CÆSAR
When a woman feels herself scorned, her first impulse seems to be revenge
at any price. Some morbid sentiment, which the other sex can hardly
fathom, usually prompts her in such cases to select for her instrument the
man whom in her heart she loathes and despises, whose society is an
insult, and whose attentions are a disgrace. Thus lowering herself in her
own esteem, she knows that she inflicts a poisoned wound on the offender.
With all Valeria’s self‐command, her feelings had nearly got the better of
her before Esca left the house. Had it been so, she would never have
forgiven herself. But she managed to restrain them, and preserved an
outward composure even while Myrrhina prepared her for repose. That damsel
was much puzzled by the upshot of her manœuvres. From a method of her own,
which long practice rendered familiar, she had made herself acquainted
with all that occurred between her mistress and the handsome slave. Why
their interview should have had no more definite result, she was at a loss
to conceive. Altogether, Myrrhina was inclined to think that Esca had been
so captivated by her own charms, as to be insensible to those of Valeria.
This flattering supposition opened up a perspective of hazard, intrigue,
and cross‐purposes, that it was delicious to contemplate. The maid retired
to her couch exulting. The mistress writhed in an agony of wounded pride
and shame.
Morning, however, brought its unfailing accession of clear‐sightedness and
practical resolve. There are hours of the night in which we can abandon
ourselves to love, hatred, despair, or sorrow with a helplessness that
possesses in it some of the elements of repose; but with dawn reality
resumes her sway, and the sufferer is indeed to be pitied, who can turn
away from daylight without an impulse to be up and doing, who wishes only,
in the lethargy of utter desolation, that it was evening once more.
Valeria was not a woman to pass over the slight she had sustained. Few of
them but will forgive an injury more readily than an insult. Long before
she rose she had made up her mind where, and when, and how to strike;
nothing remained but to select the weapon, and put a keener edge upon the
steel. Now Valeria had long been aware, that, as far as was compatible
with his disposition, Julius Placidus was devoted to her service. Indeed,
he had told her so many a time, with an assumption of off‐hand gallantry
which, perhaps, she estimated at less than its proper value. Nevertheless,
the compliments she received from the tribune were scarcely so well turned
as might be expected from a man of his outward polish, refined manners,
and general bad character. The woman’s ear could detect the ring of truth,
amidst all the jingle that accompanied it; and Valeria felt that the
tribune loved her as much as it was possible for him to love anything but
himself. To do her justice, she liked him none the better on that account.
He was a man whom she must have hated under any circumstances, but perhaps
she despised him a little less for this one redeeming quality of good
taste. Here was a weapon, however, keen, and strong, and pliant, placed
moreover, so to speak, within reach of her hand. She rose and dressed,
languid, haughty, and composed as usual; but Myrrhina, who knew her,
remarked a red spot burning on either cheek, and once a shudder, as of
intense cold, passed over her, though it was a sunny morning in Rome.
Julius Placidus received a letter ere noon that seemed to afford him
infinite satisfaction. The gilded chariot flashed brighter than ever in
the sun, the white horses whirled it like lightning through the streets.
Automedon’s curls floated on the breeze, and the boy was even more
insolent than usual without rebuke. Lolling on his velvet cushions the
tribune’s smile seemed to have lost something of its malice; and though
the tiger‐look was on him still, it was that of the sleek and satisfied
tiger who has been fed. That look never left him all day, while he
transacted business in the Forum, while he showed his grace and agility at
ball in the Fives’ Court, while he reposed after his exertions at the
bath; but it was more apparent still when the hour of supper arrived, and
he took his place in the banqueting‐hall of Cæsar, with some of the
bravest soldiers, the noblest senators, the greatest statesmen, wits,
gluttons, and profligates in the empire.
A banquet with Vitellius was no light and simple repast. Leagues of sea
and miles of forest had been swept to furnish the mere groundwork of the
entertainment. Hardy fishermen had spent their nights on the heaving wave,
that the giant turbot might flap its snowy flakes on the Emperor’s table
broader than its broad dish of gold. Many a swelling hill, clad in the
dark oak coppice, had echoed to ringing shout of hunter, and deep‐mouthed
bay of hound, ere the wild boar yielded his grim life by the morass, and
the dark grisly carcass was drawn off to provide a standing‐dish that was
only meant to gratify the eye. Even the peacock roasted in its feathers
was too gross a dainty for epicures who studied the art of gastronomy
under Cæsar; and that taste would have been considered rustic in the
extreme, which could partake of more than the mere fumes and savour of so
substantial a dish. A thousand nightingales had been trapped and killed,
indeed, for this one supper, but brains and tongues were all they
contributed to the banquet, while even the wing of a roasted hare would
have been considered far too coarse and common food for the imperial
board.
There were a dozen of guests reaching round the ivory table, and so
disposed that the head of each was turned towards the giver of the feast.
Cæsar was, indeed, in his glory. A garland of white roses crowned his pale
and bloated face, enhancing the unhealthiness of its aspect. His features
had originally been well‐formed and delicate, expressive of wit, energy,
and great versatility of character. Now the eyes were sunken, and the
vessels beneath them so puffed and swollen as to discolour the skin; the
jowl, too, had become large and heavy, imparting an air of sensual
stupidity to the whole countenance, which brightened up, however, at the
appearance of a favourite dish, or the smack of some rich luscious wine.
He was busy at present with the eager, guzzling avidity of a pig; and he
propped his unwieldy body, clad in its loose white gown, on one flabby
arm, while with the other he fed himself on sharp‐biting salads, salted
herrings, pickled anchovies, and such stimulants as were served in the
first course of a Roman entertainment, to provoke the hunger that the rest
of the meal should satisfy. Now and then his eye wandered for an instant
through the long shining vistas of the hall, amongst its marble pillars,
its crimson hangings, its vases crowned with blushing fruit and flowers,
its sideboards blazing with chalices, and flagons, and plates of burnished
gold, as though he expected and winced from a blow; but the restless
glance was sure to return to the table, and quench itself once more in the
satisfaction of his favourite employment.
Next to the Emperor was placed Paris, the graceful pantomimist, whose
girlish face was already flushed with wine, and who turned his dark
laughing eyes from one to another of the guests with the good‐humoured
insolence of incipient intoxication. The young actor’s dress was
extravagant in the extreme, and he wore a collar of pearls, the gift of an
empress, that would have purchased a province. He was talking volubly to a
fat, coarse‐featured man, his neighbour, who answered him at intervals
with a grunt of acquiescence, but in whose twinkling eye lurked a world of
wit and sarcasm, and from whose thick sensual lips, engrossed as they were
with the business of the moment, would drop ever and anon some pungent
jest, that was sure to be repeated to‐morrow at every supper‐table in
Rome. Montanus was a crafty statesman and a practised diplomatist, whose
society was sought for at the Court, whose opinions carried weight in the
Senate; but the old voluptuary had long discovered that there was no
safety under the Empire for those who took a leading part in the council,
but that certain distinction awaited proficiency at the banquet—so he
devoted his powerful intellect to the study of gastronomy and the
fabrication of witty sayings; nor did he ever permit the outward
expression of his countenance to betray a consciousness of the good things
that went into and came out of his mouth.
Beyond him again reclined Licinius; his manly face and noble bearing
presenting a vivid contrast to those who surrounded him, and who treated
him, one and all, including Cæsar himself, with marked deference and
respect. The old soldier, however, appeared somewhat weary, and out of his
element. He loathed these long entertainments, so opposed to his own
simple habits; and regarded the company in his secret heart with a good‐
humoured, yet very decided, contempt. So he sat through the banquet as he
would have kept watch on an outpost. It was tedious, it was disagreeable.
There was nothing to be gained by it; but it was duty, and it must be
done.
Far different, in the frank joyous expression he knew so well how to put
on, was the mien of Julius Placidus, as he replied to a brief, indistinct
question from the Emperor (murmured with his mouth full), by a sally that
set everyone near him laughing, and even raised a smile on the pale face
of Vitellius himself. It was the tribune’s cue to make his society
universally popular—to be all things to all men, especially to win the
confidence of his imperial host. There is an art in social success, no
less than in any other triumph of natural ability. The rein must never be
completely loosed, the bow never stretched to its full compass. Latent
power ready to be called forth, is the secret of all grace; and while the
observed does well, it must be apparent to the observer that he could do
better if he chose. Also, to be really popular, a man, though a good deal
liked, should be a little feared. Julius Placidus excelled in the retort
courteous, which he could deliver without the slightest hesitation or
change of countenance; and a nickname or a sarcasm once inflicted by the
ready‐witted tribune clung afterwards to its object like a burr. Then he
possessed besides the invaluable qualification of a discriminating taste
in seasonings, the result of a healthy palate, refined, but not destroyed
by the culture bestowed on it; and could drink every man of them, except
Montanus, under the table, without his stomach or his brain being affected
by the debauch.
Our acquaintance Spado was also of the party. Generally a buffoon of no
mean calibre, and one whose special talent lay in such coarse and
practical jests as served to amuse Vitellius when his intellects had
become too torpid to appreciate the nicer delicacies of wit, the eunuch
was to‐night peculiarly dull and silent. He reclined, with his head
resting on his hand, and seemed to conceal as much as he could of his
face, one side of which was swollen and discoloured as from a blow. His
fat unwieldy form looked more disgusting than usual in its sumptuous
dress, fastened and looped up at every fold with clasps of emeralds and
pearls; and though he ate slowly and with difficulty, he seemed determined
to lose none of the gratifications of the meal.
There were a few more guests—one or two senators—who, with the caution,
but not the genius of Montanus, were conspicuous for nothing but their
fulsome adulation of the Emperor. A tall sullen‐looking man, commander of
the Prætorian Guard, who never laid aside the golden breastplate in which
he was encased, and who seemed only anxious for the conclusion of the
entertainment. Three or four unknown and undistinguished persons, called
in Roman society by the expressive term “Shades,” whose social position,
and, indeed, whose very existence, depended on the patrons they followed.
Amongst these were two freedmen of the Emperor, pale anxious‐looking
beings, with haggard eyes and careworn faces. It was their especial duty
to guard against poison, by tasting of every dish served to their
employer. It might be supposed that, as in previous reigns, one such
functionary would have been enough; but the great variety of dainties in
which the enormous appetite of Vitellius enabled him to indulge, rendered
it impossible for any one stomach to keep pace with him throughout the
whole of a meal, and these devoted champions took it by turns to guard
their master with their lives. Keen appetites and jovial looks were not to
be expected from men engaged on such a duty.
The first course, though long protracted, came to an end at last. Its
greatest delicacy, consisting of dormice sprinkled with poppy‐seed and
honey, had completely disappeared. The tables were cleared by a band of
Asiatic youths, richly habited, who entered to the sounds of wild Eastern
music, and bore off the fragments that remained. As they emerged at one
door, a troop of handsome fair‐haired maidens—barbarian captives—simply
clad in white muslin, and garlanded with flowers, entered at another,
carrying the golden dishes and vessels that contained the second course.
In the meantime, hanging curtains parted slowly from before a recess in
the middle of the hall, and disclosed three Syrian dancing‐girls, grouped
like a picture, in different attitudes of voluptuous grace. Shaded lamps
were so disposed as to throw a rosy light upon their limbs and faces;
while soft thin vapours curled about them, rising from braziers burning
perfumed incense at their feet. Simultaneously they clashed their cymbals,
and bounded wildly out upon the floor. Then began a measure of alternate
languor and activity, now swelling into frantic bacchanalian gestures, now
sinking into tender lassitude or picturesque repose. The warm blood glowed
in the dark faces of these daughters of the sun, the black eyes flashed
under their long eyelashes, and their white teeth showed like pearls
between the rich red lips; while the beautifully turned limbs, and the
flexible, undulating forms, writhed themselves into attitudes suggestive
of imperious conquest, coy reluctance, or yielding love.
The dance was soon over; wilder and faster flitted the glancing feet, and
tossed the shapely hands, encircled with bracelets and anklets of tiny
silver bells. When the measure was whirling at its speediest, the three
stopped short, and at once, as if struck into stone, formed a group of
rare fantastic beauty at the very feet of Cæsar’s guests; who one and all
broke into a murmur of unfeigned applause. As, touching their mouths and
foreheads with their hands in Eastern obeisance, they retired, Placidus
flung after them a collar of pearls, to be picked up by her who was
apparently the leader of the three. One of the Emperor’s freedmen seemed
about to follow his example, for he buried his hand in his bosom, but
either changed his mind or else found nothing there, since he drew it
forth again empty; while Vitellius himself, plucking a bracelet from his
arm, threw it after the retreating dancers, remarking that it was intended
as a bribe to go away, for they only distracted attention from matters of
real importance, now that the second course had come in; to which Montanus
gave his cordial approval, fixing his eyes at the same time on the breast
of a flamingo in which the skilful carver had just inserted the point of
his long knife.
It would be endless to go into the details of such a banquet as that which
was placed before the guests of Cæsar. Wild boar, pasties, goats, every
kind of shellfish, thrushes, beccaficoes, vegetables of all descriptions,
and poultry, were removed to make way for the pheasant, the guinea‐hen,
the turkey, the capon, venison, ducks, woodcocks, and turtledoves.
Everything that could creep, or fly, or swim, and could boast a delicate
flavour when cooked, was pressed into the service of the Emperor; and when
appetite was appeased and could do no more, the strongest condiments and
other remedies were used to stimulate fresh hunger and consume a fresh
supply of superfluous dainties. But the great business of the evening was
not yet half finished. Excess of eating was indeed the object; but it was
to excess of drinking that the gluttons of that period looked as the
especial relief of every entertainment, since the hope of each seemed to
be, that when thoroughly flooded, and, so to speak, washed out with wine,
he might begin eating again. The Roman was no drunkard like the barbarian,
for the sake of that wild excitement of the brain which is purchased by
intoxication. No, he ate to repletion that he might drink with
gratification. He drank to excess that he might eat again.
Another train of slaves now cleared the table. These were Nubian eunuchs,
clad in white turbans and scarlet tunics, embroidered with seed pearls and
gold. They brought in the dessert—choice fruits heaped upon vases of the
rarest porcelain, sweetmeats in baskets of silver filigree, Syrian dates
borne by miniature golden camels of exquisite workmanship—masses of
flowers in the centre, and perfumes burning at the corners of the table.
Behind each couch containing its three guests stood a sable cup‐bearer,
deaf and dumb, whose only business it was to fill for his especial charge.
These mutes were procured at vast expense from every corner of the empire;
but Cæsar especially prided himself on their similarity in face and
figure. To‐day he would be served by Germans, to‐morrow by Gauls, the next
by Ethiopians, and so on; nor, though deprived of the organs of speech and
hearing, were these ministers of Bacchus unobservant of what took place
amongst the votaries on whom they waited; and it was said that the mutes
in the palace heard more confidences, and told more secrets, than all the
old women in Rome put together.
And now, taking his cue from the Emperor, each man loosened the belt of
his tunic, shifted the garland of flowers off his brows, disposed himself
in an easier attitude on his couch, and proffered his cup to be filled by
the attendant. The great business of eating was for the present concluded,
and deep drinking about to commence. When marvelling, however, at the
quantity of wine consumed by the Romans in their entertainments, we must
remember that it was the pure and unadulterated juice of the grape, that
it was in general freely mixed with water, and that they thus imbibed but
a very small portion of alcohol, which is in reality the destructive
quality of all stimulants, to the welfare of the stomach and the brain.