Pontius did not find the Emperor at Lochias, for Hadrian had moved at
mid-day to the Caesareum. The strong smell of burning in every room
in the palace had sickened him and he had begun to regard the restored
building as a doomed scene of disaster. The architect was waited for
with much anxiety, for the rooms originally furnished for the Emperor in
the Caesareum had been despoiled and disarranged to decorate the rooms
at Lochias, and Pontius was wanted to superintend their immediate
rehabilitation. A chariot was waiting for him and there was no lack of
slaves, so he began this fresh task at once and devoted himself to
it till late at night. It was in vain this time that his anteroom was
filled with people waiting for his return.
Hadrian had retired to some rooms which formed part of his wife’s
apartments. He was in a grave mood, and when the prefect Titianus was
announced he kept him waiting till, with his own hand, he had laid a
fresh dressing on his favorite’s burns.
“Go now, my lord,” begged the Bithynian, when the Emperor had finished
his task with all the skill of a surgeon: “Titianus has been walking up
and down in there for the last quarter of an hour.”
“And so he may,” said the monarch. “And if the whole world is shrieking
for me it must wait till these faithful hands have had their due. Yes,
my boy! we will wander on through life together, inseparable comrades.
Others indeed do the same, and each one who goes through life side by
side with a companion sharing all he enjoys or suffers, comes to think
at last that he knows him as he knows himself; still the inmost core of
his friend’s nature remains concealed from him. Then, some day Fate lets
a storm come raging down upon them; the last veil is torn, under the
wanderer’s eyes, from the very heart of his companion, and at last he
really sees him as he is, like a kernel stripped of its shell, a bare
and naked body. Last night such a blast swept over us and let me see
the heart of my Antinous, as plainly as this hand I hold before my eyes.
Yes, yes, yes! for the man who will risk his young and happy existence
for a thing his friend holds precious would sacrifice ten lives if he
had them, for his friend’s person. Never, my friend, shall that night be
forgotten. It gives you the right to do much that might pain me, and
has graven your name on my heart, the foremost among those to whom I am
indebted for any benefit.--They are but few.”
Hadrian held out his hand to Antinous as he spoke. The boy, who had kept
his eyes fixed on the ground in much confusion, raised it to his lips
and pressed it against them in violent agitation. Then he raised his
large eyes to the Emperor’s and said:
“You must not speak to me so kindly, for I do not deserve such goodness.
What is my life after all? I would let it go, as a child leaves go of a
beetle it has caught, to spare you one single anxious day.”
“I know it,” answered Hadrian firmly, and he went to the prefect in the
adjoining room.
Titianus had come in obedience to Hadrian’s orders; the matter to be
settled was what indemnification was to be paid to the city and to
the individual owners of the storehouses that had been destroyed, for
Hadrian had caused a decree to be proclaimed that no one should suffer
any loss through a misfortune sent by the gods and which had originated
in his residence. The prefect had already instituted the necessary
inquiries and the private secretaries, Phlegon, Heliodorus and Celer,
were now charged with the duty of addressing documents to the injured
parties in which they were invited, in the name of Caesar, to declare
the truth as to the amount of the loss they had suffered. Titianus
also brought the information that the Greeks and Jews had determined
to express their thankfulness for Caesar’s preservation by great
thank-offerings.
“And the Christians,” asked Hadrian.
“They abominate the sacrifice of animals, but they will unite in a
common act of thanksgiving.”
“Their gratitude will not cost them much,” said Hadrian.
“Their bishop, Eumenes, brought me a sum of money for which a hundred
oxen might be bought, to distribute among the poor. He said the God of
the Christians is a spirit and requires none but spiritual sacrifices;
that the best offering a man can bring him is a prayer prompted by the
spirit and proceeding from a loving heart.”
“That sounds very well for us,” said Hadrian. “But it will not do for
the people. Philosophical doctrines do not tend to piety; the populace
need visible gods and tangible sacrifices. Are the Christians here good
citizens and devoted to the welfare of the state?”
“We need no courts of justice for them.”
“Then take their money and distribute it among the needy; but I must
forbid their meeting for a general thanksgiving; they may raise their
hands to their great spirit in my behalf, in private. Their doctrine
must not be brought into publicity; it is not devoid of a delusive charm
and it is indispensable to the safety of the state that the mob should
remain faithful to the old gods and sacrifices.”
“As you command, Caesar.”
“You know the account given of the Christians by Pliny and Trajan?”
“And Trajan’s answer.”
“Well then let us leave them to follow their own devices in private
after their own fashion; only they must not commit any breach of the
laws of the state nor force themselves into publicity. As soon as they
show any disposition to refuse to the old gods the respect that is due
to them, or to raise a finger against them, severity must be exercised
and every excess must be punished by death.”
During this conversation Verus had entered the room; he was following
the Emperor everywhere to-day for he hoped to hear him say a word as to
his observation of the heavens, and yet he did not dare to ask him what
he had discovered from them.
When he saw that Hadrian was occupied he made a chamberlain conduct him
to Antinous. The favorite turned pale as he saw the praetor, still
he retained enough presence of mind to wish him all happiness on his
birthday. It did not escape Verus that his presence had startled
the lad; he therefore plied him at first with indifferent questions,
introduced pleasing anecdotes into his conversation and then, when he
had gained his purpose, he added carelessly:
“I must thank you in the name of the state and of every friend of
Caesar’s. You carried out your undertaking well to the end, though by
somewhat overpowering means.”
“I entreat you say no more,” interrupted Antinous eagerly, and looking
anxiously at the door of the next room.
“Oh! I would have sacrificed all Alexandria to preserve Caesar’s mind
from gloom and care. Besides we have both paid dearly for our good
intentions and for those wretched sheds.”
“Pray talk of something else.”
“You sit there with your hands bound up and your hair singed, and I feel
very unwell.”
“Hadrian said you had helped valiantly in the rescue.”
“I was sorry for the poor rats whose gathered store of provisions the
flames were so rapidly devouring, and all hot as I was from my supper, I
flung myself in among the men who were extinguishing the fire. My first
reward was a bath of cold, icy-cold sea-water, which was poured over my
head out of a full skin. All doctrines of ethics are in disgrace with
me, and I have long considered all the dramatic poets, in whose pieces
virtue is rewarded and crime punished, as a pack of fools; for my
pleasantest hours are all due to my worst deeds; and sheer annoyance and
misery, to my best. No hyena can laugh more hoarsely that I now speak;
some portion of me inside here, seems to have been turned into a
hedgehog whose spines prick and hurt me, and all this because I allowed
myself to be led away into doing things which the moralists laud as
virtuous.”
“You cough, and you do not look well. He down awhile.”
“On my birthday? No, my young friend. And now let me just ask you before
I go: Can you tell me what Hadrian read in the stars?”
“No.”
“Not even if I put my Perseus at your orders for every thing you may
require of him? The man knows Alexandria and is as dumb as a fish.”
“Not even then, for what I do not know I cannot tell. We are both of
us ill, and I tell you once more you will be wise to take care of
yourself.” Verus left the room, and Antinous watched him go with much
relief.
The praetor’s visit had filled him with disquietude, and had added to
the dislike he felt for him. He knew that he had been used to base ends
by Verus, for Hadrian had told him so much as that he had gone up to
the observatory not to question the stars for himself but to cast the
praetor’s horoscope, and that he had informed Verus of his intention.
There was no excuse, no forgiveness possible for the deed he had done;
to please that dissolute coxcomb, that mocking hypocrite, he had
become a traitor to his master and an incendiary, and must endure to
be overwhelmed with praises and thanks by the greatest and most
keen-sighted of men. He hated, he abhorred himself, and asked himself
why the fire which had blazed around him had been satisfied only to
inflict slight injuries on his hands and hair. When Hadrian returned to
him he asked his permission to go to bed. The Emperor gladly granted
it, ordered Mastor to watch by his side, and then agreed to his wife’s
request that he would visit her.
Sabina had not been to the scene of the fire, but she had sent a
messenger every hour to inquire as to the progress of the conflagration
and the well-being of her husband. When he had first arrived at the
Caesareum she had met and welcomed him and then had retired to her own
apartments.
It wanted only two hours of midnight when Hadrian entered her room; he
found her reclining on a couch without the jewels she usually wore in
the daytime but dressed as for a banquet.
“You wished to speak with me?” said the Emperor. “Yes, and this day--so
full of remarkable events as it has been--has also a remarkable close
since I have not wished in vain.”
“You so rarely give me the opportunity of gratifying a wish.”
“And do you complain of that?”
“I might--for instead of wishing you are wont to demand.”
“Let us cease this strife of idle words.”
“Willingly. With what object did you send for me?”
“Verus is to-day keeping his birthday.”
“And you would like to know what the stars promise him?”
“Rather how the signs in the heavens have disposed you towards him.”
“I had but little time to consider what I saw. But at any rate the stars
promise him a brilliant future.”
A gleam of joy shone in Sabina’s eyes, but she forced herself to keep
calm and asked, indifferently:
“You admit that, and yet you can come to no decision?”
“Then you want to hear the decisive word spoken at once, to-day?”
“You know that without my answering you.”
“Well, then, his star outshines mine and compels me to be on my guard
against him.”
“How mean! You are afraid of the praetor?”
“No, but of his fortune which is bound up with you?”
“When he is our son his greatness will be ours.”
“By no means, since if I make him what you wish him to be, he will
certainly try to make our greatness his. Destiny--”
“You said it favored him; but unfortunately I must dispute the
statement.”
“You? Do you try too, to read the stars?”
“No, I leave that to men. Have you heard of Ammonius, the astrologer?”
“Yes. A very learned man who observes from the tower of the Serapeum,
and who, like many of his fellows in this city has made use of his art
to accumulate a large fortune.”
“No less a man than the astronomer Claudius Ptolemaeus referred me to
him.”
“The best of recommendation.”
“Well, then, I commissioned Ammonius to cast the horoscope for Verus
during the past night and he brought it to me with an explanatory key.
Here it is.”
The Emperor hastily seized the tablet which Sabina held out to him, and
as he attentively examined the forecasts, arranged in order according to
the hours, he said:
“Quite right. That of course did not escape me! Well done, exactly the
same as my own observations--but here--stay--here comes the third hour,
at the beginning of which I was interrupted. Eternal gods! what have we
here?”
The Emperor held the wax tablet prepared by Aminonius at arm’s length
from his eyes and never parted his lips again till he had come to the
end of the last hour of the night. Then he dropped the hand that held
the horoscope, saying with a shudder:
“A hideous destiny. Horace was right in saying the highest towers fall
with the greatest crash.”
“The tower of which you speak,” said Sabina, “is that darling of
fortune of whom you are afraid. Vouchsafe then to Verus a brief space of
happiness before the horrible end you foresee for him.”
While she spoke Hadrian sat with his eyes thoughtfully fixed on the
ground, and then, standing in front of his wife, he replied:
“If no sinister catastrophe falls upon this man, the stars and the fate
of men have no more to do with one another than the sea with the heart
of the desert, than the throb of men’s pulses with the pebbles in the
brook. If Ammonius has erred ten times over still more than ten signs
remain on this tablet, hostile and fatal to the praetor. I grieve for
Verus--but the state suffers with the sovereign’s misfortunes.--This man
can never be my successor.”
“No?” asked Sabina rising from her couch. “No? Not when you have seen
that your own star outlives his? Not though a glance at this tablet
shows you that when he is nothing but ashes the world will still
continue long to obey your nod?”
“Compose yourself and give me time.--Yes, I still say not even so.”
“Not even so,” repeated Sabina sullenly. Then, collecting herself, she
asked in a tone of vehement entreaty:
“Not even so--not even if I lift my hands to you in supplication and
cry in your face that you and Fate have grudged me the blessing, the
happiness, the crown and aim of a woman’s life, and I must and I will
attain it; I must and I will once, if only for a short time, hear
myself called by some dear lips by the name which gives the veriest
beggar-woman with her infant in her arms preeminence above the Empress
who has never stood by a child’s cradle. I must and I will, before I
die, be a mother, be called mother and be able to say, ‘my child, my
son--our son.’” And as she spoke she sobbed aloud and covered her face
with her hands.
The Emperor drew back a step from his wife. A miracle had been
wrought before his eyes. Sabina--in whose eyes no tear had ever been
seen--Sabina was weeping, Sabina had a heart like other women. Greatly
astonished and deeply moved he saw her turn from him, utterly shaken by
the agitation of her feelings, and sink on her knees by the side of
the couch she had quitted to hide her face in the cushions. He stood
motionless by her side, but presently going nearer to her:
“Stand up, Sabina,” he said. “Your desire is a just one. You shall have
the son for whom your soul longs.”
The Empress rose and a grateful look in her eyes, swimming in tears, met
his glance. Sabina could smile too, she could look sweet! It had taken a
lifetime, it had needed such a moment as this to reveal it to Hadrian.
He silently drew a seat towards her and sat down by her side; for some
time he sat with her hand clasped in his, in silence. Then he let it go
and said kindly:
“And will Verus fulfil all you expect of a son?” She nodded assent.
“What makes you so confident of that?” asked the Emperor. “He is a Roman
and not lacking in brilliant and estimable gifts. A man who shows such
mettle alike in the field and in the council-chamber and yet can play
the part of Eros with such success will also know how to wear the purple
without disgracing it. But he has his mother’s light blood, and his
heart flutters hither and thither.”
“Let him be as he is. We understand each other and he is the only man on
whose disposition I can build, on whose fidelity I can count as securely
as if he were my favorite son.”
“And on what facts is this confidence based?”
“You will understand me, for you are not blind to the signs which Fate
vouchsafes to us. Have you time to listen to a short story?”
“The night is yet young.”
“Then I will tell you. Forgive me if I begin with things that seem dead
and gone; but they are not, for they live and work in me to this hour. I
know that you yourself did not choose me for your wife. Plotina chose
me for you--she loved you, whether your regard for her was for the
beautiful woman or for the wife of Caesar to whom everything belonged
that you had to look for--how should I know?”
“It was Plotina, the woman, that I honored and loved--”
“In choosing me she chose you a wife who was tall and so fitted to wear
the purple, but who was never beautiful. She knew me well and she knew
that I was less apt than any other woman to win hearts; in my parents’
house no child ever enjoyed so slender a share of the gifts of love,
and none can know better than you that my husband did not spoil me with
tenderness.”
“I could repent of it at this moment.”
“It would be too late now. But I will not be bitter--no, indeed I will
not. And yet if you are to understand me I must own that so long as I
was young I longed bitterly for the love which no one offered me.”
“And you yourself have never loved?”
“No--but it pained me that I could not. In Plotina’s apartments I often
saw the children of her relations, and many a time I tried to attract
them to me, but while they would play confidently with other women they
seemed to shun me. Soon I even grew cross to them--only our Verus, the
little son of Celonius Commodus, would give me frank answers when I
spoke to him, and would bring me his broken toys that I might mend their
injuries. And so I got to love the child.”
“He was a wonderfully sweet, attractive boy.”
“He was indeed. One day we women were all sitting together in Caesar’s
garden. Verus came running out with a particularly fine apple that
Trajan himself had given him. The rosy-cheeked fruit was admired by
every one. Then Plotina, in fun took the apple out of the boy’s hand and
asked him if he would not give his apple to her. He looked at her with
wide-open puzzled eyes, shook his curly head, ran up to me and gave
me--yes, me, and no one else--the fruit, throwing his arms round my neck
and saying, ‘Sabina you shall have it.’”
“The judgment of Paris.”
“Nay, do not jest now. This action of an unselfish child gave me courage
to endure the troubles of life. I knew now that there was one creature
that loved me, and that one repaid all that I felt for him, all that
I was never weary of doing for him with affectionate liking. He is the
only being, of whom I know, that will weep when I die. Give him the
right to call me his mother and make him our son.”
“He is our son,” said Hadrian, with dignified gravity, and held out his
hand to Sabina. She tried to lift it to her lips but he drew it away and
went on:
“Inform him that we accept him as our son. His wife is the daughter of
Nigrinus--who had to go, as I desired to stay and stand firm. You do
not love Lucilla, but we must both admire her for I do not know another
woman in Rome whose virtue a man might vouch for. Besides, I owe her a
father, and am glad to have such a daughter; thus we shall be blessed
with children. Whether I shall appoint Verus my successor and proclaim
to the world who shall be its future ruler I cannot now decide; for
that I need a calmer hour. Till to-morrow, Sabina. This day began with
a misfortune; may the deed with which we have combined to end it prosper
and bring us happiness.”