our deliverer. All
will be well. The night is stormy and dark; we can rest for a short while and
dry our cloaks by the fire; then, by God’s help, we will set forth with a good
courage.—By mid-day you will be in safety.”
The sick man’s features brightened; joyful surprise and eager gratitude
sparkled in the dark eyes, which as suddenly closed again, as though
dimmed by weakness. Euterpe had meanwhile taken the soaked and
dripping cloaks from the shoulders of the two men, and had hung them over
two seats in front of the fire. Then she fetched a little table and spread it
with bread, fruit, and wine, while Glauce brought platters and cups from a
cave in the wall.
“Do us the favor of accepting a little refreshment,” she said, pulling forward
a bench.

Quintus, whose walk through the stormy night, and still more his anxious
excitement, had made very thirsty, emptied his cup at a draught, and then
turned sympathetically to Eurymachus.
“Do you know me again?” he asked smiling.
The slave drew a deep breath, and said in a weak voice:
“Yes, my lord, I know you. In such a moment of torture a man’s memory is
sharpened. It was you, who on that awful day poured balm into my wounds,
you and the fair youth with a grave, kind face....”
“My word for it, but you put me to shame! It was not I, but my companion,
who first made his way through the hedge—it was not I, but my companion,
who gave you that human consolation.”
“Not so,” replied Eurymachus solemnly. “Proud and haughty as you looked,
in your heart there was some stirring of the sense of common humanity,
which is our inheritance from our Heavenly Father. It was but a small
matter, that betrayed this impulse, but—I know not why—it sank deeper
into my soul, than even the brave words of your companion. In truth, noble
Quintus, the touch of your hand, as you tried to drive away my greedy
tormentors, fell like balm upon my heart; it fanned the dying spark of
courage in my soul—aye, and I remembered it when, in Lycoris’ garden,
they were preparing to nail me to the cross. You smile, my lord, and think
me a raving enthusiast—but so it is. When you came towards me through
the gap in the hedge, you appeared to me as the type of the illustrious
Roman—handsome, haughty, absorbed in the natural desire for enjoyment,
and with no heart to pity the sufferings of the baser millions. But when you
turned to go, you left me with a revived belief, that the gulf, which severs
the classes of men, may be bridged over. Often have I discussed it with
Thrax Barbatus.—He declares, that the doctrine of Nazareth is destined to
be the belief of all mankind; I, on the contrary, maintain that it will never be
the creed of any but the wretched and oppressed. For the noble and wealthy
—so I argue—will naturally cling to their luxury-loving idols, to whom
they attribute their power, dominion, and riches. But since that hour, when
Quintus Claudius came up to me filled with pity, a divine revelation lives
and shines in my soul. And has not the current of my own fate justified this
presentiment? The wealthiest and haughtiest youth of the City of the Seven

Hills, the son of the all-powerful Flamen, is the deliverer of the wretched
slave! Verily, Quintus, I say unto thee: Thou art, though thou knowest it not,
a follower of the crucified Jesus.”
“I?” said Quintus startled and bewildered.
“Yea, my lord. ‘Not every one that saith unto me Lord, Lord, is my
disciple,’ saith Jesus of Nazareth, ‘but he that doeth the will of my Father in
Heaven.’”
“I do not altogether understand what you mean; the mysteries of your
religion are as yet unknown to me.”
“The doctrine of Jesus is simple and clear. The Master himself has summed
it up in two laws: ‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God above all things,’ and
the second is like unto it: ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.’”
Quintus looked down in silence.
“You speak of God,” he said at last. “Which God do you mean,
Eurymachus? Jupiter, whom our forefathers worshipped, is to you a mere
idol. What name then do you give to the Divinity, who commands your
love? And what proof have you, that he too is not a false God?”
“My lord,” said Eurymachus, “our God has no name by which he is known.
A name is used for distinction, and to mark a difference from others of the
same, kind; but He is one alone and eternal from the beginning. He reveals
himself to us through the myriad marvels of the universe, which would
never cease to rouse our awe-struck admiration, but that custom has dulled
our sense. He is manifest in the impulses and emotions of our own nature,
in the ardent yearning for immortality—that home-sickness of the soul
which, in the midst of all the joys and blessings of this life, makes us aware
of an infinite void, a gulf which nothing else can fill. It is He, whom we
apprehend in the joy, that thrills us like a tender mother’s kiss, when we lift
up our hearts to contemplate Him by faith. We know Him by the strength,
the constancy, the scorn of death, that He can inspire, when every nerve of
our frail body is quivering with pain. Think of our fellow-believers, who
were butchered by Nero—the bloody slaughter in the Arena, the men burnt
alive, buried alive! What upheld these martyrs through their unspeakable

torments? The grace of God, the Almighty and All-merciful, whom Jesus
Christ hath taught us to know.”
“Amen!” whispered Glauce, with an admiring glance at her lover, whose
face glowed with enthusiasm.
Barbatus went anxiously up to him, and laid a hand on his brow.
“Do not agitate yourself,” he said with tender sympathy. “You have still
much to go through.”
“Nay, it is well,” replied Eurymachus. “I feel strengthened since I have set
eyes on my preserver.—Aye, noble Quintus, this is the God, whom the
disciples of the Nazarene worship—this is the faith, which your empire
brands as a crime. Conspirators, they call us, and traitors. We conspire, it is
true, but not against Caesar, to whom we freely render the things that are
Caesar’s, as our Master taught us; only against sin, against crime and evil-
doing. We swear to each other by the memory of the Crucified,[352] not to
betray each other, nor to lie, nor steal, nor bear false witness, nor commit
adultery. We hate no man for his faith’s sake, for we know that grace is a
gift of omnipotent God, and that, even in the shadow of the false god
Jupiter, a gleam of divine truth may be seen. We are quiet, peaceful folk,
who ask nothing more than to be allowed to live undisturbed in our faith
and hope.”
“You forget one thing,” exclaimed Barbatus, as Eurymachus paused.
“Christ teaches us, that we are all the children of God. In his sight all
differences of high and low, rich and poor, lofty and humble are as nothing;
and we, as true disciples of the Redeemer, must strive to work out this
principle. We must try to found a state of human society, in which all the
distinctions which have hitherto existed are utterly dissolved.”
“Nay, you are in error,” replied Eurymachus. “Those differences are not to
be done away with. If you levelled them all to-day, they would originate
again of their own accord to-morrow. Their form and aspect will be
modified, but their existence is inevitable. Jesus of Nazareth never
conceived of such changes. He only sought to revive in those, who have lost
it in the varying chances and turmoil of life, some consciousness of the
intrinsic worth of all that is truly human. As soon as the great ones of the

earth learn to see, that even slaves are their brothers, that even the base-born
are the children of the Almighty, all the most violent contrasts of class will
be smoothed away, and things that now weigh upon us as a yoke, will be
turned into a bond of union. ‘My Kingdom is not of this world,’ said Jesus
of Nazareth. He will indeed regenerate man, but through his heart and spirit,
and not with force or violent upheaval.”
“Then you insist on being miserable, come what may?” cried Barbatus
vehemently.
“By no means. I only dispute the idea, that the teaching of Christ leads to
such issues. Whether rich or poor, master or slave, matters not in the
balance of our salvation. Many a one, who holds his head high and free,
bears heavier fetters, than the convict in the mines of Sardinia.”
Quintus Claudius once more emptied the cup, which Glauce had filled. His
brain was in a whirl, and his throat parched. The sight of this slave, lying on
a straw mat, and weighing the future destinies of man, and the mystery of
existence, with such calm decision, troubled and excited him to an
extraordinary degree. At this moment he was in a wilder fever than
Eurymachus. He looked down with admiration—almost with envy—at the
pale face, which looked so radiant in the midst of suffering, so sublimely
happy in spite of wretchedness. And he himself? Did not the saying about
the convict in the mines apply to him? Was he not in fact more fettered and
bound, than this fugitive slave? What was the liberty that Rome—that the
whole world was ready to offer to him? Had he ever been able really to
purchase release from that dark melancholy, which oppressed him like an
ever-present incubus? What a God must He be, who uplifted the slave to
such serene heights!
“It is time to start,” he said at last, waking from a deep reverie. “The roads
are bad; I fear we can proceed but slowly; besides, we must not keep Caius
Aurelius waiting too long. He shares our danger, and is watching in anxious
uncertainty.”
“Noble Sir!” exclaimed the slave, deeply moved, “are you really prepared
again to risk your life? You know, Father, how strongly I set my face against
this project; and even now, at the eleventh hour, I entreat you: Consider well
what you are doing.”

“It has all been considered,” said Thrax impatiently. “If you were to perish
in this cavern, would not our fate also be sealed? Do you think, that Glauce
would survive your death? Look at her; see how the mere thought frightens
her.”
“But who talks of my dying? You should have waited eight or ten days, till
the first fury of our persecutors had cooled.”
“And meanwhile you would have cooled, never to be warm again. Your
wound, at first scarcely worth speaking of, has become so much worse in
the unwholesome air of this vault....”
“And your fever increases every day,” interrupted Euterpe.
“Waste no more words!” cried Thrax angrily. “Help him, Diphilus. You see
he can hardly drag himself up.”
Diphilus, zealously seconded by Euterpe, lifted the wounded man from his
wretched couch, and they carried him carefully out into the gallery, where
Blepyrus was wearily leaning against the rough-hewn wall. A litter was
standing there with some thick woollen coverlets, and Eurymachus was laid
upon it as comfortably as possible. Glauce, who had followed with a clay
lamp, pressed a long kiss on his forehead, and then hurried away, crying
bitterly. Quintus had also accompanied them, and as soon as he saw that all
was ready for the start, ran back to fetch his hardly-dried cloak. But he
involuntarily paused at the entrance of the cavern; the sight that met his
eyes was as pathetic as it was fair to look upon. The young girl had fallen
on her knees before the altar, her slender hands uplifted in prayer; she gazed
up at the cross in a transport of devotion, smiling ecstatically, though tears
rolled down her pale cheeks. Her lips moved, at first inaudibly, but
presently in a low murmur.
“Saviour of the world,” she prayed, “Thou who hast died for us on the
cross.—If Thou requirest a victim, take me, and let me suffer a thousand
deaths, but spare, oh spare my Eurymachus!”
“Where are you, my lord?” called Blepyrus.
“I am coming,” answered Quintus in an agitated voice. “Forgive me, gentle
worshipper, for interrupting your prayer. Your God will hear and grant it

none the less.”
And as he spoke he went up to the fire-place, threw the cloak over his
shoulders, and followed the litter which, borne by Blepyrus and Diphilus,
had already reached the entrance of the quarry. Euterpe also was with the
wounded fugitive. Only Thrax Barbatus remained behind in the
underground cavern, to help Glauce, who had now recovered her cheerful
composure, to deck the altar and throw wood on the fire. It was nearly
midnight, the hour at which a little knot of believers in the Nazarene were
wont to meet and keep the Feast of Love in memory of their Redeemer.

CHAPTER XX.
The little procession slowly made its way through the brushwood; Euterpe,
indefatigable, led the way. In her left hand she carried the dark lantern, with
which now and again she lighted up some especially perilous spot, while
with her right hand she held aside the boughs of the shrubs. The gale was
still blowing through the dripping trees, and squalls of rain swept over them
with a rush and roar. After a short but difficult walk they reached the foot-
bridge, and turned off to the east, leaving the brook Almo behind them, and
then by degrees the forest grew thinner.
When at last they reached the open, they saw before them the arches of the
Claudian aqueduct,[353] stretching black and ponderous across the plains.
The wind had parted the clouds here and there over the eastern horizon, and
a few stars shone fitfully through the rifts, but this made the darkness,
which brooded over the whole creation, all the more sensible.
Again they went over a wooden bridge—then under an arch of the
aqueduct, and a few minutes after through that of another, the Aqua Marcia.
[354] So far they had kept to the road. Now, however, they quitted it, and for
a time cut across fields and meadows, over wide pools and ditches, and
through brushwood. A quarter of an hour, half an hour, a whole hour of this
toil, and they had not yet reached the Labicanian Way,[355] towards which
they were marching.
Diphilus held out bravely, but Blepyrus, who was not of the strongest, and
who was accustomed only to the lightest toil, panted so painfully, that
Quintus could not bear to see it.
“Give me hold,” he said with rough good nature. “Why, you are groaning
like a mule dragging blocks of stone.”
“My lord!” said Blepyrus out of breath. “You see I can hold out a little
longer.”

“I see just the reverse. Stop a minute, Diphilus—there! now get your breath
again, Blepyrus, and fill your lungs. In ten minutes we will change again.”
“But, my lord, what are you thinking of?”
“Do not talk, but save your wind.”
Euterpe, always thoughtful, offered the exhausted man a draught of mead.
Blepyrus drank it eagerly, and the strange convoy went on its way again
through the silent night.
They were indeed a strange party for any one who could have seen them! A
youth of senatorial rank serving as litter-bearer to one slave, while another
walked idle by his side! Quintus thought of his friends and equals, and
could not help smiling; but with his next breath he sighed, for he thought of
his father. He knew indeed, that Titus Claudius would not have hesitated to
lend a hand if needed for the rescue of the meanest of his dependents; Titus
Claudius, no less, would have bent his shoulder to the strap of a slave’s
litter in case of need. And yet, what bitter grief, what implacable resentment
would that generous man feel, if only he could see—could guess...!
Quintus gazed vaguely up at the driving clouds, that scudded wildly along
like a host of uneasy spirits. They packed and tumbled together, hiding the
few stars which had peeped forth in the dark sky.
“I cannot help it,” thought Quintus, tightening his lips. “I have no choice in
the matter. If the whole world round me crumbles into eternal night—I
cannot help it!”
The wounded man, exhausted by his too eager talk with Thrax, lay
meanwhile silent and motionless on his couch. Even when Quintus slipped
the straps on to his own shoulders he seemed indifferent to the fact; only a
faint cry of surprise betrayed, that he had not swooned or fallen asleep.
They had gained the Via Labicana at last, and were toiling up the slippery
way. Blepyrus was just going to take his master’s share of the burden again,
when he suddenly became aware of a shade at a few paces distance, which
at first stole stooping down close to the hedge, and then suddenly made for
the open country, bounding across the road with long steps.

“What was that?” asked Quintus, who had also observed the noise and
running figure.
“Some wild creature perhaps,” said Euterpe.
“It was a man,” said Eurymachus.
Quintus stopped and gazed out into the darkness; then, turning to
Eurymachus, he asked with evident anxiety:
“When did you first see him?”
“This minute, as we came upon the road.”
“I saw him before,” said Blepyrus in a whisper, as though a similar shade
might at any moment start forth in the gloom. “Out there, by that bush in
the middle of the field something moved and scudded past. I thought it was
some night-bird.”
“They are sitting snugly in their nests,” said Diphilus. Blepyrus did not
answer; he was considering.
“It seems to me,” he said at length, “that I have seen that peculiar skulking
walk and sudden disappearance before. He vanished like lightning.”
“And he meant no good,” added the flute-player. “In short, it was a spy sent
out by the slave-catchers, and before we can reach the gate the town-watch
will be upon us.”
“Then we must be doubly careful,” said Quintus, forcing his pulses to beat
more calmly. “We must toil across country again as far as the Via
Praenestina.[356] It will be heavy walking, almost up to our knees in the soil.
—But listen! is not that the tramp of horses? Coming from the city—not a
thousand paces away.”
“Lord and Saviour!” groaned Euterpe. “The man must have flown like the
wind.”
“He must indeed, if these horsemen have come at his call. No, the swiftest
cannot be so swift as that. It is all the same; forewarned is forearmed. What
is that to the right of the road?”

“A fountain, or something of the kind,” replied Blepyrus.
“We will hide behind the wall, till the horsemen have passed.”
In a few seconds they had reached the fountain, of which the basin was
raised about three feet above the ground. By day it would have been a
perfectly unavailing shelter, but in the darkness it was a sufficient cover. If
the horsemen should have lanterns, to be sure—and this could not yet be
seen for a rise in the ground—they might easily detect the track of the
fugitives across the weeds and grass, and then....
For the first time in his life Quintus was aware of the presence of a great
danger. Although he felt certain, that the unknown runner could not possibly
have fetched the horsemen, who were now close upon them, there was an
infinity of possibilities, of which the mere thought seized his heart with a
cold grip. Even accident might here have played an important part. If the
riders were really agents of the slave-takers, or even soldiers of the town-
watch, the next few minutes were fateful indeed. The sinister vision that had
passed them had made him anxious and undecided, and gloomy forebodings
weighed on his mind. The thought flashed through his brain: How if you
were now at home, standing by your own triclinium? Would you now
appeal as you did to Blepyrus, or would you not rather seek some excuse
for evading the work of rescue? But the question left him clear of all doubt;
he did not regret the step he had taken, and let what might await him, he
would persist now in the road on which he had started. This short
meditation restored his peace of mind; he still was anxious, but it was not
on his own account; it was for the task he had undertaken, the fugitive who
lay in silence on the drenched couch, the faithful and brave souls who
crouched with him for shelter. Suddenly he felt a trembling hand clasp his
own, and press it with passionate fervor to quivering lips. It was
Eurymachus, whose heart, in spite of every dread, was overflowing with
exalted feeling. The slave’s grateful kiss fired a sacred glow through the
young man’s veins, and it was with a sense of supreme indifference to all
the sports of fate, that he heard the trample of hoofs coming nearer and
nearer.
Blepyrus and the stalwart Diphilus held themselves in readiness to meet a
possible onslaught. Euterpe sat on a low stone, half paralyzed; her heart

beat audibly, her hands trembled convulsively.
The horses were now close upon them. Quintus leaned forward, and saw
five or six dark forms mounted on small, nimble beasts. They were riding
cautiously, at a short trot. Now they were passing the spot where the
fugitives had turned aside from the high-road—Quintus fancied he saw
them check their pace, and hastily felt for the weapon in his bosom. But it
was a mistake. The riders trotted on, and did not diminish their pace till at
some distance to the south-east, where the road mounted a hill. The hated
sound of hoofs gradually died away in the distance.
“God be praised!” sighed Euterpe.
Diphilus hastened to reload himself.
“We might have spared ourselves the fright,” he said to Eurymachus. “In
this darkness....”
“It was only on account of your fugitive,” said Blepyrus. “It may be, that
the riders were only merchants or other harmless folk....”
“It is all the same,” interrupted Quintus. “Any man is to be regarded as
suspicious. Do not lose another minute! Off! towards the Praenestian Way.”
And once more the little procession set forth across bog and briar. Thus they
reached a foot-path, which led them past vineyards and at length down to
the high-road. The Via Praenestina was little frequented at night, even in
fine weather; the main traffic led past the towns of Toleria and Aricia. So
they went on, relieved in mind, towards the town, which was still at about
an hour’s distance. By degrees the south-westerly gale spent itself and
lulled, no longer rushing in wild blasts across the plain, but blowing softly
and steadily, like a long-drawn sigh of respite. The black clouds rolled away
to the east and north, and the waning moon showed a haze-veiled sickle on
the horizon.
Eurymachus as before lay in total silence; and neither Quintus, whose spirit
was tossed by a thousand new and strange feelings, nor Blepyrus, who was
straining every nerve to conceal his utter exhaustion, uttered a word as they
walked on. Only Diphilus and Euterpe exchanged a few words in low tones.
The flute-player described her terror; never in her life had she quaked so as

on the stone by that fountain. After passing through such perils, she seemed
to feel the need of showing all her love and good feeling to her worthy
mate, and she even wished to relieve him of the litter straps, as Quintus had
relieved Blepyrus, and harness her own shoulders. But Diphilus laughed
shortly, and scorned the idea.
“Yes,” he growled good humoredly, “that is a good notion! You want to
score your white shoulders with the marks of the strap. Think of business,
child! Why, to-morrow you are to play at the house of the captain of the
body-guard; you need not spoil your beauty to-night. It was mad enough,
that you would not stay at home such a night as this.”
They were now close to the limits of the suburbs of Rome. The buildings on
the Esquiline, dimly lighted by the moon, stood out sharper as they
approached them against the western sky. Passing by the field, where
Philippus, the son of Thrax Barbatus, lay buried, they made their way
through the empty streets to the Caelian Hill, and at last reached the back
entrance of the house inhabited by Caius Aurelius. The narrow path, which
led to it across the hill, was entirely deserted; the houses stood detached,
each in the midst of its garden, and shut off from the road by high walls.
Quintus went forward and knocked three times at the postern gate. The bolt
was instantly drawn, and Magus, the Gothic slave, came joyfully to meet
the strangers.
“Welcome, my lord,” he said in a whisper. “Your arrival relieves us of the
greatest anxiety. I have been listening here at the gate these two hours.”
“Yes, yes—” said Quintus equally softly, “we are very late; but it could not
be helped. Come, good people, make no noise—go in front, Magus.”
They all went into the garden, and the Goth barred the door again. Then
they crossed the xystus[357] to the peristyle, and went along a carpeted
corridor to the atrium. Here they were met by Herodianus, who with
difficulty suppressed an exclamation of joy.
“At last!” he said, bustling to and fro with delight, like a busy mistress
receiving guests. “We had begun to think, that you must have met with
some misfortune. Aurelius, my illustrious friend, is in the greatest anxiety.

But softly, for pity’s sake softly! everyone is sound asleep, and foresight is
the mother of prudence.”
A light was shining in one of the rooms that surrounded the court-yard;
before they could reach it, Aurelius appeared in the doorway and hurried
out to embrace Quintus.
“What a fearful night!” he said with a sigh of relief. “How anxious I have
been for you, my dear Quintus! A hundred possibilities, each more terrible
than the last, have racked my brain. Be quick, Magus, lift the wounded man
from his litter! Come, you must be quite tired out.—Such torrents of rain!
Your cloak is as heavy as lead And here is our sweet little musician, as
tender as a baby.—Come, warm yourselves, refresh yourselves!”
Herodianus had meanwhile hastened to open a cubiculum farther on in the
corridor, while Magus took the place of Blepyrus, who was utterly
exhausted. Eurymachus was laid in bed and soon fell asleep, after Euterpe
and Diphilus had applied a fresh bandage and given him a cup of refreshing
drink. Blepyrus, incapable of standing even a moment longer, threw off his
cloak and sank at full-length on to one of the cushioned benches in the
colonnade; he begged Herodianus, as he passed, to throw a coverlet over
him. “I am more dead than alive,” he said. “When my master goes home,
wake me.”
The freedman tried to persuade him to go into one of the rooms and lie on a
bed; but Blepyrus heard no more. Deep, blank sleep had overpowered him
at once. So Herodianus fetched a couple of warm rugs, in which he
carefully wrapped the weary slave and then he joined Aurelius and Quintus.
The Gothic slave stayed to watch Eurymachus. Leaning back in a chair,
resting his feet on a stuffed footstool, he sat gazing in the sleeper’s face
which, faintly lighted by the glimmer of a small bronze lamp, was the
picture of worn-out nature, but at the same time, of contentment and
peaceful rest. Magus knew all the history of the hapless slave. He knew
how Domitia’s steward had for years made life a burthen to him, and had at
last condemned him to a martyr’s death. The immutable steadfastness of the
sufferer had excited the enthusiastic admiration even of the simple Goth,
and strange thoughts were surging in his soul.

“How still he lies there with his eyes tight shut,” thought the Goth, “quite
shut, and yet I could fancy he saw through the lids. Veleda,[358] the
prophetess, had just such eyes! When I was carrying him across the hall he
looked up, and it was like a flash of fire, and yet soft and mild like the blue
sea when the sun shines. If he were fair, he would be just like the priest in
the grove of Nerthus.[359] He indeed was a favorite of the gods; he knew
everything on earth and above the earth. I feel as if this man too must know
all secrets, which make such men wise above all others. It is written on his
forehead.—If only he were not so pale and feeble—if he had limbs as
strong as mine, and hale northern blood in his veins! Odin should melt us
down to make one man.—There would be a hero!”
So thought the worthy Gothic slave, while his eyes remained fixed on the
features of the sleeper; but before long his own eyes also closed, and the
ideas that had roused him to unwonted excitement remained in his mind in
the realm of dreams. He saw Odin, with his wolves and raven, rushing
down through the woods on the shores of the distant Baltic. He himself,
Magus, was standing in the shadow of a sacred beech-tree, hand-in-hand
with the wounded slave, who had dragged himself painfully through the
underwood. As the god rushed past them, he lightly touched them with his
sword; and they flowed and melted, as it were, into one, each feeling as
though this had been their destiny from the beginning of things. And now,
as the newly-created two-in-one looked up, behold! the mighty sword of the
god hung to a branch of the beech-tree. He put out his hand, took it down,
and with a giant’s strength, whirled it round his head. A flash of light shone
through the grove, and the newly-formed being felt that he was stronger and
mightier than all mortals, from the rising of the sun to the setting thereof.
“A foolish dream!” Magus whispered to himself, as he suddenly started
wide awake. He gave his charge, who had begun to stir, a draught of water,
and then fell asleep again.
Euterpe and Diphilus had meanwhile gone away, though the Batavian had
begged them to take a change of clothes and rest under a comfortable roof
for the rest of the night. After Quintus had changed his dress and refreshed
himself with food and drink, he also wished to return home. But Aurelius
detained him.

“Listen,” he said, in a tone of strange timidity: “With regard to our journey
to-morrow to Ostia, I have a proposal to make to you. It is very true, that
the mere fact that I am sending my ship off on her return to Trajectum is a
sufficient reason—still—people might.... To be plain with you, my intimacy
with Nerva and Cinna has attracted notice in certain quarters—I fear I may
be watched, and therefore it would perhaps be better to give the whole affair
the aspect of a pleasure excursion—if you only could persuade your sister,
and perhaps your betrothed to accompany us. I have such a perfect disguise
for Eurymachus, that neither of the young ladies can have the faintest
suspicion. Besides—who troubles himself about a slave? It seems to me the
plan is as admirable as it is simple.”
“It is masterly!” exclaimed Quintus. “Cornelia is crazy about the sea, and
Claudia and Lucilia will have no objections. If only the weather
improves...”
“Oh! the day will be splendid,” said Aurelius, going into the hall. “The
wind has quite gone down, and the clouds are parting. I asked Magus just
now.”
“The idea is delightful. The more openly and boldly we go to work, the
better. About what hour should we start?”
“I thought about three hours after sunrise.”
“Very good. I will let Cornelia and my sisters know; the rest I leave entirely
to you, my dear Caius.”
“You shall not be disappointed,” said Aurelius, radiant with satisfaction.
“And where shall we meet? Out beyond the tomb of Cestius?”
“It will perhaps be better that you should come here, and we will proceed
all together to the place where vehicles wait; that will look least suspicious
and most natural.”
“So be it: we will go to the gates in a little party. Now farewell—I am very
tired, and wish I had my litter.”
“Shall I...?” Aurelius began.

“I should think so indeed! What! risk all that our exertions have so far
accomplished for the sake of my selfish limbs! Nay, nay. I shall live through
it, never fear. Farewell again, my dear Aurelius.”
The friends embraced. Blepyrus, awakened by Herodianus, who lent him a
dry cloak, came dizzy with sleep, down the corridor and followed his
master with a faint groan. Quintus, in spite of all he had gone through,
walked on fresh and eager, and in five minutes they were at home.

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!”

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Trireme. “Three-oared;” a vessel with three ranks of rowers, one above
another. The time was given by the beats of a hammer or by word of command;
not unfrequently by an air played on a flute or a sailor’s chant (cantus nauticus).
[2] Posidium, now called the Punta della Licosa, south of the Gulf of Salerno.
[3] Capreae, (Isle of goats) now Capri.
[4] Puteoli. An important port in Campania, now Pozzuoli. Concerning
Puteoli’s commerce, see Stat. Silv. III, 5, 75.
[5] Apollonius of Tyana in Cappadocia. An ascetic and ecstatic philosopher
and miracle-worker (A.D. 50) often compared with Christ by heathen writers.
(Philostratus wrote his life.)
[6] Ivory map. Sketch-maps of various routes were common in ancient times,
and were often engraved on wine-jars, cups, etc.
[7] Tunic. The short-sleeved under-garment worn by both sexes, the house
costume, over which men, when they went out, threw the toga, women the stola
or palla. During the period of the empire a second garment, the tunica interior,
corresponding to the shirt of modern times, was worn under the tunic.
[8] The palace of Tiberius. For an account of the cruel and extravagant
proceedings of Tiberius at Capri, see Tacitus Ann. I, 67, Suet. Tib. 40, Juv. Sat.
X, 72 and 93. Insignificant remains of this palace are visible at the present day:
Villa di Timberio; the perpendicular cliff 700 feet high is called il salto (the
leap.)
[9] Castor and Pollux. Leda’s twins, the Dioscuri, were the patrons of sea-
faring men.
[10] Wax-tablet (tabula cerata). A little tablet covered with wax, on which
memoranda were written with the stylus. In the schools the wax-tablet supplied
the place of the slate, and in daily life was a substitute for our note-book.
[11] Freedman. The institution of slavery (servitium) which existed from ancient
times, was an extremely important factor in the organization of Roman society.
The slaves (servi) were the absolute property of their masters, who had unlimited
control over their destinies and lives. (This right was not withdrawn until A.D.
61, when the law of Petronius prohibited the arbitrary condemnation of slaves to
combats with wild beasts, etc.) The slave could then be released by the so-called
manumissio, and was styled libertus or libertinus. His position depended upon
the greater or less degree of formality with which the manumissio was granted.
The most solemn manner bestowed all the rights of the free-born citizen, but
even in this case he was socially burdened with the same stigma that rests upon
the emancipated slaves in the United States. If a freedman attained power and
influence—which under the emperors was very common—the haughty
representatives of the ancient noble families paid him external respect, it is true,
but the man’s origin was never forgotten.
[12] Trajectum. A Batavian city in the Roman province Germania, now Utrecht.
[13] Gades. A city in southern Spain, the modern Cadiz.

[14] Panormus. A city on the north coast of Sicily, the modern Palermo.
[15] Corybas. In the plural Corybantes; priests of Cybele. Their worship was a
wild orgy with war-dances and noisy music. (Horace, Od. I, 16, 8: non acuta si
geminant Corybantes aera, etc.)
[16] Ostia. The port of Rome, situated at the mouth of the Tiber.
[17] Massilia. An important city founded by the Greeks on the southern coast of
Gaul, now called Marseilles.
[18] Rugii. A German race occupying a considerable part of the coast of the
Baltic—the present Pomerania and island of Rügen.
[19] Frisii. A German race settled in the northern part of what is now Holland
and farther east beyond Ems (Amisia).
[20] Breakfast. The first meal after rising was called jentaculum. In the time of
the republic (and still later among the poorer classes) it consisted principally of
pulse. Among the wealthy luxury intruded even here; but in comparison with the
second breakfast (prandium) and especially with the principal repast (coena) the
jentaculum always remained frugal.
[21] Ram’s-head at the prow. These ornaments were usually carved in wood on
the prow. They must not be confounded with the ship’s beaks (rostra, ἕμβολα).
These beaks—two strong iron-cased beams—were on the fore-part of the ships
of war and also on vessels intended for long voyages, where they would be
exposed to danger from pirates. They were beneath the surface of the water, and
were destined to bore holes in the enemy’s ships. See vol. 2, Chap IX.
[22] Magus. A Gothic word—(not the Latin Magus, Greek μάγος—magician,
sorcerer,)—means a boy, or knave in the old sense of servant.
[23] Parthenope. The ancient name of Naples, from the siren Parthenope, who
is said to be buried there.
[24] Vesuvius. The famous eruption, which buried the three cities mentioned,
took place A.D. 79, that is, sixteen years before the commencement of this story.
[25] Baiae, now Baja, the most famous watering-place of ancient times. See
Horace, Ep. I, 1, 83.
[26] Aenaria and Prochyta, now Ischia and Procida.
[27] Alexandria in Egypt was, in point of commerce, the London of ancient
times.
[28] Tarentine travelling-cloak. The woollen stuffs from Tarentum, now
called Taranto, were famous.
[29] "Hva gasaihvis?“—”Gasaihva leitil skip." Literally: What do you see? (I)
see (a) little ship. The earliest existing specimens of Gothic date from several
centuries later than the time of this story, namely the period when the Goths left
their original settlements on the lower Vistula and settled farther to the southeast
on the Black Sea. I thought it permissible, however, to make a Goth of the first

century speak the language of Ulfilas, since there is nothing against it in the
general analogies of language, and Gothic, in the form in which it remains to us,
is so concrete and logical in its structure, that it is hardly credible that it should
have varied to any great extent within a period of two or three centuries.
[30] Batavia. It was the custom at a very early date to name vessels after towns,
persons, or countries, etc.
[31] Amulet. A faith in the protecting power of charms and amulets was
universal among Roman women, and children were always provided with
amulets against the evil eye.
[32] Isis. The Egyptian goddess Isis was originally a personification of the Nile
country, and as such was the wife of Osiris, the god of the Nile, who is slain by
Typhon and longingly sought by the deserted goddess. She was afterwards
confounded with every conceivable form of Greek (See Appuleius. Met. XI, 5.)
and Roman Mythology and thus in the first century after Christ became the
principal goddess. Her worship was chiefly by women.
[33] Waxen Ship. Such votive offerings are commonly mentioned. They were
generally painted pictures, but models in wax or metal were also given.
[34] Nile-Water. The worshippers of Isis ascribed a special power to the waters
of the Nile.
[35] Sesterces. A Roman silver coin worth about 4 or 5 cents.
[36] Roman Knight. During the reign of the emperors the free population of
Rome was divided into three orders: senators, knights, and people (third order).
The order of senators was limited to Rome, and in its hands lay the real political
power, which in the time of the republic had been exercised by the assembled
populace. To the senate belonged the right of conferring and recalling sovereign
power, that is, by appointing and deposing the emperors, a right rarely exercised,
it is true, but which the emperors formally recognized by allowing themselves to
be confirmed by the senate. In their relation to this body, the emperors were only
first among their peers, the members of this order being really their equals; a
relation which, with the exception of Caligula, Nero, Domitian, and Commodus,
the emperors during the first two centuries, more or less earnestly endeavored to
maintain. (Friedlander. Rom. Sittengesch. I, 3.) The number of the old senatorial
families was comparatively small.
The second order, the knights (equites), was scattered over the whole empire. A
class specially designated for military service, it became in the time of the
Gracchi, a body of rich men, each of whom possessed a fortune of 400,000
sesterces, and also fulfilled the conditions of being of free birth and descent,
blameless reputation, and refraining from dishonorable or indecorous methods of
making money. Loss of this fortune, whether by their own fault or otherwise,
entailed loss of rank. In consequence of the confusion and dissolution of all legal
regulations through the civil war, these conditions were largely abrogated. While
many who had formerly been entitled to belong to the order of knights, lost their
rank through loss of fortune, others, who though possessing the needful property,
had none of the other requisites, assumed without opposition the external
distinctions of the knights, especially the gold ring and the seat of honor in the

theatre. (Friedlander.) There were various degrees of rank in the order of knights,
and also great diversity of fortune. Besides the poor titular knights, there were
bankers, wholesale merchants, and the directors and members of great
commercial companies and societies for mercantile enterprises of every kind.
The third order comprised mechanics, small tradesmen, tavern-keepers, learned
men, artists, etc., etc.,—except in cases where those who followed these pursuits
were slaves,—and also the immense body of proletarians, who subsisted almost
exclusively on public alms.
[37] My Lord Said the Matron. Concerning the address “lord” (domine), see
the minute discussions in Friedlander’s Sittengeschichte, I, appendix. It was not
so common as the modern “sir,” but was used as an expression of special
courtesy in the most varied relations of life. The emperors themselves used it in
intercourse with persons to whom they wished to show attention. Thus Marcus
Antoninus writes to Fronto: “Have, mi domine magister.” According to Seneca
(Ep. III, 1.) it was already customary under Nero to greet persons, whose names
could not be instantly remembered, by this title, in order not to appear
uncourteous under any circumstances. The Fronto just mentioned calls a son-in-
law “domine,” and when Nero once played the cithara in public, he addressed
the spectators as “mei domini.”
Nay, the association of domine with the name, which to our ears has a very
modern sound, is often found. Thus in Appuleius (Met. II,) we read: "Luci
domine,"—“Lord Lucius.” In this story, however, this association is avoided, as
it might have produced the semblance of an anachronism. In accosting women
domina (lady) corresponds with domine. The French, when referring to subjects
connected with ancient Rome, reproduce the sound as well as the meaning of the
word correctly by their madame (meam dominam).
[38] Titus Claudius Mucianus. The Romans usually had three names. Titus is
here the first name (praenomen) which was given sons on the ninth day after
their birth. Claudius is the name of the gens, the family in the wider sense of the
word (nomen gentilicium). Mucianus is the cognomen, the surname, the name of
the immediate family (stirps or familia). Thus several stirpes belonged to a
single gens. Daughters bore only the name of the gens; for instance the daughter
of Titus Claudius Mucianus was called Claudia. If there were two of them, they
were distinguished by the words major (the elder) and minor (the younger); if
there were several, by numbers. The Claudia Gens was a very ancient and
famous one. The principal characters of the story, belonging to the stirps
Muciana, are purely imaginary.
[39] Gavius Apicius, the famous Roman gourmand (Tac. Ann. IV, 1) who finding
that he had only two million and a half denari left in the world (about 400,000
dollars) killed himself, thinking it impossible to live on so little.
[40] Hymettus. A mountain in Attica, famed for its delicious honey. (Horace,
Od. II, 6, 14).
[41] Polished emerald. (Plin. Hist. Nat. XXXVII, 64) where it is stated that the
emperor Nero used such an eye-glass at the public games.

[42] The lobster, (cammarus), was less highly esteemed by the Romans than
among ourselves. See Plin. Ep. II, 17. "The sea, it is true, has no superabundance
of delicious fish; yet it gives us excellent soles and lobsters"—a passage in
which lobsters are contrasted with delicious fish.
[43] Cut Crystal. Window panes of glass (vitrum) mica plates (lapis
specularis) and similar materials were by no means rare in ancient times.
[44] Menander, son of the general Diopeithes, B.C. 342. The most distinguished
poet of the New Comedy; fragments of his comedies have come down to us.
[45] Tibur. A favorite summer resort of the Roman aristocracy, now Tivoli.
[46] Cappadocian horses. The province of Cappadocia in Asia Minor was
famed for its horses.
[47] Litters (lectica). The usual conveyance, somewhat resembling the Oriental
palanquin, were supplied with rich curtains (vela) and in other respects became
the object of luxurious decorations. The number of litter-bearers (lecticarii,
calones) varied from two to eight. In the city of Rome itself, where riding in
carriages was not allowed during the day-time, the lecticae took the place of our
carriages and hacks, for they could also be hired by the hour, and there were
stands of them (castra lecticariorum) in several frequented quarters.
[48] Lava Blocks. The usual material for pavements in central and southern
Italy.
[49] Sicambri. A powerful German tribe, occupying in the time of Caesar the
eastern bank of the Rhine, and extending from the Sieg to the Lippe.
[50] Red Livery. The usual costume of the litter-bearers in the time of the
emperors.
[51] Woolly-headed Ethiopians. The name Ethiopian Αἰθίοπες in its more
restricted sense, applies to the inhabitants of Upper Egypt; in a more general
meaning to the whole population of North-eastern Africa, and South-western
Asia. According to Herodotus (VII, 70) the Ethiopians dwelling in the East had
smooth, those in the West woolly hair.
[52] Baths (thermae, θέρμαι, that is “warm baths”) were public bathing-
establishments on the grandest scale, modelled after the Greek wrestling-
schools. See Becker, Gallus III, p. 68 and following.
[53] Cumae (Κύμη) now Cuma, the oldest of the Greek colonies in Italy, beyond
the mountain range that bounds the bay of Baja on the west; it is only a few
thousand paces from Baja.
[54] In front walked eight or ten slaves. Such a vanguard was customary
among people of distinction, even when they went on foot.
[55] Lusitanians. A people living in the region now known as Portugal, between
the Tagus (Tajo, Tejo) and Durius, (Duero, Douro.)
[56] Caecubum. A district on the shores of the bay of Gaeta, famous for its wine.
See (Horace Od. I, 20, 9 and I, 37, 5) where it is said, that it would be positively

sinful to bring Caecubian wine from the cellar with other kinds on ordinary
occasions (antehac nefas depromere Caecubum cellis avitis, etc.).
[57] Erymanthian boar. So called from Mt. Erymanthus in Arcadia, where the
animal lived until slain by Hercules.
[58] Dionysus. A surname of Bacchus.
[59] Libation. Wine poured as an offering to the gods.
[60] Vestibulum. The space in front of the house-door (fores) which in the time
of the imperial government was frequently covered with a portico.
[61] Adopted Daughter. The adoption of a child in ancient Rome was regulated
by very strict laws. Adoption in its narrower sense (adoptio) extended to persons
who were still under paternal authority; with self-dependent persons the so-
called arrogatio took place. With women this last form was entirely excluded.
[62] Atrium. From the door of the house a narrow passage (ostium) led to the
first inner court, the atrium, so-called because this space, where the hearth
originally was, was blackened by the smoke (ater). The atrium, which in the
more ancient Roman houses possessed the character of a room with a
comparatively small opening in the roof, and afterwards resembled a court-yard,
was at first the central point of family life, the sitting-room, where the
industrious house-keeper sat enthroned among her slaves. When republican
simplicity gave way to luxury, the atrium became the hall devoted to the
reception of guests, and domestic life was confined to the more retired
apartments.
[63] Triclinium, (triple couch) really the sofa on which three, and sometimes
even more persons reclined at table; the name was also given to the dining-room
itself, which comprised the second inner court-yard, the so-called peristyle or
cavaedium.
[64] Cimbrian Peninsula, now called Jutland.
[65] Guttoni. A German race on the lower Vistula.
[66] Aestui. A German race living on the coast of Revel.
[67] Scandii. Inhabitants of southern Sweden.
[68] The Sense of Contrast was a conspicuous trait in Roman character. They
were wont to heighten their appreciation of the joys of life by images of death,
and the dining-room was intentionally placed so as to afford a view of tombs.
[69] The Golden House (domus aurea). The name given to the magnificent
palace of Nero, which extended from the Palatine Hill across the valley and up
again as far as the gardens of Macaenas on the Esquiline. It contained an
enormous number of the choicest works in statuary. Vespasian had a large part of
this building pulled down.
[70] The Seven Hills. Contempt for all who lived in the provinces was peculiar
to all Romans, even the lowest classes of the populace. Thus Cicero says: “Cum
infimo cive romano quisquam amplissimus Galliae comparandus est?” (Can

even the most distinguished Gaul be compared with the humblest Roman
citizen?) This prejudice extended to later centuries, though under the first
emperors numerous inhabitants of the provinces attained the rank of senator and
reached the highest offices. It is very comical, when Juvenal, a freedman’s son,
treats the “knights from Asia Minor,” (Equites Asiani) condescendingly, as if
they were intruders, unworthy to unfasten the straps of his sandals. Inhabitants
of the other provinces were held in higher esteem than the Greeks and Orientals.
But even Tacitus (Ann. IV, 3.) regards it as an aggravation of the crime
committed by the wife of Drusus, that Sejanus, for whom she broke her
marriage-vow, was not a full-blooded Roman, but merely a knight from Volsinii.
[71] The Formal Gardens of Rome. The taste of the Romans in regard to the art
of gardening resembled that shown at Versailles. The eloquence with which
individual authors urge a return to nature (Hor. Epist. I, 10, Prop. I, 2, Juv. Sat.
III, etc.,) only proves that the opposite course was universal. Clipping bushes
and trees into artificial forms was considered specially fashionable. Thus Pliny
the younger, in his description of the Tuscan villa (Ep. V, 6,) writes: “Before the
colonnade is an open terrace, surrounded with box, the trees clipped into various
shapes; below it a steep slope of lawn, at whose foot, on both sides of the path,
stand bushes of box, shaped into the forms of various animals. On the level
ground the acanthus grows delicately, I might almost say transparently. Around it
is a hedge of thick closely-clipped bushes, and around this hedge runs an avenue
of circular form, adorned with box clipped into various shapes, and small trees
artistically trimmed. The whole is surrounded by a wall, concealed by box.”
Then towards the end of the letter: "The box is clipped into a thousand shapes,
sometimes into letters, that form the name of the owner or gardener.”
[72] Jupiter Capitolinus. The priests of certain divinities were called Flamines
and the chief of these was the Flamen Dialis or priest of Jupiter—called
Capitolinus from the hill on which the temple stood. Tacitus (Ann. III, 71,) tells
us of the prohibition here spoken of.
[73] The Praetorship and Consulship were still, under the emperors, an object
of ardent desire, in spite of the fact that these offices had been stripped of all
power.
[74] Gades, now Cadiz, was famous for its dancers of easy morality. (See Juv.
Sat. XI, 162.)
[75] Thyrsus, (θύρσος) a pole or wand wreathed with vine and ivy leaves, and
borne by Bacchus and by Bacchantes.
[76] Bridge of Nero. One of this emperor’s mad undertakings was the
construction, at an enormous expense, of a perfectly useless bridge aslant across
the bay of Baiae.
[77] Surrentum, now Sorrento.
[78] Caieta, now Gaëta.
[79] Urbanitas. Literally: city training.
[80] A Pale, Bearded Man. Wearing beards first became general under the
Emperor Hadrian. At the time of this story it was still the custom among the

higher classes (but not among the lower ones and the slaves) to shave off the
beard after the twenty-first year.
[81] Stoa. The school of the stoics; so named from the pillared hall (ποικίλη
στοά) at Athens, where Zeno, the founder, taught. The doctrine inculcated was
the subjugation of physical and moral evil by individual heroism.
[82] Coena. The second and last principal meal after the day’s work was over.
Under the emperors the coena began about half-past two o’clock in the
afternoon, in winter probably somewhat later. It corresponded in its relation to
the other hours of the day, to the “dîner” of the French, for the Romans were
early risers, and even among the aristocratic classes day began at sunrise.
[83] Cavaedium or peristyle was the name given to the second court-yard of the
Roman house, which was connected with the first or atrium by one or two
corridors. The dining-room, as well as the study of the master of the house, were
in the cavaedium. The space between the latter and the atrium, called the
tablinum, contained the family papers; it was the business office.
[84] Typhon. The evil genius who killed Osiris. (See note 32, vol. 1.) The
Greeks regarded him as a monster of original evil, the personification of the
Simoom and other destructive hot winds, or of the primeval force of volcanoes.
[85] Cithara (κιθάρα). A favorite musical instrument. The strings, usually of
gut, were sounded by means of a plectrum (πλῆκτρον) of wood, ivory, or metal.
Music was as common an accomplishment among ladies of rank then as now,
and they often composed both the words and airs of their songs. Statius tells us
that his step-daughter did so, and Pliny the younger says the same of his third
wife.
[86] Ibycus of Rhegion in Lower Italy (B.C. 528). A distinguished lyric poet,
who is the hero of a well-known poem by Schiller. Few of his numerous lyric
compositions remain to us. We here give a translation of Emanuel Geibel’s
admirable German version of his Spring-greeting. (Classisches Liederbuch, p.
44.)
[87] Quince. Cydonia is the modern botanical name of the quince, called by the
Greeks and Romans the Cydonian apple, after Cydonia, in the island of Crete.
[88] Water-organ (Hydraulus, ὕδραυλος). A musical instrument mentioned by
Cicero, Seneca and others. Ammianus observes: "Water-organs and lyres are
made so large, that they might be mistaken for coaches.”
[89] Baiae was considered from ancient times friendly to Bacchus. (Sen. Ep.
51).
[90] Statius.—P. Papinius Statius, born in Naples, A.D. 45, and died A.D. 96,
was a lyric and epic poet, often artificial in style, but possessed of a brilliant
imagination. His principal works are the epic poem “Thebais,” in which he treats
of the battle of the sons of Oedipus before Thebes, and the Silvae (woods), a
collection of short poems. He also commenced an epic poem "Achilleis.”
[91] Martial. (See note 100, vol. 1.)

[92] Cubiculum. A sleeping-room. The cubicula were located in the atrium,
peristyle, and upper stories.
[93] Note. The Romans wrote their letters either on wax-tablets, (See note 10,
vol. 1.) or on paper (papyrus, carta), using in the former case the stylus, in the
latter a reed-pen and Indian ink. When the letter was finished, the wax-tablets
were laid one above the other, and the papyrus folded several times. A string was
then wound around the whole and the ends sealed.
[94] The Empress Domitia. The emperor’s wife was Domitia Longina, the
daughter of Corbulo, and formerly the wife of Aelius Lamia, (Suet. Dom. 1).
[95] Caesar’s friends. Among the “friends (amici) of the emperor,” were
included those persons, who not only regularly shared the social pleasures of the
sovereign, but were invited to consult with him on all important government
business. Within this group of friends there were of course inner, outer, and
outermost circles. Quintus, who had little intercourse with the court, can only be
included in the outermost circle of all, and even there more on account of his
father, who was one of the emperor’s most intimate “friends,” than by virtue of
his own relations with the palace. He of course had a right to appear at court,
like all persons of his rank, even without a special “relation of friendship” to the
emperor. When inner and outer circles of friends are mentioned, this must not be
confounded with the different classes of friends. Belonging to the first or second
class implied a distinction of rank. Of course, in this sense, Quintus could only
be numbered among the first class (primi amici).
[96] Cypris. A name given to Aphrodite, the goddess of love, from the island of
Cyprus, the principal seat of her worship.
[97] A Slave. Domitia had been the mistress of Paris, a slave and actor. When
Domitian discovered it, he wished to sentence the empress to death, but at the
intercession of Ursus, changed the decree to exile. Paris was massacred in the
open street. (See Dio Cass. LXVII 3; Suet. Dom. 3.) Quintus calls Paris a
buffoon out of contempt, for the profession of “player” was regarded by the
ancient Romans as degrading.
[98] Muraenae (μύραινα). Lampreys were esteemed a delicacy (Cic., Plin., Hist.
Nat. etc.) The best came from the Lucrine lake, near Cumae.
[99] A client in his patron’s house. The clients were originally protégées,
faithful followers of their lords (patroni) who on their part were obliged to aid
them by word and deed. They represented in a certain degree an enlargement of
the family circle. Afterwards this relation degenerated into a mercenary
connection of the most pitiful kind. Under the emperors the clients usually
became only poor parasites, in comparison with their rich masters. They formed
their court, paid them the usual morning-visit at a very early hour, accompanied
them wherever they went in public, and received in return a ridiculously small
compensation in money or goods.
[100] Martial. M. Valerius Martialis, born at Bilbilis in Spain, about 43 A.D.
was famous for his witty and clever epigrams. The 1,200 which have been
preserved are the principal source of the history of manners and customs of the
period in which the scene of this story is laid. He died about the year 102.

[101] L. Nonius Asprenas held the office of consul with M. Arricinius Clemens
in the 14th year of Domitian’s reign, (94 A.D.) and therefore was still in office
"last autumn.”
[102] Appian way. The Via Appia, built by one of the Claudia gens (the Censor
Appius Claudius Caecus, 312 B.C.) led from Rome across Capua to Brundisium
(the modern Brindisi). Statius (Silv. II, 12), calls it the queen of roads (regina
viarum). A large portion of its admirable pavement, as well as the ruins of the
tombs on its sides, exist at the present day.
[103] Health and Blessings! The Romans always began their letters by
mentioning the writer’s name, who wishes health and blessings to the person
addressed. Thus the commencement of the letter given here, literally interpreted,
should have run as follows: Titus Claudius Mucianus wishes his Lucilia,
Health and Blessings. T. Claudius Mucianus Luciliae suae, S.P. D.
[104] Centennial festival. A brilliant spectacle in the arena, the amphitheatre,
etc., which, as its name implies, was celebrated every hundred years. Domitian,
however, disregarded the necessity of an interval of a hundred years, by
reckoning, as Suetonius (Dom. 4) relates, from the one before the last, which
took place under Augustus, instead of from the very last, that was celebrated in
the reign of Claudius. In this romance the time of the Domitian centennial
festivities is placed somewhat later than they really occurred.
[105] Albanum. Domitian (Suet. Dom. 4) had an estate at the foot of the
Albanian Hills, and many rich Romans had summer villas near, forming at last
the town now called Albano.
[106] Palatine. Palatium, the imperial palace on the Palatine Hill. The word
“palace” is derived from “Palatium,” as “Kaiser” comes from "Caesar.”
[107] Nazarenes. The name usually given to Christians, who, for a long time
were regarded by the Romans as a Jewish sect. See the words of Dio Cassius
(LXVII, 16): “who inclined to Judaism,” where he refers to the Christians, who
were persecuted under Domitian.
[108] M. Cocceius Nerva from Narnia in Umbria, born 32 A.D., a senator.
[109] Lucius Norbanus. See Dio Cass., LXVII, 15.
[110] Praetorian guard. The commander-in-chief’s tent in the Roman camp,
was called the praetorium; and from this the general’s body-guard received the
name of cohors praetoria. Augustus transferred this title to the imperial guard,
and established nine Praetorian cohorts, (each consisting of a thousand men)
which were stationed, some in Rome and some in the rest of Italy. The cohorts in
Rome were at first quartered among the citizens; afterwards they had barracks of
their own (castra praetoria) on the opposite side of the Quirinal Hill. They, with
the Praetorian cavalry, formed the imperial guard and body-guard. Compared
with the other soldiers, they had many privileges, for instance a shorter time of
service, higher pay, higher rank, etc.
[111] Clodianus. See Suet, Dom. 17.

[112] Recitation. The custom universally prevailed of poets reciting their verses
to a select circle, before they were published.
[113] The second hour after sunrise. The Romans divided the day, from
sunrise to sunset, into twelve hours. These were of course shorter in winter than
in summer. The events spoken of in this chapter are supposed to have taken
place about the time of the equinox, so ‘the second hour’ would be between
seven and eight. The night, between sunset and sunrise, was likewise divided
into four vigils or watches of three hours each.
[114] The gadfly of Juno. The jealous queen of heaven, Hera, (called by the
Romans Juno) transformed the beautiful daughter of Inachus, Io, who was
beloved by Jupiter, into a cow, and ordered her to be persecuted by a gadfly.
[115] The great city. The population of Rome, under the emperors, was a little
less than two millions, but largely exceeded one million. There are no exact
statements; but calculations have been made from different standpoints, which
give about the same result. The most important points to be considered here, are
first the extent of surface occupied by imperial Rome, and secondly the
estimates of ancient writers concerning the consumption of grain, which in the
time of Josephus amounted to 60.000,000 bushels yearly. Here too, may be
mentioned the somewhat hyperbolical passage, Arist. Encom. Rom. p. 199,
where it is asserted that Rome would fill the whole width of Italy to the Adriatic
Sea, if the stories of the houses, instead of being piled one above another, had
been built on the ground.
[116] Lacerna. A light woollen cloak, worn either in place of the toga or tunic,
or, which was more customary, as an outside wrap over the toga. White lacernae
were the most elegant.
[117] He raved about the sea. The Romans’ love for the sea is proved by many
passages in their literature, but still more by the ruins of their villas and palaces,
which bordered its most beautiful shores, and were praised by contemporaries
for their views, (Friedlander, Sittengesch., II, p. 129).
[118] Pliny the Younger. C. Plinius Caecilius Secundus, a nephew and adopted
son of the older Pliny, was born A.D. 62, at Novum Comum, now Como, on the
Lake Larius, Lake of Como, on the banks of which he had several villas. (Ep.
IX. 7.) He died about the year 114. A clever writer, a skilful statesman, an
enthusiast for everything good and beautiful, he possessed an amiable character,
but cannot be wholly absolved from the reproach of self-sufficiency. His
writings, especially his letters, are an important source of information
concerning the social conditions of that period. The passage in Pliny to which
allusion is here made, runs: "Oh, sea! Oh, strand! Thou beloved Museion! How
much ye compose and create for me!“
[119] On its pivot. Doors were not usually hung on hinges, as with us, but had
on their upper and lower edges wedge-shaped pivots (cardines) which fitted into
corresponding depressions in the threshold and upper part of the frame.
[120] Friend. Quintus would speak of Eurymachus as the ‘friend’ of Euterpe
with intentional double meaning, half in the usual honest sense, but partly too in

the sense which the feminine form, amica, had acquired in the course of time; a
signification so ambiguous, that the bluntest frankness was better.
[121] Sesame cake. Sesamum σήσαμον was a plant with pods, from whose fruit
was obtained a savory meal or oil.
[122] The use of spoons was not so general in Rome as with us, but was
certainly customary for eating eggs in good society.
[123] Hymenaeus. A well-known poem by Catullus; the burden is: ”O Hymen,
Hymenae!" (Carmen 61, Collis o Heliconis.)
[124] Caius (or Quintus) Valerius Catullus was a native of Verona (B.C. 77)
and died at the age of thirty. His works were most popular at the period of our
story. Martial frequently compares himself with Catullus as a recognized classic,
and in one passage hopes that he may one day be esteemed as second only to
Catullus. Herodianus takes one of Catullus’s poems as a model, just as a worthy
citizen of Germany, who wished to essay lyric poetry, might copy Schiller.
[125] The capitoline hill. Mons Capitolinus, north of the Palatine and
southwest of the Quirinal. Tarquinius Priscus erected on its summit the
Capitolium, that is the temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, Juno and Minerva.
[126] Forum Romanum. The Roman forum par excellence, at the foot of the
Capitoline and Palatine Hills, was the centre of public life even in the days of the
republic.
[127] The sacred way (Sacra Via) divided the real Sacra Via, which led from
the Capitol to the Arch of Titus, and the Summa Sacra Via (the upper sacred
street) that extended from the Arch of Titus to the Flavian Amphitheatre. Hor.
Sat. I, 9 (Ibam forte Via Sacra, sicut meus est mos.) It was the most frequented
street in Rome. The ancient pavement exists at the present day. “Via” was the
name of the large principal streets, as it still is at the present time in Italy.
[128] Clients and protégés. These were the clients mentioned in note 99.
Juvenal (Sat. 5) and especially Martial, in various passages, speak of their
pitiable situation, the contempt in which they were held and the ill-treatment
they had to endure even from their patrons’ slaves. (See Friedlander I, 247 to
252.) The usual visiting-hour was just after sunrise.
[129] Tribune of a legion. Augustus appointed the so-called legati or praefecti
legionum commanders of the legions. The legatus thus corresponded with our
colonel. The next in rank to the legati were the tribunes (corresponding to our
majors) who, however, with special qualifications, might undertake the
command of a legion. Usually the tribunes did not have the reputation of
possessing remarkable military ability, as the sons of the knights and senators
began their military career with this dignity. According to their age and
experience, the tribunes were second lieutenants. The men next in rank to the
tribunes were the centurions, the really experienced officers, who were held in
high esteem on account of their superior knowledge. At the time of our story the
pressure of the young men for tribuneships was so extraordinary, that the places
actually at disposal were not nearly sufficient to supply the demand. The
Emperor Claudius had therefore created supernumerary tribuneships (supra

numerum, imaginariae militiae genus. Suet. Claud. 25) a brevet-rank, which
without claiming the performance of any duty, flattered the vanity.
[130] Ancestral Images. Statues of ancestors, modelled in wax (imagines
majorum) formed one of the principal ornaments of the atrium in the houses of
aristocratic Romans. The ancestors here mentioned of our (imaginary) Titus
Claudius Mucianus are all historical characters.
[131] Tattooed native of Britain. The original Celtic inhabitants of England.
For the impression made by Roman magnificence on the British chieftain
Caractacus, see Dio Cass. LX, 33.
[132] Amber chains. Amber (Electrum) was greatly admired by the Romans for
necklaces, rings and bracelets, until its value decreased by over-importation. It
was chiefly brought from the shores of the Baltic.
[133] Broken rings of gold. The priest of Jupiter was only permitted to wear
broken rings of gold, as closed ones were the symbols of captivity.
[134] Robes of dazzling whiteness. The white toga was the invariable gala
dress worn at all ceremonious receptions, even by the emperors. Great
indignation was felt against Nero, because once, when the senate paid him a
visit, he wore only a flowered toga.
[135] Priestly head-gear. The Flamines were forbidden to go bare-headed.
They always wore a hat (apex) or a sort of fillet.
[136] Parthenius. This historical personage was a man of conspicuous
importance at the court of Domitian, and mentioned by many authors,
particularly in Martial’s epigrams. He was cubiculo praepositus, (πρόκεντος in
Dio Cass.) groom of the bed-chamber or high chamberlain, and a particular
favorite with Caesar. His companion in office Sigerus or Sigerius, his inferior in
rank, power and influence, will not be again mentioned in this story.
[137] Titus Flavius Clemens. A cousin of the emperor, was consul A.D. 95 with
Domitian, (who conferred this dignity upon him seventeen times). Concerning
his conversion to Christianity see Dio Cass. LXVII, 14, as well as Suet. Dom.
15.
[138] In the circus. The Circus Maximus, between the Aventine and Palatine
Hills, was the principal place for the horse and chariot races, and in Domitian’s
time accommodated about a quarter of a million spectators.
[139] Charioteers. As the givers of entertainments could rarely furnish men and
horses enough of their own for the games in the circus, companies of capitalists
and owners of larger families of slaves and studs, undertook to supply them. As
there were usually four chariots in each race, there were four such companies,
each of which furnished a chariot for each race, and as the chariots and drivers
had colors to distinguish them, each adopted one of these colors, hence they
were called factions or parties. (Friedlander, II, 192.) The colors of these four
parties were white, red, green and blue. Domitian added two new ones, gold and
purple. Like so many of Domitian’s institutions, this circus innovation passed
without leaving any trace, but the original parties, especially the green and the
blue, lasted for centuries. The whole population of Rome, and afterwards that of

Constantinople, divided into different parties, each of which sided with one of
these circus factions. The eager, even passionate interest with which this was
done, finds a feeble analogy at the present day in some phases of English and
American popular life.
[140] By Epona, the tutelary goddess of horses! Epona (from epus-equus,
the horse) was the protecting deity of the horse, mule and donkey. (Juv. Sat.
VIII, 157.) Stables, etc., were adorned with her statue. Roman sportsmen swore
by the goddess of horses. (See Juv. Sat. VIII, 156: jurat solam Eponam.)
[141] Incitatus, the swift—equo incitato—in a stretching gallop—a famous
favorite horse of the emperor Caligula. (Suet. Cal. 55.) The emperor built this
animal a palace, gave orders that it should feed from an ivory manger, and be
attended by slaves clad in rich garments. When it was to appear in the circus, all
noise in its neighborhood was prohibited during the whole of the preceding day,
that the noble creature’s rest should not be disturbed. Caligula is said to have
intended to make his Incitatus consul.
[142] Andraemon, Adsertor, Vastator and Passerinus. Names of horses
frequently mentioned during the reign of the Roman emperors. Andraemon often
won the race in Domitian’s time. Monuments with the portrait of this racer have
come down to us.
[143] Quadriga. A carriage in front of which four horses were fastened abreast.
The racing quadrigae were exactly like the old Homeric chariot—being provided
with a breast-work in front while open in the rear.
[144] Scorpus. A famous chariot-driver in Domitian’s time, see the epitaph
Martial composed for him. (Martial Ep. X, 53.)
“I am that Scorpus, glory of the race
Rome’s admired joy, but joy for a short space,
Among the dead Fates early me enroll’d,
Numb’ring my conquests, they did think me old.”
Anon, 1695.
That the name of Scorpus was on every lip appears from another passage in
Martial Ep. XI, 1, which runs as follows:
“Nor will your follies by those few
Be told; but when their stories flag
Of some new bet or running nag.”
Hay.
where the Incitatus to whom reference is made is not Caligula’s horse, already
mentioned, but a racer named for it.
[145] Sarmatians. A people in what is now Poland and Tartary. (See Mart.
Spect. 3.)
[146] Hyperboreans. People who lived above Boreas, fabulous folk dwelling in
the extreme north; also Northmen in general. For instance Martial includes
among the Hyperboreans, the Chatti (Hessen) and Dacians, inhabitants of
eastern Hungary.

[147] Julia. The daughter of the Emperor Titus, with whom Domitian for a long
time had unlawful relations. Dio Cass. LXVII, 3. Suet Dom. 22.
[148] A tumult. Many things are related about such tumults. They were partly
impromptu, partly carefully prepared. A striking instance of the latter style is
told by Dio Cassius (LXXII, 13) where a cunningly-planned circus-riot causes
the fall of the hated lord high-chamberlain Cleander. This omnipotent favorite of
the Emperor Commodus had enraged the people by a series of the boldest
frauds, during a period of great scarcity. Just as the horses were starting for the
seventh race a throng of boys, led by a tall, formidable looking woman, rushed
into the arena. The children loaded Cleander with the fiercest curses, the people
joined them, all rose and rushed furiously towards the emperor’s Quintilian villa.
Commodus, a very cowardly man, was so terrified, that after a short struggle he
commanded Cleander and his little son to be slain. The mob dragged the corpse
of the chamberlain about in triumph, mutilated it, and stuck the head on a pole as
a sign of victory.
[149] Secretary. The modern equivalent for the office of “ab epistulis,” held
under Domitian by the freedman Abascantus. (Stat. Silv. V, 1.) At a later period
—under Hadrian and afterwards—such offices were held only by men of
knightly rank.
[150] Calling upon Domitia. We here follow a passage (somewhat doubtful, it
is true) of Dio Cassius (LXVII, 3) which states that the emperor “at the
entreaties of the people,” became reconciled to his wife. Suetonius (Dom. 3)
says, he only alleged such a desire on the part of the people, but really received
the empress again “because the separation from her became unendurable.” For
special reasons our story fixes the time of this reconciliation in the year 95,
while it actually occurred some time earlier.
[151] With regard to Julia, Caesar made no promises. See Dio Cass. LXVII
3. He became reconciled, "but without giving up Julia.”
[152] Vestal maiden. Priestess of Vesta, the goddess of the hearth. At first they
were four, afterwards six. They were chosen between the ages of six and ten, and
were obliged to remain in the service of the goddess thirty years, ten as novices,
ten as acting priestesses, and ten to instruct novices. Their principal task was to
keep the sacred fire alive. They were vowed to chastity, and if they broke their
vows were buried alive in the campus sceleratus, while the seducer was publicly
flogged to death.
[153] Transparent gauze. The island of Cos (Κῶς) belonging to the Sporades,
furnished garments made from a half-transparent silk gauze called coa. (See Hor.
Sat. I. 2, 101.)
[154] Gold plates. A room has been discovered on the Aventine, whose walls
were concealed by gilded bronze plates encrusted with medals; on the Palatine
there was an apartment lined with plates of silver, set with precious stones. The
halls and chambers in Nero’s domus aurea were covered with golden plates.
[155] Stephanus. I have taken considerable liberties in dealing with this
personage in his relation to the Empress Domitia. He is, however, historical.

[156] The oyster, (ostrea or ostreum) was considered a great dainty in ancient
times. (See note, 42, Vol. 1, “lobster.”)
[157] There is not in all Rome one faithful wife, or one innocent girl. See
Martial Ep. IV, 71.
“Long have I search’d, my Soph, the town,
To find a damsel that would frown,
But not a damsel will deny,
As if a shame ’t were to be shy;
As if a sin, will no one dare:
I see not one denying fair.
‘Then of the fair is no one chaste?’
A thousand, Soph, you urge in haste.
‘What does the chaste? Enlarge my views.’
She does not grant, nor yet refuse.”
Elphinston.
In contrast to the hyperbolical expressions of the satirical writers, we are made
acquainted in the letters of the younger Pliny, with a number of women of noble
character; the historians too, especially Tacitus, as well as inscriptions on the
monuments prove—if proof were required—that even in this corrupt age
feminine virtue and loftiness of character were not rare. It is natural, that a
satirical author should have special keenness of vision for errors and
weaknesses.
[158] What Ravidus?. The poem to which Martial here alludes is found Cat.
Carm. XL.
“Quaenam te mala mens, miselle Ravide
Agit praecipitem in meos iambos?”
[159] Tryphon, (Lupercus). The episode described here, which seems almost
like a satirical allusion to the present time, is only one of Martial’s epigrams
transposed into action. (Mart. Ep. I, 117.)
“As oft, Sir Tradewell, as we meet,
You’re sure to ask me in the street,
When you shall send your boy to me,
To fetch my book of poetry? etc.”
Oldham.
The bookseller Atrectus, who had a shop on the Argiletum, a public square not
far from the Forum Caesaris, is also mentioned.—Traces of a well-organized
book-trade are found towards the end of the republic. The first publisher on a
larger scale is Pomponius Atticus, a friend of Cicero, who formally issued a
series of Cicero’s works, for instance the Orator, Quaestiones Academicae, etc.,
and not only distributed them to the different bookstores in Rome, but supplied
the numerous shops in Greece and Asia Minor. (See Cic. ad. Att. XII, 6, XV, 13,
XVI, 5.) Yet Atticus was a patron of literature and an aesthetic, rather than a
business man. The best-known booksellers and publishers under the emperors
were: the Brothers Sosii, who issued the works of Horatius Flaccus (Hor. Ep. I,
20, 2, Ars. poet. 345); Dorus, the Phillip Reclam junior of ancient times, who in

the reign of Nero introduced cheap popular editions of Livy and Cicero, (Sen.
Benef. VII, 61) and Martial’s publisher, the Tryphon mentioned in this story.
(Mart. Ep. IV, 72, XIII, 13.) The editions were provided by slaves, who wrote
from dictation. The books were delivered in covers, the backs, glued together,
being fastened in the hollow of a cylinder, through which ran a revolving stick.
The volumes were cut, the edges were dyed sometimes black and sometimes
purple. (See Göll: “Book-trade of the Greeks and Romans,” Schleiz., 1865.)
Pollio Valerianus published Martial’s early poems. (Mart. Ep. I, 113, 5.)
[160] Quirinal. Martial’s house was near the temple on the Quirinal. (Mart. Ep.
X, 58.)
[161] Denarii. At the time of Domitian, the denarius (10 as,) was worth about 15
cents.
[162] Street-corners. Large square tablets, whitened, for the display of public
notices, stood at the corners of the streets. A tablet of this description was called
album, (albus-white).
[163] Costermonger. Boiled chick-peas were publicly carried about for sale.
(Martial Ep. I, 41, I, 103.)
[164] Massive bowls. The crater (crater or cratera) was a large vase or bowl, in
which strong wine was mixed with water. A ladle was used to fill the drinking-
cups.
[165] Murrhine vases, (murrhina vasa). Vases made of murrha, a material with
a pale sheen in it, highly valued by the ancients; probably fluor-spar.
[166] Guinea-fowls from Numidia, (aves Numidicae or merely Numidicae)
were a favorite dish. (Plin., Hist. Nat. Mart. etc.)
[167] The province of Thesprotis in Epirus, extended from Chaonia to the
Ambracian Gulf. The goats raised there were considered exceptionally good.
[168] Pheasants from the Caspian Sea. At the time of our story, these birds
were a newly-introduced delicacy. Phasis was the name of the boundary river
between Asia-Minor and Colchis; hence their name phasianus; (avis Phasiana,
or merely Phasiana, or Phasianus—the pheasant.) Martial also calls them
volucres Phasides.
[169] Dates. The best quality were imported into Rome from Egypt.
[170] Dainty Cakes. Bread from Picenum is mentioned in the menu of a
banquet given in the latter half of the century B. C., (Marquardt Handbuch, IV,
1.)
[171] Figs from Chios. Varro, (R. Rust. I, 41) speaks of Chian, Lydian,
Chalcedonian and African figs.
[172] Pistachio nuts. The best pistachio nuts came from Palestine and Syria,
whence Lucius Vitellius introduced them into his garden at Albanum.
[173] Euphemus. Caesar’s head-cook or butler. (See Martial Ep. IV. 8.)