Eight days had gone by since the events related in the last chapter. A
chill cloud hung over the house of Claudia, the sources of life seemed
ice-bound. All intercourse with the outer world was restricted to what
was absolutely necessary; the inhabitants crept and glided about like
speechless ghosts. Titus Claudius fulfilled the duties of his office
with stern regularity, but without unction, dully and mechanically.
His son’s name never passed his lips, and yet every one felt that
one hideous thought was ever present to his mind. It was the same
with the two girls. All brightness, all youthfulness had deserted
them, particularly Claudia, who had borne her own hard fate with such
steadfast hopefulness. Octavia alone clung unshaken to her conviction,
that her husband, whose irresistible strength of will had proved
victorious in so many contests, would, even in this bitter strait, find
a solution and an issue.
It was still early, but two hours after sunrise, and Octavia was
sitting in silent abstraction with her two daughters, in the snug
little room where--so short a time since--Caius Aurelius had read to
them the Thebais of Statius. Cornelia, too, was with them; she was
sitting pale and listless near the door, and listening for a step in
the hall. She was waiting till the high-priest should come in from
attending Caesar’s _levée_ and presenting a petition to him. Since
the day when Quintus had been taken back to the Tullianum, Cornelia
had never ceased to implore to be admitted to the dungeon, where she
thought she could bend her lover’s obduracy; for she was convinced that
nothing but a proud spirit of defiance had prompted his retractation at
the last moment.
“You do not know how to coax and entreat him,” she had said to the
high-priest. “Your very requests sound like commands, and leave a sting
in his wounded pride. But I am a woman, his betrothed; I love him,
and I will implore him! His heart will soften, as soon as he hears my
voice.”
She had thus persuaded Titus Claudius, who, though he felt that
Cornelia did not fully understand his son’s character, thought he
ought not to neglect this last possibility. But unluckily he met
with unexpected hindrances. The governor of the prison, supported by
higher authority, positively refused her admission, and the priest's
declaration that he would take all the responsibility on his own
shoulders, produced no effect whatever.
Titus Claudius applied to the city-prefect, but a long discussion
only led to the same result. Some one, it was evident, must have an
interest in the complete isolation of the illustrious prisoner, and
that some one must be of exalted rank. A visit to Clodianus was equally
unsuccessful. Indeed, the adjutant displayed a rough and uncompromising
severity, which was startling in a man who was not wont to deal
thus with persons of position and influence, and the Flamen quitted
him in high wrath. The meeting seemed to have resulted in a lasting
coolness, not to say hostility, between the two officials. But this
step, too, on the adjutant’s part was the result of calculation. If
Caesar should hear of the matter--and he was certain to hear of it, for
there were witnesses present--he could no longer doubt the devotion
of his faithful Clodianus. He, at least, was a true and trustworthy
servant, who would rather make an enemy of the powerful high-priest,
than abridge by one iota the laws and interests of the State, which in
the present instance were so surprisingly identical with the private
interests of Caesar himself.
On leaving Clodianus, Titus Claudius betook himself to the chamberlain
Parthenius. Still the same refusal, though wrapped here in the
utmost politeness and reverence--but it could not be, it was simply
impossible. If in anything else Parthenius could oblige his illustrious
friend, he would devote himself to the cause with all the indefatigable
zeal he had before now displayed in the service of a man so highly
venerated, world-renowned and distinguished.
After two or three more attempts to interest influential personages
in the matter, the high-priest resolved on laying his request before
Caesar himself, though it went hard with him to appear as a petitioner
in his own behalf. And now, for the past half-hour he had been waiting
at the palace.
The family, and particularly Cornelia, awaited his return with eager
anxiety, and at every step on the pavement the excited girl started
and shivered. Her hands clutched the arms of her seat; her breath came
quickly, and her face was as white as marble. If this last chance
failed! Alas, and Cornelia had only too much reason to regard failure
as certain! Domitian, that incarnation of hatred and revenge--it was
too much to hope for! Domitian, whom she had scorned and humiliated, as
a queen might treat a slave--was it likely that he would allow her to
save the man she loved? And yet, if anyone could wring this permission
from the tyrant by the mere weight of personal influence, it was the
Flamen.
The minutes went by--a quarter of an hour--half an hour. Hardly a word
was spoken. Claudia held a book and tried to read, but could not get
beyond the first three lines. Lucilia sat gazing at the floor and gave
herself up to sad fancies; that delightful day at Ostia now and then
rose before her memory--what a difference the little time that since
elapsed had wrought in three happy young creatures! Cornelia’s lover
in a dungeon, Claudia’s under sentence as a traitor, self-banished
and far away, never to return perhaps--while she, Lucilia--she, to be
sure, had no lover, no friend, no one to care for her--but she felt
for all that concerned Cornelia and Claudia, and she herself had been
happy too in that peaceful country home, oh so happy! That good old
Fabulla, how kind she had been, how anxious to please her guests, how
full of sympathy were her clear honest eyes. And those eyes were now
perhaps not less tearful than Claudia's--who so often wept at night
when she thought Lucilia was asleep--for her only son Cneius Afranius
was one of the fugitives too. How sad for her to miss the accustomed
greeting and kiss, never to hear that honest manly voice. Yes, sad
indeed--everything was sad--poor unfortunate mother!
Lucilia was wiping away a tear, that had fallen unbidden down her own
cheek when, with a loud cry, she started from her seat.
There in the door-way stood, in the flesh, the very subject of her
compassion. Fabulla, announced by Baucis, had come in, and, with a
thousand assurances of her dutiful respect, begged to be forgiven
her venturing to intrude her presence on the illustrious family of
the high-priest. But for ten days she had had no news of her son,
her letters had remained unanswered; a messenger she had sent to his
residence had found the house locked up. So, in her despair, she had
come herself to Rome, and as she did not know another living soul in
the city, she had thought of the noble young men and ladies, who had
done her the honor of visiting her at Ostia.
While she was thus explaining herself in spasmodic haste, Lucilia had
rushed to meet her, had affectionately taken her hand and made her
welcome; and Octavia bowed politely and begged her to be seated, for
she must be tired. Claudia, however, and Cornelia particularly, seemed
too much absorbed in their own thoughts to take much notice of the new
arrival. This Lucilia remarked, and as Titus Claudius might now be
expected at any moment, she thought she would be doing both her family
and her friend a kindness, by taking Fabulla into another room, to give
her the information she wished. She easily found some simple excuse
and took Fabulla upstairs, just as she heard the measured tread of the
master of the house in the atrium.
Titus Claudius came into the room with the most perfect calmness; a
faint tinge of color alone betrayed, that he had gone through some
severe trial to nerves and temper.
“There is nothing now to prevent your visit to the prison,” he said
gently; but then he sat down, and, in a hoarse voice, asked for a
draught of water.
“Is it possible?” said Cornelia, rushing up to him. “I may see him? You
have settled it?”
Titus Claudius signed to her to have patience; a slave brought him the
water, and he drank it in a long, deep gulp.
“It was a hard matter,” he said, seeing they all were eagerly awaiting
his words; “Caesar was not at all like himself. He received me coolly,
almost repellently.”
“You,” cried Octavia, starting up, “his most faithful adherent?”
“He fancied I was about to ask some favor for the imprisoned
Nazarene.--And, in that case, Octavia, he would have had a right to be
angry with me, for my petition would have imperilled the State. Laws
are not made, to be evaded at the first case that occurs. That Caesar
should have so misunderstood me.--It makes my face burn with shame and
indignation only to think of it! I explained to him, perhaps in too
strong terms, that he was mistaken. What Titus Claudius could ask was
forbidden by no law, only by the over-carefulness of his officials.
I then told him all I had done, in the hope of disarming their
precautions, and how I had at every turn met with the same refusal;
that I had at last come to the determination to come before him, the
fount of all justice and clemency, and so gain my end beyond a doubt,
though at the cost of troubling his sovereign majesty. He, no doubt,
would allow me a privilege, which had never before been refused to any
one. I was ready to pledge my life for it, that the course of justice
would be in no way interfered with. Caesar was gloomy, almost wrathful,
and he looked at me with an expression I never saw in him before.
However, he granted my request. He sent to Parthenius at once....”
“Your firmness and dignity were too much for him,” said Octavia, with a
sigh of relief.
“And when--when?” asked Cornelia.
“As soon as you like. Two of my slaves will accompany you. This
snake-ring, with my signet, will be your token.”
He drew off a ring, broken in its continuity as the law prescribed, and
gave it to the girl, who was trembling with joy.
“Not an instant will I lose,” she cried excitedly. “You will see, his
pride will melt like the snow on Soracte when spring returns.”
She hurried out into the atrium in front of the slaves, and got into
her litter.
The governor of the prison had been duly warned; he came himself to
the gate, and received the visitor with the politeness which seemed
due to her misfortunes, her dignified demeanor, and her beauty, even
more than to her rank and position. When she showed him the ring, which
Titus Claudius had lent her, the governor bowed, as though to say that
no such guarantee was needed. He begged her, however, to leave the
slaves with the litter-bearers, and to follow him unescorted to the
cell, where she was to be allowed a strictly private interview with
Quintus. In an hour he would return and conduct her back.
The door turned heavily on its hinges, and with a half-suppressed cry
of rapture and sorrow, Quintus and Cornelia were in each other’s arms.
Pain and love, despair and hope, broke in that cry from their trembling
hearts.
After the first storm of feeling had subsided, Cornelia took her
lover’s hand, and looked up to him like a child beseeching a favor.
“Quintus,” she began tenderly, “how cruel you have grown. Do men then
understand the meaning of no other word than Pride? Must everything be
sacrificed to that idol--even all that is sweetest and most sacred?
Your father--but why should I speak of others, when no one can suffer
so much as I do! Woe, woe, and three times woe on the pride of your
house! Accident threw you in the way of these Nazarenes, and so you
have pledged yourself to defend their cause, even unto death, as if it
were your own!”
“It is mine,” said Quintus, sadly looking at the ground.
“Oh yes! you will say so. A Claudius is not to be frightened into
yielding! That is grand, magnanimous!--But what threats cannot do, love
may. Quintus, only reflect, only think; try to comprehend all that
your refusal involves. You are the son of a family whose happiness is
centred in you, and the very idol of a devoted girl, who must die.--Do
you hear me, Quintus? I shall die, if this hideous law hurts even a
hair of your head. But I know, I know: in the eyes of a Roman and
a Claudius, the only virtue is to persist in a thing you have once
undertaken. Your poets praise tenacity as the crown of glory.[98] You
would rather run headlong into error, than turn round and seek the
right path. But in this case, Quintus--you must own it yourself--there
is a tenacity, a wilfulness, which is a crime. You cannot possibly
regard the wild stories of these Nazarenes as true?”
“As the only truth, that is known to man.”
“What? Is it you, my own Quintus--proud, wise, high-spirited--who say
this? Have you waited for me to tell you, that all belief in the gods,
be their names what they may, is as hollow as a gilded nut which a
child or a fool takes for gold...?”
“Belief in the gods--yes, Cornelia; but not belief in God. One word
may have many and various meanings. The gods--is the name the people
give to those idols of the imagination, to which they attribute human
passions and weaknesses. Dionysus is a god--and Silenus![99] But what
we call God, dear Cornelia, has nothing in common with those empty
mockeries. Our God dwells not in a temple made with hands. Our God
is a Spirit, and the very essence of all that lives in us, round us
and above us, and that stirs our souls to joy and sorrow. He is in the
light that shines from heaven; the blossom that unfolds in Spring;
the passions that bind your heart to mine, and the courage that will
support me to face death without blenching, for the faith’s sake.”
“Death!” cried Cornelia in despair. “Quintus--my darling; Death! But
the light of heaven and the flowers of Spring, and all that is lovely
in us and around us bid us live. If you, my dearest, believe what I
can never, never again believe: that higher powers rule our existence,
well and good; indulge and cherish the consoling thought; nurse it as
a gardener nurses his flowers; but what can compel you to confess the
secret to all the world? What can drag you so irresistibly to cast in
your lot with that abominable sect, of whom the very best is not worthy
to kiss the dust from off your feet?”
“The Master’s will. Those who have known salvation, find their
highest and sublimest duty in laboring together in the great work
of redemption. Without knowing it themselves, suffering hearts are
striving and groaning towards that light, which they now think so dim
and contemptible. You have lost your faith in a divinity, because the
form of your belief was false and hollow. Until you have got past this
condition of negative and comfortless mistrust, you will never be able
to understand me. I shall not even attempt to make it clear to you,
and will say only one thing: In spite of all my love for you and my
family--a love beyond words--in spite of the youthful blood that dances
in my pulses--I cannot do otherwise! I am, and shall die a Christian.”
“Quintus a Christian! Turning from Cornelia, to bleed in an arena
with slaves and workmen out of the Subura! And we had so fondly, so
confidently dreamed of a happy future! An empty, worthless formula is
dearer to him, than my spoilt and ruined life!”
“A formula! Ah! if it were only that. There is no humiliation I would
not submit to for your sake.”
Cornelia sat closer to him and threw her arms round him.
“Quintus!” she cried, bursting into tears. “Do not refuse my
entreaties. See with what bitter tears I implore you for mercy. I will
be your slave, I will worship you all my life. Only have pity on my
wretchedness! Speak the word, oh Quintus, say I may hope!”
“Cornelia, you break my heart--but I cannot; God help me, but I cannot!”
Cornelia stood up.
“Very well,” she said coldly, “where you stay, I stay. We are pledged
to each other, and I will keep my oath.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You will see--Oh! the chains of my love are not so easily shaken off.”
She went to the door and knocked at it; the governor and the gaoler
appeared at the summons.
“You can keep me here,” she said; “I too am a Nazarene.”
“She is raving!” said Quintus horrified. “She came to persuade me to
renounce Christianity.”
“Your eloquence has converted me,” she retorted scornfully. “Governor,
do your duty. I confess myself guilty. The God of the Nazarenes is the
only true God. Your Jupiter is a foolish, ridiculous image.”
The governor shook his head in bewilderment.
“Follow me then,” he said doubtfully; “I will inform the city-prefect.”
“Quintus--farewell!” cried Cornelia, with a triumphant glance at her
lover. “Think better of it, Quintus! or else we meet again face to face
with the beasts in the arena!”
Quintus stood petrified. The door was shut, the bolts rattled--their
steps died away--he was alone.
FOOTNOTES:
[98] YOUR POETS PRAISE TENACITY AS THE CROWN OF GLORY. See for
instance the well-known “_Justum ac tenacem_,” etc., (Hor.
_Od._, III, 3.)
[99] SILENUS. (Σειληνός.) Son of Hermes and a nymph, the constant
companion of Bacchus. “He is the very image of an elderly satyr,
a perpetually-intoxicated, jovial, good-natured old man with a
baldpate and snub-nose, fat and rotund as a wine-skin, from
which he is inseparable. His own feet can rarely carry him; he
usually rides on a donkey, or is led and supported by satyrs.
He delights in music and song as well as wine.” Silenus had a
temple at Elis.