On the following day Titus Claudius presented himself a second time as
a petitioner at the palace. Thus, under stress of circumstances, within
a few hours the haughty man had twice been forced into a position which
he had carefully avoided his whole life long.
There was to-day no public reception. Caesar had risen late, and now,
when the sun was already high over the Caelian hill, he was sitting
with Clodianus and Parthenius in a room looking to the south-east.
He knew full well why Titus Claudius craved an audience, for the
city-prefect had informed him the day before of the strange occurrence
in the Tullianum.
When the high-priest perceived on entering, that the emperor was not
alone, he involuntarily paused for an instant. Hitherto, when serious
matters were under discussion, he had always enjoyed the privilege of
a tête-à-tête interview with Caesar, and the letter in which he had
asked admission to-day had expressly stated, that the occasion was
strictly personal and private.
Domitian rose, went a few steps to meet him and kissed him. Never
before had this traditional formality seemed so meaningless and
hypocritical to the high-priest, and there was an expression of such
diabolical satisfaction on Caesar’s face, that Titus Claudius for the
first time felt an echo in his own mind of that public opinion, which
he had hitherto so persistently rejected as prejudiced and unfair. What
a smirk, what a suspicious play of features! Some new intrigue must
have come in his way, some underhand transaction, and the high-priest's
request might interfere with it! Titus Claudius had already had an
inkling of this when, the day before, he had gained permission for
Cornelia to visit the prison. It almost looked as though Caesar had
kept the adjutant and the chamberlain about him, that their presence
might be a preservative against any possible fit of amiability and
weakness.
“And what have you to say, my worthy Claudius?” asked Caesar, with cool
formality.
The high-priest looked him steadily and respectfully in the face.
“My lord,” he replied with much dignity, “I have again come to crave
a favor. I do not know whether you have heard--my son’s betrothed,
stricken it would seem with sudden frenzy ...”
“I am informed of her crime,” Domitian interrupted. “I pity you
sincerely, but I cannot and ought not to weaken the arm of the law.”
Titus Claudius turned pale.
“My lord,” he began, drawing a painful breath, “I have come only to
prevent the law from degenerating into blind cruelty. The law condemns
the Nazarenes, but not a crazed girl who, in her desperate grief,
feigns belief in their errors. Inform yourself my lord ...”
“The law judges of facts,” Caesar threw in, “and not of feelings. None
but the gods can read the soul. Besides, how can you prove what you
assert?”
“I will attest it by the most solemn oaths. I know, for certain, that
Cornelia loathes the superstitions of the Nazarenes. My lord, Titus
Claudius sues only for her, not for--the other. That may guarantee the
honesty of my purpose. If I could only stoop to lie--it would be for
him, and not for the niece of Cornelius Cinna.”
His lips quivered as he spoke, and Clodianus looked with sympathy at
the man, lately so erect and haughty, now bent, his head drooping, his
spirit crushed. Even Parthenius, cold as he was, felt that momentary
qualm, of which a father’s heart is conscious in seeing another parent
suffer. Domitian alone was unmoved.
“I have no doubt, Claudius, that you speak the truth,” he said with
affected benevolence, “but my personal convictions have no right to
speak, when the safety of the State is involved. And that safety would
be endangered, if I were to yield to my feelings and to your wish,
which so far, it is true, I can only guess. Is the city-prefect to
set the prisoner free, that she may proclaim in every street: I am a
Christian, but Titus Claudius has procured my pardon!...? You see,
circumstances are too strong for me.”
The high-priest looked at the ground in silence. Certainly, if Cornelia
persisted in her madness, Caesar was right.
“Well, my lord,” he began in a low, hoarse voice, “I confess that I had
overlooked that contingency. She must, then, remain in confinement
till her excited brain has recovered its balance. But one thing yet I
would crave of your grace: remove her at least from the dungeon, and
let her be kept in ward elsewhere. She is but a tender creature--deal
with her as with a sick child, not as with a criminal.”
Domitian glanced meaningly at Parthenius, and he spoke with a sugared
smile.
“Our clemency,” he said, "is never weary of obliging our friends. When
so meritorious an official expresses a wish or a request, his sovereign
must grant it--if it can possibly be reconciled with his duties and
the prosperity of the State. It is well! I will run the risk of being
accused of undue partiality, and have the girl held in custody here,
in the Palatium, with all the respect due to her. She will hardly feel
her imprisonment even as a check upon her freedom; only she must on no
consideration quit the apartments I shall assign to her. You see, my
worthy friend, how truly Domitian inclines to leniency.[100] Nay more,
I will endeavor to mitigate the severity of Quintus' incarceration.
Only, do not ask more than I ought to grant."
“I thank you,” said Claudius, drawing himself up. “I am glad you
consent to be lenient with Cornelia. But, as regards my son--no, my
lord; the horrors of imprisonment are my last hope. Solitude, misery,
hunger--by these, if at all, his proud spirit may be broken. If
this should be the result, if he repents of his errors and does due
penance--then indeed I will advance a claim on the mercy of the Ruler
of the world.”
Caesar dismissed him, and the high-priest, utterly exhausted by the
tension of this brief interview, hurried home, and shut himself up in
his own study. There was a bitter distrust lurking in his mind, like
the after-taste of some nauseous draught. Caesar had, at last, been
gracious. And yet--that first impression was ineffaceable. Here, in
the privacy of home, he felt all that was wounding in that reception
more keenly than at the moment. A strange spasm in his throat seemed
to choke him, a dull headache weighed upon his brow, and the blood
throbbed in his temples. He had been pacing the room, but suddenly his
knees gave way, he dropped into a chair, and all grew dark before his
eyes. But presently he staggered to his feet.
“I shall be ill,” he said to himself. “Hold up, miserable body! your
task is not yet ended! You must not and shall not give way, till the
last resources have been tried, and the last hope is dead.”
And the mere will of this man of iron was strong enough at this appeal
to seem to work a miracle. Titus Claudius was firmer, calmer, and
stronger at once, and a draught of icy-cold water completely restored
his powers.
He went to join Octavia, to inform her as to the issue of his efforts.
He found her alone; but in the adjoining room, with the door half open,
Baucis was sitting and chattering, it would seem to herself. The priest
closed the door and told his story, and his manner and way of speaking
were reassuring. As he spoke the name of Quintus, Octavia sighed
deeply, but her looks showed that she had not yet given up her hope of
a happy ending to their trouble. When her husband had done speaking,
she went up to him with the gentle and almost childlike reverence with
which she always treated him, and took his hand.
“My dearest,” she said, looking at him through her tears, “what have
you not had to suffer in these dreadful times of sorrow and terror!
If only I could relieve you of the whole burden of anxiety! We women
succumb and bend, and the weight is less intolerable. But you--proud,
unyielding, you hold up your head and stiffen your neck and suffer
doubly.”
Titus Claudius embraced her in silence, and she leaned her head on his
shoulder and wept. He gently smoothed her still abundant hair and said,
half-unconsciously: “Save your tears, Octavia! save your tears....”
“You will need them in a worse hour than this,” he would have added,
but he realized what he was saying in time to check himself. He clasped
her more closely and only saying: “Farewell for the present,” he turned
to leave the room.
“You are going?” she said disappointed.
“I have business to attend to.”
“What, again to-day? I thought the most pressing work was now all over.”
The priest sadly shook his head.
“So long as our Quintus lies pining in a dungeon, I cannot have an
hour’s rest. What I must do, how and where to set to work--I have no
idea. But I must try everything--everything. And alas! Rome is a wide
world, and the roads are endless, dear Octavia--if only one of them
might lead to the goal. Yes, one does--that I know full well--but it is
a bloody and thorny path....”
“I do not understand you.”
“No?” said the priest with a strange smile. “Well, if the law demands
a victim, it might be possible to effect an exchange. The few years I
have to live--what can they matter? If the father’s grey head were
given for the son’s young life--Justice would lose nothing.”
“What are you saying?” cried Octavia horrified. “By Jupiter the
all-merciful, cast off these hideous thoughts! You will save him--but
not at such a cost! Go, there is none like you! My heart at every throb
is always with you.”
At this instant Lucilia came into the room, flushed with eagerness; she
had on a long full cloak, as though prepared to go out.
“Where are you going?” asked Octavia, and the priest paused in the
door-way.
“I have just returned from the house of Cneius Afranius, and I am now
going out with Claudia. I only wanted to hear what news my father had
brought of Cornelia.”
Octavia told her.
“Oh, that is good indeed!” said Lucilia delighted. “For my part I
have always hoped for the best; for I cannot believe that Quintus
ever really joined those meek imposters--or even mixed with slaves
and vagabonds. The whole thing must soon be cleared up; I wish it
were equally so hopeful for some other folks.--Poor old Fabulla! only
think, mother, her son’s name is really on the list of the proscribed,
and it seems he is more hated at the Palatium than all the rest. His
house has been broken into by the city-prefect and every corner of it
searched; they say they mean to raze it to the ground. The poor woman
is half-crazed, and I had to promise her that, as soon as matters were
settled for Quintus and Cornelia, I would go and spend a few days with
her at Ostia. She is afraid she shall go out of her mind in her utter
solitude. But I must go now; Claudia is waiting for me in the litter.
Ye gods! what a time of bustle and scurry; I never have a minute to
myself--well--good-bye for the present!”
Titus Claudius looked sadly after her.
“And she does not see either, what is hanging over our heads!” he said
half to himself. Then he went through the atrium and out of the house,
followed by a few of his clients.
Domitian meanwhile had made arrangements for fulfilling his pledge as
soon as possible, for the turn affairs had taken was precisely what he
could have wished. Without arousing any kind of suspicion, he could
thus have the girl in his power. Neither craft nor mystery was needed;
in a simple, honorable and perfectly legal manner, he was attaining the
end which, since the tragicomic scene in the temple of Isis, had become
a fixed idea with him. Barbillus, indeed, seemed to have set about the
task assigned to him in a very questionable manner, and now his wily
agency could be altogether set aside.
Almost at the very moment when Lucilia got into her litter, after her
short interview with her parents, another litter, closely curtained
and escorted by a small party of the imperial body-guard, was being
carried by a circuitous route, past the Circus Maximus[101] to the
Palatine Hill. Arrived at the Palatium, out stepped Cornelia, confused
and agitated, a pathetic image of anguish and despair. The events now
befalling her, and a well-founded suspicion of what awaited her, filled
her soul with apprehension; she had lost all her self-command, and
trembled like a reed.
Parthenius received her with marked politeness, and begged her pardon
in flowery language for his inability, under the law, to set her at
liberty at once. That, he admitted, was unhappily out of the question;
but her durance should be made so easy and agreeable, that the fair
Cornelia could not but forgive him. Titus Claudius, who--as she no
doubt knew--had the greatest influence over Caesar, had made interest
with their imperial sovereign to spare her the horrors of the Mamertine
prison; she was therefore to spend the interval till the decision of
her case in the Palace itself.
He led the way through the pillared halls, and Cornelia mechanically
followed. But she kept her right hand tightly clasped over a spot
in her breast-belt.[102] There, ever since that night of the Osiris
performance, she had kept a small phial of poison. She was determined
to be prepared for the worst. She had not a doubt that Caesar would,
ere long, recommence his persecution; for such a failure was, to a man
of his temper, reason enough in itself for a fresh attempt. Formerly
Cornelia would have trusted to her maiden pride, her uncle’s high rank,
and to the aid of Isis the all-merciful. But now her pride had been
deeply wounded, her uncle had deserted her, and Isis the all-merciful
was dead. She must have some means of protection, which in the last
extremity might save her from unthinkable shame, so she betook herself,
as secretly as a criminal, to Bryonia,[103] a freed-woman of evil
repute living by the wall of Servius Tullius, who kept a tavern much
resorted to by the low population of the quarter, but who also prepared
strong potions of hemlock, wolf’s bane, and venomous sea-creatures,
which she sold to the wealthy and noble for good gold coin. Cornelia's
desire to possess herself of a dose of this poison, was strong enough
to conquer all her loathing and to enable her to endure with cool
composure the hag’s mumbled enquiries as to whether it was a hated
husband, a tyrannical guardian, or a successful rival she wished to get
rid of. She paid the price and hid the tiny phial in her wide belt.
There it was still--almost forgotten for a time under the stress of
the events that had followed, but suddenly remembered again now, in
the very den of the imperial tiger. Cornelia felt the hard edge of the
crystal with a sort of sinister delight, the contact seemed to revive
her strength and resolution.
The room, to which she was led, was indeed an effective contrast to the
vaults of the Mamertine prison. Everything, that the most extravagant
luxury of a luxurious age could contrive, was combined in this little
room, which was lighted by a skylight of costly glass panes. Carpets of
the rarest kinds, magnificent flowers and plants in jars, soft pillows
and couches of gorgeous colored stuffs, columns of onyx and ornaments
of beaten gold--it was a perfect casket--of the most enchanting
aspect, and well adapted to impress a girl whose keen sense of beauty
had been cultivated by wealthy surroundings. And in point of fact,
notwithstanding her miserable plight, she could not help feeling the
charm as pleasant and restful. She drew a deep breath, the atmosphere
was full of aromatic perfume, and yet as pure and fresh as the
mountain air that fanned the heights of Tibur.
“Here I will leave you,” said the chamberlain. “Two slave-girls await
your commands in the next room.” He pointed to a heavy gold-fringed
curtain. “Here you are absolute mistress; there is nothing to remind
you that you are a captive, but the step of the guard at your door, if
you should happen to hear it. And--I may add--it rests with yourself to
cast off even these light fetters, as soon as you will. Farewell--fair
Cornelia. I shall often allow myself the honor of enquiring as to your
needs or wishes.”
He bowed low and went out; Cornelia could hear him speaking a few words
to the guard outside, and then his steps died away in the labyrinth of
passages.
Cornelia, fairly exhausted, sank upon a seat and rested her head on
her hand. Her eyes slowly filled with scalding tears, that gathered
and rolled down her cheeks. To what straits had she been brought! Her
lover in a prison and devoted to certain death--she herself offered
the choice of the last conceivable disgrace, or of sharing his fate.
Of what use was it to hope? If Quintus could resist the attack of her
besieging, imploring love, it was only too certain that his delusions
had overthrown his mind.
She abandoned herself unresistingly to her crushing grief--but suddenly
she started up. She remembered where she was; she realized all the
hideous significance of this transfer, which the unsuspecting Flamen
had accepted as an unqualified favor. She looked round her, and the
sneering face of the tyrant seemed to leer at her through the elegance
of the room. A sense of unutterable desertion came over her, and
with her head thrown back and her arms flung up as if in desperate
supplication, she gazed at the blue autumn sky which looked down upon
her, pale and remote, through the round skylight.
“Ah, miserable fate!” she cried, clenching her fists. “Why are you so
empty and cold, ye skyey spaces? Why does no heart dwell beyond you,
that can feel for us below--no merciful spirit, that can understand
what crushes our souls? Oh Isis! Isis! With what fervor have I not
besought Thy favor!--and if Thou Art--if, anything resembling Thee
exists beyond the stars!--but no; if Thou wert Isis, who should fear
Thee more than Thy priest? And he--he despises and desecrates Thee. It
is an invention of the brain, an illusion, a fable; and in my quaking
heart all is wretched and hopeless enough without that fable.”
She ceased to look upwards, her gaze fell, and she fixed her eyes on
the floor.
“There is none,” she said, with dull conviction. “No help--but in
Bryonia’s potion.”
She paced the room, and her steps fell silently on the thick, soft rugs.
“A gilded cage indeed!” she muttered, looking round her. Then she went
to the door-way, and raised the curtain. Two handsome slave-girls were
lying on fine panther skins; they seemed to be sleeping, but at the
rustle of the curtain they started up.
“Lie still,” said Cornelia, with a melancholy smile, and they needed no
second telling. They had perhaps spent the night as dancing-girls, or
in waiting late on their master’s orders; their pale, olive faces were
weary and worn.
Cornelia studied the details of this second room. It was completely
fitted as a bedroom, with everything that a Roman lady of rank could
need for her elaborate toilet. A deeply-cushioned couch filled up all
one wall to the left, and opposite to her was a door. Cornelia went
past the sleeping handmaids and opened it. It led into a third room,
small, dark and square, intended apparently as an eating-room. When the
chandelier which hung from the ceiling should be lighted, this room
also might look rich and comfortable, but it had no entrance excepting
through the cubiculum. All the rooms were lighted above; this third
room through a kind of shaft, that pierced the ceiling obliquely. Thus
the outer world was completely excluded.
Cornelia now returned to the first room, and tried whether the door,
through which she and the chamberlain had entered, was bolted on
the outside. At a slight touch the two ebony wings turned easily on
their hinges, and the young girl, with her swift impulses, was on the
point of acting on her hope of liberty, when a glance at each end of
the corridor showed her that she had been too hasty; three of the
praetorian guard, in full armor, were posted at each exit.
One of them came up to her, and asked, half-respectfully but
half-ironically, if she had any orders. He was a gigantic Gaul,
stalwart and broad-shouldered, with a good-humored look in his face.
“Do you take orders from a prisoner?” said Cornelia, haughtily.
“Why yes, mistress,” said the soldier. “And, by Hercules! they will be
fulfilled with zeal. Sooner or later....”
But he broke off; Cornelia’s lofty gravity confused him.
“What were you about to say?” she asked with a frown.
“I only meant.... If you and Caesar--if you were reconciled--Caesar is
very good-natured to the ladies--he loves. You might pay us off, if....”
“Man!” interrupted Cornelia, quivering with rage. “What do you take me
for?”
“For all that is sweet and lovely,” said the man much disconcerted.
But Cornelia heard him not; she had gone back into the room, and flung
herself in despair upon a divan. Convulsive sobs choked her, but
presently the tears came, and at last, after crying silently for a long
time, she fell asleep. But even in her slumbers her hand still clutched
the little phial of poison.
FOOTNOTES:
[100] YOU SEE, MY WORTHY FRIEND, HOW TRULY DOMITIAN INCLINES TO
LENIENCY. See note 13. Vol. II.
[101] PAST THE CIRCUS MAXIMUS. The Circus Maximus lay south-west,
the Mamertine Prison north-east of the Palatine Hill.
[102] BREAST-BELT. The breast-belt (_mamillare_) supplied the place
of corsets to the Roman ladies.
[103] BRYONIA (the hedge-rape). Such professional poisoners are
often mentioned. Locusta (“the grasshopper”) a contemporary
and accomplice of the emperor Nero, was specially notorious.
See Suet _Ner._, 33; Tac. _Ann._ XXII, 66; Juv. _Sat._ I, 71.
Our Bryonia is not historical.