Agias's Adventure
I
Pisander's view of life became a score of shades more rosy when he
seized the hand of the handsome slave-boy, then embraced him, and
began praising the gods for preserving his favourite's life. Then the
worthy philosopher recollected that his wisdom taught him there were
no gods, and he plunged into a rambling explanation of his position,
which would have lasted forever, unless Agias had cut him short with a
merry gibe, and told him that he must positively come to a tavern and
enjoy at least one beaker of good Massic in memory of old friendship.
And Pisander, whose spareness of living arose more from a lack of
means than from a philosophic aversion to food and good cheer, was
soon seated on a bench in one of the cheap restaurants[91] that
abounded in the city, balancing a very large goblet, and receiving a
volley of questions which Agias was discharging about Valeria's
eccentricities, Calatinus's canvass, Arsinoe, Semiramis, and the rest
of the household of which he had been a member.
[91] _Popinae_.
"But you haven't told me, Agias," finally interrupted the poor
philosopher, who had been struggling in turn to satisfy his curiosity,
"how you are here, and not--ugh! I hate to think of it--feeding the
dogs and the crows."
Agias's face grew grave while he gave the story of his release by the
Vestal, and subsequent transfer of ownership.
"What was the name of the young man who purchased you, eh?"
interpolated Pisander. "I didn't get it."
"Quintus Livius Drusus," replied Agias.
"Who?" cried the philosopher, starting up.
"Quintus Drusus, of Praeneste," repeated the other.
"_Ai! Ai!_ In the name of Zeus!" cried Pisander, dropping the beaker,
and spilling the wine all over his threadbare himation. "Oh, such a
plot! Such a crime! Was ever anything so villanous ever heard of
before!"
"My dear Pisander," exclaimed Agias, all amazement, "what _is_ the
matter? Your speech is as obscure as Cinna's[92] poem called 'Zmyrna,'
which I've heard was ten years in being written, and must be very
fine, because no one can understand it. No more can I fathom you."
[92] A poet at that time of some little reputation.
"What a stroke of fortune!" raved the philosopher. "How we will be
revenged on that rascal, Pratinas! O Destiny, thy decrees are just!"
Again Agias expostulated, and at last brought out of Pisander a
tolerably coherent account of the conversation which he had heard
between Valeria and Pratinas. Then, indeed, the merry slave-boy was
troubled. Accustomed to a rather limited ambition in life, he had
attached himself with implicit devotion to Cornelia; first because his
preserver, Drusus, had so enjoined him, and second because each day he
grew more drawn to her personally. The peril which yawned before the
unfortunate Drusus menaced at the same time the happiness of his
mistress and his own welfare,--for if Lucius Ahenobarbus had his way,
Agias himself would become the slave of that not very gentle
patrician. Cornelia and Drusus had had troubles enough before; but in
the present crisis, actual destruction stared Agias's saviour in the
face. The situation was maddening, was sickening. Agias wrung his
hands in anguish. Then came the healthy reaction. Drusus was still
alive and well. He could be warned. The plot could be thwarted.
Pratinas and Ahenobarbus were not yet beyond the reach of retribution.
He--Agias--was no longer to be a mere foot-boy and lackey; he was to
match his keen Greek wits in subtle intrigue against foemen worthy of
his steel. He would save Drusus's life, would save Cornelia's
happiness. If he succeeded, who knew but that his owner would reward
him--would give him freedom. And with a natural rebound of spirits,
Agias's eyes glittered with expectation and excitement, his cheeks
flushed, his form expanded to a manly height.
"_Euge!_ Well done, old friend!" he cried, with the merriment of
intense excitement. "No matter if you say you were only able to hear a
small part of what our dear fellow-Hellene, Pratinas, told Valeria. I
have gathered enough to defeat the plotters. Leave all to me. If you
learn anything new, send word to the house of Lentulus Crus, and ask
to see me. And now I must forsake this pleasant wine untasted, and
hurry away. My mistress will bless you, and perhaps there will be some
reward."
And leaving the bewildered Pisander to wipe the wine from his dress,
Agias had darted out of the tavern, and was lost in the hurly-burly of
the cattle-market.
How Agias had forced his way into Cornelia's presence we have related.
The young Greek had stated his unpleasant intelligence as
diplomatically and guardedly as possible; but Cornelia had borne this
shock--following so soon upon one sufficiently cruel--grievously
enough. After all, she was only a girl--perhaps more mature for her
years than the average maiden of her age of to-day, but almost
friendless, hopeless, and beset with many trials. And this new one was
almost more than she could bear. We have said that to her suicide had
but just before appeared a refuge to be desired; but to have Quintus
die, to have him taken out of that life that ought to be so fair for
him, no matter how darksome it was for her; to have him never realize
her ambition that he become a statesman, warrior, philosopher, in
short her ideal hero--this was unbearable! This phase of the question
was so overpowering that she forgot to feel rage against Ahenobarbus
and his wily ally. Cornelia threw herself down upon the floor, and
cried to Agias to slay her quickly. She did not care to live; she
could endure no more.
Agias here manifested exquisite tact. Instead of attempting any
ordinary means of expostulation, he pleaded with her not to give way
to despair; that Drusus was not yet at the mercy of his enemies; that
she, if she would, could do an infinite deal to assist him.
"I save Quintus?" questioned Cornelia, with white, quivering lips.
"You can do much, my lady," replied Agias, kindly taking her by the
hand, and with gentle pressure forcing her to sit on the divan. "You
can do what neither I, nor Pisander, nor any one else can accomplish.
You can make Lucius Ahenobarbus betray his own plot. You, and you
only, can penetrate the final plans of the conspirators. Therefore be
strong, and do not despair."
"I? What can _I_ do?" cried Cornelia, staring at him with sad,
tearless eyes.
"Lady Cornelia," said Agias, delicately, "Drusus would never receive
back his life if it were to be purchased by any sacrifice of honour on
your part. But this is not needed. Lucius Ahenobarbus--forgive my
plain speech--worships the ground whereon you tread. A smile from you
raises him to Olympus; a compliment from you makes him feel himself a
god; a soft word from you creates him the peer of Zeus. Lady, I know
you hate that man; but for Master Drusus's sake make Ahenobarbus
believe that you are not indifferent to his advances. Slander Drusus
before him. Complain of the provisions of your father's will that,
despite your uncle's intention, will make it difficult to avoid a
hateful marriage. If in the past you have been cold to Ahenobarbus,
grow gracious; but not too rapidly. Finally, at the proper time, do
not hesitate to urge him to commit the act we know he is meditating.
Then he will make you a full partner of his plot, and Pratinas and he
can be permanently thwarted."
"You say that Drusus can be saved by this?" asked Cornelia, steadying
herself as she rose from the divan;
"I will warn him at once," replied Agias. "Any premature attempt on
his life will certainly fail. But it is not Ahenobarbus that I fear;
it is Pratinas. Pratinas, if baffled once, will only be spurred on to
use all his cunning in a second trial. We must enmesh the conspirators
so completely that when their stab is parried, not merely will their
power to repeat it be gone, but they themselves will be in danger of
retribution. And for this, some one must be confederate to their final
plan."
"Agias," said Cornelia, quietly, "Quintus said that you would be a
faithful servant to him and to myself. I believe he was right. You
have asked a great thing of me, Agias. I would not do it unless I
believed that you were unlike other slaves. I might imagine that
Lucius Ahenobarbus had bribed you to tell me this story, in order that
I should put myself in his power. But I trust you. I will do anything
you say. For you Hellenes have wits as keen as sharp steel, and I know
that you will do all you may to repay your debt to Quintus."
Agias knelt down and kissed the robe of his mistress. "My lady," he
said gently, "it is no grievous thing to be a slave of such as you.
Believe me; I will not betray my trust. And now if you can let me
leave you, I will hurry to Praeneste, and for the present our minds may
be at rest. For old Mamercus will, I am sure, be able to take good
care of Master Drusus for yet awhile."
"Go, and the gods--if there be gods--go with you!" replied Cornelia.
Agias kissed her robe a second time, and was gone. His mistress stood
in the middle of the empty room. On the wall facing her was a painting
of "Aphrodite rising from the Foam," which Drusus had given her. The
sensuous smiles on the face of the goddess sickened Cornelia, as she
looked upon it. To her, at the moment, laughter was more hideous than
any sobbing. Outside the door she heard the gay, witless chatter of
the maids and the valets. They were happy--they--slaves, "speaking
tools,"--and she with the blood of the Claudii and Cornelii in her
veins, a patrician among patricians, the niece of a consul-elect, a
woman who was the heiress of statesmen and overturners of
kingdoms,--_she_ was miserable beyond endurance. Cornelia paced up and
down the room, wishing she might order the giggling maids to be
flogged and their laughter turned into howling. Then she summoned
Cassandra.
* * * * *
Cornelia had never before tried to play the actress, but that night
she flung herself into the game for life and death with all the
earnestness of an energetic, intelligent, and spontaneous woman. She
had been barely civil to Lucius Ahenobarbus before; to-night the young
man began to persuade himself that the object of his affections was
really a most adorable coquette, who used a certain brusqueness of
speech to add to her witchery. He had heard that there had been some
very disagreeable scenes at Praeneste, when Lentulus had told his niece
that Drusus, on account of his dangerous politics, was unfit to be her
husband. But Ahenobarbus was sure that either these accounts were
exaggerated, or more likely, Cornelia, like most women, was quick to
fall in love and quick to leave an old sweetheart for a new one. Be
that as it may, Lucius felt that night on good terms with himself and
all the world. Phormio had consented to continue his loans--until his
debtor could realize on "certain property." Pratinas had said that
Dumnorix would shortly start with a band of gladiators for some local
festival at Anagnia, a little beyond Praeneste; and on the way back, if
nothing went amiss, the prearranged programme could be carried out.
Some pretext must be found for keeping Drusus on his estate at the
time when Dumnorix would march past it, and that task could be
confided to Phaon, Lucius's freedman, a sly fox entirely after his
patron's own heart.
Cornelia, to whom the dinner-party at Favonius's house began as a
dreary enough tragedy, before long discovered that it was by no means
more easy to suck undiluted sorrow than unmixed gladness out of life.
It gratified her to imagine the rage and dismay of the young exquisite
whose couch was beside her chair,[93] when he should learn how
completely he had been duped. Then, too, Lucius Ahenobarbus had a
voluble flow of polite small talk, and he knew how to display his
accomplishments to full advantage. He had a fair share of wit and
humour; and when he fancied that Cornelia was not impervious to his
advances, he became more agreeable and more ardent. Once or twice
Cornelia frightened herself by laughing without conscious forcing. Yet
it was an immense relief to her when the banquet was over, and the
guests--for Favonius had ordered that none should be given enough wine
to be absolutely drunken--called for their sandals and litters and
went their ways.
[93] Women sat at Roman banquets, unless the company was of a
questionable character.
"And you, O Adorable, Calypso, Circe, Nausicaa, Medea,--what shall I
call you?--you will not be angry if I call to see you to-morrow?" said
Ahenobarbus, smiling as he parted from Cornelia.
"If you come," was her response, "I shall not perhaps order the slaves
to pitch you out heels over head."
"Ah! That is a guarded assent, indeed," laughed Lucius, "but farewell,
_pulcherrima!_"[94]
[94] Most beautiful.
Cornelia that night lay down and sobbed herself to sleep. Her mother
had congratulated her on her brilliant social success at the
dinner-party, and had praised her for treating Lucius Ahenobarbus as
she had.
"You know, my dear," the worthy woman had concluded, "that since it
has seemed necessary to break off with Drusus, a marriage with Lucius
would be at once recommended by your father's will, and in many ways
highly desirable."
II
Only a very few days later Lucius Ahenobarbus received a message
bidding him come to see his father at the family palace on the
Palatine. Lucius had almost cut himself clear from his relations. He
had his own bachelor apartments, and Domitius had been glad to have
him out of the way. A sort of fiction existed that he was legally
under _the patria potestas_,[95] and could only have debts and assets
on his father's responsibility, but as a matter of fact his parent
seldom paid him any attention; and only called on him to report at
home when there was a public or family festival, or something very
important. Consequently he knew that matters serious were on foot,
when he read in his father's note a request to visit Domitius's palace
as soon as convenient. Lucius was just starting, in his most spotless
toga,--after a prolonged season with his hairdresser,--to pay a
morning call on Cornelia, and so he was the more vexed and perturbed.
[95] Sons remained under the legal control of a father until the
latter's death, unless the tie was dissolved by elaborate ceremonies.
"Curses on Cato,[96] my old uncle," he muttered, while he waited in
the splendid atrium of the house of the Ahenobarbi. "He has been
rating my father about my pranks with Gabinius and Laeca, and something
unpleasant is in store for me."
[96] Cato Minor's sister Portia was the wife of Lucius Domitius.
Cato was also connected with the Drusi through Marcus Livius Drusus,
the murdered reformer, who was the maternal uncle of Cato and Portia.
Lucius Ahenobarbus and Quintus Drusus were thus third cousins.
Domitius presently appeared, and his son soon noticed by the affable
yet diplomatic manner of his father, and the gentle warmth of his
greeting, that although there was something in the background, it was
not necessarily very disagreeable.
"My dear Lucius," began Domitius, after the first civilities were
over, and the father and son had strolled into a handsomely appointed
library and taken seats on a deeply upholstered couch, "I have, I
think, been an indulgent parent. But I must tell you, I have heard
some very bad stories of late about your manner of life."
"Oh!" replied Lucius, smiling. "As your worthy friend Cicero remarked
when defending young Caelius, 'those sorts of reproaches are regularly
heaped on every one whose person or appearance in youth is at all
gentlemanly.'"
"I will thank you if you will not quote Cicero to me," replied the
elder man, a little tartly. "He will soon be back from Cilicia, and
will be prodding and wearying us in the Senate quite enough, with his
rhetoric and sophistries. But I must be more precise. I have found out
how much you owe Phormio. I thought your dead uncle had left you a
moderately large estate for a young man. Where has it gone to? Don't
try to conceal it! It's been eaten up and drunk up--spent away for
unguents, washed away in your baths, the fish-dealer and the caterer
have made way with it, yes, and butchers and cooks, and greengrocers
and perfume sellers, and poulterers--not to mention people more
scandalous--have made off with it."
Lucius stretched himself out on the divan, caught at a thick, richly
embroidered pillow, tossed it over his head on to the floor, yawned,
raised himself again upright, and said drawlingly:--
"Y-e-s, it's as you say. I find I spend every sesterce I have, and all
I can borrow. But so long as Phormio is accommodating, I don't trouble
myself very much about the debts."
"Lucius," said Domitius, sternly, "you are a graceless spendthrift. Of
course you must have the sport which all young blood needs. But your
extravagance goes beyond all bounds. I call myself a rich man, but to
leave you half my fortune, dividing with your older brother Cnaeus, who
is a far steadier and saner man than you, would be to assure myself
that Greek parasites and low women would riot through that part of my
estate in a twelvemonth. You must reform, Lucius; you must reform."
This was getting extremely disagreeable in spite of his expectations,
and the young man yawned a second time, then answered:--
"Well, I presume Uncle Cato has told you all kinds of stories; but
they aren't at all true. I really never had a great deal of money."
"Lucius," went on his father, "you are grown to manhood. It is time
that you steadied in life. I have let you live by yourself too long.
You are even too indolent to engage in politics, or to go into the
army. I have come to a determination. You must marry the woman I have
selected for you."
Ahenobarbus pricked up his ears. As a matter of fact, he had surmised
what was coming, but he had no intention of admitting anything
prematurely.
"Really, father," he said, "I hope you won't use your legal right and
force a wife on me. I have no desire to tie myself up to a decent
married life."
"I hardly think," said Domitius, smiling, "that you will resist my
wishes long. I have seen Lentulus Crus the consul-elect, and he and I
agree that since your mother's distant kinsman Quintus Drusus of
Praeneste is an unsuitable husband for Cornelia, Lentulus's niece, on
account of his very dangerous political tendencies, no happier
alliance could bind our families together than a marriage between
Cornelia and yourself."
Lucius yawned a third time and fell back on the couch.
"It's true," he ventured, "I have cared a good deal for Cornelia; and
I've thrown over that little Greek Clyte and all the others for her;
but then, to make a girl your sweetheart and to make her your wife are
two very different things. _Vina Opimia_ is best; but because one
drinks a _cyathus_[97] of that, why should he forego a good nil of
Thasian or Caecuban? If I could have but one choice, give me plenty of
the good, and I'll give up my few drops of the best."
[97] About one-twelfth pint.
"Come, come," said Domitius, a little impatiently, "you must
positively reform. Besides, while appearances must be kept up, there
is no need for leading the life of a Stoic. You won't find Cornelia a
hard companion. You have your pleasures and she hers, and you will
live harmoniously enough and not the least scandal."
And with this remark Domitius closed the matter, and Lucius was
actually delighted at the situation. What his father had said had been
true enough; half, nay, nearly all, Rome lived in the manner Domitius
had guardedly proposed for his son and intended daughter-in-law.
Marriage was becoming more and more a mere formality, something that
was kept up as the ancient state Pagan worship was kept up by the
remnants of old-time superstition, and as a cloak to hide a multitude
of sins. Fifty-nine years before, the consul Metellus Numidicus had
declaimed, "Quirites, we would fain be free from all this annoyance
(of marriage); but since nature has so brought it about that it is
neither possible to live pleasantly with our wives nor by any means to
live (as a race) without them, we ought to consider the welfare of the
future rather than the mere passing pleasure of the present." And ever
since that day Romans had been striving desperately to make the
married state as endurable as possible; usually by reducing the
importance of lawful wedlock to a minimum.
Of course the announcement of the informal betrothal was soon spread
over Rome. The contracting parties were in the very highest life, and
everybody declared that the whole affair was a political deal between
Lentulus Crus and Domitius. It was commonly reported, too, how
Cornelia had broken with Drusus, and every one remarked that if the
young man had cared to enforce her father's will in the courts, his
claim to her hand and fortune would be valid unless--and here most
people exchanged sly winks, for they knew the power of Domitius and
Lentulus Crus over a jury.
And how had Cornelia borne it--she at whom Herennia had stared in
amazement, when that "dear friend" discovered the friendship the other
was displaying to Lucius Ahenobarbus? Cornelia had received the
announcement very quietly, one might almost say resignedly. She had
one great hope and consolation to support her. They would not force
her to marry Lucius Ahenobarbus until Drusus was dead or had reached
the age of five-and-twenty. The marriage formula with Ahenobarbus once
uttered, while Quintus lived, and by no possibility, save by an open
spoliation that would have stirred even calloused Rome, could Lucius
touch a sesterce of his intended victim's property. Cornelia's hope
now, strangely enough, was in the man she regarded as the most
consummate villain in the world, Pratinas. Ahenobarbus might have his
debts paid by his father, and forego risk and crime if he did not
absolutely need Drusus's fortune; but Pratinas, she knew, must have
planned to secure rich pickings of his own, and if Ahenobarbus married
permanently, all these were lost; and the Greeks never turned back or
let another turn back, when there was a fortune before them. It was a
fearful sort of confidence. Drusus had been warned promptly by Agias.
Old Mamercus had straightway taken every precaution, and forced his
foster son to put himself in a sort of custody, which was sufficiently
galling, in addition to the ever present sense of personal danger. The
villa at Praeneste was guarded quietly by several armed slaves and
peasants; not a morsel or drop passed Drusus's lips that had not been
tested and tasted by a trusty dependent. The young man was not to go
to Rome, despite his infinite yearning to see Cornelia, for every
opportunity would be given in the dark city streets for an assassin.
In fact, Drusus was virtually a prisoner in his own estates, for only
there could he feel reasonably safe from attack.
All these precautions Cornelia knew, for Agias was a master at
smuggling letters in and out. She had told Drusus frankly all that had
passed, and how that she was acting as she did only for his sake. She
asked him to trust her, and he wrote back that no doubt of her
fidelity to him had crossed his mind; he was not worthy of such love
as she had for him; it did not matter very much if Ahenobarbus did
kill him, except that it would give her new grief and pain, and the
thought of that he could not bear. Cornelia had replied that if Drusus
was murdered, she was woman enough and Roman enough to stab Lucius
Ahenobarbus on their marriage night, and then plunge the dagger into
her own breast. And there the fearful matter had rested; Cornelia
smiled by day, and dazzled all she met by her vivacity, and her
aggressive queenliness; and by night cried with tearless sobs, which
came out of the depths of her heart. And all the time she waited for
Agias to foil the plot, and assure Drusus of his life. Let Quintus
once be safe, and then--how could she resist the irresistible pressure
that would be brought to bear to force her into a hated marriage,
which Ahenobarbus--balked though he might be of a fortune--would no
longer care to defer? And when Cornelia thought of this, and when she
was alone, she would open a little casket, of which no other had the
key, and touch the ivory-carved hilt of a small damascened knife. The
blade was very sharp; and there was a sticky gum all along the
edge,--deadly poison; only a very slight scratch put one beyond aid of
physician.
The bitterest cup of all was the attitude she felt forced to assume
toward Lucius Ahenobarbus. There were limits of familiarity and
simulated affection beyond which she could not drive herself to go.
Lucius was with her at all hours and in all places. The more she saw
of him the more she abhorred his effeminate sensuality and lack of
almost every quality that made life worth the living. But she
must--she must learn the plot against Drusus, and precisely how and
when the trap was to be sprung. And in a measure, at least so far as
Lucius was concerned, she succeeded. By continually and openly
reviling Quintus, by professing to doubt the legality of a marriage
contracted against the terms of her father's will, by all but
expressing the wish that her late lover were out of harm's way, she
won her point. In a fit of half-drunken confidence Ahenobarbus assured
her that she would not be troubled by Drusus for long; that he would
soon be unable to annoy her. And then came a great disappointment.
When Cornelia asked--and how much the request cost her, only she
herself knew--to be let into the plot, Lucius owned that he had left
the details in the hands of Pratinas, and did not himself know just
how or when the blow was to fall. In Pratinas--whom Cornelia met very
seldom--she met with a sphinx, ever smiling, ever gracious, but who,
as if regretting the burst of confidence he had allowed Valeria, kept
himself closed to the insinuations and half-questions of every one
else. The truth was, the lanista Dumnorix was unwilling to do his part
of the business until the festival at Anagnia brought him and his band
through Praeneste, and this festival had been postponed. Consequently,
the projected murder had been postponed a few days also. Agias had
tried to penetrate into the secrets of Pratinas, but found that
judicious intriguer had, as a rule, carefully covered his tracks. He
spent a good deal of time and money, which Cornelia gave him, trying
to corrupt some of the gladiators of Dumnorix's band and get at the
intentions of their master; but he was not able to find that any of
these wretches, who took his gold greedily enough, really knew in the
least what were the appointments and engagements of the Gallic giant.
As a matter of fact, the boy began to feel decidedly discouraged.
Pisander had nothing more to tell; and, moreover, the worthy
philosopher often gave such contradictory accounts of what he had
overheard in Valeria's boudoir, that Agias was at his wit's end when
and where to begin.
So passed the rest of the month since Cornelia had been brought from
Praeneste to Rome.
III
Cornelia began to grow sick at heart. The conviction was stealing over
her that she was the victim of a cruel destiny, and it was useless to
fight against fate. She had made sacrifices for Drusus's sake that had
cost her infinitely. All Rome said that Cornelia returned the love of
Lucius Ahenobarbus. And with it all, she knew that she had not
succeeded in discovering the real plot of Pratinas, and could not
thwart it. She knew that nearly every one placed her, if actually not
as vicious as the rest, at least in the same coterie with Clodia, and
the wife of Lentulus Spinther the younger Metella, and only a grade
better than such a woman as Arbuscula, the reigning actress of the
day. There was no defence to offer to the world. Did she not go with
her mother to the gay gathering, in the gardens by the Tiber? Was she
not waited on by half the fashionable young aristocrats of Rome? Was
she not affianced to a man who was notoriously a leader of what might
to-day be called the "fast set" of the capital? And from Drusus, poor
fellow, she gained not the least consolation. That he loved her as she
loved him, she had never cause to doubt. But in his self-renunciation
he gave her advice that sprang out of his own sorrow and pessimism. It
was no use, ran his letters, for a woman like her to try and battle
against the evident decrees of Fortune. He was a man, and must fight
his battle or die his death bravely; but she was not called on for
this. There was no reason why she should not really enjoy herself, in
the way most of the world thought she was enjoying herself. She had
better wed Lucius Ahenobarbus, and stoop to the inevitable. Her
husband could go his way and she go hers, and none would complain.
Perhaps the Epicureans were right,--this life was all, and it was best
to suck from it all the sweets one might, and not be disturbed by
pricks of conscience. Drusus and Cornelia were not lovers of a modern
romance, to entertain fantastic ideas of love and duty, to throw
themselves away for a fancy, or tie themselves with vows which
militated against almost every worldly advantage. They were both
Romans, and by that we mean eminently practical persons, faithful to
one another, pure and noble in their affections, but habituated to
look a situation in the face and accept the plain consequences. In
this spirit Drusus had advised as he did, and Cornelia became
discouraged accordingly. Her reason told her to submit to the
inevitable. Her heart cried out against it. And so she continued to
finger the hilt of the little dagger, and look at its keen
poison-smeared edge.
But one day at the end of this dreary period Agias appeared before his
mistress with a smiling face.
"Don't raise high hopes, my lady, but trust me. I have struck a path
that I'm sure Pratinas will wish I'd never travelled." And that was
all he would say, but laid his finger on his lips as though it was a
great secret. When he was gone, for Cornelia the sun shone brighter,
and the tinkling of the water in the fountain in the peristylium
sounded sweeter than before. After all, there had come a gleam of
hope.
Cornelia needed the encouragement. That same day when Herennia called
to see her, that excellent young lady--for not the least reason in the
world--had been full of stories of poisoning and murders, how some
years ago a certain Balbutius of Larinum was taken off, it was said,
at a wedding feast of a friend for whom the poison had been intended;
and then again she had to tell how, at another time, poison had been
put in a bit of bread of which the victim partook. The stories were
old ones and perhaps nothing more than second-hand scandal, but they
were enough to make poor Cornelia miserable; so she was doubly
rejoiced when Agias that evening pressed his lips again and smiled and
said briefly: "All is going well. We shall have the root of the matter
in a few days."
Agias had actually come upon what he was right in considering a great
piece of good fortune. He had easily found the tenement in the Subura
where Pratinas lodged, but to learn anything there that would be
useful was a far more difficult affair. He had hung around the place,
however, as much as he dared, making his headquarters at a tavern
conveniently near, and tried to learn Pratinas's habits, and whether
he ever took any visitors home with him. All this came to little
purpose till one morning he observed an old Ethiop, who was tugging a
heavy provision basket, stagger up the street, through the nondescript
crowd. The old slave was being assailed by a mob of street gamins and
low pedlers who saw in the contents of the hamper so much fair
plunder. These vagabonds had just thrown the Ethiop down into the mud,
and were about to divide their booty, when Agias, acting on a generous
impulse, rushed out from the tavern to the rescue. Nimble, for his age
powerful, and armed with a stout staff which he had caught up in the
wine-shop to aid him, the young Greek won an easy victory over
cowardly antagonists, put all the plunderers to flight, and lifted the
old slave out of the mire. The Ethiop was profuse in his thanks.
"And whose slave are you?" demanded Agias, well pleased to be out of
the adventure.
"I'm Sesostris, servant of Pratinas the Greek."
Agias pricked up his ears. "And you live--"
"In the top story of this tenement;" and Sesostris tried to pick up
the hamper.
"Oh!" laughed his rescuer, "you must let me save you that trouble. I
will carry up the basket. Your master is a brute to pile on such
loads."
Sesostris again fawned his gratitude, and Agias, with quickened wits
and eyes alert, toiled up the dark stairway, and found himself at the
top of the building. He had "entered the enemy's country." The Ethiop
might not have been open to bribes, but he might be unlocked through
friendship, and Agias never needed all his senses more than now. They
had reached the topmost flight of stairs, and Sesostris had stopped as
if embarrassed whether to invite his deliverer in to enjoy some
hospitality, or say him farewell. Then of a sudden from behind the
closed door came a clear, sweet, girlish voice, singing, in Greek:--
"O Aitne, mother mine: A grotto fair
Scooped in the rocks have I, and there I keep
All that in dreams man pictures! Treasured there
Are multitudes of she-goats and of sheep,
Swathed in whose wool from top to toe I sleep."
It was an idyl of Theocritus, very well known by Agias, and without
the least hesitation he took up the strain, and continued:--
"The fire boils my pot; with oak or beech
Is piled,--dry beech logs when the snow lies deep.
And storm and sunshine, I disdain them each
As toothless sires a nut, when broth is in their reach."[98]
[98] Calverly's translation.
Agias paused. There was a silence, then a giggle behind the door, and
it half opened, and out peered the plump and rosy face of the young
girl we have heard Pratinas salute as his niece, Artemisia. The moment
she caught sight of the rather manly form of Agias, the door started
to close with a slam, but the latter thrust out his foot, blocked the
door, and forced an entrance.
"_Eleleu!_" cried Agias, pushing into a small but neatly furnished
room. "What have we here? Do the muses sing in Subura? Has Sappho
brought hither her college of poetesses from Lesbos?"
"_Ai!_" exclaimed Artemisia, drawing back, "who are you? You're
dreadfully rude. I never saw you before."
"Nor I you;" replied Agias, in capital good humour, "but that is no
reason why I should take my eyes away from your pretty little face.
No, you needn't point your middle finger at me so, to ward off the
evil eye. I'm neither Chaldean astrologer, nor Etruscan soothsayer.
Come, tell me who you are, and whom you belong to?"
Artemisia did not have the least idea what to say. Agias, partly
through youthful love of adventure, partly because he felt that he was
playing now for very high stakes and must risk a good deal, had thrown
himself on the divan, and was holding Artemisia captive under his
keen, genial eyes. She grew redder in face than before, began to
speak, then broke off with more confused blushes.
"She means to say," finally ventured Sesostris, "that she is
Artemisia, the niece of Pratinas."
"The niece of Pratinas!" exclaimed Agias, settling himself upon the
cushions in a manner that indicated his intention to make a prolonged
stay; "and does Pratinas keep his pretty niece shut up in a gloomy
tenement, when she has the voice of one of the Graces, and more than
their share of beauty! Shame on him; I thought he had better sense
than that!"
"Sir," ventured Artemisia, trying desperately to stand on her dignity,
"I do not know you. My uncle will be greatly vexed to find you here.
Will you go away at once?"
"That I will not," replied Agias, firmly; and he drew from the hamper
a baker's bun, and began to munch it, as though laying in provision
for a lengthy stay.
Artemisia and Sesostris exchanged glances of dismay.
"What _shall_ I do?" said the girl to the Ethiop in a very audible
whisper.
"Sing," interrupted Agias. "Let me hear the rest of the Theocritus."
"I don't like to sing those songs," objected Artemisia. "Pratinas
makes me, I don't know why."
"Well," said Agias, smiling, "I wouldn't for the-world make you sing
against your will. Suppose you tell me about yourself. Tell me when
your uncle is away, and when I may come and see you again."
"He's away nearly all the time," said Artemisia, very incautiously.
"But _who are_ you? Why do you want to come and see me?"
"Why do I want to look at a flower? Why do I want to hear the
nightingale sing? Why do I like a cup of good wine?" laughed Agias.
"Then, fair mistress, you may look for my answer when _you_ have
answered all of these questions of mine."
"I don't see what you mean," said poor Artemisia, looking dreadfully
puzzled.
"I mean," exclaimed the other, "what Sappho meant of the bride,--
'She like an apple turned red; which reddens far up on the tree-top:--
Upon the topmost of boughs,--the gatherers they have quite missed it.
Yes, they saw it indeed; but too high to dare try to pluck it.'
Only I, if you don't greatly mind, will be the bold tree-climber and
pluck the apple."
"But I do mind," cried Artemisia, all blushes, and springing a little
back. Old Sesostris looked alarmed.
"You--you mean the girl no ill?" he faltered.
Agias looked from the innocent little thing over to the Ethiop,
snapped his finger, and replied:--
"Ill? I am not a human wolf, making pretty objects like this my prey!"
Then, choosing his moment carefully, by a quick turn he confronted
Sesostris sternly, and almost thundered: "_You_ speak of my doing ill
to this maiden? You speak--the slave of Pratinas, who is the leader in
every vice and wild prank in Rome! Has the slave as well as the master
learned to play the hypocrite? Do you want to be tortured into
confessing your part in all your master's crimes when the hour of
reckoning comes and he is brought to justice. _A! A!_" he went on,
seeing that Sesostris was rolling the whites of his eyes, and was
trembling in every limb, "you know for a certainty how and when
Pratinas is to have Quintus Drusus killed! Don't deny it. You will
soon be in the meshes. Don't hope to escape. If murder comes to Drusus
he may perish, but he has friends who will fearfully avenge his
death."
"Mercy! Mercy!" howled the Ethiop, falling on his knees and clutching
at the young Greek's robe, "I know very little of the plot. I only
know--"
"Don't equivocate," thundered Agias. "If I had known the kind of man
you were, I would hardly have saved you from those street ruffians.
You don't deserve to live. Well, the crows will soon have you! You
Egyptians believe in a judgment of the dead; what defence can you make
before the court of Osiris[99] for being privy to a foul murder?
You'll come back to earth as a fly, or a toad, or a dung-beetle, to
pay the penalty for your sins."
[99] The Egyptian judge of the dead.
"Mercy," whined Sesostris, who was in a paroxysm of fright. "Indeed I
am innocent! I am only a poor slave! I can't help knowing what
Pratinas is doing; but how can I prevent him? Don't look at me so! I
am innocent--innocent!"
"I can scarce believe you," said Agias, affecting great reluctance to
show any leniency. "Doubtless you are steeped in blood. Still, you may
save yourself this once. Remember, you are known, and the plans of
Pratinas against Drusus are partly known. We know about Dumnorix, and
Lucius Ahenobarbus, and--"
"Oh!" cried Sesostris, as though a hot iron had touched him, "I will
find out everything, and tell you. Indeed I will. Only do not send me
to the rack or crucify me if my master's plans go astray!"
"Well," said Agias, still simulating hesitancy, "I will report to my
superiors. Perhaps you are not a willing accomplice of your master. In
that case, if he is apprehended, your life will doubtless be spared.
But we must thwart his plot before it can be carried out. This you
must aid us to do. When will Dumnorix start for Praeneste?"
Again Sesostris quailed. "I don't know," he faltered, "there has been
a postponement. There was a plan that if Drusus came to the city he
was to be lured outside the Esquiline gate, as if going to some villa,
and murdered in the sand-pits, as have been many people."
"But this plan has been given up? Speak the truth!" sharply demanded
Agias.
"Yes; for Drusus will not stir from Praeneste. So there the scheme must
be executed, as originally arranged."
"And Dumnorix will go soon?"
"I think in a few days. I will find out."
"As you love your own life do so! I will call on each day at this
hour. If Pratinas is at home, leave some bright garment outside near
the door, that I may not stumble on him. Deceive or betray me, and my
masters will take a terrible revenge on you; for you haven't the least
idea what is the power of the men Pratinas has for enemies."
Agias turned to depart. Then to Artemisia:--
"And you, my pretty,--when I come again, I will try to stay longer,
and make you feel as glad to see Agias, as Agias will be to see
Artemisia."
Agias was descending the stairs, when Sesostris called him back with a
whisper.
"You are a dreadful youth; but since I am so utterly in your power,
hear something that may prove that I am not a knave at heart. You have
a fancy to the girl?"
"Certainly I have eyes for her face, and ears for her sweet little
voice," said Agias, smiling.
"Then listen," went on the Ethiop; "I care for the dear more than
anything else in the world. She said she was Pratinas's niece. It
isn't true. She is a slave-girl he picked up when very little at
Delos,[100] as he told me, though I doubt it. He took a fancy to her,
and really thought of adopting her. Then his soul became so set on
money, that he saw she would fetch a great price when grown; and sell
her he will. He still pretends to call her his niece; but that won't
be for long. He is teaching her to sing, to add to her value. _A!_ But
my old heart is almost breaking for her sake. _Mu, mu!_" and Sesostris
puffed his groans through his nostrils. "Think of it! He has an idea
to sell her to that rich Roman, Lucius Calatinus--and then I don't
dare hint what will be her fate."
[100] At this period the great slave emporium of the world.
"Calatinus!" hissed Agias, concentrating volumes of scorn into a word.
"You know him! You hate him!" cried Sesostris. "Then by Ammon-Ra, by
Isis, by every god in whom you believe, save my darling from worse
than death! Do that, and I will die for you!"
Sesostris's emotion was too genuine to be a mere trap for ensnaring
his visitor; and Agias in turn was stirred.
"Old man," he exclaimed, seizing the other's hand, "you and I have
suffered much from evil masters. Thank the gods, I am now serving one
I love--albeit unfortunate enough! But we have a common right to
punish the wrongdoers, and earn a little bit of happiness for
ourselves. Come, now! If Artemisia is a slave, she is in no wise above
me. Let me save Drusus from Pratinas, and I pledge my word that I will
save Artemisia from him and his nefarious schemes,--yes, and you, too.
If Artemisia likes me, why then there will be perhaps more to add to
the story. Come--I am your friend, and you, mine."
Sesostris wrung the other's hand. The honest servant was moved too
much to speak. His heart and soul had been bound up in Artemisia.
"May your _Ka_[101] stand before Osiris justified!" he choked. "I have
been privy to many a dark action, until I used to try to forget the
day when I must answer to the Judge of the Dead for every deed done
and word spoken. But I could not stifle my fear for the only dear
thing in the world."
[101] The spiritual double which belonged to every man according to
the Egyptian ideas.
Agias went away in a happy frame of mind. He had every confidence that
Sesostris would worm out of Pratinas the exact details of the plot,
and put the conspirators at the mercy of Drusus and Mamercus.
* * * * *
And Agias had felt there was good reason to rejoice in his discovery
in more ways than one. Especially was he conscious that there were no
lips as red and as merry, no cheeks as rosy, no eyes as dancing, no
chatter as sweet, as those of Artemisia. And what is more, he rejoiced
to believe that that young lady was not half so shy of him as at
first, and was as anxious to see him as he to see her. Thanks to due
warnings and precautions, Agias never stumbled on Pratinas, when the
latter was at his lodgings. The time he dared to stay was all too
short for Artemisia. She was always telling how lonesome she was with
only old Sesostris for company, before she knew Agias. Once when the
latter was late in his daily visit, he was delighted to find scribbled
on the wall, "Artemisia to her Agias: you are real mean." Agias hated
to make her erase it lest it fall under Pratinas's eagle eye.
But still Sesostris had nothing to tell about the plot against Drusus.
Some days passed. Agias began to grow uneasy. Sesostris had
represented that he was conversant with everything his master had on
foot; but Pratinas might have been more discreet than to unfold all
his affairs, even before his servant; and then, too, there was always
the possibility that Sesostris was playing fast and loose, and about
to betray Agias to his master. So the latter grew disquieted, and
found it a little hard to preserve the character of cheerful mystery
which he simulated to Cornelia. The long-sought information came at a
time when he was really off his guard. Agias had been visiting
Artemisia. Sesostris as well as Pratinas had been out; the two young
people were amusing themselves trying to teach a pet magpie to speak,
when the Ethiop rushed into the room, all in a tremble with anxious
excitement.
"_A! A!_" he was ejaculating. "Up, speed, don't delay! There's murder
afoot!"
Agias let the bird slip from his hands, and never noticed that it
fluttered on its clipped wings around the room, to Artemisia's
infinite dismay.
"What? Is the plot hatched?"
"Yes, yes," puffed Sesostris, great beads of perspiration on his
honest face. "I was attending Pratinas when he met Lucius Ahenobarbus
in the Forum. They veiled their talk, but I readily caught its drift.
Dumnorix went yesterday with the pick of his band to Anagnia for some
games. To-morrow he will return through Praeneste, and the deed will be
done. Phaon, Ahenobarbus's freedman, has started already for Praeneste
to spy out the ground and be ready to direct Dumnorix where, when, and
how to find Drusus. Phaon has been spying at Praeneste, and is the
dangerous man!"
"He has gone?" demanded Agias.
"Gone, early this morning!"
"Then,--the gods reward you for your news,--I am gone too!"
And without another word to Artemisia or the old slave, Agias had
rushed out into the street. He had a double game to play--to prevent
Phaon from ever reaching Praeneste, and then get such help to Drusus as
would enable him to beat off Dumnorix and his gang. For Agias felt
certain that the hard-hitting Gaul would execute his part of the
bargain, whether he met Phaon or not, and afterward look into the
consequences of what--unmitigated by the freedman's _finesse_--would
take the form of an open clumsy murder. But Phaon had started that
morning; and it was now well into the afternoon. Time was dangerously
scanty. Cornelia he felt he should inform; but she could do nothing
really to help him. He turned his steps toward the Forum and the
Atrium Vestae. He had some difficulty in inducing the porter to summon
Fabia, to meet in personal interview a mere slave, but a gratuity won
the point; and a minute later he was relating the whole story and the
present situation of Drusus to Fabia, with a sincere directness that
carried conviction with it. She had known that Drusus had enemies; but
now her whole strong nature was stirred at the sense of her nephew's
imminent peril.
"If you were a freeman, Agias," were her words, "and could give
witness as such, Pratinas and Ahenobarbus--high as the latter
is--should know that my influence at the law outweighs theirs. But
they shall be thwarted. I will go to Marcellus the consul, and demand
that troops be started to Praeneste to-night. But you must go after
Phaon."
"You will send word to Cornelia?" requested Agias.
"Yes," said Fabia, "but not now; it is useless. Here is an order on
Gallus, who keeps a livery-stable[102] by the Porta Esquilina. He will
give you my new white Numidian, that I keep with him. Ride as you have
never ridden before. And here is money. Twenty gold philippi in this
bag. Bribe, do anything. Only save Drusus! Now go!"
[102] Such establishments were common near the gates, and the Vestals
often had their horses at such places.
"Farewell, lady," cried Agias, "may I redeem the debt of gratitude I
owe you!"
Fabia stood looking after him, as he hastened out from the quiet
atrium into the busy street. Little Livia had cuddled up beside her
aunt.
"Oh, Livia," said Fabia, "I feel as though it were of no use to live
good and pure in this world! Who knows what trouble may come to me
from this day's doings? And why should they plot against your
brother's dear life? But I mustn't talk so." And she called for her
attendants to escort her abroad.