The next week Fidus and Perilla started for Libya, leaving the two
children with their grandfather rather than expose them to the
dangers of the African climate. Ovid and Fabia spent the summer as
usual in the cool Apennines at the old family homestead at Sulmo.
They lingered on into the autumn for the sake of the vintage, a
favourite season with them, and did not return to their beautiful
town house at the foot of the Capitoline hill until late in October.
While Fabia was busy with the household readjustments entailed by
the presence of the children with their attendants and tutors, and
before social engagements should become too numerous, Ovid spent
several hours each day over his _Metamorphoses_, to which he was
giving the final polish. Patient work of this kind was always
distasteful to him and he welcomed any chance to escape from it. At
the end of November Fabia's cousin, Fabius Maximus, went to the
island of Elba to look after some family mines, and Ovid made his
wife's business interests a pretext for a short trip up the Tuscan
coast in his company. He was to be back for a dinner at Macer's, his
fellow poet's, on the Ides of December, to meet some friends of both
from Athens.
On the morning of the eighth day before the Ides a message came to
Fabia from the Palace asking where Ovid was. The inquiry seemed
flattering and Fabia wondered what pleasant attention was in store
for her husband. As it happened, she saw no one outside of her own
household either that day or the next, being kept indoors by the
necessity of installing new servants sent down from the estate at
Sulmo. She was, therefore, entirely unprepared for the appalling
public news which her uncle, Rufus, brought to her in the early
evening of the seventh day before the Ides. There was something
almost terrifying in the wrenching of her mind from the placid
details of linen chests and store-rooms to the disasters in Caesar's
household. Augustus, without warning, at the opening of what
promised to be a brilliant social season, had risen in terrible
wrath; and Julia, his granddaughter, her lover, Decimus Junius
Silanus, and, it was rumoured, several other prominent men had been
given the choice of accepting banishment or submitting to a public
prosecution. There was really no choice for them. The courts would
condemn relentlessly, and the only way to save even life was to leave
Rome.
"But the brutal suddenness of it!" Fabia exclaimed. "It seems more
tragic, somehow, than her mother's punishment. Isn't everybody
aghast? And do you think she has deserved it?" Rufus looked grave
and troubled. "It is not easy to know what one does think," he said.
"There has been a great deal of boasting about our prosperity, our
victories abroad and our lustre at home. But some of us who have been
watching closely have wondered how long this would last. The Empire
has been created at a great cost and cannot be preserved at a lesser
price. Insurrections have to be put down in the provinces, harmony
and efficiency have to be maintained in the capital. It takes harsh
courage, inflexible morals to do all that. Julia and with her Roman
society have defied Caesar's desires, just as her mother and her set
defied them ten years ago. Imagine the grief and despair of our old
Emperor! He must do something savage, drastic, irrevocable, to save
his state. My heart breaks for him, and yet I cannot help pitying
our imperial lady. With her light grace, her audacious humour, among
our stern old standards, she has often made me think of a Dryad moving
with rosy feet and gleaming shoulders in a black forest. All our
family, Fabia, have been like the trees. But perhaps Rome needs the
Dryads too. What is moral truth?" Fabia smiled suddenly. "Ovid would
say it is beauty," she said. "That is an old dispute between us."
Her face fell again. "He will be deeply distressed by this calamity.
Julia has been very gracious to him and he admires her even more than
he did her mother."
"When is he coming home?" Rufus asked. "I didn't expect him until
the day before the Ides," Fabia answered, "but I think now he may
come earlier. Caesar sent this morning to inquire where he was, and
perhaps some honour is going to be offered that will bring him back
immediately--a reading at the Palace, perhaps, or--but, uncle," she
exclaimed, "what is the matter? You have turned so white. You are
sick." She came near him with tender, anxious hands, and he gathered
them into his thin, old ones and drew her to him. "No, dear heart,"
he said. "I am not sick. For a moment fear outwitted me, a Fabian.
You must promise me not to be afraid, whatever happens. Is it cruel
to warn you of what may never come to you? But our days are troubled.
Jove's thunderstorm has broken upon us. Your husband is among the
lofty. It is only the obscure who are sure of escaping the lightning.
Send for me, if you need me. Remember whose blood is in you. I must
go--there may yet be time." He kissed her forehead hurriedly and was
gone.
Fabia never knew accurately what happened before the sun rose a
second time after this night. Afterwards she recognised the linked
hours as the bridge upon which she passed, without return, from joy
to pain, from youth to age, from ignorance to knowledge. But the
manner of the crossing never became clear in her memory. Details
stood out mercilessly. Their relationship, their significance were
at the time as phantasmagoric as if she had been lost in the torturing
unrealities of a nightmare. Just after her uncle left she was called
to the room of Perilla's youngest child who had awakened with a sore
throat and fever. Against the protests of the nurse, she sat up with
him herself because through the shadows that darkened her mind she
groped after some service to her husband. When she was an old woman
she could have told what was carved on the cover of the little box
from which she gave the medicine every hour until the fever broke,
and the colour of the nurse's dress as she hurried in at dawn.
Practical matters claimed her attention after she had bathed and
dressed. The doctor was sent for to confirm her own belief that the
child had nothing more than a cold. The older boy's tutor consulted
her about a change in the hours of exercise. A Greek artist came to
talk over new decorations for the walls of the dining room.
The forenoon passed. The cold wind, which had been blowing all night,
an early herald of winter, died down. A portentous silence seemed
to isolate her from the rest of the city. At noon Ovid came home.
She felt no surprise. They clung to each other in silence and when
he did speak he seemed to be saying what she had known already. The
words made little impression. She only thought how white he was, and
how old, as old as she was herself. His voice seemed to reach her
ears from a great distance. He was to go away from her to the world's
end, to a place called Tomi on the terrible Black Sea. The formal
decree had stated as the cause the immorality of his _Art of
Love_--yes, the volume had been published ten years ago and he had
enjoyed the imperial favour as much since then as before. The real
reason, so the confidential messenger had explained to him, was
something quite different. It was not safe to tell her. Her ignorance
was better for them both. He had made a terrible blunder, the Emperor
called it a crime, but he was innocent of evil intent. No, there was
no use in making any plea. He had talked the matter over with Maximus,
although he had not told him what the "crime" was. Maximus had been
sure that nothing could be done, that denial would lead only to a
public trial, the verdict of which would be still more disastrous.
The Emperor was clement, his anger might cool, patience for a year
or two might bring a remission of the sentence. The only hope lay
in obedience. Maximus had not been allowed to return with him in the
hurried journey by government post. The officers had held out little
hope to him. A change had come over Caesar. Banishment was banishment.
"An _exile_?"--no, he was not that! He was still a citizen of Rome,
he still had his property and his rights--she was no exile's wife!
Yes, she must stay in Rome. It was futile for her to argue. Caesar
was inexorable. She asked him when he must go. He said before another
sunrise, to-morrow must not see him within the city limits. The words
held no new meaning for her. What were hours and minutes to the dead?
They talked in broken sentences. She promised to comfort Perilla.
He was glad his father and mother were dead. He hoped her daughter
could come to her at once from Verona.
They were interrupted by the stormy arrival of a few faithful
friends--how few they were she did not realise until later. Rufus
was the first to come and she thought it strange that he should break
down and sob while Ovid's eyes were dry and hard. Knowing the servants,
he undertook to tell them what had happened to their master. Their
noisy grief throughout the house brought a dreary sense of disorder.
Sextus Pompeius arrived and characteristically out of the chaos of
grief plucked the need of practical preparation for the long journey.
He brought out maps and went over each stage of the way. Only the
sea journey from Brindisi to Corinth would be familiar to Ovid, but
Pompeius had seen many years of military service in various northern
stations, from the Hellespont to the Danube, and knew what to
recommend. Although Tomi was a seaport, he advised making the last
part of the journey by land through Thrace. He knew what dangers to
fear from the natives, what precautions to take against sickness,
and what private supplies a traveller might advantageously carry
with him. They made a list of necessary things and Pompeius sent some
of Ovid's servants out to procure what they could before night. The
rest could be sent on to Brindisi before the ship sailed. He would
see to that, Fabia need have no care. It was a great disadvantage
that they could not control the choice of the travelling companions,
but he would go at once and see if he could exercise any influence.
The packing consumed several hours. This unemotional activity would
have strengthened Fabia, had it not had a completely unnerving effect
on Ovid. The preparations for a wild and dangerous country seemed
to bring him face to face with despair. He rushed to the fire and
threw upon it the thick manuscript of his _Metamorphoses_. Looking
sullenly at the smouldering parchment he began to talk wildly,
protesting first that no one should see any of his work unfinished
and then passing to a paroxysm of rage against all his poetry, to
which he attributed his ruin. He began to walk up and down the room,
pushed his wife aside, and declared that he was going to end his life.
In the long nightmare Fabia found this hour the most terrifying. She
could never express her gratitude to Celsus who had come after
Pompeius left and who now alone proved able to influence Ovid. By
a patient reasonableness he made headway against his hysterical mood,
bringing him back, step by step, to saner thoughts.
The servants, stimulated to their duties by Rufus, brought in food.
Fabia made Ovid eat some bread and fruit. The evening wore on. The
December moon was mounting the sky. Voices and footsteps of
passers-by were vaguely heard. In the distance a dog barked
incessantly. Lights were lit, but the usual decorum of the house was
broken. The fire died dully upon the hearth. The children were
brought into the room, looking pale and worn with the unwonted hour.
Midnight came and went. All sounds of the city died away. Even the
dog ceased his howling. They were alone with disaster. Ovid went to
the window and drew aside the heavy curtain. The moon rode high over
the Capitol. Suddenly he stretched out his arms and they heard him
praying to the great gods of his country. In this moment Fabia's
self-control, like a dam too long under pressure, gave way. Except
on ceremonial occasions she had never heard her husband pray. Now,
he who had had the heart of a child for Rome and for her was cast
out by Rome and was beyond her help. From her breast he must turn
to the indifferent gods in heaven. She broke into hard, terrible sobs
and threw herself down before the hearth, kissing the grey ashes.
Unregardful of those about her, she prayed wildly to the lesser gods
of home, her gods. From the temple on the Capitoline, from the Penates
came no answer.
His friends began to urge Ovid to start. His carriage was ready, he
must run no risk of not clearing Rome by daylight. Why should he go,
he asked with a flicker of his old vivacity, when to go meant leaving
Rome and turning toward Scythia? He called the children to him and
talked low to them of their mother. Again his friends urged him. Three
times he started for the door and three times he came back. At the
end Fabia clung to him and beat upon his shoulders and declared she
must go with him. What was Augustus's command to her? Love was her
Caesar. Rufus came and drew her away. The door opened. The cold night
air swept the atrium. She caught sight of Ovid's face, haggard and
white against the black mass of his dishevelled hair. His shoulders
sagged. He stumbled as he went out. She was conscious of falling,
and knew nothing more.