When Verus entered the palace Hadrian had returned thither but a few
minutes previously from the city. The praetor was conducted through the
reception-rooms to the private apartments, and here he had not long to
wait, for Hadrian wished to speak with him immediately. He found the
sovereign so thoroughly out of tune that he could not think of inviting
him to his banquet. The Emperor restlessly paced the room while Verus
answered his questions as to the latest proceedings of the Senate in
Rome, but he several times interrupted his walk and gazed into the
adjoining room.
Just as the praetor had concluded his report Argus set up a howl of
delight and Antinous came into the room. Verus at once withdrew into the
window and pretended to be absorbed in looking out on the harbor.
“Where have you been?” asked the Emperor, disregarding the praetor’s
presence.
“Into the city a little way,” was the Bithynian’s answer.
“But you know I cannot bear to miss you when I come home.”
“I thought you would have been longer absent.”
“For the future arrange so that I may be able to find you at whatever
time I may seek you. Tell me, you do not like to see me vexed and
worried?”
“No, my lord,” said the lad and he raised a supplicating hand and looked
beseechingly at his master.
“Then let it pass. But now for something else; how did this little phial
come into the hands of the dealer Hiram?” As he spoke the Emperor took
from his table the little bottle of Vasa Murrhina which the lad had
given to Arsinoe and which she had sold to the Phoenician, and held it
up before the favorite’s eyes. Antinous turned pale, and stammered
in great confusion. “It is incomprehensible--I cannot in the least
recollect--”
“Then I will assist your memory,” said the Emperor decidedly. “The
Phoenician appears to me to be an honester man than that rogue Gabinius.
In his collection, which I have just been to see, I found this gem, that
Plotina--do you hear me, boy--that Trajan’s wife Plotina, my heart’s
friend, never to be forgotten, gave me years ago. It was one of my
dearest possessions and yet I thought it not too precious to give to you
on your last birthday.”
“Oh, my lord, my dear lord!” cried Antinous in a low tone and again
lifting his eyes and hands in entreaty.
“Now, I ask you,” continued Hadrian, gravely, and without allowing
himself to yield to the lad’s beseeching looks, “how could this object
have passed into the possession of one of the daughters of the wretched
palace-steward Keraunus from whom Hiram confessed that he had bought
it?”
Antinous vainly strove for utterance; Hadrian however came to his aid by
asking him more angrily than before:
“Did the girl steal it from you? Out with the truth!”
“No, no,” replied the Bithynian quickly and decidedly. “Certainly not.
I remember--wait a minute--yes, that was it.--You know it contained
excellent balsam, and when the big dog threw down Selene--the steward’s
daughter is called Selene--threw her down the steps so that she lay hurt
on the stones I fetched the phial and gave her the balsam.”
“With the bottle that held it?” asked the Emperor looking at Antinous.
“Yes, my lord--I had no other.”
“And she kept it and sold it at once.”
“You know, of course, her father--”
“A gang of thieves!” snarled Hadrian.
“Do you know what has become of the girl?”
“Yes my lord,” said Antinous trembling with alarm. “I will have her
taken by the lictors,” asserted the infuriated sovereign.
“No,” said the lad positively. “No, you positively must not do that.”
“No--? we shall see!”
“No, positively not, for at the same time you must know that Keraunus’
daughter Selene--”
“Well?”
“She flung herself into the water in despair; yes, into the water, at
night--into the sea.”
“Oh!” said Hadrian more gently, “that certainly alters the case. The
lictors would find it difficult to apprehend a shade and the girl has
suffered the worst punishment of all.--But you? what shall I say to your
perfidy? You knew the value of the gem. You knew how highly I valued it,
and could part with it to such hands?”
“It contained the salve,” stammered the boy. “How could I think--?”
The Emperor interrupted the boy, striking his forehead with his hand as
he spoke:
“Aye, think--we have known unfortunately too long that thinking is not
your strong point. This little bottle has cost me a pretty sum; still,
as it once belonged to you I give it back to you again; I only require
you to take better care of it this time. I shall ask for it again before
long! But in the name of all the gods, boy, what is the matter? Am I so
alarming that a simple question from me is enough to drive all the blood
out of your cheeks? Really and truly, if I had not had the thing from
Plotina I should have left it in the Phoenician’s hands and not have
made all this coil about it.”
Antinous went quickly up to the Emperor to kiss his hand, but Hadrian
pressed his lips to his brow with fatherly affection.
“Simpleton,” he said, “if you want me to be pleased with you, you must
be again just what you were before we came to Alexandria. Leave it to
others to do things to vex me. You are created by the gods to delight
me.”
During Hadrian’s last words a chamberlain had entered the room to inform
the Emperor that the deputation of the Egyptian priesthood had arrived
to do homage to him. He immediately assumed the purple mantle and
proceeded to the hall of the Muses where, surrounded by his court, he
received the high-priests and spiritual fathers of the different temples
of the Nile Valley, to be hailed by them as the Son of Sun-god, and to
assure them and the religion they cherished his gracious countenance.
He vouchsafed his consent to their prayer that he would add sanctity and
happiness to the temples of the immortals which they served by gracing
them with his presence, but set aside for the moment the question as
to which town might be permitted to have the care of the
recently-discovered Apis.
This audience took up several hours. Verus shirked the duty of attending
it with Titianus and the other dignitaries of the court, and remained
sitting motionless by the window; it was not till Hadrian was gone from
the room that he came forward into it again. He was quite alone, for
Antinous had left the room with the Emperor. The praetor’s remaining
behind had not escaped the lad’s notice, but he sought to avoid him, for
the domineering, mocking spirit of Verus repelled him. Besides this the
terror which he had gone through, as well as the consciousness that he
had been guilty of a lie and had daringly deceived his kind master, had
upset a soul hitherto untainted by any subterfuge and had thrown him
off his balance. He longed to be alone, for it would have been keenly
painful to him at this moment to discuss indifferent subjects, or to be
forced to affect an easy demeanor. He sat in his little room, before a
table, with his face buried in his hands that rested on it.
Verus did not immediately follow him, for he understood what was passing
in his mind and knew that here he could not escape him. In a few minutes
all was still alike in the large room and in the small one. Then the
praetor heard the door between the smaller room and the corridor hastily
opened and immediately the Bithynian’s exclamation:
“At last, Mastor--have you seen Selene?”
With two long, noiseless steps Verus went close to the door leading into
the adjoining room, and listened for the slave’s answer, though a less
sharp ear than that of the praetor might have heard every syllable.
“How should I have seen her?” asked the Sarmatian sharply. “She is still
suffering and in bed. I gave your flowers to the deformed girl who takes
care of her; but I will not do it again, you may rely upon it, not if
you coax even more fondly than you did yesterday and promise me all
Caesar’s treasure into the bargain! And what can you want with that
wretched, pale-faced, innocent creature? I am but a poor slave, but I
can tell you this--”
Here the Sarmatian broke off abruptly, and Verus rightly guessed that
Antinous had remembered his presence in the Emperor’s room and had
signed to the slave to be silent.
But the listener had learnt enough. The favorite had told his master a
lie, and the suicide of the steward’s daughter was a pure romance. Who
would have believed that the silent, dreamy lad had so much presence of
mind, and such cunning powers of invention? The praetor’s handsome face
was radiant with satisfaction as he made these reflections, for now he
had the Bithynian under his thumb, and now he knew how to accomplish all
he wished. Antinous himself had indicated the right course when he had
hastened to the Emperor with a gush of tenderness, in which the warmth
was certainly not affected, to kiss his hand.
The favorite loved his master, and Verus could ground his demands on
this love without exposing himself, or having to dread the Emperor’s
avenging hand in case of betrayal. He knocked at the door of the
adjoining room with a firm hand, and then went confidently and
composedly up to the Bithyman, told him that he had an important matter
to discuss with him, begged him to return with him into the Emperor’s
room and then said, as soon as they were alone together:
“I am so unfortunate as not to be able to number you among my particular
friends; but one strong sentiment we have in common. We both love
Caesar.”
“I love him, certainly,” replied the lad.
“Well then, you must have it at heart to spare him all great sorrow, and
to prevent grave apprehensions from paralyzing the pinions of his free
and noble soul.”
“No doubt.”
“I knew I should find a colleague in you. See this roll. It contains the
calculations and diagrams of the greatest astrologer of our time, and
from these it is to be discovered that this night, from the end of the
second hour of the morning till the beginning of the fourth, the stars
will announce fearful disasters to our Sovereign. Do you understand?”
“Alas! perfectly.”
“After that the indications of evil disappear. Now if we could only
succeed in preventing Hadrian observing the heavens merely during
the third hour after midnight we should preserve him from trouble and
anxiety, which will torment and spoil his life. Who knows whether the
stars may not be? But even if they tell the truth, misfortune, when it
does come, always comes much too soon. Do you agree with me?”
“Your suggestion sounds a very sensible one--still I think--”
“It is both sensible and wise,” said the praetor, shortly and decidedly,
interrupting the boy. “And it must be your part to hinder Hadrian
from marking the course of the stars from the end of the second to the
beginning of the fourth hour after midnight.”
“My part?” cried Antinous, startled.
“Yours--for you are the only person who can accomplish it.”
“I?” repeated the Bithynian, greatly perturbed. “I--disturb Caesar in
his observations!”
“It is your duty.”
“But he never allows any one to disturb him at his studies, and if I
were to attempt it he would be very angry and send me off in no time.
No, no, what you ask is impossible.”
“It is not only possible but imperatively necessary.”
“That it certainly cannot be,” replied Antinous, clasping his forehead
in his hand. “Only listen! Hadrian has known for several days past that
some great misfortune threatens him. I heard it from his own lips. If
you know him at all you must know that he gazes at the stars not merely
to rejoice in future happiness, but also to fortify himself against the
disasters which threaten him or the state. What would crush a weaker man
only serves to arm his bold spirit. He can bear all that may befall, and
it would be a crime to deceive him.”
“To cloud his heart and mind would be a greater,” retorted Verus.
“Devise some means of taking him away from his star-gazing for only an
hour.”
“I dare not, and even if I wished it, it could not be done. Do you
suppose he follows me whenever I call?”
“But you know him; invent something which will be sure to make him come
down from his watchtower.”
“I cannot invent or think of any thing.”
“Nothing?” asked Verus, going close tip to the Bithynian. “You just now
gave striking proof to the contrary.”
Antinous turned pale and the praetor went on:
“When you wanted to rescue the fair Selene from the lictors your swift
invention threw her into the sea!”
“She did throw herself in, as truly as that the gods--”
“Stay, stay,” cried the praetor. “No perjury, at least! Selene is
living, you send her flowers, and if I should think proper to conduct
Hadrian to the house of Paulina--”
“Oh!” cried Antinous lamentably enough, and grasping the Roman’s hand.
“You will not--you can not. Oh Verus! you will not do that.”
“Simpleton,” laughed the praetor, slapping the alarmed youth lightly
on the shoulder. “What good could it do me to ruin you? I have only
one thing at heart just now, and that is to save Caesar from care and
anxiety. Keep him occupied only during the third hour after midnight
and you may count on my friendship; but if out of fear or ill-will you
refuse me your assistance you do not deserve your sovereign’s favor and
then you will compel me--”
“No more, no more!” cried Antinous interrupting his tormentor in
despair.
“Then you promise me to carry out my wish?”
“Yes, by Hercules! Yes, what you require shall be done. But eternal
gods! how am I to get Caesar--”
“That, my young friend, I leave with perfect confidence to you and your
shrewdness.”
“I am not shrewd--I can devise nothing,” groaned the lad.
“What you could do out of terror of your master you can do still better
for love of him,” retorted the praetor. “The problem is an easy one; and
if after all you should not succeed I shall feel it no less than my
duty to explain to Hadrian how well Antinous can take care of his own
interests and how badly of his master’s peace of mind. Till to-morrow,
my handsome friend--and if for the future you have flowers to send, my
slaves are quite at your service.”
With these words the praetor left the room, but Antinous stood like
one crushed, pressing his brow against the cold porphyry pillar by the
window. What Verus required of him did not seem to have any harm in it,
and yet it was not right. It was treason to his noble master, whom
he loved with tender devotion as a father, a wise, kind friend, and
preceptor, and whom he reverenced and feared as though he were a god. To
plot to hide impending trouble from him, as if he were not a man but
a feeble weakling, was absurd and contemptible, and must introduce an
error of unknown importance and extent into his sovereign’s far-seeing
predeterminations. Many other reasons against the praetor’s demands
crowded on him, and as each occurred to his mind he cursed his tardy
spirit which never let him see or think the right thing till it was too
late. His first deceit had already involved him in a second.
He hated himself; he hit his forehead with his fists and sobbed aloud
bitterly again and again, though he shed no tears. Still, in the midst
of his self-accusation, the flattering voice made itself heard in his
soul: “It is only to preserve your master from sorrow, and it is nothing
wrong that you are asked to do.” And each time that his inward ear heard
these words he began to puzzle his brain to discover in what way it
might be possible for him to tempt the Emperor, at the hour named, down
from his watch-tower in the palace. But he could hit on no practicable
plan.
“It cannot be done, no--it cannot be done!” he muttered to himself and
then he asked himself if it were not even his duty to defy the praetor
and to confess to Hadrian that he had deceived him in the morning. If
only it had not been for the little bottle! Could he ever confess that
he had heedlessly parted with this gift of all others from his master?
No, it was too hard, it might cost him his sovereign’s affection for
ever. And if he contented himself with a half-truth and confessed,
merely to anticipate the praetor’s accusation, that Selene was still
living, then he would involve the daughters of the hapless Keraunus in
persecution and disgrace Selene whom he loved with all the devotion of
a first passion, which was enhanced and increased by the hindrances
that had come in its way. It was impossible to confess his guilt-quite
impossible. The longer he thought, tormenting himself to find some way
out of it all, the more confused he became, and the more impotent his
efforts at resistance. The praetor had entangled him with thongs and
meshes, and at every struggle to escape they only seemed knotted more
closely round him.
His head began to ache sadly; and what an endless time Caesar was
absent! He dreaded his return, and yet he longed for it. When at last
Hadrian came in and signed to Master to relieve him of his imperial
robes, Antinous slipped behind him, and silently and carefully fulfilled
the slave’s office. He felt uneasy and worried, and yet he forced
himself to appear in good spirits during supper when he had to sit
opposite the Emperor.
When, shortly before midnight, Hadrian rose from the table to go up to
the watch-tower on the northern side of the palace, Antinous begged to
be allowed to carry his instruments for him, and the Emperor, stroking
his hair, said kindly:
“You are my dear and faithful companion. Youth has a right to go astray
now and then so long as it does not entirely forget the path in which it
ought to tread.”
Antinous was deeply touched by these words, and he secretly pressed to
his lips a fold of the Emperor’s toga as he walked in front. It was as
though he wanted to make amends in advance for the crime he had not yet
committed.
Wrapped in his cloak he kept the Emperor silent company during his
studies, till the close of the first hour after midnight. The sharp,
north wind which blew through the darkness did his aching head good, and
still he racked his wits for some pretext to attract Hadrian from his
labors, but in vain. His tormented brain was like a dried-up well;
bucket after bucket did he send down, but not one brought up the
refreshing draught he needed. Nothing--nothing could he think of
that could conduce to his end. Once he plucked up courage and said
imploringly as he went close up to the Emperor: “Go down earlier
to-night my lord; you really do not allow yourself enough rest and will
injure your health.”
Hadrian let him speak, and answered kindly:
“I sleep in the morning. If you are tired, go to bed now.”
But Antinous remained, gazing, like his master, at the stars. He knew
very few of the brilliant bodies by their names, but some of them were
very dear to him, particularly the Pleiades which his father had pointed
out to him and which reminded him of his home. There he had been so
quiet and happy, and how wildly his anxious heart was throbbing now!
“Go to bed, the second hour is beginning,” said Hadrian.
“Already!” said the boy; and as he reflected how soon that must be
done which Verus had required of him, and then looked up again at the
heavens, it seemed to him as though all the stars in the blue vault
over his head had glided from their places and were dancing in wild and
whirling confusion between the sky and the sea. He closed his eyes in
his bewilderment; then, bidding his master good-night he lighted a torch
and by its flaring and doubtful light descended from the tower.
Pontius had erected this slight structure expressly for Hadrian’s
nightly observations. It was built of timber and Nile-mud and stood
up as a tall turret on the secure foundation of an ancient watch-tower
built of hewn stone, which, standing among the low buildings that served
as storehouses for the palace, commanded a free outlook over all the
quarters of the sky. Hadrian, who liked to be alone and undisturbed when
observing the heavens, had preferred this erection--even after he had
made himself known to the Alexandrians--to the great observatory of the
Serapeum, from which a still broader horizon was visible.
After Antinous had got out of the smaller and newer tower into the
larger and older one he sat down on one of the lowest steps to collect
his thoughts and to quiet his loudly-beating heart. His vain cogitations
began all over again. Time slipped on-between the present moment and
the deed to be done there were but a certain number of minutes. He told
himself so, and his weary brain stirred more actively, suggesting to him
to feign illness and bring the Emperor to his bedside. But Hadrian was
physician enough to see that he was well, and even if he should allow
himself to be deceived, he, Antinous, was a deceiver. This thought
filled him with horror of himself and with dread for the future, and
yet it was the only plan that gave any hope of success. And even when he
sprang to his feet and walked hastily up and down among the out-houses
he could hit upon no other scheme. And how fast the minutes flew!
The third hour after midnight must be quite close at hand, and he had
scarcely left himself time to rush back into the palace, throw himself
on his couch, and call Mastor. Quite bewildered with agitation and
tottering like a drunken man he hastened back into the old tower where
he had left his torch leaning against the wall and looked up the stone
stairs; it suddenly flashed through his mind that he might go up again
to fling himself down them. What did he care for his miserable life.
His fall, his cry, would bring the Emperor down from his observatory and
he knew that he would not leave his bleeding favorite uncared for and
untended he could count upon that. And if then Hadrian watched by his
bed it would be that, perhaps, of a dying man, but not of a deceiver.
Fully determined on extreme measures, he tightened the girdle which held
his chiton above his hips and once more went out into the night to judge
by the stars what hour it was. He saw the slender sickle of the waning
moon-the same moon which at the full had been mirrored in the sea when
he had gone into the water to save Selene. The image of the pale girl
rose before him, tangibly distinct. He felt as if he held her once more
in his arms--saw her once more lying on her bed-could once more press
his lips to her cold brow. Then the vision vanished; instead he was
possessed by a wild desire to see her, and he said to himself that he
could not die without having seen her once more.
He looked about him in indecision. Before him lay one of the largest of
the storehouses that surrounded the tower. With his torch in one hand
he went in at the open door. In the large shed lay the chests and cases,
the hemp, linseed, straw and matting that had been used in packing the
vessels and works of art with which the palace had been newly furnished.
This he knew; and now, looking up at the stars once more and seeing
that the second hour after midnight had almost run to an end, a fearful
thought flashed through his mind, and without daring to consider, he
flung the torch into the open shed, crammed to the roof with inflammable
materials, and stood motionless, with his arms crossed, to watch through
the door of the shed the rapidly spreading flame, the soaring smoke, the
struggle and mingling of the noiseless wreaths of black vapor from the
various combustibles with the ruddy light, the victory of the fire and
the leaping flames as they flew upward.
The roof, thatched with palm-leaves and reeds, had begun to crackle
when Antinous rushed into the tower only a few paces off crying:
“Fire--fire!” and up the stairs which led to the observatory of the
imperial stargazer.