Chapter XXVI

Produced by David Reed

QUO VADIS

A NARRATIVE OF THE TIME OF NERO

by Henryk Sienkiewicz

Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin

TO AUGUSTE COMTE,

Of San Francisco, Cal.,

MY DEAR FRIEND AND CLASSMATE, I BEG TO DEDICATE THIS VOLUME.

JEREMIAH CURTIN

INTRODUCTORY

IN the trilogy “With Fire and Sword,” “The Deluge,” and “Pan Michael,”

Sienkiewicz has given pictures of a great and decisive epoch in modern

history. The results of the struggle begun under Bogdan Hmelnitski have

been felt for more than two centuries, and they are growing daily in

importance. The Russia which rose out of that struggle has become a

power not only of European but of world-wide significance, and, to all

human seeming, she is yet in an early stage of her career.

In “Quo Vadis” the author gives us pictures of opening scenes in the

conflict of moral ideas with the Roman Empire,--a conflict from which

Christianity issued as the leading force in history.

The Slays are not so well known to Western Europe or to us as they

are sure to be in the near future; hence the trilogy, with all its

popularity and merit, is not appreciated yet as it will be.

The conflict described in “Quo Vadis” is of supreme interest to a vast

number of persons reading English; and this book will rouse, I think,

more attention at first than anything written by Sienkiewicz hitherto.

JEREMIAH CURTIN

ILOM, NORTHERN GUATEMALA,

June, 1896

QUO VADIS

Quo Vadis A Narrative of the Time of Nero

Chapter I

PETRONIUS woke only about midday, and as usual greatly wearied. The

evening before he had been at one of Nero’s feasts, which was prolonged

till late at night. For some time his health had been failing. He said

himself that he woke up benumbed, as it were, and without power of

collecting his thoughts. But the morning bath and careful kneading of

the body by trained slaves hastened gradually the course of his slothful

blood, roused him, quickened him, restored his strength, so that he

issued from the elæothesium, that is, the last division of the bath, as

if he had risen from the dead, with eyes gleaming from wit and gladness,

rejuvenated, filled with life, exquisite, so unapproachable that Otho

himself could not compare with him, and was really that which he had

been called,--arbiter elegantiarum.

He visited the public baths rarely, only when some rhetor happened there

who roused admiration and who was spoken of in the city, or when in the

ephebias there were combats of exceptional interest. Moreover, he had in

his own “insula” private baths which Celer, the famous contemporary

of Severus, had extended for him, reconstructed and arranged with such

uncommon taste that Nero himself acknowledged their excellence over

those of the Emperor, though the imperial baths were more extensive and

finished with incomparably greater luxury.

After that feast, at which he was bored by the jesting of Vatinius with

Nero, Lucan, and Seneca, he took part in a diatribe as to whether woman

has a soul. Rising late, he used, as was his custom, the baths. Two

enormous balneatores laid him on a cypress table covered with snow-white

Egyptian byssus, and with hands dipped in perfumed olive oil began to

rub his shapely body; and he waited with closed eyes till the heat

of the laconicum and the heat of their hands passed through him and

expelled weariness.

But after a certain time he spoke, and opened his eyes; he inquired

about the weather, and then about gems which the jeweller Idomeneus

had promised to send him for examination that day. It appeared that the

weather was beautiful, with a light breeze from the Alban hills, and

that the gems had not been brought. Petronius closed his eyes again, and

had given command to bear him to the tepidarium, when from behind

the curtain the nomenclator looked in, announcing that young Marcus

Vinicius, recently returned from Asia Minor, had come to visit him.

Petronius ordered to admit the guest to the tepidarium, to which he

was borne himself. Vinicius was the son of his oldest sister, who years

before had married Marcus Vinicius, a man of consular dignity from the

time of Tiberius. The young man was serving then under Corbulo against

the Parthians, and at the close of the war had returned to the city.

Petronius had for him a certain weakness bordering on attachment, for

Marcus was beautiful and athletic, a young man who knew how to preserve

a certain aesthetic measure in his profligacy; this, Petronius prized

above everything.

“A greeting to Petronius,” said the young man, entering the tepidarium

with a springy step. “May all the gods grant thee success, but

especially Asklepios and Kypris, for under their double protection

nothing evil can meet one.”

“I greet thee in Rome, and may thy rest be sweet after war,” replied

Petronius, extending his hand from between the folds of soft karbas

stuff in which he was wrapped. “What’s to be heard in Armenia; or since

thou wert in Asia, didst thou not stumble into Bithynia?”

Petronius on a time had been proconsul in Bithynia, and, what is more,

he had governed with energy and justice. This was a marvellous contrast

in the character of a man noted for effeminacy and love of luxury; hence

he was fond of mentioning those times, as they were a proof of what he

had been, and of what he might have become had it pleased him.

“I happened to visit Heraklea,” answered Vinicius. “Corbulo sent me

there with an order to assemble reinforcements.”

“Ah, Heraklea! I knew at Heraklea a certain maiden from Colchis,

for whom I would have given all the divorced women of this city, not

excluding Poppæa. But these are old stories. Tell me now, rather, what

is to be heard from the Parthian boundary. It is true that they weary me

every Vologeses of them, and Tiridates and Tigranes,--those barbarians

who, as young Arulenus insists, walk on all fours at home, and pretend

to be human only when in our presence. But now people in Rome speak much

of them, if only for the reason that it is dangerous to speak of aught

else.”

“The war is going badly, and but for Corbulo might be turned to defeat.”

“Corbulo! by Bacchus! a real god of war, a genuine Mars, a great leader,

at the same time quick-tempered, honest, and dull. I love him, even for

this,--that Nero is afraid of him.”

“Corbulo is not a dull man.”

“Perhaps thou art right, but for that matter it is all one. Dulness,

as Pyrrho says, is in no way worse than wisdom, and differs from it in

nothing.”

Vinicius began to talk of the war; but when Petronius closed his eyes

again, the young man, seeing his uncle’s tired and somewhat emaciated

face, changed the conversation, and inquired with a certain interest

about his health.

Petronius opened his eyes again.

Health!--No. He did not feel well. He had not gone so far yet, it is

true, as young Sissena, who had lost sensation to such a degree that

when he was brought to the bath in the morning he inquired, “Am I

sitting?” But he was not well. Vinicius had just committed him to the

care of Asklepios and Kypris. But he, Petronius, did not believe in

Asklepios. It was not known even whose son that Asklepios was, the son

of Arsinoe or Koronis; and if the mother was doubtful, what was to be

said of the father? Who, in that time, could be sure who his own father

was?

Hereupon Petronius began to laugh; then he continued,--“Two years ago,

it is true, I sent to Epidaurus three dozen live blackbirds and a goblet

of gold; but dost thou know why? I said to myself, ‘Whether this helps

or not, it will do me no harm.’ Though people make offerings to the

gods yet, I believe that all think as I do,--all, with the exception,

perhaps, of mule-drivers hired at the Porta Capena by travellers.

Besides Asklepios, I have had dealings with sons of Asklepios. When

I was troubled a little last year in the bladder, they performed an

incubation for me. I saw that they were tricksters, but I said to

myself: ‘What harm! The world stands on deceit, and life is an illusion.

The soul is an illusion too. But one must have reason enough to

distinguish pleasant from painful illusions.’ I shall give command to

burn in my hypocaustum, cedar-wood sprinkled with ambergris, for during

life I prefer perfumes to stenches. As to Kypris, to whom thou hast also

confided me, I have known her guardianship to the extent that I have

twinges in my right foot. But as to the rest she is a good goddess! I

suppose that thou wilt bear sooner or later white doves to her altar.”

“True,” answered Vinicius. “The arrows of the Parthians have not reached

my body, but a dart of Amor has struck me--unexpectedly, a few stadia

from a gate of this city.”

“By the white knees of the Graces! thou wilt tell me of this at a

leisure hour.”

“I have come purposely to get thy advice,” answered Marcus.

But at that moment the epilatores came, and occupied themselves with

Petronius. Marcus, throwing aside his tunic, entered a bath of tepid

water, for Petronius invited him to a plunge bath.

“Ah, I have not even asked whether thy feeling is reciprocated,” said

Petronius, looking at the youthful body of Marcus, which was as if cut

out of marble. “Had Lysippos seen thee, thou wouldst be ornamenting now

the gate leading to the Palatine, as a statue of Hercules in youth.”

The young man smiled with satisfaction, and began to sink in the bath,

splashing warm water abundantly on the mosaic which represented Hera at

the moment when she was imploring Sleep to lull Zeus to rest. Petronius

looked at him with the satisfied eye of an artist.

When Vinicius had finished and yielded himself in turn to the

epilatores, a lector came in with a bronze tube at his breast and rolls

of paper in the tube.

“Dost wish to listen?” asked Petronius.

“If it is thy creation, gladly!” answered the young tribune; “if not,

I prefer conversation. Poets seize people at present on every street

corner.”

“Of course they do. Thou wilt not pass any basilica, bath, library, or

book-shop without seeing a poet gesticulating like a monkey. Agrippa, on

coming here from the East, mistook them for madmen. And it is just such

a time now. Cæsar writes verses; hence all follow in his steps. Only it

is not permitted to write better verses than Cæsar, and for that reason

I fear a little for Lucan. But I write prose, with which, however, I do

not honor myself or others. What the lector has to read are codicilli of

that poor Fabricius Veiento.”

“Why ‘poor’?”

“Because it has been communicated to him that he must dwell in Odyssa

and not return to his domestic hearth till he receives a new command.

That Odyssey will be easier for him than for Ulysses, since his wife

is no Penelope. I need not tell thee, for that matter, that he acted

stupidly. But here no one takes things otherwise than superficially. His

is rather a wretched and dull little book, which people have begun to

read passionately only when the author is banished. Now one hears on

every side, ‘Scandala! scandala!’ and it may be that Veiento invented

some things; but I, who know the city, know our patres and our women,

assure thee that it is all paler than reality. Meanwhile every man is

searching in the book,--for himself with alarm, for his acquaintances

with delight. At the book-shop of Avirnus a hundred copyists are writing

at dictation, and its success is assured.”

“Are not thy affairs in it?”

“They are; but the author is mistaken, for I am at once worse and less

flat than he represents me. Seest thou we have lost long since the

feeling of what is worthy or unworthy,--and to me even it seems that in

real truth there is no difference between them, though Seneca, Musonius,

and Trasca pretend that they see it. To me it is all one! By Hercules,

I say what I think! I have preserved loftiness, however, because I know

what is deformed and what is beautiful; but our poet, Bronzebeard, for

example, the charioteer, the singer, the actor, does not understand

this.”

“I am sorry, however, for Fabricius! He is a good companion.”

“Vanity ruined the man. Every one suspected him, no one knew certainly;

but he could not contain himself, and told the secret on all sides in

confidence. Hast heard the history of Rufinus?”

“No.”

“Then come to the frigidarium to cool; there I will tell thee.”

They passed to the frigidarium, in the middle of which played a fountain

of bright rose-color, emitting the odor of violets. There they sat in

niches which were covered with velvet, and began to cool themselves.

Silence reigned for a time. Vinicius looked awhile thoughtfully at a

bronze faun which, bending over the arm of a nymph, was seeking her lips

eagerly with his lips.

“He is right,” said the young man. “That is what is best in life.”

“More or less! But besides this thou lovest war, for which I have no

liking, since under tents one’s finger-nails break and cease to be rosy.

For that matter, every man has his preferences. Bronzebeard loves song,

especially his own; and old Scaurus his Corinthian vase, which stands

near his bed at night, and which he kisses when he cannot sleep. He has

kissed the edge off already. Tell me, dost thou not write verses?”

“No; I have never composed a single hexameter.”

“And dost thou not play on the lute and sing?”

“No.”

“And dost thou drive a chariot?”

“I tried once in Antioch, but unsuccessfully.”

“Then I am at rest concerning thee. And to what party in the hippodrome

dost thou belong?”

“To the Greens.”

“Now I am perfectly at rest, especially since thou hast a large property

indeed, though thou art not so rich as Pallas or Seneca. For seest thou,

with us at present it is well to write verses, to sing to a lute, to

declaim, and to compete in the Circus; but better, and especially safer,

not to write verses, not to play, not to sing, and not to compete in

the Circus. Best of all, is it to know how to admire when Bronzebeard

admires. Thou art a comely young man; hence Poppæa may fall in love with

thee. This is thy only peril. But no, she is too experienced; she cares

for something else. She has had enough of love with her two husbands;

with the third she has other views. Dost thou know that that stupid

Otho loves her yet to distraction? He walks on the cliffs of Spain, and

sighs; he has so lost his former habits, and so ceased to care for his

person, that three hours each day suffice him to dress his hair. Who

could have expected this of Otho?”

“I understand him,” answered Vinicius; “but in his place I should have

done something else.”

“What, namely?”

“I should have enrolled faithful legions of mountaineers of that

country. They are good soldiers,--those Iberians.”

“Vinicius! Vinicius! I almost wish to tell thee that thou wouldst not

have been capable of that. And knowest why? Such things are done, but

they are not mentioned even conditionally. As to me, in his place, I

should have laughed at Poppæa, laughed at Bronzebeard, and formed for

myself legions, not of Iberian men, however, but Iberian women. And what

is more, I should have written epigrams which I should not have read to

any one,--not like that poor Rufinus.”

“Thou wert to tell me his history.”

“I will tell it in the unctorium.”

But in the unctorium the attention of Vinicius was turned to other

objects; namely, to wonderful slave women who were waiting for the

bathers. Two of them, Africans, resembling noble statues of ebony,

began to anoint their bodies with delicate perfumes from Arabia; others,

Phrygians, skilled in hairdressing, held in their hands, which were

bending and flexible as serpents, combs and mirrors of polished steel;

two Grecian maidens from Kos, who were simply like deities, waited as

vestiplicæ, till the moment should come to put statuesque folds in the

togas of the lords.

“By the cloud-scattering Zeus!” said Marcus Vinicius, “what a choice

thou hast!”

“I prefer choice to numbers,” answered Petronius. “My whole ‘familia’

[household servants] in Rome does not exceed four hundred, and I judge

that for personal attendance only upstarts need a greater number of

people.”

“More beautiful bodies even Bronzebeard does not possess,” said

Vinicius, distending his nostrils.

“Thou art my relative,” answered Petronius, with a certain friendly

indifference, “and I am neither so misanthropic as Barsus nor such a

pedant as Aulus Plautius.”

When Vinicius heard this last name, he forgot the maidens from Kos for a

moment, and, raising his head vivaciously, inquired,--“Whence did Aulus

Plautius come to thy mind? Dost thou know that after I had disjointed

my arm outside the city, I passed a number of days in his house? It

happened that Plautius came up at the moment when the accident happened,

and, seeing that I was suffering greatly, he took me to his house; there

a slave of his, the physician Merion, restored me to health. I wished to

speak with thee touching this very matter.”

“Why? Is it because thou hast fallen in love with Pomponia perchance? In

that case I pity thee; she is not young, and she is virtuous! I cannot

imagine a worse combination. Brr!”

“Not with Pomponia--eheu!” answered Vinicius.

“With whom, then?”

“If I knew myself with whom? But I do not know to a certainty her name

even,--Lygia or Callina? They call her Lygia in the house, for she comes

of the Lygian nation; but she has her own barbarian name, Callina. It is

a wonderful house,--that of those Plautiuses. There are many people in

it; but it is quiet there as in the groves of Subiacum. For a number

of days I did not know that a divinity dwelt in the house. Once about

daybreak I saw her bathing in the garden fountain; and I swear to thee

by that foam from which Aphrodite rose, that the rays of the dawn passed

right through her body. I thought that when the sun rose she would

vanish before me in the light, as the twilight of morning does. Since

then, I have seen her twice; and since then, too, I know not what rest

is, I know not what other desires are, I have no wish to know what the

city can give me. I want neither women, nor gold, nor Corinthian bronze,

nor amber, nor pearls, nor wine, nor feasts; I want only Lygia. I am

yearning for her, in sincerity I tell thee, Petronius, as that Dream who

is imaged on the Mosaic of thy tepidarium yearned for Paisythea,--whole

days and night do I yearn.”

“If she is a slave, then purchase her.”

“She is not a slave.”

“What is she? A freed woman of Plautius?”

“Never having been a slave, she could not be a freed woman.”

“Who is she?”

“I know not,--a king’s daughter, or something of that sort.”

“Thou dost rouse my curiosity, Vinicius.”

“But if thou wish to listen, I will satisfy thy curiosity straightway.

Her story is not a long one. Thou art acquainted, perhaps personally,

with Vannius, king of the Suevi, who, expelled from his country, spent a

long time here in Rome, and became even famous for his skilful play with

dice, and his good driving of chariots. Drusus put him on the throne

again. Vannius, who was really a strong man, ruled well at first, and

warred with success; afterward, however, he began to skin not only his

neighbors, but his own Suevi, too much. Thereupon Vangio and Sido, two

sister’s sons of his, and the sons of Vibilius, king of the Hermunduri,

determined to force him to Rome again--to try his luck there at dice.”

“I remember; that is of recent Claudian times.”

“Yes! War broke out. Vannius summoned to his aid the Yazygi; his dear

nephews called in the Lygians, who, hearing of the riches of Vannius,

and enticed by the hope of booty, came in such numbers that Cæsar

himself, Claudius, began to fear for the safety of the boundary.

Claudius did not wish to interfere in a war among barbarians, but he

wrote to Atelius Hister, who commanded the legions of the Danube, to

turn a watchful eye on the course of the war, and not permit them to

disturb our peace. Hister required, then, of the Lygians a promise not

to cross the boundary; to this they not only agreed, but gave hostages,

among whom were the wife and daughter of their leader. It is known to

thee that barbarians take their wives and children to war with them. My

Lygia is the daughter of that leader.”

“Whence dost thou know all this?”

“Aulus Plautius told it himself. The Lygians did not cross the boundary,

indeed; but barbarians come and go like a tempest. So did the Lygians

vanish with their wild-ox horns on their heads. They killed Vannius’s

Suevi and Yazygi; but their own king fell. They disappeared with their

booty then, and the hostages remained in Hister’s hands. The mother died

soon after, and Hister, not knowing what to do with the daughter, sent

her to Pomponius, the governor of all Germany. He, at the close of the

war with the Catti, returned to Rome, where Claudius, as is known to

thee, permitted him to have a triumph. The maiden on that occasion

walked after the car of the conqueror; but, at the end of the

solemnity,--since hostages cannot be considered captives, and since

Pomponius did not know what to do with her definitely--he gave her to

his sister Pomponia Græcina, the wife of Plautius. In that house where

all--beginning with the masters and ending with the poultry in the

hen-house--are virtuous, that maiden grew up as virtuous, alas! as

Græcina herself, and so beautiful that even Poppæa, if near her, would

seem like an autumn fig near an apple of the Hesperides.”

“And what?”

“And I repeat to thee that from the moment when I saw how the

sun-rays at that fountain passed through her body, I fell in love to

distraction.”

“She is as transparent as a lamprey eel, then, or a youthful sardine?”

“Jest not, Petronius; but if the freedom with which I speak of my desire

misleads thee, know this,--that bright garments frequently cover deep

wounds. I must tell thee, too, that, while returning from Asia, I slept

one night in the temple of Mopsus to have a prophetic dream. Well,

Mopsus appeared in a dream to me, and declared that, through love, a

great change in my life would take place.”

“Pliny declares, as I hear, that he does not believe in the gods, but he

believes in dreams; and perhaps he is right. My jests do not prevent me

from thinking at times that in truth there is only one deity, eternal,

creative, all-powerful, Venus Genetrix. She brings souls together; she

unites bodies and things. Eros called the world out of chaos. Whether he

did well is another question; but, since he did so, we should recognize

his might, though we are free not to bless it.”

“Alas! Petronius, it is easier to find philosophy in the world than wise

counsel.”

“Tell me, what is thy wish specially?”

“I wish to have Lygia. I wish that these arms of mine, which now embrace

only air, might embrace Lygia and press her to my bosom. I wish to

breathe with her breath. Were she a slave, I would give Aulus for her

one hundred maidens with feet whitened with lime as a sign that they

were exhibited on sale for the first time. I wish to have her in my

house till my head is as white as the top of Soracte in winter.”

“She is not a slave, but she belongs to the ‘family’ of Plautius; and

since she is a deserted maiden, she may be considered an ‘alumna.’

Plautius might yield her to thee if he wished.”

“Then it seems that thou knowest not Pomponia Græcina. Both have become

as much attached to her as if she were their own daughter.”

“Pomponia I know,--a real cypress. If she were not the wife of Aulus,

she might be engaged as a mourner. Since the death of Julius she has

not thrown aside dark robes; and in general she looks as if, while still

alive, she were walking on the asphodel meadow. She is, moreover, a

‘one-man woman’; hence, among our ladies of four and five divorces, she

is straightway a phoenix. But! hast thou heard that in Upper Egypt the

phoenix has just been hatched out, as ‘tis said?--an event which happens

not oftener than once in five centuries.”

“Petronius! Petronius! Let us talk of the phoenix some other time.”

“What shall I tell thee, my Marcus? I know Aulus Plautius, who, though

he blames my mode of life, has for me a certain weakness, and even

respects me, perhaps, more than others, for he knows that I have never

been an informer like Domitius Afer, Tigellinus, and a whole rabble

of Ahenobarbus’s intimates [Nero’s name was originally L. Domitius

Ahenobarbus]. Without pretending to be a stoic, I have been offended

more than once at acts of Nero, which Seneca and Burrus looked at

through their fingers. If it is thy thought that I might do something

for thee with Aulus, I am at thy command.”

“I judge that thou hast the power. Thou hast influence over him; and,

besides, thy mind possesses inexhaustible resources. If thou wert to

survey the position and speak with Plautius.”

“Thou hast too great an idea of my influence and wit; but if that is the

only question, I will talk with Plautius as soon as they return to the

city.”

“They returned two days since.”

“In that case let us go to the triclinium, where a meal is now ready,

and when we have refreshed ourselves, let us give command to bear us to

Plautius.”

“Thou hast ever been kind to me,” answered Vinicius, with vivacity; “but

now I shall give command to rear thy statue among my lares,--just such a

beauty as this one,--and I will place offerings before it.”

Then he turned toward the statues which ornamented one entire wall

of the perfumed chamber, and pointing to the one which represented

Petronius as Hermes with a staff in his hand, he added,--“By the light

of Helios! if the ‘godlike’ Alexander resembled thee, I do not wonder at

Helen.”

And in that exclamation there was as much sincerity as flattery; for

Petronius, though older and less athletic, was more beautiful than even

Vinicius. The women of Rome admired not only his pliant mind and his

taste, which gained for him the title Arbiter elegantiæ, but also his

body. This admiration was evident even on the faces of those maidens

from Kos who were arranging the folds of his toga; and one of whom,

whose name was Eunice, loving him in secret, looked him in the eyes with

submission and rapture. But he did not even notice this; and, smiling

at Vinicius, he quoted in answer an expression of Seneca about

woman,--Animal impudens, etc. And then, placing an arm on the shoulders

of his nephew, he conducted him to the triclinium.

In the unctorium the two Grecian maidens, the Phrygians, and the two

Ethiopians began to put away the vessels with perfumes. But at that

moment, and beyond the curtain of the frigidarium, appeared the heads

of the balneatores, and a low “Psst!” was heard. At that call one of

the Grecians, the Phrygians, and the Ethiopians sprang up quickly, and

vanished in a twinkle behind the curtain. In the baths began a moment of

license which the inspector did not prevent, for he took frequent part

in such frolics himself. Petronius suspected that they took place; but,

as a prudent man, and one who did not like to punish, he looked at them

through his fingers.

In the unctorium only Eunice remained. She listened for a short time

to the voices and laughter which retreated in the direction of the

laconicum. At last she took the stool inlaid with amber and ivory,

on which Petronius had been sitting a short time before, and put it

carefully at his statue. The unctorium was full of sunlight and the hues

which came from the many-colored marbles with which the wall was faced.

Eunice stood on the stool, and, finding herself at the level of the

statue, cast her arms suddenly around its neck; then, throwing back her

golden hair, and pressing her rosy body to the white marble, she pressed

her lips with ecstasy to the cold lips of Petronius.

Chapter II

After a refreshment, which was called the morning meal and to which the

two friends sat down at an hour when common mortals were already long

past their midday prandium, Petronius proposed a light doze. According

to him, it was too early for visits yet. “There are, it is true,”

said he, “people who begin to visit their acquaintances about sunrise,

thinking that custom an old Roman one, but I look on this as barbarous.

The afternoon hours are most proper,--not earlier, however, than that

one when the sun passes to the side of Jove’s temple on the Capitol and

begins to look slantwise on the Forum. In autumn it is still hot, and

people are glad to sleep after eating. At the same time it is pleasant

to hear the noise of the fountain in the atrium, and, after the

obligatory thousand steps, to doze in the red light which filters in

through the purple half-drawn velarium.”

Vinicius recognized the justice of these words; and the two men began

to walk, speaking in a careless manner of what was to be heard on

the Palatine and in the city, and philosophizing a little upon life.

Petronius withdrew then to the cubiculum, but did not sleep long. In

half an hour he came out, and, having given command to bring verbena, he

inhaled the perfume and rubbed his hands and temples with it.

“Thou wilt not believe,” said he, “how it enlivens and freshens one. Now

I am ready.”

The litter was waiting long since; hence they took their places, and

Petronius gave command to bear them to the Vicus Patricius, to the

house of Aulus. Petronius’s “insula” lay on the southern slope of the

Palatine, near the so-called Carinæ; their nearest way, therefore, was

below the Forum; but since Petronius wished to step in on the way to see

the jeweller Idomeneus, he gave the direction to carry them along the

Vicus Apollinis and the Forum in the direction of the Vicus Sceleratus,

on the corner of which were many tabernæ of every kind.

Gigantic Africans bore the litter and moved on, preceded by slaves

called pedisequii. Petronius, after some time, raised to his nostrils

in silence his palm odorous with verbena, and seemed to be meditating on

something.

“It occurs to me,” said he after a while, “that if thy forest goddess is

not a slave she might leave the house of Plautius, and transfer herself

to thine. Thou wouldst surround her with love and cover her with wealth,

as I do my adored Chrysothemis, of whom, speaking between us, I have

quite as nearly enough as she has of me.”

Marcus shook his head.

“No?” inquired Petronius. “In the worst event, the case would be left

with Cæsar, and thou mayst be certain that, thanks even to my influence,

our Bronzebeard would be on thy side.”

“Thou knowest not Lygia,” replied Vinicius.

“Then permit me to ask if thou know her otherwise than by sight? Hast

spoken with her? hast confessed thy love to her?”

“I saw her first at the fountain; since then I have met her twice.

Remember that during my stay in the house of Aulus, I dwelt in a

separate villa, intended for guests, and, having a disjointed arm, I

could not sit at the common table. Only on the eve of the day for which

I announced my departure did I meet Lygia at supper, but I could not

say a word to her. I had to listen to Aulus and his account of victories

gained by him in Britain, and then of the fall of small states in Italy,

which Licinius Stolo strove to prevent. In general I do not know whether

Aulus will be able to speak of aught else, and do not think that we

shall escape this history unless it be thy wish to hear about the

effeminacy of these days. They have pheasants in their preserves, but

they do not eat them, setting out from the principle that every pheasant

eaten brings nearer the end of Roman power. I met her a second time at

the garden cistern, with a freshly plucked reed in her hand, the top of

which she dipped in the water and sprinkled the irises growing around.

Look at my knees. By the shield of Hercules, I tell thee that they

did not tremble when clouds of Parthians advanced on our maniples with

howls, but they trembled before the cistern. And, confused as a youth

who still wears a bulla on his neck, I merely begged pity with my eyes,

not being able to utter a word for a long time.”

Petronius looked at him, as if with a certain envy. “Happy man,” said

he, “though the world and life were the worst possible, one thing in

them will remain eternally good,--youth!”

After a while he inquired: “And hast thou not spoken to her?”

“When I had recovered somewhat, I told her that I was returning from

Asia, that I had disjointed my arm near the city, and had suffered

severely, but at the moment of leaving that hospitable house I saw that

suffering in it was more to be wished for than delight in another place,

that sickness there was better than health somewhere else. Confused

too on her part, she listened to my words with bent head while drawing

something with the reed on the saffron-colored sand. Afterward she

raised her eyes, then looked down at the marks drawn already; once

more she looked at me, as if to ask about something, and then fled on a

sudden like a hamadryad before a dull faun.”

“She must have beautiful eyes.”

“As the sea--and I was drowned in them, as in the sea. Believe me that

the archipelago is less blue. After a while a little son of Plautius ran

up with a question. But I did not understand what he wanted.”

“O Athene!” exclaimed Petronius, “remove from the eyes of this youth the

bandage with which Eros has bound them; if not, he will break his head

against the columns of Venus’s temple.

“O thou spring bud on the tree of life,” said he, turning to Vinicius,

“thou first green shoot of the vine! Instead of taking thee to the

Plautiuses, I ought to give command to bear thee to the house of

Gelocius, where there is a school for youths unacquainted with life.”

“What dost thou wish in particular?”

“But what did she write on the sand? Was it not the name of Amor, or a

heart pierced with his dart, or something of such sort, that one might

know from it that the satyrs had whispered to the ear of that nymph

various secrets of life? How couldst thou help looking on those marks?”

“It is longer since I have put on the toga than seems to thee,” said

Vinicius, “and before little Aulus ran up, I looked carefully at those

marks, for I know that frequently maidens in Greece and in Rome draw on

the sand a confession which their lips will not utter. But guess what

she drew!”

“If it is other than I supposed, I shall not guess.”

“A fish.”

“What dost thou say?”

“I say, a fish. What did that mean,--that cold blood is flowing in her

veins? So far I do not know; but thou, who hast called me a spring bud

on the tree of life, wilt be able to understand the sign certainly.”

“Carissime! ask such a thing of Pliny. He knows fish. If old Apicius

were alive, he could tell thee something, for in the course of his

life he ate more fish than could find place at one time in the bay of

Naples.”

Further conversation was interrupted, since they were borne into crowded

streets where the noise of people hindered them.

From the Vicus Apollinis they turned to the Boarium, and then entered

the Forum Romanum, where on clear days, before sunset, crowds of idle

people assembled to stroll among the columns, to tell and hear news, to

see noted people borne past in litters, and finally to look in at the

jewellery-shops, the book-shops, the arches where coin was changed,

shops for silk, bronze, and all other articles with which the buildings

covering that part of the market placed opposite the Capitol were

filled.

One-half of the Forum, immediately under the rock of the Capitol, was

buried already in shade; but the columns of the temples, placed higher,

seemed golden in the sunshine and the blue. Those lying lower cast

lengthened shadows on marble slabs. The place was so filled with columns

everywhere that the eye was lost in them as in a forest.

Those buildings and columns seemed huddled together. They towered some

above others, they stretched toward the right and the left, they climbed

toward the height, and they clung to the wall of the Capitol, or some

of them clung to others, like greater and smaller, thicker and thinner,

white or gold colored tree-trunks, now blooming under architraves,

flowers of the acanthus, now surrounded with Ionic corners, now finished

with a simple Doric quadrangle. Above that forest gleamed colored

triglyphs; from tympans stood forth the sculptured forms of gods; from

the summits winged golden quadrigæ seemed ready to fly away through

space into the blue dome, fixed serenely above that crowded place of

temples. Through the middle of the market and along the edges of it

flowed a river of people; crowds passed under the arches of the basilica

of Julius Cæsar; crowds were sitting on the steps of Castor and Pollux,

or walking around the temple of Vesta, resembling on that great marble

background many-colored swarms of butterflies or beetles. Down immense

steps, from the side of the temple on the Capitol dedicated to Jupiter

Optimus Maximus, came new waves; at the rostra people listened to chance

orators; in one place and another rose the shouts of hawkers selling

fruit, wine, or water mixed with fig-juice; of tricksters; of venders

of marvellous medicines; of soothsayers; of discoverers of hidden

treasures; of interpreters of dreams. Here and there, in the tumult of

conversations and cries, were mingled sounds of the Egyptian sistra, of

the sambuké, or of Grecian flutes. Here and there the sick, the pious,

or the afflicted were bearing offerings to the temples. In the midst of

the people, on the stone flags, gathered flocks of doves, eager for

the grain given them, and like movable many-colored and dark spots, now

rising for a moment with a loud sound of wings, now dropping down again

to places left vacant by people. From time to time the crowds opened

before litters in which were visible the affected faces of women, or

the heads of senators and knights, with features, as it were, rigid and

exhausted from living. The many-tongued population repeated aloud their

names, with the addition of some term of praise or ridicule. Among

the unordered groups pushed from time to time, advancing with measured

tread, parties of soldiers, or watchers, preserving order on the

streets. Around about, the Greek language was heard as often as Latin.

Vinicius, who had not been in the city for a long time, looked with a

certain curiosity on that swarm of people and on that Forum Romanum,

which both dominated the sea of the world and was flooded by it, so that

Petronius, who divined the thoughts of his companion, called it “the

nest of the Quirites--without the Quirites.” In truth, the local element

was well-nigh lost in that crowd, composed of all races and nations.

There appeared Ethiopians, gigantic light-haired people from the distant

north, Britons, Gauls, Germans, sloping-eyed dwellers of Lericum; people

from the Euphrates and from the Indus, with beards dyed brick color;

Syrians from the banks of the Orontes, with black and mild eyes;

dwellers in the deserts of Arabia, dried up as a bone; Jews, with their

flat breasts; Egyptians, with the eternal, indifferent smile on their

faces; Numidians and Africans; Greeks from Hellas, who equally with the

Romans commanded the city, but commanded through science, art, wisdom,

and deceit; Greeks from the islands, from Asia Minor, from Egypt, from

Italy, from Narbonic Gaul. In the throng of slaves, with pierced ears,

were not lacking also freemen,--an idle population, which Cæsar amused,

supported, even clothed,--and free visitors, whom the ease of life and

the prospects of fortune enticed to the gigantic city; there was no lack

of venal persons. There were priests of Serapis, with palm branches in

their hands; priests of Isis, to whose altar more offerings were brought

than to the temple of the Capitoline Jove; priests of Cybele, bearing

in their hands golden ears of rice; and priests of nomad divinities; and

dancers of the East with bright head-dresses, and dealers in amulets,

and snake-tamers, and Chaldean seers; and, finally, people without any

occupation whatever, who applied for grain every week at the storehouses

on the Tiber, who fought for lottery-tickets to the Circus, who spent

their nights in rickety houses of districts beyond the Tiber, and sunny

and warm days under covered porticos, and in foul eating-houses of the

Subura, on the Milvian bridge, or before the “insulæ” of the great,

where from time to time remnants from the tables of slaves were thrown

out to them.

Petronius was well known to those crowds. Vinicius’s ears were

struck continually by “Hic est!” (Here he is). They loved him for his

munificence; and his peculiar popularity increased from the time when

they learned that he had spoken before Cæsar in opposition to the

sentence of death issued against the whole “familia,” that is, against

all the slaves of the prefect Pedanius Secundus, without distinction of

sex or age, because one of them had killed that monster in a moment of

despair. Petronius repeated in public, it is true, that it was all one

to him, and that he had spoken to Cæsar only privately, as the arbiter

elegantiarum whose æsthetic taste was offended by a barbarous slaughter

befitting Scythians and not Romans. Nevertheless, people who were

indignant because of the slaughter loved Petronius from that moment

forth. But he did not care for their love. He remembered that that crowd

of people had loved also Britannicus, poisoned by Nero; and Agrippina,

killed at his command; and Octavia, smothered in hot steam at the

Pandataria, after her veins had been opened previously; and Rubelius

Plautus, who had been banished; and Thrasea, to whom any morning might

bring a death sentence. The love of the mob might be considered rather

of ill omen; and the sceptical Petronius was superstitious also. He had

a twofold contempt for the multitude,--as an aristocrat and an æsthetic

person. Men with the odor of roast beans, which they carried in their

bosoms, and who besides were eternally hoarse and sweating from playing

mora on the street-corners and peristyles, did not in his eyes deserve

the term “human.” Hence he gave no answer whatever to the applause,

or the kisses sent from lips here and there to him. He was relating to

Marcus the case of Pedanius, reviling meanwhile the fickleness of that

rabble which, next morning after the terrible butchery, applauded Nero

on his way to the temple of Jupiter Stator. But he gave command to

halt before the book-shop of Avirnus, and, descending from the litter,

purchased an ornamented manuscript, which he gave to Vinicius.

“Here is a gift for thee,” said he.

“Thanks!” answered Vinicius. Then, looking at the title, he inquired,

“‘Satyricon’? Is this something new? Whose is it?”

“Mine. But I do not wish to go in the road of Rufinus, whose history I

was to tell thee, nor of Fabricius Veiento; hence no one knows of this,

and do thou mention it to no man.”

“Thou hast said that thou art no writer of verses,” said Vinicius,

looking at the middle of the manuscript; “but here I see prose thickly

interwoven with them.”

“When thou art reading, turn attention to Trimalchion’s feast. As to

verses, they have disgusted me, since Nero is writing an epic. Vitelius,

when he wishes to relieve himself, uses ivory fingers to thrust down his

throat; others serve themselves with flamingo feathers steeped in olive

oil or in a decoction of wild thyme. I read Nero’s poetry, and the

result is immediate. Straightway I am able to praise it, if not with a

clear conscience, at least with a clear stomach.”

When he had said this, he stopped the litter again before the shop of

Idomeneus the goldsmith, and, having settled the affair of the gems,

gave command to bear the litter directly to Aulus’s mansion.

“On the road I will tell thee the story of Rufinus,” said he, “as proof

of what vanity in an author may be.”

But before he had begun, they turned in to the Vicus Patricius, and

soon found themselves before the dwelling of Aulus. A young and sturdy

“janitor” opened the door leading to the ostium, over which a magpie

confined in a cage greeted them noisily with the word, “Salve!”

On the way from the second antechamber, called the ostium, to the atrium

itself, Vinicius said,--“Hast noticed that thee doorkeepers are

without chains?” “This is a wonderful house,” answered Petronius, in

an undertone. “Of course it is known to thee that Pomponia Græcina is

suspected of entertaining that Eastern superstition which consists in

honoring a certain Chrestos. It seems that Crispinilla rendered her

this service,--she who cannot forgive Pomponia because one husband has

sufficed her for a lifetime. A one-man Woman! To-day, in Rome, it is

easier to get a half-plate of fresh mushrooms from Noricum than to find

such. They tried her before a domestic court--”

“To thy judgment this is a wonderful house. Later on I will tell thee

what I heard and saw in it.”

Meanwhile they had entered the atrium. The slave appointed to it, called

atriensis, sent a nomenclator to announce the guests; and Petronius,

who, imagining that eternal sadness reigned in this severe house, had

never been in it, looked around with astonishment, and as it were with a

feeling of disappointment, for the atrium produced rather an impression

of cheerfulness. A sheaf of bright light falling from above through

a large opening broke into a thousand sparks on a fountain in a

quadrangular little basin, called the impluvium, which was in the middle

to receive rain falling through the opening during bad weather; this

was surrounded by anemones and lilies. In that house a special love for

lilies was evident, for there were whole clumps of them, both white and

red; and, finally, sapphire irises, whose delicate leaves were as if

silvered from the spray of the fountain. Among the moist mosses, in

which lily-pots were hidden, and among the bunches of lilies were little

bronze statues representing children and water-birds. In one corner a

bronze fawn, as if wishing to drink, was inclining its greenish head,

grizzled, too, by dampness. The floor of the atrium was of mosaic; the

walls, faced partly with red marble and partly with wood, on which were

painted fish, birds, and griffins, attracted the eye by the play of

colors. From the door to the side chamber they were ornamented with

tortoise-shell or even ivory; at the walls between the doors were

statues of Aulus’s ancestors. Everywhere calm plenty was evident, remote

from excess, but noble and self-trusting.

Petronius, who lived with incomparably greater show and elegance, could

find nothing which offended his taste; and had just turned to Vinicius

with that remark, when a slave, the velarius, pushed aside the curtain

separating the atrium from the tablinum, and in the depth of the

building appeared Aulus Plautius approaching hurriedly.

He was a man nearing the evening of life, with a head whitened by hoar

frost, but fresh, with an energetic face, a trifle too short, but still

somewhat eagle-like. This time there was expressed on it a certain

astonishment, and even alarm, because of the unexpected arrival of

Nero’s friend, companion, and suggester.

Petronius was too much a man of the world and too quick not to notice

this; hence, after the first greetings, he announced with all the

eloquence and ease at his command that he had come to give thanks

for the care which his sister’s son had found in that house, and that

gratitude alone was the cause of the visit, to which, moreover, he was

emboldened by his old acquaintance with Aulus.

Aulus assured him that he was a welcome guest; and as to gratitude, he

declared that he had that feeling himself, though surely Petronius did

not divine the cause of it.

In fact, Petronius did not divine it. In vain did he raise his hazel

eyes, endeavoring to remember the least service rendered to Aulus or to

any one. He recalled none, unless it might be that which he intended

to show Vinicius. Some such thing, it is true, might have happened

involuntarily, but only involuntarily.

“I have great love and esteem for Vespasian, whose life thou didst

save,” said Aulus, “when he had the misfortune to doze while listening

to Nero’s verses.”

“He was fortunate,” replied Petronius, “for he did not hear them; but

I will not deny that the matter might have ended with misfortune.

Bronzebeard wished absolutely to send a centurion to him with the

friendly advice to open his veins.”

“But thou, Petronius, laughed him out of it.”

“That is true, or rather it is not true. I told Nero that if Orpheus put

wild beasts to sleep with song, his triumph was equal, since he had put

Vespasian to sleep. Ahenobarbus may be blamed on condition that to a

small criticism a great flattery be added. Our gracious Augusta, Poppæa,

understands this to perfection.”

“Alas! such are the times,” answered Aulus. “I lack two front teeth,

knocked out by a stone from the hand of a Briton, I speak with a hiss;

still my happiest days were passed in Britain.”

“Because they were days of victory,” added Vinicius.

But Petronius, alarmed lest the old general might begin a narrative of

his former wars, changed the conversation.

“See,” said he, “in the neighborhood of Præneste country people found

a dead wolf whelp with two heads; and during a storm about that

time lightning struck off an angle of the temple of Luna,--a thing

unparalleled, because of the late autumn. A certain Cotta, too, who

had told this, added, while telling it, that the priests of that temple

prophesied the fall of the city or, at least, the ruin of a great

house,--ruin to be averted only by uncommon sacrifices.”

Aulus, when he had heard the narrative, expressed the opinion that such

signs should not be neglected; that the gods might be angered by an

over-measure of wickedness. In this there was nothing wonderful; and in

such an event expiatory sacrifices were perfectly in order.

“Thy house, Plautius, is not too large,” answered Petronius, “though

a great man lives in it. Mine is indeed too large for such a wretched

owner, though equally small. But if it is a question of the ruin of

something as great, for example, as the domus transitoria, would it be

worth while for us to bring offerings to avert that ruin?”

Plautius did not answer that question,--a carefulness which touched even

Petronius somewhat, for, with all his inability to feel the difference

between good and evil, he had never been an informer; and it was

possible to talk with him in perfect safety. He changed the conversation

again, therefore, and began to praise Plautius’s dwelling and the good

taste which reigned in the house.

“It is an ancient seat,” said Plautius, “in which nothing has been

changed since I inherited it.”

After the curtain was pushed aside which divided the atrium from the

tablinum, the house was open from end to end, so that through the

tablinum and the following peristyle and the hall lying beyond it which

was called the oecus, the glance extended to the garden, which seemed

from a distance like a bright image set in a dark frame. Joyous,

childlike laughter came from it to the atrium.

“Oh, general!” said Petronius, “permit us to listen from near by to that

glad laughter which is of a kind heard so rarely in these days.”

“Willingly,” answered Plautius, rising; “that is my little Aulus and

Lygia, playing ball. But as to laughter, I think, Petronius, that our

whole life is spent in it.”

“Life deserves laughter, hence people laugh at it,” answered Petronius,

“but laughter here has another sound.”

“Petronius does not laugh for days in succession,” said Vinicius; “but

then he laughs entire nights.”

Thus conversing, they passed through the length of the house and reached

the garden, where Lygia and little Aulus were playing with balls, which

slaves, appointed to that game exclusively and called spheristæ, picked

up and placed in their hands. Petronius cast a quick passing glance at

Lygia; little Aulus, seeing Vinicius, ran to greet him; but the young

tribune, going forward, bent his head before the beautiful maiden, who

stood with a ball in her hand, her hair blown apart a little. She was

somewhat out of breath, and flushed.

In the garden triclinium, shaded by ivy, grapes, and woodbine, sat

Pomponia Græcina; hence they went to salute her. She was known to

Petronius, though he did not visit Plautius, for he had seen her at the

house of Antistia, the daughter of Rubelius Plautus, and besides at the

house of Seneca and Polion. He could not resist a certain admiration

with which he was filled by her face, pensive but mild, by the dignity

of her bearing, by her movements, by her words. Pomponia disturbed his

understanding of women to such a degree that that man, corrupted to the

marrow of his bones, and self-confident as no one in Rome, not only felt

for her a kind of esteem, but even lost his previous self-confidence.

And now, thanking her for her care of Vinicius, he thrust in, as it were

involuntarily, “domina,” which never occurred to him when speaking, for

example, to Calvia Crispinilla, Scribonia, Veleria, Solina, and other

women of high society. After he had greeted her and returned thanks, he

began to complain that he saw her so rarely, that it was not possible to

meet her either in the Circus or the Amphitheatre; to which she answered

calmly, laying her hand on the hand of her husband:

“We are growing old, and love our domestic quiet more and more, both of

us.”

Petronius wished to oppose; but Aulus Plautius added in his hissing

voice,--“And we feel stranger and stranger among people who give Greek

names to our Roman divinities.”

“The gods have become for some time mere figures of rhetoric,” replied

Petronius, carelessly. “But since Greek rhetoricians taught us, it is

easier for me even to say Hera than Juno.”

He turned his eyes then to Pomponia, as if to signify that in presence

of her no other divinity could come to his mind: and then he began to

contradict what she had said touching old age.

“People grow old quickly, it is true; but there are some who live

another life entirely, and there are faces moreover which Saturn seems

to forget.”

Petronius said this with a certain sincerity even, for Pomponia Græcina,

though descending from the midday of life, had preserved an uncommon

freshness of face; and since she had a small head and delicate features,

she produced at times, despite her dark robes, despite her solemnity and

sadness, the impression of a woman quite young.

Meanwhile little Aulus, who had become uncommonly friendly with Vinicius

during his former stay in the house, approached the young man and

entreated him to play ball. Lygia herself entered the triclinium after

the little boy. Under the climbing ivy, with the light quivering on her

face, she seemed to Petronius more beautiful than at the first glance,

and really like some nymph. As he had not spoken to her thus far,

he rose, inclined his head, and, instead of the usual expressions of

greeting, quoted the words with which Ulysses greeted Nausikaa,--

“I supplicate thee, O queen, whether thou art some goddess or a mortal!

If thou art one of the daughters of men who dwell on earth, thrice

blessed are thy father and thy lady mother, and thrice blessed thy

brethren.”

The exquisite politeness of this man of the world pleased even Pomponia.

As to Lygia, she listened, confused and flushed, without boldness to

raise her eyes. But a wayward smile began to quiver at the corners of

her lips, and on her face a struggle was evident between the timidity

of a maiden and the wish to answer; but clearly the wish was victorious,

for, looking quickly at Petronius, she answered him all at once with the

words of that same Nausikaa, quoting them at one breath, and a little

like a lesson learned,--

“Stranger, thou seemest no evil man nor foolish.”

Then she turned and ran out as a frightened bird runs.

This time the turn for astonishment came to Petronius, for he had not

expected to hear verses of Homer from the lips of a maiden of whose

barbarian extraction he had heard previously from Vinicius. Hence he

looked with an inquiring glance at Pomponia; but she could not give

him an answer, for she was looking at that moment, with a smile, at the

pride reflected on the face of her husband.

He was not able to conceal that pride. First, he had become attached

to Lygia as to his own daughter; and second, in spite of his old Roman

prejudices, which commanded him to thunder against Greek and the spread

of the language, he considered it as the summit of social polish. He

himself had never been able to learn it well; over this he suffered in

secret. He was glad, therefore, that an answer was given in the language

and poetry of Homer to this exquisite man both of fashion and letters,

who was ready to consider Plautius’s house as barbarian.

“We have in the house a pedagogue, a Greek,” said he, turning to

Petronius, “who teaches our boy, and the maiden overhears the lessons.

She is a wagtail yet, but a dear one, to which we have both grown

attached.”

Petronius looked through the branches of woodbine into the garden, and

at the three persons who were playing there. Vinicius had thrown aside

his toga, and, wearing only his tunic, was striking the ball, which

Lygia, standing opposite, with raised arms was trying to catch. The

maiden did not make a great impression on Petronius at the first glance;

she seemed to him too slender. But from the moment when he saw her more

nearly in the triclinium he thought to himself that Aurora might look

like her; and as a judge he understood that in her there was something

uncommon. He considered everything and estimated everything; hence her

face, rosy and clear, her fresh lips, as if set for a kiss, her eyes

blue as the azure of the sea, the alabaster whiteness of her forehead,

the wealth of her dark hair, with the reflection of amber or Corinthian

bronze gleaming in its folds, her slender neck, the divine slope of her

shoulders, the whole posture, flexible, slender, young with the youth of

May and of freshly opened flowers. The artist was roused in him, and the

worshipper of beauty, who felt that beneath a statue of that maiden one

might write “Spring.” All at once he remembered Chrysothemis, and pure

laughter seized him. Chrysothemis seemed to him, with golden powder on

her hair and darkened brows, to be fabulously faded,--something in

the nature of a yellowed rose-tree shedding its leaves. But still Rome

envied him that Chrysothemis. Then he recalled Poppæa; and that most

famous Poppæa also seemed to him soulless, a waxen mask. In that maiden

with Tanagrian outlines there was not only spring, but a radiant soul,

which shone through her rosy body as a flame through a lamp.

“Vinicius is right,” thought he, “and my Chrysothemis is old, old!--as

Troy!”

Then he turned to Pomponia Græcina, and, pointing to the garden,

said,--“I understand now, domina, why thou and thy husband prefer this

house to the Circus and to feasts on the Palatine.”

“Yes,” answered she, turning her eyes in the direction of little Aulus

and Lygia.

But the old general began to relate the history of the maiden, and what

he had heard years before from Atelius Hister about the Lygian people

who lived in the gloom of the North.

The three outside had finished playing ball, and for some time had

been walking along the sand of the garden, appearing against the dark

background of myrtles and cypresses like three white statues. Lygia held

little Aulus by the hand. After they had walked a while they sat on a

bench near the fish-pond, which occupied the middle of the garden. After

a time Aulus sprang up to frighten the fish in the transparent water,

but Vinicius continued the conversation begun during the walk.

“Yes,” said he, in a low, quivering voice, scarcely audible; “barely had

I cast aside the pretexta, when I was sent to the legions in Asia. I

had not become acquainted with the city, nor with life, nor with love.

I know a small bit of Anacreon by heart, and Horace; but I cannot like

Petronius quote verses, when reason is dumb from admiration and unable

to find its own words. While a youth I went to school to Musonius,

who told me that happiness consists in wishing what the gods wish, and

therefore depends on our will. I think, however, that it is something

else,--something greater and more precious, which depends not on

the will, for love only can give it. The gods themselves seek that

happiness; hence I too, O Lygia, who have not known love thus

far, follow in their footsteps. I also seek her who would give me

happiness--”

He was silent--and for a time there was nothing to be heard save the

light plash of the water into which little Aulus was throwing pebbles

to frighten the fish; but after a while Vinicius began again in a voice

still softer and lower,--“But thou knowest of Vespasian’s son Titus?

They say that he had scarcely ceased to be a youth when he so loved

Berenice that grief almost drew the life out of him. So could I too

love, O Lygia! Riches, glory, power are mere smoke, vanity! The rich

man will find a richer than himself; the greater glory of another

will eclipse a man who is famous; a strong man will be conquered by a

stronger. But can Cæsar himself, can any god even, experience greater

delight or be happier than a simple mortal at the moment when at his

breast there is breathing another dear breast, or when he kisses beloved

lips? Hence love makes us equal to the gods, O Lygia.”

And she listened with alarm, with astonishment, and at the same time as

if she were listening to the sound of a Grecian flute or a cithara. It

seemed to her at moments that Vinicius was singing a kind of wonderful

song, which was instilling itself into her ears, moving the blood in

her, and penetrating her heart with a faintness, a fear, and a kind

of uncomprehended delight. It seemed to her also that he was telling

something which was in her before, but of which she could not give

account to herself. She felt that he was rousing in her something which

had been sleeping hitherto, and that in that moment a hazy dream

was changing into a form more and more definite, more pleasing, more

beautiful.

Meanwhile the sun had passed the Tiber long since, and had sunk low over

the Janiculum. On the motionless cypresses ruddy light was falling, and

the whole atmosphere was filled with it. Lygia raised on Vinicius her

blue eyes as if roused from sleep; and he, bending over her with a

prayer quivering in his eyes, seemed on a sudden, in the reflections

of evening, more beautiful than all men, than all Greek and Roman gods

whose statues she had seen on the façades of temples. And with

his fingers he clasped her arm lightly just above the wrist and

asked,--“Dost thou not divine what I say to thee, Lygia?”

“No,” whispered she as answer, in a voice so low that Vinicius barely

heard it.

But he did not believe her, and, drawing her hand toward him more

vigorously, he would have drawn it to his heart, which, under the

influence of desire roused by the marvellous maiden, was beating like a

hammer, and would have addressed burning words to her directly had not

old Aulus appeared on a path set in a frame of myrtles, who said,

while approaching them,--“The sun is setting; so beware of the evening

coolness, and do not trifle with Libitina.”

“No,” answered Vinicius; “I have not put on my toga yet, and I do not

feel the cold.”

“But see, barely half the sun’s shield is looking from behind the hill.

That is a sweet climate of Sicily, where people gather on the square

before sunset and take farewell of disappearing Phoebus with a choral

song.”

And, forgetting that a moment earlier he had warned them against

Libitina, he began to tell about Sicily, where he had estates and large

cultivated fields which he loved. He stated also that it had come to his

mind more than once to remove to Sicily, and live out his life there in

quietness. “He whose head winters have whitened has bad enough of hoar

frost. Leaves are not falling from the trees yet, and the sky smiles on

the city lovingly; but when the grapevines grow yellow-leaved, when snow

falls on the Alban hills, and the gods visit the Campania with piercing

wind, who knows but I may remove with my entire household to my quiet

country-seat?”

“Wouldst thou leave Rome?” inquired Vinicius, with sudden alarm.

“I have wished to do so this long time, for it is quieter in Sicily and

safer.”

And again he fell to praising his gardens, his herds, his house hidden

in green, and the hills grown over with thyme and savory, among which

were swarms of buzzing bees. But Vinicius paid no heed to that bucolic

note; and from thinking only of this, that he might lose Lygia, he

looked toward Petronius as if expecting salvation from him alone.

Meanwhile Petronius, sitting near Pomponia, was admiring the view of

the setting sun, the garden, and the people standing near the fish-pond.

Their white garments on the dark background of the myrtles gleamed like

gold from the evening rays. On the sky the evening light had begun to

assume purple and violet hues, and to change like an opal. A strip of

the sky became lily-colored. The dark silhouettes of the cypresses grew

still more pronounced than during bright daylight. In the people, in the

trees, in the whole garden there reigned an evening calm.

That calm struck Petronius, and it struck him especially in the people.

In the faces of Pomponia, old Aulus, their son, and Lygia there was

something such as he did not see in the faces which surrounded him every

day, or rather every night. There was a certain light, a certain repose,

a certain serenity, flowing directly from the life which all lived

there. And with a species of astonishment he thought that a beauty and

sweetness might exist which he, who chased after beauty and sweetness

continually, had not known. He could not hide the thought in himself,

and said, turning to Pomponia,--“I am considering in my soul how

different this world of yours is from the world which our Nero rules.”

She raised her delicate face toward the evening light, and said with

simplicity,--“Not Nero, but God, rules the world.”

A moment of silence followed. Near the triclinium were heard in the

alley, the steps of the old general, Vinicius, Lygia, and little Aulus;

but before they arrived, Petronius had put another question--“But

believest thou in the gods, then, Pomponia?”

“I believe in God, who is one, just, and all-powerful,” answered the

wife of Aulus Plautius.

Chapter III

“SHE believes in God who is one, all-powerful, and just,” said

Petronius, when he found himself again in the litter with Vinicius. “If

her God is all-powerful, He controls life and death; and if He is

just, He sends death justly. Why, then, does Pomponia wear mourning for

Julius? In mourning for Julius she blames her God. I must repeat this

reasoning to our Bronzebeard, the monkey, since I consider that in

dialectics I am the equal of Socrates. As to women, I agree that each

has three or four souls, but none of them a reasoning one. Let Pomponia

meditate with Seneca or Cornutus over the question of what their great

Logos is. Let them summon at once the shades of Xenophanes, Parmenides,

Zeno, and Plato, who are as much wearied there in Cimmerian regions as

a finch in a cage. I wished to talk with her and with Plautius about

something else. By the holy stomach of the Egyptian Isis! If I had told

them right out directly why we came, I suppose that their virtue would

have made as much noise as a bronze shield under the blow of a club.

And I did not dare to tell! Wilt thou believe, Vinicius, I did not dare!

Peacocks are beautiful birds, but they have too shrill a cry. I feared

an outburst. But I must praise thy choice. A real ‘rosy-fingered

Aurora.’ And knowest thou what she reminded me of too?--Spring! not our

spring in Italy, where an apple-tree merely puts forth a blossom here

and there, and olive groves grow gray, just as they were gray before,

but the spring which I saw once in Helvetia,--young, fresh, bright

green. By that pale moon, I do not wonder at thee, Marcus; but know that

thou art loving Diana, because Aulus and Pomponia are ready to tear thee

to pieces, as the dogs once tore Actæon.”

Vinicius was silent a time without raising his head; then he began to

speak with a voice broken by passion,--“I desired her before, but now I

desire her still more. When I caught her arm, flame embraced me. I

must have her. Were I Zeus, I would surround her with a cloud, as he

surrounded Io, or I would fall on her in rain, as he fell on Danaë; I

would kiss her lips till it pained! I would hear her scream in my arms.

I would kill Aulus and Pomponia, and bear her home in my arms. I will

not sleep to-night. I will give command to flog one of my slaves, and

listen to his groans--”

“Calm thyself,” said Petronius. “Thou hast the longing of a carpenter

from the Subura.”

“All one to me what thou sayst. I must have her. I have turned to thee

for aid; but if thou wilt not find it, I shall find it myself. Aulus

considers Lygia as a daughter; why should I look on her as a slave? And

since there is no other way, let her ornament the door of my house, let

her anoint it with wolf’s fat, and let her sit at my hearth as wife.”

“Calm thyself, mad descendant of consuls. We do not lead in barbarians

bound behind our cars, to make wives of their daughters. Beware of

extremes. Exhaust simple, honorable methods, and give thyself and me

time for meditation. Chrysothemis seemed to me too a daughter of Jove,

and still I did not marry her, just as Nero did not marry Acte, though

they called her a daughter of King Attalus. Calm thyself! Think that if

she wishes to leave Aulus for thee, he will have no right to detain her.

Know also that thou art not burning alone, for Eros has roused in her

the flame too. I saw that, and it is well to believe me. Have patience.

There is a way to do everything, but to-day I have thought too much

already, and it tires me. But I promise that to-morrow I will think of

thy love, and unless Petronius is not Petronius, he will discover some

method.”

They were both silent again.

“I thank thee,” said Vinicius at last. “May Fortune be bountiful to

thee.”

“Be patient.”

“Whither hast thou given command to bear us?”

“To Chrysothemis.”

“Thou art happy in possessing her whom thou lovest.”

“I? Dost thou know what amuses me yet in Chrysothemis? This, that she is

false to me with my freedman Theokles, and thinks that I do not

notice it. Once I loved her, but now she amuses me with her lying and

stupidity. Come with me to her. Should she begin to flirt with thee, and

write letters on the table with her fingers steeped in wine, know that I

shall not be jealous.”

And he gave command to bear them both to Chrysothemis.

But in the entrance Petronius put his hand on Vinicius’s shoulder, and

said,--“Wait; it seems to me that I have discovered a plan.”

“May all the gods reward thee!”

“I have it! I judge that this plan is infallible. Knowest what, Marcus?”

“I listen to thee, my wisdom.”

“Well, in a few days the divine Lygia will partake of Demeter’s grain in

thy house.”

“Thou art greater than Cæsar!” exclaimed Vinicius with enthusiasm.

Chapter IV

IN fact, Petronius kept his promise. He slept all the day following his

visit to Chrysothemis, it is true; but in the evening he gave command to

bear him to the Palatine, where he had a confidential conversation with

Nero; in consequence of this, on the third day a centurion, at the

head of some tens of pretorian soldiers, appeared before the house of

Plautius.

The period was uncertain and terrible. Messengers of this kind were more

frequently heralds of death. So when the centurion struck the hammer at

Aulus’s door, and when the guard of the atrium announced that there

were soldiers in the anteroom, terror rose through the whole house.

The family surrounded the old general at once, for no one doubted that

danger hung over him above all. Pomponia, embracing his neck with

her arms, clung to him with all her strength, and her blue lips moved

quickly while uttering some whispered phrase. Lygia, with a face pale

as linen, kissed his hand; little Aulus clung to his toga. From the

corridor, from chambers in the lower story intended for servant-women

and attendants, from the bath, from the arches of lower dwellings, from

the whole house, crowds of slaves began to hurry out, and the cries of

“Heu! heu, me miserum!” were heard. The women broke into great weeping;

some scratched their cheeks, or covered their heads with kerchiefs.

Only the old general himself, accustomed for years to look death

straight in the eye, remained calm, and his short eagle face became as

rigid as if chiselled from stone. After a while, when he had silenced

the uproar, and commanded the attendants to disappear, he said,--“Let me

go, Pomponia. If my end has come, we shall have time to take leave.”

And he pushed her aside gently; but she said,--“God grant thy fate and

mine to be one, O Aulus!”

Then, failing on her knees, she began to pray with that force which fear

for some dear one alone can give.

Aulus passed out to the atrium, where the centurion was waiting for him.

It was old Caius Hasta, his former subordinate and companion in British

wars.

“I greet thee, general,” said he. “I bring a command, and the greeting

of Cæsar; here are the tablets and the signet to show that I come in his

name.”

“I am thankful to Cæsar for the greeting, and I shall obey the command,”

answered Aulus. “Be welcome, Hasta, and say what command thou hast

brought.”

“Aulus Plautius,” began Hasta, “Cæsar has learned that in thy house is

dwelling the daughter of the king of the Lygians, whom that king during

the life of the divine Claudius gave into the hands of the Romans as a

pledge that the boundaries of the empire would never be violated by the

Lygians. The divine Nero is grateful to thee, O general, because thou

hast given her hospitality in thy house for so many years; but, not

wishing to burden thee longer, and considering also that the maiden as

a hostage should be under the guardianship of Cæsar and the senate, he

commands thee to give her into my hands.”

Aulus was too much a soldier and too much a veteran to permit himself

regret in view of an order, or vain words, or complaint. A slight

wrinkle of sudden anger and pain, however, appeared on his forehead.

Before that frown legions in Britain had trembled on a time, and even

at that moment fear was evident on the face of Hasta. But in view of the

order, Aulus Plautius felt defenceless. He looked for some time at the

tablets and the signet; then raising his eyes to the old centurion, he

said calmly,--“Wait, Hasta, in the atrium till the hostage is delivered

to thee.”

After these words he passed to the other end of the house, to the

hall called oecus, where Pomponia Græcina, Lygia, and little Aulus were

waiting for him in fear and alarm.

“Death threatens no one, nor banishment to distant islands,” said he;

“still Cæsar’s messenger is a herald of misfortune. It is a question of

thee, Lygia.”

“Of Lygia?” exclaimed Pomponia, with astonishment.

“Yes,” answered Aulus.

And turning to the maiden, he began: “Lygia, thou wert reared in our

house as our own child; I and Pomponia love thee as our daughter. But

know this, that thou art not our daughter. Thou art a hostage, given

by thy people to Rome, and guardianship over thee belongs to Cæsar. Now

Cæsar takes thee from our house.”

The general spoke calmly, but with a certain strange, unusual voice.

Lygia listened to his words, blinking, as if not understanding what the

question was. Pomponia’s cheeks became pallid. In the doors leading

from the corridor to the oecus, terrified faces of slaves began to show

themselves a second time.

“The will of Cæsar must be accomplished,” said Aulus.

“Aulus!” exclaimed Pomponia, embracing the maiden with her arms, as if

wishing to defend her, “it would be better for her to die.”

Lygia, nestling up to her breast, repeated, “Mother, mother!” unable in

her sobbing to find other words.

On Aulus’s face anger and pain were reflected again. “If I were alone in

the world,” said he, gloomily, “I would not surrender her alive, and my

relatives might give offerings this day to ‘Jupiter Liberator.’ But I

have not the right to kill thee and our child, who may live to happier

times. I will go to Cæsar this day, and implore him to change his

command. Whether he will hear me, I know not. Meanwhile, farewell,

Lygia, and know that I and Pomponia ever bless the day in which thou

didst take thy seat at our hearth.”

Thus speaking, he placed his hand on her head; but though he strove to

preserve his calmness, when Lygia turned to him eyes filled with tears,

and seizing his hand pressed it to her lips, his voice was filled with

deep fatherly sorrow.

“Farewell, our joy, and the light of our eyes,” said he.

And he went to the atrium quickly, so as not to let himself be conquered

by emotion unworthy of a Roman and a general.

Meanwhile Pomponia, when she had conducted Lygia to the cubiculum, began

to comfort, console, and encourage her, uttering words meanwhile which

sounded strangely in that house, where near them in an adjoining chamber

the lararium remained yet, and where the hearth was on which Aulus

Plautius, faithful to ancient usage, made offerings to the household

divinities. Now the hour of trial had come. On a time Virginius had

pierced the bosom of his own daughter to save her from the hands of

Appius; still earlier Lucretia had redeemed her shame with her life.

The house of Cæsar is a den of infamy, of evil, of crime. But we, Lygia,

know why we have not the right to raise hands on ourselves! Yes! The law

under which we both live is another, a greater, a holier, but it gives

permission to defend oneself from evil and shame even should it happen

to pay for that defence with life and torment. Whoso goes forth pure

from the dwelling of corruption has the greater merit thereby. The earth

is that dwelling; but fortunately life is one twinkle of the eye, and

resurrection is only from the grave; beyond that not Nero, but Mercy

bears rule, and there instead of pain is delight, there instead of tears

is rejoicing.

Next she began to speak of herself. Yes! she was calm; but in her breast

there was no lack of painful wounds. For example, Aulus was a cataract

on her eye; the fountain of light had not flowed to him yet. Neither was

it permitted her to rear her son in Truth. When she thought, therefore,

that it might be thus to the end of her life, and that for them a moment

of separation might come which would be a hundred times more grievous

and terrible than that temporary one over which they were both suffering

then, she could not so much as understand how she might be happy even in

heaven without them. And she had wept many nights through already, she

had passed many nights in prayer, imploring grace and mercy. But she

offered her suffering to God, and waited and trusted. And now, when

a new blow struck her, when the tyrant’s command took from her a dear

one,--the one whom Aulus had called the light of their eyes,--she

trusted yet, believing that there was a power greater than Nero’s and a

mercy mightier than his anger.

And she pressed the maiden’s head to her bosom still more firmly. Lygia

dropped to her knees after a while, and, covering her eyes in the folds

of Pomponia’s peplus, she remained thus a long time in silence; but when

she stood up again, some calmness was evident on her face.

“I grieve for thee, mother, and for father and for my brother; but I

know that resistance is useless, and would destroy all of us. I promise

thee that in the house of Cæsar I will never forget thy words.”

Once more she threw her arms around Pomponia’s neck; then both went out

to the oecus, and she took farewell of little Aulus, of the old Greek

their teacher, of the dressing-maid who had been her nurse, and of all

the slaves. One of these, a tall and broad-shouldered Lygian, called

Ursus in the house, who with other servants had in his time gone with

Lygia’s mother and her to the camp of the Romans, fell now at her feet,

and then bent down to the knees of Pomponia, saying,--“O domina! permit

me to go with my lady, to serve her and watch over her in the house of

Cæsar.”

“Thou art not our servant, but Lygia’s,” answered Pomponia; “but if they

admit thee through Cæsar’s doors, in what way wilt thou be able to watch

over her?”

“I know not, domina; I know only that iron breaks in my hands just as

wood does.”

When Aulus, who came up at that moment, had heard what the question was,

not only did he not oppose the wishes of Ursus, but he declared that he

had not even the right to detain him. They were sending away Lygia as a

hostage whom Cæsar had claimed, and they were obliged in the same way to

send her retinue, which passed with her to the control of Cæsar. Here he

whispered to Pomponia that under the form of an escort she could add as

many slaves as she thought proper, for the centurion could not refuse to

receive them.

There was a certain comfort for Lygia in this. Pomponia also was glad

that she could surround her with servants of her own choice. Therefore,

besides Ursus, she appointed to her the old tire-woman, two maidens from

Cyprus well skilled in hair-dressing, and two German maidens for the

bath. Her choice fell exclusively on adherents of the new faith; Ursus,

too, had professed it for a number of years. Pomponia could count on the

faithfulness of those servants, and at the same time consoled herself

with the thought that soon grains of truth would be in Cæsar’s house.

She wrote a few words also, committing care over Lygia to Nero’s

freedwoman, Acte. Pomponia had not seen her, it is true, at meetings of

confessors of the new faith; but she had heard from them that Acte had

never refused them a service, and that she read the letters of Paul of

Tarsus eagerly. It was known to her also that the young freedwoman lived

in melancholy, that she was a person different from all other women of

Nero’s house, and that in general she was the good spirit of the palace.

Hasta engaged to deliver the letter himself to Acte. Considering it

natural that the daughter of a king should have a retinue of her own

servants, he did not raise the least difficulty in taking them to the

palace, but wondered rather that there should be so few. He begged

haste, however, fearing lest he might be suspected of want of zeal in

carrying out orders.

The moment of parting came. The eyes of Pomponia and Lygia were filled

with fresh tears; Aulus placed his hand on her head again, and after a

while the soldiers, followed by the cry of little Aulus, who in defence

of his sister threatened the centurion with his small fists, conducted

Lygia to Cæsar’s house.

The old general gave command to prepare his litter at once; meanwhile,

shutting himself up with Pomponia in the pinacotheca adjoining the oecus,

he said to her,--“Listen to me, Pomponia. I will go to Cæsar, though

I judge that my visit will be useless; and though Seneca’s word means

nothing with Nero now, I will go also to Seneca. To-day Sophonius,

Tigellinus, Petronius, or Vatinius have more influence. As to Cæsar,

perhaps he has never even heard of the Lygian people; and if he has

demanded the delivery of Lygia, the hostage, he has done so because some

one persuaded him to it,--it is easy to guess who could do that.”

She raised her eyes to him quickly.

“Is it Petronius?”

“It is.”

A moment of silence followed; then the general continued,--“See what it

is to admit over the threshold any of those people without conscience or

honor. Cursed be the moment in which Vinicius entered our house, for

he brought Petronius. Woe to Lygia, since those men are not seeking a

hostage, but a concubine.”

And his speech became more hissing than usual, because of helpless rage

and of sorrow for his adopted daughter. He struggled with himself some

time, and only his clenched fists showed how severe was the struggle

within him.

“I have revered the gods so far,” said he; “but at this moment I think

that not they are over the world, but one mad, malicious monster named

Nero.”

“Aulus,” said Pomponia. “Nero is only a handful of rotten dust before

God.”

But Aulus began to walk with long steps over the mosaic of the

pinacotheca. In his life there had been great deeds, but no great

misfortunes; hence he was unused to them. The old soldier had grown more

attached to Lygia than he himself had been aware of, and now he could

not be reconciled to the thought that he had lost her. Besides, he felt

humiliated. A hand was weighing on him which he despised, and at the

same time he felt that before its power his power was as nothing.

But when at last he stifled in himself the anger which disturbed his

thoughts, he said,--“I judge that Petronius has not taken her from

us for Cæsar, since he would not offend Poppæa. Therefore he took her

either for himself or Vinicius. Today I will discover this.”

And after a while the litter bore him in the direction of the Palatine.

Pomponia, when left alone, went to little Aulus, who did not cease

crying for his sister, or threatening Cæsar.

Chapter V

AULUS had judged rightly that he would not be admitted to Nero’s

presence. They told him that Cæsar was occupied in singing with the

lute-player, Terpnos, and that in general he did not receive those whom

he himself had not summoned. In other words, that Aulus must not attempt

in future to see him.

Seneca, though ill with a fever, received the old general with due

honor; but when he had heard what the question was, he laughed bitterly,

and said,--“I can render thee only one service, noble Plautius, not to

show Cæsar at any time that my heart feels thy pain, or that I should

like to aid thee; for should Cæsar have the least suspicion on this

head, know that he would not give thee back Lygia, though for no other

reason than to spite me.”

He did not advise him, either, to go to Tigellinus or Vatinius or

Vitelius. It might be possible to do something with them through money;

perhaps, also, they would like to do evil to Petronius, whose influence

they were trying to undermine, but most likely they would disclose

before Nero how dear Lygia was to Plautius, and then Nero would all the

more resolve not to yield her to him. Here the old sage began to speak

with a biting irony, which he turned against himself: “Thou hast been

silent, Plautius, thou hast been silent for whole years, and Cæsar does

not like those who are silent. How couldst thou help being carried

away by his beauty, his virtue, his singing, his declamation, his

chariot-driving, and his verses? Why didst thou not glorify the death

of Britannicus, and repeat panegyrics in honor of the mother-slayer,

and not offer congratulations after the stifling of Octavia? Thou art

lacking in foresight, Aulus, which we who live happily at the court

possess in proper measure.”

Thus speaking, he raised a goblet which he carried at his belt, took

water from a fountain at the impluvium, freshened his burning lips, and

continued,--“Ah, Nero has a grateful heart. He loves thee because thou

hast served Rome and glorified its name at the ends of the earth; he

loves me because I was his master in youth. Therefore, seest thou, I

know that this water is not poisoned, and I drink it in peace. Wine in

my own house would be less reliable. If thou art thirsty, drink boldly

of this water. The aqueducts bring it from beyond the Alban hills, and

any one wishing to poison it would have to poison every fountain in

Rome. As thou seest, it is possible yet to be safe in this world and to

have a quiet old age. I am sick, it is true, but rather in soul than in

body.”

This was true. Seneca lacked the strength of soul which Cornutus

possessed, for example, or Thrasea; hence his life was a series of

concessions to crime. He felt this himself; he understood that an

adherent of the principles of Zeno, of Citium, should go by another

road, and he suffered more from that cause than from the fear of death

itself.

But the general interrupted these reflections full of grief.

“Noble Annæus,” said he, “I know how Cæsar rewarded thee for the care

with which thou didst surround his years of youth. But the author of

the removal of Lygia is Petronius. Indicate to me a method against him,

indicate the influences to which he yields, and use besides with him all

the eloquence with which friendship for me of long standing can inspire

thee.”

“Petronius and I,” answered Seneca, “are men of two opposite camps; I

know of no method against him, he yields to no man’s influence. Perhaps

with all his corruption he is worthier than those scoundrels with whom

Nero surrounds himself at present. But to show him that he has done an

evil deed is to lose time simply. Petronius has lost long since that

faculty which distinguishes good from evil. Show him that his act is

ugly, he will be ashamed of it. When I see him, I will say, ‘Thy act is

worthy of a freedman.’ If that will not help thee, nothing can.”

“Thanks for that, even,” answered the general.

Then he gave command to carry him to the house of Vinicius, whom he

found at sword practice with his domestic trainer. Aulus was borne away

by terrible anger at sight of the young man occupied calmly with fencing

during the attack on Lygia; and barely had the curtain dropped

behind the trainer when this anger burst forth in a torrent of bitter

reproaches and injuries. But Vinicius, when he learned that Lygia had

been carried away, grew so terribly pale that Aulus could not for even

an instant suspect him of sharing in the deed. The young man’s forehead

was covered with sweat; the blood, which had rushed to his heart for a

moment, returned to his face in a burning wave; his eyes began to shoot

sparks, his mouth to hurl disconnected questions. Jealousy and rage

tossed him in turn, like a tempest. It seemed to him that Lygia,

once she had crossed the threshold of Cæsar’s house, was lost to him

absolutely. When Aulus pronounced the name of Petronius, suspicion flew

like a lightning flash through the young soldier’s mind, that Petronius

had made sport of him, and either wanted to win new favor from Nero by

the gift of Lygia, or keep her for himself. That any one who had seen

Lygia would not desire her at once, did not find a place in his head.

Impetuousness, inherited in his family, carried him away like a wild

horse, and took from him presence of mind.

“General,” said he, with a broken voice, “return home and wait for me.

Know that if Petronius were my own father, I would avenge on him the

wrong done to Lygia. Return home and wait for me. Neither Petronius nor

Cæsar will have her.”

Then he went with clinched fists to the waxed masks standing clothed in

the atrium, and burst out,--“By those mortal masks! I would rather kill

her and myself.” When he had said this, he sent another “Wait for me”

after Aulus, then ran forth like a madman from the atrium, and flew to

Petronius’s house, thrusting pedestrians aside on the way.

Aulus returned home with a certain encouragement. He judged that if

Petronius had persuaded Cæsar to take Lygia to give her to Vinicius,

Vinicius would bring her to their house. Finally, the thought was no

little consolation to him, that should Lygia not be rescued she would be

avenged and protected by death from disgrace. He believed that Vinicius

would do everything that he had promised. He had seen his rage, and he

knew the excitability innate in the whole family. He himself, though he

loved Lygia as her own father, would rather kill her than give her

to Cæsar; and had he not regarded his son, the last descendant of his

stock, he would doubtless have done so. Aulus was a soldier; he had

hardly heard of the Stoics, but in character he was not far from their

ideas,--death was more acceptable to his pride than disgrace.

When he returned home, he pacified Pomponia, gave her the consolation

that he had, and both began to await news from Vinicius. At moments when

the steps of some of the slaves were heard in the atrium, they thought

that perhaps Vinicius was bringing their beloved child to them, and

they were ready in the depth of their souls to bless both. Time passed,

however, and no news came. Only in the evening was the hammer heard on

the gate.

After a while a slave entered and handed Aulus a letter. The old

general, though he liked to show command over himself, took it with a

somewhat trembling hand, and began to read as hastily as if it were a

question of his whole house.

All at once his face darkened, as if a shadow from a passing cloud had

fallen on it.

“Read,” said he, turning to Pomponia.

Pomponia took the letter and read as follows:--

“Marcus Vinicius to Aulus Plautius greeting. What has happened, has

happened by the will of Cæsar, before which incline your heads, as I and

Petronius incline ours.”

A long silence followed.

Chapter VI

PETRONIUS was at home. The doorkeeper did not dare to stop Vinicius, who

burst into the atrium like a storm, and, learning that the master of

the house was in the library, he rushed into the library with the same

impetus. Finding Petronius writing, he snatched the reed from his hand,

broke it, trampled the reed on the floor, then fixed his fingers into

his shoulder, and, approaching his face to that of his uncle, asked,

with a hoarse voice,--“What hast thou done with her? Where is she?”

Suddenly an amazing thing happened. That slender and effeminate

Petronius seized the hand of the youthful athlete, which was grasping

his shoulder, then seized the other, and, holding them both in his one

hand with the grip of an iron vice, he said,--“I am incapable only in

the morning; in the evening I regain my former strength. Try to

escape. A weaver must have taught thee gymnastics, and a blacksmith thy

manners.”

On his face not even anger was evident, but in his eyes there was a

certain pale reflection of energy and daring. After a while he let

the hands of Vinicius drop. Vinicius stood before him shamefaced and

enraged.

“Thou hast a steel hand,” said he; “but if thou hast betrayed me, I

swear, by all the infernal gods, that I will thrust a knife into thy

body, though thou be in the chambers of Cæsar.”

“Let us talk calmly,” said Petronius. “Steel is stronger, as thou seest,

than iron; hence, though out of one of thy arms two as large as mine

might be made, I have no need to fear thee. On the contrary, I grieve

over thy rudeness, and if the ingratitude of men could astonish me yet,

I should be astonished at thy ingratitude.”

“Where is Lygia?”

“In a brothel,--that is, in the house of Cæsar.”

“Petronius!”

“Calm thyself, and be seated. I asked Cæsar for two things, which he

promised me,--first, to take Lygia from the house of Aulus, and second

to give her to thee. Hast thou not a knife there under the folds of thy

toga? Perhaps thou wilt stab me! But I advise thee to wait a couple of

days, for thou wouldst be taken to prison, and meanwhile Lygia would be

wearied in thy house.”

Silence followed. Vinicius looked for some time with astonished eyes on

Petronius; then he said,--“Pardon me; I love her, and love is disturbing

my faculties.”

“Look at me, Marcus. The day before yesterday I spoke to Cæsar as

follows: ‘My sister’s son, Vinicius, has so fallen in love with a lean

little girl who is being reared with the Auluses that his house is

turned into a steambath from sighs. Neither thou, O Cæsar, nor I--we who

know, each of us, what true beauty is--would give a thousand sesterces

for her; but that lad has ever been as dull as a tripod, and now he has

lost all the wit that was in him.’”

“Petronius!”

“If thou understand not that I said this to insure Lygia’s safety, I am

ready to believe that I told the truth. I persuaded Bronzebeard that a

man of his æsthetic nature could not consider such a girl beautiful; and

Nero, who so far has not dared to look otherwise than through my eyes,

will not find in her beauty, and, not finding it, will not desire her.

It was necessary to insure ourselves against the monkey and take him

on a rope. Not he, but Poppæa, will value Lygia now; and Poppæa will

strive, of course, to send the girl out of the palace at the earliest.

I said further to Bronzebeard, in passing: ‘Take Lygia and give her to

Vinicius! Thou hast the right to do so, for she is a hostage; and if

thou take her, thou wilt inflict pain on Aulus.’ He agreed; he had not

the least reason not to agree, all the more since I gave him a chance

to annoy decent people. They will make thee official guardian of the

hostage, and give into thy hands that Lygian treasure; thou, as a friend

of the valiant Lygians, and also a faithful servant of Cæsar, wilt not

waste any of the treasure, but wilt strive to increase it. Cæsar, to

preserve appearances, will keep her a few days in his house, and then

send her to thy insula. Lucky man!”

“Is this true? Does nothing threaten her there in Cæsar’s house?”

“If she had to live there permanently, Poppæa would talk about her to

Locusta, but for a few days there is no danger. Ten thousand people

live in it. Nero will not see her, perhaps, all the more since he left

everything to me, to the degree that just now the centurion was here

with information that he had conducted the maiden to the palace and

committed her to Acte. She is a good soul, that Acte; hence I gave

command to deliver Lygia to her. Clearly Pomponia Græcina is of that

opinion too, for she wrote to Acte. To-morrow there is a feast at

Nero’s. I have requested a place for thee at the side of Lygia.”

“Pardon me, Caius, my hastiness. I judged that thou hadst given command

to take her for thyself or for Cæsar.”

“I can forgive thy hastiness; but it is more difficult to forgive rude

gestures, vulgar shouts, and a voice reminding one of players at mora. I

do not like that style, Marcus, and do thou guard against it. Know that

Tigellinus is Cæsar’s pander; but know also that if I wanted the

girl for myself now, looking thee straight in the eyes, I would say,

‘Vinicius! I take Lygia from thee and I will keep her till I am tired of

her.”

Thus speaking, he began to look with his hazel eyes straight into the

eyes of Vinicius with a cold and insolent stare. The young man lost

himself completely.

“The fault is mine,” said he. “Thou art kind and worthy. I thank thee

from my whole soul. Permit me only to put one more question: Why didst

thou not have Lygia sent directly to my house?”

“Because Cæsar wishes to preserve appearances. People in Rome will talk

about this,--that we removed Lygia as a hostage. While they are talking,

she will remain in Cæsar’s palace. Afterward she will be removed quietly

to thy house, and that will be the end. Bronzebeard is a cowardly

cur. He knows that his power is unlimited, and still he tries to give

specious appearances to every act. Hast thou recovered to the degree of

being able to philosophize a little? More than once have I thought, Why

does crime, even when as powerful as Cæsar, and assured of being beyond

punishment, strive always for the appearances of truth, justice, and

virtue? Why does it take the trouble? I consider that to murder a

brother, a mother, a wife, is a thing worthy of some petty Asiatic king,

not a Roman Cæsar; but if that position were mine, I should not write

justifying letters to the Senate. But Nero writes. Nero is looking for

appearances, for Nero is a coward. But Tiberius was not a coward;

still he justified every step he took. Why is this? What a marvellous,

involuntary homage paid to virtue by evil! And knowest thou what strikes

me? This, that it is done because transgression is ugly and virtue

is beautiful. Therefore a man of genuine æsthetic feeling is also a

virtuous man. Hence I am virtuous. To-day I must pour out a little

wine to the shades of Protagoras, Prodicus, and Gorgias. It seems that

sophists too can be of service. Listen, for I am speaking yet. I took

Lygia from Aulus to give her to thee. Well. But Lysippus would have made

wonderful groups of her and thee. Ye are both beautiful; therefore my

act is beautiful, and being beautiful it cannot be bad. Marcus, here

sitting before thee is virtue incarnate in Caius Petronius! If Aristides

were living, it would be his duty to come to me and offer a hundred minæ

for a short treatise on virtue.”

But Vinicius, as a man more concerned with reality than with treatises

on virtue, replied,--“To-morrow I shall see Lygia, and then have her in

my house daily, always, and till death.”

“Thou wilt have Lygia, and I shall have Aulus on my head. He will summon

the vengeance of all the infernal gods against me. And if the beast

would take at least a preliminary lesson in good declamation! He will

blame me, however, as my former doorkeeper blamed my clients but him I

sent to prison in the country.”

“Aulus has been at my house. I promised to give him news of Lygia.”

“Write to him that the will of the ‘divine’ Cæsar is the highest law,

and that thy first son will bear the name Aulus. It is necessary that

the old man should have some consolation. I am ready to pray Bronzebeard

to invite him to-morrow to the feast. Let him see thee in the triclinium

next to Lygia.”

“Do not do that. I am sorry for them, especially for Pomponia.”

And he sat down to write that letter which took from the old general the

remnant of his hope.

Chapter VII

ONCE the highest heads in Rome inclined before Acte, the former favorite

of Nero. But even at that period she showed no desire to interfere in

public questions, and if on any occasion she used her influence over

the young ruler, it was only to implore mercy for some one. Quiet and

unassuming, she won the gratitude of many, and made no one her enemy.

Even Octavia was unable to hate her. To those who envied her she seemed

exceedingly harmless. It was known that she continued to love Nero with

a sad and pained love, which lived not in hope, but only in memories of

the time in which that Nero was not only younger and loving, but better.

It was known that she could not tear her thoughts and soul from those

memories, but expected nothing; since there was no real fear that Nero

would return to her, she was looked upon as a person wholly inoffensive,

and hence was left in peace. Poppæa considered her merely as a quiet

servant, so harmless that she did not even try to drive her from the

palace.

But since Cæsar had loved her once and dropped her without offence in a

quiet and to some extent friendly manner, a certain respect was retained

for her. Nero, when he had freed her, let her live in the palace, and

gave her special apartments with a few servants. And as in their time

Pallas and Narcissus, though freedmen of Claudius, not only sat

at feasts with Claudius, but also held places of honor as powerful

ministers, so she too was invited at times to Cæsar’s table. This was

done perhaps because her beautiful form was a real ornament to a

feast. Cæsar for that matter had long since ceased to count with any

appearances in his choice of company. At his table the most varied

medley of people of every position and calling found places. Among them

were senators, but mainly those who were content to be jesters as well.

There were patricians, old and young, eager for luxury, excess, and

enjoyment. There were women with great names, who did not hesitate to

put on a yellow wig of an evening and seek adventures on dark streets

for amusement’s sake. There were also high officials, and priests who

at full goblets were willing to jeer at their own gods. At the side of

these was a rabble of every sort: singers, mimes, musicians, dancers of

both sexes; poets who, while declaiming, were thinking of the

sesterces which might fall to them for praise of Cæsar’s verses; hungry

philosophers following the dishes with eager eyes; finally, noted

charioteers, tricksters, miracle-wrights, tale-tellers, jesters, and the

most varied adventurers brought through fashion or folly to a few days’

notoriety. Among these were not lacking even men who covered with long

hair their ears pierced in sign of slavery.

The most noted sat directly at the tables; the lesser served to amuse

in time of eating, and waited for the moment in which the servants would

permit them to rush at the remnants of food and drink. Guests of this

sort were furnished by Tigellinus, Vatinius, and Vitelius; for these

guests they were forced more than once to find clothing befitting the

chambers of Cæsar, who, however, liked their society, through feeling

most free in it. The luxury of the court gilded everything, and

covered all things with glitter. High and low, the descendants of great

families, and the needy from the pavements of the city, great artists,

and vile scrapings of talent, thronged to the palace to sate their

dazzled eyes with a splendor almost surpassing human estimate, and to

approach the giver of every favor, wealth, and property,--whose single

glance might abase, it is true, but might also exalt beyond measure.

That day Lygia too had to take part in such a feast. Fear, uncertainty,

and a dazed feeling, not to be wondered at after the sudden change, were

struggling in her with a wish to resist. She feared Nero; she feared the

people and the palace whose uproar deprived her of presence of mind;

she feared the feasts of whose shamelessness she had heard from Aulus,

Pomponia Græcina, and their friends. Though young, she was not without

knowledge, for knowledge of evil in those times reached even children’s

ears early. She knew, therefore, that ruin was threatening her in the

palace. Pomponia, moreover, had warned her of this at the moment of

parting. But having a youthful spirit, unacquainted with corruption, and

confessing a lofty faith, implanted in her by her foster mother, she

had promised to defend herself against that ruin; she had promised

her mother, herself and also that Divine Teacher in whom she not only

believed, but whom she had come to love with her half-childlike heart

for the sweetness of his doctrine, the bitterness of his death, and the

glory of his resurrection.

She was confident too that now neither Aulus nor Pomponia would be

answerable for her actions; she was thinking therefore whether it would

not be better to resist and not go to the feast. On the one hand fear

and alarm spoke audibly in her soul; on the other the wish rose in her

to show courage in suffering, in exposure to torture and death. The

Divine Teacher had commanded to act thus. He had given the example

himself. Pomponia had told her that the most earnest among the adherents

desire with all their souls such a test, and pray for it. And Lygia,

when still in the house of Aulus, had been mastered at moments by a

similar desire. She had seen herself as a martyr, with wounds on her

feet and hands, white as snow, beautiful with a beauty not of earth, and

borne by equally white angels into the azure sky; and her imagination

admired such a vision. There was in it much childish brooding, but

there was in it also something of delight in herself, which Pomponia had

reprimanded. But now, when opposition to Cæsar’s will might draw after

it some terrible punishment, and the martyrdom scene of imagination

become a reality, there was added to the beautiful visions and to the

delight a kind of curiosity mingled with dread, as to how they would

punish her, and what kind of torments they would provide. And her soul,

half childish yet, was hesitating on two sides. But Acte, hearing of

these hesitations, looked at her with astonishment as if the maiden

were talking in a fever. To oppose Cæsar’s will, expose oneself from the

first moment to his anger? To act thus one would need to be a child that

knows not what it says. From Lygia’s own words it appears that she is,

properly speaking, not really a hostage, but a maiden forgotten by her

own people. No law of nations protects her; and even if it did, Cæsar

is powerful enough to trample on it in a moment of anger. It has pleased

Cæsar to take her, and he will dispose of her. Thenceforth she is at his

will, above which there is not another on earth.

“So it is,” continued Acte. “I too have read the letters of Paul of

Tarsus, and I know that above the earth is God, and the Son of God, who

rose from the dead; but on the earth there is only Cæsar. Think of this,

Lygia. I know too that thy doctrine does not permit thee to be what

I was, and that to you as to the Stoics,--of whom Epictetus has told

me,--when it comes to a choice between shame and death, it is permitted

to choose only death. But canst thou say that death awaits thee and not

shame too? Hast thou heard of the daughter of Sejanus, a young maiden,

who at command of Tiberius had to pass through shame before her death,

so as to respect a law which prohibits the punishment of virgins with

death? Lygia, Lygia, do not irritate Cæsar. If the decisive moment comes

when thou must choose between disgrace and death, thou wilt act as thy

faith commands; but seek not destruction thyself, and do not irritate

for a trivial cause an earthly and at the same time a cruel divinity.”

Acte spoke with great compassion, and even with enthusiasm; and being

a little short-sighted, she pushed her sweet face up to Lygia’s as if

wishing to see surely the effect of her words.

But Lygia threw her arms around Acte’s neck with childish trustfulness

and said,--“Thou art kind, Acte.”

Acte, pleased by the praise and confidence, pressed her to her heart;

and then disengaging herself from the arms of the maiden, answered,--“My

happiness has passed and my joy is gone, but I am not wicked.” Then she

began to walk with quick steps through the room and to speak to herself,

as if in despair.

“No! And he was not wicked. He thought himself good at that time, and he

wished to be good. I know that best. All his change came later, when he

ceased to love. Others made him what he is--yes, others--and Poppæa.”

Here her eyelids filled with tears. Lygia followed her for some time

with her blue eyes, and asked at last,--“Art thou sorry for him, Acte?”

“I am sorry for him!” answered the Grecian, with a low voice. And

again she began to walk, her hands clinched as if in pain, and her face

without hope.

“Dost thou love him yet, Acte?” asked Lygia, timidly.

“I love him.”

And after a while she added,--“No one loves him but me.”

Silence followed, during which Acte strove to recover her calmness,

disturbed by memories; and when at length her face resumed its usual

look of calm sorrow, she said,--

“Let us speak of thee, Lygia. Do not even think of opposing Cæsar; that

would be madness. And be calm. I know this house well, and I judge that

on Cæsar’s part nothing threatens thee. If Nero had given command

to take thee away for himself, he would not have brought thee to the

Palatine. Here Poppæa rules; and Nero, since she bore him a daughter, is

more than ever under her influence. No, Nero gave command, it is true,

that thou shouldst be at the feast, but he has not seen thee yet; he

has not inquired about thee, hence he does not care about thee. Maybe he

took thee from Aulus and Pomponia only through anger at them. Petronius

wrote me to have care of thee; and since Pomponia too wrote, as thou

knowest, maybe they had an understanding. Maybe he did that at her

request. If this be true, if he at the request of Pomponia will occupy

himself with thee, nothing threatens thee; and who knows if Nero may not

send thee back to Aulus at his persuasion? I know not whether Nero loves

him over much, but I know that rarely has he the courage to be of an

opinion opposite to his.”

“Ah, Acte!” answered Lygia; “Petronius was with us before they took

me, and my mother was convinced that Nero demanded my surrender at his

instigation.”

“That would be bad,” said Acte. But she stopped for a while, and then

said,--“Perhaps Petronius only said, in Nero’s presence at some supper,

that he saw a hostage of the Lygians at Aulus’s, and Nero, who is

jealous of his own power, demanded thee only because hostages belong to

Cæsar. But he does not like Aulus and Pomponia. No! it does not seem to

me that if Petronius wished to take thee from Aulus he would use such a

method. I do not know whether Petronius is better than others of Cæsar’s

court, but he is different. Maybe too thou wilt find some one else who

would be willing to intercede for thee. Hast thou not seen at Aulus’s

some one who is near Cæsar?”

“I have seen Vespasian and Titus.”

“Cæsar does not like them.”

“And Seneca.”

“If Seneca advised something, that would be enough to make Nero act

otherwise.”

The bright face of Lygia was covered with a blush. “And Vinicius-”

“I do not know him.”

“He is a relative of Petronius, and returned not long since from

Armenia.”

“Dost thou think that Nero likes him?”

“All like Vinicius.”

“And would he intercede for thee?”

“He would.”

Acte smiled tenderly, and said, “Then thou wilt see him surely at the

feast. Thou must be there, first, because thou must,--only such a child

as thou could think otherwise. Second, if thou wish to return to

the house of Aulus, thou wilt find means of beseeching Petronius and

Vinicius to gain for thee by their influence the right to return. If

they were here, both would tell thee as I do, that it would be madness

and ruin to try resistance. Cæsar might not notice thy absence, it is

true; but if he noticed it and thought that thou hadst the daring to

oppose his will, here would be no salvation for thee. Go, Lygia! Dost

thou hear the noise in the palace? The sun is near setting; guests will

begin to arrive soon.”

“Thou art right,” answered Lygia, “and I will follow thy advice.”

How much desire to see Vinicius and Petronius there was in this resolve,

how much of woman’s curiosity there was to see such a feast once in

life, and to see at it Cæsar, the court, the renowned Poppæa and other

beauties, and all that unheard-of splendor, of which wonders were

narrated in Rome, Lygia could not give account to herself of a

certainty. But Acte was right, and Lygia felt this distinctly. There was

need to go; therefore, when necessity and simple reason supported the

hidden temptation, she ceased to hesitate.

Acte conducted her to her own unctorium to anoint and dress her; and

though there was no lack of slave women in Cæsar’s house, and Acte had

enough of them for her personal service, still, through sympathy for the

maiden whose beauty and innocence had caught her heart, she resolved to

dress her herself. It became clear at once that in the young Grecian, in

spite of her sadness and her perusal of the letters of Paul of Tarsus,

there was yet much of the ancient Hellenic spirit, to which physical

beauty spoke with more eloquence than aught else on earth. When she

had undressed Lygia, she could not restrain an exclamation of wonder at

sight of her form, at once slender and full, created, as it were, from

pearl and roses; and stepping back a few paces, she looked with delight

on that matchless, spring-like form.

“Lygia,” exclaimed she at last, “thou art a hundred times more beautiful

than Poppæa!”

But, reared in the strict house of Pomponia, where modesty was observed,

even when women were by themselves, the maiden, wonderful as a wonderful

dream, harmonious as a work of Praxiteles or as a song, stood alarmed,

blushing from modesty, with knees pressed together, with her hands on

her bosom, and downcast eyes. At last, raising her arms with sudden

movement, she removed the pins which held her hair, and in one moment,

with one shake of her head, she covered herself with it as with a

mantle.

Acte, approaching her and touching her dark tresses, said,--

“Oh, what hair thou hast! I will not sprinkle golden powder on it; it

gleams of itself in one place and another with gold, where it waves.

I will add, perhaps, barely a sprinkle here and there; but lightly,

lightly, as if a sun ray had freshened it. Wonderful must thy Lygian

country be where such maidens are born!

“I do not remember it,” answered Lygia; “but Ursus has told me that with

us it is forests, forests, and forests.”

“But flowers bloom in those forests,” said Acte, dipping her hand in a

vase filled with verbena, and moistening Lygia’s hair with it. When she

had finished this work, Acte anointed her body lightly with odoriferous

oils from Arabia, and then dressed her in a soft gold-colored tunic

without sleeves, over which was to be put a snow-white peplus. But since

she had to dress Lygia’s hair first, she put on her meanwhile a kind of

roomy dress called synthesis, and, seating her in an armchair, gave her

for a time into the hands of slave women, so as to stand at a distance

herself and follow the hairdressing. Two other slave women put on

Lygia’s feet white sandals, embroidered with purple, fastening them to

her alabaster ankles with golden lacings drawn crosswise. When at

last the hair-dressing was finished, they put a peplus on her in very

beautiful, light folds; then Acte fastened pearls to her neck, and

touching her hair at the folds with gold dust, gave command to the women

to dress her, following Lygia with delighted eyes meanwhile.

But she was ready soon; and when the first litters began to appear

before the main gate, both entered the side portico from which were

visible the chief entrance, the interior galleries, and the courtyard

surrounded by a colonnade of Numidian marble.

Gradually people passed in greater and greater numbers under the lofty

arch of the entrance, over which the splendid quadrigæ of Lysias seemed

to bear Apollo and Diana into space. Lygia’s eyes were struck by that

magnificence, of which the modest house of Aulus could not have given

her the slightest idea. It was sunset; the last rays were falling on the

yellow Numidian marble of the columns, which shone like gold in those

gleams and changed into rose color also. Among the columns, at the

side of white statues of the Danaides and others, representing gods or

heroes, crowds of people flowed past,--men and women; resembling statues

also, for they were draped in togas, pepluses, and robes, falling with

grace and beauty toward the earth in soft folds, on which the rays of

the setting sun were expiring. A gigantic Hercules, with head in the

light yet, from the breast down sunk in shadow cast by the columns,

looked from above on that throng. Acte showed Lygia senators in

wide-bordered togas, in colored tunics, in sandals with crescents on

them, and knights, and famed artists; she showed her Roman ladies, in

Roman, in Grecian, in fantastic Oriental costume, with hair dressed in

towers or pyramids, or dressed like that of the statues of goddesses,

low on the head, and adorned with flowers. Many men and women did Acte

call by name, adding to their names histories, brief and sometimes

terrible, which pierced Lygia with fear, amazement, and wonder. For her

this was a strange world, whose beauty intoxicated her eyes, but whose

contrasts her girlish understanding could not grasp. In those twilights

of the sky, in those rows of motionless columns vanishing in the

distance, and in those statuesque people, there was a certain lofty

repose. It seemed that in the midst of those marbles of simple lines

demigods might live free of care, at peace and in happiness. Meanwhile

the low voice of Acte disclosed, time after time, a new and dreadful

secret of that palace and those people. See, there at a distance is the

covered portico on whose columns and floor are still visible red stains

from the blood with which Caligula sprinkled the white marble when he

fell beneath the knife of Cassius Chærea; there his wife was slain;

there his child was dashed against a stone; under that wing is the

dungeon in which the younger Drusus gnawed his hands from hunger; there

the elder Drusus was poisoned; there Gemellus quivered in terror, and

Claudius in convulsions; there Germanicus suffered,--everywhere those

walls had heard the groans and death-rattle of the dying; and those

people hurrying now to the feast in togas, in colored tunics, in

flowers, and in jewels, may be the condemned of to-morrow; on more than

one face, perhaps, a smile conceals terror, alarm, the uncertainty of

the next day; perhaps feverishness, greed, envy are gnawing at this

moment into the hearts of those crowned demigods, who in appearance

are free of care. Lygia’s frightened thoughts could not keep pace with

Acte’s words; and when that wonderful world attracted her eyes with

increasing force, her heart contracted within her from fear, and in

her soul she struggled with an immense, inexpressible yearning for the

beloved Pomponia Græcina, and the calm house of Aulus, in which love,

and not crime, was the ruling power.

Meanwhile new waves of guests were flowing in from the Vicus Apollinis.

From beyond the gates came the uproar and shouts of clients, escorting

their patrons. The courtyard and the colonnades were swarming with the

multitude of Cæsar’s slaves, of both sexes, small boys, and pretorian

soldiers, who kept guard in the palace. Here and there among dark or

swarthy visages was the black face of a Numidian, in a feathered helmet,

and with large gold rings in his ears. Some were bearing lutes and

citharas, hand lamps of gold, silver, and bronze, and bunches of

flowers, reared artificially despite the late autumn season. Louder and

louder the sound of conversation was mingled with the splashing of the

fountain, the rosy streams of which fell from above on the marble and

were broken, as if in sobs.

Acte had stopped her narration; but Lygia gazed at the throng, as if

searching for some one. All at once her face was covered with a blush,

and from among the columns came forth Vinicius with Petronius. They

went to the great triclinium, beautiful, calm, like white gods, in their

togas. It seemed to Lygia, when she saw those two known and friendly

faces among strange people, and especially when she saw Vinicius, that

a great weight had fallen from her heart. She felt less alone. That

measureless yearning for Pomponia and the house of Aulus, which had

broken out in her a little while before, ceased at once to be painful.

The desire to see Vinicius and to talk with him drowned in her other

voices. In vain did she remember all the evil which she had heard of the

house of Cæsar, the words of Acte, the warnings of Pomponia; in spite of

those words and warnings, she felt all at once that not only must she be

at that feast, but that she wished to be there. At the thought that soon

she would hear that dear and pleasant voice, which had spoken of love to

her and of happiness worthy of the gods, and which was sounding like a

song in her ears yet, delight seized her straightway.

But the next moment she feared that delight. It seemed to her that she

would be false to the pure teaching in which she had been reared, false

to Pomponia, and false to herself. It is one thing to go by constraint,

and another to delight in such a necessity. She felt guilty, unworthy,

and ruined.

Despair swept her away, and she wanted to weep. Had she been alone, she

would have knelt down and beaten her breast, saying, “Mea culpa! mea

culpa!” Acte, taking her hand at that moment, led her through the

interior apartments to the grand triclinium, where the feast was to

be. Darkness was in her eyes, and a roaring in her ears from internal

emotion; the beating of her heart stopped her breath. As in a dream, she

saw thousands of lamps gleaming on the tables and on the walls; as in

a dream, she heard the shout with which the guests greeted Cæsar; as

through a mist, she saw Cæsar himself. The shout deafened her, the

glitter dazzled, the odors intoxicated; and, losing the remnant of her

consciousness, she was barely able to recognize Acte, who seated her at

the table and took a place at her side.

But after a while a low and known voice was heard at the other side,--“A

greeting, most beautiful of maidens on earth and of stars in heaven. A

greeting to thee, divine Callina!”

Lygia, having recovered somewhat, looked up; at her side was Vinicius.

He was without a toga, for convenience and custom had enjoined to cast

aside the toga at feasts. His body was covered with only a sleeveless

scarlet tunic embroidered in silver palms. His bare arms were ornamented

in Eastern fashion with two broad golden bands fastened above the elbow;

below they were carefully stripped of hair. They were smooth, but too

muscular,--real arms of a soldier, they were made for the sword and the

shield. On his head was a garland of roses. With brows joining above the

nose, with splendid eyes and a dark complexion, he was the impersonation

of youth and strength, as it were. To Lygia he seemed so beautiful

that though her first amazement had passed, she was barely able to

answer,--“A greeting, Marcus.”

“Happy,” said he, “are my eyes, which see thee; happy my ears, which

hear thy voice, dearer to me than the sound of lutes or citharas. Were

it commanded me to choose who was to rest here by my side at this feast,

thou, Lygia, or Venus, I would choose thee, divine one!”

And he looked at the maiden as if he wished to sate himself with the

sight of her, to burn her eyes with his eyes. His glance slipped from

her face to her neck and bare arms, fondled her shapely outlines,

admired her, embraced her, devoured her; but besides desire, there was

gleaming in him happiness, admiration, and ecstasy beyond limit.

“I knew that I should see thee in Cæsar’s house,” continued he; “but

still, when I saw thee, such delight shook my whole soul, as if a

happiness entirely unexpected had met me.”

Lygia, having recovered herself and feeling that in that throng and in

that house he was the only being who was near to her, began to converse

with him, and ask about everything which she did not understand and

which filled her with fear. Whence did he know that he would find her in

Cæsar’s house? Why is she there? Why did Cæsar take her from Pomponia?

She is full of fear where she is, and wishes to return to Pomponia. She

would die from alarm and grief were it not for the hope that Petronius

and he will intercede for her before Cæsar.

Vinicius explained that he learned from Aulus himself that she had been

taken. Why she is there, he knows not. Cæsar gives account to no one of

his orders and commands. But let her not fear. He, Vinicius, is near her

and will stay near her. He would rather lose his eyes than not see her;

he would rather lose his life than desert her. She is his soul, and

hence he will guard her as his soul. In his house he will build to her,

as to a divinity, an altar on which he will offer myrrh and aloes,

and in spring saffron and apple-blossoms; and since she has a dread of

Cæsar’s house, he promises that she shall not stay in it.

And though he spoke evasively and at times invented, truth was to

be felt in his voice, because his feelings were real. Genuine pity

possessed him, too, and her words went to his soul so thoroughly that

when she began to thank him and assure him that Pomponia would love him

for his goodness, and that she herself would be grateful to him all

her life, he could not master his emotion, and it seemed to him that

he would never be able in life to resist her prayer. The heart began to

melt in him. Her beauty intoxicated his senses, and he desired her;

but at the same time he felt that she was very dear to him, and that

in truth he might do homage to her, as to a divinity; he felt also

irresistible need of speaking of her beauty and of his own homage. As

the noise at the feast increased, he drew nearer to her, whispered kind,

sweet words flowing from the depth of his soul, words as resonant as

music and intoxicating as wine.

And he intoxicated her. Amid those strange people he seemed to her ever

nearer, ever dearer, altogether true, and devoted with his whole soul.

He pacified her; he promised to rescue her from the house of Cæsar; he

promised not to desert her, and said that he would serve her. Besides,

he had spoken before at Aulus’s only in general about love and the

happiness which it can give; but now he said directly that he loved her,

and that she was dear and most precious to him. Lygia heard such words

from a man’s lips for the first time; and as she heard them it seemed

to her that something was wakening in her as from a sleep, that some

species of happiness was embracing her in which immense delight was

mingled with immense alarm. Her cheeks began to burn, her heart to beat,

her mouth opened as in wonder. She was seized with fear because she was

listening to such things, still she did not wish for any cause on earth

to lose one word. At moments she dropped her eyes; then again she raised

her clear glance to Vinicius, timid and also inquiring, as if she wished

to say to him, “Speak on!” The sound of the music, the odor of flowers

and of Arabian perfumes, began to daze her. In Rome it was the custom to

recline at banquets, but at home Lygia occupied a place between Pomponia

and little Aulus. Now Vinicius was reclining near her, youthful,

immense, in love, burning; and she, feeling the heat that issued from

him, felt both delight and shame. A kind of sweet weakness, a kind of

faintness and forgetfulness seized her; it was as if drowsiness tortured

her.

But her nearness to him began to act on Vinicius also. His nostrils

dilated, like those of an Eastern steed. The beating of his heart with

unusual throb was evident under his scarlet tunic; his breathing grew

short, and the expressions that fell from his lips were broken. For the

first time, too, he was so near her. His thoughts grew disturbed; he

felt a flame in his veins which he tried in vain to quench with wine.

Not wine, but her marvellous face, her bare arms, her maiden breast

heaving under the golden tunic, and her form hidden in the white folds

of the peplus, intoxicated him more and more. Finally, he seized her arm

above the wrist, as he had done once at Aulus’s, and drawing her toward

him whispered, with trembling lips,--“I love thee, Callina,--divine

one.”

“Let me go, Marcus,” said Lygia.

But he continued, his eyes mist-covered, “Love me, my goddess!”

But at that moment was heard the voice of Acte, who was reclining on the

other side of Lygia.

“Cæsar is looking at you both.”

Vinicius was carried away by sudden anger at Cæsar and at Acte. Her

words had broken the charm of his intoxication. To the young man even

a friendly voice would have seemed repulsive at such a moment, but he

judged that Acte wished purposely to interrupt his conversation with

Lygia. So, raising his head and looking over the shoulder of Lygia at

the young freedwoman, he said with malice:

“The hour has passed, Acte, when thou didst recline near Cæsar’s side

at banquets, and they say that blindness is threatening thee; how then

canst thou see him?”

But she answered as if in sadness: “Still I see him. He, too, has short

sight, and is looking at thee through an emerald.”

Everything that Nero did roused attention, even in those nearest

him; hence Vinicius was alarmed. He regained self-control, and began

imperceptibly to look toward Cæsar. Lygia, who, embarrassed at the

beginning of the banquet, had seen Nero as in a mist, and afterward,

occupied by the presence and conversation of Vinicius, had not looked at

him at all, turned to him eyes at once curious and terrified.

Acte spoke truly. Cæsar had bent over the table, half-closed one eye,

and holding before the other a round polished emerald, which he used,

was looking at them. For a moment his glance met Lygia’s eyes, and the

heart of the maiden was straitened with terror. When still a child on

Aulus’s Sicilian estate, an old Egyptian slave had told her of dragons

which occupied dens in the mountains, and it seemed to her now that all

at once the greenish eye of such a monster was gazing at her. She caught

at Vinicius’s hand as a frightened child would, and disconnected, quick

impressions pressed into her head: Was not that he, the terrible, the

all-powerful? She had not seen him hitherto, and she thought that he

looked differently. She had imagined some kind of ghastly face, with

malignity petrified in its features; now she saw a great head, fixed on

a thick neck, terrible, it is true, but almost ridiculous, for from a

distance it resembled the head of a child. A tunic of amethyst color,

forbidden to ordinary mortals, cast a bluish tinge on his broad and

short face. He had dark hair, dressed, in the fashion introduced by

Otho, in four curls.

He had no beard, because he had sacrificed it recently to Jove,--for

which all Rome gave him thanks, though people whispered to each other

that he had sacrificed it because his beard, like that of his whole

family, was red. In his forehead, projecting strongly above his

brows, there remained something Olympian. In his contracted brows the

consciousness of supreme power was evident; but under that forehead of

a demigod was the face of a monkey, a drunkard, and a comedian,--vain,

full of changing desires, swollen with fat, notwithstanding his youth;

besides, it was sickly and foul. To Lygia he seemed ominous, but above

all repulsive.

After a while he laid down the emerald and ceased to look at her. Then

she saw his prominent blue eyes, blinking before the excess of light,

glassy, without thought, resembling the eyes of the dead.

“Is that the hostage with whom Vinicius is in love?” asked he, turning

to Petronius.

“That is she,” answered Petronius.

“What are her people called?”

“The Lygians.”

“Does Vinicius think her beautiful?”

“Array a rotten olive trunk in the peplus of a woman, and Vinicius will

declare it beautiful. But on thy countenance, incomparable judge, I read

her sentence already. Thou hast no need to pronounce it! The sentence is

true: she is too dry, thin, a mere blossom on a slender stalk; and thou,

O divine æsthete, esteemest the stalk in a woman. Thrice and four times

art thou right! The face alone does not signify. I have learned much in

thy company, but even now I have not a perfect cast of the eye. But I am

ready to lay a wager with Tullius Senecio concerning his mistress, that,

although at a feast, when all are reclining, it is difficult to judge

the whole form, thou hast said in thy mind already, ‘Too narrow in the

hips.’”

“Too narrow in the hips,” answered Nero, blinking.

On Petronius’s lips appeared a scarcely perceptible smile; but Tullius

Senecio, who till that moment was occupied in conversing with Vestinius,

or rather in reviling dreams, while Vestinius believed in them, turned

to Petronius, and though he had not the least idea touching that of

which they were talking, he said,--“Thou art mistaken! I hold with

Cæsar.”

“Very well,” answered Petronius. “I have just maintained that thou hast

a glimmer of understanding, but Cæsar insists that thou art an ass pure

and simple.”

“Habet!” said Cæsar, laughing, and turning down the thumb, as was done

in the Circus, in sign that the gladiator had received a blow and was to

be finished.

But Vestinius, thinking that the question was of dreams,

exclaimed,--“But I believe in dreams, and Seneca told me on a time that

he believes too.”

“Last night I dreamt that I had become a vestal virgin,” said Calvia

Crispinilla, bending over the table.

At this Nero clapped his hands, other followed, and in a moment clapping

of hands was heard all around,--for Crispinilla had been divorced

a number of times, and was known throughout Rome for her fabulous

debauchery.

But she, not disconcerted in the least, said,--“Well! They are all old

and ugly. Rubria alone has a human semblance, and so there would be two

of us, though Rubria gets freckles in summer.”

“But admit, purest Calvia,” said Petronius, “that thou couldst become a

vestal only in dreams.”

“But if Cæsar commanded?”

“I should believe that even the most impossible dreams might come true.”

“But they do come true,” said Vestinius. “I understand those who do not

believe in the gods, but how is it possible not to believe in dreams?”

“But predictions?” inquired Nero. “It was predicted once to me, that

Rome would cease to exist, and that I should rule the whole Orient.”

“Predictions and dreams are connected,” said Vestinius. “Once a certain

proconsul, a great disbeliever, sent a slave to the temple of Mopsus

with a sealed letter which he would not let any one open; he did this

to try if the god could answer the question contained in the letter. The

slave slept a night in the temple to have a prophetic dream; he returned

then and said: ‘I saw a youth in my dreams; he was as bright as the sun,

and spoke only one word, “Black.”’ The proconsul, when he heard this,

grew pale, and turning to his guests, disbelievers like himself, said:

‘Do ye know what was in the letter?’” Here Vestinius stopped, and,

raising his goblet with wine, began to drink.

“What was in the letter?” asked Senecio.

“In the letter was the question: ‘What is the color of the bull which I

am to sacrifice: white or black?’”

But the interest roused by the narrative was interrupted by Vitelius,

who, drunk when he came to the feast, burst forth on a sudden and

without cause in senseless laughter.

“What is that keg of tallow laughing at?” asked Nero.

“Laughter distinguishes men from animals,” said Petronius, “and he has

no other proof that he is not a wild boar.”

Vitelius stopped half-way in his laughter, and smacking his lips,

shining from fat and sauces, looked at those present with as much

astonishment as if he had never seen them before; then he raised his two

hands, which were like cushions, and said in a hoarse voice,--“The ring

of a knight has fallen from my finger, and it was inherited from my

father.”

“Who was a tailor,” added Nero.

But Vitelius burst forth again in unexpected laughter, and began to

search for his ring in the peplus of Calvia Crispinilla.

Hereupon Vestinius fell to imitating the cries of a frightened woman.

Nigidia, a friend of Calvia,--a young widow with the face of a child

and the eyes of a wanton,--said aloud,--“He is seeking what he has not

lost.”

“And which will be useless to him if he finds it,” finished the poet

Lucan.

The feast grew more animated. Crowds of slaves bore around successive

courses; from great vases filled with snow and garlanded with

ivy, smaller vessels with various kinds of wine were brought forth

unceasingly. All drank freely. On the guests, roses fell from the

ceiling at intervals.

Petronius entreated Nero to dignify the feast with his song before the

guests drank too deeply. A chorus of voices supported his words, but

Nero refused at first. It was not a question of courage alone, he said,

though that failed him always. The gods knew what efforts every success

cost him. He did not avoid them, however, for it was needful to do

something for art; and besides, if Apollo had gifted him with a certain

voice, it was not proper to let divine gifts be wasted. He understood,

even, that it was his duty to the State not to let them be wasted. But

that day he was really hoarse. In the night he had placed leaden weights

on his chest, but that had not helped in any way. He was thinking even

to go to Antium, to breathe the sea air.

Lucan implored him in the name of art and humanity. All knew that the

divine poet and singer had composed a new hymn to Venus, compared with

which Lucretius’s hymn was as the howl of a yearling wolf. Let that

feast be a genuine feast. So kind a ruler should not cause such tortures

to his subjects. “Be not cruel, O Cæsar!”

“Be not cruel!” repeated all who were sitting near.

Nero spread his hands in sign that he had to yield. All faces assumed

then an expression of gratitude, and all eyes were turned to him; but he

gave command first to announce to Poppæa that he would sing; he informed

those present that she had not come to the feast, because she did not

feel in good health; but since no medicine gave her such relief as his

singing, he would be sorry to deprive her of this opportunity.

In fact, Poppæa came soon. Hitherto she had ruled Nero as if he had

been her subject, but she knew that when his vanity as a singer, a

charioteer, or a poet was involved, there was danger in provoking it.

She came in therefore, beautiful as a divinity, arrayed, like Nero,

in robes of amethyst color, and wearing a necklace of immense pearls,

stolen on a time from Massinissa; she was golden-haired, sweet, and

though divorced from two husbands she had the face and the look of a

virgin.

She was greeted with shouts, and the appellation “Divine Augusta.” Lygia

had never seen any one so beautiful, and she could not believe her own

eyes, for she knew that Poppæa Sabina was one of the vilest women on

earth. She knew from Pomponia that she had brought Cæsar to murder his

mother and his wife; she knew her from accounts given by Aulus’s guests

and the servants; she had heard that statues to her had been thrown

down at night in the city; she had heard of inscriptions, the writers

of which had been condemned to severest punishment, but which still

appeared on the city walls every morning. Yet at sight of the notorious

Poppæa, considered by the confessors of Christ as crime and evil

incarnate, it seemed to her that angels or spirits of heaven might look

like her. She was unable simply to take her eyes from Poppæa; and from

her lips was wrested involuntarily the question,--“Ah, Marcus, can it be

possible?”

But he, roused by wine, and as it were impatient that so many things

had scattered her attention, and taken her from him and his words,

said,--“Yes, she is beautiful, but thou art a hundred times more

beautiful. Thou dost not know thyself, or thou wouldst be in love with

thyself, as Narcissus was; she bathes in asses’ milk, but Venus bathed

thee in her own milk. Thou dost not know thyself, Ocelle mi! Look not at

her. Turn thy eyes to me, Ocelle mi! Touch this goblet of wine with thy

lips, and I will put mine on the same place.”

And he pushed up nearer and nearer, and she began to withdraw toward

Acte. But at that moment silence was enjoined because Cæsar had risen.

The singer Diodorus had given him a lute of the kind called delta;

another singer named Terpnos, who had to accompany him in playing,

approached with an instrument called the nablium. Nero, resting the

delta on the table, raised his eyes; and for a moment silence reigned in

the triclinium, broken only by a rustle, as roses fell from the ceiling.

Then he began to chant, or rather to declaim, singingly and

rhythmically, to the accompaniment of the two lutes, his own hymn to

Venus. Neither the voice, though somewhat injured, nor the verses were

bad, so that reproaches of conscience took possession of Lygia again;

for the hymn, though glorifying the impure pagan Venus, seemed to her

more than beautiful, and Cæsar himself, with a laurel crown on his head

and uplifted eyes, nobler, much less terrible, and less repulsive than

at the beginning of the feast.

The guests answered with a thunder of applause. Cries of, “Oh, heavenly

voice!” were heard round about; some of the women raised their hands,

and held them thus, as a sign of delight, even after the end of the

hymn; others wiped their tearful eyes; the whole hall was seething as in

a beehive. Poppæa, bending her golden-haired head, raised Nero’s hand

to her lips, and held it long in silence. Pythagoras, a young Greek

of marvellous beauty,--the same to whom later the half-insane Nero

commanded the flamens to marry him, with the observance of all

rites,--knelt now at his feet.

But Nero looked carefully at Petronius, whose praises were desired by

him always before every other, and who said,--“If it is a question of

music, Orpheus must at this moment be as yellow from envy as Lucan,

who is here present; and as to the verses, I am sorry that they are not

worse; if they were I might find proper words to praise them.”

Lucan did not take the mention of envy evil of him; on the contrary, he

looked at Petronius with gratitude, and, affecting ill-humor, began to

murmur,--“Cursed fate, which commanded me to live contemporary with such

a poet. One might have a place in the memory of man, and on Parnassus;

but now one will quench, as a candle in sunlight.”

Petronius, who had an amazing memory, began to repeat extracts from

the hymn and cite single verses, exalt, and analyze the more beautiful

expressions. Lucan, forgetting as it were his envy before the charm of

the poetry, joined his ecstasy to Petronius’s words. On Nero’s face were

reflected delight and fathomless vanity, not only nearing stupidity, but

reaching it perfectly. He indicated to them verses which he considered

the most beautiful; and finally he began to comfort Lucan, and tell him

not to lose heart, for though whatever a man is born that he is,

the honor which people give Jove does not exclude respect for other

divinities.

Then he rose to conduct Poppæa, who, being really in ill health, wished

to withdraw. But he commanded the guests who remained to occupy their

places anew, and promised to return, In fact, he returned a little

later, to stupefy himself with the smoke of incense, and gaze at further

spectacles which he himself, Petronius, or Tigellinus had prepared for

the feast.

Again verses were read or dialogues listened to in which extravagance

took the place of wit. After that Paris, the celebrated mime,

represented the adventures of Io, the daughter of Inachus. To the

guests, and especially to Lygia, unaccustomed to such scenes, it seemed

that they were gazing at miracles and enchantment. Paris, with motions

of his hands and body, was able to express things apparently impossible

in a dance. His hands dimmed the air, creating a cloud, bright, living,

quivering, voluptuous, surrounding the half-fainting form of a maiden

shaken by a spasm of delight. That was a picture, not a dance; an

expressive picture, disclosing the secrets of love, bewitching and

shameless; and when at the end of it Corybantes rushed in and began

a bacchic dance with girls of Syria to the sounds of cithara, lutes,

drums, and cymbals,--a dance filled with wild shouts and still wilder

license,--it seemed to Lygia that living fire was burning her, and that

a thunderbolt ought to strike that house, or the ceiling fall on the

heads of those feasting there.

But from the golden net fastened to the ceiling only roses fell, and

the now half-drunken Vinicius said to her,--“I saw thee in the house of

Aulus, at the fountain. It was daylight, and thou didst think that

no one saw thee; but I saw thee. And I see thee thus yet, though that

peplus hides thee. Cast aside the peplus, like Crispinilla. See, gods

and men seek love. There is nothing in the world but love. Lay thy head

on my breast and close thy eyes.”

The pulse beat oppressively in Lygia’s hands and temples. A feeling

seized her that she was flying into some abyss, and that Vinicius, who

before had seemed so near and so trustworthy, instead of saving was

drawing her toward it. And she felt sorry for him. She began again to

dread the feast and him and herself. Some voice, like that of Pomponia,

was calling yet in her soul, “O Lygia, save thyself!” But something

told her also that it was too late; that the one whom such a flame had

embraced as that which had embraced her, the one who had seen what was

done at that feast and whose heart had beaten as hers had on hearing the

words of Vinicius, the one through whom such a shiver had passed as had

passed through her when he approached, was lost beyond recovery. She

grew weak. It seemed at moments to her that she would faint, and then

something terrible would happen. She knew that, under penalty of Cæsar’s

anger, it was not permitted any one to rise till Cæsar rose; but even

were that not the case, she had not strength now to rise.

Meanwhile it was far to the end of the feast yet. Slaves brought new

courses, and filled the goblets unceasingly with wine; before the table,

on a platform open at one side, appeared two athletes to give the guests

a spectacle of wrestling.

They began the struggle at once, and the powerful bodies, shining from

olive oil, formed one mass; bones cracked in their iron arms, and from

their set jaws came an ominous gritting of teeth. At moments was heard

the quick, dull thump of their feet on the platform strewn with saffron;

again they were motionless, silent, and it seemed to the spectators that

they had before them a group chiselled out of stone. Roman eyes followed

with delight the movement of tremendously exerted backs, thighs, and

arms. But the struggle was not too prolonged; for Croton, a master,

and the founder of a school of gladiators, did not pass in vain for the

strongest man in the empire. His opponent began to breathe more and more

quickly: next a rattle was heard in his throat; then his face grew blue;

finally he threw blood from his mouth and fell.

A thunder of applause greeted the end of the struggle, and Croton,

resting his foot on the breast of his opponent, crossed his gigantic

arms on his breast, and cast the eyes of a victor around the hall.

Next appeared men who mimicked beasts and their voices, ball-players

and buffoons. Only a few persons looked at them, however, since wine had

darkened the eyes of the audience. The feast passed by degrees into a

drunken revel and a dissolute orgy. The Syrian damsels, who appeared

at first in the bacchic dance, mingled now with the guests. The music

changed into a disordered and wild outburst of citharas, lutes, Armenian

cymbals, Egyptian sistra, trumpets, and horns. As some of the guests

wished to talk, they shouted at the musicians to disappear. The air,

filled with the odor of flowers and the perfume of oils with which

beautiful boys had sprinkled the feet of the guests during the feast,

permeated with saffron and the exhalations of people, became stifling;

lamps burned with a dim flame; the wreaths dropped sidewise on the heads

of guests; faces grew pale and were covered with sweat. Vitelius rolled

under the table. Nigidia, stripping herself to the waist, dropped

her drunken childlike head on the breast of Lucan, who, drunk in like

degree, fell to blowing the golden powder from her hair, and raising

his eyes with immense delight. Vestinius, with the stubbornness of

intoxication, repeated for the tenth time the answer of Mopsus to the

sealed letter of the proconsul. Tullius, who reviled the gods,

said, with a drawling voice broken by hiccoughs,--“If the spheros of

Xenophanes is round, then consider, such a god might be pushed along

before one with the foot, like a barrel.”

But Domitius Afer, a hardened criminal and informer, was indignant at

the discourse, and through indignation spilled Falernian over his whole

tunic. He had always believed in the gods. People say that Rome will

perish, and there are some even who contend that it is perishing

already. And surely! But if that should come, it is because the youth

are without faith, and without faith there can be no virtue. People have

abandoned also the strict habits of former days, and it never occurs

to them that Epicureans will not stand against barbarians. As for him,

he--As for him, he was sorry that he had lived to such times, and that

he must seek in pleasures a refuge against griefs which, if not met,

would soon kill him.

When he had said this, he drew toward him a Syrian dancer, and kissed

her neck and shoulders with his toothless mouth. Seeing this, the consul

Memmius Regulus laughed, and, raising his bald head with wreath awry,

exclaimed,--“Who says that Rome is perishing? What folly! I, a consul,

know better. Videant consules! Thirty legions are guarding our pax

romana!”

Here he put his fists to his temples and shouted, in a voice heard

throughout the triclinium,--“Thirty legions! thirty legions! from

Britain to the Parthian boundaries!” But he stopped on a sudden, and,

putting a finger to his forehead, said,--“As I live, I think there are

thirty-two.” He rolled under the table, and began soon to send forth

flamingo tongues, roast and chilled mushrooms, locusts in honey, fish,

meat, and everything which he had eaten or drunk.

But the number of the legions guarding Roman peace did not pacify

Domitius.

No, no! Rome must perish; for faith in the gods was lost, and so were

strict habits! Rome must perish; and it was a pity, for still life was

pleasant there. Cæsar was gracious, wine was good! Oh, what a pity!

And hiding his head on the arm of a Syrian bacchanal, he burst into

tears. “What is a future life! Achilles was right,--better be a slave

in the world beneath the sun than a king in Cimmerian regions. And

still the question whether there are any gods--since it is unbelief--is

destroying the youth.”

Lucan meanwhile had blown all the gold powder from Nigidia’s hair, and

she being drunk had fallen asleep. Next he took wreaths of ivy from

the vase before him, put them on the sleeping woman, and when he had

finished looked at those present with a delighted and inquiring glance.

He arrayed himself in ivy too, repeating, in a voice of deep conviction,

“I am not a man at all, but a faun.”

Petronius was not drunk; but Nero, who drank little at first, out of

regard for his “heavenly” voice, emptied goblet after goblet toward the

end, and was drunk. He wanted even to sing more of his verses,--this

time in Greek,--but he had forgotten them, and by mistake sang an ode of

Anacreon. Pythagoras, Diodorus, and Terpnos accompanied him; but failing

to keep time, they stopped. Nero as a judge and an æsthete was enchanted

with the beauty of Pythagoras, and fell to kissing his hands in ecstasy.

“Such beautiful hands I have seen only once, and whose were they?” Then

placing his palm on his moist forehead, he tried to remember. After a

while terror was reflected on his face.

Ah! His mother’s--Agrippina’s!

And a gloomy vision seized him forthwith.

“They say,” said he, “that she wanders by moonlight on the sea around

Baiæ and Bauli. She merely walks,--walks as if seeking for something.

When she comes near a boat, she looks at it and goes away; but the

fisherman on whom she has fixed her eye dies.”

“Not a bad theme,” said Petronius.

But Vestinius, stretching his neck like a stork, whispered

mysteriously,--“I do not believe in the gods; but I believe in

spirits--Oi!”

Nero paid no attention to their words, and continued,--“I celebrated the

Lemuria, and have no wish to see her. This is the fifth year--I had

to condemn her, for she sent assassins against me; and, had I not been

quicker than she, ye would not be listening to-night to my song.”

“Thanks be to Cæsar, in the name of the city and the world!” cried

Domitius Afer.

“Wine! and let them strike the tympans!”

The uproar began anew. Lucan, all in ivy, wishing to outshout him, rose

and cried,--“I am not a man, but a faun; and I dwell in the forest.

Eho-o-o-oo!” Cæsar drank himself drunk at last; men were drunk, and

women were drunk. Vinicius was not less drunk than others; and in

addition there was roused in him, besides desire, a wish to quarrel,

which happened always when he passed the measure. His dark face became

paler, and his tongue stuttered when he spoke, in a voice now loud and

commanding,--“Give me thy lips! To-day, to-morrow, it is all one! Enough

of this!

“Cæsar took thee from Aulus to give thee to me, dost understand?

To-morrow, about dusk, I will send for thee, dost understand? Cæsar

promised thee to me before he took thee. Thou must be mine! Give me thy

lips! I will not wait for to-morrow,--give thy lips quickly.”

And he moved to embrace her; but Acte began to defend her, and she

defended herself with the remnant of her strength, for she felt that she

was perishing. But in vain did she struggle with both hands to remove

his hairless arm; in vain, with a voice in which terror and grief were

quivering, did she implore him not to be what he was, and to have pity

on her. Sated with wine, his breath blew around her nearer and nearer,

and his face was there near her face. He was no longer the former kind

Vinicius, almost dear to her soul; he was a drunken, wicked satyr, who

filled her with repulsion and terror. But her strength deserted her

more and more. In vain did she bend and turn away her face to escape his

kisses. He rose to his feet, caught her in both arms, and drawing her

head to his breast, began, panting, to press her pale lips with his.

But at this instant a tremendous power removed his arms from her neck

with as much ease as if they had been the arms of a child, and pushed

him aside, like a dried limb or a withered leaf. What had happened?

Vinicius rubbed his astonished eyes, and saw before him the gigantic

figure of the Lygian, called Ursus, whom he had seen at the house of

Aulus.

Ursus stood calmly, but looked at Vinicius so strangely with his blue

eyes that the blood stiffened in the veins of the young man; then the

giant took his queen on his arm, and walked out of the triclinium with

an even, quiet step.

Acte in that moment went after him.

Vinicius sat for the twinkle of an eye as if petrified; then he sprang

up and ran toward the entrance crying,--“Lygia! Lygia!”

But desire, astonishment, rage, and wine cut the legs from under him.

He staggered once and a second time, seized the naked arm of one of the

bacchanals, and began to inquire, with blinking eyes, what had happened.

She, taking a goblet of wine, gave it to him with a smile in her

mist-covered eyes.

“Drink!” said she.

Vinicius drank, and fell to the floor.

The greater number of the guests were lying under the table; others were

walking with tottering tread through the triclinium, while others were

sleeping on couches at the table, snoring, or giving forth the excess

of wine. Meanwhile, from the golden network, roses were dropping

and dropping on those drunken consuls and senators, on those drunken

knights, philosophers, and poets, on those drunken dancing damsels and

patrician ladies, on that society all dominant as yet but with the soul

gone from it, on that society garlanded and ungirdled but perishing.

Dawn had begun out of doors.

Chapter VIII

No one stopped Ursus, no one inquired even what he was doing. Those

guests who were not under the table had not kept their own places; hence

the servants, seeing a giant carrying a guest on his arm, thought him

some slave bearing out his intoxicated mistress. Moreover, Acte was with

them, and her presence removed all suspicion.

In this way they went from the triclinium to the adjoining chamber, and

thence to the gallery leading to Acte’s apartments. To such a degree

had her strength deserted Lygia, that she hung as if dead on the arm of

Ursus. But when the cool, pure breeze of morning beat around her, she

opened her eyes. It was growing clearer and clearer in the open air.

After they had passed along the colonnade awhile, they turned to a side

portico, coming out, not in the courtyard, but the palace gardens, where

the tops of the pines and cypresses were growing ruddy from the light

of morning. That part of the building was empty, so that echoes of music

and sounds of the feast came with decreasing distinctness. It seemed to

Lygia that she had been rescued from hell, and borne into God’s bright

world outside. There was something, then, besides that disgusting

triclinium. There was the sky, the dawn, light, and peace. Sudden

weeping seized the maiden, and, taking shelter on the arm of the giant,

she repeated, with sobbing,--“Let us go home, Ursus! home, to the house

of Aulus.”

“Let us go!” answered Ursus.

They found themselves now in the small atrium of Acte’s apartments.

Ursus placed Lygia on a marble bench at a distance from the fountain.

Acte strove to pacify her; she urged her to sleep, and declared that

for the moment there was no danger,--after the feast the drunken guests

would sleep till evening. For a long time Lygia could not calm

herself, and, pressing her temples with both hands, she repeated like a

child,--“Let us go home, to the house of Aulus!”

Ursus was ready. At the gates stood pretorians, it is true, but he

would pass them. The soldiers would not stop out-going people. The space

before the arch was crowded with litters. Guests were beginning to go

forth in throngs. No one would detain them. They would pass with the

crowd and go home directly. For that matter, what does he care? As the

queen commands, so must it be. He is there to carry out her orders.

“Yes, Ursus,” said Lygia, “let us go.”

Acte was forced to find reason for both. They would pass out, true; no

one would stop them. But it is not permitted to flee from the house of

Cæsar; whoso does that offends Cæsar’s majesty. They may go; but in the

evening a centurion at the head of soldiers will take a death sentence

to Aulus and Pomponia Græcina; they will bring Lygia to the palace

again, and then there will be no rescue for her. Should Aulus and his

wife receive her under their roof, death awaits them to a certainty.

Lygia’s arms dropped. There was no other outcome. She must choose her

own ruin or that of Plautius. In going to the feast, she had hoped

that Vinicius and Petronius would win her from Cæsar, and return her to

Pomponia; now she knew that it was they who had brought Cæsar to remove

her from the house of Aulus. There was no help. Only a miracle could

save her from the abyss,--a miracle and the might of God.

“Acte,” said she, in despair, “didst thou hear Vinicius say that Cæsar

had given me to him, and that he will send slaves here this evening to

take me to his house?”

“I did,” answered Acte; and, raising her arms from her side, she was

silent. The despair with which Lygia spoke found in her no echo. She

herself had been Nero’s favorite. Her heart, though good, could not feel

clearly the shame of such a relation. A former slave, she had grown too

much inured to the law of slavery; and, besides, she loved Nero yet. If

he returned to her, she would stretch her arms to him, as to happiness.

Comprehending clearly that Lygia must become the mistress of the

youthful and stately Vinicius, or expose Aulus and Pomponia to ruin, she

failed to understand how the girl could hesitate.

“In Cæsar’s house,” said she, after a while, “it would not be safer for

thee than in that of Vinicius.”

And it did not occur to her that, though she told the truth, her words

meant, “Be resigned to fate and become the concubine of Vinicius.”

As to Lygia, who felt on her lips yet his kisses, burning as coals and

full of beastly desire, the blood rushed to her face with shame at the

mere thought of them.

“Never,” cried she, with an outburst, “will I remain here, or at the

house of Vinicius,--never!”

“But,” inquired Acte, “is Vinicius hateful to thee?”

Lygia was unable to answer, for weeping seized her anew. Acte gathered

the maiden to her bosom, and strove to calm her excitement. Ursus

breathed heavily, and balled his giant fists; for, loving his queen with

the devotion of a dog, he could not bear the sight of her tears. In his

half-wild Lygian heart was the wish to return to the triclinium, choke

Vinicius, and, should the need come, Cæsar himself; but he feared to

sacrifice thereby his mistress, and was not certain that such an

act, which to him seemed very simple, would befit a confessor of the

Crucified Lamb.

But Acte, while caressing Lygia, asked again, “Is he so hateful to

thee?”

“No,” said Lygia; “it is not permitted me to hate, for I am a

Christian.”

“I know, Lygia. I know also from the letters of Paul of Tarsus, that it

is not permitted to defile one’s self, nor to fear death more than sin;

but tell me if thy teaching permits one person to cause the death of

others?”

“No.”

“Then how canst thou bring Cæsar’s vengeance on the house of Aulus?”

A moment of silence followed. A bottomless abyss yawned before Lygia

again.

“I ask,” continued the young freedwoman, “for I have compassion on

thee--and I have compassion on the good Pomponia and Aulus, and on their

child. It is long since I began to live in this house, and I know what

Cæsar’s anger is. No! thou art not at liberty to flee from here. One way

remains to thee: implore Vinicius to return thee to Pomponia.”

But Lygia dropped on her knees to implore some one else. Ursus knelt

down after a while, too, and both began to pray in Cæsar’s house at the

morning dawn.

Acte witnessed such a prayer for the first time, and could not take her

eyes from Lygia, who, seen by her in profile, with raised hands, and

face turned heavenward, seemed to implore rescue. The dawn, casting

light on her dark hair and white peplus, was reflected in her eyes.

Entirely in the light, she seemed herself like light. In that pale

face, in those parted lips, in those raised hands and eyes, a kind of

superhuman exaltation was evident. Acte understood then why Lygia could

not become the concubine of any man. Before the face of Nero’s former

favorite was drawn aside, as it were, a corner of that veil which hides

a world altogether different from that to which she was accustomed. She

was astonished by prayer in that abode of crime and infamy. A moment

earlier it had seemed to her that there was no rescue for Lygia; now she

began to think that something uncommon would happen, that some aid would

come,--aid so mighty that Cæsar himself would be powerless to resist it;

that some winged army would descend from the sky to help that maiden, or

that the sun would spread its rays beneath her feet and draw her up to

itself. She had heard of many miracles among Christians, and she thought

now that everything said of them was true, since Lygia was praying.

Lygia rose at last, with a face serene with hope. Ursus rose too, and,

holding to the bench, looked at his mistress, waiting for her words.

But it grew dark in her eyes, and after a time two great tears rolled

down her checks slowly.

“May God bless Pomponia and Aulus,” said she. “It is not permitted me to

bring ruin on them; therefore I shall never see them again.”

Then turning to Ursus she said that he alone remained to her in the

world; that he must be to her as a protector and a father. They could

not seek refuge in the house of Aulus, for they would bring on it the

anger of Cæsar. But neither could she remain in the house of Cæsar or

that of Vinicius. Let Ursus take her then; let him conduct her out of

the city; let him conceal her in some place where neither Vinicius

nor his servants could find her. She would follow Ursus anywhere, even

beyond the sea, even beyond the mountains, to the barbarians, where the

Roman name was not heard, and whither the power of Cæsar did not reach.

Let him take her and save her, for he alone had remained to her.

The Lygian was ready, and in sign of obedience he bent to her feet

and embraced them. But on the face of Acte, who had been expecting a

miracle, disappointment was evident. Had the prayer effected only that

much? To flee from the house of Cæsar is to commit an offence against

majesty which must be avenged; and even if Lygia succeeded in hiding,

Cæsar would avenge himself on Aulus and Pomponia. If she wishes to

escape, let her escape from the house of Vinicius. Then Cæsar, who does

not like to occupy himself with the affairs of others, may not wish even

to aid Vinicius in the pursuit; in every case it will not be a crime

against majesty.

But Lygia’s thoughts were just the following: Aulus would not even know

where she was; Pomponia herself would not know. She would escape not

from the house of Vinicius, however, but while on the way to it. When

drunk, Vinicius had said that he would send his slaves for her in the

evening. Beyond doubt he had told the truth, which he would not

have done had he been sober. Evidently he himself, or perhaps he and

Petronius, had seen Cæsar before the feast, and won from him the promise

to give her on the following evening. And if they forgot that day, they

would send for her on the morrow. But Ursus will save her. He will come;

he will bear her out of the litter as he bore her out of the triclinium,

and they will go into the world. No one could resist Ursus, not even

that terrible athlete who wrestled at the feast yesterday. But as

Vinicius might send a great number of slaves, Ursus would go at once

to Bishop Linus for aid and counsel. The bishop will take compassion

on her, will not leave her in the hands of Vinicius; he will command

Christians to go with Ursus to rescue her. They will seize her and bear

her away; then Ursus can take her out of the city and hide her from the

power of Rome.

And her face began to flush and smile. Consolation entered her anew, as

if the hope of rescue had turned to reality. She threw herself on Acte’s

neck suddenly, and, putting her beautiful lips to Acte’s cheek, she

whispered:

“Thou wilt not betray, Acte, wilt thou?”

“By the shade of my mother,” answered the freedwoman, “I will not; but

pray to thy God that Ursus be able to bear thee away.”

The blue, childlike eyes of the giant were gleaming with happiness. He

had not been able to frame any plan, though he had been breaking his

poor head; but a thing like this he could do,--and whether in the day or

in the night it was all one to him! He would go to the bishop, for the

bishop can read in the sky what is needed and what is not. Besides,

he could assemble Christians himself. Are his acquaintances few among

slaves, gladiators, and free people, both in the Subura and beyond the

bridges? He can collect a couple of thousand of them. He will rescue his

lady, and take her outside the city, and he can go with her. They will

go to the end of the world, even to that place from which they had come,

where no one has heard of Rome.

Here he began to look forward, as if to see things in the future and

very distant.

“To the forest? Ai, what a forest, what a forest!”

But after a while he shook himself out of his visions. Well, he will go

to the bishop at once, and in the evening will wait with something like

a hundred men for the litter. And let not slaves, but even pretorians,

take her from him! Better for any man not to come under his fist, even

though in iron armor,--for is iron so strong? When he strikes iron

earnestly, the head underneath will not survive.

But Lygia raised her finger with great and also childlike seriousness.

“Ursus, do not kill,” said she.

Ursus put his fist, which was like a maul, to the back of his head, and,

rubbing his neck with great seriousness, began to mutter. But he must

rescue “his light.” She herself had said that his turn had come. He will

try all he can. But if something happens in spite of him? In every case

he must save her. But should anything happen, he will repent, and so

entreat the Innocent Lamb that the Crucified Lamb will have mercy on

him, poor fellow. He has no wish to offend the Lamb; but then his hands

are so heavy.

Great tenderness was expressed on his face; but wishing to hide it, he

bowed and said,--“Now I will go to the holy bishop.”

Acte put her arms around Lygia’s neck, and began to weep. Once more the

freedwoman understood that there was a world in which greater happiness

existed, even in suffering, than in all the excesses and luxury of

Cæsar’s house. Once more a kind of door to the light was opened a little

before her, but she felt at once that she was unworthy to pass through

it.

Chapter IX

LYGIA was grieved to lose Pomponia Græcina, whom she loved with her

whole soul, and she grieved for the household of Aulus; still her

despair passed away. She felt a certain delight even in the thought that

she was sacrificing plenty and comfort for her Truth, and was entering

on an unknown and wandering existence. Perhaps there was in this a

little also of childish curiosity as to what that life would be, off

somewhere in remote regions, among wild beasts and barbarians. But there

was still more a deep and trusting faith, that by acting thus she was

doing as the Divine Master had commanded, and that henceforth He Himself

would watch over her, as over an obedient and faithful child. In such a

case what harm could meet her? If sufferings come, she will endure them

in His name. If sudden death comes, He will take her; and some time,

when Pomponia dies, they will be together for all eternity. More than

once when she was in the house of Aulus, she tortured her childish head

because she, a Christian, could do nothing for that Crucified, of whom

Ursus spoke with such tenderness. But now the moment had come. Lygia

felt almost happy, and began to speak of her happiness to Acte, who

could not understand her, however. To leave everything,--to leave

house, wealth, the city, gardens, temples, porticos, everything that

is beautiful; leave a sunny land and people near to one--and for what

purpose? To hide from the love of a young and stately knight. In Acte’s

head these things could not find place. At times she felt that Lygia’s

action was right, that there must be some immense mysterious happiness

in it; but she could not give a clear account to herself of the matter,

especially since an adventure was before Lygia which might have an evil

ending,--an adventure in which she might lose her life simply. Acte was

timid by nature, and she thought with dread of what the coming evening

might bring. But she was loath to mention her fears to Lygia; meanwhile,

as the day was clear and the sun looked into the atrium, she began to

persuade her to take the rest needed after a night without sleep. Lygia

did not refuse; and both went to the cubiculum, which was spacious and

furnished with luxury because of Acte’s former relations with Cæsar.

There they lay down side by side, but in spite of her weariness Acte

could not sleep. For a long time she had been sad and unhappy, but now

she was seized by a certain uneasiness which she had never felt before.

So far life had seemed to her simply grievous and deprived of a morrow;

now all at once it seemed to her dishonorable.

Increasing chaos rose in her head. Again the door to light began to open

and close. But in the moment when it opened, that light so dazzled her

that she could see nothing distinctly. She divined, merely, that in that

light there was happiness of some kind, happiness beyond measure, in

presence of which every other was nothing, to such a degree that if

Cæsar, for example, were to set aside Poppæa, and love her, Acte, again,

it would be vanity. Suddenly the thought came to her that that Cæsar

whom she loved, whom she held involuntarily as a kind of demigod, was as

pitiful as any slave, and that palace, with columns of Numidian marble,

no better than a heap of stones. At last, however, those feelings which

she had not power to define began to torment her; she wanted to

sleep, but being tortured by alarm she could not. Thinking that Lygia,

threatened by so many perils and uncertainties, was not sleeping either,

she turned to her to speak of her flight in the evening. But Lygia was

sleeping calmly. Into the dark cubiculum, past the curtain which was not

closely drawn, came a few bright rays, in which golden dust-motes were

playing. By the light of these rays Acte saw her delicate face, resting

on her bare arm, her closed eyes, and her mouth slightly open. She was

breathing regularly, but as people breathe while asleep.

“She sleeps,--she is able to sleep,” thought Acte. “She is a child yet.”

Still, after a while it came to her mind that that child chose to flee

rather than remain the beloved of Vinicius; she preferred want to shame,

wandering to a lordly house, to robes, jewels, and feasts, to the sound

of lutes and citharas.

“Why?”

And she gazed at Lygia, as if to find an answer in her sleeping face.

She looked at her clear forehead, at the calm arch of her brows, at

her dark tresses, at her parted lips, at her virgin bosom moved by calm

breathing; then she thought again,--“How different from me!”

Lygia seemed to her a miracle, a sort of divine vision, something

beloved of the gods, a hundred times more beautiful than all the flowers

in Cæsar’s garden, than all the statues in his palace. But in the Greek

woman’s heart there was no envy. On the contrary, at thought of the

dangers which threatened the girl, great pity seized her. A certain

motherly feeling rose in the woman. Lygia seemed to her not only as

beautiful as a beautiful vision, but also very dear, and, putting her

lips to her dark hair, she kissed it.

But Lygia slept on calmly, as if at home, under the care of Pomponia

Græcina. And she slept rather long. Midday had passed when she opened

her blue eyes and looked around the cubiculum in astonishment. Evidently

she wondered that she was not in the house of Aulus.

“That is thou, Acte?” said she at last, seeing in the darkness the face

of the Greek.

“I, Lygia.”

“Is it evening?”

“No, child; but midday has passed.”

“And has Ursus not returned?”

“Ursus did not say that he would return; he said that he would watch in

the evening, with Christians, for the litter.”

“True.”

Then they left the cubiculum and went to the bath, where Acte bathed

Lygia; then she took her to breakfast and afterward to the gardens of

the palace, in which no dangerous meeting might be feared, since Cæsar

and his principal courtiers were sleeping yet. For the first time in

her life Lygia saw those magnificent gardens, full of pines, cypresses,

oaks, olives, and myrtles, among which appeared white here and there a

whole population of statues. The mirror of ponds gleamed quietly; groves

of roses were blooming, watered with the spray of fountains; entrances

to charming grottos were encircled with a growth of ivy or woodbine;

silver-colored swans were sailing on the water; amidst statues and trees

wandered tame gazelles from the deserts of Africa, and rich-colored

birds from all known countries on earth.

The gardens were empty; but here and there slaves were working, spade in

hand, singing in an undertone; others, to whom was granted a moment

of rest, were sitting by ponds or in the shade of groves, in trembling

light produced by sun-rays breaking in between leaves; others were

watering roses or the pale lily-colored blossoms of the saffron. Acte

and Lygia walked rather long, looking at all the wonders of the gardens;

and though Lygia’s mind was not at rest, she was too much a child yet to

resist pleasure, curiosity, and wonder. It occurred to her, even, that

if Cæsar were good, he might be very happy in such a palace, in such

gardens.

But at last, tired somewhat, the two women sat down on a bench hidden

almost entirely by dense cypresses and began to talk of that which

weighed on their hearts most,--that is, of Lygia’s escape in the

evening. Acte was far less at rest than Lygia touching its success. At

times it seemed to her even a mad project, which could not succeed.

She felt a growing pity for Lygia. It seemed to her that it would be

a hundred times safer to try to act on Vinicius. After a while she

inquired of Lygia how long she had known him, and whether she did not

think that he would let himself be persuaded to return her to Pomponia.

But Lygia shook her dark head in sadness. “No. In Aulus’s house,

Vinicius had been different, he had been very kind, but since

yesterday’s feast she feared him, and would rather flee to the Lygians.”

“But in Aulus’s house,” inquired Acte, “he was dear to thee, was he

not?”

“He was,” answered Lygia, inclining her head.

“And thou wert not a slave, as I was,” said Acte, after a moment’s

thought. “Vinicius might marry thee. Thou art a hostage, and a daughter

of the Lygian king. Aulus and Pomponia love thee as their own child; I

am sure that they are ready to adopt thee. Vinicius might marry thee,

Lygia.”

But Lygia answered calmly, and with still greater sadness, “I would

rather flee to the Lygians.”

“Lygia, dost thou wish me to go directly to Vinicius, rouse him, if he

is sleeping, and tell him what I have told thee? Yes, my precious one, I

will go to him and say, ‘Vinicius, this is a king’s daughter, and a dear

child of the famous Aulus; if thou love her, return her to Aulus and

Pomponia, and take her as wife from their house.’”

But the maiden answered with a voice so low that Acte could barely hear

it,--

“I would rather flee to the Lygians.” And two tears were hanging on her

drooping lids.

Further conversation was stopped by the rustle of approaching steps, and

before Acte had time to see who was coming, Poppæa Sabina appeared in

front of the bench with a small retinue of slave women. Two of them held

over her head bunches of ostrich feathers fixed to golden wires; with

these they fanned her lightly, and at the same time protected her from

the autumn sun, which was hot yet. Before her a woman from Egypt, black

as ebony, and with bosom swollen as if from milk, bore in her arms

an infant wrapped in purple fringed with gold. Acte and Lygia rose,

thinking that Poppæa would pass the bench without turning attention to

either; but she halted before them and said,--“Acte, the bells sent by

thee for the doll were badly fastened; the child tore off one and put it

to her mouth; luckily Lilith saw it in season.”

“Pardon, divinity,” answered Acte, crossing her arms on her breast and

bending her head.

But Poppæa began to gaze at Lygia.

“What slave is this?” asked she, after a pause.

“She is not a slave, divine Augusta, but a foster child of Pomponia

Græcina, and a daughter of the Lygian king given by him as hostage to

Rome.”

“And has she come to visit thee?”

“No, Augusta. She is dwelling in the palace since the day before

yesterday.”

“Was she at the feast last night?”

“She was, Augusta.”

“At whose command?”

“At Cæsar’s command.”

Poppæa looked still more attentively at Lygia, who stood with bowed

head, now raising her bright eyes to her with curiosity, now covering

them with their lids. Suddenly a frown appeared between the brows of

the Augusta. Jealous of her own beauty and power, she lived in continual

alarm lest at some time a fortunate rival might ruin her, as she had

ruined Octavia. Hence every beautiful face in the palace roused her

suspicion. With the eye of a critic she took in at once every part of

Lygia’s form, estimated every detail of her face, and was frightened.

“That is simply a nymph,” thought she, “and ‘twas Venus who gave birth

to her.” On a sudden this came to her mind which had never come before

at sight of any beauty,--that she herself had grown notably older!

Wounded vanity quivered in Poppæa, alarm seized her, and various fears

shot through her head. “Perhaps Nero has not seen the girl, or, seeing

her through the emerald, has not appreciated her. But what would happen

should he meet such a marvel in the daytime, in sunlight? Moreover she

is not a slave, she is the daughter of a king,--a king of barbarians,

it is true, but a king. Immortal gods! she is as beautiful as I am, but

younger!” The wrinkle between her brows increased, and her eyes began to

shine under their golden lashes with a cold gleam.

“Hast thou spoken with Cæsar?”

“No, Augusta.”

“Why dost thou choose to be here rather than in the house of Aulus?”

“I do not choose, lady. Petronius persuaded Cæsar to take me from

Pomponia. I am here against my will.”

“And wouldst thou return to Pomponia?”

This last question Poppæa gave with a softer and milder voice; hence a

sudden hope rose in Lygia’s heart.

“Lady,” said she, extending her hand to her, “Cæsar promised to give

me as a slave to Vinicius, but do thou intercede and return me to

Pomponia.”

“Then Petronius persuaded Cæsar to take thee from Aulus, and give thee

to Vinicius?”

“True, lady. Vinicius is to send for me to-day, but thou art good, have

compassion on me.” When she had said this, she inclined, and, seizing

the border of Poppæa’s robe, waited for her word with beating heart.

Poppæa looked at her for a while, with a face lighted by an evil smile,

and said,--“Then I promise that thou wilt become the slave of Vinicius

this day.” And she went on, beautiful as a vision, but evil. To the ears

of Lygia and Acte came only the wail of the infant, which began to cry,

it was unknown for what reason.

Lygia’s eyes too were filled with tears; but after a while she took

Acte’s hand and said,--“Let us return. Help is to be looked for only

whence it can come.” And they returned to the atrium, which they did not

leave till evening.

When darkness had come and slaves brought in tapers with great flames,

both women were very pale. Their conversation failed every moment. Both

were listening to hear if some one were coming. Lygia repeated again and

again that, though grieved to leave Acte, she preferred that all should

take place that day, as Ursus must be waiting in the dark for her then.

But her breathing grew quicker from emotion, and louder. Acte collected

feverishly such jewels as she could, and, fastening them in a corner

of Lygia’s peplus, implored her not to reject that gift and means of

escape. At moments came a deep silence full of deceptions for the ear.

It seemed to both that they heard at one time a whisper beyond the

curtain, at another the distant weeping of a child, at another the

barking of dogs.

Suddenly the curtain of the entrance moved without noise, and a tall,

dark man, his face marked with small-pox, appeared like a spirit in the

atrium. In one moment Lygia recognized Atacinus, a freedman of Vinicius,

who had visited the house of Aulus.

Acte screamed; but Atacinus bent low and said,--“A greeting, divine

Lygia, from Marcus Vinicius, who awaits thee with a feast in his house

which is decked in green.”

The lips of the maiden grew pale.

“I go,” said she.

Then she threw her arms around Acte’s neck in farewell.

Chapter X

THE house of Vinicius was indeed decked in the green of myrtle and ivy,

which had been hung on the walls and over the doors. The columns were

wreathed with grape vine. In the atrium, which was closed above by a

purple woollen cloth as protection from the night cold, it was as clear

as in daylight. Eight and twelve flamed lamps were burning; these were

like vessels, trees, animals, birds, or statues, holding cups filled

with perfumed olive oil, lamps of alabaster, marble, or gilded

Corinthian bronze, not so wonderful as that famed candlestick used by

Nero and taken from the temple of Apollo, but beautiful and made by

famous masters. Some of the lights were shaded by Alexandrian glass,

or transparent stuffs from the Indus, of red, blue, yellow, or violet

color, so that the whole atrium was filled with many colored rays.

Everywhere was given out the odor of nard, to which Vinicius had grown

used, and which he had learned to love in the Orient. The depths of the

house, in which the forms of male and female slaves were moving, gleamed

also with light. In the triclinium a table was laid for four persons.

At the feast were to sit, besides Vinicius and Lygia, Petronius

and Chrysothemis. Vinicius had followed in everything the words of

Petronius, who advised him not to go for Lygia, but to send Atacinus

with the permission obtained from Cæsar, to receive her himself in the

house, receive her with friendliness and even with marks of honor.

“Thou wert drunk yesterday,” said he; “I saw thee. Thou didst act with

her like a quarryman from the Alban Hills. Be not over-insistent, and

remember that one should drink good wine slowly. Know too that it is

sweet to desire, but sweeter to be desired.”

Chrysothemis had her own and a somewhat different opinion on this point;

but Petronius, calling her his vestal and his dove, began to explain the

difference which must exist between a trained charioteer of the Circus

and the youth who sits on the quadriga for the first time. Then, turning

to Vinicius, he continued,--“Win her confidence, make her joyful, be

magnanimous. I have no wish to see a gloomy feast. Swear to her, by

Hades even, that thou wilt return her to Pomponia, and it will be thy

affair that to-morrow she prefers to stay with thee.”

Then pointing to Chrysothemis, he added,--“For five years I have acted

thus more or less with this timid dove, and I cannot complain of her

harshness.”

Chrysothemis struck him with her fan of peacock feathers, and

said,--“But I did not resist, thou satyr!”

“Out of consideration for my predecessor--”

“But wert thou not at my feet?”

“Yes; to put rings on thy toes.”

Chrysothemis looked involuntarily at her feet, on the toes of which

diamonds were really glittering; and she and Petronius began to laugh.

But Vinicius did not give ear to their bantering. His heart was beating

unquietly under the robes of a Syrian priest, in which he had arrayed

himself to receive Lygia.

“They must have left the palace,” said he, as if in a monologue.

“They must,” answered Petronius. “Meanwhile I may mention the

predictions of Apollonius of Tyana, or that history of Rufinus which I

have not finished, I do not remember why.”

But Vinicius cared no more for Apollonius of Tyana than for the history

of Rufinus. His mind was with Lygia; and though he felt that it was more

appropriate to receive her at home than to go in the rôle of a myrmidon

to the palace, he was sorry at moments that he had not gone, for the

single reason that he might have seen her sooner, and sat near her in

the dark, in the double litter.

Meanwhile slaves brought in a tripod ornamented with rams’ heads, bronze

dishes with coals, on which they sprinkled bits of myrrh and nard.

“Now they are turning toward the Carinæ,” said Vinicius, again.

“He cannot wait; he will run to meet the litter, and is likely to miss

them!” exclaimed Chrysothemis.

Vinicius smiled without thinking, and said,--“On the contrary, I will

wait.”

But he distended his nostrils and panted; seeing which, Petronius

shrugged his shoulders, and said,--“There is not in him a philosopher to

the value of one sestertium, and I shall never make a man of that son of

Mars.”

“They are now in the Carinæ.”

In fact, they were turning toward the Carinæ. The slaves called

lampadarii were in front; others called pedisequii, were on both sides

of the litter. Atacinus was right behind, overseeing the advance. But

they moved slowly, for lamps showed the way badly in a place not lighted

at all. The streets near the palace were empty; here and there only

some man moved forward with a lantern, but farther on the place was

uncommonly crowded. From almost every alley people were pushing out in

threes and fours, all without lamps, all in dark mantles. Some walked on

with the procession, mingling with the slaves; others in greater numbers

came from the opposite direction. Some staggered as if drunk. At moments

the advance grew so difficult that the lampadarii cried,--“Give way to

the noble tribune, Marcus Vinicius!”

Lygia saw those dark crowds through the curtains which were pushed

aside, and trembled with emotion. She was carried away at one moment by

hope, at another by fear.

“That is he!--that is Ursus and the Christians! Now it will happen

quickly,” said she, with trembling lips. “O Christ, aid! O Christ,

save!”

Atacinus himself, who at first did not notice the uncommon animation of

the street, began at last to be alarmed. There was something strange in

this. The lampadarii had to cry oftener and oftener, “Give way to the

litter of the noble tribune!” From the sides unknown people crowded up

to the litter so much that Atacinus commanded the slaves to repulse them

with clubs.

Suddenly a cry was heard in front of the procession. In one instant all

the lights were extinguished. Around the litter came a rush, an uproar,

a struggle.

Atacinus saw that this was simply an attack; and when he saw it he was

frightened. It was known to all that Cæsar with a crowd of attendants

made attacks frequently for amusement in the Subura and in other parts

of the city. It was known that even at times he brought out of these

night adventures black and blue spots; but whoso defended himself went

to his death, even if a senator. The house of the guards, whose duty it

was to watch over the city, was not very far; but during such attacks

the guards feigned to be deaf and blind.

Meanwhile there was an uproar around the litter; people struck,

struggled, threw, and trampled one another. The thought flashed on

Atacinus to save Lygia and himself, above all, and leave the rest to

their fate. So, drawing her out of the litter, he took her in his arms

and strove to escape in the darkness.

But Lygia called, “Ursus! Ursus!”

She was dressed in white; hence it was easy to see her. Atacinus, with

his other arm, which was free, was throwing his own mantle over

her hastily, when terrible claws seized his neck, and on his head a

gigantic, crushing mass fell like a stone.

He dropped in one instant, as an ox felled by the back of an axe before

the altar of Jove.

The slaves for the greater part were either lying on the ground, or had

saved themselves by scattering in the thick darkness, around the turns

of the walls. On the spot remained only the litter, broken in the

onset. Ursus bore away Lygia to the Subura; his comrades followed him,

dispersing gradually along the way.

The slaves assembled before the house of Vinicius, and took counsel.

They had not courage to enter. After a short deliberation they returned

to the place of conflict, where they found a few corpses, and among

them Atacinus. He was quivering yet; but, after a moment of more violent

convulsion, he stretched and was motionless.

They took him then, and, returning, stopped before the gate a second

time. But they must declare to their lord what had happened.

“Let Gulo declare it,” whispered some voices; “blood is flowing from his

face as from ours; and the master loves him; it is safer for Gulo than

for others.”

Gulo, a German, an old slave, who had nursed Vinicius, and was inherited

by him from his mother, the sister of Petronius, said,--

“I will tell him; but do ye all come. Do not let his anger fall on my

head alone.”

Vinicius was growing thoroughly impatient. Petronius and Chrysothemis

were laughing; but he walked with quick step up and down the atrium.

“They ought to be here! They ought to be here!”

He wished to go out to meet the litter, but Petronius and Chrysothemis

detained him.

Steps were heard suddenly in the entrance; the slaves rushed into the

atrium in a crowd, and, halting quickly at the wall, raised their hands,

and began to repeat with groaning,--“Aaaa!--aa!”

Vinicius sprang toward them.

“Where is Lygia?” cried he, with a terrible and changed voice.

“Aaaa!”

Then Gulo pushed forward with his bloody face, and exclaimed, in haste

and pitifully,--

“See our blood, lord! We fought! See our blood! See our blood!”

But he had not finished when Vinicius seized a bronze lamp, and with one

blow shattered the skull of the slave; then, seizing his own head with

both hands, he drove his fingers into his hair, repeating hoarsely,--“Me

miserum! me miserum!”

His face became blue, his eyes turned in his head, foam came out on his

lips.

“Whips!” roared he at last, with an unearthly voice.

“Lord! Aaaa! Take pity!” groaned the slaves.

Petronius stood up with an expression of disgust on his face. “Come,

Chrysothemis!” said he. “If ‘tis thy wish to look on raw flesh, I will

give command to open a butcher’s stall on the Carinæ!”

And he walked out of the atrium. But through the whole house, ornamented

in the green of ivy and prepared for a feast, were heard, from moment

to moment, groans and the whistling of whips, which lasted almost till

morning.

Chapter XI

VINICIUS did not lie down that night. Some time after the departure of

Petronius, when the groans of his flogged slaves could allay neither his

rage nor his pain, he collected a crowd of other servants, and, though

the night was far advanced, rushed forth at the head of these to look

for Lygia. He visited the district of the Esquiline, then the Subura,

Vicus Sceleratus, and all the adjoining alleys. Passing next around the

Capitol, he went to the island over the bridge of Fabricius; after that

he passed through a part of the Trans-Tiber. But that was a pursuit

without object, for he himself had no hope of finding Lygia, and if he

sought her it was mainly to fill out with something a terrible night.

In fact he returned home about daybreak, when the carts and mules of

dealers in vegetables began to appear in the city, and when bakers were

opening their shops.

On returning he gave command to put away Gulo’s corpse, which no one had

ventured to touch. The slaves from whom Lygia had been taken he sent to

rural prisons,--a punishment almost more dreadful than death. Throwing

himself at last on a couch in the atrium, he began to think confusedly

of how he was to find and seize Lygia.

To resign her, to lose her, not to see her again, seemed to him

impossible; and at this thought alone frenzy took hold of him. For the

first time in life the imperious nature of the youthful soldier met

resistance, met another unbending will, and he could not understand

simply how any one could have the daring to thwart his wishes. Vinicius

would have chosen to see the world and the city sink in ruins rather

than fail of his purpose. The cup of delight had been snatched from

before his lips almost; hence it seemed to him that something unheard of

had happened, something crying to divine and human laws for vengeance.

But, first of all, he was unwilling and unable to be reconciled with

fate, for never in life had he so desired anything as Lygia. It seemed

to him that he could not exist without her. He could not tell himself

what he was to do without her on the morrow, how he was to survive the

days following. At moments he was transported by a rage against her,

which approached madness. He wanted to have her, to beat her, to drag

her by the hair to the cubiculum, and gloat over her; then, again, he

was carried away by a terrible yearning for her voice, her form, her

eyes, and he felt that he would be ready to lie at her feet. He called

to her, gnawed his fingers, clasped his head with his hands. He strove

with all his might to think calmly about searching for her,--and was

unable. A thousand methods and means flew through his head, but one

wilder than another. At last the thought flashed on him that no one else

had intercepted her but Aulus, that in every case Aulus must know where

she was hiding. And he sprang up to run to the house of Aulus.

If they will not yield her to him, if they have no fear of his threats,

he will go to Cæsar, accuse the old general of disobedience, and obtain

a sentence of death against him; but before that, he will gain from them

a confession of where Lygia is. If they give her, even willingly, he

will be revenged. They received him, it is true, in their house and

nursed him,--but that is nothing! With this one injustice they have

freed him from every debt of gratitude. Here his vengeful and stubborn

soul began to take pleasure at the despair of Pomponia Græcina, when

the centurion would bring the death sentence to old Aulus. He was almost

certain that he would get it. Petronius would assist him. Moreover,

Cæsar never denies anything to his intimates, the Augustians, unless

personal dislike or desire enjoins a refusal.

Suddenly his heart almost died within him, under the influence of this

terrible supposition,--“But if Cæsar himself has taken Lygia?”

All knew that Nero from tedium sought recreation in night attacks. Even

Petronius took part in these amusements. Their main object was to seize

women and toss each on a soldier’s mantle till she fainted. Even Nero

himself on occasions called these expeditions “pearl hunts,” for it

happened that in the depth of districts occupied by a numerous and needy

population they caught a real pearl of youth and beauty sometimes. Then

the “sagatio,” as they termed the tossing, was changed into a genuine

carrying away, and the pearl was sent either to the Palatine or to one

of Cæsar’s numberless villas, or finally Cæsar yielded it to one of his

intimates. So might it happen also with Lygia. Cæsar had seen her during

the feast; and Vinicius doubted not for an instant that she must have

seemed to him the most beautiful woman he had seen yet. How could it

be otherwise? It is true that Lygia had been in Nero’s own house on

the Palatine, and he might have kept her openly. But, as Petronius said

truly, Cæsar had no courage in crime, and, with power to act openly, he

chose to act always in secret. This time fear of Poppæa might incline

him also to secrecy. It occurred now to the young soldier that Aulus

would not have dared, perhaps, to carry off forcibly a girl given

him, Vinicius, by Cæsar. Besides, who would dare? Would that gigantic

blue-eyed Lygian, who had the courage to enter the triclinium and carry

her from the feast on his arm? But where could he hide with her; whither

could he take her? No! a slave would not have ventured that far. Hence

no one had done the deed except Cæsar.

At this thought it grew dark in his eyes, and drops of sweat covered his

forehead. In that case Lygia was lost to him forever. It was possible

to wrest her from the hands of any one else, but not from the hands of

Cæsar. Now, with greater truth than ever, could he exclaim, “Væ misero

mihi!” His imagination represented Lygia in Nero’s arms, and, for the

first time in life, he understood that there are thoughts which are

simply beyond man’s endurance. He knew then, for the first time, how he

loved her. As his whole life flashes through the memory of a drowning

man, so Lygia began to pass through his. He saw her, heard every word

of hers,--saw her at the fountain, saw her at the house of Aulus, and at

the feast; felt her near him, felt the odor of her hair, the warmth of

her body, the delight of the kisses which at the feast he had pressed

on her innocent lips. She seemed to him a hundred times sweeter, more

beautiful, more desired than ever,--a hundred times more the only

one, the one chosen from among all mortals and divinities. And when he

thought that all this which had become so fixed in his heart, which had

become his blood and life, might be possessed by Nero, a pain seized

him, which was purely physical, and so piercing that he wanted to beat

his head against the wall of the atrium, until he should break it. He

felt that he might go mad; and he would have gone mad beyond doubt, had

not vengeance remained to him. But as hitherto he had thought that he

could not live unless he got Lygia, he thought now that he would not

die till he had avenged her. This gave him a certain kind of comfort. “I

will be thy Cassius Chærea!” [The slayer of Caligula] said he to himself

in thinking of Nero. After a while, seizing earth in his hands from

the flower vases surrounding the impluvium, he made a dreadful vow

to Erebus, Hecate, and his own household lares, that he would have

vengeance.

And he received a sort of consolation. He had at least something to live

for and something with which to fill his nights and days. Then, dropping

his idea of visiting Aulus, he gave command to bear him to the Palatine.

Along the way he concluded that if they would not admit him to Cæsar,

or if they should try to find weapons on his person, it would be a proof

that Cæsar had taken Lygia. He had no weapons with him. He had lost

presence of mind in general; but as is usual with persons possessed by a

single idea, he preserved it in that which concerned his revenge. He did

not wish his desire of revenge to fall away prematurely. He wished above

all to see Acte, for he expected to learn the truth from her. At moments

the hope flashed on him that he might see Lygia also, and at that

thought he began to tremble. For if Cæsar had carried her away without

knowledge of whom he was taking, he might return her that day. But after

a while he cast aside this supposition. Had there been a wish to return

her to him, she would have been sent yesterday. Acte was the only person

who could explain everything, and there was need to see her before

others.

Convinced of this, he commanded the slaves to hasten; and along the road

he thought without order, now of Lygia, now of revenge. He had heard

that Egyptian priests of the goddess Pasht could bring disease on

whomever they wished, and he determined to learn the means of doing

this. In the Orient they had told him, too, that Jews have certain

invocations by which they cover their enemies’ bodies with ulcers.

He had a number of Jews among his domestic slaves; hence he promised

himself to torture them on his return till they divulged the secret. He

found most delight, however, in thinking of the short Roman sword which

lets out a stream of blood such as had gushed from Caius Caligula and

made ineffaceable stains on the columns of the portico. He was ready

to exterminate all Rome; and had vengeful gods promised that all people

should die except him and Lygia, he would have accepted the promise.

In front of the arch he regained presence of mind, and thought when he

saw the pretorian guard, “If they make the least difficulty in admitting

me, they will prove that Lygia is in the palace by the will of Cæsar.”

But the chief centurion smiled at him in a friendly manner, then

advanced a number of steps, and said,--“A greeting, noble tribune.

If thou desire to give an obeisance to Cæsar, thou hast found an

unfortunate moment. I do not think that thou wilt be able to see him.”

“What has happened?” inquired Vinicius.

“The infant Augusta fell ill yesterday on a sudden. Cæsar and the august

Poppæa are attending her, with physicians whom they have summoned from

the whole city.”

This was an important event. When that daughter was born to him, Cæsar

was simply wild from delight, and received her with extra humanum

gaudium. Previously the senate had committed the womb of Poppæa to the

gods with the utmost solemnity. A votive offering was made at Antium,

where the delivery took place; splendid games were celebrated, and

besides a temple was erected to the two Fortunes. Nero, unable to be

moderate in anything, loved the infant beyond measure; to Poppæa the

child was dear also, even for this, that it strengthened her position

and made her influence irresistible.

The fate of the whole empire might depend on the health and life of the

infant Augusta; but Vinicius was so occupied with himself, his own case

and his love, that without paying attention to the news of the centurion

he answered, “I only wish to see Acte.” And he passed in.

But Acte was occupied also near the child, and he had to wait a long

time to see her. She came only about midday, with a face pale and

wearied, which grew paler still at sight of Vinicius.

“Acte!” cried Vinicius, seizing her hand and drawing her to the middle

of the atrium, “where is Lygia?”

“I wanted to ask thee touching that,” answered she, looking him in the

eyes with reproach.

But though he had promised himself to inquire of her calmly, he pressed

his head with his hands again, and said, with a face distorted by pain

and anger,--“She is gone. She was taken from me on the way!”

After a while, however, he recovered, and thrusting his face up to

Acte’s, said through his set teeth,--“Acte! If life be dear to thee,

if thou wish not to cause misfortunes which thou are unable even to

imagine, answer me truly. Did Cæsar take her?”

“Cæsar did not leave the palace yesterday.”

“By the shade of thy mother, by all the gods, is she not in the palace?”

“By the shade of my mother, Marcus, she is not in the palace, and Cæsar

did not intercept her. The infant Augusta is ill since yesterday, and

Nero has not left her cradle.”

Vinicius drew breath. That which had seemed the most terrible ceased to

threaten him.

“Ah, then,” said he, sitting on the bench and clinching his fists,

“Aulus intercepted her, and in that case woe to him!”

“Aulus Plautius was here this morning. He could not see me, for I was

occupied with the child; but he inquired of Epaphroditus, and others of

Cæsar’s servants, touching Lygia, and told them that he would come again

to see me.”

“He wished to turn suspicion from himself. If he knew not what happened,

he would have come to seek Lygia in my house.”

“He left a few words on a tablet, from which thou wilt see that, knowing

Lygia to have been taken from his house by Cæsar, at thy request and

that of Petronius, he expected that she would be sent to thee, and

this morning early he was at thy house, where they told him what had

happened.”

When she had said this, she went to the cubiculum and returned soon with

the tablet which Aulus had left.

Vinicius read the tablet, and was silent; Acte seemed to read the

thoughts on his gloomy face, for she said after a while,--“No, Marcus.

That has happened which Lygia herself wished.”

“It was known to thee that she wished to flee!” burst out Vinicius.

“I knew that she would not become thy concubine.” And she looked at him

with her misty eyes almost sternly.

“And thou,--what hast thou been all thy life?”

“I was a slave, first of all.”

But Vinicius did not cease to be enraged. Cæsar had given him Lygia;

hence he had no need to inquire what she had been before. He would find

her, even under the earth, and he would do what he liked with her. He

would indeed! She should be his concubine. He would give command to flog

her as often as he pleased. If she grew distasteful to him, he would

give her to the lowest of his slaves, or he would command her to turn a

handmill on his lands in Africa. He would seek her out now, and find her

only to bend her, to trample on her, and conquer her.

And, growing more and more excited, he lost every sense of measure, to

the degree that even Acte saw that he was promising more than he could

execute; that he was talking because of pain and anger. She might have

had even compassion on him, but his extravagance exhausted her patience,

and at last she inquired why he had come to her.

Vinicius did not find an answer immediately. He had come to her

because he wished to come, because he judged that she would give him

information; but really he had come to Cæsar, and, not being able to see

him, he came to her. Lygia, by fleeing, opposed the will of Cæsar; hence

he would implore him to give an order to search for her throughout the

city and the empire, even if it came to using for that purpose all the

legions, and to ransacking in turn every house within Roman dominion.

Petronius would support his prayer, and the search would begin from that

day.

“Have a care,” answered Acte, “lest thou lose her forever the moment she

is found, at command of Cæsar.”

Vinicius wrinkled his brows. “What does that mean?” inquired he.

“Listen to me, Marcus. Yesterday Lygia and I were in the gardens here,

and we met Poppæa, with the infant Augusta, borne by an African woman,

Lilith. In the evening the child fell ill, and Lilith insists that

she was bewitched; that that foreign woman whom they met in the garden

bewitched her. Should the child recover, they will forget this, but

in the opposite case Poppæa will be the first to accuse Lygia of

witchcraft, and wherever she is found there will be no rescue for her.”

A moment of silence followed; then Vinicius said,--“But perhaps she did

bewitch her, and has bewitched me.”

“Lilith repeats that the child began to cry the moment she carried her

past us. And really the child did begin to cry. It is certain that she

was sick when they took her out of the garden. Marcus, seek for Lygia

whenever it may please thee, but till the infant Augusta recovers, speak

not of her to Cæsar, or thou wilt bring on her Poppæa’s vengeance. Her

eyes have wept enough because of thee already, and may all the gods

guard her poor head.”

“Dost thou love her, Acte?” inquired Vinicius, gloomily.

“Yes, I love her.” And tears glittered in the eyes of the freedwoman.

“Thou lovest her because she has not repaid thee with hatred, as she has

me.”

Acte looked at him for a time as if hesitating, or as if wishing to

learn if he spoke sincerely; then she said,--“O blind and passionate

man--she loved thee.”

Vinicius sprang up under the influence of those words, as if possessed.

“It is not true.”

She hated him. How could Acte know? Would Lygia make a confession to her

after one day’s acquaintance? What love is that which prefers wandering,

the disgrace of poverty, the uncertainty of to-morrow, or a shameful

death even, to a wreath-bedecked house, in which a lover is waiting with

a feast? It is better for him not to hear such things, for he is ready

to go mad. He would not have given that girl for all Cæsar’s treasures,

and she fled. What kind of love is that which dreads delight and gives

pain? Who can understand it? Who can fathom it? Were it not for the

hope that he should find her, he would sink a sword in himself. Love

surrenders; it does not take away. There were moments at the house of

Aulus when he himself believed in near happiness, but now he knows

that she hated him, that she hates him, and will die with hatred in her

heart.

But Acte, usually mild and timid, burst forth in her turn with

indignation. How had he tried to win Lygia? Instead of bowing before

Aulus and Pomponia to get her, he took the child away from her parents

by stratagem. He wanted to make, not a wife, but a concubine of her, the

foster daughter of an honorable house, and the daughter of a king.

He had her brought to this abode of crime and infamy; he defiled her

innocent eyes with the sight of a shameful feast; he acted with her as

with a wanton. Had he forgotten the house of Aulus and Pomponia Græcina,

who had reared Lygia? Had he not sense enough to understand that there

are women different from Nigidia or Calvia Crispinilla or Poppæa, and

from all those whom he meets in Cæsar’s house? Did he not understand at

once on seeing Lygia that she is an honest maiden, who prefers death to

infamy? Whence does he know what kind of gods she worships, and whether

they are not purer and better than the wanton Venus, or than Isis,

worshipped by the profligate women of Rome? No! Lygia had made no

confession to her, but she had said that she looked for rescue to him,

to Vinicius: she had hoped that he would obtain for her permission from

Cæsar to return home, that he would restore her to Pomponia. And while

speaking of this, Lygia blushed like a maiden who loves and trusts.

Lygia’s heart beat for him; but he, Vinicius, had terrified and offended

her; had made her indignant; let him seek her now with the aid of

Cæsar’s soldiers, but let him know that should Poppæa’s child die,

suspicion will fall on Lygia, whose destruction will then be inevitable.

Emotion began to force its way through the anger and pain of Vinicius.

The information that he was loved by Lygia shook him to the depth of his

soul. He remembered her in Aulus’s garden, when she was listening to his

words with blushes on her face and her eyes full of light. It seemed

to him then that she had begun to love him; and all at once, at that

thought, a feeling of certain happiness embraced him, a hundred times

greater than that which he desired. He thought that he might have won

her gradually, and besides as one loving him. She would have wreathed

his door, rubbed it with wolf’s fat, and then sat as his wife by

his hearth on the sheepskin. He would have heard from her mouth the

sacramental: “Where thou art, Caius, there am I, Caia.” And she would

have been his forever. Why did he not act thus? True, he had been ready

so to act. But now she is gone, and it may be impossible to find her;

and should he find her, perhaps he will cause her death, and should he

not cause her death, neither she nor Aulus nor Pomponia Græcina will

favor him. Here anger raised the hair on his head again; but his anger

turned now, not against the house of Aulus, or Lygia, but against

Petronius. Petronius was to blame for everything. Had it not been

for him Lygia would not have been forced to wander; she would be his

betrothed, and no danger would be hanging over her dear head. But now

all is past, and it is too late to correct the evil which will not yield

to correction.

“Too late!” And it seemed to him that a gulf had opened before his

feet. He did not know what to begin, how to proceed, whither to betake

himself. Acte repeated as an echo the words, “Too late,” which from

another’s mouth sounded like a death sentence. He understood one thing,

however, that he must find Lygia, or something evil would happen to him.

And wrapping himself mechanically in his toga, he was about to depart

without taking farewell even of Acte, when suddenly the curtain

separating the entrance from the atrium was pushed aside, and he saw

before him the pensive figure of Pomponia Græcina.

Evidently she too had heard of the disappearance of Lygia, and, judging

that she could see Acte more easily than Aulus, had come for news to

her.

But, seeing Vinicius, she turned her pale, delicate face to him, and

said, after a pause,--“May God forgive thee the wrong, Marcus, which

thou hast done to us and to Lygia.”

He stood with drooping head, with a feeling of misfortune and guilt, not

understanding what God was to forgive him or could forgive him. Pomponia

had no cause to mention forgiveness; she ought to have spoken of

revenge.

At last he went out with a head devoid of counsel, full of grievous

thoughts, immense care, and amazement.

In the court and under the gallery were crowds of anxious people. Among

slaves of the palace were knights and senators who had come to inquire

about the health of the infant, and at the same time to show themselves

in the palace, and exhibit a proof of their anxiety, even in presence of

Nero’s slaves. News of the illness of the “divine” had spread quickly

it was evident, for new forms appeared in the gateway every moment, and

through the opening of the arcade whole crowds were visible. Some of the

newly arrived, seeing that Vinicius was coming from the palace, attacked

him for news; but he hurried on without answering their questions,

till Petronius, who had come for news too, almost struck his breast and

stopped him.

Beyond doubt Vinicius would have become enraged at sight of Petronius,

and let himself do some lawless act in Cæsar’s palace, had it not

been that when he had left Acte he was so crushed, so weighed down and

exhausted, that for the moment even his innate irascibility had left

him. He pushed Petronius aside and wished to pass; but the other

detained him, by force almost.

“How is the divine infant?” asked he.

But this constraint angered Vinicius a second time, and roused his

indignation in an instant.

“May Hades swallow her and all this house!” said he, gritting his teeth.

“Silence, hapless man!” said Petronius, and looking around he added

hurriedly,--“If thou wish to know something of Lygia, come with me; I

will tell nothing here! Come with me; I will tell my thoughts in the

litter.”

And putting his arm around the young tribune, he conducted him from the

palace as quickly as possible. That was his main concern, for he had no

news whatever; but being a man of resources, and having, in spite of

his indignation of yesterday, much sympathy for Vinicius, and finally

feeling responsible for all that had happened, he had undertaken

something already, and when they entered the litter he said,--“I have

commanded my slaves to watch at every gate. I gave them an accurate

description of the girl, and that giant who bore her from the feast at

Cæsar’s,--for he is the man, beyond doubt, who intercepted her. Listen

to me: Perhaps Aulus and Pomponia wish to secrete her in some estate

of theirs; in that case we shall learn the direction in which they took

her. If my slaves do not see her at some gate, we shall know that she

is in the city yet, and shall begin this very day to search in Rome for

her.”

“Aulus does not know where she is,” answered Vinicius.

“Art thou sure of that?”

“I saw Pomponia. She too is looking for her.”

“She could not leave the city yesterday, for the gates are closed at

night. Two of my people are watching at each gate. One is to follow

Lygia and the giant, the other to return at once and inform me. If she

is in the city, we shall find her, for that Lygian is easily recognized,

even by his stature and his shoulders. Thou art lucky that it was not

Cæsar who took her, and I can assure thee that he did not, for there are

no secrets from me on the Palatine.”

But Vinicius burst forth in sorrow still more than in anger, and in a

voice broken by emotion told Petronius what he had heard from Acte,

and what new dangers were threatening Lygia,--dangers so dreadful

that because of them there would be need to hide her from Poppæa most

carefully, in case they discovered her. Then he reproached Petronius

bitterly for his counsel. Had it not been for him, everything would have

gone differently. Lygia would have been at the house of Aulus, and he,

Vinicius, might have seen her every day, and he would have been happier

at that moment than Cæsar. And carried away as he went on with his

narrative, he yielded more and more to emotion, till at last tears of

sorrow and rage began to fall from his eyes.

Petronius, who had not even thought that the young man could love

and desire to such a degree, when he saw the tears of despair said to

himself, with a certain astonishment,--“O mighty Lady of Cyprus, thou

alone art ruler of gods and men!”

Chapter XII

WHEN they alighted in front of the arbiter’s house, the chief of the

atrium answered them that of slaves sent to the gates none had returned

yet. The atriensis had given orders to take food to them, and a new

command, that under penalty of rods they were to watch carefully all who

left the city.

“Thou seest,” said Petronius, “that they are in Rome, beyond doubt, and

in that case we shall find them. But command thy people also to watch

at the gates,--those, namely, who were sent for Lygia, as they will

recognize her easily.”

“I have given orders to send them to rural prisons,” said Vinicius, “but

I will recall the orders at once, and let them go to the gates.”

And writing a few words on a wax-covered tablet, he handed it to

Petronius, who gave directions to send it at once to the house of

Vinicius. Then they passed into the interior portico, and, sitting on

a marble bench, began to talk. The golden-haired Eunice and Iras pushed

bronze footstools under their feet, and poured wine for them into

goblets, out of wonderful narrow-necked pitchers from Volaterræ and

Cæcina.

“Hast thou among thy people any one who knows that giant Lygian?” asked

Petronius.

“Atacinus and Gulo knew him; but Atacinus fell yesterday at the litter,

and Gulo I killed.”

“I am sorry for him,” said Petronius. “He carried not only thee, but me,

in his arms.”

“I intended to free him,” answered Vinicius; “but do not mention him.

Let us speak of Lygia. Rome is a sea-”

“A sea is just the place where men fish for pearls. Of course we shall

not find her to-day, or to-morrow, but we shall find her surely. Thou

hast accused me just now of giving thee this method; but the method was

good in itself, and became bad only when turned to bad. Thou hast heard

from Aulus himself, that he intends to go to Sicily with his whole

family. In that case the girl would be far from thee.”

“I should follow them,” said Vinicius, “and in every case she would be

out of danger; but now, if that child dies, Poppæa will believe, and

will persuade Cæsar, that she died because of Lygia.”

“True; that alarmed me, too. But that little doll may recover. Should

she die, we shall find some way of escape.”

Here Petronius meditated a while and added,--“Poppæa, it is said,

follows the religion of the Jews, and believes in evil spirits. Cæsar

is superstitious. If we spread the report that evil spirits carried off

Lygia, the news will find belief, especially as neither Cæsar nor Aulus

Plautius intercepted her; her escape was really mysterious. The Lygian

could not have effected it alone; he must have had help. And where could

a slave find so many people in the course of one day?”

“Slaves help one another in Rome.”

“Some person pays for that with blood at times. True, they support one

another, but not some against others. In this case it was known that

responsibility and punishment would fall on thy people. If thou give

thy people the idea of evil spirits, they will say at once that they saw

such with their own eyes, because that will justify them in thy sight.

Ask one of them, as a test, if he did not see spirits carrying off Lygia

through the air, he will swear at once by the ægis of Zeus that he saw

them.”

Vinicius, who was superstitious also, looked at Petronius with sudden

and great fear.

“If Ursus could not have men to help him, and was not able to take her

alone, who could take her?”

Petronius began to laugh.

“See,” said he, “they will believe, since thou art half a believer

thyself. Such is our society, which ridicules the gods. They, too, will

believe, and they will not look for her. Meanwhile we shall put her away

somewhere far off from the city, in some villa of mine or thine.”

“But who could help her?”

“Her co-religionists,” answered Petronius.

“Who are they? What deity does she worship? I ought to know that better

than thou.”

“Nearly every woman in Rome honors a different one. It is almost beyond

doubt that Pomponia reared her in the religion of that deity which

she herself worships; what one she worships I know not. One thing is

certain, that no person has seen her make an offering to our gods in any

temple. They have accused her even of being a Christian; but that is not

possible; a domestic tribunal cleared her of the charge. They say that

Christians not only worship an ass’s head, but are enemies of the human

race, and permit the foulest crimes. Pomponia cannot be a Christian,

as her virtue is known, and an enemy of the human race could not treat

slaves as she does.”

“In no house are they treated as at Aulus’s,” interrupted Vinicius.

“Ah! Pomponia mentioned to me some god, who must be one powerful and

merciful. Where she has put away all the others is her affair; it is

enough that that Logos of hers cannot be very mighty, or rather he must

be a very weak god, since he has had only two adherents,--Pomponia and

Lygia,--and Ursus in addition. It must be that there are more of those

adherents, and that they assisted Lygia.”

“That faith commands forgiveness,” said Vinicius. “At Acte’s I met

Pomponia, who said to me: ‘May God forgive thee the evil which thou hast

done to us and to Lygia.’”

“Evidently their God is some curator who is very mild. Ha! let him

forgive thee, and in sign of forgiveness return thee the maiden.”

“I would offer him a hecatomb to-morrow! I have no wish for food, or the

bath, or sleep. I will take a dark lantern and wander through the city.

Perhaps I shall find her in disguise. I am sick.”

Petronius looked at him with commiseration. In fact, there was blue

under his eyes, his pupils were gleaming with fever, his unshaven beard

indicated a dark strip on his firmly outlined jaws, his hair was in

disorder, and he was really like a sick man. Iras and the golden-haired

Eunice looked at him also with sympathy; but he seemed not to see them,

and he and Petronius took no notice whatever of the slave women, just as

they would not have noticed dogs moving around them.

“Fever is tormenting thee,” said Petronius.

“It is.”

“Then listen to me. I know not what the doctor has prescribed to thee,

but I know how I should act in thy place. Till this lost one is found I

should seek in another that which for the moment has gone from me with

her. I saw splendid forms at thy villa. Do not contradict me. I know

what love is; and I know that when one is desired another cannot

take her place. But in a beautiful slave it is possible to find even

momentary distraction.”

“I do not need it,” said Vinicius.

But Petronius, who had for him a real weakness, and who wished to soften

his pain, began to meditate how he might do so.

“Perhaps thine have not for thee the charm of novelty,” said he, after a

while (and here he began to look in turn at Iras and Eunice, and finally

he placed his palm on the hip of the golden-haired Eunice). “Look

at this grace! for whom some days since Fonteius Capiton the younger

offered three wonderful boys from Clazomene. A more beautiful figure

than hers even Skopas himself has not chiselled. I myself cannot tell

why I have remained indifferent to her thus far, since thoughts of

Chrysothemis have not restrained me. Well, I give her to thee; take her

for thyself!”

When the golden-haired Eunice heard this, she grew pale in one moment,

and, looking with frightened eyes on Vinicius, seemed to wait for his

answer without breath in her breast.

But he sprang up suddenly, and, pressing his temples with his hands,

said quickly, like a man who is tortured by disease, and will not hear

anything,--“No, no! I care not for her! I care not for others! I thank

thee, but I do not want her. I will seek that one through the city. Give

command to bring me a Gallic cloak with a hood. I will go beyond the

Tiber--if I could see even Ursus.”

And he hurried away. Petronius, seeing that he could not remain in one

place, did not try to detain him. Taking, however, his refusal as a

temporary dislike for all women save Lygia, and not wishing his own

magnanimity to go for naught, he said, turning to the slave,--“Eunice,

thou wilt bathe and anoint thyself, then dress: after that thou wilt go

to the house of Vinicius.”

But she dropped before him on her knees, and with joined palms implored

him not to remove her from the house. She would not go to Vinicius, she

said. She would rather carry fuel to the hypocaustum in his house than

be chief servant in that of Vinicius. She would not, she could not go;

and she begged him to have pity on her. Let him give command to flog her

daily, only not send her away.

And trembling like a leaf with fear and excitement, she stretched her

hands to him, while he listened with amazement. A slave who ventured to

beg relief from the fulfilment of a command, who said “I will not and

I cannot,” was something so unheard-of in Rome that Petronius could not

believe his own ears at first. Finally he frowned. He was too refined

to be cruel. His slaves, especially in the department of pleasure,

were freer than others, on condition of performing their service in an

exemplary manner, and honoring the will of their master, like that of a

god. In case they failed in these two respects, he was able not to spare

punishment, to which, according to general custom, they were subject.

Since, besides this, he could not endure opposition, nor anything which

ruffled his calmness, he looked for a while at the kneeling girl, and

then said,--“Call Tiresias, and return with him.”

Eunice rose, trembling, with tears in her eyes, and went out; after a

time she returned with the chief of the atrium, Tiresias, a Cretan.

“Thou wilt take Eunice,” said Petronius, “and give her five-and-twenty

lashes, in such fashion, however, as not to harm her skin.”

When he had said this, he passed into the library, and, sitting down

at a table of rose-colored marble, began to work on his “Feast of

Trimalchion.” But the flight of Lygia and the illness of the infant

Augusta had disturbed his mind so much that he could not work long. That

illness, above all, was important. It occurred to Petronius that

were Cæsar to believe that Lygia had cast spells on the infant, the

responsibility might fall on him also, for the girl had been brought

at his request to the palace. But he could reckon on this, that at the

first interview with Cæsar he would be able in some way to show the

utter absurdity of such an idea; he counted a little, too, on a certain

weakness which Poppæa had for him,--a weakness hidden carefully, it is

true, but not so carefully that he could not divine it. After a while

he shrugged his shoulders at these fears, and decided to go to the

triclinium to strengthen himself, and then order the litter to bear him

once more to the palace, after that to the Campus Martius, and then to

Chrysothemis.

But on the way to the triclinium at the entrance to the corridor

assigned to servants, he saw unexpectedly the slender form of Eunice

standing, among other slaves, at the wall; and forgetting that he had

given Tiresias no order beyond flogging her, he wrinkled his brow again,

and looked around for the atriensis. Not seeing him among the servants,

he turned to Eunice.

“Hast thou received the lashes?”

She cast herself at his feet a second time, pressed the border of his

toga to her lips, and said,--“Oh, yes, lord, I have received them! Oh,

yes, lord!” In her voice were heard, as it were, joy and gratitude. It

was clear that she looked on the lashes as a substitute for her removal

from the house, and that now she might stay there. Petronius, who

understood this, wondered at the passionate resistance of the girl; but

he was too deeply versed in human nature not to know that love alone

could call forth such resistance.

“Dost thou love some one in this house?” asked he.

She raised her blue, tearful eyes to him, and answered, in a voice so

low that it was hardly possible to hear her,--“Yes, lord.”

And with those eyes, with that golden hair thrown back, with fear

and hope in her face, she was so beautiful, she looked at him so

entreatingly, that Petronius, who, as a philosopher, had proclaimed the

might of love, and who, as a man of æsthetic nature, had given homage to

all beauty, felt for her a certain species of compassion.

“Whom of those dost thou love?” inquired he, indicating the servants

with his head.

There was no answer to that question. Eunice inclined her head to his

feet and remained motionless.

Petronius looked at the slaves, among whom were beautiful and stately

youths. He could read nothing on any face; on the contrary, all had

certain strange smiles. He looked then for a while on Eunice lying at

his feet, and went in silence to the triclinium.

After he had eaten, he gave command to bear him to the palace, and then

to Chrysothemis, with whom he remained till late at night. But when he

returned, he gave command to call Tiresias.

“Did Eunice receive the flogging?” inquired he.

“She did, lord. Thou didst not let the skin be cut, however.”

“Did I give no other command touching her?”

“No, lord,” answered the atriensis with alarm.

“That is well. Whom of the slaves does she love?”

“No one, lord.”

“What dost thou know of her?”

Tiresias began to speak in a somewhat uncertain voice:

“At night Eunice never leaves the cubiculum in which she lives with

old Acrisiona and Ifida; after thou art dressed she never goes to the

bath-rooms. Other slaves ridicule her, and call her Diana.”

“Enough,” said Petronius. “My relative, Vinicius, to whom I offered her

to-day, did not accept her; hence she may stay in the house. Thou art

free to go.”

“Is it permitted me to speak more of Eunice, lord?”

“I have commanded thee to say all thou knowest.”

“The whole familia are speaking of the flight of the maiden who was to

dwell in the house of the noble Vinicius. After thy departure, Eunice

came to me and said that she knew a man who could find her.”

“Ah! What kind of man is he?”

“I know not, lord; but I thought that I ought to inform thee of this

matter.”

“That is well. Let that man wait to-morrow in my house for the arrival

of the tribune, whom thou wilt request in my name to meet me here.”

The atriensis bowed and went out. But Petronius began to think of

Eunice. At first it seemed clear to him that the young slave wished

Vinicius to find Lygia for this reason only, that she would not be

forced from his house. Afterward, however, it occurred to him that the

man whom Eunice was pushing forward might be her lover, and all at once

that thought seemed to him disagreeable. There was, it is true, a simple

way of learning the truth, for it was enough to summon Eunice; but

the hour was late, Petronius felt tired after his long visit with

Chrysothemis, and was in a hurry to sleep. But on the way to the

cubiculum he remembered--it is unknown why--that he had noticed

wrinkles, that day, in the corners of Chrysothemis’s eyes. He thought,

also, that her beauty was more celebrated in Rome than it deserved; and

that Fonteius Capiton, who had offered him three boys from Clazomene for

Eunice, wanted to buy her too cheaply.

Chapter XIII

NEXT morning, Petronius had barely finished dressing in the unctorium

when Vinicius came, called by Tiresias. He knew that no news had come

from the gates. This information, instead of comforting him, as a proof

that Lygia was still in Rome, weighed him down still more, for he began

to think that Ursus might have conducted her out of the city immediately

after her seizure, and hence before Petronius’s slaves had begun to

keep watch at the gates. It is true that in autumn, when the days become

shorter, the gates are closed rather early; but it is true, also,

that they are opened for persons going out, and the number of these is

considerable. It was possible, also, to pass the walls by other ways,

well known, for instance, to slaves who wish to escape from the city.

Vinicius had sent out his people to all roads leading to the provinces,

to watchmen in the smaller towns, proclaiming a pair of fugitive slaves,

with a detailed description of Ursus and Lygia, coupled with the offer

of a reward for seizing them. But it was doubtful whether that pursuit

would reach the fugitives; and even should it reach them, whether the

local authorities would feel justified in making the arrest at the

private instance of Vinicius, without the support of a pretor. Indeed,

there had not been time to obtain such support. Vinicius himself,

disguised as a slave, had sought Lygia the whole day before, through

every corner of the city, but had been unable to find the least

indication or trace of her. He had seen Aulus’s servants, it is true;

but they seemed to be seeking something also, and that confirmed him

in the belief that it was not Aulus who had intercepted the maiden, and

that the old general did not know what had happened to her.

When Tiresias announced to him, then, that there was a man who would

undertake to find Lygia, he hurried with all speed to the house of

Petronius; and barely had he finished saluting his uncle, when he

inquired for the man.

“We shall see him at once, Eunice knows him,” said Petronius. “She will

come this moment to arrange the folds of my toga, and will give nearer

information concerning him.”

“Oh! she whom thou hadst the wish to bestow on me yesterday?”

“The one whom thou didst reject; for which I am grateful, for she is the

best vestiplica in the whole city.”

In fact, the vestiplica came in before he had finished speaking, and

taking the toga, laid on a chair inlaid with pearl, she opened the

garment to throw it on Petronius’s shoulder. Her face was clear and

calm; joy was in her eyes.

Petronius looked at her. She seemed to him very beautiful. After a

while, when she had covered him with the toga, she began to arrange it,

bending at times to lengthen the folds. He noticed that her arms had a

marvellous pale rose-color, and her bosom and shoulders the transparent

reflections of pearl or alabaster.

“Eunice,” said he, “has the man come to Tiresias whom thou didst mention

yesterday?”

“He has, lord.”

“What is his name?”

“Chilo Chilonides.”

“Who is he?”

“A physician, a sage, a soothsayer, who knows how to read people’s fates

and predict the future.”

“Has he predicted the future to thee?”

Eunice was covered with a blush which gave a rosy color to her ears and

her neck even.

“Yes, lord.”

“What has he predicted?”

“That pain and happiness would meet me.”

“Pain met thee yesterday at the hands of Tiresias; hence happiness also

should come.”

“It has come, lord, already.”

“What?”

“I remain,” said she in a whisper.

Petronius put his hand on her golden head.

“Thou hast arranged the folds well to-day, and I am satisfied with thee,

Eunice.”

Under that touch her eyes were mist-covered in one instant from

happiness, and her bosom began to heave quickly.

Petronius and Vinicius passed into the atrium, where Chilo Chilonides

was waiting. When he saw them, he made a low bow. A smile came to the

lips of Petronius at thought of his suspicion of yesterday, that this

man might be Eunice’s lover. The man who was standing before him could

not be any one’s lover. In that marvellous figure there was something

both foul and ridiculous. He was not old; in his dirty beard and curly

locks a gray hair shone here and there. He had a lank stomach and

stooping shoulders, so that at the first cast of the eye he appeared to

be hunchbacked; above that hump rose a large head, with the face of

a monkey and also of a fox; the eye was penetrating. His yellowish

complexion was varied with pimples; and his nose, covered with them

completely, might indicate too great a love for the bottle. His

neglected apparel, composed of a dark tunic of goat’s wool and a mantle

of similar material with holes in it, showed real or simulated poverty.

At sight of him, Homer’s Thersites came to the mind of Petronius. Hence,

answering with a wave of the hand to his bow, he said,--

“A greeting, divine Thersites! How are the lumps which Ulysses gave thee

at Troy, and what is he doing himself in the Elysian Fields?”

“Noble lord,” answered Chilo Chilonides, “Ulysses, the wisest of the

dead, sends a greeting through me to Petronius, the wisest of the

living, and the request to cover my lumps with a new mantle.”

“By Hecate Triformis!” exclaimed Petronius, “the answer deserves a new

mantle.”

But further conversation was interrupted by the impatient Vinicius, who

inquired directly,--“Dost thou know clearly what thou art undertaking?”

“When two households in two lordly mansions speak of naught else, and

when half Rome is repeating the news, it is not difficult to know,”

answered Chilo. “The night before last a maiden named Lygia, but

specially Callina, and reared in the house of Aulus Plautius, was

intercepted. Thy slaves were conducting her, O lord, from Cæsar’s palace

to thy ‘insula,’ and I undertake to find her in the city, or, if she

has left the city--which is little likely--to indicate to thee, noble

tribune, whither she has fled and where she has hidden.”

“That is well,” said Vinicius, who was pleased with the precision of the

answer. “What means hast thou to do this?”

Chilo smiled cunningly. “Thou hast the means, lord; I have the wit

only.”

Petronius smiled also, for he was perfectly satisfied with his guest.

“That man can find the maiden,” thought he. Meanwhile Vinicius wrinkled

his joined brows, and said,--“Wretch, in case thou deceive me for gain,

I will give command to beat thee with clubs.”

“I am a philosopher, lord, and a philosopher cannot be greedy of gain,

especially of such as thou hast just offered magnanimously.”

“Oh, art thou a philosopher?” inquired Petronius. “Eunice told me that

thou art a physician and a soothsayer. Whence knowest thou Eunice?”

“She came to me for aid, for my fame struck her ears.”

“What aid did she want?”

“Aid in love, lord. She wanted to be cured of unrequited love.”

“Didst thou cure her?”

“I did more, lord. I gave her an amulet which secures mutuality. In

Paphos, on the island of Cyprus, is a temple, O lord, in which is

preserved a zone of Venus. I gave her two threads from that zone,

enclosed in an almond shell.”

“And didst thou make her pay well for them?”

“One can never pay enough for mutuality, and I, who lack two fingers on

my right hand, am collecting money to buy a slave copyist to write down

my thoughts, and preserve my wisdom for mankind.”

“Of what school art thou, divine sage?”

“I am a Cynic, lord, because I wear a tattered mantle; I am a Stoic,

because I bear poverty patiently; I am a Peripatetic, for, not owning a

litter, I go on foot from one wine-shop to another, and on the way teach

those who promise to pay for a pitcher of wine.”

“And at the pitcher thou dost become a rhetor?”

“Heraclitus declares that ‘all is fluid,’ and canst thou deny, lord,

that wine is fluid?”

“And he declared that fire is a divinity; divinity, therefore, is

blushing in thy nose.”

“But the divine Diogenes from Apollonia declared that air is the essence

of things, and the warmer the air the more perfect the beings it makes,

and from the warmest come the souls of sages. And since the autumns are

cold, a genuine sage should warm his soul with wine; and wouldst thou

hinder, O lord, a pitcher of even the stuff produced in Capua or Telesia

from bearing heat to all the bones of a perishable human body?”

“Chilo Chilonides, where is thy birthplace?”

“On the Euxine Pontus. I come from Mesembria.”

“Oh, Chilo, thou art great!”

“And unrecognized,” said the sage, pensively.

But Vinicius was impatient again. In view of the hope which had gleamed

before him, he wished Chilo to set out at once on his work; hence the

whole conversation seemed to him simply a vain loss of time, and he was

angry at Petronius.

“When wilt thou begin the search?” asked he, turning to the Greek.

“I have begun it already,” answered Chilo. “And since I am here,

and answering thy affable question, I am searching yet. Only have

confidence, honored tribune, and know that if thou wert to lose the

string of thy sandal I should find it, or him who picked it up on the

street.”

“Hast thou been employed in similar services?” asked Petronius.

The Greek raised his eyes. “To-day men esteem virtue and wisdom too low,

for a philosopher not to be forced to seek other means of living.”

“What are thy means?”

“To know everything, and to serve those with news who are in need of

it.”

“And who pay for it?”

“Ah, lord, I need to buy a copyist. Otherwise my wisdom will perish with

me.”

“If thou hast not collected enough yet to buy a sound mantle, thy

services cannot be very famous.”

“Modesty hinders me. But remember, lord, that to-day there are not such

benefactors as were numerous formerly; and for whom it was as pleasant

to cover service with gold as to swallow an oyster from Puteoli. No; my

services are not small, but the gratitude of mankind is small. At times,

when a valued slave escapes, who will find him, if not the only son of

my father? When on the walls there are inscriptions against the divine

Poppæa, who will indicate those who composed them? Who will discover at

the book-stalls verses against Cæsar? Who will declare what is said in

the houses of knights and senators? Who will carry letters which the

writers will not intrust to slaves? Who will listen to news at the doors

of barbers? For whom have wine-shops and bake-shops no secret? In whom

do slaves trust? Who can see through every house, from the atrium to the

garden? Who knows every street, every alley and hiding-place? Who

knows what they say in the baths, in the Circus, in the markets, in the

fencing-schools, in slave-dealers’ sheds, and even in the arenas?”

“By the gods! enough, noble sage!” cried Petronius; “we are drowning

in thy services, thy virtue, thy wisdom, and thy eloquence. Enough! We

wanted to know who thou art, and we know!”

But Vinicius was glad, for he thought that this man, like a hound, once

put on the trail, would not stop till he had found out the hiding-place.

“Well,” said he, “dost thou need indications?”

“I need arms.”

“Of what kind?” asked Vinicius, with astonishment.

The Greek stretched out one hand; with the other he made the gesture of

counting money.

“Such are the times, lord,” said he, with a sigh.

“Thou wilt be the ass, then,” said Petronius, “to win the fortress with

bags of gold?”

“I am only a poor philosopher,” answered Chilo, with humility; “ye have

the gold.”

Vinicius tossed him a purse, which the Greek caught in the air, though

two fingers were lacking on his right hand.

He raised his head then, and said: “I know more than thou thinkest.

I have not come empty-handed. I know that Aulus did not intercept the

maiden, for I have spoken with his slaves. I know that she is not on the

Palatine, for all are occupied with the infant Augusta; and perhaps

I may even divine why ye prefer to search for the maiden with my help

rather than that of the city guards and Cæsar’s soldiers. I know that

her escape was effected by a servant,--a slave coming from the same

country as she. He could not find assistance among slaves, for slaves

all stand together, and would not act against thy slaves. Only a

co-religionist would help him.”

“Dost hear, Vinicius?” broke in Petronius. “Have I not said the same,

word for word, to thee?”

“That is an honor for me,” said Chilo. “The maiden, lord,” continued he,

turning again to Vinicius, “worships beyond a doubt the same divinity

as that most virtuous of Roman ladies, that genuine matron, Pomponia.

I have heard this, too, that Pomponia was tried in her own house for

worshipping some kind of foreign god, but I could not learn from her

slaves what god that is, or what his worshippers are called. If I could

learn that, I should go to them, become the most devoted among them, and

gain their confidence. But thou, lord, who hast passed, as I know too,

a number of days in the house of the noble Aulus, canst thou not give me

some information thereon?”

“I cannot,” said Vinicius.

“Ye have asked me long about various things, noble lords, and I have

answered the questions; permit me now to give one. Hast thou not seen,

honored tribune, some statuette, some offering, some token, some amulet

on Pomponia or thy divine Lygia? Hast thou not seen them making signs to

each other, intelligible to them alone?”

“Signs? Wait! Yes; I saw once that Lygia made a fish on the sand.”

“A fish? A-a! O-o-o! Did she do that once, or a number of times?”

“Only once.”

“And art thou certain, lord, that she outlined a fish? O-o?”

“Yes,” answered Vinicius, with roused curiosity. “Dost thou divine what

that means?”

“Do I divine!” exclaimed Chilo. And bowing in sign of farewell, he

added: “May Fortune scatter on you both equally all gifts, worthy

lords!”

“Give command to bring thee a mantle,” said Petronius to him at parting.

“Ulysses gives thee thanks for Thersites,” said the Greek; and bowing a

second time, he walked out.

“What wilt thou say of that noble sage?” inquired Petronius.

“This, that he will find Lygia,” answered Vinicius, with delight; “but I

will say, too, that were there a kingdom of rogues he might be the king

of it.”

“Most certainly. I shall make a nearer acquaintance with this stoic;

meanwhile I must give command to perfume the atrium.”

But Chilo Chilonides, wrapping his new mantle about him, threw up on

his palm, under its folds, the purse received from Vinicius, and admired

both its weight and its jingle. Walking on slowly, and looking around

to see if they were not looking at him from the house, he passed the

portico of Livia, and, reaching the corner of the Clivus Virbius, turned

toward the Subura.

“I must go to Sporus,” said he to himself, “and pour out a little wine

to Fortuna. I have found at last what I have been seeking this long

time. He is young, irascible, bounteous as mines in Cyprus, and ready

to give half his fortune for that Lygian linnet. Just such a man have

I been seeking this long time. It is needful, however, to be on one’s

guard with him, for the wrinkling of his brow forebodes no good. Ah! the

wolf-whelps lord it over the world to-day! I should fear that Petronius

less. O gods! but the trade of procurer pays better at present than

virtue. Ah! she drew a fish on the sand! If I know what that means, may

I choke myself with a piece of goat’s cheese! But I shall know. Fish

live under water, and searching under water is more difficult than on

land, ergo he will pay me separately for this fish. Another such purse

and I might cast aside the beggar’s wallet and buy myself a slave. But

what wouldst thou say, Chilo, were I to advise thee to buy not a male

but a female slave? I know thee; I know that thou wouldst consent. If

she were beautiful, like Eunice, for instance, thou thyself wouldst grow

young near her, and at the same time wouldst have from her a good and

certain income. I sold to that poor Eunice two threads from my old

mantle. She is dull; but if Petronius were to give her to me, I would

take her. Yes, yes, Chilo Chilonides, thou hast lost father and mother,

thou art an orphan; therefore buy to console thee even a female slave.

She must indeed live somewhere, therefore Vinicius will hire her a

dwelling, in which thou too mayest find shelter; she must dress, hence

Vinicius will pay for the dress; and must eat, hence he will support

her. Och! what a hard life! Where are the times in which for an obolus a

man could buy as much pork and beans as he could hold in both hands, or

a piece of goat’s entrails as long as the arm of a boy twelve years old,

and filled with blood? But here is that villain Sporus! In the wine-shop

it will be easier to learn something.”

Thus conversing, he entered the wine-shop and ordered a pitcher of

“dark” for himself. Seeing the sceptical look of the shopkeeper, he

took a gold coin from his purse, and, putting it on the table,

said,--“Sporus, I toiled to-day with Seneca from dawn till midday, and

this is what my friend gave me at parting.”

The plump eyes of Sporus became plumper still at this sight, and the

wine was soon before Chilo. Moistening his fingers in it, he drew a fish

on the table, and said,--“Knowest what that means?”

“A fish? Well, a fish,--yes, that’s a fish.”

“Thou art dull; though thou dost add so much water to the wine that thou

mightst find a fish in it. This is a symbol which, in the language of

philosophers, means ‘the smile of fortune.’ If thou hadst divined it,

thou too mightst have made a fortune. Honor philosophy, I tell thee,

or I shall change my wine-shop,--an act to which Petronius, my personal

friend, has been urging me this long time.”

Chapter XIV

FOR a number of days after the interview, Chilo did not show himself

anywhere. Vinicius, since he had learned from Acte that Lygia loved him,

was a hundred times more eager to find her, and began himself to search.

He was unwilling, and also unable, to ask aid of Cæsar, who was in great

fear because of the illness of the infant Augusta.

Sacrifices in the temples did not help, neither did prayers and

offerings, nor the art of physicians, nor all the means of enchantment

to which they turned finally. In a week the child died. Mourning fell

upon the court and Rome. Cæsar, who at the birth of the infant was wild

with delight, was wild now from despair, and, confining himself in

his apartments, refused food for two days; and though the palace was

swarming with senators and Augustians, who hastened with marks of sorrow

and sympathy, he denied audience to every one. The senate assembled in

an extraordinary session, at which the dead child was pronounced divine.

It was decided to rear to her a temple and appoint a special priest to

her service. New sacrifices were offered in other temples in honor of

the deceased; statues of her were cast from precious metals; and her

funeral was one immense solemnity, during which the people wondered at

the unrestrained marks of grief which Cæsar exhibited; they wept

with him, stretched out their hands for gifts, and above all amused

themselves with the unparalleled spectacle.

That death alarmed Petronius. All knew in Rome that Poppæa ascribed it

to enchantment. The physicians, who were thus enabled to explain the

vanity of their efforts, supported her; the priests, whose sacrifices

proved powerless, did the same, as well as the sorcerers, who were

trembling for their lives, and also the people. Petronius was glad now

that Lygia had fled; for he wished no evil to Aulus and Pomponia, and he

wished good to himself and Vinicius; therefore when the cypress, set out

before the Palatine as a sign of mourning, was removed, he went to the

reception appointed for the senators and Augustians to learn how far

Nero had lent ear to reports of spells, and to neutralize results which

might come from his belief.

Knowing Nero, he thought, too, that though he did not believe in charms,

he would feign belief, so as to magnify his own suffering, and take

vengeance on some one, finally, to escape the suspicion that the gods

had begun to punish him for crimes. Petronius did not think that Cæsar

could love really and deeply even his own child; though he loved her

passionately, he felt certain, however, that he would exaggerate his

suffering. He was not mistaken. Nero listened, with stony face and fixed

eyes, to the consolation offered by knights and senators. It was evident

that, even if he suffered, he was thinking of this: What impression

would his suffering make upon others? He was posing as a Niobe, and

giving an exhibition of parental sorrow, as an actor would give it on

the stage. He had not the power even then to endure in his silent and as

it were petrified sorrow, for at moments he made a gesture as if to cast

the dust of the earth on his head, and at moments he groaned deeply; but

seeing Petronius, he sprang up and cried in a tragic voice, so that all

present could hear him,--“Eheu! And thou art guilty of her death! At thy

advice the evil spirit entered these walls,--the evil spirit which, with

one look, drew the life from her breast! Woe is me! Would that my eyes

had not seen the light of Helios! Woe is me! Eheu! eheu!”

And raising his voice still more, he passed into a despairing shout; but

Petronius resolved at that moment to put everything on one cast of the

dice; hence, stretching out his hand, he seized the silk kerchief which

Nero wore around his neck always, and, placing it on the mouth of the

Imperator, said solemnly,--“Lord, Rome and the world are benumbed with

pain; but do thou preserve thy voice for us!”

Those present were amazed; Nero himself was amazed for a moment.

Petronius alone was unmoved; he knew too well what he was doing. He

remembered, besides, that Terpnos and Diodorus had a direct order to

close Cæsar’s mouth whenever he raised his voice too much and exposed it

to danger.

“O Cæsar!” continued he, with the same seriousness and sorrow, “we have

suffered an immeasurable loss; let even this treasure of consolation

remain to us!”

Nero’s face quivered, and after a while tears came from his eyes. All

at once he rested his hands on Petronius’s shoulders, and, dropping his

head on his breast, began to repeat, amid sobs,

“Thou alone of all thought of this,--thou alone, O Petronius! thou

alone!”

Tigellinus grew yellow from envy; but Petronius continued,--

“Go to Antium! there she came to the world, there joy flowed in on

thee, there solace will come to thee. Let the sea air freshen thy divine

throat; let thy breast breathe the salt dampness. We, thy devoted

ones, will follow thee everywhere; and when we assuage thy pain with

friendship, thou wilt comfort us with song.

“True!” answered Nero, sadly, “I will write a hymn in her honor, and

compose music for it.”

“And then thou wilt find the warm sun in Baiæ.”

“And afterward--forgetfulness in Greece.”

“In the birthplace of poetry and song.”

And his stony, gloomy state of mind passed away gradually, as clouds

pass that are covering the sun; and then a conversation began which,

though full of sadness, yet was full of plans for the future,--touching

a journey, artistic exhibitions, and even the receptions required at the

promised coming of Tiridates, King of Armenia. Tigellinus tried, it is

true, to bring forward again the enchantment; but Petronius, sure now of

victory, took up the challenge directly.

“Tigellinus,” said he, “dost thou think that enchantments can injure the

gods?”

“Cæsar himself has mentioned them,” answered the courtier.

“Pain was speaking, not Cæsar; but thou--what is thy opinion of the

matter?”

“The gods are too mighty to be subject to charms.”

“Then wouldst thou deny divinity to Cæsar and his family?”

“Peractum est!” muttered Eprius Marcellus, standing near, repeating

that shout which the people gave always when a gladiator in the arena

received such a blow that he needed no other.

Tigellinus gnawed his own anger. Between him and Petronius there had

long existed a rivalry touching Nero. Tigellinus had this superiority,

that Nero acted with less ceremony, or rather with none whatever in

his presence; while thus far Petronius overcame Tigellinus at every

encounter with wit and intellect.

So it happened now. Tigellinus was silent, and simply recorded in his

memory those senators and knights who, when Petronius withdrew to the

depth of the chamber, surrounded him straightway, supposing that after

this incident he would surely be Cæsar’s first favorite.

Petronius, on leaving the palace, betook himself to Vinicius, and

described his encounter with Cæsar and Tigellinus.

“Not only have I turned away danger,” said he, “from Aulus Plautius,

Pomponia, and us, but even from Lygia, whom they will not seek, even

for this reason, that I have persuaded Bronzebeard, the monkey, to go to

Antium, and thence to Naples or Baiæ and he will go. I know that he has

not ventured yet to appear in the theatre publicly; I have known this

long time that he intends to do so at Naples. He is dreaming, moreover,

of Greece, where he wants to sing in all the more prominent cities, and

then make a triumphal entry into Rome, with all the crowns which the

‘Græculi’ will bestow on him. During that time we shall be able to

seek Lygia unhindered and secrete her in safety. But has not our noble

philosopher been here yet?”

“Thy noble philosopher is a cheat. No; he has not shown himself, and he

will not show himself again!”

“But I have a better understanding, if not of his honesty, of his wit.

He has drawn blood once from thy purse, and will come even for this, to

draw it a second time.”

“Let him beware lest I draw his own blood.”

“Draw it not; have patience till thou art convinced surely of his

deceit. Do not give him more money, but promise a liberal reward if he

brings thee certain information. Wilt thou thyself undertake something?”

“My two freedmen, Nymphidius and Demas, are searching for her with sixty

men. Freedom is promised the slave who finds her. Besides I have sent

out special persons by all roads leading from Rome to inquire at every

inn for the Lygian and the maiden. I course through the city myself day

and night, counting on a chance meeting.”

“Whenever thou hast tidings let me know, for I must go to Antium.”

“I will do so.”

“And if thou wake up some morning and say, ‘It is not worth while to

torment myself for one girl, and take so much trouble because of her,’

come to Antium. There will be no lack of women there, or amusement.”

Vinicius began to walk with quick steps. Petronius looked for some time

at him, and said at last,--“Tell me sincerely, not as a mad head, who

talks something into his brain and excites himself, but as a man of

judgment who is answering a friend: Art thou concerned as much as ever

about this Lygia?”

Vinicius stopped a moment, and looked at Petronius as if he had not

seen him before; then he began to walk again. It was evident that he

was restraining an outburst. At last, from a feeling of helplessness,

sorrow, anger, and invincible yearning, two tears gathered in his eyes,

which spoke with greater power to Petronius than the most eloquent

words.

Then, meditating for a moment, he said,--“It is not Atlas who carries

the world on his shoulders, but woman; and sometimes she plays with it

as with a ball.”

“True,” said Vinicius.

And they began to take farewell of each other. But at that moment a

slave announced that Chilo Chilonides was waiting in the antechamber,

and begged to be admitted to the presence of the lord.

Vinicius gave command to admit him immediately, and Petronius

said,--“Ha! have I not told thee? By Hercules! keep thy calmness; or he

will command thee, not thou him.”

“A greeting and honor to the noble tribune of the army, and to thee,

lord,” said Chilo, entering. “May your happiness be equal to your fame,

and may your fame course through the world from the pillars of Hercules

to the boundaries of the Arsacidæ.”

“A greeting, O lawgiver of virtue and wisdom,” answered Petronius.

But Vinicius inquired with affected calmness, “What dost thou bring?”

“The first time I came I brought thee hope, O lord; at present, I bring

certainty that the maiden will be found.”

“That means that thou hast not found her yet?”

“Yes, lord; but I have found what that sign means which she made. I

know who the people are who rescued her, and I know the God among whose

worshippers to seek her.”

Vinicius wished to spring from the chair in which he was sitting;

but Petronius placed his hand on his shoulder, and turning to Chilo

said,--“Speak on!”

“Art thou perfectly certain, lord, that she drew a fish on the sand?”

“Yes,” burst out Vinicius.

“Then she is a Christian and Christians carried her away.” A moment of

silence followed.

“Listen, Chilo,” said Petronius. “My relative has predestined to thee

a considerable sum of money for finding the girl, but a no less

considerable number of rods if thou deceive him. In the first case thou

wilt purchase not one, but three scribes; in the second, the philosophy

of all the seven sages, with the addition of thy own, will not suffice

to get thee ointment.”

“The maiden is a Christian, lord,” cried the Greek.

“Stop, Chilo. Thou art not a dull man. We know that Junia and Calvia

Crispinilla accused Pomponia Græcina of confessing the Christian

superstition; but we know too, that a domestic court acquitted her.

Wouldst thou raise this again? Wouldst thou persuade us that Pomponia,

and with her Lygia, could belong to the enemies of the human race, to

the poisoners of wells and fountains, to the worshippers of an ass’s

head, to people who murder infants and give themselves up to the foulest

license? Think, Chilo, if that thesis which thou art announcing to us

will not rebound as an antithesis on thy own back.”

Chilo spread out his arms in sign that that was not his fault, and then

said,--“Lord, utter in Greek the following sentence: Jesus Christ, Son

of God, Saviour.” [Iesous Christos, Theou Uios, Soter.]

“Well, I have uttered it. What comes of that?”

“Now take the first letters of each of those words and put them into one

word.”

“Fish!” said Petronius with astonishment. [Ichthus, the Greek word for

“fish.”]

“There, that is why fish has become the watchword of the Christians,”

answered Chilo, proudly.

A moment of silence followed. But there was something so striking in the

conclusions of the Greek that the two friends could not guard themselves

from amazement.

“Vinicius, art thou not mistaken?” asked Petronius. “Did Lygia really

draw a fish for thee?”

“By all the infernal gods, one might go mad!” cried the young man, with

excitement. “If she had drawn a bird for me, I should have said a bird.”

“Therefore she is a Christian,” repeated Chilo.

“This signifies,” said Petronius, “that Pomponia and Lygia poison

wells, murder children caught on the street, and give themselves up to

dissoluteness! Folly! Thou, Vinicius, wert at their house for a time, I

was there a little while; but I know Pomponia and Aulus enough, I know

even Lygia enough, to say monstrous and foolish! If a fish is the symbol

of the Christians, which it is difficult really to deny, and if those

women are Christians, then, by Proserpina! evidently Christians are not

what we hold them to be.”

“Thou speakest like Socrates, lord,” answered Chilo. “Who has ever

examined a Christian? Who has learned their religion? When I was

travelling three years ago from Naples hither to Rome (oh, why did I

not stay in Naples!), a man joined me, whose name was Glaucus, of whom

people said that he was a Christian; but in spite of that I convinced

myself that he was a good and virtuous man.”

“Was it not from that virtuous man that thou hast learned now what the

fish means?”

“Unfortunately, lord, on the way, at an inn, some one thrust a knife

into that honorable old man; and his wife and child were carried away

by slave-dealers. I lost in their defence these two fingers; since, as

people say, there is no lack among Christians of miracles, I hope that

the fingers will grow out on my hand again.”

“How is that? Hast thou become a Christian?”

“Since yesterday, lord, since yesterday! The fish made me a Christian.

But see what a power there is in it. For some days I shall be the most

zealous of the zealous, so that they may admit me to all their secrets;

and when they admit me to their secrets, I shall know where the maiden

is hiding. Perhaps then my Christianity will pay me better than my

philosophy. I have made a vow also to Mercury, that if he helps me to

find the maiden, I will sacrifice to him two heifers of the same size

and color and will gild their horns.”

“Then thy Christianity of yesterday and thy philosophy of long standing

permit thee to believe in Mercury?”

“I believe always in that in which I need to believe; that is my

philosophy, which ought to please Mercury. Unfortunately (ye know,

worthy lords, what a suspicious god he is), he does not trust the

promises even of blameless philosophers, and prefers the heifers in

advance; meanwhile this outlay is immense. Not every one is a Seneca,

and I cannot afford the sacrifice; should the noble Vinicius, however,

wish to give something, on account of that sum which he promised--”

“Not an obolus, Chilo!” said Petronius, “not an obolus. The bounty

of Vinicius will surpass thy expectations, but only when Lygia is

found,--that is, when thou shalt indicate to us her hiding-place.

Mercury must trust thee for the two heifers, though I am not astonished

at him for not wishing to do so; in this I recognize his acuteness.”

“Listen to me, worthy lords. The discovery which I have made is great;

for though I have not found the maiden yet, I have found the way in

which I must seek her. Ye have sent freedmen and slaves throughout the

city and into the country; has any one given you a clew? No! I alone

have given one. I tell you more. Among your slaves there may be

Christians, of whom ye have no knowledge, for this superstition has

spread everywhere; and they, instead of aiding, will betray you. It is

unfortunate that they see me here; do thou therefore, noble Petronius,

enjoin silence on Eunice; and thou too, noble Vinicius, spread a report

that I sell thee an ointment which insures victory in the Circus to

horses rubbed with it. I alone will search for her, and single-handed I

will find the fugitives; and do ye trust in me, and know that whatever

I receive in advance will be for me simply an encouragement, for I shall

hope always for more, and shall feel the greater certainty that the

promised reward will not fail me. Ah, it is true! As a philosopher I

despise money, though neither Seneca, nor even Musonius, nor Cornutus

despises it, though they have not lost fingers in any one’s defence, and

are able themselves to write and leave their names to posterity. But,

aside from the slave, whom I intend to buy, and besides Mercury, to whom

I have promised the heifers,--and ye know how dear cattle have become in

these times,--the searching itself involves much outlay. Only listen

to me patiently. Well, for the last few days my feet are wounded from

continual walking. I have gone to wine-shops to talk with people, to

bakeries, to butcher-shops, to dealers in olive oil, and to fishermen.

I have run through every street and alley; I have been in the hiding

places of fugitive slaves; I have lost money, nearly a hundred ases,

in playing mora; I have been in laundries, in drying-sheds, in cheap

kitchens; I have seen mule-drivers and carvers; I have seen people who

cure bladder complaints and pull teeth; I have talked with dealers in

dried figs; I have been at cemeteries; and do ye know why? This is why;

so as to outline a fish everywhere, look people in the eyes, and hear

what they would say of that sign. For a long time I was unable to learn

anything, till at last I saw an old slave at a fountain. He was drawing

water with a bucket, and weeping. Approaching him, I asked the cause

of his tears. When we had sat down on the steps of the fountain, he

answered that all his life he had been collecting sestertium after

sestertium, to redeem his beloved son; but his master, a certain Pansa,

when the money was delivered to him, took it, but kept the son in

slavery. ‘And so I am weeping,’ said the old man, ‘for though I repeat,

Let the will of God be done, I, poor sinner, am not able to keep down my

tears.’ Then, as if penetrated by a forewarning, I moistened my finger

in the water and drew a fish for him. To this he answered, ‘My hope,

too, is in Christ.’ I asked him then, ‘Hast thou confessed to me by that

sign?’ ‘I have,’ said he; ‘and peace be with thee.’ I began then to draw

him out, and the honest old man told me everything. His master, that

Pansa, is himself a freedman of the great Pansa; and he brings stones by

the Tiber to Rome, where slaves and hired persons unload them from

the boats, and carry them to buildings in the night time, so as not to

obstruct movement in the streets during daylight. Among these people

many Christians work, and also his son; as the work is beyond his son’s

strength, he wished to redeem him. But Pansa preferred to keep both the

money and the slave. While telling me this, he began again to weep; and

I mingled my tears with his,--tears came to me easily because of my kind

heart, and the pain in my feet, which I got from walking excessively.

I began also to lament that as I had come from Naples only a few days

since, I knew no one of the brotherhood, and did not know where they

assembled for prayer. He wondered that Christians in Naples had not

given me letters to their brethren in Rome; but I explained to him that

the letters were stolen from me on the road. Then he told me to come

to the river at night, and he would acquaint me with brethren who would

conduct me to houses of prayer and to elders who govern the Christian

community. When I heard this, I was so delighted that I gave him the

sum needed to redeem his son, in the hope that the lordly Vinicius would

return it to me twofold.”

“Chilo,” interrupted Petronius, “in thy narrative falsehood appears on

the surface of truth, as oil does on water. Thou hast brought important

information; I do not deny that. I assert, even, that a great step is

made toward finding Lygia; but do not cover thy news with falsehood.

What is the name of that old man from whom thou hast learned that the

Christians recognize each other through the sign of a fish?”

“Euricius. A poor, unfortunate old man! He reminded me of Glaucus, whom

I defended from murderers, and he touched me mainly by this.”

“I believe that thou didst discover him, and wilt be able to make use of

the acquaintance; but thou hast given him no money. Thou hast not given

him an as; dost understand me? Thou hast not given anything.”

“But I helped him to lift the bucket, and I spoke of his son with the

greatest sympathy. Yes, lord, what can hide before the penetration of

Petronius? Well, I did not give him money, or rather, I gave it to him,

but only in spirit, in intention, which, had he been a real philosopher,

should have sufficed him. I gave it to him because I saw that such an

act was indispensable and useful; for think, lord, how this act has won

all the Christians at once to me, what access to them it has opened, and

what confidence it has roused in them.”

“True,” said Petronius, “and it was thy duty to do it.”

“For this very reason I have come to get the means to do it.”

Petronius turned to Vinicius,--“Give command to count out to him five

thousand sestertia, but in spirit, in intention.”

“I will give thee a young man,” said Vinicius, “who will take the sum

necessary; thou wilt say to Euricius that the youth is thy slave, and

thou wilt count out to the old man, in the youth’s presence, this money.

Since thou hast brought important tidings, thou wilt receive the same

amount for thyself. Come for the youth and the money this evening.”

“Thou art a real Cæsar!” said Chilo. “Permit me, lord, to dedicate my

work to thee; but permit also that this evening I come only for the

money, since Euricius told me that all the boats had been unloaded, and

that new ones would come from Ostia only after some days. Peace be with

you! Thus do Christians take farewell of one another. I will buy myself

a slave woman,--that is, I wanted to say a slave man. Fish are caught

with a bait, and Christians with fish. Fax vobiscum! pax! pax! pax!”

Chapter XV

PETRONIUS to VINICIUS:

“I send to thee from Antium, by a trusty slave, this letter, to which,

though thy hand is more accustomed to the sword and the javelin than the

pen, I think that thou wilt answer through the same messenger without

needless delay. I left thee on a good trail, and full of hope; hence

I trust that thou hast either satisfied thy pleasant desires in the

embraces of Lygia, or wilt satisfy them before the real wintry wind from

the summits of Soracte shall blow on the Campania. Oh, my Vinicius! may

thy preceptress be the golden goddess of Cyprus; be thou, on thy part,

the preceptor of that Lygian Aurora, who is fleeing before the sun of

love. And remember always that marble, though most precious, is nothing

of itself, and acquires real value only when the sculptor’s hand turns

it into a masterpiece. Be thou such a sculptor, carissime! To love is

not sufficient; one must know how to love; one must know how to teach

love. Though the plebs, too, and even animals, experience pleasure, a

genuine man differs from them in this especially, that he makes love

in some way a noble art, and, admiring it, knows all its divine value,

makes it present in his mind, thus satisfying not his body merely,

but his soul. More than once, when I think here of the emptiness, the

uncertainty, the dreariness of life, it occurs to me that perhaps thou

hast chosen better, and that not Cæsar’s court, but war and love, are

the only objects for which it is worth while to be born and to live.

“Thou wert fortunate in war, be fortunate also in love; and if thou art

curious as to what men are doing at the court of Cæsar, I will inform

thee from time to time. We are living here at Antium, and nursing our

heavenly voice; we continue to cherish the same hatred of Rome, and

think of betaking ourselves to Baiæ for the winter, to appear in public

at Naples, whose inhabitants, being Greeks, will appreciate us better

than that wolf brood on the banks of the Tiber. People will hasten

thither from Baiæ, from Pompeii, Puteoli, Cumæ, and Stabia; neither

applause nor crowns will be lacking, and that will be an encouragement

for the proposed expedition to Achæa.

“But the memory of the infant Augusta? Yes! we are bewailing her yet. We

are singing hymns of our own composition, so wonderful that the sirens

have been hiding from envy in Amphitrite’s deepest caves. But the

dolphins would listen to us, were they not prevented by the sound of the

sea. Our suffering is not allayed yet; hence we will exhibit it to the

world in every form which sculpture can employ, and observe carefully if

we are beautiful in our suffering and if people recognize this beauty.

Oh, my dear! we shall die buffoons and comedians!

“All the Augustians are here, male and female, not counting ten thousand

servants, and five hundred she asses, in whose milk Poppæa bathes. At

times even it is cheerful here. Calvia Crispinilla is growing old. It

is said that she has begged Poppæa to let her take the bath immediately

after herself. Lucan slapped Nigidia on the face, because he suspected

her of relations with a gladiator. Sporus lost his wife at dice to

Senecio. Torquatus Silanus has offered me for Eunice four chestnut

horses, which this year will win the prize beyond doubt. I would not

accept! Thanks to thee, also, that thou didst not take her. As to

Torquatus Silanus, the poor man does not even suspect that he is already

more a shade than a man. His death is decided. And knowest what his

crime is? He is the great-grandson of the deified Augustus. There is no

rescue for him. Such is our world.

“As is known to thee, we have been expecting Tiridates here; meanwhile

Vologeses has written an offensive letter. Because he has conquered

Armenia, he asks that it be left to him for Tiridates; if not, he

will not yield it in any case. Pure comedy! So we have decided on war.

Corbulo will receive power such as Pompeius Magnus received in the war

with pirates. There was a moment, however, when Nero hesitated. He seems

afraid of the glory which Corbulo will win in case of victory. It was

even thought to offer the chief command to our Aulus. This was opposed

by Poppæa, for whom evidently Pomponia’s virtue is as salt in the eye.

“Vatinius described to us a remarkable fight of gladiators, which is

to take place in Beneventum. See to what cobblers rise in our time,

in spite of the saying, ‘Ne sutor ultra crepidam!’ Vitelius is the

descendant of a cobbler; but Vatinius is the son of one! Perhaps he

drew thread himself! The actor Aliturus represented Oedipus yesterday

wonderfully. I asked him, by the way, as a Jew, if Christians and Jews

were the same. He answered that the Jews have an eternal religion, but

that Christians are a new sect risen recently in Judea; that in the time

of Tiberius the Jews crucified a certain man, whose adherents increase

daily, and that the Christians consider him as God. They refuse, it

seems, to recognize other gods, ours especially. I cannot understand

what harm it would do them to recognize these gods.

“Tigellinus shows me open enmity now. So far he is unequal to me; but

he is, superior in this, that he cares more for life, and is at the same

time a greater scoundrel, which brings him nearer Ahenobarbus. These two

will understand each other earlier or later, and then my turn will come.

I know not when it will come; but I know this, that as things are it

must come; hence let time pass. Meanwhile we must amuse ourselves. Life

of itself would not be bad were it not for Bronzebeard. Thanks to him,

a man at times is disgusted with himself. It is not correct to consider

the struggle for his favor as a kind of rivalry in a circus,--as a

kind of game, as a struggle, in which victory flatters vanity. True, I

explain it to myself in that way frequently; but still it seems to me

sometimes that I am like Chilo, and better in nothing than he. When he

ceases to be needful to thee, send him to me. I have taken a fancy to

his edifying conversation. A greeting from me to thy divine Christian,

or rather beg her in my name not to be a fish to thee. Inform me of thy

health, inform me of thy love, know how to love, teach how to love, and

farewell.”

VINICIUS to PETRONIUS:

“Lygia is not found yet! Were it not for the hope that I shall find her

soon, thou wouldst not receive an answer; for when a man is disgusted

with life, he has no wish to write letters. I wanted to learn whether

Chilo was not deceiving me; and at night when he came to get the money

for Euricius, I threw on a military mantle, and unobserved followed

him and the slave whom I sent with him. When they reached the place, I

watched from a distance, hidden behind a portico pillar, and convinced

myself that Euricius was not invented. Below, a number of tens of people

were unloading stones from a spacious barge, and piling them up on the

bank. I saw Chilo approach them, and begin to talk with some old man,

who after a while fell at his feet. Others surrounded them with shouts

of admiration. Before my eyes the boy gave a purse to Euricius, who on

seizing it began to pray with upraised hands, while at his side some

second person was kneeling, evidently his son. Chilo said something

which I could not hear, and blessed the two who were kneeling, as well

as others, making in the air signs in the form of a cross, which they

honor apparently, for all bent their knees. The desire seized me to go

among them, and promise three such purses to him who would deliver to me

Lygia; but I feared to spoil Chilo’s work, and after hesitating a moment

went home.

“This happened at least twelve days after thy departure. Since then

Chilo has been a number of times with me. He says that he has gained

great significance among the Christians; that if he has not found Lygia

so far, it is because the Christians in Rome are innumerable, hence all

are not acquainted with each person in their community, and cannot know

everything that is done in it. They are cautious, too, and in general

reticent. He gives assurance, however, that when he reaches the elders,

who are called presbyters, he will learn every secret. He has made the

acquaintance of a number of these already, and has begun to inquire of

them, though carefully, so as not to rouse suspicion by haste, and not

to make the work still more difficult. Though it is hard to wait, though

patience fails, I feel that he is right, and I wait.

“He learned, too, that they have places of meeting for prayer,

frequently outside the city, in empty houses and even in sand-pits.

There they worship Christ, sing hymns, and have feasts. There are many

such places. Chilo supposes that Lygia goes purposely to different ones

from Pomponia, so that the latter, in case of legal proceedings or an

examination, might swear boldly that she knew nothing of Lygia’s hiding

place. It may be that the presbyters have advised caution. When Chilo

discovers those places, I will go with him; and if the gods let me see

Lygia, I swear to thee by Jupiter that she will not escape my hands this

time.

“I am thinking continually of those places of prayer. Chilo is unwilling

that I should go with him; he is afraid. But I cannot stay at home. I

should know her at once, even in disguise or if veiled. They assemble in

the night, but I should recognize her in the night even. I should know

her voice and motions anywhere. I will go myself in disguise, and look

at every person who goes in or out. I am thinking of her always, and

shall recognize her. Chilo is to come to-morrow, and we shall go. I

will take arms. Some of my slaves sent to the provinces have returned

empty-handed. But I am certain now that she is in the city, perhaps

not far away even. I myself have visited many houses under pretext of

renting them. She will fare better with me a hundred times; where she

is, whole legions of poor people dwell. Besides, I shall spare nothing

for her sake. Thou writest that I have chosen well. I have chosen

suffering and sorrow. We shall go first to those houses which are in

the city, then beyond the gates. Hope looks for something every morning,

otherwise life would be impossible. Thou sayest that one should know how

to love. I knew how to talk of love to Lygia. But now I only yearn; I do

nothing but wait for Chilo. Life to me is unendurable in my own house.

Farewell!”

Chapter XVI

BUT Chilo did not appear for some time, and Vinicius knew not at last

what to think of his absence. In vain he repeated to himself that

searching, if continued to a certain and successful issue, must be

gradual. His blood and impulsive nature rebelled against the voice

of judgment. To do nothing, to wait, to sit with folded arms, was so

repulsive to him that he could not be reconciled to it in any way. To

search the alleys of the city in the dark garb of a slave, through this

alone, that it was useless, seemed to him merely a mask for his own

inefficiency, and could give no satisfaction. His freedmen, persons

of experience, whom he commanded to search independently, turned out

a hundred times less expert than Chilo. Meanwhile there rose in him,

besides his love for Lygia, the stubbornness of a player resolved to

win. Vinicius had been always a person of this kind. From earliest youth

he had accomplished what he desired with the passionateness of one who

does not understand failure, or the need of yielding something. For a

time military discipline had put his self-will within bounds, but also

it had engrafted into him the conviction that every command of his to

subordinates must be fulfilled; his prolonged stay in the Orient, among

people pliant and inured to slavish obedience, confirmed in him the

faith that for his “I wish” there were no limits. At present his vanity,

too, was wounded painfully. There was, besides, in Lygia’s

opposition and resistance, and in her flight itself, which was to him

incomprehensible, a kind of riddle. In trying to solve this riddle he

racked his head terribly. He felt that Acte had told the truth, and that

Lygia was not indifferent. But if this were true, why had she preferred

wandering and misery to his love, his tenderness, and a residence in his

splendid mansion? To this question he found no answer, and arrived only

at a kind of dim understanding that between him and Lygia, between their

ideas, between the world which belonged to him and Petronius, and the

world of Lygia and Pomponia, there existed some sort of difference, some

kind of misunderstanding as deep as an abyss, which nothing could fill

up or make even. It seemed to him, then, that he must lose Lygia; and

at this thought he lost the remnant of balance which Petronius wished to

preserve in him. There were moments in which he did not know whether he

loved Lygia or hated her; he understood only that he must find her, and

he would rather that the earth swallowed her than that he should not see

and possess her. By the power of imagination he saw her as clearly at

times as if she had been before his face. He recalled every word which

he had spoken to her; every word which he had heard from her. He felt

her near; felt her on his bosom, in his arms; and then desire embraced

him like a flame. He loved her and called to her.

And when he thought that he was loved, that she might do with

willingness all that he wished of her, sore and endless sorrow seized

him, and a kind of deep tenderness flooded his heart, like a mighty

wave. But there were moments, too, in which he grew pale from rage, and

delighted in thoughts of the humiliation and tortures which he would

inflict on Lygia when he found her. He wanted not only to have her, but

to have her as a trampled slave. At the same time he felt that if the

choice were left him, to be her slave or not to see her in life again,

he would rather be her slave. There were days in which he thought of the

marks which the lash would leave on her rosy body, and at the same time

he wanted to kiss those marks. It came to his head also that he would be

happy if he could kill her.

In this torture, torment, uncertainty, and suffering, he lost health,

and even beauty. He became a cruel and incomprehensible master. His

slaves, and even his freedmen, approached him with trembling; and when

punishments fell on them causelessly,--punishments as merciless as

undeserved,--they began to hate him in secret; while he, feeling this,

and feeling his own isolation, took revenge all the more on them. He

restrained himself with Chilo alone, fearing lest he might cease his

searches; the Greek, noting this, began to gain control of him, and grew

more and more exacting. At first he assured Vinicius at each visit that

the affair would proceed easily and quickly; now he began to discover

difficulties, and without ceasing, it is true, to guarantee the

undoubted success of the searches, he did not hide the fact that they

must continue yet for a good while.

At last he came, after long days of waiting, with a face so gloomy that

the young man grew pale at sight of him, and springing up had barely

strength to ask,--“Is she not among the Christians?” “She is, lord,”

answered Chilo; “but I found Glaucus among them.” “Of what art thou

speaking, and who is Glaucus?” “Thou hast forgotten, lord, it seems,

that old man with whom I journeyed from Naples to Rome, and in whose

defence I lost these two fingers,--a loss which prevents me from

writing. Robbers, who bore away his wife and child, stabbed him with a

knife. I left him dying at an inn in Minturna, and bewailed him long.

Alas! I have convinced myself that he is alive yet, and belongs in Rome

to the Christian community.”

Vinicius, who could not understand what the question was, understood

only that Glaucus was becoming a hindrance to the discovery of Lygia;

hence he suppressed his rising anger, and said,--“If thou didst defend

him, he should be thankful and help thee.”

“Ah! worthy tribune, even gods are not always grateful, and what must

the case be with men? True, he should be thankful. But, unhappily, he is

an old man, of a mind weak and darkened by age and disappointment; for

which reason, not only is he not grateful, but, as I learned from his

co-religionists, he accuses me of having conspired with the robbers, and

says that I am the cause of his misfortunes. That is the recompense for

my fingers!”

“Scoundrel! I am certain that it was as he says,” replied Vinicius.

“Then thou knowest more than he does, lord, for he only surmises that

it was so; which, however, would not prevent him from summoning the

Christians, and from revenging himself on me cruelly. He would have done

that undoubtedly, and others, with equal certainty, would have helped

him; but fortunately he does not know my name, and in the house of

prayer where we met, he did not notice me. I, however, knew him at once,

and at the first moment wished to throw myself on his neck. Wisdom,

however, and the habit of thinking before every step which I intend to

take, restrained me. Therefore, on issuing from the house of prayer, I

inquired concerning him, and those who knew him declared that he was

the man who had been betrayed by his comrade on the journey from Naples.

Otherwise I should not have known that he gives out such a story.”

“How does this concern me? Tell what thou sawest in the house of

prayer.”

“It does not concern thee, lord, but it concerns me just as much as

my life. Since I wish that my wisdom should survive me, I would rather

renounce the reward which thou hast offered, than expose my life for

empty lucre; without which, I as a true philosopher shall be able to

live and seek divine wisdom.”

But Vinicius approached him with an ominous countenance, and began in a

suppressed voice,--“Who told thee that death would meet thee sooner at

the hands of Glaucus than at mine? Whence knowest thou, dog, that I will

not have thee buried right away in my garden?”

Chilo, who was a coward, looked at Vinicius, and in the twinkle of

an eye understood that one more unguarded word and he was lost beyond

redemption.

“I will search for her, lord, and I will find her!” cried he, hurriedly.

Silence followed, during which were heard the quick breathing of

Vinicius, and the distant song of slaves at work in the garden.

Only after a while did the Greek resume his speech, when he noticed that

the young patrician was somewhat pacified.

“Death passed me, but I looked on it with the calmness of Socrates. No,

lord, I have not said that I refuse to search for the maiden; I desired

merely to tell thee that search for her is connected now with great

peril to me. On a time thou didst doubt that there was a certain

Euricius in the world, and though thou wert convinced by thine own eyes

that the son of my father told the truth to thee, thou hast suspicions

now that I have invented Glaucus. Ah! would that he were only a fiction,

that I might go among the Christians with perfect safety, as I went some

time since; I would give up for that the poor old slave woman whom

I bought, three days since, to care for my advanced age and maimed

condition. But Glaucus is living, lord; and if he had seen me once,

thou wouldst not have seen me again, and in that case who would find the

maiden?”

Here he was silent again, and began to dry his tears.

“But while Glaucus lives,” continued he, “how can I search for her?--for

I may meet him at any step; and if I meet him I shall perish, and with

me will cease all my searching.”

“What art thou aiming at? What help is there? What dost thou wish to

undertake?” inquired Vinicius.

“Aristotle teaches us, lord, that less things should be sacrificed for

greater, and King Priam said frequently that old age was a grievous

burden. Indeed, the burden of old age and misfortune weighs upon Glaucus

this long time, and so heavily that death would be to him a benefit. For

what is death, according to Seneca, but liberation?”

“Play the fool with Petronius, not with me! Tell what thy desire is.”

“If virtue is folly, may the gods permit me to be a fool all my life. I

desire, lord, to set aside Glaucus, for while he is living my life and

searches are in continual peril.”

“Hire men to beat him to death with clubs; I will pay them.”

“They will rob thee, lord, and afterward make profit of the secret.

There are as many ruffians in Rome as grains of sand in the arena, but

thou wilt not believe how dear they are when an honest man needs to

employ their villainy. No, worthy tribune! But if watchmen catch the

murderers in the act? They would tell, beyond doubt, who hired them, and

then thou wouldst have trouble. They will not point to me, for I shall

not give my name. Thou art doing ill not to trust in me, for, setting

aside my keenness, remember that there is a question of two other

things,--of my life, and the reward which thou has promised me.”

“How much dost thou need?”

“A thousand sestertia, for turn attention to this, that I must find

honest ruffians, men who when they have received earnest money, will

not take it off without a trace. For good work there must be good pay!

Something might be added, too, for my sake, to wipe away the tears which

I shall shed out of pity for Glaucus. I take the gods to witness how I

love him. If I receive a thousand sestertia to-day, two days hence his

soul will be in Hades; and then, if souls preserve memory and the gift

of thought, he will know for the first time how I loved him. I will find

people this very day, and tell them that for each day of the life

of Glaucus I will withhold one hundred sestertia. I have, besides, a

certain idea, which seems to me infallible.”

Vinicius promised him once more the desired sum, forbidding him to

mention Glaucus again; but asked what other news he brought, where he

had been all the time, what he had seen, and what he had discovered.

But Chilo was not able to tell much. He had been in two more houses of

prayer,--had observed each person carefully, especially the women,--but

had seen no one who resembled Lygia: the Christians, however, looked

on him as one of their own sect, and, since he redeemed the son of

Euricius, they honored him as a man following in the steps of “Christ.”

He had learned from them, also, that a great lawgiver of theirs, a

certain Paul of Tarsus, was in Rome, imprisoned because of charges

preferred by the Jews, and with this man he had resolved to become

acquainted. But most of all was he pleased by this,--that the supreme

priest of the whole sect, who had been Christ’s disciple, and to whom

Christ had confided government over the whole world of Christians, might

arrive in Rome any moment. All the Christians desired evidently to see

him, and hear his teachings. Some great meetings would follow, at which

he, Chilo, would be present; and what is more, since it is easy to hide

in the crowd, he would take Vinicius to those meetings. Then they would

find Lygia certainly. If Glaucus were once set aside, it would not be

connected even with great danger. As to revenge, the Christians, too,

would revenge but in general they were peaceful people.

Here Chilo began to relate, with a certain surprise, that he had never

seen that they gave themselves up to debauchery, that they poisoned

wells or fountains, that they were enemies of the human race, worshipped

an ass, or ate the flesh of children. No; he had seen nothing of that

sort. Certainly he would find among them even people who would hide away

Glaucus for money; but their religion, as far as he knew, did not incite

to crime,--on the contrary, it enjoined forgiveness of offences.

Vinicius remembered what Pomponia had said to him at Acte’s, and in

general he listened to Chilo’s words with pleasure. Though his feeling

for Lygia assumed at times the seeming of hatred, he felt a relief when

he heard that the religion which she and Pomponia confessed was neither

criminal nor repulsive. But a species of undefined feeling rose in him

that it was just that reverence for Christ, unknown and mysterious,

which created the difference between himself and Lygia; hence he began

at once to fear that religion and to hate it.

Chapter XVII

FOR Chilo, it was really important to set aside Glaucus, who, though

advanced in years, was by no means decrepit. There was considerable

truth in what Chilo had narrated to Vinicius. He had known Glaucus on a

time, he had betrayed him, sold him to robbers, deprived him of family,

of property, and delivered him to murder. But he bore the memory of

these events easily, for he had thrown the man aside dying, not at an

inn, but in a field near Minturna. This one thing he had not foreseen,

that Glaucus would be cured of his wounds and come to Rome. When he saw

him, therefore, in the house of prayer, he was in truth terrified, and

at the first moment wished to discontinue the search for Lygia. But on

the other hand, Vinicius terrified him still more. He understood that he

must choose between the fear of Glaucus, and the pursuit and vengeance

of a powerful patrician, to whose aid would come, beyond doubt, another

and still greater, Petronius. In view of this, Chilo ceased to hesitate.

He thought it better to have small enemies than great ones, and, though

his cowardly nature trembled somewhat at bloody methods, he saw the need

of killing Glaucus through the aid of other hands.

At present the only question with him was the choice of people, and

to this he was turning that thought of which he had made mention to

Vinicius. Spending his nights in wine-shops most frequently, and lodging

in them, among men without a roof, without faith or honor, he could find

persons easily to undertake any task, and still more easily others

who, if they sniffed coin on his person, would begin, but when they had

received earnest money, would extort the whole sum by threatening to

deliver him to justice. Besides, for a certain time past Chilo had felt

a repulsion for nakedness, for those disgusting and terrible figures

lurking about suspected houses in the Subura or in the Trans-Tiber.

Measuring everything with his own measure, and not having fathomed

sufficiently the Christians or their religion, he judged that among

them, too, he could find willing tools. Since they seemed more reliable

than others, he resolved to turn to them and present the affair in such

fashion that they would undertake it, not for money’s sake merely, but

through devotion.

In view of this, he went in the evening to Euricius, whom he knew as

devoted with whole soul to his person, and who, he was sure, would do

all in his power to assist him. Naturally cautious, Chilo did not

even dream of revealing his real intentions, which would be in clear

opposition, moreover, to the faith which the old man had in his piety

and virtue. He wished to find people who were ready for anything, and to

talk with them of the affair only in such a way that, out of regard to

themselves, they would guard it as an eternal secret.

The old man Euricius, after the redemption of his son, hired one of

those little shops so numerous near the Circus Maximus, in which were

sold olives, beans, unleavened paste, and water sweetened with honey, to

spectators coming to the Circus. Chilo found him at home arranging his

shop; and when he had greeted him in Christ’s name, he began to speak of

the affair which had brought him. Since he had rendered them a service,

he considered that they would pay him with gratitude. He needed two or

three strong and courageous men, to ward off danger threatening not only

him, but all Christians. He was poor, it was true, since he had given to

Euricius almost all that he owned; still he would pay such men for

their services if they would trust him and perform faithfully what he

commanded.

Euricius and his son Quartus listened to him as their benefactor almost

on their knees. Both declared that they were ready themselves to do all

that he asked of them, believing that a man so holy could not ask for

deeds inconsistent with the teaching of Christ.

Chilo assured them that that was true, and, raising his eyes to heaven,

he seemed to be praying; in fact, he was thinking whether it would

not be well to accept their proposal, which might save him a thousand

sestertia. But after a moment of thought he rejected it. Euricius was an

old man, perhaps not so much weighted by years as weakened by care and

disease. Quartus was sixteen years of age. Chilo needed dexterous, and,

above all, stalwart men. As to the thousand sestertia, he considered

that--thanks to the plan which he had invented--he would be able in

every case to spare a large part of it.

They insisted for some time, but when he refused decisively they

yielded.

“I know the baker Demas,” said Quartus, “in whose mills slaves and hired

men are employed. One of those hired men is so strong that he would take

the place, not of two, but of four. I myself have seen him lift stones

from the ground which four men could not stir.”

“If that is a God-fearing man, who can sacrifice himself for the

brotherhood, make me acquainted with him,” said Chilo.

“He is a Christian, lord,” answered Quartus; “nearly all who work for

Demas are Christians. He has night as well as day laborers; this man

is of the night laborers. Were we to go now to the mill, we should find

them at supper, and thou mightest speak to him freely. Demas lives near

the Emporium.”

Chilo consented most willingly. The Emporium was at the foot of the

Aventine, hence not very far from the Circus Maximus. It was possible,

without going around the hill, to pass along the river through the

Porticus Æmilia, which would shorten the road considerably.

“I am old,” said Chilo, when they went under the Colonnade; “at times I

suffer effacement of memory. Yes, though our Christ was betrayed by

one of his disciples, the name of the traitor I cannot recall at this

moment--”

“Judas, lord, who hanged himself,” answered Quartus, wondering a little

in his soul how it was possible to forget that name.

“Oh, yes--Judas! I thank thee,” said Chilo.

And they went on some time in silence. When they came to the Emporium,

which was closed, they passed it, and going around the storehouse, from

which grain was distributed to the populace, they turned toward the

left, to houses which stretched along the Via Ostiensis, up to the Mons

Testaceus and the Forum Pistorium. There they halted before a wooden

building, from the interior of which came the noise of millstones.

Quartus went in; but Chilo, who did not like to show himself to large

numbers of people, and was in continual dread that some fate might bring

him to meet Glaucus, remained outside.

“I am curious about that Hercules who serves in a mill,” said he to

himself, looking at the brightly shining moon. “If he is a scoundrel and

a wise man, he will cost me something; if a virtuous Christian and dull,

he will do what I want without money.”

Further meditation was interrupted by the return of Quartus, who

issued from the building with a second man, wearing only a tunic called

“exomis,” cut in such fashion that the right arm and right breast were

exposed. Such garments, since they left perfect freedom of movement,

were used especially by laborers. Chilo, when he saw the man coming,

drew a breath of satisfaction, for he had not seen in his life such an

arm and such a breast.

“Here, lord,” said Quartus, “is the brother whom it was thy wish to

see.”

“May the peace of Christ be with thee!” answered Chilo. “Do thou,

Quartus, tell this brother whether I deserve faith and trust, and then

return in the name of God; for there is no need that thy gray-haired

father should be left in loneliness.”

“This is a holy man,” said Quartus, “who gave all his property to redeem

me from slavery,--me, a man unknown to him. May our Lord the Saviour

prepare him a heavenly reward therefor!”

The gigantic laborer, hearing this, bent down and kissed Chilo’s hand.

“What is thy name, brother?” inquired the Greek.

“At holy baptism, father, the name Urban was given me.”

“Urban, my brother, hast thou time to talk with me freely?”

“Our work begins at midnight, and only now are they preparing our

supper.”

“Then there is time sufficient. Let us go to the river; there thou wilt

hear my words.”

They went, and sat on the embankment, in a silence broken only by the

distant sound of the millstones and the plash of the onflowing river.

Chilo looked into the face of the laborer, which, notwithstanding

a somewhat severe and sad expression, such as was usual on faces of

barbarians living in Rome, seemed to him kind and honest.

“This is a good-natured, dull man who will kill Glaucus for nothing,”

thought Chilo.

“Urban,” inquired he then, “dost thou love Christ?”

“I love him from the soul of my heart,” said the laborer.

“And thy brethren and sisters, and those who taught thee truth and faith

in Christ?”

“I love them, too, father.”

“Then may peace be with thee!”

“And with thee, father!”

Again silence set in, but in the distance the millstones were roaring,

and the river was plashing below the two men.

Chilo looked with fixed gaze into the clear moonlight, and with a slow,

restrained voice began to speak of Christ’s death. He seemed not as

speaking to Urban, but as if recalling to himself that death, or some

secret which he was confiding to the drowsy city. There was in this,

too, something touching as well as impressive. The laborer wept;

and when Chilo began to groan and complain that in the moment of

the Saviour’s passion there was no one to defend him, if not from

crucifixion, at least from the insults of Jews and soldiers, the

gigantic fists of the barbarian began to squeeze from pity and

suppressed rage. The death only moved him; but at thought of that

rabble reviling the Lamb nailed to the cross, the simple soul in him was

indignant, and a wild desire of vengeance seized the man.

“Urban, dost thou know who Judas was?” asked Chilo, suddenly.

“I know, I know!--but he hanged himself!” exclaimed the laborer.

And in his voice there was a kind of sorrow that the traitor had meted

out punishment to himself, and that Judas could not fall into his hands.

“But if he had not hanged himself,” continued Chilo, “and if some

Christian were to meet him on land or on sea, would it not be the duty

of that Christian to take revenge for the torment, the blood, and the

death of the Saviour?”

“Who is there who would not take revenge, father?”

“Peace be with thee, faithful servant of the Lamb! True, it is permitted

to forgive wrongs done ourselves; but who has the right to forgive

a wrong done to God? But as a serpent engenders a serpent, as malice

breeds malice, and treason breeds treason, so from the poison of Judas

another traitor has come; and as that one delivered to Jews and Roman

soldiers the Saviour, so this man who lives among us intends to give

Christ’s sheep to the wolves; and if no one will anticipate the treason,

if no one will crush the head of the serpent in time, destruction is

waiting for us all, and with us will perish the honor of the Lamb.”

The laborer looked at Chilo with immense alarm, as if not understanding

what he had heard. But the Greek, covering his head with a corner of

his mantle, began to repeat, with a voice coming as if from beneath the

earth,--“Woe to you, servants of the true God! woe to you, Christian men

and Christian women!”

And again came silence, again were heard only the roar of the

millstones, the deep song of the millers, and the sound of the river.

“Father,” asked the laborer at last, “what kind of traitor is that?”

Chilo dropped his head. “What kind of traitor? A son of Judas, a son of

his poison, a man who pretends to be a Christian, and goes to houses

of prayer only to complain of the brotherhood to Cæsar,--declaring that

they will not recognize Cæsar as a god; that they poison fountains,

murder children, and wish to destroy the city, so that one stone may not

remain on another. Behold! in a few days a command will be given to the

pretorians to cast old men, women, and children into prison, and

lead them to death, just as they led to death the slaves of Pedanius

Secundus. All this has been done by that second Judas. But if no one

punished the first Judas, if no one took vengeance on him, if no one

defended Christ in the hour of torment, who will punish this one, who

will destroy the serpent before Cæsar hears him, who will destroy him,

who will defend from destruction our brothers in the faith of Christ?”

Urban, who had been sitting thus far on a stone, stood up on a sudden,

and said,--“I will, father.”

Chilo rose also; he looked for a while on the face of the laborer,

lighted up by the shining of the moon, then, stretching his arm, he put

his hand slowly on his head.

“Go among Christians,” said he, with solemnity; “go to the houses of

prayer, and ask the brethren about Glaucus; and when they show him to

thee, slay him at once in Christ’s name!”

“About Glaucus?” repeated the laborer, as if wishing to fix that name in

his memory.

“Dost thou know him?”

“No, I do not. There are thousands of Christians in Rome, and they are

not all known to one another. But to-morrow, in Ostrianum, brethren and

sisters will assemble in the night to the last soul, because a great

apostle of Christ has come, who will teach them, and the brethren will

point out to me Glaucus.”

“In Ostrianum?” inquired Chilo. “But that is outside the city gates!

The brethren and all the sisters,--at night? Outside the city gates, in

Ostrianum?”

“Yes, father; that is our cemetery, between the Viæ Salaria and

Nomentana. Is it not known to thee that the Great Apostle will teach

there?”

“I have been two days from home, hence I did not receive his epistle;

and I do not know where Ostrianum is, for I came here not long since

from Corinth, where I govern a Christian community. But it is as thou

sayest,--there thou wilt find Glaucus among the brethren, and thou wilt

slay him on the way home to the city. For this all thy sins will be

forgiven. And now peace be with thee--”

“Father--”

“I listen to thee, servant of the Lamb.”

On the laborer’s face perplexity was evident. Not long before he had

killed a man, and perhaps two, but the teaching of Christ forbids

killing. He had not killed them in his own defence, for even that is

not permitted. He had not killed them, Christ preserve! for profit. The

bishop himself had given him brethren to assist, but had not permitted

him to kill; he had killed inadvertently, for God had punished him with

too much strength. And now he was doing grievous penance. Others sing

when the millstones are grinding; but he, hapless man, is thinking of

his sin, of his offence against the Lamb. How much has he prayed already

and wept? How much has he implored the Lamb? And he feels that he has

not done penance enough yet! But now he has promised again to kill a

traitor,--and done well! He is permitted to pardon only offences against

himself; hence he will kill Glaucus, even before the eyes of all

the brethren and sisters, in Ostrianum to-morrow. But let Glaucus be

condemned previously by the elders among the brethren, by the bishop, or

by the Apostle. To kill is not a great thing; to kill a traitor is even

as pleasant as to kill a bear or a wolf. But suppose Glaucus to perish

innocently? How take on his conscience a new murder, a new sin, a new

offence against the Lamb?

“There is no time for a trial, my son,” said Chilo. “The traitor will

hurry from Ostrianum straightway to Cæsar in Antium, or hide in the

house of a certain patrician whom he is serving. I will give thee a

sign; if thou show it after the death of Glaucus, the bishop and the

Great Apostle will bless thy deed.”

Saying this, he took out a small coin, and began to search for a

knife at his belt; having found it, he scratched with the point on the

sestertium the sign of the cross; this coin he gave to the laborer.

“Here is the sentence of Glaucus, and a sign for thee. If thou show

this to the bishop after the death of Glaucus, he will forgive thee the

killing which thou hast done without wishing it.”

The laborer stretched out his hand involuntarily for the coin; but

having the first murder too freshly in his memory just then, he

experienced a feeling of terror.

“Father,” said he with a voice almost of entreaty, “dost thou take this

deed on thy conscience, and hast thou thyself heard Glaucus betraying

his brethren?”

Chilo understood that he must give proofs, mention names, otherwise

doubt might creep into the heart of the giant. All at once a happy

thought flashed through his head.

“Listen, Urban,” said he, “I dwell in Corinth, but I came from Kos;

and here in Rome I instruct in the religion of Christ a certain serving

maiden named Eunice. She serves as vestiplica in the house of a friend

of Cæsar, a certain Petronius. In that house I have heard how Glaucus

has undertaken to betray all the Christians; and, besides, he has

promised another informer of Cæsar’s, Vinicius, to find a certain maiden

for him among the Christians.”

Here he stopped and looked with amazement at the laborer, whose eyes

blazed suddenly like the eyes of a wild beast, and his face took on an

expression of mad rage and threat.

“What is the matter with thee?” asked Chilo, almost in fear.

“Nothing, father; to-morrow I will kill Glaucus.”

The Greek was silent. After a while he took the arm of the laborer,

turned him so that the light of the moon struck his face squarely, and

examined him with care. It was evident that he was wavering in spirit

whether to inquire further and bring everything out with clearness, or

for that time to stop with what he had learned or surmised.

At last, however, his innate caution prevailed. He breathed deeply once

and a second time; then, placing his hand on the laborer’s head again,

he asked, in an emphatic and solemn voice,--“But in holy baptism the

name Urban was given thee?”

“It was, father.”

“Then peace be with thee, Urban!”

Chapter XVIII

PETRONIUS to VINICIUS:

“Thy case is a bad one, carissime. It is clear that Venus has disturbed

thy mind, deprived thee of reason and memory, as well as the power to

think of aught else except love. Read some time thy answer to my letter,

and thou wilt see how indifferent thy mind is to all except Lygia; how

exclusively it is occupied with her, how it returns to her always, and

circles above her, as a falcon above chosen prey. By Pollux! find her

quickly, or that of thee which fire has not turned into ashes will

become an Egyptian sphinx, which, enamored, as ‘tis said, of pale Isis,

grew deaf and indifferent to all things, waiting only for night, so as

to gaze with stony eyes at the loved one.

“Run disguised through the city in the evening, even honor Christian

houses of prayer in thy philosopher’s company. Whatever excites hope

and kills time is praiseworthy. But for my friendship’s sake do this one

thing: Ursus, Lygia’s slave, is a man of uncommon strength very likely;

hire Croton, and go out three together; that will be safer and wiser.

The Christians, since Pomponia and Lygia belong to them, are surely not

such scoundrels as most people imagine. But when a lamb of their flock

is in question they are no triflers, as they have shown by carrying away

Lygia. When thou seest Lygia thou wilt not restrain thyself, I am

sure, and wilt try to bear her away on the spot. But how wilt thou and

Chilonides do it? Croton would take care of himself, even though ten

like Ursus defended the maiden. Be not plundered by Chilo, but be not

sparing of money on Croton. Of all counsels which I can give this is the

best one.

“Here they have ceased to speak of the infant Augusta, or to say that

she perished through witchcraft. Poppæa mentions her at times yet; but

Cæsar’s mind is stuffed with something else. Moreover, if it be true

that the divine Augusta is in a changed state again, the memory of that

child will be blown away without trace. We have been in Naples for some

days, or rather in Baiæ. If thou art capable of any thought, echoes of

our life must strike thy ear, for surely Rome talks of naught else. We

went directly to Baiæ, where at first memories of the mother attacked

us, and reproaches of conscience. But dost thou know to what Ahenobarbus

has gone already? To this, that for him even the murder of his mother is

a mere theme for verses, and a reason for buffoonish tragic scenes.

“Formerly he felt real reproaches only in so far as he was a coward;

now, when he is convinced that the earth is under his feet as before,

and that no god is taking vengeance, he feigns them only to move people

by his fate. He springs up at night sometimes declaring that the Furies

are hunting him; he rouses us, looks around, assumes the posture of an

actor playing the role of Orestes, and the posture of a bad actor too;

he declaims Greek verses, and looks to see if we are admiring him. We

admire him apparently; and instead of saying to him, Go to sleep, thou

buffoon! we bring ourselves also to the tone of tragedy, and protect the

great artist from the Furies. By Castor! this news at least must have

reached thee, that he has appeared in public at Naples. They drove in

from the city and the surrounding towns all the Greek ruffians, who

filled the arena with such a vile odor of sweat and garlic that I thank

the gods that, instead of sitting in the first rows with the Augustians,

I was behind the scenes with Ahenobarbus. And wilt thou believe it, he

was afraid really! He took my hand and put it to his heart, which was

beating with increased pulsation; his breath was short; and at the

moment when he had to appear he grew as pale as a parchment, and his

forehead was covered with drops of sweat. Still he saw that in every row

of seats were pretorians, armed with clubs, to rouse enthusiasm if the

need came. But there was no need. No herd of monkeys from the environs

of Carthage could howl as did this rabble. I tell thee that the smell of

garlic came to the stage; but Nero bowed, pressed his hand to his heart,

sent kisses from his lips, and shed tears. Then he rushed in among us,

who were waiting behind the scenes, like a drunken man, crying, ‘What

were the triumphs of Julius compared with this triumph of mine?’ But the

rabble was howling yet and applauding, knowing that it would applaud to

itself favors, gifts, banquets, lottery tickets, and a fresh exhibition

by the Imperial buffoon. I do not wonder that they applauded, for such a

sight had not been seen till that evening. And every moment he repeated:

‘See what the Greeks are! see what the Greeks are!’ From that evening

it has seemed to me that his hatred for Rome is increasing. Meanwhile

special couriers were hurried to Rome announcing the triumph, and we

expect thanks from the Senate one of these days. Immediately after

Nero’s first exhibition, a strange event happened here. The theatre fell

in on a sudden, but just after the audience had gone. I was there, and

did not see even one corpse taken from the ruins. Many, even among the

Greeks, see in this event the anger of the gods, because the dignity of

Cæsar was disgraced; he, on the contrary, finds in it favor of the

gods, who have his song, and those who listen to it, under their evident

protection. Hence there are offerings in all the temples, and great

thanks. For Nero it is a great encouragement to make the journey to

Achæa. A few days since he told me, however, that he had doubts as to

what the Roman people might say; that they might revolt out of love for

him, and fear touching the distribution of grain and touching the games,

which might fail them in case of his prolonged absence.

“We are going, however, to Beneventum to look at the cobbler

magnificence which Vatinius will exhibit, and thence to Greece, under

the protection of the divine brothers of Helen. As to me, I have noted

one thing, that when a man is among the mad he grows mad himself,

and, what is more, finds a certain charm in mad pranks. Greece and the

journey in a thousand ships; a kind of triumphal advance of Bacchus

among nymphs and bacchantes crowned with myrtle, vine, and honeysuckle;

there will be women in tiger skins harnessed to chariots; flowers,

thyrses, garlands, shouts of ‘Evoe!’ music, poetry, and applauding

Hellas. All this is well; but we cherish besides more daring projects.

We wish to create a species of Oriental Imperium,--an empire of

palm-trees, sunshine, poetry, and reality turned into a dream, reality

turned into the delight of life only. We want to forget Rome; to fix the

balancing point of the world somewhere between Greece, Asia, and Egypt;

to live the life not of men but of gods; not to know what commonness is;

to wander in golden galleys under the shadow of purple sails along the

Archipelago; to be Apollo, Osiris, and Baal in one person; to be rosy

with the dawn, golden with the sun, silver with the moon; to command,

to sing, to dream. And wilt thou believe that I, who have still sound

judgment to the value of a sestertium, and sense to the value of an

as, let myself be borne away by these fantasies, and I do this for the

reason that, if they are not possible, they are at least grandiose and

uncommon? Such a fabulous empire would be a thing which, some time or

other, after long ages, would seem a dream to mankind. Except when

Venus takes the form of Lygia, or even of a slave Eunice, or when art

beautifies it, life itself is empty, and many a time it has the face

of a monkey. But Bronzebeard will not realize his plans, even for this

cause, that in his fabulous kingdom of poetry and the Orient no place is

given to treason, meanness, and death; and that in him with the poses

of a poet sits a wretched comedian, a dull charioteer, and a frivolous

tyrant. Meanwhile we are killing people whenever they displease us in

any way. Poor Torquatus Silanus is now a shade; he opened his veins a

few days since. Lecanius and Licinus will enter on the consulate with

terror. Old Thrasea will not escape death, for he dares to be honest.

Tigellinus is not able yet to frame a command for me to open my veins.

I am still needed not only as elegantiæ arbiter, but as a man without

whose counsel and taste the expedition to Achæa might fail. More than

once, however, I think that sooner or later it must end in opening my

veins; and knowest thou what the question will be then with me?--that

Bronzebeard should not get my goblet, which thou knowest and admirest.

Shouldst thou be near at the moment of my death, I will give it to thee;

shouldst thou be at a distance, I will break it. But meanwhile I have

before me yet Beneventum of the cobblers and Olympian Greece; I have

Fate too, which, unknown and unforeseen, points out the road to every

one.

“Be well, and engage Croton; otherwise they will snatch Lygia from thee

a second time. When Chilonides ceases to be needful, send him to me

wherever I may be. Perhaps I shall make him a second Vatinius, and

consuls and senators may tremble before him yet, as they trembled before

that knight Dratevka. It would be worth while to live to see such a

spectacle. When thou hast found Lygia, let me know, so that I may offer

for you both a pair of swans and a pair of doves in the round temple of

Venus here. Once I saw Lygia in a dream, sitting on thy knee, seeking

thy kisses. Try to make that dream prophetic. May there be no clouds on

thy sky; or if there be, let them have the color and the odor of roses!

Be in good health; and farewell!”

Chapter XIX

BARELY had Vinicius finished reading when Chilo pushed quietly into his

library, unannounced by any one, for the servants had the order to admit

him at every hour of the day or night.

“May the divine mother of thy magnanimous ancestor Æneas be full of

favor to thee, as the son of Maia was kind to me.”

“What dost thou mean?” asked Vinicius, springing from the table at which

he was sitting.

Chilo raised his head and said, “Eureka!”

The young patrician was so excited that for a long time he could not

utter a word.

“Hast thou seen her?” asked he, at last.

“I have seen Ursus, lord, and have spoken with him.”

“Dost thou know where they are secreted?”

“No, lord. Another, through boastfulness, would have let the Lygian know

that he divined who he was; another would have tried to extort from him

the knowledge of where he lived, and would have received either a

stroke of the fist,--after which all earthly affairs would have become

indifferent to him,--or he would have roused the suspicion of the giant

and caused this,--that a new hiding-place would be found for the girl,

this very night perhaps. I did not act thus. It suffices me to know that

Ursus works near the Emporium, for a miller named Demas, the same name

as that borne by thy freedman; now any trusted slave of thine may go in

the morning on his track, and discover their hiding place. I bring thee

merely the assurance that, since Ursus is here, the divine Lygia also

is in Rome, and a second news that she will be in Ostrianum to-night,

almost certainly--”

“In Ostrianum? Where is that?” interrupted Vinicius, wishing evidently

to run to the place indicated.

“An old hypogeum between the Viæ Salaria and Nomentana. That pontifex

maximus of the Christians, of whom I spoke to thee, and whom they

expected somewhat later, has come, and to-night he will teach and

baptize in that cemetery. They hide their religion, for, though there

are no edicts to prohibit it as yet, the people hate them, so they must

be careful. Ursus himself told me that all, to the last soul, would be

in Ostrianum to-night, for every one wishes to see and hear him who was

the foremost disciple of Christ, and whom they call Apostle. Since among

them women hear instruction as well as men, Pomponia alone perhaps of

women will not be there; she could not explain to Aulus, a worshipper of

the ancient gods, her absence from home at night. But Lygia, lord, who

is under the care of Ursus and the Christian elders, will go undoubtedly

with other women.”

Vinicius, who had lived hitherto in a fever, and upheld as it were,

by hope alone, now that his hope seemed fulfilled felt all at once the

weakness that a man feels after a journey which has proved beyond his

strength. Chilo noticed this, and resolved to make use of it.

“The gates are watched, it is true, by thy people, and the Christians

must know that. But they do not need gates. The Tiber, too, does not

need them; and though it is far from the river to those roads, it is

worth while to walk one road more to see the ‘Great Apostle.’ Moreover

they may have a thousand ways of going beyond the walls, and I know that

they have. In Ostrianum thou wilt find Lygia; and even should she not be

there, which I will not admit, Ursus will be there, for he has promised

to kill Glaucus. He told me himself that he would be there, and that he

would kill him. Dost hear, noble tribune? Either thou wilt follow Ursus

and learn where Lygia dwells, or thou wilt command thy people to seize

him as a murderer, and, having him in thy hand, thou wilt make him

confess where he has hidden Lygia. I have done my best! Another would

have told thee that he had drunk ten cantars of the best wine with Ursus

before he wormed the secret out of him; another would have told thee

that he had lost a thousand sestertia to him in scriptoe duodecim, or

that he had bought the intelligence for two thousand; I know that thou

wouldst repay me doubly, but in spite of that, once in my life--I mean,

as always in my life--I shall be honest, for I think, as the magnanimous

Petronius says, that thy bounty exceeds all my hopes and expectations.”

Vinicius, who was a soldier and accustomed not only to take counsel of

himself in all cases, but to act, was overcome by a momentary weakness

and said,--“Thou wilt not deceive thyself as to my liberality, but first

thou wilt go with me to Ostrianum.”

“I, to Ostrianum?” inquired Chilo, who had not the least wish to go

there. “I, noble tribune, promised thee to point out Lygia, but I did

not promise to take her away for thee. Think, lord, what would happen

to me if that Lygian bear, when he had torn Glaucus to pieces, should

convince himself straightway that he had torn him not altogether justly?

Would he not look on me (of course without reason) as the cause of the

accomplished murder? Remember, lord, that the greater philosopher a man

is, the more difficult it is for him to answer the foolish questions

of common people; what should I answer him were he to ask me why I

calumniated Glaucus? But if thou suspect that I deceive thee, I say, pay

me only when I point out the house in which Lygia lives; show me to-day

only a part of thy liberality, so that if thou, lord (which may all the

gods ward from thee), succumb to some accident, I shall not be entirely

without recompense. Thy heart could not endure that.”

Vinicius went to a casket called “area,” standing on a marble pedestal,

and, taking out a purse, threw it to Chilo.

“There are scrupula,” said he; “when Lygia shall be in my house, thou

wilt get the same full of aurei.”

“Thou art Jove!” exclaimed Chilo.

But Vinicius frowned.

“Thou wilt receive food here,” said he; “then thou mayest rest. Thou

wilt not leave this house till evening, and when night falls thou wilt

go with me to Ostrianum.”

Fear and hesitation were reflected on the Greek’s face for a time; but

afterward he grew calm, and said,--“Who can oppose thee, lord! Receive

these my words as of good omen, just as our great hero received words

like them in the temple of Ammon. As to me, these ‘scruples’” (here

he shook the purse) “have outweighed mine, not to mention thy society,

which for me is delight and happiness.”

Vinicius interrupted him impatiently, and asked for details of his

conversation with Ursus. From them it seemed clear that either Lygia’s

hiding-place would be discovered that night, or he would be able to

seize her on the road back from Ostrianum. At thought of this, Vinicius

was borne away by wild delight. Now, when he felt clearly sure of

finding Lygia, his anger against her, and his feeling of offence almost

vanished. In return for that delight he forgave her every fault. He

thought of her only as dear and desired, and he had the same impression

as if she were returning after a long journey. He wished to summon his

slaves and command them to deck the house with garlands. In that hour

he had not a complaint against Ursus, even. He was ready to forgive all

people everything. Chilo, for whom, in spite of his services, he had

felt hitherto a certain repulsion, seemed to him for the first time an

amusing and also an uncommon person. His house grew radiant; his

eyes and his face became bright. He began again to feel youth and the

pleasure of life. His former gloomy suffering had not given him yet a

sufficient measure of how he loved Lygia. He understood this now for the

first time, when he hoped to possess her. His desires woke in him, as

the earth, warmed by the sun, wakes in spring; but his desires this time

were less blind and wild, as it were, and more joyous and tender. He

felt also within himself energy without bounds, and was convinced that

should he but see Lygia with his own eyes, all the Christians on earth

could not take her from him, nor could Cæsar himself.

Chilo, emboldened by the young tribune’s delight, regained power of

speech and began to give advice. According to him, it behooved Vinicius

not to look on the affair as won, and to observe the greatest caution,

without which all their work might end in nothing. He implored Vinicius

not to carry off Lygia from Ostrianum. They ought to go there with hoods

on their heads, with their faces hidden, and restrict themselves to

looking at all who were present from some dark corner. When they saw

Lygia, it would be safest to follow her at a distance, see what house

she entered, surround it next morning at daybreak, and take her away in

open daylight. Since she was a hostage and belonged specially to Cæsar,

they might do that without fear of law. In the event of not finding her

in Ostrianum they could follow Ursus, and the result would be the

same. To go to the cemetery with a crowd of attendants was

impracticable,--that might draw attention to them easily; then the

Christians need only put out the lights, as they did when she was

intercepted, and scatter in the darkness, or betake themselves to places

known to them only. But Vinicius and he should arm, and, still better,

take a couple of strong, trusty men to defend them in case of need.

Vinicius saw the perfect truth of what he said, and, recalling

Petronius’s counsel, commanded his slaves to bring Croton. Chilo, who

knew every one in Rome, was set at rest notably when he heard the name

of the famous athlete, whose superhuman strength in the arena he

had wondered at more than once, and he declared that he would go to

Ostrianum. The purse filled with great aurei seemed to him much easier

of acquisition through the aid of Croton.

Hence he sat down in good spirits at the table to which, after a time,

he was called by the chief of the atrium.

While eating, he told the slaves that he had obtained for their master

a miraculous ointment. The worst horse, if rubbed on the hoofs with it,

would leave every other far behind. A certain Christian had taught him

how to prepare that ointment, for the Christian elders were far more

skilled in enchantment and miracles than even the Thessalians, though

Thessaly was renowned for its witches. The Christians had immense

confidence in him--why, any one easily understands who knows what a fish

means. While speaking he looked sharply at the eyes of the slaves, in

the hope of discovering a Christian among them and informing Vinicius.

But when the hope failed him, he fell to eating and drinking uncommon

quantities, not sparing praises on the cook, and declaring that he would

endeavor to buy him of Vinicius. His joyfulness was dimmed only by the

thought that at night he must go to Ostrianum. He comforted himself,

however, as he would go in disguise, in darkness, and in the company

of two men, one of whom was so strong that he was the idol of Rome; the

other a patrician, a man of high dignity in the army. “Even should they

discover Vinicius,” said he to himself, “they will not dare to raise a

hand on him; as to me, they will be wise if they see the tip of my nose

even.”

He fell then to recalling his conversation with the laborer; and the

recollection of that filled him again with delight. He had not the least

doubt that that laborer was Ursus. He knew of the uncommon strength

of the man, from the narratives of Vinicius, and those who had brought

Lygia from Cæsar’s palace. When he inquired of Euricius touching men of

exceptional strength, there was nothing remarkable in this, that they

pointed out Ursus. Then the confusion and rage of the laborer at mention

of Vinicius and Lygia left him no doubt that those persons concerned him

particularly; the laborer had mentioned also his penance for killing a

man,--Ursus had killed Atacinus; finally, the appearance of the laborer

answered perfectly to the account which Vinicius had given of the

Lygian. The change of name was all that could provoke doubt, but Chilo

knew that frequently Christians took new names at baptism.

“Should Ursus kill Glaucus,” said Chilo to himself, “that will be better

still; but should he not kill him, that will be a good sign, for it will

show how difficult it is for Christians to murder. I described Glaucus

as a real son of Judas, and a traitor to all Christians; I was so

eloquent that a stone would have been moved, and would have promised to

fall on the head of Glaucus. Still I hardly moved that Lygian bear to

put his paw on him. He hesitated, was unwilling, spoke of his penance

and compunction. Evidently murder is not common among them. Offences

against one’s self must be forgiven, and there is not much freedom in

taking revenge for others. Ergo, stop! think, Chilo, what can threaten

thee? Glaucus is not free to avenge himself on thee. If Ursus will not

kill Glaucus for such a great crime as the betrayal of all Christians,

so much the more will he not kill thee for the small offence of

betraying one Christian. Moreover, when I have once pointed out to this

ardent wood-pigeon the nest of that turtle-dove, I will wash my hands of

everything, and transfer myself to Naples. The Christians talk, also, of

a kind of washing of the hands; that is evidently a method by which, if

a man has an affair with them, he may finish it decisively. What good

people these Christians are, and how ill men speak of them! O God! such

is the justice of this world. But I love that religion, since it does

not permit killing; but if it does not permit killing, it certainly does

not permit stealing, deceit, or false testimony; hence I will not say

that it is easy. It teaches, evidently, not only to die honestly, as the

Stoics teach, but to live honestly also. If ever I have property and

a house, like this, and slaves in such numbers as Vinicius, perhaps I

shall be a Christian as long as may be convenient. For a rich man can

permit himself everything, even virtue. This is a religion for the

rich; hence I do not understand how there are so many poor among its

adherents. What good is it for them, and why do they let virtue tie

their hands? I must think over this sometime. Meanwhile praise to thee,

Hermes! for helping me discover this badger. But if thou hast done so

for the two white yearling heifers with gilded horns, I know thee not.

Be ashamed, O slayer of Argos! such a wise god as thou, and not foresee

that thou wilt get nothing! I will offer thee my gratitude; and if thou

prefer two beasts to it, thou art the third beast thyself, and in the

best event thou shouldst be a shepherd, not a god. Have a care, too,

lest I, as a philosopher, prove to men that thou art non-existent, and

then all will cease to bring thee offerings. It is safer to be on good

terms with philosophers.”

Speaking thus to himself and to Hermes, he stretched on the sofa, put

his mantle under his head, and was sleeping when the slave removed the

dishes. He woke,--or rather they roused him,--only at the coming of

Croton. He went to the atrium, then, and began to examine with pleasure

the form of the trainer, an ex-gladiator, who seemed to fill the whole

place with his immensity. Croton had stipulated as to the price of the

trip, and was just speaking to Vinicius.

“By Hercules! it is well, lord,” said he, “that thou hast sent to-day

for me, since I shall start to-morrow for Beneventum, whither the noble

Vatinius has summoned me to make a trial, in presence of Cæsar, of a

certain Syphax, the most powerful negro that Africa has ever produced.

Dost thou imagine, lord, how his spinal column will crack in my arms, or

how besides I shall break his black jaw with my fist?”

“By Pollux! Croton, I am sure that thou wilt do that,” answered

Vinicius.

“And thou wilt act excellently,” added Chilo. “Yes, to break his jaw,

besides! That’s a good idea, and a deed which befits thee. But rub thy

limbs with olive oil to-day, my Hercules, and gird thyself, for know

this, you mayst meet a real Cacus. The man who is guarding that girl in

whom the worthy Vinicius takes interest, has exceptional strength very

likely.”

Chilo spoke thus only to rouse Croton’s ambition.

“That is true,” said Vinicius; “I have not seen him, but they tell me

that he can take a bull by the horns and drag him wherever he pleases.”

“Oi!” exclaimed Chilo, who had not imagined that Ursus was so strong.

But Croton laughed, from contempt. “I undertake, worthy lord,” said he,

“to bear away with this hand whomever thou shalt point out to me, and

with this other defend myself against seven such Lygians, and bring the

maiden to thy dwelling though all the Christians in Rome were pursuing

me like Calabrian wolves. If not, I will let myself be beaten with clubs

in this impluvium.”

“Do not permit that, lord,” cried Chilo. “They will hurl stones at us,

and what could his strength effect? Is it not better to take the girl

from the house,--not expose thyself or her to destruction?”

“This is true, Croton,” said Vinicius.

“I receive thy money, I do thy will! But remember, lord, that to-morrow

I go to Beneventum.”

“I have five hundred slaves in the city,” answered Vinicius.

He gave them a sign to withdraw, went to the library himself, and

sitting down wrote the following words to Petronius,--

“The Lygian has been found by Chilo. I go this evening with him and

Croton to Ostrianum, and shall carry her off from the house to-night or

to-morrow. May the gods pour down on thee everything favorable. Be well,

O carissime! for joy will not let me write further.”

Laying aside the reed then, he began to walk with quick step; for

besides delight, which was overflowing his soul, he was tormented with

fever. He said to himself that to-morrow Lygia would be in that house.

He did not know how to act with her, but felt that if she would love him

he would be her servant. He recalled Acte’s assurance that he had been

loved, and that moved him to the uttermost. Hence it would be merely

a question of conquering a certain maiden modesty, and a question of

certain ceremonies which Christian teaching evidently commanded. But if

that were true, Lygia, when once in his house, would yield to persuasion

or superior force; she would have to say to herself, “It has happened!”

and then she would be amiable and loving.

But Chilo appeared and interrupted the course of these pleasant

thoughts. “Lord,” said the Greek, “this is what has come to my head.

Have not the Christians signs, ‘passwords,’ without which no one will be

admitted to Ostrianum? I know that it is so in houses of prayer, and

I have received those passwords from Euricius; permit me then to go to

him, lord, to ask precisely, and receive the needful signs.”

“Well, noble sage,” answered Vinicius, gladly; “thou speakest as a man

of forethought, and for that praise belongs to thee. Thou wit go, then,

to Euricius, or whithersoever it may please thee; but as security thou

wilt leave on this table here that purse which thou hast received from

me.”

Chilo, who always parted with money unwillingly, squirmed; still he

obeyed the command and went out. From the Carinæ to the Circus, near

which was the little shop of Euricius, it was not very far; hence he

returned considerably before evening.

“Here are the signs, lord. Without them they would not admit us. I have

inquired carefully about the road. I told Euricius that I needed the

signs only for my friends; that I would not go myself, since it was too

far for my advanced age; that, moreover, I should see the Great Apostle

myself to-morrow, and he would repeat to me the choicest parts of his

sermon.”

“How! Thou wilt not be there? Thou must go!” said Vinicius.

“I know that I must; but I will go well hooded, and I advise thee to go

in like manner, or we may frighten the birds.”

In fact they began soon to prepare, for darkness had come on the world.

They put on Gallic cloaks with hoods, and took lanterns; Vinicius,

besides, armed himself and his companions with short, curved knives;

Chilo put on a wig, which he obtained on the way from the old man’s

shop, and they went out, hurrying so as to reach the distant Nomentan

Gate before it was closed.

Chapter XX

THEY went through the Vicus Patricius, along the Viminal to the former

Viminal gate, near the plain on which Diocletian afterward built

splendid baths. They passed the remains of the wall of Servius

Tullius, and through places more and more deserted they reached the Via

Nomentana; there, turning to the left, towards the Via Salaria, they

found themselves among hills full of sand-pits, and here and there they

found graveyards.

Meanwhile it had grown dark completely, and since the moon had not risen

yet, it would have been rather difficult for them to find the road were

it not that the Christians themselves indicated it, as Chilo foresaw.

In fact, on the right, on the left, and in front, dark forms were

evident, making their way carefully toward sandy hollows. Some of these

people carried lanterns,--covering them, however, as far as possible

with mantles; others, knowing the road better, went in the dark. The

trained military eye of Vinicius distinguished, by their movements,

younger men from old ones, who walked with canes, and from women,

wrapped carefully in long mantles. The highway police, and villagers

leaving the city, took those night wanderers, evidently, for laborers,

going to sand-pits; or grave-diggers, who at times celebrated ceremonies

of their own in the night-time. In proportion, however, as the young

patrician and his attendants pushed forward, more and more lanterns

gleamed, and the number of persons grew greater. Some of them sang songs

in low voices, which to Vinicius seemed filled with sadness. At

moments a separate word or a phrase of the song struck his ear, as,

for instance, “Awake, thou that sleepest,” or “Rise from the dead”; at

times, again, the name of Christ was repeated by men and women.

But Vinicius turned slight attention to the words, for it came to his

head that one of those dark forms might be Lygia. Some, passing near,

said, “Peace be with thee!” or “Glory be to Christ!” but disquiet seized

him, and his heart began to beat with more life, for it seemed to him

that he heard Lygia’s voice. Forms or movements like hers deceived him

in the darkness every moment, and only when he had corrected mistakes

made repeatedly did he begin to distrust his own eyes.

The way seemed long to him. He knew the neighborhood exactly, but could

not fix places in the darkness. Every moment they came to some narrow

passage, or piece of wall, or booths, which he did not remember as being

in the vicinity of the city. Finally the edge of the moon appeared from

behind a mass of clouds, and lighted the place better than dim lanterns.

Something from afar began at last to glimmer like a fire, or the flame

of a torch. Vinicius turned to Chilo.

“Is that Ostrianum?” asked he.

Chilo, on whom night, distance from the city, and those ghostlike forms

made a deep impression, replied in a voice somewhat uncertain,--“I know

not, lord; I have never been in Ostrianum. But they might praise God in

some spot nearer the city.”

After a while, feeling the need of conversation, and of strengthening

his courage, he added,--“They come together like murderers; still

they are not permitted to murder, unless that Lygian has deceived me

shamefully.”

Vinicius, who was thinking of Lygia, was astonished also by the caution

and mysteriousness with which her co-religionists assembled to hear

their highest priest; hence he said,--“Like all religions, this has its

adherents in the midst of us; but the Christians are a Jewish sect.

Why do they assemble here, when in the Trans-Tiber there are temples to

which the Jews take their offerings in daylight?”

“The Jews, lord, are their bitterest enemies. I have heard that, before

the present Cæsar’s time, it came to war, almost, between Jews and

Christians. Those outbreaks forced Claudius Cæsar to expell all the

Jews, but at present that edict is abolished. The Christians, however,

hide themselves from Jews, and from the populace, who, as is known to

thee, accuse them of crimes and hate them.”

They walked on some time in silence, till Chilo, whose fear increased

as he receded from the gates, said,--“When returning from the shop of

Euricius, I borrowed a wig from a barber, and have put two beans in my

nostrils. They must not recognize me; but if they do, they will not kill

me. They are not malignant! They are even very honest. I esteem and love

them.”

“Do not win them to thyself by premature praises,” retorted Vinicius.

They went now into a narrow depression, closed, as it were, by two

ditches on the side, over which an aqueduct was thrown in one place. The

moon came out from behind clouds, and at the end of the depression

they saw a wall, covered thickly with ivy, which looked silvery in the

moonlight. That was Ostrianum.

Vinicius’s heart began to beat now with more vigor. At the gate two

quarryrnen took the signs from them. In a moment Vinicius and his

attendants were in a rather spacious place enclosed on all sides by a

wall. Here and there were separate monuments, and in the centre was

the entrance to the hypogeum itself, or crypt. In the lower part of the

crypt, beneath the earth, were graves; before the entrance a fountain

was playing. But it was evident that no very large number of persons

could find room in the hypogeum; hence Vinicius divined without

difficulty that the ceremony would take place outside, in the space

where a very numerous throng was soon gathered.

As far as the eye could reach, lantern gleamed near lantern, but many

of those who came had no light whatever. With the exception of a few

uncovered heads, all were hooded, from fear of treason or the cold; and

the young patrician thought with alarm that, should they remain thus, he

would not be able to recognize Lygia in that crowd and in the dim light.

But all at once, near the crypt, some pitch torches were ignited and put

into a little pile. There was more light. After a while the crowd

began to sing a certain strange hymn, at first in a low voice, and then

louder. Vinicius had never heard such a hymn before. The same yearning

which had struck him in the hymns murmured by separate persons on

the way to the cemetery, was heard now in that, but with far more

distinctness and power; and at last it became as penetrating and immense

as if together with the people, the whole cemetery, the hills, the pits,

and the region about, had begun to yearn. It might seem, also, that

there was in it a certain calling in the night, a certain humble prayer

for rescue in wandering and darkness.

Eyes turned upward seemed to see some one far above, there on high,

and outstretched hands seemed to implore him to descend. When the hymn

ceased, there followed a moment as it were of suspense,--so impressive

that Vinicius and his companions looked unwittingly toward the stars,

as if in dread that something uncommon would happen, and that some one

would really descend to them.

Vinicius had seen a multitude of temples of most various structure in

Asia Minor, in Egypt, and in Rome itself; he had become acquainted with

a multitude of religions, most varied in character, and had heard many

hymns; but here, for the first time, he saw people calling on a divinity

with hymns,--not to carry out a fixed ritual, but calling from the

bottom of the heart, with the genuine yearning which children might

feel for a father or a mother. One had to be blind not to see that those

people not merely honored their God, but loved him with the whole

soul. Vinicius had not seen the like, so far, in any land, during any

ceremony, in any sanctuary; for in Rome and in Greece those who still

rendered honor to the gods did so to gain aid for themselves or

through fear; but it had not even entered any one’s head to love those

divinities.

Though his mind was occupied with Lygia, and his attention with seeking

her in the crowd, he could not avoid seeing those uncommon and wonderful

things which were happening around him. Meanwhile a few more torches

were thrown on the fire, which filled the cemetery with ruddy light and

darkened the gleam of the lanterns. That moment an old man, wearing a

hooded mantle but with a bare head, issued from the hypogeum. This man

mounted a stone which lay near the fire.

The crowd swayed before him. Voices near Vinicius whispered, “Peter!

Peter!” Some knelt, others extended their hands toward him. There

followed a silence so deep that one heard every charred particle that

dropped from the torches, the distant rattle of wheels on the Via

Nomentana, and the sound of wind through the few pines which grew close

to the cemetery.

Chilo bent toward Vinicius and whispered,--“This is he! The foremost

disciple of Christ-a fisherman!”

The old man raised his hand, and with the sign of the cross blessed

those present, who fell on their knees simultaneously. Vinicius and his

attendants, not wishing to betray themselves, followed the example of

others. The young man could not seize his impressions immediately, for

it seemed to him that the form which he saw there before him was both

simple and uncommon, and, what was more, the uncommonness flowed just

from the simplicity. The old man had no mitre on his head, no garland of

oak-leaves on his temples, no palm in his hand, no golden tablet on his

breast, he wore no white robe embroidered with stars; in a word, he

bore no insignia of the kind worn by priests--Oriental, Egyptian,

or Greek--or by Roman flamens. And Vinicius was struck by that same

difference again which he felt when listening to the Christian hymns;

for that “fisherman,” too, seemed to him, not like some high priest

skilled in ceremonial, but as it were a witness, simple, aged, and

immensely venerable, who had journeyed from afar to relate a truth which

he had seen, which he had touched, which he believed as he believed

in existence, and he had come to love this truth precisely because

he believed it. There was in his face, therefore, such a power of

convincing as truth itself has. And Vinicius, who had been a sceptic,

who did not wish to yield to the charm of the old man, yielded, however,

to a certain feverish curiosity to know what would flow from the lips of

that companion of the mysterious “Christus,” and what that teaching was

of which Lygia and Pomponia Græcina were followers.

Meanwhile Peter began to speak, and he spoke from the beginning like

a father instructing his children and teaching them how to live. He

enjoined on them to renounce excess and luxury, to love poverty, purity

of life, and truth, to endure wrongs and persecutions patiently, to obey

the government and those placed above them, to guard against treason,

deceit, and calumny; finally, to give an example in their own society to

each other, and even to pagans.

Vinicius, for whom good was only that which could bring back to him

Lygia, and evil everything which stood as a barrier between them, was

touched and angered by certain of those counsels. It seemed to him that

by enjoining purity and a struggle with desires the old man dared, not

only to condemn his love, but to rouse Lygia against him and confirm her

in opposition. He understood that if she were in the assembly listening

to those words, and if she took them to heart, she must think of him as

an enemy of that teaching and an outcast.

Anger seized him at this thought. “What have I heard that is new?”

thought he. “Is this the new religion? Every one knows this, every

one has heard it. The Cynics enjoined poverty and a restriction of

necessities; Socrates enjoined virtue as an old thing and a good one;

the first Stoic one meets, even such a one as Seneca, who has five

hundred tables of lemon-wood, praises moderation, enjoins truth,

patience in adversity, endurance in misfortune,--and all that is like

stale, mouse-eaten grain; but people do not wish to eat it because it

smells of age.”

And besides anger, he had a feeling of disappointment, for he expected

the discovery of unknown, magic secrets of some kind, and thought that

at least he would hear a rhetor astonishing by his eloquence; meanwhile

he heard only words which were immensely simple, devoid of every

ornament. He was astonished only by the mute attention with which the

crowd listened.

But the old man spoke on to those people sunk in listening,--told them

to be kind, poor, peaceful, just, and pure; not that they might have

peace during life, but that they might live eternally with Christ after

death, in such joy and such glory, in such health and delight, as no one

on earth had attained at any time. And here Vinicius, though predisposed

unfavorably, could not but notice that still there was a difference

between the teaching of the old man and that of the Cynics, Stoics, and

other philosophers; for they enjoin good and virtue as reasonable, and

the only thing practical in life, while he promised immortality,

and that not some kind of hapless immortality beneath the earth, in

wretchedness, emptiness, and want, but a magnificent life, equal to that

of the gods almost. He spoke meanwhile of it as of a thing perfectly

certain; hence, in view of such a faith, virtue acquired a value simply

measureless, and the misfortunes of this life became incomparably

trivial. To suffer temporally for inexhaustible happiness is a thing

absolutely different from suffering because such is the order of nature.

But the old man said further that virtue and truth should be loved

for themselves, since the highest eternal good and the virtue existing

before ages is God; whoso therefore loves them loves God, and by that

same becomes a cherished child of His.

Vinicius did not understand this well, but he knew previously, from

words spoken by Pomponia Græcina to Petronius, that, according to the

belief of Christians, God was one and almighty; when, therefore,

he heard now again that He is all good and all just, he thought

involuntarily that, in presence of such a demiurge, Jupiter, Saturn,

Apollo, Juno, Vesta, and Venus would seem like some vain and noisy

rabble, in which all were interfering at once, and each on his or her

own account.

But the greatest astonishment seized him when the old man declared

that God was universal love also; hence he who loves man fulfils God’s

supreme command. But it is not enough to love men of one’s own nation,

for the God-man shed his blood for all, and found among pagans such

elect of his as Cornelius the Centurion; it is not enough either to love

those who do good to us, for Christ forgave the Jews who delivered him

to death, and the Roman soldiers who nailed him to the cross, we should

not only forgive but love those who injure us, and return them good for

evil; it is not enough to love the good, we must love the wicked also,

since by love alone is it possible to expel from them evil.

Chilo at these words thought to himself that his work had gone for

nothing, that never in the world would Ursus dare to kill Glaucus,

either that night or any other night. But he comforted himself at once

by another inference from the teaching of the old man; namely, that

neither would Glaucus kill him, though he should discover and recognize

him.

Vinicius did not think now that there was nothing new in the words of

the old man, but with amazement he asked himself: “What kind of God is

this, what kind of religion is this, and what kind of people are these?”

All that he had just heard could not find place in his head simply. For

him all was an unheard-of medley of ideas. He felt that if he wished,

for example, to follow that teaching, he would have to place on a

burning pile all his thoughts, habits, and character, his whole nature

up to that moment, burn them into ashes, and then fill himself with a

life altogether different, and an entirely new soul. To him the science

or the religion which commanded a Roman to love Parthians, Syrians,

Greeks, Egyptians, Gauls, and Britons, to forgive enemies, to return

them good for evil, and to love them, seemed madness. At the same

time he had a feeling that in that madness itself there was something

mightier than all philosophies so far. He thought that because of its

madness it was impracticable, but because of its impracticability it was

divine. In his soul he rejected it; but he felt that he was parting as

if from a field full of spikenard, a kind of intoxicating incense;

when a man has once breathed of this he must, as in the land of the

lotus-eaters, forget all things else ever after, and yearn for it only.

It seemed to him that there was nothing real in that religion, but that

reality in presence of it was so paltry that it deserved not the time

for thought. Expanses of some kind, of which hitherto he had not had a

suspicion, surrounded him,--certain immensities, certain clouds. That

cemetery began to produce on him the impression of a meeting-place for

madmen, but also of a place mysterious and awful, in which, as on a

mystic bed, something was in progress of birth the like of which had

not been in the world so far. He brought before his mind all that, which

from the first moment of his speech, the old man had said touching life,

truth, love, God; and his thoughts were dazed from the brightness, as

the eyes are blinded from lightning flashes which follow each other

unceasingly.

As is usual with people for whom life has been turned into one single

passion, Vinicius thought of all this through the medium of his love for

Lygia; and in the light of those flashes he saw one thing distinctly,

that if Lygia was in the cemetery, if she confessed that religion,

obeyed and felt it, she never could and never would be his mistress.

For the first time, then, since he had made her acquaintance at Aulus’s,

Vinicius felt that though now he had found her he would not get her.

Nothing similar had come to his head so far, and he could not explain it

to himself then, for that was not so much an express understanding as

a dim feeling of irreparable loss and misfortune. There rose in him

an alarm, which was turned soon into a storm of anger against the

Christians in general, and against the old man in particular. That

fisherman, whom at the first cast of the eye he considered a peasant,

now filled him with fear almost, and seemed some mysterious power

deciding his fate inexorably and therefore tragically.

The quarrymen again, unobserved, added torches to the fire; the wind

ceased to sound in the pines; the flame rose evenly, with a slender

point toward the stars, which were twinkling in a clear sky. Having

mentioned the death of Christ, the old man talked now of Him only. All

held the breath in their breasts, and a silence set in which was deeper

than the preceding one, so that it was possible almost to hear the

beating of hearts. That man had seen! and he narrated as one in whose

memory every moment had been fixed in such a way that were he to close

his eyes he would see yet. He told, therefore, how on their return from

the Cross he and John had sat two days and nights in the supper-chamber,

neither sleeping nor eating, in suffering, in sorrow, in doubt, in

alarm, holding their heads in their hands, and thinking that He had

died. Oh, how grievous, how grievous that was! The third day had dawned

and the light whitened the walls, but he and John were sitting in the

chamber, without hope or comfort. How desire for sleep tortured them

(for they had spent the night before the Passion without sleep)! They

roused themselves then, and began again to lament. But barely had the

sun risen when Mary of Magdala, panting, her hair dishevelled, rushed in

with the cry, “They have taken away the Lord!” When they heard this,

he and John sprang up and ran toward the sepulchre. But John, being

younger, arrived first; he saw the place empty, and dared not enter.

Only when there were three at the entrance did he, the person now

speaking to them, enter, and find on the stone a shirt with a winding

sheet; but the body he found not.

Fear fell on them then, because they thought that the priests had

borne away Christ, and both returned home in greater grief still. Other

disciples came later and raised a lament, now in company, so that the

Lord of Hosts might hear them more easily, and now separately and in

turn. The spirit died within them, for they had hoped that the Master

would redeem Israel, and it was now the third day since his death; hence

they did not understand why the Father had deserted the Son, and they

preferred not to look at the daylight, but to die, so grievous was the

burden.

The remembrance of those terrible moments pressed even then from the

eyes of the old man two tears, which were visible by the light of the

fire, coursing down his gray beard. His hairless and aged head was

shaking, and the voice died in his breast.

“That man is speaking the truth and is weeping over it,” said Vinicius

in his soul. Sorrow seized by the throat the simple-hearted listeners

also. They had heard more than once of Christ’s sufferings, and it was

known to them that joy succeeded sorrow; but since an apostle who had

seen it told this, they wrung their hands under the impression, and

sobbed or beat their breasts.

But they calmed themselves gradually, for the wish to hear more gained

the mastery. The old man closed his eyes, as if to see distant things

more distinctly in his soul, and continued,--“When the disciples had

lamented in this way, Mary of Magdala rushed in a second time, crying

that she had seen the Lord. Unable to recognize him, she thought him

the gardener: but He said, ‘Mary!’ She cried ‘Rabboni!’ and fell at his

feet. He commanded her to go to the disciples, and vanished. But they,

the disciples, did not believe her; and when she wept for joy, some

upbraided her, some thought that sorrow had disturbed her mind, for

she said, too, that she had seen angels at the grave, but they, running

thither a second time, saw the grave empty. Later in the evening

appeared Cleopas, who had come with another from Emmaus, and they

returned quickly, saying: ‘The Lord has indeed risen!’ And they

discussed with closed doors, out of fear of the Jews. Meanwhile He stood

among them, though the doors had made no sound, and when they feared, He

said, ‘Peace be with you!’

“And I saw Him, as did all, and He was like light, and like the

happiness of our hearts, for we believed that He had risen from the

dead, and that the seas will dry and the mountains turn to dust, but His

glory will not pass.

“After eight days Thomas Didymus put his finger in the Lord’s wounds and

touched His side; Thomas fell at His feet then, and cried, ‘My Lord and

my God!’ ‘Because thou hast seen me thou hast believed; blessed are they

who have not seen and have believed!’ said the Lord. And we heard those

words, and our eyes looked at Him, for He was among us.”

Vinicius listened, and something wonderful took place in him. He forgot

for a moment where he was; he began to lose the feeling of reality, of

measure, of judgment. He stood in the presence of two impossibilities.

He could not believe what the old man said; and he felt that it would be

necessary either to be blind or renounce one’s own reason, to admit

that that man who said “I saw” was lying. There was something in his

movements, in his tears, in his whole figure, and in the details of

the events which he narrated, which made every suspicion impossible. To

Vinicius it seemed at moments that he was dreaming. But round about he

saw the silent throng; the odor of lanterns came to his nostrils; at a

distance the torches were blazing; and before him on the stone stood

an aged man near the grave, with a head trembling somewhat, who, while

bearing witness, repeated, “I saw!”

And he narrated to them everything up to the Ascension into heaven. At

moments he rested, for he spoke very circumstantially; but it could be

felt that each minute detail had fixed itself in his memory, as a thing

is fixed in a stone into which it has been engraved. Those who listened

to him were seized by ecstasy. They threw back their hoods to hear him

better, and not lose a word of those which for them were priceless. It

seemed to them that some superhuman power had borne them to Galilee;

that they were walking with the disciples through those groves and on

those waters; that the cemetery was turned into the lake of Tiberius;

that on the bank, in the mist of morning, stood Christ, as he stood

when John, looking from the boat, said, “It is the Lord,” and Peter cast

himself in to swim, so as to fall the more quickly at the beloved feet.

In the faces of those present were evident enthusiasm beyond bounds,

oblivion of life, happiness, and love immeasurable. It was clear that

during Peter’s long narrative some of them had visions. When he began

to tell how, at the moment of Ascension, the clouds closed in under

the feet of the Saviour, covered Him, and hid Him from the eyes of the

Apostles, all heads were raised toward the sky unconsciously, and a

moment followed as it were of expectation, as if those people hoped to

see Him or as if they hoped that He would descend again from the fields

of heaven, and see how the old Apostle was feeding the sheep confided to

him, and bless both the flock and him.

Rome did not exist for those people, nor did the man Cæsar; there were

no temples of pagan gods; there was only Christ, who filled the land,

the sea, the heavens, and the world.

At the houses scattered here and there along the Via Nomentana, the

cocks began to crow, announcing midnight. At that moment Chilo pulled

the corner of Vinicius’s mantle and whispered,--“Lord, I see Urban over

there, not far from the old man, and with him is a maiden.”

Vinicius shook himself, as if out of a dream, and, turning in the

direction indicated by the Greek, he saw Lygia.

Chapter XXI

EVERY drop of blood quivered in the young patrician at sight of her.

He forgot the crowd, the old man, his own astonishment at the

incomprehensible things which he had heard,--he saw only her. At last,

after all his efforts, after long days of alarm, trouble, and suffering,

he had found her! For the first time he realized that joy might rush at

the heart, like a wild beast, and squeeze it till breath was lost. He,

who had supposed hitherto that on “Fortuna” had been imposed a kind of

duty to accomplish all his wishes, hardly believed his own eyes now and

his own happiness. Were it not for that disbelief, his passionate

nature might have urged him to some unconsidered step; but he wished

to convince himself first that that was not the continuation of those

miracles with which his head was filled, and that he was not dreaming.

But there was no doubt,--he saw Lygia, and an interval of barely a few

steps divided them. She stood in perfect light, so that he could rejoice

in the sight of her as much as he liked. The hood had fallen from her

head and dishevelled her hair; her mouth was open slightly, her eyes

raised toward the Apostle, her face fixed in listening and delighted.

She was dressed in a dark woollen mantle, like a daughter of the people,

but never had Vinicius seen her more beautiful; and notwithstanding all

the disorder which had risen in him, he was struck by the nobility of

that wonderful patrician head in distinction to the dress, almost that

of a slave. Love flew over him like a flame, immense, mixed with a

marvellous feeling of yearning, homage, honor, and desire. He felt

the delight which the sight of her caused him; he drank of her as of

life-giving water after long thirst. Standing near the gigantic Lygian,

she seemed to him smaller than before, almost a child; he noticed,

too, that she had grown more slender. Her complexion had become almost

transparent; she made on him the impression of a flower, and a spirit.

But all the more did he desire to possess that woman, so different from

all women whom he had seen or possessed in Rome or the Orient. He felt

that for her he would have given them all, and with them Rome and the

world in addition.

He would have lost himself in gazing, and forgotten himself altogether,

had it not been for Chilo, who pulled the corner of his mantle, out of

fear that he might do something to expose them to danger. Meanwhile the

Christians began to pray and sing. After a while Maranatha thundered

forth, and then the Great Apostle baptized with water from the fountain

those whom the presbyters presented as ready for baptism. It seemed to

Vinicius that that night would never end. He wished now to follow Lygia

as soon as possible, and seize her on the road or at her house.

At last some began to leave the cemetery, and Chilo whispered,--“Let us

go out before the gate, lord, we have not removed our hoods, and people

look at us.”

Such was the case, for during the discourse of the Apostle all had cast

aside their hoods so as to hear better, and they had not followed the

general example. Chilo’s advice seemed wise, therefore. Standing before

the gate, they could look at all who passed; Ursus it was easy to

recognize by his form and size.

“Let us follow them,” said Chilo; “we shall see to what house they

go. To-morrow, or rather to-day, thou wilt surround the entrances with

slaves and take her.”

“No!” said Vinicius.

“What dost thou wish to do, lord?”

“We will follow her to the house and take her now, if thou wilt

undertake that task, Croton?”

“I will,” replied Croton, “and I will give myself to thee as a slave if

I do not break the back of that bison who is guarding her.”

But Chilo fell to dissuading and entreating them by all the gods not

to do so. Croton was taken only for defence against attack in case they

were recognized, not to carry off the girl. To take her when there were

only two of them was to expose themselves to death, and, what was

worse, they might let her out of their hands, and then she would hide

in another place or leave Rome. And what could they do? Why not act

with certainty? Why expose themselves to destruction and the whole

undertaking to failure?

Though Vinicius restrained himself with the greatest effort from seizing

Lygia in his arms at once, right there in the cemetery, he felt that the

Greek was right, and would have lent ear, perhaps, to his counsels, had

it not been for Croton, to whom reward was the question.

“Lord, command that old goat to be silent,” said he, “or let me drop my

fist on his head. Once in Buxentum, whither Lucius Saturnius took me to

a play, seven drunken gladiators fell on me at an inn, and none of them

escaped with sound ribs. I do not say to take the girl now from the

crowd, for they might throw stones before our feet, but once she is at

home I will seize her, carry her away, and take her whithersoever thou

shalt indicate.”

Vinicius was pleased to hear those words, and answered,--“Thus let it

be, by Hercules! To-morrow we may not find her at home; if we surprise

them they will remove the girl surely.”

“This Lygian seems tremendously strong!” groaned Chilo.

“No one will ask thee to hold his hands,” answered Croton.

But they had to wait long yet, and the cocks had begun to crow before

dawn when they saw Ursus coming through the gate, and with him Lygia.

They were accompanied by a number of other persons. It seemed to Chilo

that he recognized among them the Great Apostle; next to him walked

another old man, considerably lower in stature, two women who were not

young, and a boy, who lighted the way with a lantern. After that handful

followed a crowd, about two hundred in number; Vinicius, Chilo, and

Croton walked with these people.

“Yes, lord,” said Chilo, “thy maiden is under powerful protection. That

is the Great Apostle with her, for see how passing people kneel to him.”

People did in fact kneel before him, but Vinicius did not look at them.

He did not lose Lygia from his eyes for a moment; he thought only of

bearing her away and, accustomed as he had been in wars to stratagems

of all sorts, he arranged in his head the whole plan of seizure with

soldierly precision. He felt that the step on which he had decided was

bold, but he knew well that bold attacks give success generally.

The way was long; hence at moments he thought too of the gulf which

that wonderful religion had dug between him and Lygia. Now he understood

everything that had happened in the past, and why it had happened. He

was sufficiently penetrating for that. Lygia he had not known hitherto.

He had seen in her a maiden wonderful beyond others, a maiden toward

whom his feelings were inflamed: he knew now that her religion made her

different from other women, and his hope that feeling, desire, wealth,

luxury, would attract her he knew now to be a vain illusion. Finally he

understood this, which he and Petronius had not understood, that the

new religion ingrafted into the soul something unknown to that world

in which he lived, and that Lygia, even if she loved him, would not

sacrifice any of her Christian truths for his sake, and that, if

pleasure existed for her, it was a pleasure different altogether

from that which he and Petronius and Cæsar’s court and all Rome were

pursuing. Every other woman whom he knew might become his mistress,

but that Christian would become only his victim. And when he thought

of this, he felt anger and burning pain, for he felt that his anger was

powerless. To carry off Lygia seemed to him possible; he was almost sure

that he could take her, but he was equally sure that, in view of her

religion, he himself with his bravery was nothing, that his power

was nothing, and that through it he could effect nothing. That Roman

military tribune, convinced that the power of the sword and the fist

which had conquered the world, would command it forever, saw for the

first time in life that beyond that power there might be something else;

hence he asked himself with amazement what it was. And he could

not answer distinctly; through his head flew merely pictures of the

cemetery, the assembled crowd, and Lygia, listening with her whole soul

to the words of the old man, as he narrated the passion, death, and

resurrection of the God-man, who had redeemed the world, and promised it

happiness on the other shore of the Styx.

When he thought of this, chaos rose in his head. But he was brought

out of this chaos by Chilo, who fell to lamenting his own fate. He had

agreed to find Lygia. He had sought for her in peril of his life, and he

had pointed her out. But what more do they want? Had he offered to

carry the maiden away? Who could ask anything like this of a maimed man

deprived of two fingers, an old man, devoted to meditation, to science,

and virtue? What would happen were a lord of such dignity as Vinicius to

meet some mishap while bearing the maiden away? It is true that the gods

are bound to watch over their chosen ones,--but have not such things

happened more than once, as if the gods were playing games instead of

watching what was passing in the world? Fortune is blindfold, as is

well known, and does not see even in daylight; what must the case be at

night? Let something happen,--let that Lygian bear hurl a millstone at

the noble Vinicius, or a keg of wine, or, still worse, water,--who

will give assurance that instead of a reward blame will not fall on

the hapless Chilo? He, the poor sage, has attached himself to the noble

Vinicius as Aristotle to Alexander of Macedon. If the noble lord should

give him at least that purse which he had thrust into his girdle before

leaving home, there would be something with which to invoke aid in

case of need, or to influence the Christians. Oh, why not listen to the

counsels of an old man, counsels dictated by experience and prudence?

Vinicius, hearing this, took the purse from his belt, and threw it to

the fingers of Chilo.

“Thou hast it; be silent!”

The Greek felt that it was unusually heavy, and gained confidence.

“My whole hope is in this,” said he, “that Hercules or Theseus performed

deeds still more arduous; what is my personal, nearest friend, Croton,

if not Hercules? Thee, worthy lord, I will not call a demigod, for thou

art a full god, and in future thou wilt not forget a poor, faithful

servant, whose needs it will be necessary to provide for from time to

time, for once he is sunk in books, he thinks of nothing else; some

few stadia of garden land and a little house, even with the smallest

portico, for coolness in summer, would befit such a donor. Meanwhile

I shall admire thy heroic deeds from afar, and invoke Jove to befriend

thee, and if need be I will make such an outcry that half Rome will be

roused to thy assistance. What a wretched, rough road! The olive oil

is burned out in the lantern; and if Croton, who is as noble as he is

strong, would bear me to the gate in his arms, he would learn, to begin

with, whether he will carry the maiden easily; second, he would act

like Æneas, and win all the good gods to such a degree that touching the

result of the enterprise I should be thoroughly satisfied.”

“I should rather carry a sheep which died of mange a month ago,”

answered the gladiator; “but give that purse, bestowed by the worthy

tribune, and I will bear thee to the gate.”

“Mayst thou knock the great toe from thy foot,” replied the Greek;

“what profit hast thou from the teachings of that worthy old man, who

described poverty and charity as the two foremost virtues? Has he not

commanded thee expressly to love me? Never shall I make thee, I see,

even a poor Christian; it would be easier for the sun to pierce the

walls of the Mamertine prison than for truth to penetrate thy skull of a

hippopotamus.”

“Never fear!” said Croton, who with the strength of a beast had no human

feeling. “I shall not be a Christian! I have no wish to lose my bread.”

“But if thou knew even the rudiments of philosophy, thou wouldst know

that gold is vanity.”

“Come to me with thy philosophy. I will give thee one blow of my head in

the stomach; we shall see then who wins.”

“An ox might have said the same to Aristotle,” retorted Chilo.

It was growing gray in the world. The dawn covered with pale light the

outlines of the walls. The trees along the wayside, the buildings, and

the gravestones scattered here and there began to issue from the shade.

The road was no longer quite empty. Marketmen were moving toward the

gates, leading asses and mules laden with vegetables; here and there

moved creaking carts in which game was conveyed. On the road and along

both sides of it was a light mist at the very earth, which promised good

weather. People at some distance seemed like apparitions in that mist.

Vinicius stared at the slender form of Lygia, which became more silvery

as the light increased.

“Lord,” said Chilo, “I should offend thee were I to foresee the end of

thy bounty, but now, when thou hast paid me, I may not be suspected of

speaking for my own interest only. I advise thee once more to go home

for slaves and a litter, when thou hast learned in what house the divine

Lygia dwells; listen not to that elephant trunk, Croton, who undertakes

to carry off the maiden only to squeeze thy purse as if it were a bag of

curds.”

“I have a blow of the fist to be struck between the shoulders, which

means that thou wilt perish,” said Croton.

“I have a cask of Cephalonian wine, which means that I shall be well,”

answered Chilo.

Vinicius made no answer, for he approached the gate, at which a

wonderful sight struck his eyes. Two soldiers knelt when the Apostle was

passing; Peter placed his hand on their iron helmets for a moment, and

then made the sign of the cross on them. It had never occurred to

the patrician before that there could be Christians in the army; with

astonishment he thought that as fire in a burning city takes in more

and more houses, so to all appearances that doctrine embraces new souls

every day, and extends itself over all human understandings. This struck

him also with reference to Lygia, for he was convinced that, had

she wished to flee from the city, there would be guards willing to

facilitate her flight. He thanked the gods then that this had not

happened.

After they had passed vacant places beyond the wall, the Christians

began to scatter. There was need, therefore, to follow Lygia more from

a distance, and more carefully, so as not to rouse attention. Chilo fell

to complaining of wounds, of pains in his legs, and dropped more

and more to the rear. Vinicius did not oppose this, judging that the

cowardly and incompetent Greek would not be needed. He would even have

permitted him to depart, had he wished; but the worthy sage was detained

by circumspection. Curiosity pressed him evidently, since he continued

behind, and at moments even approached with his previous counsels; he

thought too that the old man accompanying the Apostle might be Glaucus,

were it not for his rather low stature.

They walked a good while before reaching the Trans-Tiber, and the sun

was near rising when the group surrounding Lygia dispersed. The Apostle,

an old woman, and a boy went up the river; the old man of lower stature,

Ursus, and Lygia entered a narrow vicus, and, advancing still about a

hundred yards, went into a house in which were two shops,--one for the

sale of olives, the other for poultry.

Chilo, who walked about fifty yards behind Vinicius and Croton, halted

all at once, as if fixed to the earth, and, squeezing up to the wall,

began to hiss at them to turn.

They did so, for they needed to take counsel.

“Go, Chilo,” said Vinicius, “and see if this house fronts on another

street.” Chilo, though he had complained of wounds in his feet, sprang

away as quickly as if he had had the wings of Mercury on his ankles, and

returned in a moment.

“No,” said he, “there is but one entrance.”

Then, putting his hands together, he said, “I implore thee, lord, by

Jupiter, Apollo, Vesta, Cybele, Isis, Osiris, Mithra Baal, and all the

gods of the Orient and the Occident to drop this plan. Listen to me--”

But he stopped on a sudden, for he saw that Vinicius’s face was pale

from emotion, and that his eyes were glittering like the eyes of a wolf.

It was enough to look at him to understand that nothing in the world

would restrain him from the undertaking. Croton began to draw air into

his herculean breast, and to sway his undeveloped skull from side to

side as bears do when confined in a cage, but on his face not the least

fear was evident.

“I will go in first,” said he.

“Thou wilt follow me,” said Vinicius, in commanding tones.

And after a while both vanished in the dark entrance.

Chilo sprang to the corner of the nearest alley and watched from behind

it, waiting for what would happen.

Chapter XXII

ONLY inside the entrance did Vinicius comprehend the whole difficulty

of the undertaking. The house was large, of several stories, one of the

kind of which thousands were built in Rome, in view of profit from rent;

hence, as a rule, they were built so hurriedly and badly that scarcely

a year passed in which numbers of them did not fall on the heads of

tenants. Real hives, too high and too narrow, full of chambers and

little dens, in which poor people fixed themselves too numerously. In a

city where many streets had no names, those houses had no numbers; the

owners committed the collection of rent to slaves, who, not obliged by

the city government to give names of occupants, were ignorant themselves

of them frequently. To find some one by inquiry in such a house was

often very difficult, especially when there was no gate-keeper.

Vinicius and Croton came to a narrow, corridor-like passage walled in on

four sides, forming a kind of common atrium for the whole house, with a

fountain in the middle whose stream fell into a stone basin fixed in the

ground. At all the walls were internal stairways, some of stone, some of

wood, leading to galleries from which there were entrances to lodgings.

There were lodgings on the ground, also; some provided with wooden

doors, others separated from the yard by woollen screens only. These,

for the greater part, were worn, rent, or patched.

The hour was early, and there was not a living soul in the yard. It was

evident that all were asleep in the house except those who had returned

from Ostrianum.

“What shall we do, lord?” asked Croton, halting.

“Let us wait here; some one may appear,” replied Vinicius. “We should

not be seen in the yard.”

At this moment, he thought Chilo’s counsel practical. If there were

some tens of slaves present, it would be easy to occupy the gate, which

seemed the only exit, search all the lodgings simultaneously, and thus

come to Lygia’s; otherwise Christians, who surely were not lacking in

that house, might give notice that people were seeking her. In view

of this, there was risk in inquiring of strangers. Vinicius stopped to

think whether it would not be better to go for his slaves. Just then,

from behind a screen hiding a remoter lodging, came a man with a sieve

in his hand, and approached the fountain.

At the first glance the young tribune recognized Ursus.

“That is the Lygian!” whispered Vinicius.

“Am I to break his bones now?”

“Wait awhile!”

Ursus did not notice the two men, as they were in the shadow of the

entrance, and he began quietly to sink in water vegetables which

filled the sieve. It was evident that, after a whole night spent in the

cemetery, he intended to prepare a meal. After a while the washing

was finished; he took the wet sieve and disappeared behind the screen.

Croton and Vinicius followed him, thinking that they would come directly

to Lygia’s lodgings. Their astonishment was great when they saw that the

screen divided from the court, not lodgings, but another dark corridor,

at the end of which was a little garden containing a few cypresses, some

myrtle bushes, and a small house fixed to the windowless stone wall of

another stone building.

Both understood at once that this was for them a favoring circumstance.

In the courtyard all the tenants might assemble; the seclusion of the

little house facilitated the enterprise. They would set aside defenders,

or rather Ursus, quickly, and would reach the street just as quickly

with the captured Lygia; and there they would help themselves. It was

likely that no one would attack them; if attacked, they would say that

a hostage was fleeing from Cæsar. Vinicius would declare himself then to

the guards, and summon their assistance.

Ursus was almost entering the little house, when the sound of steps

attracted his attention; he halted, and, seeing two persons, put his

sieve on the balustrade and turned to them.

“What do ye want here?” asked he.

“Thee!” said Vinicius.

Then, turning to Croton, he said in a low, hurried voice:

“Kill!”

Croton rushed at him like a tiger, and in one moment, before the Lygian

was able to think or to recognize his enemies, Croton had caught him in

his arms of steel.

Vinicius was too confident in the man’s preternatural strength to wait

for the end of the struggle. He passed the two, sprang to the door of

the little house, pushed it open and found himself in a room a trifle

dark, lighted, however, by a fire burning in the chimney. A gleam of

this fire fell on Lygia’s face directly. A second person, sitting at the

fire, was that old man who had accompanied the young girl and Ursus on

the road from Ostrianum.

Vinicius rushed in so suddenly that before Lygia could recognize him he

had seized her by the waist, and, raising her, rushed toward the door

again. The old man barred the way, it is true; but pressing the girl

with one arm to his breast, Vinicius pushed him aside with the other,

which was free. The hood fell from his head, and at sight of that face,

which was known to her and which at that moment was terrible, the blood

grew cold in Lygia from fright, and the voice died in her throat. She

wished to summon aid, but had not the power. Equally vain was her wish

to grasp the door, to resist. Her fingers slipped along the stone, and

she would have fainted but for the terrible picture which struck her

eyes when Vinicius rushed into the garden.

Ursus was holding in his arms some man doubled back completely, with

hanging head and mouth filled with blood. When he saw them, he struck

the head once more with his fist, and in the twinkle of an eye sprang

toward Vinicius like a raging wild beast.

“Death!” thought the young patrician.

Then he heard, as through a dream, the scream of Lygia, “Kill not!”

He felt that something, as it were a thunderbolt, opened the arms with

which he held Lygia; then the earth turned round with him, and the light

of day died in his eyes.

Chilo, hidden behind the angle of the corner house, was waiting for

what would happen, since curiosity was struggling with fear in him. He

thought that if they succeeded in carrying off Lygia, he would fare well

near Vinicius. He feared Urban no longer, for he also felt certain that

Croton would kill him. And he calculated that in case a gathering should

begin on the streets, which so far were empty,--if Christians, or people

of any kind, should offer resistance,--he, Chilo, would speak to them as

one representing authority, as an executor of Cæsar’s will, and if need

came, call the guards to aid the young patrician against the street

rabble--thus winning to himself fresh favor. In his soul he judged

yet that the young tribune’s method was unwise; considering, however,

Croton’s terrible strength, he admitted that it might succeed, and

thought, “If it go hard with him, Vinicius can carry the girl, and

Croton clear the way.” Delay grew wearisome, however; the silence of the

entrance which he watched alarmed him.

“If they do not hit upon her hiding-place, and make an uproar, they will

frighten her.”

But this thought was not disagreeable; for Chilo understood that in that

event he would be necessary again to Vinicius, and could squeeze afresh

a goodly number of sestertia from the tribune.

“Whatever they do,” said he to himself, “they will work for me, though

no one divines that. O gods! O gods! only permit me-”

And he stopped suddenly, for it seemed to him that some one was bending

forward through the entrance; then, squeezing up to the wall, he began

to look, holding the breath in his breast.

And he had not deceived himself, for a head thrust itself half out of

the entrance and looked around. After a while, however, it vanished.

“That is Vinicius, or Croton,” thought Chilo; “but if they have taken

the girl, why does she not scream, and why are they looking out to the

street? They must meet people anyhow, for before they reach the Carinæ

there will be movement in the city--What is that? By the immortal gods!”

And suddenly the remnant of his hair stood on end.

In the door appeared Ursus, with the body of Croton hanging on his arm,

and looking around once more, he began to run, bearing it along the

empty street toward the river.

Chilo made himself as flat against the wall as a bit of mud.

“I am lost if he sees me!” thought he.

But Ursus ran past the corner quickly, and disappeared beyond the

neighboring house. Chilo, without further waiting, his teeth chattering

from terror, ran along the cross street with a speed which even in a

young man might have roused admiration.

“If he sees me from a distance when he is returning, he will catch and

kill me,” said he to himself. “Save me, Zeus; save me, Apollo; save

me, Hermes; save me, O God of the Christians! I will leave Rome, I will

return to Mesembria, but save me from the hands of that demon!”

And that Lygian who had killed Croton seemed to him at that moment some

superhuman being. While running, he thought that he might be some god

who had taken the form of a barbarian. At that moment he believed in all

the gods of the world, and in all myths, at which he jeered usually. It

flew through his head, too, that it might be the God of the Christians

who had killed Croton; and his hair stood on end again at the thought

that he was in conflict with such a power.

Only when he had run through a number of alleys, and saw some workmen

coming toward him from a distance, was he calmed somewhat. Breath failed

in his breast; so he sat on the threshold of a house and began to wipe,

with a corner of his mantle, his sweat-covered forehead.

“I am old, and need calm,” said he.

The people coming toward him turned into some little side street, and

again the place round about was empty. The city was sleeping yet. In the

morning movement began earlier in the wealthier parts of the city,

where the slaves of rich houses were forced to rise before daylight; in

portions inhabited by a free population, supported at the cost of the

State, hence unoccupied, they woke rather late, especially in winter.

Chilo, after he had sat some time on the threshold, felt a piercing

cold; so he rose, and, convincing himself that he had not lost the purse

received from Vinicius, turned toward the river with a step now much

slower.

“I may see Croton’s body somewhere,” said he to himself. “O gods! that

Lygian, if he is a man, might make millions of sestertia in the course

of one year; for if he choked Croton, like a whelp, who can resist him?

They would give for his every appearance in the arena as much gold as he

himself weighs. He guards that maiden better than Cerberus does Hades.

But may Hades swallow him, for all that! I will have nothing to do with

him. He is too bony. But where shall I begin in this case? A dreadful

thing has happened. If he has broken the bones of such a man as Croton,

beyond a doubt the soul of Vinicius is puling above that cursed house

now, awaiting his burial. By Castor! but he is a patrician, a friend

of Cæsar, a relative of Petronius, a man known in all Rome, a military

tribune. His death cannot pass without punishment. Suppose I were to go

to the pretorian camp, or the guards of the city, for instance?”

Here he stopped and began to think, but said after a while,--“Woe is me!

Who took him to that house if not I? His freedmen and his slaves know

that I came to his house, and some of them know with what object. What

will happen if they suspect me of having pointed out to him purposely

the house in which his death met him? Though it appear afterward, in the

court, that I did not wish his death, they will say that I was the

cause of it. Besides, he is a patrician; hence in no event can I avoid

punishment. But if I leave Rome in silence, and go far away somewhere, I

shall place myself under still greater suspicion.”

It was bad in every case. The only question was to choose the less evil.

Rome was immense; still Chilo felt that it might become too small for

him. Any other man might go directly to the prefect of the city guards

and tell what had happened, and, though some suspicion might fall

on him, await the issue calmly. But Chilo’s whole past was of such

character that every closer acquaintance with the prefect of the city

or the prefect of the guard must cause him very serious trouble, and

confirm also every suspicion which might enter the heads of officials.

On the other hand, to flee would be to confirm Petronius in the opinion

that Vinicius had been betrayed and murdered through conspiracy.

Petronius was a powerful man, who could command the police of the whole

Empire, and who beyond doubt would try to find the guilty parties even

at the ends of the earth. Still, Chilo thought to go straight to him,

and tell what had happened. Yes; that was the best plan. Petronius was

calm, and Chilo might be sure of this, at least, that he would hear him

to the end. Petronius, who knew the affair from its inception, would

believe in Chilo’s innocence more easily than would the prefects.

But to go to him, it was needful to know with certainty what had

happened to Vinicius. Chilo did not know that. He had seen, it is true,

the Lygian stealing with Croton’s body to the river, but nothing more.

Vinicius might be killed; but he might be wounded or detained. Now it

occurred to Chilo for the first time, that surely the Christians would

not dare to kill a man so powerful,--a friend of Cæsar, and a high

military official,--for that kind of act might draw on them a general

persecution. It was more likely that they had detained him by superior

force, to give Lygia means to hide herself a second time.

This thought filled Chilo with hope.

“If that Lygian dragon has not torn him to pieces at the first attack,

he is alive, and if he is alive he himself will testify that I have not

betrayed him; and then not only does nothing threaten me, but--O Hermes,

count again on two heifers--a fresh field is opening. I can inform

one of the freedmen where to seek his lord; and whether he goes to the

prefect or not is his affair, the only point being that I should not go.

Also, I can go to Petronius, and count on a reward. I have found Lygia;

now I shall find Vinicius, and then again Lygia. It is needful to know

first whether Vinicius is dead or living.”

Here it occurred to him that he might go in the night to the baker Demas

and inquire about Ursus. But he rejected that thought immediately. He

preferred to have nothing to do with Ursus. He might suppose, justly,

that if Ursus had not killed Glaucus he had been warned, evidently, by

the Christian elder to whom he had confessed his design,--warned that

the affair was an unclean one, to which some traitor had persuaded him.

In every case, at the mere recollection of Ursus, a shiver ran through

Chilo’s whole body. But he thought that in the evening he would send

Euricius for news to that house in which the thing had happened.

Meanwhile he needed refreshment, a bath, and rest. The sleepless night,

the journey to Ostrianum, the flight from the Trans-Tiber, had wearied

him exceedingly.

One thing gave him permanent comfort: he had on his person two

purses,--that which Vinicius had given him at home, and that which

he had thrown him on the way from the cemetery. In view of this happy

circumstance, and of all the excitement through which he had passed, he

resolved to eat abundantly, and drink better wine than he drank usually.

When the hour for opening the wine-shop came at last, he did so in such

a marked measure that he forgot the bath; he wished to sleep, above all,

and drowsiness overcame his strength so that he returned with tottering

step to his dwelling in the Subura, where a slave woman, purchased with

money obtained from Vinicius, was waiting for him.

When he had entered a sleeping-room, as dark as the den of a fox, he

threw himself on the bed, and fell asleep in one instant. He woke only

in the evening, or rather he was roused by the slave woman, who called

him to rise, for some one was inquiring, and wished to see him on urgent

business.

The watchful Chilo came to himself in one moment, threw on his hooded

mantle hastily, and, commanding the slave woman to stand aside, looked

out cautiously.

And he was benumbed! for he saw before the door of the sleeping-room the

gigantic form of Ursus.

At that sight he felt his feet and head grow icy-cold, the heart ceased

to beat in his bosom, and shivers were creeping along his back. For

a time he was unable to speak; then with chattering teeth he said, or

rather groaned,--

“Syra--I am not at home--I don’t know that--good man-”

“I told him that thou wert at home, but asleep, lord,” answered the

girl; “he asked to rouse thee.”

“O gods! I will command that thou--”

But Ursus, as if impatient of delay, approached the door of the

sleeping-room, and, bending, thrust in his head.

“O Chilo Chilonides!” said he.

“Pax tecum! pax! pax!” answered Chilo. “O best of Christians! Yes, I am

Chilo; but this is a mistake,--I do not know thee!”

“Chilo Chilonides,” repeated Ursus, “thy lord, Vinicius, summons thee to

go with me to him.”

Chapter XXIII

A PIERCING pain roused Vinicius. At the first moment he could not

understand where he was, nor what was happening. He felt a roaring in

his head, and his eyes were covered as if with mist. Gradually, however,

his consciousness returned, and at last he beheld through that mist

three persons bending over him. Two he recognized: one was Ursus, the

other the old man whom he had thrust aside when carrying off Lygia. The

third, an utter stranger, was holding his left arm, and feeling it from

the elbow upward as far as the shoulder-blade. This caused so terrible

a pain that Vinicius, thinking it a kind of revenge which they were

taking, said through his set teeth, “Kill me!” But they paid no apparent

heed to his words, just as though they heard them not, or considered

them the usual groans of suffering. Ursus, with his anxious and also

threatening face of a barbarian, held a bundle of white cloth torn in

long strips. The old man spoke to the person who was pressing the arm of

Vinicius,--“Glaucus, art thou certain that the wound in the head is not

mortal?”

“Yes, worthy Crispus,” answered Glaucus. “While serving in the fleet as

a slave, and afterward while living at Naples, I cured many wounds, and

with the pay which came to me from that occupation I freed myself and my

relatives at last. The wound in the head is slight. When this one [here

he pointed to Ursus with his head] took the girl from the young man,

he pushed him against the wall; the young man while falling put out his

arm, evidently to save himself; he broke and disjointed it, but by so

doing saved his head and his life.”

“Thou hast had more than one of the brotherhood in thy care,” added

Crispus, “and hast the repute of a skilful physician; therefore I sent

Ursus to bring thee.”

“Ursus, who on the road confessed that yesterday he was ready to kill

me!”

“He confessed his intention earlier to me than to thee; but I, who know

thee and thy love for Christ, explained to him that the traitor is not

thou, but the unknown, who tried to persuade him to murder.”

“That was an evil spirit, but I took him for an angel,” said Ursus, with

a sigh.

“Some other time thou wilt tell me, but now we must think of this

wounded man.” Thus speaking, he began to set the arm. Though Crispus

sprinkled water on his face, Vinicius fainted repeatedly from suffering;

that was, however, a fortunate circumstance, since he did not feel the

pain of putting his arm into joint, nor of setting it. Glaucus fixed the

limb between two strips of wood, which he bound quickly and firmly, so

as to keep the arm motionless. When the operation was over, Vinicius

recovered consciousness again and saw Lygia above him. She stood there

at the bed holding a brass basin with water, in which from time to time

Glaucus dipped a sponge and moistened the head of his patient.

Vinicius gazed and could not believe his eyes. What he saw seemed a

dream, or the pleasant vision brought by fever, and only after a long

time could he whisper,--“Lygia!”

The basin trembled in her hand at that sound, but she turned on him eyes

full of sadness.

“Peace be with thee!” answered she, in a low voice.

She stood there with extended arms, her face full of pity and sorrow.

But he gazed, as if to fill his sight with her, so that after his lids

were closed the picture might remain under them. He looked at her face,

paler and smaller than it had been, at the tresses of dark hair, at the

poor dress of a laboring woman; he looked so intently that her snowy

forehead began to grow rose-colored under the influence of his look. And

first he thought that he would love her always; and second, that that

paleness of hers and that poverty were his work,--that it was he who had

driven her from a house where she was loved, and surrounded with plenty

and comfort, and thrust her into that squalid room, and clothed her in

that poor robe of dark wool.

He would have arrayed her in the costliest brocade, in all the jewels of

the earth; hence astonishment, alarm, and pity seized him, and sorrow so

great that he would have fallen at her feet had he been able to move.

“Lygia,” said he, “thou didst not permit my death.”

“May God return health to thee,” she answered, with sweetness.

For Vinicius, who had a feeling both of those wrongs which he had

inflicted on her formerly, and those which he had wished to inflict on

her recently, there was a real balsam in Lygia’s words. He forgot at the

moment that through her mouth Christian teaching might speak; he felt

only that a beloved woman was speaking, and that in her answer there was

a special tenderness, a goodness simply preterhuman, which shook him to

the depth of his soul. As just before he had grown weak from pain, so

now he grew weak from emotion. A certain faintness came on him, at once

immense and agreeable. He felt as if falling into some abyss, but he

felt that to fall was pleasant, and that he was happy. He thought at

that moment of weakness that a divinity was standing above him.

Meanwhile Glaucus had finished washing the wound in his head, and had

applied a healing ointment. Ursus took the brass basin from Lygia’s

hands; she brought a cup of water and wine which stood ready on the

table, and put it to the wounded man’s lips. Vinicius drank eagerly, and

felt great relief. After the operation the pain had almost passed; the

wound and contusion began to grow firm; perfect consciousness returned

to him.

“Give me another drink,” said he.

Lygia took the empty cup to the next room; meanwhile Crispus, after a

few words with Glaucus, approached the bed saying,--

“God has not permitted thee, Vinicius, to accomplish an evil deed, and

has preserved thee in life so that thou shouldst come to thy mind. He,

before whom man is but dust, delivered thee defenceless into our hands;

but Christ, in whom we believe, commanded us to love even our enemies.

Therefore we have dressed thy wounds, and, as Lygia has said, we will

implore God to restore thy health, but we cannot watch over thee longer.

Be in peace, then, and think whether it beseems thee to continue thy

pursuit of Lygia. Thou hast deprived her of guardians, and us of a roof,

though we return thee good for evil.”

“Do ye wish to leave me? inquired Vinicius.

“We wish to leave this house, in which prosecution by the prefect of

the city may reach us. Thy companion was killed; thou, who art powerful

among thy own people, art wounded. This did not happen through our

fault, but the anger of the law might fall on us.”

“Have no fear of prosecution,” replied Vinicius; “I will protect you.”

Crispus did not like to tell him that with them it was not only a

question of the prefect and the police, but of him; they wished to

secure Lygia from his further pursuit.

“Lord,” said he, “thy right arm is well. Here are tablets and a stilus;

write to thy servants to bring a litter this evening and bear thee to

thy own house, where thou wilt have more comfort than in our poverty.

We dwell here with a poor widow, who will return soon with her son,

and this youth will take thy letter; as to us, we must all find another

hiding-place.”

Vinicius grew pale, for he understood that they wished to separate him

from Lygia, and that if he lost her now he might never see her in life

again. He knew indeed that things of great import had come between him

and her, in virtue of which, if he wished to possess her, he must

seek some new methods which he had not had time yet to think over.

He understood too that whatever he might tell these people, though he

should swear that he would return Lygia to Pomponia Græcina, they would

not believe him, and were justified in refusing belief. Moreover, he

might have done that before. Instead of hunting for Lygia, he might have

gone to Pomponia and sworn to her that he renounced pursuit, and in that

case Pomponia herself would have found Lygia and brought her home. No;

he felt that such promises would not restrain them, and no solemn oath

would be received, the more since, not being a Christian, he could swear

only by the immortal gods, in whom he did not himself believe greatly,

and whom they considered evil spirits.

He desired desperately to influence Lygia and her guardians in some way,

but for that there was need of time. For him it was all-important to see

her, to look at her for a few days even. As every fragment of a plank

or an oar seems salvation to a drowning man, so to him it seemed that

during those few days he might say something to bring him nearer to

her, that he might think out something, that something favorable might

happen. Hence he collected his thoughts and said,--

“Listen to me, Christians. Yesterday I was with you in Ostrianum, and

I heard your teaching; but though I did not know it, your deeds have

convinced me that you are honest and good people. Tell that widow who

occupies this house to stay in it, stay in it yourselves, and let me

stay. Let this man [here he turned to Glaucus], who is a physician, or

at least understands the care of wounds, tell whether it is possible to

carry me from here to-day. I am sick, I have a broken arm, which must

remain immovable for a few days even; therefore I declare to you that I

will not leave this house unless you bear me hence by force!”

Here he stopped, for breath failed in his breast, and Crispus said,--“We

will use no force against thee, lord; we will only take away our own

heads.”

At this the young man, unused to resistance, frowned and said,--“Permit

me to recover breath”; and after a time he began again to speak,--“Of

Croton, whom Ursus killed, no one will inquire. He had to go to-day

to Beneventum, whither he was summoned by Vatinius, therefore all will

think that he has gone there. When I entered this house in company with

Croton, no one saw us except a Greek who was with us in Ostrianum. I

will indicate to you his lodgings; bring that man to me. On him I will

enjoin silence; he is paid by me. I will send a letter to my own house

stating that I too went to Beneventum. If the Greek has informed the

prefect already, I will declare that I myself killed Croton, and that it

was he who broke my arm. I will do this, by my father’s shade and by my

mother’s! Ye may remain in safety here; not a hair will fall from the

head of one of you. Bring hither, and bring in haste, the Greek whose

name is Chilo Chilonides!”

“Then Glaucus will remain with thee,” said Crispus, “and the widow will

nurse thee.”

“Consider, old man, what I say,” said Vinicius, who frowned still more.

“I owe thee gratitude, and thou seemest good and honest; but thou dost

not tell me what thou hast in the bottom of thy soul. Thou art afraid

lest I summon my slaves and command them to take Lygia. Is this true?”

“It is,” said Crispus, with sternness.

“Then remember this, I shall speak before all to Chilo, and write a

letter home that I have gone to Beneventum. I shall have no messengers

hereafter but you. Remember this, and do not irritate me longer.”

Here he was indignant, and his face was contorted with anger. Afterward

he began to speak excitedly,--

“Hast thou thought that I would deny that I wish to stay here to see

her? A fool would have divined that, even had I denied it. But I will

not try to take her by force any longer. I will tell thee more: if she

will not stay here, I will tear the bandages with this sound hand from

my arm, will take neither food nor drink; let my death fall on thee and

thy brethren. Why hast thou nursed me? Why hast thou not commanded to

kill me?” He grew pale from weakness and anger.

Lygia, who had heard all from the other room and who was certain that

Vinicius would do what he promised, was terrified. She would not

have him die for anything. Wounded and defenceless, he roused in her

compassion, not fear. Living from the time of her flight among people in

continual religious enthusiasm, thinking only of sacrifices, offerings,

and boundless charity, she had grown so excited herself through that

new inspiration, that for her it took the place of house, family, lost

happiness, and made her one of those Christian maidens who, later on,

changed the former soul of the world. Vinicius had been too important

in her fate, had been thrust too much on her, to let her forget him. She

had thought of him whole days, and more than once had begged God for the

moment in which, following the inspiration of religion, she might return

good for his evil, mercy for his persecution, break him, win him to

Christ, save him. And now it seemed to her that precisely that moment

had come, and that her prayers had been heard.

She approached Crispus therefore with a face as if inspired, and

addressed him as though some other voice spoke through her,--“Let him

stay among us, Crispus, and we will stay with him till Christ gives him

health.”

The old presbyter, accustomed to seek in all things the inspiration of

God, beholding her exaltation, thought at once that perhaps a higher

power was speaking through her, and, fearing in his heart, he bent his

gray head, saying,--“Let it be as thou sayest.”

On Vinicius, who the whole time had not taken his eyes from her,

this ready obedience of Crispus produced a wonderful and pervading

impression. It seemed to him that among the Christians Lygia was a kind

of sibyl or priestess whom they surrounded with obedience and honor;

and he yielded himself also to that honor. To the love which he felt

was joined now a certain awe, in presence of which love itself became

something almost insolent. He could not familiarize himself, however,

with the thought that their relations had changed: that now not she was

dependent on his will, but he on hers; that he was lying there sick and

broken; that he had ceased to be an attacking, a conquering force;

that he was like a defenceless child in her care. For his proud and

commanding nature such relations with any other person would have been

humiliating; now, however, not only did he not feel humiliated, but

he was thankful to her as to his sovereign. In him those were feelings

unheard-of, feelings which he could not have entertained the day before,

and which would have amazed him even on that day had he been able to

analyze them clearly. But he did not inquire at the moment why it was

so, just as if the position had been perfectly natural; he merely felt

happy because he remained there.

And he wished to thank her with gratefulness, and still with a kind of

feeling unknown to him in such a degree that he knew not what to

call it, for it was simply submission. His previous excitement had so

exhausted him that he could not speak, and he thanked her only with his

eyes, which were gleaming from delight because he remained near her, and

would be able to see her--to-morrow, next day, perhaps a long time. That

delight was diminished only by the dread that he might lose what he had

gained. So great was this dread that when Lygia gave him water a second

time, and the wish seized him to take her hand, he feared to do so. He

feared!--he, that Vinicius who at Cæsar’s feast had kissed her lips

in spite of her! he, that Vinicius who after her flight had promised

himself to drag her by the hair to the cubiculum, or give command to

flog her!

Chapter XXIV

BUT he began also to fear that some outside force might disturb his

delight. Chilo might give notice of his disappearance to the prefect of

the city, or to his freedmen at home; and in such an event an invasion

of the house by the city guards was likely. Through his head flew the

thought, it is true, that in that event he might give command to seize

Lygia and shut her up in his house, but he felt that he ought not to do

so, and he was not capable of acting thus. He was tyrannical, insolent,

and corrupt enough, if need be he was inexorable, but he was not

Tigellinus or Nero. Military life had left in him a certain feeling of

justice, and religion, and a conscience to understand that such a deed

would be monstrously mean. He would have been capable, perhaps, of

committing such a deed during an access of anger and while in possession

of his strength, but at that moment he was filled with tenderness, and

was sick. The only question for Vinicius at that time was that no one

should stand between him and Lygia.

He noticed, too, with astonishment, that from the moment when Lygia

had taken his part, neither she herself nor Crispus asked from him any

assurances, just as if they felt confident that, in case of need, some

superhuman power would defend them. The young tribune, in whose head the

distinction between things possible and impossible had grown involved

and faint since the discourse of the Apostle in Ostrianum, was also

not too far from supposing that that might take place. But considering

things more soberly, he remembered what he had said of the Greek, and

asked again that Chilo be brought to him.

Crispus agreed, and they decided to send Ursus. Vinicius, who in recent

days, before his visit to Ostrianum, had sent slaves frequently to

Chilo, though without result, indicated his lodgings accurately to the

Lygian; then writing a few words on the tablet, he said, turning to

Crispus,--“I give a tablet, for this man is suspicious and cunning.

Frequently when summoned by me, he gave directions to answer my people

that he was not at home; he did so always when he had no good news for

me, and feared my anger.”

“If I find him, I will bring him, willing or unwilling,” said Ursus.

Then, taking his mantle, he went out hurriedly.

To find any one in Rome was not easy, even with the most accurate

directions; but in those cases the instinct of a hunter aided Ursus, and

also his great knowledge of the city. After a certain time, therefore,

he found himself at Chilo’s lodgings.

He did not recognize Chilo, however. He had seen him but once in

his life before, and moreover, in the night. Besides, that lofty and

confident old man who had persuaded him to murder Glaucus was so unlike

the Greek, bent double from terror, that no one could suppose the two

to be one person. Chilo, noticing that Ursus looked at him as a perfect

stranger, recovered from his first fear. The sight of the tablet, with

the writing of Vinicius, calmed him still more. At least the suspicion

that he would take him into an ambush purposely did not trouble him. He

thought, besides, that the Christians had not killed Vinicius, evidently

because they had not dared to raise hands on so noted a person.

“And then Vinicius will protect me in case of need,” thought he; “of

course he does not send to deliver me to death.”

Summoning some courage, therefore, he said: “My good man, has not my

friend the noble Vinicius sent a litter? My feet are swollen; I cannot

walk so far.”

“He has not,” answered Ursus; “we shall go on foot.”

“But if I refuse?”

“Do not, for thou wilt have to go.”

“And I will go, but of my own will. No one could force me, for I am a

free man, and a friend of the prefect of the city. As a sage, I have

also means to overcome others, and I know how to turn people into trees

and wild beasts. But I will go, I will go! I will only put on a mantle

somewhat warmer, and a hood, lest the slaves of that quarter might

recognize me; they would stop me every moment to kiss my hands.”

He put on a new mantle then, and let down a broad Gallic hood, lest

Ursus might recognize his features on coming into clearer light.

“Where wilt thou take me?” asked he on the road.

“To the Trans-Tiber.”

“I am not long in Rome, and I have never been there, but there too, of

course, live men who love virtue.”

But Ursus, who was a simple man, and had heard Vinicius say that the

Greek had been with him in Ostrianum, and had seen him with Croton enter

the house in which Lygia lived, stopped for a moment and said,--“Speak

no untruth, old man, for to-day thou wert with Vinicius in Ostrianum and

under our gate.”

“Ah!” said Chilo, “then is your house in the Trans-Tiber? I have not

been long in Rome, and know not how the different parts are named. That

is true, friend; I was under the gate, and implored Vinicius in the name

of virtue not to enter. I was in Ostrianum, and dost thou know why? I am

working for a certain time over the conversion of Vinicius, and wished

him to hear the chief of the Apostles. May the light penetrate his

soul and thine! But thou art a Christian, and wishest truth to overcome

falsehood.”

“That is true,” answered Ursus, with humility.

Courage returned to Chilo completely.

“Vinicius is a powerful lord,” said he, “and a friend of Cæsar. He

listens often yet to the whisperings of the evil spirit; but if even a

hair should fall from his head, Cæsar would take vengeance on all the

Christians.”

“A higher power is protecting us.”

“Surely, surely! But what do ye intend to do with Vinicius?” inquired

Chilo, with fresh alarm.

“I know not. Christ commands mercy.”

“Thou hast answered excellently. Think of this always, or thou wilt fry

in hell like a sausage in a frying-pan.”

Ursus sighed, and Chilo thought that he could always do what he liked

with that man, who was terrible at the moment of his first outburst. So,

wishing to know what happened at the seizing of Lygia, he asked further,

in the voice of a stern judge,--“How did ye treat Croton? Speak, and do

not prevaricate.”

Ursus sighed a second time. “Vinicius will tell thee.”

“That means that thou didst stab him with a knife, or kill him with a

club.”

“I was without arms.”

The Greek could not resist amazement at the superhuman strength of the

barbarian.

“May Pluto--that is to say, may Christ pardon thee!”

They went on for some time in silence; then Chilo said:

“I will not betray thee; but have a care of the watches.”

“I fear Christ, not the watches.”

“And that is proper. There is no more grievous crime than murder. I will

pray for thee; but I know not if even my prayer can be effective, unless

thou make a vow never to touch any one in life with a finger.”

“As it is, I have not killed purposely,” answered Ursus.

But Chilo, who desired to secure himself in every case, did not cease to

condemn murder, and urge Ursus to make the vow. He inquired also about

Vinicius; but the Lygian answered his inquiries unwillingly, repeating

that from Vinicius himself he would hear what he needed. Speaking in

this way, they passed at last the long road which separated the lodgings

of the Greek from the Trans-Tiber, and found themselves before the

house. Chilo’s heart began to beat again unquietly. From dread it seemed

to him that Ursus was beginning to look at him with a kind of greedy

expression.

“It is small consolation to me,” said he to himself, “if he kills me

unwillingly. I prefer in every case that paralysis should strike him,

and with him all the Lygians,--which do thou effect, O Zeus, if thou art

able.”

Thus meditating, he wrapped himself more closely in his Gallic mantle,

repeating that he feared the cold. Finally, when they had passed the

entrance and the first court, and found themselves in the corridor

leading to the garden of the little house, he halted suddenly and

said,--“Let me draw breath, or I shall not be able to speak with

Vinicius and give him saving advice.”

He halted; for though he said to himself that no danger threatened,

still his legs trembled under him at the thought that he was among those

mysterious people whom he had seen in Ostrianum.

Meanwhile a hymn came to their ears from the little house.

“What is that?” inquired Chilo.

“Thou sayest that thou art a Christian, and knowest not that among us

it is the custom after every meal to glorify our Saviour with singing,”

answered Ursus. “Miriam and her son must have returned, and perhaps the

Apostle is with them, for he visits the widow and Crispus every day.”

“Conduct me directly to Vinicius.”

“Vinicius is in the same room with all, for that is the only large one;

the others are very small chambers, to which we go only to sleep. Come

in; thou wilt rest there.”

They entered. It was rather dark in the room; the evening was cloudy

and cold, the flames of a few candles did not dispel the darkness

altogether. Vinicius divined rather than recognized Chilo in the

hooded man. Chilo, seeing the bed in the corner of the room, and on it

Vinicius, moved toward him directly, not looking at the others, as if

with the conviction that it would be safest near him.

“Oh, lord, why didst thou not listen to my counsels?” exclaimed he,

putting his hands together.

“Silence!” said Vinicius, “and listen!”

Here he looked sharply into Chilo’s eyes, and spoke slowly with

emphasis, as if wishing the Greek to understand every word of his as a

command, and to keep it forever in memory.

“Croton threw himself on me to kill and rob me, dost understand? I

killed him then, and these people dressed the wounds which I received in

the struggle.”

Chilo understood in a moment that if Vinicius spoke in this way it must

be in virtue of some agreement with the Christians, and in that case he

wished people to believe him. He saw this, too, from his face; hence in

one moment, without showing doubt or astonishment, he raised his eyes

and exclaimed,--“That was a faith-breaking ruffian! But I warned thee,

lord, not to trust him; my teachings bounded from his head as do peas

when thrown against a wall. In all Hades there are not torments enough

for him. He who cannot be honest must be a rogue; what is more difficult

than for a rogue to become honest? But to fall on his benefactor, a lord

so magnanimous--O gods!”

Here he remembered that he had represented himself to Ursus on the way

as a Christian, and stopped.

“Were it not for the ‘sica,’ which I brought, he would have slain me,”

said Vinicius.

“I bless the moment in which I advised thee to take a knife even.”

Vinicius turned an inquiring glance on the Greek, and asked,--“What hast

thou done to-day?”

“How? What! have I not told thee, lord, that I made a vow for thy

health?”

“Nothing more?”

“I was just preparing to visit thee, when this good man came and said

that thou hadst sent for me.”

“Here is a tablet. Thou wilt go with it to my house; thou wilt find my

freedman and give it to him. It is written on the tablet that I have

gone to Beneventum. Thou wilt tell Demas from thyself that I went this

morning, summoned by an urgent letter from Petronius.” Here he repeated

with emphasis: “I have gone to Beneventum, dost understand?”

“Thou has gone, lord. This morning I took leave of thee at the Porta

Capena, and from the time of thy departure such sadness possesses me

that if thy magnanimity will not soften it, I shall cry myself to death,

like the unhappy wife of Zethos [Aedon turned into a nightingale] in

grief for Itylos.”

Vinicius, though sick and accustomed to the Greek’s suppleness, could

not repress a smile. He was glad, moreover, that Chilo understood in a

flash; hence he said,

“Therefore I will write that thy tears be wiped away. Give me the

candle.” Chilo, now pacified perfectly, rose, and, advancing a few steps

toward the chimney, took one of the candles which was burning at the

wall. But while he was doing this, the hood slipped from his head, and

the light fell directly on his face. Glaucus sprang from his seat and,

coming up quickly, stood before him.

“Dost thou not recognize me, Cephas?” asked he. In his voice there was

something so terrible that a shiver ran through all present.

Chilo raised the candle, and dropped it to the earth almost the same

instant; then he bent nearly double and began to groan,--“I am not he--I

am not he! Mercy!”

Glaucus turned toward the faithful, and said,--“This is the man who

betrayed--who ruined me and my family!”

That history was known to all the Christians and to Vinicius, who had

not guessed who that Glaucus was,--for this reason only, that he fainted

repeatedly from pain during the dressing of his wound, and had not heard

his name. But for Ursus that short moment, with the words of Glaucus,

was like a lightning-flash in darkness. Recognizing Chilo, he was at

his side with one spring, and, seizing his arm, bent it back,

exclaiming,--“This is the man who persuaded me to kill Glaucus!”

“Mercy!” groaned Chilo. “I will give you--O lord!” exclaimed he, turning

his head to Vinicius, “save me! I trusted in thee, take my part. Thy

letter--I will deliver it. O lord, lord!”

But Vinicius, who looked with more indifference than any one at what was

passing, first because all the affairs of the Greek were more or less

known to him, and second because his heart knew not what pity was,

said,--“Bury him in the garden; some one else will take the letter.”

It seemed to Chilo that those words were his final sentence. His bones

were shaking in the terrible hands of Ursus; his eyes were filled with

tears from pain.

“By your God, pity!” cried he; “I am a Christian! Pax vobiscum! I am

a Christian; and if ye do not believe me, baptize me again, baptize me

twice, ten times! Glaucus, that is a mistake! Let me speak, make me a

slave! Do not kill me! Have mercy!”

His voice, stifled with pain, was growing weaker and weaker, when the

Apostle Peter rose at the table; for a moment his white head shook,

drooping toward his breast, and his eyes were closed; but he opened them

then, and said amid silence,--

“The Saviour said this to us: ‘If thy brother has sinned against

thee, chastise him; but if he is repentant, forgive him. And if he has

offended seven times in the day against thee, and has turned to thee

seven times, saying, “Have mercy on me!” forgive him.’”

Then came a still deeper silence. Glaucus remained a long time with his

hands covering his face; at last he removed them and said,--“Cephas, may

God forgive thy offences, as I forgive them in the name of Christ.”

Ursus, letting go the arms of the Greek, added at once:

“May the Saviour be merciful to thee as I forgive thee.”

Chilo dropped to the ground, and, supported on it with his hands, turned

his head like a wild beast caught in a snare, looking around to see

whence death might come. He did not trust his eyes and ears yet, and

dared not hope for forgiveness. Consciousness returned to him slowly;

his blue lips were still trembling from terror.

“Depart in peace!” said the Apostle, meanwhile.

Chilo rose, but could not speak. He approached the bed of Vinicius, as

if seeking protection in it still; for he had not time yet to think that

that man, though he had used his services and was still his accomplice,

condemned him, while those against whom he had acted forgave. This

thought was to come to him later. At present simply astonishment and

incredulity were evident in his look. Though he had seen that they

forgave him, he wished to bear away his head at the earliest from among

these incomprehensible people, whose kindness terrified him almost as

much as their cruelty would have terrified. It seemed to him that

should he remain longer, something unexpected would happen again; hence,

standing above Vinicius, he said with a broken voice,--

“Give the letter, lord,--give the letter!”

And snatching the tablet which Vinicius handed him, he made one

obeisance to the Christians, another to the sick man, pushed along

sidewise by the very wall, and hurried out through the door. In the

garden, when darkness surrounded him, fear raised the hair on his head

again, for he felt sure that Ursus would rush out and kill him in the

night. He would have run with all his might, but his legs would not

move; next moment they were perfectly uncontrollable, for Ursus stood

near him really.

Chilo fell with his face to the earth, and began to groan: “Urban--in

Christ’s name”--

But Urban said: “Fear not. The Apostle commanded me to lead thee out

beyond the gate, lest thou might go astray in the darkness, and, if

strength failed thee, to conduct thee home.”

“What dost thou say?” asked Chilo, raising his face. “What? Thou wilt

not kill me?”

“No, I will not; and if I seized thee too roughly and harmed a bone in

thee, pardon me.”

“Help me to rise,” said the Greek. “Thou wilt not kill me? Thou wilt

not? Take me to the Street; I will go farther alone.”

Ursus raised him as he might a feather, and placed him on his feet; then

he conducted him through the dark corridor to the second court. From

there was a passage to the entrance and the street. In the corridor

Chilo repeated again in his soul, “It is all over with me!” Only when he

found himself on the street did he recover and say, “I can go on alone.”

“Peace be with thee.”

“And with thee! and with thee! Let me draw breath.”

And after Ursus had gone, he breathed with a full breast. He felt his

waist and hips, as if to convince himself that he was living, and then

moved forward with hurried step.

“But why did they not kill me?” And in spite of all his talk with

Euricius about Christian teaching, in spite of his conversation at the

river with Urban, and in spite of all that he had heard in Ostrianum, he

could find no answer to that question.

Chapter XXV

NEITHER could Vinicius discover the cause of what had happened; and in

the bottom of his soul he was almost as much astonished as Chilo. That

those people should treat him as they had, and, instead of avenging his

attack, dress his wounds carefully, he ascribed partly to the doctrine

which they confessed, more to Lygia, and a little, also, to his great

significance. But their conduct with Chilo simply went beyond his

understanding of man’s power of forgiveness. And the question thrust

itself into his mind: Why did they not kill the Greek? They might have

killed him with impunity. Ursus would have buried him in the garden,

or borne him in the dark to the Tiber, which during that period of

night-murders, committed by Cæsar himself even, cast up human bodies so

frequently in the morning that no one inquired whence they came. To his

thinking, the Christians had not only the power, but the right to kill

Chilo. True, pity was not entirely a stranger to that world to which

the young patrician belonged. The Athenians raised an altar to pity, and

opposed for a long time the introduction of gladiatorial combats into

Athens. In Rome itself the conquered received pardon sometimes, as, for

instance, Calicratus, king of the Britons, who, taken prisoner in the

time of Claudius, and provided for by him bountifully, dwelt in the city

in freedom. But vengeance for a personal wrong seemed to Vinicius, as to

all, proper and justified. The neglect of it was entirely opposed to

his spirit. True, he had heard in Ostrianum that one should love even

enemies; that, however, he considered as a kind of theory without

application in life. And now this passed through his head: that perhaps

they had not killed Chilo because the day was among festivals, or was in

some period of the moon during which it was not proper for Christians

to kill a man. He had heard that there are days among various nations

on which it is not permitted to begin war even. But why, in such a case,

did they not deliver the Greek up to justice? Why did the Apostle say

that if a man offended seven times, it was necessary to forgive him

seven times; and why did Glaucus say to Chilo, “May God forgive thee, as

I forgive thee”?

Chilo had done him the most terrible wrong that one man could do

another. At the very thought of how he would act with a man who killed

Lygia, for instance, the heart of Vinicius seethed up, as does water

in a caldron; there were no torments which he would not inflict in his

vengeance! But Glaucus had forgiven; Ursus, too, had forgiven,--Ursus,

who might in fact kill whomever he wished in Rome with perfect impunity,

for all he needed was to kill the king of the grove in Nemi, and take

his place. Could the gladiator holding that office to which he had

succeeded only by killing the previous “king,” resist the man whom

Croton could not resist? There was only one answer to all these

questions: that they refrained from killing him through a goodness so

great that the like of it had not been in the world up to that time, and

through an unbounded love of man, which commands to forget one’s self,

one’s wrongs, one’s happiness and misfortune, and live for others.

What reward those people were to receive for this, Vinicius heard in

Ostrianum, but he could not understand it. He felt, however, that the

earthly life connected with the duty of renouncing everything good and

rich for the benefit of others must be wretched. So in what he thought

of the Christians at that moment, besides the greatest astonishment,

there was pity, and as it were a shade of contempt. It seemed to him

that they were sheep which earlier or later must be eaten by wolves; his

Roman nature could yield no recognition to people who let themselves

be devoured. This one thing struck him, however,--that after Chilo’s

departure the faces of all were bright with a certain deep joy. The

Apostle approached Glaucus, placed his hand on his head, and said,--“In

thee Christ has triumphed.”

The other raised his eyes, which were full of hope, and as bright

with joy as if some great unexpected happiness had been poured on him.

Vinicius, who could understand only joy or delight born of vengeance,

looked on him with eyes staring from fever, and somewhat as he would

on a madman. He saw, however, and saw not without internal indignation,

that Lygia pressed her lips of a queen to the hand of that man, who had

the appearance of a slave; and it seemed to him that the order of the

world was inverted utterly. Next Ursus told how he had conducted Chilo

to the street, and had asked forgiveness for the harm which he might

have done his bones; for this the Apostle blessed him also. Crispus

declared that it was a day of great victory. Hearing of this victory,

Vinicius lost the thread of his thought altogether.

But when Lygia gave him a cooling draught again, he held her hand for a

moment, and asked,--“Then must thou also forgive me?”

“We are Christians; it is not permitted us to keep anger in the heart.”

“Lygia,” said he, “whoever thy God is, I honor Him only because He is

thine.”

“Thou wilt honor Him in thy heart when thou lovest Him.”

“Only because He is thine,” repeated Vinicius, in a fainter voice; and

he closed his eyes, for weakness had mastered him again.

Lygia went out, but returned after a time, and bent over him to learn if

he were sleeping. Vinicius, feeling that she was near, opened his eyes

and smiled. She placed her hand over them lightly, as if to incline him

to slumber. A great sweetness seized him then; but soon he felt more

grievously ill than before, and was very ill in reality. Night had come,

and with it a more violent fever. He could not sleep, and followed Lygia

with his eyes wherever she went.

At times he fell into a kind of doze, in which he saw and heard

everything which happened around him, but in which reality was mingled

with feverish dreams. It seemed to him that in some old, deserted

cemetery stood a temple, in the form of a tower, in which Lygia was

priestess. He did not take his eyes from her, but saw her on the summit

of the tower, with a lute in her hands, all in the light, like those

priestesses who in the night-time sing hymns in honor of the moon,

and whom he had seen in the Orient. He himself was climbing up winding

steps, with great effort, to bear her away with him. Behind was creeping

up Chilo, with teeth chattering from terror, and repeating, “Do not

do that, lord; she is a priestess, for whom He will take vengeance.”

Vinicius did not know who that He was, but he understood that he himself

was going to commit some sacrilege, and he felt a boundless fear also.

But when he went to the balustrade surrounding the summit of the tower,

the Apostle with his silvery beard stood at Lygia’s side on a sudden,

and said:

“Do not raise a hand; she belongs to me.” Then he moved forward with

her, on a path formed by rays from the moon, as if on a path made to

heaven. He stretched his hands toward them, and begged both to take him

into their company.

Here he woke, became conscious, and looked before him. The lamp on the

tall staff shone more dimly, but still cast a light sufficiently clear.

All were sitting in front of the fire warming themselves, for the night

was chilly, and the chamber rather cold. Vinicius saw the breath coming

as steam from their lips. In the midst of them sat the Apostle; at his

knees, on a low footstool, was Lygia; farther on, Glaucus, Crispus,

Miriam, and at the edge, on one side Ursus, on the other Miriam’s son

Nazarius, a youth with a handsome face, and long, dark hair reaching

down to his shoulders.

Lygia listened with eyes raised to the Apostle, and every head was

turned toward him, while he told something in an undertone. Vinicius

gazed at Peter with a certain superstitious awe, hardly inferior to that

terror which he felt during the fever dream. The thought passed through

his mind that that dream had touched truth; that the gray-haired man

there, freshly come from distant shores, would take Lygia from him

really, and take her somewhere away by unknown paths. He felt sure also

that the old man was speaking of him, perhaps telling how to separate

him from Lygia, for it seemed to him impossible that any one could speak

of aught else. Hence, collecting all his presence of mind, he listened

to Peter’s words.

But he was mistaken altogether, for the Apostle was speaking of Christ

again.

“They live only through that name,” thought Vinicius.

The old man was describing the seizure of Christ. “A company came, and

servants of the priest to seize Him. When the Saviour asked whom they

were seeking, they answered, ‘Jesus of Nazareth.’ But when He said to

them, ‘I am He,’ they fell on the ground, and dared not raise a hand on

Him. Only after the second inquiry did they seize Him.”

Here the Apostle stopped, stretched his hands toward the fire and

continued:--“The night was cold, like this one, but the heart in me

was seething; so, drawing a sword to defend Him, I cut an ear from the

servant of the high-priest. I would have defended Him more than my own

life had He not said to me, ‘Put thy sword into the sheath: the cup

which my Father has given me, shall I not drink it?’ Then they seized

and bound Him.”

When he had spoken thus far, Peter placed his palm on his forehead,

and was silent, wishing before he went further to stop the crowd of

his recollections. But Ursus, unable to restrain himself, sprang to his

feet, trimmed the light on the staff till the sparks scattered in

golden rain and the flame shot up with more vigor. Then he sat down, and

exclaimed:

“No matter what happened. I--”

He stopped suddenly, for Lygia had put her finger to her lips. But he

breathed loudly, and it was clear that a storm was in his soul; and

though he was ready at all times to kiss the feet of the Apostle, that

act was one he could not accept; if some one in his presence had raised

hands on the Redeemer, if he had been with Him on that night--Oi!

splinters would have shot from the soldiers, the servants of the priest,

and the officials. Tears came to his eyes at the very thought of this,

and because of his sorrow and mental struggle; for on the one hand he

thought that he would not only have defended the Redeemer, but would

have called Lygians to his aid,--splendid fellows,--and on the other, if

he had acted thus he would have disobeyed the Redeemer, and hindered the

salvation of man. For this reason he could not keep back his tears.

After a while Peter took his palm from his forehead, and resumed the

narrative. But Vinicius was overpowered by a new feverish, waking dream.

What he heard now was in his mind mixed up with what the Apostle had

told the night previous in Ostrianum, of that day in which Christ

appeared on the shore of the sea of Tiberius. He saw a sheet of water

broadly spread out; on it the boat of a fisherman, and in the boat Peter

and Lygia. He himself was moving with all his might after that boat, but

pain in his broken arm prevented him from reaching it. The wind hurled

waves in his eyes, he began to sink, and called with entreating voice

for rescue. Lygia knelt down then before the Apostle, who turned his

boat, and reached an oar, which Vinicius seized: with their assistance

he entered the boat and fell on the bottom of it.

It seemed to him, then, that he stood up, and saw a multitude of people

sailing after them. Waves covered their heads with foam; in the whirl

only the hands of a few could be seen; but Peter saved the drowning time

after time, and gathered them into his boat, which grew larger, as if

by a miracle. Soon crowds filled it, as numerous as those which were

collected in Ostrianum, and then still greater crowds. Vinicius wondered

how they could find place there, and he was afraid that they would sink

to the bottom. But Lygia pacified him by showing him a light on the

distant shore toward which they were sailing. These dream pictures of

Vinicius were blended again with descriptions which he had heard in

Ostrianum, from the lips of the Apostle, as to how Christ had appeared

on the lake once. So that he saw now in that light on the shore a

certain form toward which Peter was steering, and as he approached

it the weather grew calmer, the water grew smoother, the light became

greater. The crowd began to sing sweet hymns; the air was filled with

the odor of nard; the play of water formed a rainbow, as if from the

bottom of the lake lilies and roses were looking, and at last the boat

struck its breast safely against the sand. Lygia took his hand then, and

said, “Come, I will lead thee!” and she led him to the light.

Vinicius woke again; but his dreaming ceased slowly, and he did not

recover at once the sense of reality. It seemed for a time to him that

he was still on the lake, and surrounded by crowds, among which, not

knowing the reason himself, he began to look for Petronius, and was

astonished not to find him. The bright light from the chimney, at which

there was no one at that time, brought him completely to his senses.

Olive sticks were burning slowly under the rosy ashes; but the splinters

of pine, which evidently had been put there some moments before, shot

up a bright flame, and in the light of this, Vinicius saw Lygia, sitting

not far from his bedside.

The sight of her touched him to the depth of his soul. He remembered

that she had spent the night before in Ostrianum, and had busied herself

the whole day in nursing him, and now when all had gone to rest, she was

the only one watching. It was easy to divine that she must be wearied,

for while sitting motionless her eyes were closed. Vinicius knew not

whether she was sleeping or sunk in thought. He looked at her profile,

at her drooping lashes, at her hands lying on her knees; and in his

pagan head the idea began to hatch with difficulty that at the side of

naked beauty, confident, and proud of Greek and Roman symmetry, there

is another in the world, new, immensely pure, in which a soul has its

dwelling.

He could not bring himself so far as to call it Christian, but,

thinking of Lygia, he could not separate her from the religion which she

confessed. He understood, even, that if all the others had gone to rest,

and she alone were watching, she whom he had injured, it was because her

religion commanded her to watch. But that thought, which filled him with

wonder for the religion, was disagreeable to him. He would rather that

Lygia acted thus out of love for him, his face, his eyes, his statuesque

form,--in a word for reasons because of which more than once snow-white

Grecian and Roman arms had been wound around his neck.

Still he felt all at once, that, were she like other women, something

would be lacking in her. He was amazed, and knew not what was happening

in him; for he saw that new feelings of some kind were rising in him,

new likings, strange to the world in which he had lived hitherto.

She opened her eyes then, and, seeing that Vinicius was gazing at her,

she approached him and said,--“I am with thee.”

“I saw thy soul in a dream,” replied he.

Chapter XXVI

NEXT morning he woke up weak, but with a cool head and free of fever. It

seemed to him that a whispered conversation had roused him; but when

he opened his eyes, Lygia was not there. Ursus, stooping before the

chimney, was raking apart the gray ashes, and seeking live coals beneath

them. When he found some, he began to blow, not with his mouth, but as

it were with the bellows of a blacksmith. Vinicius, remembering how that

man had crushed Croton the day before, examined with attention befitting

a lover of the arena his gigantic back, which resembled the back of a

Cyclops, and his limbs strong as columns.

“Thanks to Mercury that my neck was not broken by him,” thought

Vinicius. “By Pollux! if the other Lygians are like this one, the

Danubian legions will have heavy work some time!”

But aloud he said, “Hei, slave!”

Ursus drew his head out of the chimney, and, smiling in a manner almost

friendly, said,--“God give thee a good day, lord, and good health; but I

am a free man, not a slave.”

On Vinicius who wished to question Ursus touching Lygia’s birthplace,

these words produced a certain pleasant impression; for discourse with

a free though a common man was less disagreeable to his Roman and

patrician pride, than with a slave, in whom neither law nor custom

recognized human nature.

“Then thou dost not belong to Aulus?” asked he.

“No, lord, I serve Callina, as I served her mother, of my own will.”

Here he hid his head again in the chimney, to blow the coals, on which

he had placed some wood. When he had finished, he took it out and

said,--“With us there are no slaves.”

“Where is Lygia?” inquired Vinicius.

“She has gone out, and I am to cook food for thee. She watched over thee

the whole night.”

“Why didst thou not relieve her?”

“Because she wished to watch, and it is for me to obey.” Here his eyes

grew gloomy, and after a while he added:

“If I had disobeyed her, thou wouldst not be living.”

“Art thou sorry for not having killed me?”

“No, lord. Christ has not commanded us to kill.”

“But Atacinus and Croton?”

“I could not do otherwise,” muttered Ursus. And he looked with regret

on his hands, which had remained pagan evidently, though his soul

had accepted the cross. Then he put a pot on the crane, and fixed his

thoughtful eyes on the fire.

“That was thy fault, lord,” said he at last. “Why didst thou raise thy

hand against her, a king’s daughter?”

Pride boiled up, at the first moment, in Vinicius, because a common man

and a barbarian had not merely dared to speak to him thus familiarly,

but to blame him in addition. To those uncommon and improbable things

which had met him since yesterday, was added another. But being weak and

without his slaves, he restrained himself, especially since a wish to

learn some details of Lygia’s life gained the upper hand in him.

When he had calmed himself, therefore, he inquired about the war of the

Lygians against Vannius and the Suevi. Ursus was glad to converse, but

could not add much that was new to what in his time Aulus Plautius had

told. Ursus had not been in battle, for he had attended the hostages to

the camp of Atelius Hister. He knew only that the Lygians had beaten the

Suevi and the Yazygi, but that their leader and king had fallen from

the arrows of the Yazygi. Immediately after they received news that the

Semnones had set fire to forests on their boundaries, they returned in

haste to avenge the wrong, and the hostages remained with Atelius, who

ordered at first to give them kingly honors. Afterward Lygia’s mother

died. The Roman commander knew not what to do with the child. Ursus

wished to return with her to their own country, but the road was unsafe

because of wild beasts and wild tribes. When news came that an

embassy of Lygians had visited Pomponius, offering him aid against the

Marcomani, Hister sent him with Lygia to Pomponius. When they came to

him they learned, however, that no ambassadors had been there, and in

that way they remained in the camp; whence Pomponius took them to Rome,

and at the conclusion of his triumph he gave the king’s daughter to

Pomponia Græcina.

Though only certain small details of this narrative had been unknown to

Vinicius, he listened with pleasure, for his enormous pride of family

was pleased that an eye-witness had confirmed Lygia’s royal descent. As

a king’s daughter she might occupy a position at Cæsar’s court equal to

the daughters of the very first families, all the more since the nation

whose ruler her father had been, had not warred with Rome so far, and,

though barbarian, it might become terrible; for, according to Atelius

Hister himself, it possessed an immense force of warriors. Ursus,

moreover, confirmed this completely.

“We live in the woods,” said he, in answer to Vinicius, “but we have so

much land that no man knows where the end is, and there are many people

on it. There are also wooden towns in the forest, in which there is

great plenty; for what the Semnones, the Marcomani, the Vandals, and the

Quadi plunder through the world, we take from them. They dare not come

to us; but when the wind blows from their side, they burn our forests.

We fear neither them nor the Roman Cæsar.”

“The gods gave Rome dominion over the earth,” said Vinicius severely.

“The gods are evil spirits,” replied Ursus, with simplicity, “and where

there are no Romans, there is no supremacy.”

Here he fixed the fire, and said, as if to himself,--“When Cæsar took

Callina to the palace, and I thought that harm might meet her, I wanted

to go to the forest and bring Lygians to help the king’s daughter. And

Lygians would have moved toward the Danube, for they are virtuous people

though pagan. There I should have given them ‘good tidings.’ But as it

is, if ever Callina returns to Pomponia Græcina I will bow down to her

for permission to go to them; for Christus was born far away, and they

have not even heard of Him. He knew better than I where He should be

born; but if He had come to the world with us, in the forests, we would

not have tortured Him to death, that is certain. We would have taken

care of the Child, and guarded Him, so that never should He want for

game, mushrooms, beaver-skins, or amber. And what we plundered from the

Suevi and the Marcomani we would have given Him, so that He might have

comfort and plenty.”

Thus speaking, he put near the fire the vessel with food for Vinicius,

and was silent. His thoughts wandered evidently, for a time yet, through

the Lygian wildernesses, till the liquid began to boil; then he poured

it into a shallow plate, and, cooling it properly, said,--“Glaucus

advises thee, lord, to move even thy sound arm as little as possible;

Callina has commanded me to give thee food.”

Lygia commanded! There was no answer to that. It did not even come to

Vinicius’s head to oppose her will, just as if she had been the daughter

of Cæsar or a goddess. He uttered not a word, therefore; and Ursus,

sitting near his bed, took out the liquid with a small cup, and put it

to his mouth. He did this so carefully, and with such a kindly smile,

that Vinicius could not believe his own eyes, could not think him the

same terrible Titan who the day before had crushed Croton, and, rushing

on him like a storm, would have torn him to pieces but for Lygia’s pity.

The young patrician, for the first time in life, began to ponder over

this: What can take place in the breast of a simple man, a barbarian,

and a servant?

But Ursus proved to be a nurse as awkward as painstaking; the cup was

lost among his herculean fingers so completely that there was no place

left for the mouth of the sick man. After a few fruitless efforts the

giant was troubled greatly, and said,--“Li! it would be easier to lead

an aurochs out of a snare.”

The anxiety of the Lygian amused Vinicius, but his remark did not

interest him less. He had seen in circuses the terrible urus, brought

from wildernesses of the north, against which the most daring bestiarii

went with dread, and which yielded only to elephants in size and

strength.

“Hast thou tried to take such beasts by the horns?” inquired he, with

astonishment.

“Till the twentieth winter passed over me, I was afraid,” answered

Ursus; “but after that it happened.”

And he began to feed Vinicius still more awkwardly than before.

“I must ask Miriam or Nazarius,” said he.

But now Lygia’s pale face appeared from behind the curtain.

“I will assist directly,” said she. And after a while she came from the

cubiculum, in which she had been preparing to sleep, as it seemed,

for she was in a single close tunic, called by the ancients capitium,

covering the breast completely, and her hair was unbound. Vinicius,

whose heart beat with more quickness at sight of her, began to upbraid

her for not thinking of sleep yet; but she answered joyously,--“I was

just preparing to sleep, but first I will take the place of Ursus.”

She took the cup, and, sitting on the edge of the bed, began to give

food to Vinicius, who felt at once overcome and delighted. When she

inclined toward him, the warmth of her body struck him, and her unbound

hair fell on his breast. He grew pale from the impression; but in the

confusion and impulse of desires he felt also that that was a head dear

above all and magnified above all, in comparison with which the whole

world was nothing. At first he had desired her; now he began to love her

with a full breast. Before that, as generally in life and in feeling, he

had been, like all people of that time, a blind, unconditional egotist,

who thought only of himself; at present he began to think of her.

After a while, therefore, he refused further nourishment; and though he

found inexhaustible delight in her presence and in looking at her, he

said,--“Enough! Go to rest, my divine one.”

“Do not address me in that way,” answered Lygia; “it is not proper for

me to hear such words.”

She smiled at him, however, and said that sleep had fled from her, that

she felt no toil, that she would not go to rest till Glaucus came.

He listened to her words as to music; his heart rose with increasing

delight, increasing gratitude, and his thought was struggling to show

her that gratitude.

“Lygia,” said he, after a moment of silence, “I did not know thee

hitherto. But I know now that I wished to attain thee by a false way;

hence I say, return to Pomponia Græcina, and be assured that in future

no hand will be raised against thee.”

Her face became sad on a sudden. “I should be happy,” answered she,

“could I look at her, even from a distance; but I cannot return to her

now.”

“Why?” inquired Vinicius, with astonishment.

“We Christians know, through Acte, what is done on the Palatine. Hast

thou not heard that Cæsar, soon after my flight and before his departure

for Naples, summoned Aulus and Pomponia, and, thinking that they had

helped me, threatened them with his anger? Fortunately Aulus was able to

say to him, ‘Thou knowest, lord, that a lie has never passed my lips;

I swear to thee now that we did not help her to escape, and we do not

know, as thou dost not, what has happened to her.’ Cæsar believed, and

afterward forgot. By the advice of the elders I have never written to

mother where I am, so that she might take an oath boldly at all times

that she has no knowledge of me. Thou wilt not understand this, perhaps,

O Vinicius; but it is not permitted us to lie, even in a question

involving life. Such is the religion on which we fashion our hearts;

therefore I have not seen Pomponia from the hour when I left her house.

From time to time distant echoes barely reach her that I am alive and

not in danger.”

Here a longing seized Lygia, and her eyes were moist with tears; but she

calmed herself quickly, and said,--“I know that Pomponia, too, yearns

for me; but we have consolation which others have not.”

“Yes,” answered Vinicius, “Christ is your consolation, but I do not

understand that.”

“Look at us! For us there are no partings, no pains, no sufferings; or

if they come they are turned into pleasure. And death itself, which for

you is the end of life, is for us merely its beginning,--the exchange of

a lower for a higher happiness, a happiness less calm for one calmer and

eternal. Consider what must a religion be which enjoins on us love even

for our enemies, forbids falsehood, purifies our souls from hatred, and

promises happiness inexhaustible after death.”

“I heard those teachings in Ostrianum, and I have seen how ye acted with

me and with Chilo; when I remember your deeds, they are like a dream,

and it seems to me that I ought not to believe my ears or eyes. But

answer me this question: Art thou happy?”

“I am,” answered Lygia. “One who confesses Christ cannot be unhappy.”

Vinicius looked at her, as though what she said passed every measure of

human understanding.

“And hast thou no wish to return to Pomponia?”

“I should like, from my whole soul, to return to her; and shall return,

if such be God’s will.”

“I say to thee, therefore, return; and I swear by my lares that I will

not raise a hand against thee.”

Lygia thought for a moment, and answered,--“No, I cannot expose

those near me to danger. Cæsar does not like the Plautiuses. Should

I return--thou knowest how every news is spread throughout Rome by

slaves--my return would be noised about in the city. Nero would hear of

it surely through his slaves, and punish Aulus and Pomponia,--at least

take me from them a second time.”

“True,” answered Vinicius, frowning, “that would be possible. He would

do so, even to show that his will must be obeyed. It is true that he

only forgot thee, or would remember thee, because the loss was not his,

but mine. Perhaps, if he took thee from Aulus and Pomponia, he would

send thee to me and I could give thee back to them.”

“Vinicius, wouldst thou see me again on the Palatine?” inquired Lygia.

He set his teeth, and answered,--“No. Thou art right. I spoke like a

fool! No!”

And all at once he saw before him a precipice, as it were without

bottom. He was a patrician, a military tribune, a powerful man; but

above every power of that world to which he belonged was a madman whose

will and malignity it was impossible to foresee. Only such people as the

Christians might cease to reckon with Nero or fear him,--people for whom

this whole world, with its separations and sufferings, was as nothing;

people for whom death itself was as nothing. All others had to

tremble before him. The terrors of the time in which they lived showed

themselves to Vinicius in all their monstrous extent. He could not

return Lygia to Aulus and Pomponia, then, through fear that the monster

would remember her, and turn on her his anger; for the very same reason,

if he should take her as wife, he might expose her, himself, and Aulus.

A moment of ill-humor was enough to ruin all. Vinicius felt, for

the first time in life, that either the world must change and be

transformed, or life would become impossible altogether. He understood

also this, which a moment before had been dark to him, that in such

times only Christians could be happy.

But above all, sorrow seized him, for he understood, too, that it was

he who had so involved his own life and Lygia’s that out of the

complication there was scarcely an outcome. And under the influence of

that sorrow he began to speak:

“Dost thou know that thou art happier than I? Thou art in poverty, and

in this one chamber, among simple people, thou hast thy religion and thy

Christ; but I have only thee, and when I lacked thee I was like a beggar

without a roof above him and without bread. Thou art dearer to me than

the whole world. I sought thee, for I could not live without thee. I

wished neither feasts nor sleep. Had it not been for the hope of finding

thee, I should have cast myself on a sword. But I fear death, for if

dead I could not see thee. I speak the pure truth in saying that I shall

not be able to live without thee. I have lived so far only in the hope

of finding and beholding thee. Dost thou remember our conversations at

the house of Aulus? Once thou didst draw a fish for me on the sand, and

I knew not what its meaning was. Dost thou remember how we played ball?

I loved thee then above life, and thou hadst begun already to divine

that I loved thee. Aulus came, frightened us with Libitina, and

interrupted our talk. Pomponia, at parting, told Petronius that God is

one, all-mighty and all-merciful, but it did not even occur to us that

Christ was thy God and hers. Let Him give thee to me and I will love

Him, though He seems to me a god of slaves, foreigners, and beggars.

Thou sittest near me, and thinkest of Him only. Think of me too, or I

shall hate Him. For me thou alone art a divinity. Blessed be thy father

and mother; blessed the land which produced thee! I should wish to

embrace thy feet and pray to thee, give thee honor, homage, offerings,

thou thrice divine! Thou knowest not, or canst not know, how I love

thee.”

Thus speaking, he placed his hand on his pale forehead and closed his

eyes. His nature never knew bounds in love or anger. He spoke with

enthusiasm, like a man who, having lost self-control, has no wish to

observe any measure in words or feelings. But he spoke from the depth

of his soul, and sincerely. It was to be felt that the pain, ecstasy,

desire, and homage accumulated in his breast had burst forth at last

in an irresistible torrent of words. To Lygia his words appeared

blasphemous, but still her heart began to beat as if it would tear the

tunic enclosing her bosom. She could not resist pity for him and his

suffering. She was moved by the homage with which he spoke to her. She

felt beloved and deified without bounds; she felt that that unbending

and dangerous man belonged to her now, soul and body, like a slave;

and that feeling of his submission and her own power filled her with

happiness. Her recollections revived in one moment. He was for her again

that splendid Vinicius, beautiful as a pagan god; he, who in the house

of Aulus had spoken to her of love, and roused as if from sleep her

heart half childlike at that time; he from whose embraces Ursus had

wrested her on the Palatine, as he might have wrested her from flames.

But at present, with ecstasy, and at the same time with pain in his

eagle face, with pale forehead and imploring eyes,--wounded, broken by

love, loving, full of homage and submissive,--he seemed to her such as

she would have wished him, and such as she would have loved with her

whole soul, therefore dearer than he had ever been before.

All at once she understood that a moment might come in which his love

would seize her and bear her away, as a whirlwind; and when she felt

this, she had the same impression that he had a moment before,--that she

was standing on the edge of a precipice. Was it for this that she had

left the house of Aulus? Was it for this that she had saved herself by

flight? Was it for this that she had hidden so long in wretched parts of

the city? Who was that Vinicius? An Augustian, a soldier, a courtier of

Nero! Moreover he took part in his profligacy and madness, as was shown

by that feast, which she could not forget; and he went with others

to the temples, and made offerings to vile gods, in whom he did not

believe, perhaps, but still he gave them official honor. Still more he

had pursued her to make her his slave and mistress, and at the same time

to thrust her into that terrible world of excess, luxury, crime, and

dishonor which calls for the anger and vengeance of God. He seemed

changed, it is true, but still he had just said to her that if she would

think more of Christ than of him, he was ready to hate Christ. It seemed

to Lygia that the very idea of any other love than the love of Christ

was a sin against Him and against religion. When she saw then that other

feelings and desires might be roused in the depth of her soul, she was

seized by alarm for her own future and her own heart.

At this moment of internal struggle appeared Glaucus, who had come to

care for the patient and study his health. In the twinkle of an eye,

anger and impatience were reflected on the face of Vinicius. He was

angry that his conversation with Lygia had been interrupted; and when

Glaucus questioned him, he answered with contempt almost. It is true

that he moderated himself quickly; but if Lygia had any illusions as

to this,--that what he had heard in Ostrianum might have acted on his

unyielding nature,--those illusions must vanish. He had changed only

for her; but beyond that single feeling there remained in his breast the

former harsh and selfish heart, truly Roman and wolfish, incapable not

only of the sweet sentiment of Christian teaching but even of gratitude.

She went away at last filled with internal care and anxiety. Formerly in

her prayers she had offered to Christ a heart calm, and really pure as

a tear. Now that calmness was disturbed. To the interior of the flower a

poisonous insect had come and began to buzz. Even sleep, in spite of the

two nights passed without sleep, brought her no relief. She dreamed

that at Ostrianum Nero, at the head of a whole band of Augustians,

bacchantes, corybantes, and gladiators, was trampling crowds of

Christians with his chariot wreathed in roses; and Vinicius seized her

by the arm, drew her to the quadriga, and, pressing her to his bosom,

whispered “Come with us.”

Chapter XXVII

FROM that moment Lygia showed herself more rarely in the common chamber,

and approached his couch less frequently. But peace did not return to

her. She saw that Vinicius followed her with imploring glance; that he

was waiting for every word of hers, as for a favor; that he suffered and

dared not complain, lest he might turn her away from him; that she alone

was his health and delight. And then her heart swelled with compassion.

Soon she observed, too, that the more she tried to avoid him, the more

compassion she had for him; and by this itself the more tender were the

feelings which rose in her. Peace left her. At times she said to herself

that it was her special duty to be near him always, first, because

the religion of God commands return of good for evil; second, that by

conversing with him, she might attract him to the faith. But at the same

time conscience told her that she was tempting herself; that only love

for him and the charm which he exerted were attracting her, nothing

else. Thus she lived in a ceaseless struggle, which was intensified

daily. At times it seemed that a kind of net surrounded her, and that in

trying to break through it she entangled herself more and more. She had

also to confess that for her the sight of him was becoming more needful,

his voice was becoming dearer, and that she had to struggle with all her

might against the wish to sit at his bedside. When she approached him,

and he grew radiant, delight filled her heart. On a certain day she

noticed traces of tears on his eyelids, and for the first time in life

the thought came to her, to dry them with kisses. Terrified by that

thought, and full of self-contempt, she wept all the night following.

He was as enduring as if he had made a vow of patience. When at moments

his eyes flashed with petulance, self-will, and anger, he restrained

those flashes promptly, and looked with alarm at her, as if to implore

pardon. This acted still more on her. Never had she such a feeling of

being greatly loved as then; and when she thought of this, she felt at

once guilty and happy. Vinicius, too, had changed essentially. In his

conversations with Glaucus there was less pride. It occurred to him

frequently that even that poor slave physician and that foreign woman,

old Miriam, who surrounded him with attention, and Crispus, whom he saw

absorbed in continual prayer, were still human. He was astonished at

such thoughts, but he had them. After a time he conceived a liking for

Ursus, with whom he conversed entire days; for with him he could talk

about Lygia. The giant, on his part, was inexhaustible in narrative, and

while performing the most simple services for the sick man, he began to

show him also some attachment. For Vinicius, Lygia had been at all times

a being of another order, higher a hundred times than those around her:

nevertheless, he began to observe simple and poor people,--a thing which

he had never done before,--and he discovered in them various traits the

existence of which he had never suspected.

Nazarius, however, he could not endure, for it seemed to him that the

young lad had dared to fall in love with Lygia. He had restrained his

aversion for a long time, it is true; but once when he brought her two

quails, which he had bought in the market with his own earned money, the

descendant of the Quirites spoke out in Vinicius, for whom one who had

wandered in from a strange people had less worth than the meanest worm.

When he heard Lygia’s thanks, he grew terribly pale; and when Nazarius

went out to get water for the birds, he said,--“Lygia, canst thou endure

that he should give thee gifts? Dost thou not know that the Greeks call

people of his nation Jewish dogs?”

“I do not know what the Greeks call them; but I know that Nazarius is a

Christian and my brother.”

When she had said this she looked at Vinicius with astonishment and

regret, for he had disaccustomed her to similar outbursts; and he set

his teeth, so as not to tell her that he would have given command to

beat such a brother with sticks, or would have sent him as a compeditus

[A man who labors with chained feet] to dig earth in his Sicilian

vineyards. He restrained himself, however, throttled the anger within

him, and only after a while did he say,--“Pardon me, Lygia. For me thou

art the daughter of a king and the adopted child of Plautius.” And

he subdued himself to that degree that when Nazarius appeared in the

chamber again, he promised him, on returning to his villa, the gift of a

pair of peacocks or flamingoes, of which he had a garden full.

Lygia understood what such victories over himself must have cost him;

but the oftener he gained them the more her heart turned to him. His

merit with regard to Nazarius was less, however, than she supposed.

Vinicius might be indignant for a moment, but he could not be jealous of

him. In fact the son of Miriam did not, in his eyes, mean much more than

a dog; besides, he was a child yet, who, if he loved Lygia, loved her

unconsciously and servilely. Greater struggles must the young tribune

have with himself to submit, even in silence, to that honor with which

among those people the name of Christ and His religion was surrounded.

In this regard wonderful things took place in Vinicius. That was in

every case a religion which Lygia believed; hence for that single reason

he was ready to receive it. Afterward, the more he returned to health,

the more he remembered the whole series of events which had happened

since that night at Ostrianum, and the whole series of thoughts which

had come to his head from that time, the more he was astonished at the

superhuman power of that religion which changed the souls of men

to their foundations. He understood that in it there was something

uncommon, something which had not been on earth before, and he felt that

could it embrace the whole world, could it ingraft on the world its love

and charity, an epoch would come recalling that in which not Jupiter,

but Saturn had ruled. He did not dare either to doubt the supernatural

origin of Christ, or His resurrection, or the other miracles. The

eye-witnesses who spoke of them were too trustworthy and despised

falsehood too much to let him suppose that they were telling things that

had not happened. Finally, Roman scepticism permitted disbelief in the

gods, but believed in miracles. Vinicius, therefore, stood before a

kind of marvellous puzzle which he could not solve. On the other hand,

however, that religion seemed to him opposed to the existing state of

things, impossible of practice, and mad in a degree beyond all others.

According to him, people in Rome and in the whole world might be bad,

but the order of things was good. Had Cæsar, for example, been an honest

man, had the Senate been composed, not of insignificant libertines,

but of men like Thrasea, what more could one wish? Nay, Roman peace and

supremacy were good; distinction among people just and proper. But that

religion, according to the understanding of Vinicius, would destroy all

order, all supremacy, every distinction. What would happen then to the

dominion and lordship of Rome? Could the Romans cease to rule, or could

they recognize a whole herd of conquered nations as equal to themselves?

That was a thought which could find no place in the head of a patrician.

As regarded him personally, that religion was opposed to all his ideas

and habits, his whole character and understanding of life. He was simply

unable to imagine how he could exist were he to accept it. He feared

and admired it; but as to accepting it, his nature shuddered at that. He

understood, finally, that nothing save that religion separated him from

Lygia; and when he thought of this, he hated it with all the powers of

his soul.

Still he acknowledged to himself that it had adorned Lygia with that

exceptional, unexplained beauty which in his heart had produced, besides

love, respect, besides desire, homage, and had made of that same Lygia

a being dear to him beyond all others in the world. And then he wished

anew to love Christ. And he understood clearly that he must either love

or hate Him; he could not remain indifferent. Meanwhile two opposing

currents were as if driving him: he hesitated in thoughts, in feelings;

he knew not how to choose, he bowed his head, however, to that God by

him uncomprehended, and paid silent honor for this sole reason, that He

was Lygia’s God.

Lygia saw what was happening in him; she saw how he was breaking

himself, how his nature was rejecting that religion; and though this

mortified her to the death, compassion, pity, and gratitude for the

silent respect which he showed Christ inclined her heart to him with

irresistible force. She recalled Pomponia Græcina and Aulus. For

Pomponia a source of ceaseless sorrow and tears that never dried was the

thought that beyond the grave she would not find Aulus. Lygia began now

to understand better that pain, that bitterness. She too had found a

being dear to her, and she was threatened by eternal separation from

this dear one.

At times, it is true, she was self-deceived, thinking that his soul

would open itself to Christ’s teaching; but these illusions could

not remain. She knew and understood him too well. Vinicius a

Christian!--These two ideas could find no place together in her

unenlightened head. If the thoughtful, discreet Aulus had not become

a Christian under the influence of the wise and perfect Pomponia, how

could Vinicius become one? To this there was no answer, or rather there

was only one,--that for him there was neither hope nor salvation.

But Lygia saw with terror that that sentence of condemnation which hung

over him instead of making him repulsive made him still dearer simply

through compassion. At moments the wish seized her to speak to him of

his dark future; but once, when she had sat near him and told him that

outside Christian truth there was no life, he, having grown stronger

at that time, rose on his sound arm and placed his head on her knees

suddenly. “Thou art life!” said he. And that moment breath failed in her

breast, presence of mind left her, a certain quiver of ecstasy rushed

over her from head to feet. Seizing his temples with her hands, she

tried to raise him, but bent the while so that her lips touched his

hair; and for a moment both were overcome with delight, with themselves,

and with love, which urged them the one to the other.

Lygia rose at last and rushed away, with a flame in her veins and a

giddiness in her head; but that was the drop which overflowed the cup

filled already to the brim. Vinicius did not divine how dearly he would

have to pay for that happy moment, but Lygia understood that now she

herself needed rescue. She spent the night after that evening without

sleep, in tears and in prayer, with the feeling that she was unworthy

to pray and could not be heard. Next morning she went from the cubiculum

early, and, calling Crispus to the garden summer-house, covered with ivy

and withered vines, opened her whole soul to him, imploring him at the

same time to let her leave Miriam’s house, since she could not trust

herself longer, and could not overcome her heart’s love for Vinicius.

Crispus, an old man, severe and absorbed in endless enthusiasm,

consented to the plan of leaving Miriam’s house, but he had no words

of forgiveness for that love, to his thinking sinful. His heart swelled

with indignation at the very thought that Lygia, whom he had guarded

since the time of her flight, whom he had loved, whom he had confirmed

in the faith, and on whom he looked now as a white lily grown up on the

field of Christian teaching undefiled by any earthly breath, could have

found a place in her soul for love other than heavenly. He had believed

hitherto that nowhere in the world did there beat a heart more purely

devoted to the glory of Christ. He wanted to offer her to Him as

a pearl, a jewel, the precious work of his own hands; hence the

disappointment which he felt filled him with grief and amazement.

“Go and beg God to forgive thy fault,” said he, gloomily. “Flee before

the evil spirit who involved thee bring thee to utter fall, and before

thou oppose the Saviour. God died on the cross to redeem thy soul with

His blood, but thou hast preferred to love him who wished to make thee

his concubine. God saved thee by a miracle of His own hands, but thou

hast opened thy heart to impure desire, and hast loved the son of

darkness. Who is he? The friend and servant of Antichrist, his copartner

in crime and profligacy. Whither will he lead thee, if not to that abyss

and to that Sodom in which he himself is living, but which God will

destroy with the flame of His anger? But I say to thee, would thou hadst

died, would the walls of this house had fallen on thy head before that

serpent had crept into thy bosom and beslimed it with the poison of

iniquity.”

And he was borne away more and more, for Lygia’s fault filled him not

only with anger but with loathing and contempt for human nature in

general, and in particular for women, whom even Christian truth could

not save from Eve’s weakness. To him it seemed nothing that the maiden

had remained pure, that she wished to flee from that love, that she

had confessed it with compunction and penitence. Crispus had wished

to transform her into an angel, to raise her to heights where love for

Christ alone existed, and she had fallen in love with an Augustian. The

very thought of that filled his heart with horror, strengthened by a

feeling of disillusion and disappointment. No, no, he could not forgive

her. Words of horror burned his lips like glowing coals; he struggled

still with himself not to utter them, but he shook his emaciated hands

over the terrified girl. Lygia felt guilty, but not to that degree. She

had judged even that withdrawal from Miriam’s house would be her victory

over temptation, and would lessen her fault. Crispus rubbed her into the

dust; showed her all the misery and insignificance of her soul, which

she had not suspected hitherto. She had judged even that the old

presbyter, who from the moment of her flight from the Palatine had been

to her as a father, would show some compassion, console her, give her

courage, and strengthen her.

“I offer my pain and disappointment to God,” said he, “but thou hast

deceived the Saviour also, for thou hast gone as it were to a quagmire

which has poisoned thy soul with its miasma. Thou mightst have offered

it to Christ as a costly vessel, and said to Him, ‘Fill it with grace,

O Lord!’ but thou hast preferred to offer it to the servant of the evil

one. May God forgive thee and have mercy on thee; for till thou cast out

the serpent, I who held thee as chosen-”

But he ceased suddenly to speak, for he saw that they were not alone.

Through the withered vines and the ivy, which was green alike in summer

and winter, he saw two men, one of whom was Peter the Apostle. The

other he was unable to recognize at once, for a mantle of coarse woollen

stuff, called cilicium, concealed a part of his face. It seemed to

Crispus for a moment that that was Chilo.

They, hearing the loud voice of Crispus, entered the summer-house and

sat on a stone bench. Peter’s companion had an emaciated face; his head,

which was growing bald, was covered at the sides with curly hair; he had

reddened eyelids and a crooked nose; in the face, ugly and at the same

time inspired, Crispus recognized the features of Paul of Tarsus.

Lygia, casting herself on her knees, embraced Peter’s feet, as if from

despair, and, sheltering her tortured head in the fold of his mantle,

remained thus in silence.

“Peace to your souls!” said Peter.

And seeing the child at his feet he asked what had happened. Crispus

began then to narrate all that Lygia had confessed to him,--her sinful

love, her desire to flee from Miriam’s house,--and his sorrow that a

soul which he had thought to offer to Christ pure as a tear had defiled

itself with earthly feelings for a sharer in all those crimes into which

the pagan world had sunk, and which called for God’s vengeance.

Lygia during his speech embraced with increasing force the feet of

the Apostle, as if wishing to seek refuge near them, and to beg even a

little compassion.

But the Apostle, when he had listened to the end, bent down and placed

his aged hand on her head; then he raised his eyes to the old presbyter,

and said,--“Crispus, hast thou not heard that our beloved Master was in

Cana, at a wedding, and blessed love between man and woman?”

Crispus’s hands dropped, and he looked with astonishment on the speaker,

without power to utter one word. After a moment’s silence Peter asked

again,--“Crispus, dost thou think that Christ, who permitted Mary of

Magdala to lie at his feet, and who forgave the public sinner, would

turn from this maiden, who is as pure as a lily of the field?”

Lygia nestled up more urgently to the feet of Peter, with sobbing,

understanding that she had not sought refuge in vain. The Apostle raised

her face, which was covered with tears, and said to her,--“While the

eyes of him whom thou lovest are not open to the light of truth, avoid

him, lest he bring thee to sin, but pray for him, and know that there is

no sin in thy love. And since it is thy wish to avoid temptation, this

will be accounted to thee as a merit. Do not suffer, and do not weep;

for I tell thee that the grace of the Redeemer has not deserted thee,

and that thy prayers will be heard; after sorrow will come days of

gladness.”

When he had said this, he placed both hands on her head, and, raising

his eyes, blessed her. From his face there shone a goodness beyond that

of earth.

The penitent Crispus began humbly to explain himself; “I have sinned

against mercy,” said he; “but I thought that by admitting to her heart

an earthly love she had denied Christ.”

“I denied Him thrice,” answered Peter, “and still He forgave me, and

commanded me to feed His sheep.”

“And because,” concluded Crispus, “Vinicius is an Augustian.”

“Christ softened harder hearts than his,” replied Peter.

Then Paul of Tarsus, who had been silent so far, placed his finger on

his breast, pointing to himself, and said,--“I am he who persecuted

and hurried servants of Christ to their death; I am he who during the

stoning of Stephen kept the garments of those who stoned him; I am he

who wished to root out the truth in every part of the inhabited earth,

and yet the Lord predestined me to declare it in every land. I have

declared it in Judea, in Greece, on the Islands, and in this godless

city, where first I resided as a prisoner. And now when Peter, my

superior, has summoned me, I enter this house to bend that proud head to

the feet of Christ, and cast a grain of seed in that stony field,

which the Lord will fertilize, so that it may bring forth a bountiful

harvest.”

And he rose. To Crispus that diminutive hunchback seemed then that

which he was in reality,--a giant, who was to stir the world to its

foundations and gather in lands and nations.

Chapter XXVIII

PETRONIUS to VINICIUS:--“Have pity, carissime; imitate not in thy

letters the Lacedemonians or Julius Cæsar! Couldst thou, like Julius,

write Veni, vidi, vici (I came, I saw, I conquered), I might understand

thy brevity. But thy letter means absolutely Veni, vidi, fugi (I came, I

saw, I fled). Since such a conclusion of the affair is directly opposed

to thy nature, since thou art wounded, and since, finally, uncommon

things are happening to thee, thy letter needs explanation. I could

not believe my eyes when I read that the Lygian giant killed Croton as

easily as a Caledonian dog would kill a wolf in the defiles of Hibernia.

That man is worth as much gold as he himself weighs, and it depends on

him alone to become a favorite of Cæsar. When I return to the city,

I must gain a nearer acquaintance with that Lygian, and have a bronze

statue of him made for myself. Ahenobarbus will burst from curiosity,

when I tell him that it is from nature. Bodies really athletic are

becoming rarer in Italy and in Greece; of the Orient no mention need be

made; the Germans, though large, have muscles covered with fat, and

are greater in bulk than in strength. Learn from the Lygian if he is an

exception, or if in his country there are more men like him. Should it

happen sometime to thee or me to organize games officially, it would be

well to know where to seek for the best bodies.

“But praise to the gods of the Orient and the Occident that thou hast

come out of such hands alive. Thou hast escaped, of course, because

thou art a patrician, and the son of a consul; but everything which has

happened astonishes me in the highest degree,--that cemetery where thou

wert among the Christians, they, their treatment of thee, the subsequent

flight of Lygia; finally, that peculiar sadness and disquiet which

breathes from thy short letter. Explain, for there are many points

which I cannot understand; and if thou wish the truth, I will tell thee

plainly, that I understand neither the Christians nor thee nor Lygia.

Wonder not that I, who care for few things on earth except my own

person, inquire of thee so eagerly. I have contributed to all this

affair of thine; hence it is my affair so far. Write soon, for I cannot

foresee surely when we may meet. In Bronzebeard’s head plans change, as

winds do in autumn. At present, while tarrying in Beneventum, he has the

wish to go straightway to Greece, without returning to Rome. Tigellinus,

however, advises him to visit the city even for a time, since the

people, yearning overmuch for his person (read ‘for games and bread’)

may revolt. So I cannot tell how it will be. Should Achæa overbalance,

we may want to see Egypt. I should insist with all my might on thy

coming, for I think that in thy state of mind travelling and our

amusements would be a medicine, but thou mightst not find us. Consider,

then, whether in that case repose in thy Sicilian estates would not

be preferable to remaining in Rome. Write me minutely of thyself, and

farewell. I add no wish this time, except health; for, by Pollux! I know

not what to wish thee.”

Vinicius, on receiving this letter, felt at first no desire to reply.

He had a kind of feeling that it was not worth while to reply, that an

answer would benefit no one in any way, that it would explain nothing.

Discontent, and a feeling of the vanity of life, possessed him. He

thought, moreover, that Petronius would not comprehend him in any case,

and that something had happened which would remove them from each other.

He could not come to an agreement with himself, even. When he returned

from the Trans-Tiber to his splendid “insula,” he was exhausted, and

found for the first days a certain satisfaction in rest and in the

comfort and abundance about him. That satisfaction lasted but a short

time, however. He felt soon that he was living in vanity; that all which

so far had formed the interest of his life either had ceased to exist

for him or had shrunk to proportions barely perceptible. He had a

feeling as if those ties which hitherto had connected him with life

had been cut in his soul, and that no new ones had been formed. At the

thought that he might go to Beneventum and thence to Achæa, to swim in a

life of luxury and wild excess, he had a feeling of emptiness. “To what

end? What shall I gain from it?” These were the first questions which

passed through his head. And for the first time in life, also, he

thought that if he went, the conversation of Petronius, his wit, his

quickness, his exquisite outlining of thought, and his choice of apt

phrases for every idea might annoy him.

But solitude, too, had begun to annoy him. All his acquaintances were

with Cæsar in Beneventum; so he had to stay at home alone, with a

head full of thoughts, and a heart full of feelings which he could not

analyze. He had moments, however, in which he judged that if he could

converse with some one about everything that took place in him, perhaps

he might be able to grasp it all somehow, bring it to order, and

estimate it better. Under the influence of this hope, and after some

days of hesitation, he decided to answer Petronius; and, though not

certain that he would send the answer, he wrote it in the following

words:--

“It is thy wish that I write more minutely, agreed then; whether I shall

be able to do it more clearly, I cannot tell, for there are many knots

which I know not myself how to loosen. I described to thee my stay among

the Christians, and their treatment of enemies, among whom they had a

right to count both me and Chilo; finally, of the kindness with which

they nursed me, and of the disappearance of Lygia. No, my dear friend, I

was not spared because of being the son of a consul. Such considerations

do not exist for them, since they forgave even Chilo, though I urged

them to bury him in the garden. Those are people such as the world has

not seen hitherto, and their teaching is of a kind that the world has

not heard up to this time. I can say nothing else, and he errs who

measures them with our measure. I tell thee that, if I had been lying

with a broken arm in my own house, and if my own peoples, even my own

family, had nursed me, I should have had more comforts, of course, but I

should not have received half the care which I found among them.

“Know this, too, that Lygia is like the others. Had she been my sister

or my wife, she could not have nursed me more tenderly. Delight filled

my heart more than once, for I judged that love alone could inspire the

like tenderness. More than once I saw love in her look, in her face;

and, wilt thou believe me? among those simple people then in that poor

chamber, which was at once a culina and a triclinium, I felt happier

than ever before. No; she was not indifferent to me--and to-day even I

cannot think that she was. Still that same Lygia left Miriam’s dwelling

in secret because of me. I sit now whole days with my head on my hands,

and think, Why did she do so? Have I written thee that I volunteered

to restore her to Aulus? True, she declared that to be impossible at

present, because Aulus and Pomponia had gone to Sicily, and because news

of her return going from house to house, through slaves, would reach the

Palatine, and Cæsar might take her from Aulus again. But she knew that I

would not pursue her longer; that I had left the way of violence; that,

unable to cease loving her or to live without her, I would bring her

into my house through a wreathed door, and seat her on a sacred skin at

my hearth. Still she fled! Why? Nothing was threatening her. Did she not

love me, she might have rejected me. The day before her flight, I made

the acquaintance of a wonderful man, a certain Paul of Tarsus, who spoke

to me of Christ and His teachings, and spoke with such power that every

word of his, without his willing it, turns all the foundations of our

society into ashes. That same man visited me after her flight, and said:

‘If God open thy eyes to the light, and take the beam from them as He

took it from mine, thou wilt feel that she acted properly; and then,

perhaps, thou wilt find her.’ And now I am breaking my head over these

words, as if I had heard them from the mouth of the Pythoness at Delphi.

I seem to understand something. Though they love people, the Christians

are enemies of our life, our gods, and our crimes; hence she fled from

me, as from a man who belongs to our society, and with whom she would

have to share a life counted criminal by Christians. Thou wilt say that

since she might reject me, she had no need to withdraw. But if she loved

me? In that case she desired to flee from love. At the very thought of

this I wish to send slaves into every alley in Rome, and command them

to cry throughout the houses, ‘Return, Lygia!’ But I cease to understand

why she fled. I should not have stopped her from believing in her

Christ, and would myself have reared an altar to Him in the atrium. What

harm could one more god do me? Why might I not believe in him,--I who

do not believe overmuch in the old gods? I know with full certainty that

the Christians do not lie; and they say that he rose from the dead.

A man cannot rise from the dead. That Paul of Tarsus, who is a Roman

citizen, but who, as a Jew, knows the old Hebrew writings, told me that

the coming of Christ was promised by prophets for whole thousands of

years. All these are uncommon things, but does not the uncommon surround

us on every side? People have not ceased talking yet of Apollonius of

Tyana. Paul’s statement that there is one God, not a whole assembly of

them, seems sound to me. Perhaps Seneca is of this opinion, and before

him many others. Christ lived, gave Himself to be crucified for the

salvation of the world, and rose from the dead. All this is perfectly

certain. I do not see, therefore, a reason why I should insist on an

opposite opinion, or why I should not rear to Him an altar, if I am

ready to rear one to Serapis, for instance. It would not be difficult

for me even to renounce other gods, for no reasoning mind believes in

them at present. But it seems that all this is not enough yet for

the Christians. It is not enough to honor Christ, one must also live

according to His teachings; and here thou art on the shore of a sea

which they command thee to wade through.

“If I promised to do so, they themselves would feel that the promise was

an empty sound of words. Paul told me so openly. Thou knowest how I love

Lygia, and knowest that there is nothing that I would not do for her.

Still, even at her wish, I cannot raise Soracte or Vesuvius on my

shoulders, or place Thrasymene Lake on the palm of my hand, or from

black make my eyes blue, like those of the Lygians. If she so desired, I

could have the wish, but the change does not lie in my power. I am not

a philosopher, but also I am not so dull as I have seemed, perhaps, more

than once to thee. I will state now the following: I know not how the

Christians order their own lives, but I know that where their religion

begins, Roman rule ends, Rome itself ends, our mode of life ends, the

distinction between conquered and conqueror, between rich and poor, lord

and slave, ends, government ends, Cæsar ends, law and all the order

of the world ends; and in place of those appear Christ, with a certain

mercy not existent hitherto, and kindness, opposed to human and our

Roman instincts. It is true that Lygia is more to me than all Rome and

its lordship; and I would let society vanish could I have her in my

house. But that is another thing. Agreement in words does not satisfy

the Christians; a man must feel that their teaching is truth, and not

have aught else in his soul. But that, the gods are my witnesses, is

beyond me. Dost understand what that means? There is something in my

nature which shudders at this religion; and were my lips to glorify it,

were I to conform to its precepts, my soul and my reason would say that

I do so through love for Lygia, and that apart from her there is to me

nothing on earth more repulsive. And, a strange thing, Paul of Tarsus

understands this, and so does that old theurgus Peter, who in spite of

all his simplicity and low origin is the highest among them, and was

the disciple of Christ. And dost thou know what they are doing? They are

praying for me, and calling down something which they call grace; but

nothing descends on me, save disquiet, and a greater yearning for Lygia.

“I have written thee that she went away secretly; but when going she

left me a cross which she put together from twigs of boxwood. When I

woke up, I found it near my bed. I have it now in the lararium, and I

approach it yet, I cannot tell why, as if there were something divine in

it,--that is, with awe and reverence. I love it because her hand bound

it, and I hate it because it divides us. At times it seems to me that

there are enchantments of some kind in all this affair, and that the

theurgus, Peter, though he declares himself to be a simple shepherd,

is greater than Apollonius, and all who preceded him, and that he has

involved us all--Lygia, Pomponia, and me--with them.

“Thou hast written that in my previous letter disquiet and sadness are

visible. Sadness there must be, for I have lost her again, and there

is disquiet because something has changed in me. I tell thee sincerely,

that nothing is more repugnant to my nature than that religion, and

still I cannot recognize myself since I met Lygia. Is it enchantment,

or love? Circe changed people’s bodies by touching them, but my soul

has been changed. No one but Lygia could have done that, or rather Lygia

through that wonderful religion which she professes. When I returned

to my house from the Christians, no one was waiting for me. The slaves

thought that I was in Beneventum, and would not return soon; hence there

was disorder in the house. I found the slaves drunk, and a feast, which

they were giving themselves, in my triclinium. They had more thought

of seeing death than me, and would have been less terrified by it.

Thou knowest with what a firm hand I hold my house; all to the last one

dropped on their knees, and some fainted from terror. But dost thou know

how I acted? At the first moment I wished to call for rods and hot iron,

but immediately a kind of shame seized me, and, wilt thou lend belief?

a species of pity for those wretched people. Among them are old slaves

whom my grandfather, Marcus Vinicius, brought from the Rhine in the

time of Augustus. I shut myself up alone in the library, and there came

stranger thoughts still to my head; namely, that after what I had heard

and seen among the Christians, it did not become me to act with slaves

as I had acted hitherto--that they too were people. For a number of days

they moved about in mortal terror, in the belief that I was delaying so

as to invent punishment the more cruel, but I did not punish, and did

not punish because I was not able. Summoning them on the third day, I

said, ‘I forgive you; strive then with earnest service to correct your

fault!’ They fell on their knees, covering their faces with tears,

stretching forth their hands with groans, and called me lord and father;

but I--with shame do I write this--was equally moved. It seemed to me

that at that moment I was looking at the sweet face of Lygia, and her

eyes filled with tears, thanking me for that act. And, proh pudor! I

felt that my lips too were moist. Dost know what I will confess to thee?

This--that I cannot do without her, that it is ill for me alone, that I

am simply unhappy, and that my sadness is greater than thou wilt admit.

But, as to my slaves, one thing arrested my attention. The forgiveness

which they received not only did not make them insolent, not only did

not weaken discipline, but never had fear roused them to such ready

service as has gratitude. Not only do they serve, but they seem to vie

with one another to divine my wishes. I mention this to thee because,

when, the day before I left the Christians, I told Paul that society

would fall apart because of his religion, as a cask without hoops, he

answered, ‘Love is a stronger hoop than fear.’ And now I see that in

certain cases his opinion may be right. I have verified it also with

references to clients, who, learning of my return, hurried to salute me.

Thou knowest that I have never been penurious with them; but my father

acted haughtily with clients on principle, and taught me to treat them

in like manner. But when I saw their worn mantles and hungry faces, I

had a feeling something like compassion. I gave command to bring them

food, and conversed besides with them,--called some by name, some I