The Hospitality of Demetrius
I
While grave senators were contending, tribunes haranguing, imperators
girding on the sword, legions marching, cohorts clashing,--while all
this history was being made in the outside world, Cornelia, very
desolate, very lonely, was enduring her imprisonment at Baiae.
If she had had manacles on her wrists and fetters on her feet, she
would not have been the more a prisoner. Lentulus Crus had determined,
with the same grim tenacity of purpose which led him to plunge a world
into war, that his niece should comply with his will and marry Lucius
Ahenobarbus. He sent down to Baiae, Phaon,--the evil-eyed freedman of
Ahenobarbus,--and gave to that worthy full power to do anything he
wished to break the will of his prospective patroness. Cassandra had
been taken away from Cornelia--she could not learn so much as whether
the woman had been scourged to death for arranging the interview with
Drusus, or no. Two ill-favoured slatternly Gallic maids, the scourings
of the Puteoli slave-market, had been forced upon Cornelia as her
attendants--creatures who stood in abject fear of the whip of Phaon,
and who obeyed his mandates to the letter. Cornelia was never out of
sight of some person whom she knew was devoted to Lentulus, or rather
to Phaon and his patron. She received no letters save those from her
mother, uncle, or Ahenobarbus; she saw no visitors; she was not
allowed to go outside of the walls of the villa, nor indeed upon any
of its terraces where she would be exposed to sight from without,
whether by land or sea. At every step, at every motion, she was
confronted with the barriers built around her, and by the
consciousness that, so long as she persisted in her present attitude,
her durance was likely to continue unrelaxed.
Cornelia was thirsty for the news from the world without. Her keepers
were dumb to the most harmless inquiry. Her mother wrote more of the
latest fashions than of the progress of events in the Senate and in
the field; besides, Claudia--as Cornelia knew very well--never took
her political notions from any one except her brother-in-law, and
Cornelia noted her mother's rambling observations accordingly.
Lentulus studiously refrained from adverting to politics in letters to
his niece. Ahenobarbus wrote of wars and rumours of wars, but in a
tone of such partisan venom and overreaching sarcasm touching all
things Caesarian, that Cornelia did not need her prejudices to tell her
that Lucius was simply abusing her credulity.
Then at last all the letters stopped. Phaon had no explanation to
give. He would not suffer his evil, smiling lips to tell the story of
the flight of the oligarchs from Rome, and confess that Lentulus and
Claudia were no farther off than Capua. The consul had ordered that
his niece should not know of their proximity and its cause,--lest she
pluck up hope, and all his coercion be wasted. So there was silence,
and that was all. Even her mother did not write to her. Cornelia grew
very, very lonely and desolate--more than words may tell. She had one
consolation--Drusus was not dead, or she would have been informed of
it! Proof that her lover was dead would have been a most delightful
weapon in Lentulus's hands, too delightful to fail to use instantly.
And so Cornelia hoped on.
She tried again to build a world of fantasy, of unreal delight, around
her; to close her eyes, and wander abroad with her imagination. She
roamed in reverie over land and sea, from Atlantis to Serica; and
dwelt in the dull country of the Hyperboreans and saw the gold-sanded
plains of the Ethiops. She took her Homer and fared with Odysseus into
Polyphemus's cave, and out to the land of Circe; and heard the Sirens
sing, and abode on Calypso's fairy isle; and saw the maiden Nausicaa
and her maids at the ball-play on the marge of the stream. But it was
sorry work; for ever and again the dream-woven mist would break, and
the present--stern, unchanging, joyless--she would see, and that only.
Cornelia was thrown more and more back on her books. In fact, had she
been deprived of that diversion, she must have succumbed in sheer
wretchedness; but Phaon, for all his crafty guile, did not realize
that a roll of AEschylus did almost as much to undo his jailer's work
as a traitor among his underlings.
The library was a capacious, well-lighted room, prettily frescoed, and
provided with comfortably upholstered couches. In the niches were a
few choice busts: a Sophocles, a Xenophon, an Ennius, and one or two
others. Around the room in wooden presses were the rolled volumes on
Egyptian papyrus, each labelled with author and title in bright red
marked on the tablet attached to the cylinder of the roll. Here were
the poets and historians of Hellas; the works of Plato, Aristotle,
Callimachus, Apollonius Rhodius and the later Greek philosophers.
Here, too, were books which the Greek-hating young lady loved best of
all--the rough metres of Livius Andronicus and Cnaeus Naevius, whose
uncouth lines of the old Saturnian verse breathed of the hale, hearty,
uncultured, uncorrupted life of the period of the First Punic War.
Beside them were the other great Latinists: Ennius, Plautus, Terence,
and furthermore, Pacuvius and Cato Major, Lucilius, the memoirs of
Sulla, the orations of Antonius "the orator" and Gracchus, and the
histories of Claudius Quadrigarius and Valerius Antias.
The library became virtually Cornelia's prison. She read tragedy,
comedy, history, philosophy,--anything to drive from her breast her
arch enemy, thought. But if, for example, she turned to Apollonius
Rhodius and read--
"Amidst them all, the son of AEson chief
Shone forth divinely in his comeliness,
And graces of his form. On him the maid
Looked still askance, and gazed him o'er;"[163]
[163] Elton, translator.
straightway she herself became Medea, Jason took on the form of
Drusus, and she would read no more; "while," as the next line of the
learned poet had it, "grief consumed her heart."
Only one other recreation was left her. Artemisia had not been taken
away by Phaon, who decided that the girl was quite impotent to thwart
his ends. Cornelia devoted much of her time to teaching the bright
little Greek. The latter picked up the scraps of knowledge with a
surprising readiness, and would set Cornelia a-laughing by her
_naivete_, when she soberly intermixed her speech with bits of grave
poetical and philosophical lore, uttered more for sake of sound than
sense.
As a matter of fact, however, Cornelia was fast approaching a point
where her position would have been intolerable. She did not even have
the stimulus that comes from an active aggressive persecution. Drusus
was in the world of action, not forgetful of his sweetheart, yet not
pent up to solitary broodings on his ill-fated passion. Cornelia was
thrust back upon herself, and found herself a very discontented,
wretched, love-lorn, and withal--despite her polite learning--ignorant
young woman, who took pleasure neither in sunlight nor starlight; who
saw a mocking defiance in every dimple of the sapphire bay; who saw in
each new day merely a new period for impotent discontent. Something
had to determine her situation, or perhaps she would not indeed have
bowed her head to her uncle's will; but she certainly would have been
driven to resolutions of the most desperate nature.
Cornelia had practically lost reckoning of time and seasons. She had
ceased hoping for a letter from her mother; even a taunting missive
from Ahenobarbus would have been a diversion. She was so closely
guarded that she found herself praying that Drusus would not try to
steal a second interview, for the attempt might end in his murder.
Only one stray crumb of comfort at last did she obtain, and it was
Artemisia who brought it to her. The girl had been allowed by Phaon to
walk outside the grounds of the villa for a little way, and her pretty
face had won the good graces of one or two slave-boys in an adjoining
seaside house. Artemisia came back full of news which they had
imparted: the consuls had fled from Rome; Pompeius was retreating
before Caesar; the latest rumour had it that Domitius was shut up in
Corfinium and likely to come off hardly.
The words were precious as rubies to Cornelia. She went all that day
and the next with her head in the air. Perhaps with a lover's subtle
omniscience she imagined that it was Drusus who had some part in
bringing Domitius to bay. She pictured the hour when he--with a legion
no doubt at his back--would come to Baiae, not a stealthy, forbidden
lover, but a conqueror, splendid in the triumph of his arms; would
enter the villa with a strong hand, and lead her forth in the eyes of
all the world--his wife! and then back to Praeneste, to Rome--happy as
the Immortals on Olympus; and what came after, Cornelia neither
thought nor cared.
On those days the sea was lovely, the sunlight fair, and all the
circling sea-gulls as they hovered over the waves cried shrilly one to
the other; "How good is all the world!" And then, just as Cornelia was
beginning to count the hours,--to wonder whether it would be one day
or ten before Drusus would be sufficiently at liberty to ride over
hill and dale to Baiae,--Phaon thrust himself upon her.
"Your ladyship," was his curt statement, "will have all things
prepared in readiness to take ship for Greece, to-morrow morning."
"For Greece!" was the agonized exclamation.
"Certainly; it is useless to conceal matters from your ladyship now.
Caesar has swept all Italy. Corfinium may fall at any time. His
excellency the consul Lentulus is now at Brundusium. He orders me to
put you on board a vessel that has just finished her lading for the
Piraeus."
This then was the end of all those glittering day-dreams! Caesar's
victories only would transfer Cornelia to a more secure bondage. She
had enough pride left not to moan aloud and plead with an animal like
Phaon not to crush her utterly. In fact she was benumbed, and did not
fully sense the changed situation. She went through a mechanical
process of collecting her wardrobe, of putting her jewellery in cases
and boxes, of laying aside for carriage a few necessaries for
Artemisia. Phaon, who had expected a terrible scene when he made his
announcement, observed to himself that, "The domina is more sensible
than I supposed. I think her uncle will have his way now soon enough,
if Master Lucius does not get his throat cut at Corfinium." And having
thus concluded to himself,--satisfactorily, if erroneously,--he, too,
made arrangements for the voyage impending.
II
Cornelia's sleeping room was large and airy. It had windows
overlooking the sea--windows closed by the then extravagant luxury of
panes of glass. When these were swung back the full sweep of the
southwest wind poured its mild freshness into the room. The apartment
was decorated and furnished with every taste and luxury. In one corner
was the occupant's couch,--the frame inlaid with ivory and
tortoise-shell, the mattress soft with the very choicest feathers of
white German geese. Heaped on the cushion were gorgeous coverlets, of
purple wool or even silk, and embroidered with elaborate figures, or
covered with rare feather tapestry. Around the room were silver
mirrors, chairs, divans, cabinets, dressers, and elegant tripods.
On one of the divans slept Artemisia, and just outside of the door one
of the Gallic maids, whom Cornelia detested so heartily.
When Artemisia's curly head touched her pillow, its owner was fast
asleep in an instant. When her patroness sank back on the cushions
worth a king's ransom, Somnus, Hypnus, or whatever name the drowsy god
may be called by, was far from present. Cornelia tossed on the
pillows, tossed and cried softly to herself. The battle was too hard!
She had tried: tried to be true to Drusus and her own higher
aspirations. But there was some limit to her strength, and Cornelia
felt that limit very near at hand. Earlier in the conflict with her
uncle she had exulted in the idea that suicide was always in her
power; now she trembled at the thought of death, at the thought of
everything contained in the unlovely future. She did not want to die,
to flicker out in nothingness, never to smile and never to laugh
again. Why should she not be happy--rightly happy? Was she not a
Cornelian, a Claudian, born to a position that a princess might enjoy?
Was not wealth hers, and a fair degree of wit and a handsome face? Why
then should she, the patrician maiden, eat her heart out, while close
at hand Artemisia, poor little foundling Greek, was sleeping as
sweetly as though people never grieved nor sorrows tore the soul?
Cornelia was almost angry with Artemisia for being thus oblivious to
and shielded from calamity. So hot in fact did her indignation become
against the innocent girl, that Cornelia herself began to smile at her
own passion. And there was one thought very comforting to her pride.
"Artemisia is only an uneducated slave, or little better than a slave;
if she were in my station she would be just as unhappy. I am wretched
just in proportion to the greatness of my rank;" then she added to
herself, "_Hei!_ but how wretched then the gods must be!" And then
again she smiled at admitting for an instant that there were any gods
at all; had not her philosophy taught her much better?
So at last Cornelia turned over the pillows for the last time, and
finally slept, in heavy, dreamless slumber.
* * * * *
Cornelia did not know at what watch of the night she awoke; awoke, not
suddenly, but slowly, as consciousness stole over her that _something_
was happening. It was a dark, cloudy night, yet a strange red light
was glinting faintly through the windows and making very dim panels on
the rugs of the floor. There was a bare gleam of fire from the
charcoal in the portable metal stove that stood in a remote corner of
the room to dispel the chill of night. Artemisia was stirring in her
sleep, and saying something--probably in a one-sided dream-dialogue.
Cornelia opened her eyes, shut them again; peeped forth a second time,
and sat up in bed. There was a confused din without, many voices
speaking at once, all quite unintelligible, though now and then she
caught a few syllables of Greek. The din grew louder and louder. At
the same time, as if directly connected with the babel, the strange
light flamed up more brightly--as if from many advancing torches.
Cornelia shook the sleep from her eyes, and flung back the coverlets.
What was it? She had not yet reached the stage of feeling any terror.
Suddenly, drowning all lesser noise, came the blows of a heavy timber
beating on the main door of the villa.
Crash! and with the stroke, a torrent of wild shouts, oaths, and
imprecations burst forth from many score throats.
Crash! The slaves sleeping near the front door began to howl and
shout. The great Molossian hound that stood watch was barking and
snapping. The Gallic maid sprang from her pallet by Cornelia's door,
and gave a shrill, piercing scream. Artemisia was sitting up on her
bed, rubbing her eyes, blinking at the strange light, and about to
begin to cry. Cornelia ran over the floor to her.
"_A! A!_ what is going to happen!" whimpered the girl.
"I do not know, _philotata_"[164] said Cornelia in Greek, putting her
hand on Artemisia's cheek; "but don't cry, and I'll soon find out."
[164] Dearest one.
Crash! and at this the door could be heard to fall inward. Then, with
yells of triumph and passion, there was a great sweep of feet over the
threshold, and the clang of weapons and armour. Cornelia found herself
beginning to tremble. As she stepped across the room, she passed
before her largest mirror, whereon the outside light was shining
directly. She saw herself for an instant; her hair streaming down her
back, her only dress her loose white tunic, her arms bare, and nothing
on her throat except a string of yellow amber beads. "And my feet are
bare," she added to herself, diverted from her panic by her womanly
embarrassment. She advanced toward the door, but had not long to wait.
Down below the invaders had burst loose in wild pillage, then up into
the sleeping room came flying a man--Phaon, his teeth chattering, his
face ghastly with fright.
"Domina! domina!" and he knelt and seized Cornelia's robe. "Save, _A!_
save! We are undone! Pirates! They will kill us all! _Mu! mu!_ don't
let them murder me!"
A moment longer and Cornelia, in her rising contempt, would have
spurned him with her foot. There were more feet on the stairway.
Glaring torches were tossing over gold inlaid armour. A man of unusual
height and physique strode at the head of the oncomers, clutching and
dragging by the wrist a quivering slave-boy.
"Your mistress, boy! where is she? Point quickly, if you would not
die!" cried the invader, whom we shall at once recognize as Demetrius.
Cornelia advanced to the doorway, and stood in her maidenly dignity,
confronting the pirates, who fell back a step, as though before an
apparition.
"I am the Lady Cornelia, mistress of the villa," she said slowly,
speaking in tones of high command. "On what errand do you come thus
unseasonably, and with violence?"
Whereat, out from the little group of armed men sprang one clad in
costly, jewel-set armour, like the rest, but shorter than the others,
and with fair hair flowing down from his helmet on to his shoulders.
"Domina, do you not know me? Do not be afraid."
"Agias!" cried Cornelia, in turn giving back a step.
"Assuredly," quoth the young Hellene, nothing dismayed; "and with your
leave, this great man is Demetrius, my cousin, whose trade, perchance,
is a little irregular, but who has come hither not so much to plunder
as to save you from the clutches of his arch-enemy's son, Lucius
Ahenobarbus."
Cornelia staggered, and caught the curtain in the doorway to keep from
falling.
"Has Master Drusus sent him to me?" she asked, very pale around the
lips.
"Master Drusus is at Corfinium. No one knows what will be the issue of
the war, for Pompeius is making off. It is I who counselled my cousin
to come to Baiae."
"Then what will you do with me? How may I dare to trust you? Deliver
myself into the hands of pirates! Ah! Agias, I did not think that
_you_ would turn to such a trade!"
The youth flushed visibly, even under the ruddy torchlight.
"Oh, lady," he cried, "have I not always been true to you? I am no
pirate, and you will not blame my cousin, when you have heard his
story. But do not fear us. Come down to the ship--Fabia is there,
waiting for you."
"Fabia!" and again Cornelia was startled. Then, fixing her deep gaze
full on Agias, "I believe you speak the truth. If not you--whom?
Take--take me!"
And she fell forward in a swoon, and Demetrius caught her in his
powerful arms.
"This is the affianced wife of Quintus Drusus?" he cried to Agias.
"None other."
"She is worthy of Sextus's son. A right brave lady!" cried the pirate.
"But this is no place for her, poor thing. Here, Eurybiades," and he
addressed a lieutenant,--an athletic, handsome Hellene like
himself,--"carry the lady down to the landing, put her on the trireme,
and give her to Madam Fabia. Mind you lift her gently."
"Never fear," replied the other, picking up his burden carefully. "Who
would not delight to bear Aphrodite to the arms of Artemis!"
And so for a while sight, sound, and feeling were at an end for
Cornelia, but for Agias the adventures of the evening were but just
begun. The pirates had broken loose in the villa, and Demetrius made
not the slightest effort to restrain them. On into the deserted
bedroom, ahead of the others, for reasons of his own, rushed Agias. As
he came in, some one cried out his name, and a second vision in white
confronted him.
"_Ai! ai!_ Agias, I knew you would come!" and then and there, with the
sword-blades glinting, and the armed men all around, Artemisia tossed
her plump arms around his neck.
"The nymph, attendant on Aphrodite!" cried Demetrius, laughing. And
then, when Artemisia saw the strange throng and the torches, and heard
the din over the villa, she hung down her head in mingled fear and
mortification. But Agias whispered something in her ear, that made her
lift her face, laughing, and then he in turn caught her up in his arms
to hasten down to the landing--for the scene was becoming one of
little profit for a maid. Groans and entreaties checked him. Two
powerful Phoenician seamen were dragging forward Phaon, half clothed,
trembling at every joint. "Mercy! Mercy! Oh! Master Agias, oh! Your
excellency, _clarissime_,[165] _despotes!_[166]" whined the wretched
man, now in Latin, now in Greek, "ask them to spare me; don't let them
murder me in cold blood!"
[165] Very distinguished sir.
[166] Master.
"_Ai!_" cried Demetrius. "What fool have we here? Do you know him,
Agias?"
"He is the freedman of Lucius Ahenobarbus. I can vouch for his
character, after its way."
"_O-op!_"[167] thundered the chief, "drag him down to the boats! I'll
speak with him later!"
[167] _O-op_--avast there.
And Agias carried his precious burden down to the landing-place, while
the seamen followed with their captive.
Once Artemisia safe on her way to the trireme, which was a little off
shore, Agias ran back to the villa; the pirates were ransacking it
thoroughly. Everything that could be of the slightest value was
ruthlessly seized upon, everything else recklessly destroyed. The
pirates had not confined their attack to the Lentulan residence alone.
Rushing down upon the no less elaborate neighbouring villas, they
forced in the gates, overcame what slight opposition the trembling
slaves might make, and gave full sway to their passion for plunder and
rapine. The noble ladies and fine gentlemen who had dared the
political situation and lingered late in the season to enjoy the
pleasures of Baiae, now found themselves roughly dragged away into
captivity to enrich the freebooters by their ransoms. From pillage the
pirates turned to arson, Demetrius in fact making no effort to control
his men. First a fragile wooden summer-house caught the blaze of a
torch and flared up; then a villa itself, and another and another. The
flames shot higher and higher, great glowing, wavering pyramids of
heat, roaring and crackling, flinging a red circle of glowing light in
toward the mainland by Cumae, and shimmering out over the bay toward
Prochyta. Overhead was the inky dome of the heavens, and below fire;
fire, and men with passions unreined.
Demetrius stood on the terrace of the burning villa of the Lentuli,
barely himself out of range of the raging heat. As Agias came near to
him, the gilded Medusa head emblazoned on his breastplate glared out;
the loose scarlet mantle he wore under his armour was red as if dipped
in hot blood; he seemed the personification of Ares, the destroyer,
the waster of cities. The pirate was gazing fixedly on the blazing
wreck and ruin. His firm lips were set with an expression grave and
hard. He took no part in the annihilating frenzy of his men.
"This is terrible destruction!" cried Agias in his ear, for the roar
of the flames was deafening, he himself beginning to turn sick at the
sight of the ruin.
"It is frightful," replied Demetrius, gloomily; "why did the gods ever
drive me to this? My men are but children to exult as they do; as boys
love to tear the thatch from the roof of a useless hovel, in sheer
wantonness. I cannot restrain them."
At this instant a seaman rushed up in breathless haste.
"_Eleleu!_ Captain, the soldiers are on us. There must have been a
cohort in Cumae."
Whereat the voice of Demetrius rang above the shouts of the plunderers
and the crash and roar of the conflagration, like a trumpet:--
"Arms, men! Gather the spoil and back to the ships! Back for your
lives!"
Already the cohort of Pompeian troops, that had not yet evacuated
Cumae, was coming up on the double-quick, easily guided by the burning
buildings which made the vicinity bright as day. The pirates ran like
cats out of the blazing villas, bounded over terraces and walls, and
gathered near the landing-place by the Lentulan villa. The soldiers
were already on them. For a moment it seemed as though the cohort was
about to drive the whole swarm of the marauders over the sea-wall, and
make them pay dear for their night's diversion. But the masterly
energy of Demetrius turned the scale. With barely a score of men
behind him, he charged the nearest century so impetuously that it
broke like water before him; and when sheer numbers had swept his
little group back, the other pirates had rallied on the very brink of
tie sea-wall, and returned to the charge.
Never was battle waged more desperately. The pirates knew that to be
driven back meant to fall over a high embankment into water so shallow
as to give little safety in a dive; capture implied crucifixion. Their
only hope was to hold their own while their boats took them off to the
ships in small detachments. The conflagration made the narrow
battle-field as bright as day. The soldiers were brave, and for new
recruits moderately disciplined. The pirates could hardly bear up
under the crushing discharge of darts, and the steady onset of the
maniples. Up and down the contest raged, swaying to and fro like the
waves of the sea. Again and again the pirates were driven so near to
the brink of the seawall that one or two would fall, dashed to instant
death on the submerged rocks below. Demetrius was everywhere at once,
as it were, precisely when he was most needed, always exposing
himself, always aggressive. Even while he himself fought for dear
life, Agias admired as never before the intelligently ordered
puissance of his cousin.
The boats to and from the landing were pulled with frantic energy. The
ships had run in as close as possible, but they could not use their
_balistae_,[168] for fear of striking down friend as well as foe. As
relays of pirates were carried away, the position of the remainder
became the more desperate with their lessening numbers. The boats came
back for the last relay. Demetrius drew the remnant of his men
together, and charged so furiously that the whole cohort gave way,
leaving the ground strewn with its own slain. The pirates rushed madly
aboard the boats, they sunk them to the gunwales; other fugitives
clung to the oars. At perilous risk of upsetting they thrust off, just
as the rallied soldiers ran down to the landing-place. Demetrius and
Agias were the only ones standing on the embankment. They had been the
last to retire, and therefore the boats had filled without them.
[168] Missile-throwing engines.
A great cry went up from the pirates.
"Save the captain!" and some boats began to back water, loaded as
they were; but Demetrius motioned them back with his hand.
"Can you swim, boy!" he shouted to Agias, while both tore off their
body-armour. Their shields had already dropped. Agias shook his head
doubtfully.
"My arm is hurt," he muttered.
"No matter!" and Demetrius seized his cousin under one armpit, and
stepped down from the little landing-platform into the water just
below. A single powerful stroke sent the two out of reach of the swing
of the sword of the nearest soldier. The front files of the cohort had
pressed down on to the landing in a dense mass, loath to let go its
prey.
"Let fly, men!" cried Demetrius, as he swam, and javelins spat into
the water about him.
It was a cruel thing to do. The three pirate vessels, two large
triremes and the yacht, discharged all their enginery. Heavy stones
crashed down upon the soldiers, crushing several men together. Huge
arrows tore through shield and armour, impaling more than one body. It
was impossible to miss working havoc in so close a throng. The troops,
impotent to make effective reply, turned in panic and fled toward the
upper terraces to get beyond the decimating artillery. The pirates
raised a great shout of triumph that shook the smoke-veiled skies. A
fresh boat, pulling out from one of the vessels, rescued the captain
and Agias; and soon the two cousins were safe on board the trireme
Demetrius used as his flagship.
The pirates swarmed on the decks and rigging and cheered the escape of
their commander. On shore the burning buildings were still sending up
their pillars of flame. The water and sky far out to sea were red, and
beyond, blackness. Again the pirates shouted, then at the order of
their commander the cables creaked, the anchors rose, hundreds of long
oars flashed in the lurid glare, and the three vessels slipped over
the dark waves.
Demetrius remained on the poop of his ship; Agias was below in the
cabin, bending over Artemisia, who was already smiling in her sleep.
III
When Cornelia awoke, it was with Fabia bending over her at the
bedside. The portholes of the cabin were open; the warm, fresh
southern wind was pouring in its balmy sweetness. Cornelia pressed her
hands to her eyes, then looked forth. The cabin ceiling was low, but
studded with rare ornamental bronze work; the furniture glittered with
gilding and the smooth sheen of polished ivory; the tapestry of the
curtains and on the walls was of the choicest scarlet wool, and Coan
silk, semi-transparent and striped with gold. Gold plating shone on
the section of the mast enclosed within the cabin. An odour of the
rarest Arabian frankincense was wafted from the pastils burning on a
curiously wrought tripod of Corinthian brass. The upholsteries and
rugs were more splendid than any that Cornelia had seen gracing the
palace of Roman patrician.
Thus it came to pass that Fabia repeated over and over again to
Cornelia the tale of recent happenings, until the latter's sorely
perturbed brain might comprehend. And then, when Cornelia understood
it all: how that she was not to go to Greece with Phaon; how that she
was under the protection of a man who owed his life to Sextus Drusus,
and hated the Ahenobarbi with a perfect hatred; how that Demetrius had
sworn to carry her to Alexandria, where, safe out of the way of war
and commotion, she might await the hour when Drusus should be free to
come for her--when, we repeat, she understood all this, and how it
came to pass that the Vestal herself was on the vessel,--then Cornelia
strained Fabia to her breast, and laid her head on the elder woman's
shoulder, and cried and cried for very relief of soul. Then she arose
and let the maids Demetrius had sent to serve her--dark-skinned
Hindoos, whose words were few, but whose fingers quick and dexterous
--dress her from the very complete wardrobe that the sea prince had
placed at her disposal.
Never before had the sunlight shone so fair; never before had the
sniff of the sea-breeze been so sweet. The galleys were still in the
bay, close by Prochyta, scarce a mile and a half from the nearest
mainland. The pirates were landing to procure water from the desolate,
unsettled isle. The bay was dancing and sparkling with ten million
golden ripples; the sun had risen high enough above the green hills of
the coast-land to spread a broad pathway of shimmering fire across the
waters. Not a cloud flecked the light-bathed azure. Up from the
forward part of the ships sounded the notes of tinkling cithera and
the low-breathing double flutes[169] in softest Lydian mood. In and
out of the cabin passed bronzed-faced Ethiopian mutes with silver cups
of the precious Mareotic white wine of Egypt for the lady, and plates
of African pomegranates, Armenian apricots, and strange sweetmeats
flavoured with a marvellous powder, an Oriental product worth its
weight in gold as a medicine, which later generations were to
designate under the name of sugar.
[169] _Tibiae_.
And so Cornelia was refreshed and dressed; and when the maids held the
mirror before her and she saw that the gold trinkets were shining in
her hair, and the jewels which Demetrius had sent her were sparkling
brightly at her throat, and realized that she was very fair to
see,--then she laughed, the first real, unforced laugh for many a
weary day, whereupon she laughed again and again, and grew the more
pleased with her own face when she beheld a smile upon it. Then Fabia
kissed her, and told her that no woman was ever more beautiful; and
the dark Indian maids drew back, saying nothing, but admiring with
their eyes. So Cornelia went up upon the deck, where Demetrius came to
meet her. If she had been a Semiramis rewarding a deserving general,
she could not have been more queenly. For she thanked him and his
lieutenants with a warm gratitude which made every rough seaman feel
himself more than repaid, and yet throughout it all bore herself as
though the mere privilege on their part of rescuing her ought to be
sufficient reward and honour. Then Demetrius knelt down before all his
men, and kissed the hem of her robe, and swore that he would devote
himself and all that was his to her service, until she and Quintus
Drusus should meet, with no foe to come between; so swore all the
pirates after their captain, and thus it was Cornelia entered into her
life on the ship of the freebooters.
Other work, however, was before Demetrius that day, than casting
glances of dutiful admiration at the stately lady that had deigned to
accept his hospitality. Out from the various other cabins, less
luxurious assuredly than the one in which Cornelia had awakened, the
pirates led their several captives to stand before the chief.
Demetrius, indeed, had accomplished what he euphemistically described
as "a fair night's work." Half a dozen once very fashionable and now
very disordered and dejected noble ladies and about as many more sadly
bedraggled fine gentlemen were haled before his tribunal for judgment.
The pirate prince stood on the raised roof of a cabin, a step higher
than the rest of the poop. He was again in his splendid armour, his
naked sword was in his hand, at his side was stationed Eurybiades and
half a score more stalwart seamen, all swinging their bare cutlasses.
Demetrius nevertheless conducted his interrogations with perhaps
superfluous demonstrations of courtesy, and a general distribution of
polite "domini" "dominae," "clarissimi," and "illustres." He spoke in
perfectly good Latin, with only the slightest foreign accent; and
Cornelia, who--unregenerate pagan that she was--was taking thorough
delight in the dilemma of persons whom she knew had made her the butt
of their scandalous gibes, could only admire the skilful manner in
which he brought home to the several captives the necessity of finding
a very large sum of money at their bankers' in a very short time, or
enduring an indefinite captivity. After more or less of surly threats
and resistance on the part of the men, and screaming on the part of
the women, the prisoners one and all capitulated, and put their names
to the papyri they were commanded to sign; and away went a boat
dancing over the waves to Puteoli to cash the money orders, after
which the captives would be set ashore at Baiae.
Last of the wretches brought before Demetrius came Phaon. The freedman
had been roughly handled; across his brow a great welt had risen where
a pirate had struck him with a rope's end. His arms were pinioned
behind his back. He was perfectly pale, and his eyes wandered from one
person to another as if vainly seeking some intercessor.
"_Euge! Kyrios_[170]" cried the pirate chief, "you indeed seem to
enjoy our hospitality but ill."
[170] Your Highness.
Phaon fell on his knees.
"I am a poor man," he began to whimper. "I have no means of paying a
ransom. My patron is not here to protect or rescue me. I have nothing
to plunder. _Mu! mu!_ set me free, most noble pirate! Oh! most
excellent prince, what have I done, that you should bear a grudge
against me?"
"Get up, fellow," snapped Demetrius; "I'm not one of those
crocodile-headed Egyptian gods that they grovel before in the Nile
country. My cousin Agias here says he knows you. Now answer--are you a
Greek?"
"I am an Athenian born."
"Don't you think I can smell your Doric accent by that broad alpha?
You are a Sicilian, I'll be bound!"
Phaon made a motion of sorrowful assent.
"_Phui!_" continued Demetrius, "tell me, Agias, is this the creature
that tried to murder Quintus Drusus?"
Agias nodded.
"A fit minister for such a man as I imagine the son of Lucius Domitius
to be. Eurybiades, take off that fellow's bands; he is not worth one
stroke of the sword."
"The captain will not spare the knave!" remonstrated the sanguinary
lieutenant.
"What I have said, I have said," retorted the other; then, when
Phaon's arms hung free, "See, on the strength of our fellowship in our
both being Greeks, I have set you at large!"
Phaon again sank to his knees to proffer thanks.
"Hold!" cried Demetrius, with a menacing gesture. "Don't waste your
gratitude. Greek you pretend to be, more the shame! Such as you it is
that have brought Hellas under the heel of the oppressor; such as you
have made the word of a Hellene almost valueless in the Roman courts,
so that juries have to be warned to consider us all liars; such as you
have dragged down into the pit many an honest man; ay, myself too!"
Phaon left off his thanks and began again to supplicate.
"Stop whining, hound!" roared Demetrius; "haven't I said you are free?
Free, but on one condition!"
"Anything, anything, my lord," professed the freedman, "money,
service--"
"On this condition," and a broad, wicked smile over-spread the face of
the pirate, "that you quit this ship instantly!"
"Gladly, gladly, merciful sir!" commenced Phaon again; "where is the
boat?"
"Wretch!" shouted the other, "what did I say about a boat?
Depart--depart into the sea! Swim ashore, if the load on your legs be
not too heavy. Seize him and see that he sinks,"--this last to
Eurybiades and the seamen.
Phaon's terror choked his utterance; he turned livid with mortal
fright. He pleaded for life; life on the terms most degrading, most
painful, most joyless--life, life and that only. He cried out to
Cornelia to save him, he confessed his villanies, and vowed repentance
a score of times all in one breath. But Cornelia lived in an age when
the wisest and best--whatever the philosophers might theorize--thought
it no shame to reward evil for evil, not less than good for good. When
Demetrius asked her, "Shall I spare this man, lady?" she replied: "As
he has made my life bitter for many days, why should I spare him a
brief moment's pain? Death ends all woe!"
There was a dull splash over the side, a circle spreading out in the
water, wider and wider, until it could be seen no more among the
waves.
"There were heavy stones to his feet, Captain," reported Eurybiades,
"and the cords will hold."
"It is well," answered Demetrius, very grave....
Later in the day the boat returned from Puteoli, and with it sundry
small round-bellied bags, which the pirate prince duly stowed away in
his strong chest. The ransomed captives were put on board a small
unarmed yacht that had come out to receive them. Demetrius himself
handed the ladies over the side, and salaamed to them as the craft
shot off from the flagship. Then the pirates again weighed anchor, the
great purple[171] square sail of each of the ships was cast to the
piping breeze, the triple tiers of silver-plated oars[171] began to
rise and fall in unison to the soft notes of the piper. The land grew
fainter and more faint, and the three ships sprang away, speeding over
the broad breast of the sea.
[171] These were real affectations of the Cilician pirates.
That night Cornelia and Fabia held each other in their arms for a long
time. They were leaving Rome, leaving Italy, their closest friend at
hand was only the quondam slave-boy Agias, yet Cornelia, at least, was
happy--almost as happy as the girl Artemisia; and when she lay down to
sleep, it was to enjoy the first sound slumber, unhaunted by dread of
trouble, for nigh unto half a year.