The entertainment which Verus was giving on the eve of his birthday
seemed to be far from drawing to an end, even at the beginning of the
third hour of the morning. Besides the illustrious and learned Romans
who had accompanied the Emperor to Alexandria, the most famous and
distinguished Alexandrians had also been invited by the praetor. The
splendid banquet had long been ended, but jar after jar of mixed wine
was still being filled and emptied. Verus himself had been unanimously
chosen as the king and leader of the feast. Crowned with a rich garland,
he reclined on a couch strewn with rose-leaves, an invention of his
own, and formed of four cushions piled one on another. A curtain of
transparent gauze screened him from flies and gnats, and a tightly-woven
mat of lilies and other flowers covered his feet and exhaled sweet odors
for him and for the pretty singer who sat by his side.
Pretty boys dressed as little cupids watched every sign of the ‘sham
Eros.’
How indolently he lay on the deep, soft cushions! And yet his eyes were
every where, and though he had not failed to give due consideration to
the preparations for his feast, he devoted all the powers of his mind to
the present management of it. As at the entertainments which Hadrian
was accustomed to give in Rome, first of all short selections from new
essays or poems were recited by their authors, then a gay comedy was
performed; then Glycera, the most famous singer in the city, had sung a
dithyramb to her harp, in a voice as sweet as a bell, and Alexander, a
skilled performer on the trigonon, had executed a piece. Finally a
troop of female dancers had rushed into the room and swayed and balanced
themselves to the music of the double-flute and tambourine.
Each fresh amusement had been more loudly applauded than the last. With
every jar of wine a new torrent of merriment went up through the opening
in the roof, by which the scent of the flowers and of the perfume burnt
on beautiful little altars found an exit into the open air. The wine
offered in libations to the gods already lay in broad pools upon the
hard pavement of the hall, the music and singing were drowned in shouts
the feast had become an orgy.
Verus was inciting the more quiet or slothful of his guests to a freer
enjoyment and encouraging the noisiest in their extravagant recklessness
to still more unbridled license. At the same time he bowed to each one
who drank to his health, entertained the singer who sat by his side,
flung a sparkling jest into one and another silent group, and proved to
the learned men who reclined on their couches near to his that whenever
it was possible he took an interest in their discussions. Alexandria,
the focus of all the learning of the East and the West, had seen other
festivals than this riotous banquet. Indeed, even here a vein of grave
and wise discourse flavored the meal of the circle that belonged to the
Museum; but the senseless revelry of Rome had found its way into the
houses of the rich, and even the noblest achievements of the human mind
had been made, unawares, subservient to mere enjoyment. A man was a
philosopher only that he might be prompt to discuss and always ready to
take his share in the talk; and at a banquet a well-told anecdote
was more heartily welcome than some profound idea that gave rise to a
reflection or provoked a subtle discussion.
What a noise, what a clatter was storming in the hall by the second
hour after midnight! How the lungs of the feasters were choked with
overpowering perfumes! What repulsive exhibitions met the eye! How
shamelessly was all decency trodden under foot! The poisonous breath of
unchecked license had blasted the noble moderation of the vapor of wine
which floated round this chaos of riotous topers slowly rose the pale
image of Satiety watching for victims on the morrow.
The circle of couches on which lay Florus, Favorinus and their
Alexandrian friends stood like an island in the midst of the surging sea
of the orgy. Even here the cup had been bravely passed round, and Florus
was beginning to speak somewhat indistinctly, but conversation had
hitherto had the upper hand.
Two days before, the Emperor had visited the Museum and had carried on
learned discussions with the most prominent of the sages and professors
there, in the presence of their assembled disciples. At last a formal
disputation had arisen, and the dialectic keenness and precision with
which Hadrian, in the purest Attic Greek, had succeeded in driving
his opponents into a corner had excited the greatest admiration. The
Sovereign had quitted the famous institution with a promise to reopen
the contest at an early date. The philosophers, Pancrates and Dionysius
and Apollonius, who took no wine at all, were giving a detailed account
of the different phases of this remarkable disputation and praising the
admirable memory and the ready tongue of the great monarch.
“And you did not even see him at his best,” exclaimed Favorinus, the
Gaul, the sophist and rhetorician. “He has received an unfavorable
oracle and the stars seem to confirm the prophecy. This puts him out
of tune. Between ourselves let me tell you I know a few who are
his superiors in dialectic, but in his happiest moments he is
irresistible-irresistible. Since we made up our quarrel he is like a
brother to me. I will defend him against all comers, for, as I say,
Hadrian is my brother.”
The Gaul had poured out this speech in a defiant tone and with flashing
eyes. He grew pale in his cups, touchy, boastful and very talkative.
“No doubt you are right,” replied Apollonius, “but it seemed to us that
he was bitter in discussion. His eyes are gloomy rather than gay.”
“He is my brother,” repeated Favorinus, “and as for his eyes, I have
seen them flash--by Hercules! like the radiant sun, or merry twinkling
stars! And his mouth! I know him well! He is my brother, and I will
wager that while he condescended--it is too comical--condescended to
dispute with you--with you, there was a sly smile at each corner of his
mouth--so--look now--like this he smiled.”
“I repeat, he seemed to us gloomy rather than gay,” retorted Apollonius,
with annoyance; and Pancrates added:
“If he does really know how to jest he certainly did not prove it to
us.”
“Not out of ill-will,” laughed the Gaul, “you do not know him, but I--I
am his friend and may follow wherever--he goes. Now only wait and I will
tell you a few stories about him. If I chose I could describe his whole
soul to you as if it lay there on the surface of the wine in my cup.
Once in Rome he went to inspect the newly-decorated baths of Agrippa,
and in the undressing-room he saw an old man, a veteran who had fought
with him somewhere or other. My memory is greatly admired, but his is in
no respect inferior. Scaurus was the old man’s name--yes--yes, Scaurus.
He did not observe Caesar at first, for after his bath his wounds were
burning and he was rubbing his back against the rough stone of a pillar.
Hadrian however called to him: ‘Why are you scratching yourself, my
friend?’ and Scaurus, not at once recognizing Caesar’s voice, answered
without turning round: ‘Because I have no slave to do it for me.’
You should have heard Caesar laugh! Liberal as he is sometimes--I
say sometimes--he gave Scaurus a handsome sum of money and two sturdy
slaves. The story soon got abroad, and when Caesar, who--as you
believe--cannot jest, a short time after again visited the bath, two
old soldiers at once placed themselves in his way, scrubbed their backs
against the wall like Scaurus, and called out to him ‘Great Caesar,
we have no slaves.’--‘Then scratch each other,’ cried he, and left the
soldiers to rub themselves.”
“Capital!” laughed Dionysius. “Now one more true story,” interrupted the
loquacious Gaul. “Once upon a time a man with white hair begged of him.
The wretch was a low fellow, a parasite who wandered round from one
man’s table to another, feeding himself out of other folks’ wallets and
dishes. Caesar knew his man and warned him off. Then the creature had
his hair dyed that he might not be recognized, and tried his luck a
second time with the Emperor. But Hadrian has good eyes; he pointed to
the door, saying, with the gravest face: ‘I have just lately refused to
give your father anything.’ And a hundred such jokes pass from mouth to
mouth in Rome, and if you like I can give you a dozen of the best.”
“Tell us, go on, out with your stories. They are all old friends!”
stammered Florus. “But while Favorinus chatters we can drink.”
The Gaul cast a contemptuous glance at the Roman, and answered promptly:
“My stories are too good for a drunken man.”
Florus paused to think of an answer, but before he could find one, the
praetor’s body-slave rushed into the hall crying out: “The palace at
Lochias is on fire.”
Verus kicked the mat of lilies off his feet on to the floor, tore down
the net that screened him in, and shouted to the breathless runner.
“My chariot-quick, my chariot! To our next merry meeting another evening
my friends, with many thanks for the honor you have done me. I must be
off to Lochias.”
Verus flew out of the hall, without throwing on his cloak and hot as he
was, into the cold night, and at the same time most of his guests had
started up to hurry into the open air, to see the fire and to hear the
latest news; but only very few went to the scene of the conflagration
to help the citizens to extinguish it, and many heavily intoxicated
drinkers remained lying on the couches.
As Favorinus and the Alexandrians raised themselves on their pillows
Florus cried:
“No god shall make me stir from this place, not if the whole house is
burnt down and Alexandria and Rome, and for aught I care every nest
and nook on the face of the earth. It may all burn together. The Roman
Empire can never be greater or more splendid than under Caesar! It may
burn down like a heap of straw, it is all the same to me--I shall lie
here and drink.”
The turmoil and confusion on the scene of the interrupted feast seemed
inextricable, while Verus hurried off to Sabina to inform her of what
had occurred. But Balbilla had been the first to discover the fire and
quite at the beginning, for after sitting industriously at her studies,
and before going to bed, she had looked out toward the sea. She had
instantly run out, cried “Fire!” and was now seeking for a chamberlain
to awake Sabina.
The whole of Lochias flared and shone in a purple and golden glow. It
formed the nucleus of a wide spreading radiance of tender red of which
the extent and intensity alternately grew and diminished. Verus met
the poetess at the door that led from the garden into the Empress’
apartments. He omitted on this occasion to offer his customary greeting,
but hastily asked her:
“Has Sabina been told?”
“I think not yet.”
“Then have her called. Greet her from me--I must go to Lochias”
“We will follow you.”
“No, stay here; you will be in the way there.”
“I do not take much room and I shall go. What a magnificent spectacle.”
“Eternal gods! the flames are breaking out too below the palace, by the
King’s harbor. Where can the chariots be?”
“Take me with you.”
“No you must wake the Empress.”
“And Lucilla?”
“You women must stay where you are.”
“For my part I certainly will not. Caesar will be in no danger?”
“Hardly--the old stones cannot burn.”
“Only look! how splendid! the sky is one crimson tent. I entreat you,
Verus, let me go with you.”
“No, no, pretty one. Men are wanted down there.”
“How unkind you are.”
“At last! here are the chariots! You women stay here; do you understand
me?”
“I will not take any orders; I shall go to Lochias.”
“To see Antinous in the flames! such a sight is not to be seen every
day, to be sure!” cried Verus, ironically, as he sprang into his
chariot, and took the reins into his own hand.
Balbilla stamped with rage.
She went to Sabina’s rooms fully resolved to go to the scene of the
fire. The Empress would not let herself be seen by any one, not even by
Balbilla, till she was completely dressed. A waiting-woman told Balbilla
that Sabina would get up certainly, but that for the sake of her health
she could not venture out in the night-air.
The poetess then sought Lucilla and begged her to accompany her to
Lochias; she was perfectly willing and ready, but when she heard that
her husband had wished that the women should remain at the Caesareum she
declared that she owed him obedience and tried to keep back her friend.
But the perverse curly-haired girl was fully determined, precisely
because Verus had forbidden her--and forbidden her with mocking words,
to carry out her purpose. After a short altercation with Lucilla she
left her, sought her companion Claudia, told her what she intended
doing, dismissed that lady’s remonstrance with a very positive command,
gave orders herself to the house-steward to have horses put to a chariot
and reached the imperilled palace an hour and a half after Verus.
An endless, many-headed crowd of people besieged the narrow end of
Lochias on the landward side and the harbor wharves below, where some
stores and shipyards were in flames. Boats innumerable were crowded
round the little peninsula. An attempt was being made, with much
shouting, and by the combined exertions of an immense number of men, to
get the larger ships afloat which lay at anchor close to the quay of the
King’s harbor and to place them in security. Every thing far and wide
was lighted up as brightly as by day, but with a ruddier and more
restless light. The north-east breeze fanned the fire, aggravating the
labors of the men who were endeavoring to extinguish it and snatching
flakes of flame off every burning mass. Each blazing storehouse was a
gigantic torch throwing a broad glare into the darkness of the night.
The white marble of the tallest beacon tower in the world, on the island
of Pharos, reflected a rosy hue, but its far gleaming light shone pale
and colorless. The dark hulls of the larger ships and the flotilla of
boats in the background were afloat in a fiery sea, and the still water
under the shore mirrored the illumination in which the whole of Lochias
was wrapped.
Balbilla could not tire of admiring this varying scene, in which
the most gorgeous hues vied with each other and the intensest light
contrasted with the deepest shadows. And she had ample time to dwell
on the marvellous picture before her eyes, for her chariot could only
proceed slowly, and at a point where the street led up from the King’s
harbor to the palace, lictors stood in her way and declared positively
that any farther advance was out of the question. The horses, much
scared by the glare of the fire and the crowd that pressed round them,
could hardly be controlled, first rearing and then kicking at the front
board of the chariot. The charioteer declared he could no longer be
answerable. The people who had hurried to the rescue now began to abuse
the women, who ought to have staid at home at the loom rather than come
stopping the way for useful citizens.
“There is time enough to go out driving by daylight!” cried one man;
and another: “If a spark falls in those curls another conflagration will
break out.”
The position of the ladies was becoming every instant more unendurable
and Balbilla desired the charioteer to turn round; but in the swarming
mass of men that filled the street this was easier said than done. One
of the horses broke the strap which fastened the yoke that rested on his
withers to the pole, started aside and forced back the crowd which now
began to scold and scream loudly. Balbilla wanted to spring out of the
chariot, but Claudia clung tightly to her and conjured her not to leave
her in the lurch in the midst of the danger. The spoilt patrician’s
daughter was not timid, but on this occasion she would have given
much not to have followed Verus. At first she thought, “A delightful
adventure! still, it will not be perfect till it is over.” But presently
her bold experiment lost every trace of charm, and repentance that she
had ever undertaken it filled her mind. She was far nearer weeping than
laughing already, when a man’s deep voice said behind her, in tones of
commanding decision:
“Make way there for the pumps; push aside whatever stops the way.”
These terrible words reduced Claudia to sinking on to her knees, but
Balbilla’s quelled courage found fresh wings as she heard them, for
she had recognized the voice of Pontius. Now he was close behind the
chariot, high on a horse. He then was the man on horseback whom she had
seen dashing from the sea-shore up to the higher storehouses that were
burning, down to the lake, and hither and thither.
She turned full upon him and called him by his name. He recognized her,
tried to pull up his horse as it was dashing forward, and smilingly
shook his head at her, as much as to say: “She is a giddy creature and
deserves a good scolding; but who could be angry with her?” And then
he gave his orders to his subordinates just as if she had been a mere
chattel, a bale of goods or something of the kind, and not an heiress of
distinction.
“Take out the horses,” he cried to the municipal guards; “we can use
them for carrying water.”--“Help the ladies out of the chariot.”--“Take
them between you Nonnus and Lucanus.”--“Now, stow the chariot in there
among the bushes.”--“Make way there in front, make way for our pumps.”
And each of these orders was obeyed as promptly as if it was the word of
command given by a general to his well-drilled soldiers.
After the pumps had been fairly started Pontius rode close up to
Balbilla and said:
“Caesar is safe and sound. You no doubt wished to see the progress of
the fire from a spot near it, and in fact the colors down there are
magnificent. I have not time to escort you back to the Caesareum; but
follow me. You will be safe in the harbor-guard’s stone house, and from
the roof you can command a view of Lochias and the whole peninsula. You
will have a rare feast for the eye, noble Balbilla; but I beg you not
to forget at the same time how many days of honest labor, what rich
possessions, how many treasures earned by bitter hardship are being
destroyed at this moment. What may delight you will cost bitter tears
to many others, and so let us both hope that this splendid spectacle may
now have reached its climax, and soon may come to an end.”
“I hope so--I hope it with all my heart!” cried the girl.
“I was sure you would. As soon as possible I will come to look
after you. You Nonnus and Lucanus, conduct these noble ladies to the
harbor-guard’s house.
“Tell him they are intimate friends of the Empress. Only keep the pumps
going! Till we meet again Balbilla!” and with these words the architect
gave his horse the bridle and made his way through the crowd.
A quarter of an hour later Balbilla was standing on the roof of the
little stone guard-house. Claudia was utterly exhausted and incapable of
speech. She sat in the dark little parlor below on a rough-hewn wooden
bench. But the young Roman now gazed at the fire with different eyes
than before. Pontius had made her feel a foe to the flames which only a
short time before had filled her with delight as they soared up to the
sky, wild and fierce. They still flared up violently, as though they
had to climb above the roof; but soon they seemed to be quelled and
exhausted, to find it more and more difficult to rise above the black
smoke which welled up from the burning mass. Balbilla had looked out
for the architect and had soon discovered him, for the man on horseback
towered above the crowd. He halted now by one and now by another burning
storehouse. Once she lost sight of him for a whole hour, for he had
gone to Lochias. Then again he reappeared, and wherever he stayed for a
while, the raging element abated its fury.
Without her having perceived it, the wind had changed and the air had
become still and much warmer. This circumstance favored the efforts of
the citizens trying to extinguish the fire, but Balbilla ascribed it
to the foresight of her clever friend when the flames subsided in souse
places and in others were altogether extinguished. Once she saw that he
had a building completely torn down which divided a burning granary
from some other storehouses that had been spared, and she understood
the object of this order; it cut off the progress of the flames. Another
time she saw him high on the top of a rise in the ground. Close before
him in a sheet of flame was a magazine in which were kept tow and casks
of resin and pitch. He turned his face full towards it and gave his
orders, now on this side, now on that. His figure and that of his horse,
which reared uneasily beneath him, were flooded in a crimson glow--a
splendid picture! She trembled for him, she gazed in admiration at this
calm, resolute, energetic man, and when a blazing beam fell close in
front of him and after his frightened horse had danced round and
round with him, he forced it to submit to his guidance, the praetor’s
insinuation recurred to her mind, that she clung to her determination
to go to Lochias because she hoped to enjoy the spectacle of Antinous in
the flames. Here, before her, was a nobler display, and yet her lively
imagination which often, sometimes indeed against her will, gave shape
to her formless thoughts--called up the image of the beautiful youth
surrounded by the glowing glory which still painted the horizon.
Hour after hour slipped by; the efforts of the thousands who endeavored
to extinguish the blaze were crowned by increasing success; one burning
mass after another was quenched, if not extinguished, and instead
of flames smoke, mingled with sparks, rose from Lochias blacker and
blacker-and still Pontius came not to look after her. She could not see
any stars for the sky was overcast with clouds, but the beginning of a
new day could not be far distant. She was shivering with cold, and her
friend’s long absence began to annoy her. When, presently, it began to
rain in large drops, she went down the ladder that led from the roof
and sat down by the fire in the little room where her companion had gone
fast asleep.
She had been sitting quite half an hour and gazing dreamily into the
warming glow, when she heard the sound of hoofs and Pontius appeared.
His face was begrimed, and his voice hoarse with shouting commands for
hours. As soon as she saw him Balbilla forgot her vexation, greeted him
warmly, and told him how she had watched his every movement; but the
eager girl, so readily fired to enthusiasm, could only with the greatest
difficulty bring out a few words to express the admiration that his mode
of proceeding had so deeply excited in her mind.
She heard him say that his mouth was quite parched and his throat was
longing for a draught of some drink, and she--who usually had every pin
she needed handed to her by a slave, and on whom fate had bestowed no
living creature whom she could find a pleasure in serving--she, with her
own hand dipped a cup of water out of the large clay jar that stood in
a corner of the room and offered it to him with a request that he would
drink it. He eagerly swallowed the refreshing fluid, and when the little
cup was empty Balbilla took it from his hand, refilled it, and gave it
him again.
Claudia, who woke up when the architect came in, looked on at her
foster-child’s unheard-of proceedings with astonishment, shaking her
head. When Pontius had drained the third cupful that Balbilla fetched
for him he exclaimed, drawing a deep breath:
“That was a drink--I never tasted a better in the whole course of my
life.”
“Muddy water out of a nasty earthen pitcher!” answered the girl.
“And it tasted better than wine from Byblos out of a golden goblet.”
“You had honestly earned the refreshment, and thirst gives flavor to the
humblest liquor.”
“You forget the hand that gave it me,” replied the architect warmly.
Balbilla colored and looked at the floor in confusion, but presently
raised her face and said, as gayly and carelessly as ever:
“So that you have been deliciously refreshed; and now that is done you
will go home and the poor thirsty soul will once more become the great
architect. But before that happens, pray inform us what god it was that
brought you hither from Pelusium in the very nick of time when the fire
broke out, and how matters look now in the palace at Lochias?”
“My time is short,” replied Pontius, and he then rapidly told her
that, after he had finished his work at Pelusium, he had returned to
Alexandria with the imperial post. As he got out of the chariot at
the post-house he observed the reflection of fire over the sea and
was immediately after told by a slave that it was the palace that was
burning. There were horses in plenty at the post-house; he had chosen a
strong one and had got to the spot before the crowd had collected. How
the fire had originated, so far remained undiscovered. “Caesar,” he
said, “was in the act of observing the heavens when a flame broke out
in a store-shed close to the tower. Antinous was the first to detect
it, cried ‘Fire,’ and warned his master. I found Hadrian in the greatest
agitation; he charged me to superintend the work of rescuing all that
could be saved. At Lochias. Verus helped me greatly and indeed with so
much boldness and judgment that I owe very much to him. Caesar himself
kept his favorite within the palace, for the poor fellow burned both his
hands.”
“Oh!” cried Balbilla with eager regret. “How did that happen?”
“When Hadrian and Antinous first came down from the tower they brought
with them as many of the instruments and manuscripts as they could
carry. When they were at the bottom Caesar observed that a tablet with
important calculations had been left lying up above and expressed his
regret. Meanwhile the fire had already caught the slightly-built turret
and it seemed impossible to get into it again. But the dreamy Bithynian
can wake out of his slumbers it would seem, and while Caesar was
anxiously watching the burning bundles of flax which the wind kept
blowing across to the harbor the rash boy rushed into the burning
building, flung the tablet down from the top of the tower and then
hurried down the stairs. His bold action would indeed have cost the poor
fellow his life if the slave Mastor; who meanwhile had hurried to the
spot, had not dragged him down the stone stair of the old tower on
which the new one stood and carried him into the open air. He was half
suffocated at the top of them and had dropped down senseless.”
“But he is alive, the splendid boy, the image of the gods! and he is out
of danger?” cried Balbilla, with much anxiety.
“He is quite well; only his hands, as I said, are somewhat burnt, and
his hair is singed, but that will grow again.”
“His soft, lovely curls!” cried Balbilla. “Let us go home, Claudia. The
gardener shall cut a magnificent bunch of roses, and we will send it to
Antinous to please him.”
“Flowers to a man who does not care about them?” asked Pontius, gravely.
“With what else can women reward men’s virtues or do honor to their
beauty?” asked Balbilla.
“Our own conscience is the reward of our honest actions, or the laurel
wreath from the hand of some famous man.”
“And beauty?”
“That of women claims and wins admiration, love too perhaps and
flowers-that of men may rejoice the eye, but to do it Honor is a task
granted to no mortal woman.”
“To whom, then, if I may ask the question?”
“To Art, which makes it immortal.”
“But the roses may bring some comfort and pleasure to the suffering
youth.”
“Then send them-but to the sick boy, and not to the handsome man,”
retorted Pontius.
Balbilla was silent, and she and her companion followed the architect
to the harbor. There he parted from them, putting them into a boat which
took them back to the Caesareum through one of the arch-gates under the
Heptastadium.
As they were rowed along the younger Roman lady said to the elder:
“Pontius has quite spoilt my fun about the roses. The sick boy is the
handsome Antinous all the same, and if anybody could think--well,
I shall do just as I please; still it will be best not to cut the
nosegay.”