A lovely garden adjoined the Caesareum, the palace in which Sabina was
residing. Balbilla was fond of lingering there, and as the morning of
the twenty-ninth of December was particularly brilliant--the sky and its
infinite mirror the sea, gleaming in indescribably deep blue, while
the fragrance of a flowering shrub was wafted in at her window like
an invitation to quit the house she had sought a certain bench which,
though placed in a sunny spot, was slightly shaded by an acacia. This
seat was screened from the more public paths by bushes; the promenaders
who did not seek Balbilla could not observe her here, but she could
command a view, through a gap in the foliage, of the path, which was
strewn with small shells.
To-day, however, the young poetess was far from feeling any curiosity;
instead of gazing at the shrubbery enlivened by birds, at the clear
atmosphere or the sparkling sea, her eyes were fixed on a yellow roll of
papyrus and she was impressing very dry details on her retentive memory.
She had determined to keep her word to learn to speak, write, and
compose verses in the Aeolian dialect of the Greek tongue. She had
chosen for her teacher Apollonius, the great grammarian, who was apt
to call his scholars “the dullards;” and the work which was the present
object of her studies was derived from the famous library of the
Serapeum, which far exceeded in completeness that of the Museum since
the siege of Julius Caesar in the Bruchiom, when the great Museum
library was burnt.
Any one observing Balbilla at her occupation could hardly have believed
that she was studying. There was no fixed effort in her eyes or on her
brow; still, she read line for line, not skipping a single word; only
she did it not like a man who climbs a mountain with sweat on his brow,
but like a lounger who walks in the main street of some great city, and
is charmed at every new and strange thing that meets his eye. Each time
she came upon some form of structure in the book she was reading that
had been hitherto unknown to her, she was so delighted that she clapped
her hands and laughed out softly. Her learned master had never before
met with so cheerful a student, and it annoyed him, for to him science
was a serious matter while she seemed to make a joke of it, as she did
of every thing, and so desecrated it in his eyes. After she had been
sitting an hour on the bench, studying in her own way, she rolled up the
book and stood up to refresh herself a little. Feeling sure that no one
could see her, she stretched herself in all her limbs and then stepped
up to the gap in the shrubbery in order to see who a man in boots might
be who was pacing up and down in the broad path beyond.
It was the praetor--and yet it was not! Verus, under this aspect at any
rate, she had never seen till now. Where was the smile that was wont
to twinkle in his merry eye like the sparkle of a diamond and to play
saucily about his lips--where the unwrinkled serenity of his brow and
the defiantly audacious demeanor of his whole handsome person? He
was slowly striding up and down with a gloomy fire in his eye, a
deeply-lined brow, and his head sunk on his breast: and yet it was not
bowed with sorrow. If so, could he have snapped his fingers in the air
as he did just as he passed in front of Balbilla, as much as to say:
“Come what may! to-day I live and laugh the future in the face!”
But this vestige of his old reckless audacity did not last longer than
the time it took to part his fingers again, and the next time Verus
passed Balbilla he looked, if possible, more gloomy than before.
Something very unpleasant must have arisen to spoil the good humor of
her friend’s husband; and the poetess was sincerely sorry; for, though
she herself had daily to suffer under the praetor’s impertinence, she
always forgave it for the sake of the graceful form in which he knew how
to clothe his incivilities.
Balbilla longed to see Verus content once more, and she therefore
came forth from her hiding place. As soon as he saw her he altered the
expression of his features and cried out as brightly as ever:
“Welcome, fairest of the fair!”
She made believe not to recognize him, but, as she passed him and bowed
her curly head, she said gravely and in deep tones:
“Good day to you, Timon.”
“Timon?” he asked, taking her hand.
“Ah! is it you, Verus?” she answered, as though surprised. “I thought
the Athenian misanthrope had quitted Hades and come to take the air in
this garden.”
“You thought rightly,” replied the praetor. “But when Orpheus sings the
trees dance, the Muse can turn dull, motionless stones into a Bacchante,
and when Balbilla appears Timon is at once transformed into the happy
Verus.”
“The miracle does not astonish me,” laughed the girl. “But is it
permitted to ask what dark spirit so effectually produced the contrary
result, and made a Timon of the fair Lucilla’s happy husband?”
“I ought rather to beware of letting you see the monster, or our joyous
muse Balbilla might easily become the sinister Hecate. But the malicious
sprite is close at hand, for he is hidden in this little roll.”
“A document from Caesar?”
“Oh! no, only a letter from a Jew.”
“Possibly the father of some fair daughter!”
“Wrongly guessed--as wrong as possible!”
“You excite my curiosity.”
“Mine has already been satisfied by this roll. Horace is wise when he
says that man should never trouble himself about the future.”
“An oracle!”
“Something of the kind.”
“And can that darken this lovely morning to you? Did you ever see me
melancholy? Yet my future is threatened by a prophecy--such a hideous
prophecy.”
“The fate of men is different to the destiny of women.”
“Would you like to hear what was prophesied of me?”
“What a question!”
“Listen then; the saying I will repeat to you came to me from no less an
oracle than the Delphic Pythia:
“‘That which thou boldest most precious and dear
Shall be torn from thy keeping,
And from the heights of Olympus,
Down shalt thou fall in the dust.’”
“Is that all?”
“Nay--two consolatory lines follow.”
“And they are--?”
“Still the contemplative eye
Discerns under mutable sand drifts
Stable foundations of stone,
Marble and natural rock.”
“And you are inclined to complain of this oracle?”
“Is it so pleasant to have to wade through dust? We have enough of
that intolerable nuisance here in Egypt--or am I to be delighted at the
prospect of hurting my feet on hard stones?”
“And what do the interpreters say?”
“Only silly nonsense.”
“You have never found the right one; but I--I see the meaning of the
oracle.”
“You?”
“Ay, I! The stern Balbilla will at last descend from the lofty Olympus
of her high-anti-mightiness and no longer disdain that immutable
foundation-rock, the adoration of her faithful Verus.”
“That foundation--that rock!” laughed the girl. “I should think it as
well advised to try to walk on the surface of the sea out there as on
that rock!”
“Only try.”
“It is not necessary; Lucilla has made the experiment for me. Your
interpretation is wrong; Caesar gave me a far better one.”
“What was that?”
“That I should give up writing poetry and devote myself to strict
scientific studies. He advised me to try astronomy.”
“Astronomy,” repeated Verus, growing graver. “Farewell, fair one; I must
go to Caesar!”
“We were with him yesterday at Lochias. How everything is changed there!
The pretty little gate house is gone, there is nothing more to be seen
of all the cheerful bustle of builders and artists, and what were gay
workshops are turned into dull, commonplace halls. The screens in
the hall of the Muses had to go a week ago, and with them the young
scatter-brain who set himself against my curls with so much energy that
I was on the point of sacrificing them--”
“Without them you would no longer be Balbilla,” cried Verus eagerly.
“The artist condemns all that is not permanently beautiful, but we are
glad to see any thing that is graceful, and can find pleasure in it with
the other children of the time. The sculptor may dress his goddesses
after the fashion of graver days and the laws of his art, but mortal
women--if he is wise--after the fashion of the day. However, I am
heartily sorry for that clever, genial young fellow. He has offended
Caesar and was turned out of the palace, and now he is nowhere to be
found.”
“Oh!” cried Balbilla, full of regret, “poor man--and such a fine fellow!
And my bust? we must seek him out. If the opportunity offers I will
entreat Caesar--”
“Hadrian will hear nothing about him. Pollux has offended him deeply.”
“From whom do you know that?”
“From Antinous.”
“We saw him, too, only yesterday,” cried Balbilla, eagerly.
“If ever a man was permitted to wear the form of a god among mortals, it
is he.”
“Romantic creature!”
“I know no one who could look upon him with indifference. He is
a beautiful dreamer, and the trace of suffering which we observed
yesterday in his countenance is probably nothing more than the outward
expression of that obscure regret, felt by all that is perfect, for the
joy of development and conscious ripening into an incarnation of the
ideal in its own kind, of which he is an instance in himself.”
The poetess spoke the last words in a rapt tone, as if the form of a
god was then and there before her eyes. Verus had listened to her with a
smile, but now he interrupted her, and, holding up a warning finger, he
said:
“Poetess, philosopher, and sweetest maiden, beware of descending from
your Olympus for the sake of this boy! When imagination and dreaminess
meet half-way they make a pair which float in the clouds and never
even suspect the existence of that firmer ground of which your oracle
speaks.”
“Nonsense,” said Balbilla crossly. “Before we can fall in love with a
statue, Prometheus must animate it with a soul and fire from heaven.”
“But often,” retorted the praetor, “Eros proves to be a substitute for
that unhappy friend of the gods.”
“The true or the sham Eros,” asked Balbilla testily.
“Certainly not the sham Eros,” replied Verus. “On this occasion he
merely plays the part of a kindly monitor, taking the place of Pontius,
the architect, of whom your worthy matron-companion is so much afraid.
During the tumult of the Dionysiac festival you are reported to have
carried on as grave a discussion as any two gray-bearded philosophers
walking in the Stoa among attentive students.”
“With intelligent men, no doubt, we talk with intelligence!”
“Aye, and with stupid ones gayly. How much reason have I to be thankful
that I am one of the stupid ones. Farewell, till we meet again, fair
Balbilla,” and the praetor hurried off.
Outside the Caesareum he got into his chariot and set out for Lochias.
The charioteer held the reins, while he himself gazed at the roll in his
hand which contained the result of the calculations of the astrologer,
Rabbi Simeon Ben Jochai; and this was certainly likely enough to disturb
the cheerfulness of the most reckless of men.
When, during the night which preceded the praetor’s birthday, the
Emperor should study the heavens with special reference to the position
of the stars at his birth, he would find that, as far as till the end of
the second hour after midnight all the favorable planets promised Verus
a happy lot, success and distinction. But, with the commencement of
the third hour--so said Ben Jochai--misfortune and death would take
possession of his house of destiny; in the fourth hour his star would
vanish, and anything further that might declare itself in the sky during
that night would have nothing more to do with him, or his destiny. The
Emperor’s star would triumph over his. Verus could make out but little
of the signs and calculations in the tables annexed by the Jew, but that
little confirmed what was told in the written statement.
The praetor’s horses carried him swiftly along while he reflected on
what remained for him to do under these unfavorable circumstances,
in order not to be forced to give up entirely the highest goal of his
ambition. If the Rabbi’s observations were accurate--and of this Verus
did not for a moment doubt--all his hopes of adoption were at an end
in spite of Sabina’s support. How should Hadrian choose for his son and
successor a man who was destined to die before him? How could he, Verus,
expect that Caesar should ally his fortunate star with the fatal star of
another doomed to die?
These reflections did nothing to help him, and yet he could not escape
from them, till suddenly his charioteer pulled up the horses abruptly
by the side of the footway to make room for a delegation of Egyptian
priests who were going in procession to Lochias. The powerful hand
with which his servant had promptly controlled the fiery spirit of the
animals excited his approbation, and seemed to inspire him to put a clog
boldly on the wheels of speeding fate. When they were no longer detained
by the Egyptian delegates he desired the charioteer to drive slowly, for
he wished to gain time for consideration.
“Until the third hour after midnight,” said he to himself, “all is to go
well; it is not till the fourth hour that signs are to appear in the sky
which are of evil augury for me. Of course the sheep will play round the
dead lion, and the ass will even spurn him with his hoof so long as he
is merely sick. In the short space of time between the third and fourth
hours all the signs of evil are crowded together. They must be visible;
but”--and this “but” brought sudden illumination to the praetor’s mind,
“why should Caesar see them?”
The anxious aspirant’s heart beat faster, his brain worked more
actively, and he desired the driver to make a short circuit, for he
wanted to gain yet more time for the ideas that were germinating in his
mind to grow and ripen.
Verus was no schemer; he walked in at the front door with a free
and careless step, and scorned to climb the backstairs. Only for the
greatest object and aim of his life was he prepared to sacrifice his
inclinations, his comfort and his pride, and to make unhesitating use
of every means at hand. For the sake of that he had already done many
things which he regretted, and the man who steals one sheep out of the
flock is followed by others without intending it. The first degrading
action that a man commits is sure to be followed by a second and a
third. What Verus was now projecting he regarded as being a simple act
of self-defence; and after all, it consisted merely in detaining Hadrian
for an hour, interrupting him in an idle occupation--the observation of
the stars.
There were two men who might be helpful to him in this matter--Antinous
and the slave Mastor. He first thought of Mastor; but the Sarmatian
was faithfully devoted to his master and could not be bribed. And
besides!--No! it really was too far beneath him to make common cause
with a slave. But he could count even less on support from Antinous.
Sabina hated her husband’s favorite, and for her sake Verus had never
met the young Bithynian on particularly friendly terms. He fancied, too,
that he had observed that the quiet, dreamy lad kept out of his way. It
was only by intimidation, probably, that the favorite could be induced
to do him a service.
At any rate, the first thing to be done was to visit Lochias and there
to keep a lookout with his eyes wide open. If the Emperor were in a
happy frame of mind he might, perhaps, be induced to appear during the
latter part of the night at the banquet which Verus was giving on the
eve of his birthday, and at which all that was beautiful to the eye
and ear was to be seen and heard; or a thousand favoring and helpful
accidents might occur--and at any rate the Rabbi’s forecast furnished
him good fortune for the next few years.
As he dismounted from his chariot in the newly-paved forecourt and was
conducted to the Emperor’s anteroom he looked as bright and free from
care as if the future lay before him sunny and cloudless.
Hadrian now occupied the restored palace, not as an architect from Rome
but as sovereign of the world; he had shown himself to the Alexandrians
and had been received with rejoicings and an unheard-of display in his
honor. The satisfaction caused by the imperial visit was everywhere
conspicuous and often found expression in exaggerated terms; indeed
the council had passed a resolution to the effect that the month of
December, being that in which the city had had the honor of welcoming
the ‘Imperator,’ should henceforth be called:
“Hadrianus.” The Emperor had to receive one deputation after another
and to hold audience after audience, and on the following morning the
dramatic representations were to begin, the processions and games which
promised to last through many days, or--as Hadrian himself expressed
it--to rob him of at least a hundred good hours. Notwithstanding, the
monarch found time to settle all the affairs of the state, and at night
to question the stars as to the fate which awaited him and his dominions
during all the seasons of the new year now so close at hand.
The aspect of the palace at Lochias was entirely changed. In the place
of the gay little gate-house stood a large tent of gorgeous purple
stuff, in which the Emperor’s body-guard was quartered, and opposite to
it another was pitched for lictors and messengers. The stables were full
of horses. Hadrian’s own horse, Borysthenes, which had had too long a
rest, pawed and stamped impatiently in a separate stall, and close at
hand the Emperor’s retrievers, boar-hounds and harriers were housed in
hastily-contrived yards and kennels.
In the wide space of the first court soldiers were encamped, and
close under the walls squatted men and women--Egyptians, Greeks and
Hebrews--who desired to offer petitions to the sovereign. Chariots drove
in and out, litters came and went, chamberlains and other officials
hurried hither and thither. The anterooms were crowded with men of the
upper classes of the citizens who hoped to be granted audience by the
Emperor at the proper hour. Slaves, who offered refreshments to those
who waited or stood idly looking on, were to be seen in every room, and
official persons, with rolls of manuscript under their arms, bustled
into the inner rooms or out of the palace to carry into effect the
orders of their superior.
The hall of the Muses had been turned into a grand banqueting-hall.
Papias, who was now on his way to Italy by the Emperor’s command, had
restored the damaged shoulder of the Urania. Couches and divans stood
between the statues, and under a canopy at the upper end of the vast
room stood a throne on which Hadrian sat when he held audience. On these
occasions he always appeared in the purple, but in his writing-room,
which he had not changed for another, he laid aside the imperial mantle
and was no more splendid in his garb than the architect Claudius Venator
had been.
In the rooms that had belonged to the deceased Keraunus now dwelt an
Egyptian without wife or children--a stern and prudent man who had
done good service as house-steward to the prefect Titianus, and the
living-room of the evicted family now looked dreary and uninhabited. The
mosaic pavement which had indirectly caused the death of Keraunus, was
now on its way to Rome, and the new steward had not thought it worth
while to fill up the empty, dusty, broken-up place which had been left
in the floor of his room by the removal of the work of art, nor even to
cover it over with mats. Not a single cheerful note was audible in the
abandoned dwelling but the twitter of the birds which still came morning
and evening to perch on the balcony, for Arsinoe and the children had
never neglected to strew the parapet with crumbs for them at the end of
each meal.
All that was gracious, all that was attractive in the old palace had
vanished at Sabina’s visit, and even Hadrian himself was a different
man to what he had been a few days previously. The dignity with which he
appeared in public was truly imperial and unapproachable, and even when
he sat with his intimates in his favorite room he was grave, gloomy and
taciturn. The oracle, the stars, and other signs announced some terrible
catastrophe for the coming year with a certainty that he could not
evade; and the few careless days that he had been permitted to enjoy at
Lochias had ended with unsatisfactory occurrences.
His wife, whose bitter nature struck him in all its repellent harshness
here in Alexandria--where everything assumed sharper outlines and more
accentuated movement than in Rome--had demanded of him boldly that he
should no longer defer the adoption of the praetor.
He was anxious and unsatisfied; the infinite void in his heart yawned
before him whenever he looked into his soul, and at every glance at the
future of his external life a long course of petty trifles started up
before him which could not fail to stand in the way of his unwearying
impulse to work. Even the vegetative existence of his handsome favorite
Antinous, untroubled as it was by the sorrows or the joys of life, had
undergone a change. The youth was often moody, restless and sad. Some
foreign influences seemed to have affected him, for he was no longer
content to hang about his person like a shadow; no, he yearned for
liberty, had stolen into the city several times, seeking there the
pleasures of his age which formerly he had avoided.
Nay, a change had even come over his cheerful and willing slave Mastor.
Only his hound remained always the same in unaltered fidelity.
And he himself? He was the same to-day as ten years since: different
every day and at every hour of the day.