CHAPTER V._The Chaldean Magician An Adventure in Rome in the Reign of the Emperor Diocletian

Three days after the interview between Caius and the centurion the

Chaldean sorcerer received a note, trebly sealed, containing the

following lines:

“Lydia to the glorious Olbasanus, the confidant of the gods.

“I do not know whether you will still remember me. I crossed your

threshold with the fair-haired girl from Syracuse, whom your divine

prophecy saved from the most terrible misfortune. Her name is Hero, and

she is a daughter of the estimable Heliodorus, who came last year to

the strand of Tiber. Filled with admiration for your incomprehensible

art, Lydia begs the counsel of the omniscient enchanter in an important

and troublesome matter, whose details I cannot confide to you in this

letter. But a fever which, though not dangerous, confines me to my bed

prevents my seeking you at your own house. So, worthy Olbasanus, accept

in return for your trouble the three hundred denarii the boy will give

you with these lines, and come as soon as your leisure will permit to

the dwelling of her who seeks knowledge. You know the mansion with the

Corinthian _porticus_ on the northern slope of the Caelian hill. Tell

me, by the slave, whether and when my impatient heart may expect you.”

Olbasanus took the gold and wrote three words on one of the numerous

strips of parchment which, daintily cut and piled one above another,

were lying in a niche in the wall of his room. It was still

early--scarcely an hour after sunrise; the conjuror’s labors, as a

rule, did not begin until after the so-called _prandium_, or second

breakfast, and were most numerous during the evening hours. So he

could reply “Will come immediately!”--“for,” he added with courteous

phraseology, “Olbasanus knows that he who gives quickly, gives doubly.”

Twenty minutes after Olbasanus’s litter, radiant with gold and

purple, borne by four coal-black Nubian slaves, stopped in front of

Heliodorus’s vestibule. Such visits from the soothsayer and magician to

aristocratic Roman ladies were neither unusual nor remarkable, though

Olbasanus was somewhat chary of granting the favor.

The Chaldean was respectfully received at the door by the chief slave

of the atrium, who begged him to excuse the absence of the members of

his master’s family; Heliodorus had been detained in Antium for several

days by important business, and Hero, his daughter, had gone to rest at

a late hour and was still asleep.

Olbasanus nodded with the quiet formality of a man accustomed to such

phrases, and allowed himself to be conducted to the large sitting-room

under the columns of the peristyle, where Lydia, reclining on a brass

lounge, awaited him.

As he crossed the threshold the young Sicilian rose, greeted him with

great embarrassment, and requested him to follow her.

Behind the sitting-room was a windowless, oval _exedra_[7] lighted from

above--the apartment specially designed for the social chat so greatly

prized and enjoyed by the Romans even in later times.

Into this cosy private room Lydia conducted the smiling Oriental, who

read in her timid confusion assurance of victory won and fresh triumphs

for the future.

But scarcely had the folding doors closed behind Olbasanus, when from

the opposite ones three strong Germans rushed in and seized him as a

pack of hounds fall upon a wolf. Spite of his desperate resistance, he

was bound; a gag, thrust by the flaxen-haired Frieselanders between his

jaws, barely allowed him to breathe.

At the same time Caius Bononius and the centurion Philippus entered the

_exedra_ by a side door.

“Why do you roll your eyes so, conjuror of Hecate?” said Bononius.

“It will be an easy matter for the confidant of all the spirits of

the Upper and Lower World to burst these bonds asunder and hurl the

criminals who have assailed him lifeless on the floor.”

Spite of the defiant scorn these words were intended to express, the

young man’s voice had trembled. The glances that flashed from under the

Oriental’s lashes were so fierce and diabolical, and the memory of the

events in the enchanter’s house on the Quirinal so fresh, that Bononius

could not without emotion see the conquered man at his feet,--for in

the struggle with the slaves Olbasanus had sunk upon his knees.

At a sign from the centurion Philippus, the flaxen-haired Frieselanders

now retired through the same door by which they had entered. He himself

approached the fettered captive, drew his sword from its sheath, and

said in curt, resolute tones:

“You have been guilty of an execrable crime. Recognize in me a

commander of the armed body appointed to guard the welfare of the

citizens. I could arrest you now without ceremony. Your fate would

be undoubted; since, apart from your offence against Lucius Rutilius

and Heliodorus’s daughter, the edicts of former emperors, prohibiting

Chaldeans and mathematicians a residence in the seven-hilled city on

pain of death, are still in force. That the authorities have been

negligent in executing these edicts; that an indulgence has prevailed

of whose injurious results you are the best proof, has little to do

with the matter. Yet,--spite of your criminality, I will exercise

mercy, if you will punctiliously fulfil two conditions that I shall

impose. If you wish to hear them, give me some sign!”

Olbasanus, who at Caius Bononius’s words had perceived that his rôle in

Rome was played out, after a slight delay bowed his head like a man who

submits to the inevitable. The soldier’s quiet, resolute manner did not

permit him to doubt that Philippus would execute his threat.

Lydia, who had hitherto remained aloof, now advanced a few steps and

gazed with timid curiosity at the magician whom, notwithstanding Caius

Bononius’s repeated admonitions, she still regarded as a sort of

supernatural being.

True--the pitiable abjectness which now took the place of his former

rage was well calculated to shake this superstitious dread.

“Very well,” said Philippus to Olbasanus, “I’ll release you from the

gag, that you may speak. But if you should cry out or attempt to

frighten this young girl by magic formulas or any folly of that sort,

my blade shall duly repay you for it.”

With these words he removed the gag from the enchanter’s mouth.

“My conditions,” he continued, “are simple enough. You perceive,

Olbasanus, that we have discovered the true character of your

incredible frauds, but we still lack the key to some of your criminal

arts. This youth, who crossed your threshold for the sole purpose of

seeing behind the curtain of the nonsensical conjurations with which

you deluded people, requires a complete and truthful explanation of

everything you did to deceive Hero and Rutilius. If you refuse or lie,

our Germans shall drag you to prison this very day. You will also

mention the person to whom you sold yourself for such reprehensible

jugglery. The making of these confessions is my first condition.

The second is--that you leave Rome before the end of the year. Go

to Nicomedia or Alexandria, for aught I care; if these cities will

tolerate your presence--and a man of your appearance doesn’t pass

unobserved--that’s your affair. But here in Rome, where you have not

only deluded a populace entrusted as it were to my charge, but my best

friends, here I oppose to you my threatening sword--woe betide you, if

you despise the menace! If you fulfil the task I impose, you shall be

dismissed unharmed. Consider quickly and answer without circumlocution.”

Olbasanus, with the keen penetration of the Oriental, had instantly

perceived the whole situation. He felt that it was not hatred and

revenge that roused these men against him, but on the part of one

friendship for the basely deceived Lucius Rutilius, on that of the

other feverish curiosity to learn the causes of the mysterious effects,

which--he himself did not know how or in what way--had suddenly lost

their supernatural character to Caius Bononius. So he thought that by

the exercise of a little theatrical talent he could turn the conditions

imposed to his own advantage. To leave the seven-hilled city did not

seem too painful a sacrifice, for he had long been considering whether

it might not be time to collect his riches and, by retiring to the

seclusion of private life, escape the danger constantly threatening him

from the ancient imperial edicts. Only he needed to remain unmolested

until he could accomplish at his leisure this gathering of his means,

especially the conversion into money of his considerable landed

property, his estates and country houses. So he did not reflect long.

“I’ll confess everything,” he said with a half sarcastic smile, “if

you’ll all swear to keep my acknowledgment secret for six months. You

may disclose it only to Lucius Rutilius and Heliodorus’s daughter, on

condition that they, too, will promise to maintain silence. I will quit

the seven-hilled city, too, as the centurion commands; but I beg as a

favor an additional delay of a few months. If you refuse”--here his

voice suddenly grew grave and threatening, like the roll of distant

thunder,--“by all the horrors of death--I would rather give my neck to

the lictor’s axe.”

“Grant it to him!” said Bononius, who was burning with impatience.

Philippus consented and, with the young sage and Lydia, took a solemn

oath. Then Bononius told the Chaldean, who could only move with

difficulty, to sit down on a cushioned couch and answer his questioner

with strict conformity to the truth. He himself stood with folded arms

directly in front of the couch. Philippus, sword in hand, stationed

himself by the magician’s side, while Lydia leaned in breathless

expectation over the back of a bronze arm-chair.

“First of all,” Caius Bononius began, “tell us one thing: do you

believe in the existence of a power in the Nether World, a creature

which has some traits akin to the terrible being in whom people

believe under the name of Hecate? An answer to this question seems to

me valuable, because I should like to know whether you have dared to

offend, by the deception of your juggling arts, a divinity in whose

power you trusted.”

Olbasanus smiled. Now that he had once yielded, he seemed to take

the whole matter very quietly and after the fashion of a man of the

world, like the Epicurean, who, reclining on the dining-couch in the

brilliantly-lighted triclinium, chats about death.

“Sir,” he said with aristocratic calmness, “I believe, if not in

Hecate, in the existence of the mighty void she fills. I, who know

mankind as a gardener does flowers, assure you: certain things must

be systematically devised by us more talented men, if the imagination

of the people is not to exhaust itself. Meantime, you might have

the kindness to loose my bonds. Our sworn agreement, your superior

numbers, and this centurion’s sword make the favor appear trivial, and

it is more agreeable to philosophize if one is not enduring physical

discomfort.”

Caius Bononius made no delay in granting this request.

“Very well,” he began again when he had freed the magician from his

ropes, “so you entirely deny the existence of supernatural beings?”

“I deny nothing--assert nothing. This world is so mysterious, the

nature of things is so unfathomable to our intellectual powers, that it

would be madness to form a positive opinion about the possibility or

impossibility of a thing which does not come directly within our own

experience.”

“I won’t dispute that. Now for details!”

“You need only question.”

“What induced you to send that first message to Heliodorus’ daughter?

Who bought you?”

“Bought?” repeated the Oriental. “That sounds so unpleasant, Caius

Bononius. Prophesying was my ordinary business. Like every one else who

practises a profession, I was at the disposal of any one who paid for

my art.”

“Then, who paid you?”

“Agathon, Philemon’s son.”

“But you have no scruples about ruthlessly destroying the happiness of

two human beings for glittering gold?”

Olbasanus shrugged his shoulders.

“If Hero believed it was thus appointed by fate, the fact was a potent

consolation for all the grief of renunciation. Besides--do you know

whether this union _was_ for their happiness? My oracle interposed,

separated two persons who wished to be united: well, this was really

the will of fate; for everything that happens is absolutely necessary,

and events are strung on the infrangible threads of chance. If you

tell me that my prophecy would have destroyed their happiness, I shall

answer with equal confidence: it would have saved them from misery.”

“Admirable logic, by Hercules!” replied Bononius. “But we won’t argue

about the matter! So Agathon bought--or paid you. Did he tell you his

reasons?”

“I did not ask him; but as I knew the man, I guessed them. I knew that

Agathon had been on the verge of ruin for several months, and having

learned that Hero is one of the richest heiresses in the seven-hilled

city....”

“How did you learn that?”

“Was I to remain ignorant of what hundreds know? I don’t keep paid

informers in all the fourteen districts for nothing....”

“Very well. So you complied with his request, wrote to Hero, and sent

her the mysterious page, which so strangely covered itself with black

writing. How is this explained?”

“The mysterious writing can be explained simply enough,” replied

Olbasanus. “I prepare from milk, salt water, and a third ingredient,

whose combination I invented with great difficulty, a colorless ink

which turns black as soon as it is warmed. The page from the book of

the god Amun was of course previously written; the heat of the fire

produced the miracle that drove the poor, foolish girl to despair.”

“Confoundedly simple, to be sure!” said the mortified Bononius. “Name

the third ingredient.”

“How can I designate a nameless thing? It is known only to me; but to

explain its preparation....”

“You are right. There are more important things in store for us. First:

how could you know that the youth who accompanied me, and whom I only

encountered by accident, was Lucius Rutilius? He assures me that he

never met you. Did you recognize him?”

“No. But I was daily expecting a visit from him. Besides, Agathon knew

him, and Agathon met you as he left my door. While my servant was

leading you by a roundabout way to the hall of conjuration, Agathon

hurriedly returned and informed me of Rutilius’s immediate arrival.”

“Yet the servant could not possibly foresee that it would be for your

interest to delay our arrival. So why did he choose that way?”

“It is the rule. All strangers pass through those corridors; only those

who come on errands, like Agathon, are conducted directly to my rooms.”

“I understand,” said Bononius. “But suppose--we had _not_ met Agathon?”

“Then it would undoubtedly have cost me more trouble to ascertain

the personality of your companion--and I should have performed other

miracles.”

“How did it happen that the candelabra around were lighted when you

raised your wand?”

“Their stands are hollow. The lamps are already burning very low within

the columns. A thick wire screen shuts off the reflection they would

otherwise cast on the ceiling. When I raise the wand, my assistant

behind the curtains turns an iron wheel which moves machinery that

pushes the lamps up from the floor, opens the screens, and turns up

the wicks.”

“Go on!” said Bononius. “The metallic sound your wand drew from the

altar...?”

“Was produced by a copper basin concealed inside. A boy sits in front

of it with an iron rod.”

“I supposed it was something of the kind. But now: the sudden fall of

the victim! Does the hidden boy have a hand in the game here, too?”

“Here, too!” replied the magician. “In the side of the altar is a small

movable plate, which is covered with a thin layer of common salt. As

soon as the animal finds its head near this plate, it begins, according

to natural instinct, to lick it. When I give the sign, the boy, with a

sudden push, drives the plate into an opening of the same size made in

the marble, the space it formerly occupied being filled with a second

plate, also covered with salt, which, however, is mixed with a poison

whose action is instantaneous. The results you have seen.”

“But suppose the lamb doesn’t accommodate you?” said the centurion.

“Suppose it should be tired, or satiated, or obstinate?”

“That is provided for. The animal is deprived a long time of its

favorite dainty. At the worst I incurred no risk. If the trick failed,

it remained a secret; the animal could then be killed as every priest

slays his victim.”

“You took out the heart and liver,” Bononius continued, “I watched you

with the utmost care. You held the wand in your right hand all the time

that the entrails were in your left; so the writing that so completely

robbed Rutilius of his self-command could not have come from the staff.

Far less could the animal have had a liver ready inscribed in its body.

How did this incredible thing occur?”

“It was not done with the right hand which carried the wand,” replied

Olbasanus smiling, “but with the left, in which I held the liver.”

“Impossible!”

“Understand me correctly. Before you entered the hall the word ΘΑΝΑΤΟΣ

was written in inverted characters on the palm of my left hand with a

black fluid specially prepared for the purpose. The moist liver eagerly

absorbed this fluid and when I laid it on the plate, the miracle was

accomplished.”

A long pause ensued. The ridiculous simplicity of this apparently

incomprehensible marvel, and the bold assurance displayed by the

Chaldean produced a startling effect. Even Lydia now felt ashamed of

having so long shared poor Hero’s terror and of only having given her

consent after much fear and hesitation to the plan which was to unmask

the magician.

“A masterpiece certainly!” said Bononius almost furiously. “It ought

not to surprise me now if I should learn that your talking skull was

a vision of mist or smoke! To be sure, things are not simple until

they are understood. But we’ll keep to the regular order of events! I

don’t ask about the peals of thunder and flashes of lightning; such

things may be heard and seen, though far more imperfectly, even at

the performances of foolish pantomimes. But how do you explain the

ghostly motion that arose in the brazier of coals? It was an amazing

phenomenon.”

“In the bottom of the brazier was a sheet of alum, which, melting and

bubbling from the heat, imparted its own movements to the coals.”

“Now for the skull. Its speech was deceptive--as distinct as your own

voice is now.”

“It was the voice of an assistant. A tube led from the floor into

the skull. The assistant spoke into it below, so the words seemed to

proceed directly from the skull.”

“And its disappearance?”

“Was caused by melting. The skull was modelled of wax and the plates of

the niche were heated from below.”

“But it was not seen....”

“You saw nothing distinctly,” interrupted Olbasanus. “Unperceived by

you, a curtain of thin Coan gauze shut off the niche, thus rendering

the illusion less difficult. A similar effect was afterwards produced

outside in the grounds by the interlaced network of the branches behind

which the fire-showering Hecate passed across the sky.”

“Explain this flaming Hecate!”

The Chaldean laughed heartily, then said in a tone of strange sarcasm:

“Pardon me; but it is a singular fatality that my most effective

masterpiece always arouses my laughter. I have seen hundreds of

credulous folk prostrate themselves on the circle of turf in my

grounds and, covering their faces, moan and groan aloud as the

horrible phenomenon rose in the dark sky. And yet--or perhaps it is

for that very reason--the contrast is too sharp. This Hecate, who

apparently passes with frantic haste across the firmament, is nothing

but a poor kite wrapped in blazing tow. One of my assistants looses

the unfortunate creature,--which is prevented from screaming by a

tightly-drawn leather strap,--through a huge pipe, twenty ells long.

The tortured bird thus keeps the direction it has taken. Before the tow

goes out, the kite has reached the place where it ceases to be visible.

Deceived by the branches of the numerous trees, the awed beholders

imagine the fiery image is far away in the realms of air and attribute

to it gigantic size and supernatural speed--just as the eye, when

gazing into vacancy, mistakes a fly buzzing close by for the dimly-seen

shadow of a huge bird. This, oh! Bononius, is Hecate, the Ruler of us

all, the Princess of Darkness, the horrible tyrant of the Nether World.”

“Enough,” said Caius Bononius. “I now see that we all have some trace

of the mighty demon that is your most powerful ally--the fiend called

superstition and human folly. I, too, confess myself guilty, under the

impressions you conjured up before us, of having been led astray from

the convictions obtained by long years of arduous labor. I am a human

being and may say with the poet; I consider nothing strange that is

human, not even mortal weaknesses and errors. But you, Olbasanus, ought

to fear the awakening tortures of your conscience! Summoned by virtue

of your unmistakable penetration to be a guide to erring humanity, to

lighten the darkness of its errors, and bring it to the truth, you do

not disdain to profit by its weaknesses, like the miserable robber who

plunders a sick and defenceless man. Leave us--or I shall be seized

with loathing and forget my promise. Other feelings ought to rule my

soul now--above all, joy at the happy turn in the fate of your deceived

victims.”

“I will go,” replied Olbasanus. “It is cheap and convenient to accuse

me of crime. But I ask one question, Caius Bononius: how many of the

countless throng that follow me along the road of error would be my

companions, if I attempted to lead them with earnestness and zeal into

the domain of truth? One in a thousand! Delusion is brilliant and

magnificent; its sultry breezes intoxicate; the air on the heights of

truth blows keen and cold, and humanity is a poor, freezing beggar.”

Caius Bononius unceremoniously turned his back upon the speaker, and

Olbasanus, holding his head proudly erect, left the _exedra_.

* * * * *

Six weeks later, early in the month of December, Heliodorus’ house

glittered in the splendor of festal array. Garlands of leaves and

flowers twined around the Corinthian pillars; countless lamps adorned

the wide halls of the atrium and peristyle. A select company attired in

fashionable costume, ladies in gaily-flowered pallas, with glittering

diadems and gold pins among their curls, senators in purple-bordered

holiday robes, rich merchants in Tyrian syntheses, and laurel-crowned

poets, thronged the gleaming colonnades. Heliodorus was celebrating

the marriage of his daughter Hero to Lucius Rutilius. The worthy

Bononius, who had not shrunk from taking the long journey to distant

Massilia to bring his friend back to the scene of his newly-restored

happiness, was treated by the bride with almost greater attention than

she bestowed upon the bridegroom--an incomprehensible enigma--and

Lucius Rutilius, far from being seized with jealousy at this apparent

neglect, also strove to show the young philosopher every token of the

most cordial affection. Caius Bononius was evidently absent-minded.

His heart had for some time been divided between satisfaction at the

successful breaking of the spell which had weighed upon Hero and

Rutilius, and another feeling that had ripened during the few days of

his intercourse with Lydia. How it happened was doubtless known to

Eros, the sole enchanter in whose omnipotence the sceptical Bononius

found himself henceforth compelled to believe. In short, the young

man desired nothing better than to gaze into Lydia’s deep, dark eyes,

listen to her voice, or brush against her flowing stola while walking

through the colonnades of the peristyle. Considering his past, it was

extremely unphilosophical--but the fact could not be denied.

Rutilius’ wedding afforded him ample opportunity to satisfy his longing

in this respect. Lydia, too, who had at first been merely an admirer

of his faithful friendship and untiring energy, gradually passed into

another mood. After Hero’s departure from her father’s house the young

girl felt strangely lonesome.... When she fancied that it would be very

delightful if she, too, like Heliodorus’ daughter, could have a home of

her own where she might rule as the wife of a handsome, wise, talented

man, this imaginary husband unconsciously assumed the features of Caius

Bononius.... So it was not one of the greatest marvels that Eros ever

accomplished when, the following April, Bononius and Lydia were married.

Previous to this event, however, the aristocrats of the seven-hilled

city were startled by two pieces of news which for a long time formed

the topic of daily conversation. One was the sudden disappearance of

the Chaldean magician, who had sold all his estates, as well as the

palace furnished with Oriental splendor on the Quirinal, and left Rome

without bidding any one farewell; the other was the suicide of Agathon,

who had opened his veins in the warm bath of his own house, which had

been mortgaged far beyond its value.

[Illustration]

FOOTNOTE:

[7] Drawing-room.

* * * * *