Those days it was near twelve o'clock by the great dial of history.
One day, about mid-afternoon, the old capital lay glowing in the
sunlight. Its hills were white with marble and green with gardens, and
traced and spotted and flecked with gold; its thoroughfares were bright
with color--white, purple, yellow, scarlet--like a field of roses and
amarantus.
The fashionable day had begun; knight and lady were now making and
receiving visits.
Five litters and some forty slaves, who bore and followed them, were
waiting in the court of the palace of the Lady Lucia. Beyond the walls
of white marble a noble company was gathered that summer day. There
were the hostess and her daughter; three young noblemen, the purple
stripes on each angusticlave telling of knightly rank; a Jewish prince
in purple and gold; an old philosopher, and a poet who had been reading
love lines. It was the age of pagan chivalry, and one might imperil
his future with poor wit or a faulty epigram. Those older men had long
held the floor, and their hostess, seeking to rally the young knights,
challenged their skill in courtly compliment.
"O men, who have forgotten the love of women these days, look at her!"
So spoke the Lady Lucia--she that was widow of the Praefect Publius,
who fell with half his cohort in the desert wars.
She had risen from a chair of ebony enriched by cunning Etruscan
art--four mounted knights charging across its heavy back in armor of
wrought gold. She stopped, facing the company, between two columns of
white marble beautifully sculptured. Upon each a vine rose, limberly
and with soft leaves in the stone, from base to capital. Her daughter
stood in the midst of a group of maids who were dressing her hair.
"Arria, will you come to me?" said the Lady Lucia.
The girl came quickly--a dainty creature of sixteen, her dark hair
waving, under jewelled fillets, to a knot behind. From below the knot
a row of curls fell upon the folds of her outer tunic. It was a filmy,
transparent thing--this garment--through which one could see the white
of arm and breast and the purple fillets on her legs.
"She is indeed beautiful in the yellow tunic. I should think that
scarlet rug had caught fire and wrapped her in its flame," said the
poet Ovid.
"Nay, her heart is afire, and its light hath the color of roses," said
an old philosopher who sat by. "Can you not see it shining through her
cheeks?"
"Young sirs," said the Lady Lucia, with a happy smile, as she raised
her daughter's hand, "now for your offers."
It was a merry challenge, and shows how lightly they treated a sacred
theme those days.
First rose the grave senator, Aulus Valerius Maro by name.
"Madame," said he, stepping forward and bowing low, "I offer my heart
and my fortune, and the strength of my arms and the fleetness of my
feet and the fair renown of my fathers."
The Lady Lucia turned to her daughter with a look of inquiry.
"Brave words are not enough," said the fair Roman maiden, smiling, as
her eyes fell.
Then came the effeminate Gracus, in head-dress and neckerchief, frilled
robe and lady's sandals. He was of great sires who had borne the Roman
eagles into Gaul.
"Good lady," said he, "I would give my life."
"And had I more provocation," said Arria, raising a jewelled bodkin, "I
would take it."
Now the splendid Antipater, son of Herod the Great, was up and
speaking. "I offer," said he, "my heart and wealth and half my hopes,
and the jewels of my mother, and a palace in the beautiful city of
Jerusalem."
"And a pretty funeral," the girl remarked, thoughtfully. "Jerusalem is
half-way to Hades."
The Roman matron turned, and put her arm around the waist of the girl
and drew her close. A young man rose from his chair and approached
them. He was Vergilius, son of Varro, and of equestrian knighthood.
His full name was Quintus Vergilius Varro, but all knew the youth by
his nomen. Tall and erect, with curly blond locks and blue eyes and
lips delicately curved, there was in that hall no ancestral mask or
statue so nobly favored. He had been taught by an old philosopher to
value truth as the better part of honor--a view not common then, but
therein was a new light, spreading mysteriously.
"Dear Lady Lucia," said he, "I cannot amuse you with idle words. I
fear to speak, and yet silence would serve me ill. I offer not the
strength of my arms nor the fleetness of my feet, for they may fail me
tomorrow; nor my courage, for that has never been tried; nor the renown
of my fathers, for that is not mine to give; nor my life, for that
belongs to my country; nor my fortune, for I should blush to offer what
may be used to buy cattle. I would give a thing greater and more
lasting than all of these. It is my love."
The girl turned half away, blushing pink. All had flung off the mask
of comedy and now wore a look of surprise.
"By my faith!" said the poet, "this young knight meant his words."
"A man of sincerity, upon my soul!" said the old philosopher. "I have
put my hope in him, and so shall Rome. A lucky girl is she, for has he
not riches, talent, honor, temperance, courage, and the beauty of a
god? And was I not his teacher?"
"My brave Vergilius," the matron answered, "you are like the knights of
old I have heard my father tell of. They had such a way with
them--never a smile and a melancholy look in their faces when they
spoke of love. I give you the crown of gallantry, and, if she be
willing, you shall walk with her in the garden. That is your reward."
Vergilius, advancing, took the girl's hand and kissed it.
"Will you go with me?" said he.
"On one condition," she answered, looking down at the folds of her
tunic.
"And it is?"
"That you will entertain me with philosophy and the poets," she
answered, with a smile.
"And with no talk of love," the matron added, as Arria took his arm.
They walked through the long hall of the palace, over soft rugs and
great mosaics, and between walls aglow with tints of sky and garden.
These two bore with them a tender feeling as they passed the figures of
embattled horse and host in carven wood, and mural painting and colored
mosaic and wrought metal--symbols of the martial spirit of the empire
now oddly in contrast with their own. They came out upon a peristyle
overlooking an ample garden wherein were vines, flowers, and fruit
trees.
"You have a way of words," said she. "It is almost possible to believe
you."
He stopped and for a long moment looked into her eyes. "I love you,
sweet girl," he said, softly; "I love you. As I live, I speak the
truth."
"And you a man!" she exclaimed, incredulously.
"Ay, strange as it may be, a Roman."
"My mother has told me," said she, looking down at her sandal, "that
when a man speaks, it is well to listen but never to believe."
"They are not easy to understand--these men and women," said he,
thoughtfully. "Sometimes I think they would be nobler if they were
dumb as dogs. Albeit I suppose they would find a new way of lying.
But, O sweet sister of Appius, try to believe me, though you believe no
other, and I--I shall believe you always."
"You had better not," said she, with a merry glance.
"I must."
"But you will doubt me soon, for I shall say that I do not love you."
For a little he knew not how to answer. She turned away, looking off
at the Capitoline, where the toil and art of earth had wrought to show
the splendor of heaven. Its beautiful, barbaric temples were glowing
in the sunlight.
"Life would be too serious if there were no dissimulation." She looked
up at him as she spoke, and he saw a little quiver in her curved lips.
"That bow of your lips--I should think it fashioned by Praxiteles--and
it is for the arrows of truth."
"But a girl--she must deceive a little."
They were now among the vines.
"I do not understand you."
"Stupid fellow!" said she, in a whisper, as she turned, looking up at
him. "Son of Varo, lovers are not ever to be trusted. Shall I tell
you a story? One day I was in the Via Sacra and a young man caught and
held me for a moment and tried to touch my lips--that boy, Antipater, a
good-looking wretch!"
She gave her shoulders a little shrug and drew her robe closer. "He
had come out of the Basilica Julia, and I am sure he had been
over-drinking. I cried 'Help!' and quickly a man came and stood
between us; and oh! young sir, as I live, it was our great father
Augustus, and Antipater knelt before him.
"'Young man,' said the father--and his eyes shone--'rise and look
yonder. Do you see the citadel? Under its marble floor there is a
grave. It is that of one who kissed a vestal and was buried alive.
There are sacred people in Rome, and among them is this daughter of my
beloved Publius. Go you to your palace, son of Herod, and, hereafter,
forget not that you are in Rome.'
"He was angry, and I, so frightened! Then he took me home and said he
would be my father, and that in good time he would choose a husband for
me."
"The gods grant that he choose me."
"The gods forbid it, son of Varro."
"And why?"
Slowly and with assumed severity she spoke.
"Because--I--do--not--love--you."
"Cruel one!" said he, turning and biting his lips. "Your words are as
the blow of the pilum."
"Have they indeed wounded you?" She touched his hand with a look of
sympathy.
"They have made me sick at heart."
"Then would I not believe them," said she, tenderly, slipping her
slender fingers into his.
He pressed her hand. "And do you, then, love me?"
"No--I--do--not--love--you."
"You are a strange people--you maidens of the capital," said he, taking
her hand in both of his. "Rome has conquered everything save its
women."
She parted her tunic and stood looking down at her white bosom, and
with her delicate fingers brushed off a bit of dust which had fallen
from the vine above them.
"I do think much of love," said she, thoughtfully, still looking down
at her breast.
"And of me," he insisted.
"Nay, not of you," she answered, without delay.
"I shall know," said he, wistfully, "for I shall consult the fates. I
have here a sacred coin. An old dame found it when she was digging in
the side of Soracte. See, it has on its face the head of Apollo, and
opposite is an arrow in a death-hand. And the hag had an odd dream of
this coin, so she told me--that it fell out of the sky, and was,
indeed, from the treasury of the gods, and had in it a wonderful power
in all mysteries. And one might tell by tossing it in the air and
noting its fall, if he were loved or hated by the first one he should
see after learning its answer. I have never known it to fail. If the
head is up you love me," said he, tossing the disk of metal.
It fell and lay at his feet.
"The head!" he exclaimed, with joy.
"Is it really blest of the gods?" she inquired, eagerly, her cheeks
aflame. "Is it indeed blest?"
"So said the woman who gave it me."
"Now I shall toss it," said she, taking the coin.
"Ah! you would know if I love you," he answered.
The coin leaped high and fell and rolled along the marble walk. Both
followed eagerly, he leading, and, as it stopped, he quickly covered
the bit of metal with his hand.
"Let me see!" said she, her hand upon his wrist.
"Do not look."
"Let me see it!" she insisted.
"Sweet sister of Appius, I beg of you, here on my knees, do not look at
the coin! I will give you the white steeds from Cappadocia, but do not
look."
"Let me see it, I say, son of Varro!" She was tugging at his wrist,
and now, indeed, there was a pretty pleading in her voice. The words
were to him as pearls strung on a silken thread.
"Wait a little."
"I shall not wait."
"Sweet flower of Rome," said he, looking into her eyes, "I know that
you are mine now! Your voice--it is like the love-call of the robin!"
"Stubborn boy! Do you think I care for you?" She stopped and looked
into his eyes.
"Else why should you wish to see the coin?" said he. "But, look! Upon
my soul it is false!" A little silence followed.
"'Tis false!" he repeated. "I swear the coin lies, for I do love you,
dearly."
"It does not lie," she whispered.
He put his arm about her.
"And I know," he answered, "why you think it cannot lie. It said,
before, that you love me, and it was right."
She thrust him away gently, and, rising, as if stricken with sudden
fear of him, ran a few paces up the walk. She turned quickly, and
looked back at him as he approached. Her face had grown pale.
"I--I shall never speak with you again," she whispered.
"Oh, have mercy upon me, beautiful sister of Appius!" said the young
knight, and there was a note of despair in his voice. "Have mercy upon
me!"
"Young sir," said she, retreating slowly, as he advanced, "I do not
love you--I do not love you."
She turned quickly, and ran to the peristyle, and, stopping not to
glance back at him, entered the great marble home of her fathers.
He stood a moment looking at the sun-glow behind roof and dome and
tower. A bridge of light, spanning the hollow of the city, had laid
its golden timbers from hill to hill; and for a little the young man
felt as if he were drowning in the shadows under it. He turned
presently and hurried into the palace.