PSYCHE
[Illustration]
PSYCHE
BY
WALTER S. CRAMP
_With Illustrations from Drawings by_
W. T. BENDA
[Illustration]
_BOSTON_ · LITTLE, BROWN
AND COMPANY · _MCMV_
_Copyright, 1905_,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_
Published April, 1905
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
TO
MY DEAR PARENTS
WHO, HAVING GATHERED IN THE MIDDAY OF THEIR LIVES
BEAUTIFUL FLOWERS OF PEACE, WEAR THEM
STILL FRESH AND LOVELY
AT EVENTIDE
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
“The lovers seated themselves on the marble bench
and watched the playing fountain” _Frontispiece_
“She exultantly raised him, and placing her face
near his, murmured some inarticulate words that
Gannon did not understand” _Page_ 21
“He staggered ... and the cup dropped from his
hand and bounded upon the floor” “ 130
“Refreshed by the salt breezes, Agrippina and Psyche
sat upon the deck of the vessel and watched the
smooth sea reflecting the setting sun” “ 247
PSYCHE
Chapter I
In the year 23 A. D. there lived in Rome a youth named Gannon. He
was a comely lad, seventeen years old, with a bright and happy face
covered with a light down. His profile was Greek. His head was poised
gracefully on his vigorous young shoulders. His dark eyebrows were
slightly curved, and two bright black eyes sparkled under them. His
black hair was short and brushed forward. He was neither tall nor
stout. He wore a tunic which came down to above his knees, leaving
bare his well-shaped neck, arms, and legs. On his small feet were
leather sandals, held on by a string of the same material, interlaced
and tied above his ankles. His whole air betokened a frank, ingenuous
nature; and a cheery influence seemed to surround him, invisible yet
perceptible to every one with whom he came in contact.
He was sitting in a room of the Praetorian Camp, translating a letter
from Greek into Latin. The task was not a difficult one; for his
parents were Greek, and he had been taught by his father to speak and
write both languages with fluency and exactness. His duties consisted
in copying despatches, writing and translating letters, and taking care
of some of the private correspondence of Sejanus, the commander of the
Praetorians. The situation, although a responsible one for so young a
lad, had been easily secured. Through a friend of his father he had
obtained a position as secretary to Macro, an officer in the camp. One
day, noticing his intelligent and handsome face, Sejanus took him to
his office and tested his ability. The result was so favorable that he
made Gannon one of his own secretaries.
Gannon’s father, Alcmaeon, taught Greek in one of the schools of the
city. He earned barely enough to support his family of three,--wife,
son, and daughter. It was, therefore, with joy that he welcomed the
day when Gannon was able to earn his own livelihood. He looked upon
his son’s advancement with pride and yet with foreboding. While in the
employ of Macro, Gannon had always spent his nights at home; now he
was permitted to go home only one night each week. Under Macro he had
done only clerical work; now his duties were such that he might learn
some important and dangerous secrets. With Macro he worked alone; now
he was thrown into the company of unprincipled companions. At first,
when Gannon heard the rough stories that circulated around the camp, he
modestly retired; but now he could hear the coarsest ones with little
show of shame.
The history of Alcmaeon was a sad one. His father had been wealthy,
but had lost his patrimony when Antony marched through Greece to fight
Octavianus. With what little he had left he moved with his wife to
Brundusium, a great seaport town in Italy, where Alcmaeon was born.
They lived there until Alcmaeon grew to manhood and married. After the
death of his father Alcmaeon took his mother and his wife, Hera, and
moved to Rome, where he rented a small house outside the city, on a
little road that crossed the Appian Way.
As there was more demand for Greek teachers in Rome than in Brundusium,
he soon found employment in one of the schools. But his life was again
saddened by the death of his mother. Her delicate constitution could
not brave the fever that hovered over the suburbs of the city. Soon
after this second loss his daughter, Psyche, was born, and in the
following year Gannon. With their coming a new era began for Alcmaeon.
After his day’s work at school he hastened home in joyful anticipation
of seeing the smiling faces of his children. How it pleased him to
watch his little ones grow, day by day! With what delight he taught
their baby lips to speak the language of his fatherland! How he loved
to put them to sleep, while Hera removed the remains of the evening
meal! During this, the children’s hour, he would tenderly take them
into his arms for a frolic, and gradually quiet them until their
eyelids grew heavy and closed in sleep. Then he would gently put them
to bed, and softly kiss them good-night.
When the position as secretary to Sejanus was offered to Gannon, the
lad nearly danced with joy. His young heart beat stronger and faster as
he broke the news to his family. With such an opportunity he thought he
might advance, by diligent application, until he should occupy a post
of high honor. He thought that the prayers of his parents, as well as
his own, were at last being answered; that through him the fortunes of
his family were to be restored. He told his parents that he would take
them back to dear old Greece; that they should live once more in the
country where, as Alcmaeon said, “The music of soul-stirring phrases
and glorious ideas was forged by great men on the anvils of poetry
and philosophy.” He worked earnestly and diligently, and progressed
steadily, until he was trusted with communications to carry to the
emperor. He so promptly responded to every summons, and so cheerfully
carried out the orders of Sejanus, as to win the favor of that sternest
of masters. His proud and graceful bearing and refined manners greatly
aided in his advancement. Chiefly because of these advantages, he had
been chosen to carry letters from his master to Livilla, the wife of
Drusus and the daughter-in-law of Tiberius.
His situation, however, was not one of unalloyed happiness. His
promotion engendered little jealousies and quarrels. At first the other
secretaries in the office of Sejanus treated Gannon contemptuously.
They watched his advancement invidiously, and one of them, named
Alvus, who had previously been employed to carry letters to Livilla,
quarrelled with him. Words led to blows, and, although Gannon fought
bravely, he was badly beaten. However, the secretaries understood that
they could not intimidate him. But there was continual friction, until,
one day, Alvus fell ill. With no feeling of resentment towards Alvus,
Gannon performed not only his own work, but also that of his sick
associate. By this generous act, by other favors, and by the ingenuous
manner in which he taught his companions to ornament their speech with
Greek words, a fashion of the day, he completely won their friendship.
When Gannon carried the first letter to Livilla, he looked upon
that event as the most important in his life. He impatiently awaited
his night of freedom, so that he could describe to his family the
magnificent palace on the Esquiline Hill. When the night finally came,
he hurried home. On his arrival the evening meal was ready, and his
family were awaiting him.
“Hail, father, and thee, mother, and thee, Psyche!” he cried joyfully,
as he entered the house.
“Art thou not late, my son?” asked Hera.
“Ay, mother. We are always busy at the camp. To-day many letters came
from Greece.”
He lovingly kissed his family. His happy talk and gay spirits affected
them as a flood of light brightens a darkened room.
“Art thou not hungry, my son?” asked Alcmaeon.
“As hungry as a starving Argonaut,” said Gannon, laughing.
“Come, Hera! Be the Medea to this starving Jason,” said the father,
catching the infection of his son’s high spirits.
Hera went to the hearth, and distributed from a boiling pot a thick
soup of barley and vegetables.
“O my mother! My favorite broth!” exclaimed Gannon. “A kiss for thy
kindness and thy goodness.”
Hera smiled as she received her son’s token of gratitude and affection.
“What news hast thou to feed our curiosity to-night, my son?” asked
Alcmaeon.
“I have carried letters to Livilla since I last saw thee.”
“To the wife of Drusus?” he asked, in surprise.
“Ay, father,--but wait until the meal is over. I will then tell thee
all. Where is Gyges?” he asked roguishly, looking at Psyche.
“He has gone to Capua to try some horses,” Psyche replied.
“Of a truth, Fortune smiles upon him,” said Gannon.
“Do you speak of his wealth?” asked Psyche, shyly.
“Thou dost not understand me, O my sister. I mean that he is fortunate
in winning thee.”
“Rather, Fortune is good to me, my brother. I am to marry a noble man.”
“The gods be thanked for such a union of true and loving hearts,” said
Alcmaeon.
“Thy bowl is empty, my son,” interrupted Hera. “Wilt thou have more
broth?”
“If thou canst spare some,” said Gannon.
Hera gladly refilled Gannon’s bowl.
“In the past week thou hast not visited me at school,” said Alcmaeon.
“Nay, father; but ’twas not because the desire was lacking. I had not
the time.”
“Hast thou been sent again with letters to the emperor?” inquired the
father, with anxious interest.
“Only once,” replied Gannon; “but I saw not the emperor. On the way I
passed Nero, that most fortunate of princes. He assumes the manly habit
in a few days.”
“In the games and entertainments which he gives the people to celebrate
that event, Psyche will dance,” proudly said the mother.
“What character portrayest thou, my sister?” asked Gannon.
“Niobe,” she replied.
“I like thy Daphne better,” he suggested.
“’Tis more pleasing, but the character of Niobe requires more art.”
“Ay, but the movements are more graceful in Daphne. Niobe is too sad.”
“The dance begins in lively fashion,” she insisted.
“True. But I like Apollo better when he pursues a lovely maiden than
when he shoots to kill,” said Gannon, still unconvinced.
At this moment Hera, who had left the room, reappeared, carrying a
plateful of cakes.
“What, my mother! My favorite cakes too!” exclaimed the youth.
“I kept them hidden so as to surprise thee,” replied the fond mother.
“Thou couldst not have pleased me better, my dear mother,” exclaimed
Gannon, with evident appreciation.
After they had eaten the cakes, and the room was arranged for the
night, Alcmaeon threw himself upon a couch. Gannon seated himself
beside him, so that, upon leaning back, his head touched his father’s
shoulder. Hera and Psyche sat near them, side by side.
“Now, my son,” gently commanded Alcmaeon, “describe to us the palace on
the Esquiline Hill.”
“Oh, my dear father, it is like a dream,” Gannon began, in a voice
filled with enthusiasm. “The meandering walk that leads from the
massive iron gates to the palace is bordered with short-trimmed
boxwood, over which peep dark crimson anemones, golden daffodils,
purple violets, pale-blue hyacinths, and the starlike blooms of the
white narcissus. Superb pine-trees interweave their branches across
the walk, revealing the blue sky as through the meshes of a green net.
Roofs of verdure embower pure white statues of Diana, Daphne, naiads,
and dancing fauns. Fountains play sweet and endless music. Quiet pools
of water, with lilies floating on the surface, are bordered by majestic
firs. Carved marble benches are placed in shady nooks and corners, and
rustic summer-houses here and there invite to rest. The words of Homer
seem to have become living things. O my father, Maecenas, the rich
minister of the Divine Augustus, well knew how to group the gifts of
the gods in delightful harmony.”
“Maecenas was more Greek than Roman, my son,” said Alcmaeon. “No Roman,
except the Divine Augustus, understood beauty as he did.”
“Maecenas built his palace of marble as temples are built,” continued
Gannon. “Graceful columns with Corinthian capitals support the roof
of the atrium, peristyle, and corridors. Some of the rooms have walls
of polished marble. All are lavishly decorated with rare paintings,
exquisite carvings, beautiful statues,--all the work of the deft
fingers of our countrymen. It is not surpassed even by the palace of
Tiberius, which I described to thee last week.”
“As if by magic, my son,” said Alcmaeon, proudly, “Greek hands have
congealed and fixed forever the ecstasies of the affections. Painting,
sculpture, and architecture, O Gannon, are the gifts of the Greeks to
the world.”
“On the opposite sides of the atrium,” continued Gannon, “with their
faces towards each other, are two wonderful busts of Plato and
Socrates. So lifelike are they that they seem to speak.”
“They are well placed, my son. Plato looks to Socrates for intellectual
light; Socrates looks to Plato to transmit that light to souls that sit
in darkness.”
“Verily, my father, ’tis strange what influence the Greeks have over
the Romans.”
“Ah! Forget not, my son,” said Alcmaeon, “that beauty, art, and
understanding still rule the world. Rome has conquered Greece by
military force; but Greece has conquered the world by that higher
celestial force, intellect. Greece has had her day of wealth and power;
but her genius, her art, her architecture, her statues, her poetry, and
her philosophy are living influences, before whose vitality the Roman
legions are impotent.”
“True, my father. Yet before the Roman legions the world trembles,”
said Gannon.
“The world trembles from fear, not from the thrill of Roman
intellectual power,” earnestly asserted Alcmaeon. “Rome rules the body;
Greece, the mind. Rome creates worldly dominions; Greece, heavenly
kingdoms. Rome stands for war; Greece stands for peace.”
“The Greeks were brave, O my father. Are they not still brave?”
interjected Gannon.
Without replying directly to the eager question of his son, Alcmaeon
resumed: “Prometheus brought fire to mortals and was punished; Greece
brought reasoning and was punished. But Prometheus is now free; Greece
still feeds from her vitals the hunger of the Roman eagle, greedy for
gold. Where is the Hercules that will set her free?”
“Is Greek heroism, then, dead?” asked Gannon. “Will no Leonidas, no
Themistocles, no Alexander, ever arise again?”
“Nations, like homes, buildings, armies, cities, and individuals, have
their genii, my son,” replied Alcmaeon. “Who, therefore, knows the
caprices of Fate?”
Alcmaeon spoke the last words slowly, with a slight tremor in his voice.
“But why should my companions in the camp taunt me by saying that the
Greeks are weak, effeminate, and cowardly?” asked Gannon.
“The Romans are a vulgar, brutal, and licentious people,” answered
Alcmaeon. “Few of them understand the higher life, according to our
philosophy. We have done nothing to cause the blush of shame, O my son.
The Romans believe us weak because we have ceased to fight. Physical
strength wanes with age, but the mind often retains its vigor. The
Romans call us effeminate. Because our stomachs cannot hold as much
wine as theirs do, are we soft? Because we, in our Pentathlons, run,
jump, wrestle, throw the discus and javelin; and because the Romans
in their games kill one another and drink one another’s blood, are we
effeminate? Be proud to be called effeminate under such conditions, O
my son!”
Alcmaeon became more earnest as he proceeded. Gannon turned so as to
see his father’s face. Hera and Psyche leaned forward, with breathless
attention.
“They call us cowards! Those who do so lie!” he continued. “Nations are
not cowards if they are conquered while fighting to the death. We are
Corinthians, O my children, and on the awful day when we were defeated
by the Romans under the inhuman Mummius, the hopes of Greece fell. Our
ancestors were sold as slaves. Our city was razed and burnt. By the
gods of Olympus!” he exclaimed, “we were not cowards, and we _are_ not
cowards!”
This Alcmaeon said with such fervor that Gannon, filled with emotion,
cried out, “O my father, I thank thee for those words!”
“What else have the Romans done besides conquer nations?” added
Alcmaeon, stirred by Gannon’s enthusiasm. “The Iliad that appeared
at the dawn of our history is still the dew that nourishes the very
radicles of our souls. Have the Romans produced a Homer? Art became
plastic in the quick fingers of the Greeks. Have the Romans produced
a Praxiteles or a Scopas? Greek painting deceived human eyes. Have
the Romans produced an Apelles? Where is the Roman Phidias, the Roman
Demosthenes, the Roman Aeschylus, Sophocles, or Euripides? Where are
the Roman counterparts of the greatest men who ever reflected on human
minds the light of the other world? Where, O my children, where is the
Roman Socrates, the Roman Plato and Aristotle?”
“I understand thee now, my father! I understand thee now!” cried
Gannon, carried to a higher plane of conception by his father’s superb
climax. “I have fought my companions and have been beaten. Of a truth,
words and thoughts are more powerful than brute force. My companions
may ridicule my lack of physical strength, but they have become my
friends. They now respect me.”
“Ay. The Romans understand not the finer and purer instincts, my son,”
said Alcmaeon, flushed with indignation. “They are a coarse, vulgar,
and brutal people; the Greeks are refined, elegant, and humane.”
With an effort to calm her father’s agitation, Psyche now interposed
in a voice that seemed to sing rather than to speak: “But, my father,
beauty is understood by both nations. Is it not so?”
“Ay, my Psyche; but there are two kinds of beauty,--the pure beauty of
the Greeks and the corrupt beauty of the Romans.”
“Tell us of Livilla’s beauty, my brother,” begged Psyche, somewhat
weary of this discussion, and with a natural and innocent curiosity to
know more about the daughter-in-law of the emperor.
“So beautiful, stately, and majestic is she, my sister, that I feel,
when I stand before her, as if I stood in a temple, beholding a living
goddess.”
“Has she not one fault?” asked Hera, doubtfully.
“To Greek eyes,” replied the youth, “her lips may seem too thick, her
eyes too dreamy.”
“Few women possess the exquisite beauty of our daughter, my son,” said
Hera, weaving the fingers of her daughter’s hand into those of her own.
“Would that her figure could be reproduced in marble!” said Gannon,
with an admiring glance at his sister.
“Psyche’s dancing, my son, leaves an impression that a sculptured form
could not produce,” replied Hera.
“True, O mother,” said Gannon; “but the veil of age dims loveliness. A
statue of Psyche would preserve her beauty forever.”
“My son, hast thou watched the attentive faces of the spectators when
Psyche dances?” asked Alcmaeon. “Hast thou noticed the mouths firmly
compressed or half open, the foreheads contracted or expanded? Hast
thou noticed the light of joy and the shadow of sorrow alternate on
their faces? Memories of Psyche’s impersonations may be perishable, but
to me they are preferable to a figure in marble.”
“What thinks Gyges, my sister?” slyly asked Gannon.
“He wishes only the living me,” laughed Psyche, modestly blushing.
“Besides,” added Alcmaeon, “no sculptor now lives who can create life
in marble.”
“Are all our sculptors dead too?” asked Gannon.
“Art died under foreign oppression, my son. Artists now copy; they do
not create,” replied his father.
But again the conversation reverted to Livilla. Hera and Psyche were
filled with curiosity to know the smallest details about the first
woman in Rome. The night was far spent when they had exhausted Gannon’s
information. When the family separated for the night, Alcmaeon, with
his heart full of love, took his handsome boy by the arms and said,
“You are the picture of your grandfather.” This was the highest
encomium he could bestow.
In the Praetorian Camp Gannon was working on a translation. He was all
attention. His eyes would dance from the letter to the copy, and then
he would write rapidly until a word puzzled him. After pausing a few
moments, and biting his stylus or running his fingers through his short
hair, he would once more write rapidly, softly breathing a happy song
as he did so; for no noise was allowed in the office of Sejanus. The
other secretaries were working near him. From time to time officers
would pass through the room and hand out reports to be copied. While
Gannon was thus occupied, he heard his name called in a commanding
tone. He quickly answered the summons, and was bidden to carry a letter
to Livilla.
Carrying messages was the easiest and pleasantest duty that Gannon had
to perform. It was a rest to his eyes to see the streets filled with
people. Especially did he enjoy a trip to the Palatine Hill; for at
first he passed some of the palaces of the richest men on the Quirinal
Hill, and caught delightful glimpses of wealth and power. He would walk
through the Forum of Augustus, with its beautiful temple of Mars Ultor
and its galleries filled with statues of the greatest Roman generals.
He would pass through the Forum of Caesar, with its temple to Venus
Genetrix, and then through the Forum Magnum, and, finally, up the
Clivus Victoriae to the palace of Tiberius. Of late, carrying a letter
to Livilla had become an embarrassing errand. Several times lately
she had kept him waiting before her while she wrote her reply, and
occasionally she would pause and look at him with such a fervent glance
that Gannon would modestly lower his gaze.
Livia--or Livilla, as hereafter she shall be called, in order to
distinguish her from Livia, the mother of Tiberius--was at this time
in the bloom of her womanhood. She was the daughter of Drusus and
Antonia. Drusus was the brother of Tiberius; Antonia, the daughter of
Marc Antony and Octavia, the sister of Augustus. Therefore there flowed
in the veins of Livilla the blood of both the Julian and Claudian
families. She was a sister of Claudius and Germanicus. She had married
Drusus, the son of Tiberius, and she made the emperor and her husband
happy by giving birth first to a daughter, Julia, and then to male
twins. In these boys centred the hopes of Tiberius for the continuation
of the Claudian family as rulers of the empire.
The wife of Drusus was considered the most beautiful woman in Rome. Her
face was purely Roman. She had large, black, dreamy eyes that shone
through long lashes, a prominent but handsome nose, lips that were red
and voluptuous, and a bold forehead, crowned with black and lustrous
hair.
When Gannon presented the letter from Sejanus, she was languidly
reclining upon a cushioned couch in a small but beautifully furnished
room. As she lay there, the graceful lines of her figure were revealed
through the folds of a loose tunica, or dress, held closely to her
figure by bands of light-blue silk. There was a certain fervor in her
languid movement that made Gannon retreat a few steps; for her fingers
had touched his, and slightly pressed them. Her whole form seemed
to palpitate under the voluptuous impulse of an evil thought. After
she had read the letter, she looked at Gannon and softly said: “Why
standest thou so far away? What fearest thou?”
“I fear nothing,” Gannon timidly replied, with a slight smile; “but I
know not the etiquette required before great people, my lady.”
“For thee there is nothing to learn. Be natural,” said Livilla. She
turned her handsome face towards Gannon. She smiled, and showed her
pretty teeth as she added, “Come hither.”
Gannon, somewhat embarrassed, bashfully approached. “Has no one told
thee that thou art handsome?” she asked.
“Why should they?” shyly asked Gannon.
“Because ’tis true. Thine eyes and mouth are too handsome for a lad.
They would make the fairest woman in Rome proud. Hast thou a brother?”
“Nay, my lady. I have only a sister.”
“Thy parents are living?”
“Ay, my lady.”
“What is the name of thy sister?”
“Psyche--”
“Is she pretty?”
“Beautiful, my lady. She dances at the theatre.”
“I have seen her,” said Livilla. Seeing that Gannon was more at ease,
she asked him, “Wouldst thou like to be a lady’s secretary?”
“I do not know, my lady.”
“Come, leave the service of Sejanus. I will pay thee more, and thy
duties will be lighter. Come, take care of my correspondence.”
“I know not what to say,” answered Gannon, looking at her with an
expression of surprise and anxiety. “To me the details of social life
are unknown, and I am dull at learning. I like my master. The duty at
the camp is more suitable for me than composing a lady’s letters.”
[Illustration]
“My offer is always open,” said Livilla, still gazing intently at the
handsome lad with her wonderful eyes. She noticed that while he looked
at her his face became flushed. She tossed her head coquettishly,
and smiling and extending her hand, said: “Do not be shy. Come nearer.
Give me your hand.”
Gannon awkwardly approached. He placed his hand in hers, and feeling a
slight pressure, fell on one knee and kissed her fingers. A fascination
seemed to overcome him, and he slightly trembled. He raised his
eyes, fearing a reproof; but the evil look which he met in her eyes
frightened him. Her expression was one of triumph. Several times before
she had tried to break through Gannon’s reserve. Now she thought her
ends were accomplished. She exultantly raised him, and placing her
face near his, murmured some inarticulate words that Gannon did not
understand. He felt her breath on his cheek, and his first impulse was
to kiss the lips so near his own. He hesitated, and hesitation brought
with it fear. He drew back quickly and said, in a voice choked with
emotion, “The answer, I pray thee.”
This simple and innocent request was made in an excited manner.
Gannon’s face wore a frightened look. Misunderstanding his true
feelings, and thinking that he was diffident on account of their
difference in rank, Livilla tried to calm him by reassuring words.
Again she put out her hand and drew him near her; but her sensuous kiss
was given on Gannon’s cheek, for he had turned his head. Angered at
his indifference and at her defeat, she hastily took up a stylus and
wrote a reply.
“Begone!” she ordered, as she handed it to him.
In embarrassed silence Gannon took the letter, and bowed himself from
the room. He breathed more freely as he walked down the path that led
to the street. “What did she mean?” he asked himself. “The daughter of
Antonia in love with a schoolmaster’s son!” Gannon thought he must have
been dreaming. “Surely she was angry when she handed me the letter,”
he continued. “What wrong have I committed?” He thought of what had
happened, but recalled nothing for which he could reproach himself. A
feeling of shame possessed him, like that which he felt when he first
heard a coarse story in the camp. His face grew stern. Looking at the
letter which had been so roughly handed him, he was astonished to find
it unsealed. Never before had Livilla failed to seal her letters. His
first impulse was to return, but he could not go back just then. He
decided that an unsealed letter must be one of little importance, and
he proceeded towards the camp.
As he lightly walked along, he began to wonder what could be the
import of the frequent communications that passed between Livilla
and Sejanus. Here was an opportunity to satisfy his curiosity. The
desire to read Livilla’s reply began to possess him. He checked it
by his stern sense of honor. But the probability that Livilla might
have written about his forwardness in kissing her hand stimulated his
curiosity. He decided to look inside, even if he did not read the words.
He quickly opened the letter and glanced inside. As quickly he closed
it; but the swiftness of his motion did not prevent him from reading
the words, “Lygdus is a good man to do the deed. Come and see me.” New
thoughts now rushed through his mind. At last he had learned a secret,
a thing against which his father had always warned him. He would have
liked to tear the words from his mind, but they were as indelibly fixed
there as if carved in stone. Lygdus, the leering eunuch, whom Gannon
knew and despised, was to commit a secret deed,--perhaps a crime.
Gannon trembled. So uncertain was the condition of his mind that he
dared not return immediately to the camp. He went instead to the Forum
of Augustus. Before the beautiful statues of the great Roman generals
and heroes in the shadow of the wonderful temple of Mars, he became
calmer.
But questions shrouded in mystery still presented themselves to him.
“Why had Livilla chosen the wicked Lygdus to do some dark deed? Were
Sejanus and Livilla lovers? Did their letters contain a plan to rid
them of a hateful rival?” he asked himself. In the camp he remembered
to have heard the soldiers say that one day Drusus struck Sejanus in
the face. Sejanus, he had been told, had never forgotten that insult.
But after carefully weighing the perplexing questions, Gannon decided
that carrying letters was his duty, no matter what they contained.
Still he wished he had left Livilla’s reply unread. When he reached
the camp and handed her letter to Sejanus, he had regained his usual
composure.
“Where is the seal?” immediately demanded Sejanus.
“It was not sealed, my lord,” Gannon replied, with nervous haste.
“Hast thou read the letter?” he imperiously asked.
“Nay, my lord.”
“It is of little importance,” said Sejanus, closely watching Gannon’s
face. “Hereafter every communication carried to or from me must bear a
seal. The failure to observe this rule will cost more than a dismissal.
Go to thy room. Speak to no one. Wait until I send for thee.”
Gannon walked slowly from the room. A sudden impulse came over him to
return and confess to Sejanus that he had read the letter; but at
that moment he was prevented by the entrance of another secretary, who
handed a letter to Sejanus. With a heavy heart Gannon went along the
corridor outside of the office, and slowly mounted the flight of steps
that led to his room. When he arrived there, he threw himself upon his
couch and buried his face in his hands.
Sejanus had spoken harshly to him. “The order to go to my room was
given in anger,” Gannon said to himself. He now felt sure that
Livilla’s reply was more important than Sejanus had admitted. “What
did he mean when he said that hereafter the failure to have letters
sealed would mean more than a dismissal?” he thought. “Could he mean
imprisonment, or, worse, could he mean death?” The thought of being
imprisoned without being able to communicate with his parents tortured
the lad’s very soul.
This was his first trouble, and in facing it he realized his own
weakness. A window in his room looked out upon a large courtyard where
the soldiers practised their manoeuvres. Leaving his couch, he watched
them in their various formations. But the words, “Lygdus is a good
man to do the deed,” were constantly recurring to his mind. “What
would Sejanus do if he thought I had read Livilla’s reply?” he asked
himself. “Would he see that my tongue is forever hushed?” Gannon shook
with fear. He felt that he must communicate with his family, but how?
He sat down and wrote a letter, but that he destroyed. “Who would carry
it to them?” he asked himself. His handsome face had grown haggard
with anxiety. His young heart was burdened with the consciousness of
his deceit. Finally a plan for communicating with his family occurred
to him, like a thought of hope to a despairing soul. Taking up a scrap
of cloth, he wrote upon it in the smallest possible Greek characters
the following words: “Have done wrong. Read a letter from L to S about
Lygdus.” This he sewed to the under side of his tunic. Then, more
contented, he threw himself upon his couch and waited to be called. He
waited many hours.