CHAPTER I.

NEÆRA

A TALE OF ANCIENT ROME

_This Edition is intended for circulation only in India and the British

Colonies._

Macmillan’s Colonial Library

NEÆRA

A TALE OF ANCIENT ROME

BY

JOHN W. GRAHAM

London

MACMILLAN AND CO.

AND NEW YORK

1887

No. 33

[All rights reserved.]

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

PART II

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER X.

CHAPTER XI.

CHAPTER XII.

CHAPTER XIII.

CHAPTER XIV.

CHAPTER XV.

CHAPTER XVI.

CHAPTER XVII.

CHAPTER XVIII.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHAPTER XX.

CHAPTER XXI.

CHAPTER XXII.

CHAPTER XXIII.

CHAPTER XXIV.

CHAPTER XXV.

PART III.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

SOME OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

Macmillan’s Colonial Library.

Footnotes

Transcriber’s Note

PART I

NEÆRA

CHAPTER I.

Anno Domini Twenty‐six, Tiberius Caesar, the ruler of the world, left

Rome, with a small retinue, never to return. In the following year he

arrived at the island of Capreae, and there took up his permanent abode.

It was a spot which already possessed substantial proofs of imperial

favour, in the shape of villas, baths, and aqueducts built by the orders

of the Emperor Augustus. It well merited the partiality displayed, for

there are few places to be found more favoured by nature, in point of

situation, than this small, lofty, iron‐bound mountain‐island of Capreae.

Opposite, at a distance of three miles, approaches the tip of a sharp

promontory of the mainland, which divides two bays curving away on either

hand. That on the north, from the earliest times, has had the reputation

of being the loveliest in the world. That on the south, although not

comparable, has yet considerable beauty. Capreae, therefore, stands aloof

amid the blue waters, at the apex of these two semicircles, surveying both

from its lofty mountain and sheer cliffs.

Why the Emperor Tiberius left Rome and secluded himself, for the remainder

of his life, in this small island, away from the seat of his empire, has

never, with certainty, been explained. Whether it was for political

reasons, or for the purpose of giving full indulgence to those vicious

habits which rumour so freely ascribed to him, is not within the scope of

these pages to be determined. He hastened to continue to his new home

those same marks of favour which his deified predecessor had begun. Armies

of workmen assailed the summits of the cone‐like hills and wave‐washed

cliffs. New villa‐palaces arose on every hand, so that the narrow limits

of the island hermitage might afford to Caesar the utmost variety

possible. Of the twelve projected villas, each named after a deity, some

three or four had been completed and occupied at the time of our story,

whilst the building of the remainder was actively proceeding. In the

autumn of the year thirty, the date of our story, Tiberius had hidden

himself away from his people for about three years, and, already, dark

rumours were flitting abroad of strange enormities and dread cruelties

shrouded in that outline of mountain amid the sea. The seclusion of the

imperial hermit was strictly preserved, and unauthorised feet were

jealously warned from his rocky retreat. Curiosity became more inflamed

and imagination more rampant. To turn the invisible Caesar into something

akin to an ogre or monster was an easy and natural outcome of the insular

mystery.

One thing, however, is certain, that, although lost, as the Emperor may be

said to have been, to the eyes of the world, the world and its affairs, in

turn, were never hidden from him. Caesar remained Caesar—sleepless, prompt

and vigorous amid his mysterious rocks. Day after day, couriers came and

went with tidings from every corner of the known world. The vast empire,

like a sprawling giant, had Capreae for its heart, which impelled the

life‐blood ceaselessly to every extremity of its veins and arteries.

* * * * * * *

On an October morning, one of the long, swift boats, used in the imperial

despatch service, left the landing‐place in the little Marina, on the

north side of Capreae, and shot away toward the barren promontory of

Minerva opposite.

The vessel was one of a number used for the busy service of communication

with the mainland, and was built on fine, sharp lines to attain high

speed. Plenty of power was lent by the brawny arms of a dozen stout

slaves, whose oars swept the craft along, with the gently rippling sea

foaming under its sharp bows. The morning was bright, and a delicious

autumn serenity softened mountain and sea with a mellow haze; so that in

default of a breeze to fill the large sail stowed neatly away under the

bulwarks, the rowers bent their backs with a will to their work.

There was one passenger on board—a young man with a soldierly air. He

seemed not more than two or three‐and‐twenty years of age, with large,

handsome, boldly‐cut features, of the true Roman cast, and keen, dark

eyes. The expression of his face, something stern and proud in repose,

was, perhaps, heightened by a naturally dark complexion, still swarthier

with sun and wind. He lay wrapped in a large military cloak, beside the

steersman, whose chatter he acknowledged, now and again, by a nod, or

occasionally a brief word, or smile which softened all severity of visage

with a gleam as bright as the sunny sky above.

After leaving the chill shadow of the terrific, perpendicular cliffs of

the island, the passage across the straits to the mainland was rapidly

made. As the vessel glided finally to its destination alongside a small

landing parapet of stone, on the shore of the promontory, the young man

arose, flung back his cloak, and sprang lightly ashore. He showed a manly

stature of at least six feet, and a spare, sinewy frame of the best

athletic build, deep in the chest and thin in the flank. No other garb,

than that which clothed him, could more admirably display these fine

proportions.

There was the richly‐chased, polished cuirass, moulded closely to the

lines of the body from throat to abdomen, and imitating them as accurately

as a plaster cast. From this hung the short drapery of a kilt, or

philibeg, nearly to the knee, leaving the leg, downward, bare to the high

boots, which were laced up to the swell of the calf. The muscular arms of

the young officer were likewise uncovered, save for a short way beneath

the shoulder. The large cloak, before noticed, which hung gracefully from

his left shoulder, greatly enhanced the effect of this military panoply,

particularly suiting the tall stature of the wearer. It was fastened at

the neck by a gold buckle, and could be shifted to either shoulder, or to

the back, or wrapped around the body altogether. On military service, a

polished, crested helmet would have completed the costume; but, at

present, after the usual Roman fashion, the young man’s head bore no

covering but its own dark, close‐curling hair. For arms, he wore the

short, straight, Roman sword, and a poniard.

Just as it may be remarked at the present day, of a certain exclusive

portion of our own military service, so the unusual richness of the young

officer’s appointments, as contrasted with those of the legionaries,

denoted him to be one of the Pretorian Guard, the household troops, lately

gathered into a permanent camp at Rome, and brought fairly into a position

for entering on their future famous career in the affairs of the city and

empire.

As he left the boat its crew saluted him. Returning the courtesy, he flung

the perspiring slaves some pieces of money, and walked rapidly up the

shore towards a group of buildings, comprising the posting establishment,

which had newly sprung into existence, as a necessary adjunct to the

Emperor’s abode. A signal had been waved from the despatch‐boat before

reaching the shore, and when he arrived at the door of the stables he

found the ostlers awaiting him with a horse ready caparisoned for the

road.

‘Back to Rome, Centurion?’ said one, saluting him.

‘Back to Rome,’ replied he, girding his cloak close around him.

‘A good journey!’ chorused the stablemen.

Two or three coins rattled on the gravel for answer, and the Pretorian

vaulted on to the horse’s back, and galloped away.

Riding as rapidly as the path would permit, and without drawing rein, it

was not long before the lovely plain of Surrentum broke on his view,

embosomed in the circling vine and olive‐clad mountains, edged by the blue

waters of the sea, clothed with luxuriant fruit‐groves, and studded with

the villas of the noble and wealthy, who had retired hither to revel in

the soft, salubrious air of this most lovely spot of a lovely land.

But our horseman paid little attention to the exquisite scene. His

thoughts were otherwise absorbed. He passed the girdling hills, and closed

with the town of Surrentum itself. At the posting station, in the midst,

he changed horses and went on, scarcely giving time for an idle crowd to

gather round. He did not, however, go very many hundred yards on his

second stage, before he suddenly drew rein on the very outskirts of the

town, where the last houses straggled out amid garden‐plots and fields. It

was at a point where a by‐road debouched upon his own, almost at right

angles. It seemed to lead back to the town by a roundabout course, and was

lined on either side, in a straggling, intermittent way, by gardens and

cottage‐houses, in the manner of a country village street. The dwelling

nearest to where he stood, at the end of the lane, was about a hundred

yards distant. It was a small, humble house, like the majority of its

neighbours, and was the outpost habitation of the town in that direction.

It was detached and flanked on the town side by a small olive‐grove. In

the rear of the premises was an outbuilding; a workshop, to judge by its

black, smoking chimney. The house itself was open‐fronted as a shop.

The Centurion turned down this lane, and, when within a few yards of the

house, dismounted and led his horse through a gap in a ruinous wall to the

inside of the enclosure, where he tethered him amid some trees. Thence he

walked up to the house, and looked inside the open shop, pausing with a

fixed gaze.

The interior was fitted with shelves, on which was displayed a stock of

pottery of a kind for which Surrentum was noted. It was not upon these,

however, that the rapt eyes of the soldier rested, but upon the tall,

lithe figure of a girl, who was busily engaged in taking the articles down

and dusting them. Her back being toward him, he entered the shop with a

stealthy step and stood behind her without her knowledge. Pausing, for a

moment, to gaze upon the figure and the glossy coils of the luxuriant

brown hair of the unconscious girl, he bent down and whispered in her ear

the name ‘Neæra!’

She started violently, and the bowl, which she was wiping, fell from her

fingers and shivered with a crash on the floor.

‘Oh, sir, is it you?’ she murmured.

Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes fell.

‘Yes, Neæra, it is I—but only for a few niggard moments. I am on my way

back to Rome. ’Tis six weeks since I saw you, Neæra—you look pale! have

you fared well?’

‘Quite well,’ was the brief, constrained reply.

‘And your father and mother?’

‘Both are well—they are within if you will be pleased to see them.’ She

moved as if to go to the interior of the house, but he laid his hand

gently on her arm and detained her.

‘In a moment, Neæra—do you wish to be rid of me?’

She gave a hasty, timid glance into the street, and he led her aside into

a recess which was less overlooked.

‘You neither look at me nor speak, Neæra—are you displeased to see me?

Would you rather have had the weary six weeks prolonged into twelve?’ She

raised her head and looked at him with an appealing expression in her

beautiful gray eyes, but, in a brief moment, her gaze fell once more.

‘Still you do not say whether I am welcome or not, Neæra?’ he persisted.

‘Spare me from an answer, I pray you,’ she replied, in an almost inaudible

tone.

His swarthy cheeks flushed with a yet deeper colour, and he drew himself

up. ‘As you will,’ he returned; ‘but if your answer would be “Nay,” say it

without hesitation or fear; for I would have the truth from your heart,

even at the expense of a little courtesy.’ Her agitation increased, and

her fingers worked nervously with the dusting cloth she held. Those

fingers, though stained and roughened with toil, were slenderly and

delicately formed. He took them in his own, and, in spite of her attempt

to withdraw them, kept them in his grasp.

‘What has happened, Neæra?’ said he, looking into her downcast face. ‘Has

anything that I have done angered you, or rather, that I have left undone,

since I have been chained to duty in yonder island for six weeks? It is

long indeed, but we must reflect that had the Prefect no business with

Caesar then our meetings would be far seldomer. To Caesar and Prefect I

owe the happy chance of seeing you, and on them for a while still depend

future opportunities. But what is troubling you, Neæra? You are pale and

worn—what has happened?’

‘Nothing but reflection—ah, sir, have pity on me—it was better not to have

returned at all.’

‘Ah, is it so?—that is easily mended!’ he replied, in bitter astonishment.

‘Don’t blame—don’t kill me with scornful tones!’ she said, with more

courage, even though the courage of despair; ‘think, as I have been

thinking through these bitter weeks—oh, so bitter! It is right—it is just

that you see me no more. What is there in common between us? I am a poor

potter’s girl—am rude in speech and manner; you are nobly born and rich——’

Her voice trembled with extreme agitation, and she stopped abruptly as if

she could trust it no longer. A smile of infinite tenderness and pity

illumined his fine features.

‘Had I needed but one thing more to clench my love, you have given it me,’

he said, catching her hands again and drawing her towards him.

‘No—it were better to love one of your own station,’ she panted, trying to

repulse him.

‘It is too late to tell me that. Come, look at me, child!’

‘No, I have been foolish and am to blame. I ought to have seen that your

way of life cannot be mine. My father has also said it, and he is wise.’

‘Ay, he has said it, but you?’

‘I say it is truth and must be followed.’

‘Foolish! You only bind me the faster to you. Your joint wisdom is vain

against my conviction. What! are we to part because a weak, foolish fancy

seizes you, that your speech and bearing are not like the artificial,

superfine graces of the proud dames who loll away their lives in palaces?

Gods forbid! Why, there are those of your sex in Rome—ay, even in

Surrentum, who would deem me as the dust beneath their feet.’

‘And there are others, also, whom you would look upon in the same

fashion,’ replied the girl.

‘True! and many of them of family and wealth far beyond mine.’

‘Yet what you have of both is far above me, and therefore, between us, all

remains the same.’

‘Surrentum cannot better you in a lawyer’s wit, Neæra,’ he said, with a

smile, ‘but you spend it in so poor a cause. There remains something far

beyond rank and wealth.’

‘Whatever it is, it is not for us in common,’ she said, striving to appear

calm; ‘it is over now. I have been weak and foolish, and oh, how I have

suffered for it! Forgive me, Centurion, if you can forgive me—go from me

and forget me—all our folly.’ As she looked him full in the face there was

a depth of anguish in her eyes which filled him alike with pity and joy.

At the same time she held out her hand, but he folded his arms across his

breast. ‘Centurion!’ he repeated, in a tone of reproof; ‘Neæra, have you

forgotten my name?’

His bearing and speech throughout had never shown a sign of hesitation

which might have encouraged her in her determination. He stood before her

vast, immovable, and calmly resolute. Her glance drooped, and her

outstretched hand and arm gradually fell to her side. Then she buried her

face in her hands.

He bent closer till his breath played on her hair. ‘Neæra,’ he said, ‘you

have been kinder and called me Lucius ere now. Enough of this madness—this

folly of saws and maxims! Misdoubting girl, I love you for what you are,

and above all on this earth. To thrust me away were to wreck me wholly;

and you would not though you possess the power. For I have gathered it

from your lips, your eyes, your sweet face, that you have some measure of

love for me in return. Is it not so? Speak, Neæra!’

She trembled violently, and, yielding to an irresistible impulse, he threw

his arms around her and pressed a fervent kiss upon her cheek.

She freed herself with a desperate exertion, and stood off, panting and

shaking in extreme emotion, with her cheeks aflame.

‘Neæra!’ he ejaculated, advancing to her again.

‘No, no! Leave me—go and forget me, if you would be merciful and kind!—oh,

you are cruel! Alas, can I ever look in my father’s face again!’

The sound of a footstep in the passage leading to the interior broke upon

their ears. She cast one swift look of lofty reproach, mingled with

sorrow, upon the young man, and then drooped her head upon her breast.

A short, thick‐set man presented himself in the shop. His hands, his

coarse garments, and even his face, were stained with the grime of the

furnace and the smearings of clay; but through these outward tokens of the

common artisan shone the unmistakable signs of superior intellect, in the

brilliancy of his eyes, deep set under thick brows, and in a massive

forehead, which was very broad and full at the base. His hand, which he

raised with a gesture of surprise, as his gaze rested on the young couple,

was of the shape usually supposed to be peculiar to the gifted artist and

mechanic, being long, square‐tipped, and sinewy, with an immense

flexibility and power of thumb. Reading the tell‐tale faces of the pair

with a rapid glance, his countenance instantly assumed a grave sternness,

unlike the preoccupied expression which previously rested upon it.

‘What—Centurion! Martialis!’ he said, coldly, and even with an amount of

haughtiness which might, ordinarily, have been deemed incommensurate with

the relative stations of himself and his visitor.

Although his tone was quiet and free from anger or emotion of any kind,

there was an unusual quality in it which seemed to strike the girl not the

less acutely, for she hid her pale face in her hands.

‘Yes, Masthlion, even I!’ returned the Pretorian, stepping forward and

offering his hand.

Masthlion met the open, frank gaze of the young officer for a moment;

then, as if not noticing the proffered greeting, he dropped his eyes to

the floor and remained for a few seconds in deep thought. Then raising his

head he said—

‘Centurion, I should be grieved to say that you are unwelcome, yet, I say

plainly, that the honour of your visit is not altogether free from that

feeling. Not from personal dislike, I am bound to say. I will be frank

with you. I am a poor fellow, who earns a modest living for my family by

the hard labour of my hands. You are of the knightly order, and hold high

office in Caesar’s service. You are wholly above the station of me and

mine. As you do not honour my humble dwelling for the sake of buying my

handiwork in the way of trade, I have, therefore, a right to reflect and

inquire what object your presence has.’

‘You have a perfect right, Masthlion,’ replied the other, ‘and, although

you know, as I think, right well already, I commend your method of putting

the matter thus plainly. I have as little inclination to allow any

misunderstanding and ambiguity to creep about my actions as you have, and

I will, therefore, give you freely, and without hesitation, an answer as

clear as your question—I love your daughter Neæra!’

The potter nodded in a manner which showed that the reply was no other

than expected. His glance roved from one to the other, whilst his

daughter’s head drooped so low that her face was completely hidden.

‘It is a matter which demands further talk, and, as there is no reason why

it should take place in the sight of neighbours and passers‐by, perhaps

you will enter my poor house, Centurion.’

‘Willingly—I desire nothing better,’ was the reply.

Masthlion, heaving a deep sigh, took his daughter by the hand and led the

way along the inner passage. Martialis followed them into a small room,

furnished simply with a table, some stools, and a couch; whilst, for

ornament, some brackets and shelves bore a few exquisitely‐finished

specimens of glasswork, together with some small figures sculptured in

stone, the fruits of the potter’s self‐taught genius. From the door

Masthlion called aloud for his wife, and she hastily appeared. She was a

spare woman, with patient eyes. Her face had been comely, but was worn and

faded with the hardship and anxiety of a long struggle against hunger and

want in their early wedded life.

A significant glance passed between her and her husband as she perceived

what had occasioned the demand for her presence.

She made a silent obeisance to the visitor, and waited for her husband to

speak.

As for Neæra, she stood with her head still bowed on her breast.

Her lover’s tall, erect form, draped in its ample flowing cloak, seemed to

fill the little room. His eyes rested with calm confidence on Masthlion,

who began in grave measured tones:—

‘Wife, the Centurion Martialis hath told me that he loves our daughter.’

Here he paused a few moments, looking on the floor. ‘What we should tell

him is this, that she is our only child, the one light of our house. But

had we twenty, we must be assured, as far as possible, of good and

honourable keeping ere we let one go from our roof. You understand this,

Centurion?’

‘Perfectly; it is only natural and proper. Do what you think best for your

assurance.’

‘First, then! is it from mere fancy that you would try to take my daughter

away, and then to cast her off when that fancy has burnt itself out, after

the fashion of many of your order?’

‘No,’ said the young man, drawing himself up with sparkling eyes; ‘I told

you I loved her—now I tell you she must be my wife, or none other.’

‘And are you sure you would always rest in the same mind as now?’

‘Ah, as far as human thought and perception can go, I have no doubt of

it,’ returned Martialis proudly.

Masthlion shook his head and sighed; and his wife, from long habit of

waiting on his looks, unconsciously did the same, though without offering

any remark of her own.

‘It is ever the way with the young—eager and heedless!’ said the potter.

‘Centurion, as an older man, and one who has not lived in the world with

blind eyes, I must tell you that I disagree with you. You are attracted by

the child’s fair looks, and you know not, or forget, that familiarity will

weaken their influence over your senses. The gods made women fair to

please the hearts of men; but, did they bestow upon them no other

qualities, they would become nothing more than mere toys to be bandied

about at will. Looks attract first; but it is the disposition, and the

accomplishments of the mind, which are necessary to weave a lasting bond

of esteem and love. Where, within these humble walls, has this poor child

learnt those manners and graces which, from habit, you require, before

all, in a companion? Where could she have gathered the refinements which

would be necessary to the wife of one of your station? Could you present

her to your fine friends and family? She would shame you at every turn—at

every word. The first blush of your fancy would wear off. You would grow

angry and disgusted. You would repent of your bargain, and the rest would

be nothing but bitterness, reproaches, and unhappiness—if not worse. This

is a picture more to be depended on than yours, Centurion. Go, therefore,

and if you think over it, as you ought to do, without allowing your

feelings to bias your reflections, you will see that I am right, and you

will come no more. Thus there will be one rash, ill‐advised affair the

less in the world.’

‘Masthlion, your daughter has already told me this,’ answered the

Centurion, with a smile.

‘Did she so?’ cried the potter, casting a look of pride and satisfaction

at the girl. ‘Then she did wisely and obediently—and bravely too, if I

guess aright. Alas! your proudest dames could have done no better. Come

and kiss me, my brave girl!’

Neæra glided to him, and hid her face in his shoulder.

Martialis folded his arms and watched them. The potter had unconsciously

dealt a deathblow to his own cause, if it needed one at all. Their eyes

met at that moment. The acute perception, or instinct, of the artisan

interpreted too well the calm, resolute light of the young man’s glance,

so warm with the picture of the fair girl before him, and he groaned

inwardly as he restlessly stroked his daughter’s glossy locks. He knew not

what to say, so heavily did the sense of his helplessness press upon him.

‘It is a year since I stopped one day at the old fountain‐basin yonder,’

said Martialis, stretching out his arm. ‘I had ridden far and was thirsty,

and Neæra was filling her pitcher. It was thus I met her first. I went on

my way, but her image haunted my mind. I sought her again, and discovered

that her looks did not belie her heart. I have chosen her to fill my mind,

even as you would have me choose; not from a light fancy of the eyes

alone, but because I know she is pure, noble, and good in spirit. As for

the rest, you may magnify, from ignorance, my position and importance.

Neæra is naturally predisposed toward those trifling changes which you

deem necessary, and she would glide into them instinctively and

unconsciously. Masthlion, these arguments will be vain, so use them not. I

ask you to give me your daughter Neæra, in betrothal.’

The potter did not reply straightway, but, smoothing the trembling girl’s

head ceaselessly with his hand, he stood with his brow contracted in

painful thought, and his eyes bent on the ground.

‘In good faith, Centurion,’ he said, after an uneasy silence, ‘you rend my

heart between doubt and anxiety, and a desire to act generously as well as

prudently. Can I deliver up my child to a stranger? Were you of this

district I could judge better of you. You are honest and fair‐spoken, and

your looks correspond to your speech. But yet you are no more than a

stranger, and Surrentum knows you not.’

‘I would fetch Rome, if I could, to aid you,’ said the young man. ‘You are

pleased to be satisfied with my appearance; I, for my part, will await

your further inquiries with confidence.’

‘I have no suspicion of your character, noble sir, but prudence requires

proof. I cannot give you a decided answer, for now we are at odds and

evens. You are sanguine and confident of the future; I am not. Hawks

should pair only with hawks, and sparrows with sparrows. More words at

present, however, would be spent to no purpose—the matter requires time

and reflection.’

‘The child Neæra is not goods or chattels, husband—is she to have no word

for herself?’ remarked his wife quietly.

‘Ay, truly, Tibia; thou hast ever a word in season,’ answered the potter

to his delighted spouse. ‘The gods forgive me for a thoughtless blockhead.

It would be a fine way of making a pot without first proving if the clay

be fit. What say you, Neæra—do you love this young man?’

The girl clung closer, and buried her face deeper in his shoulder, but her

silence was eloquent.

The soldier’s bronzed face gathered a deeper tinge, and his ears were

strained to catch the accents which he expected to follow, but which came

not.

‘Come, my child,’ continued Masthlion earnestly; ‘I want thee to say truly

what thy heart prompts thee to say. If thou lovest him speak it then;

there is no crime or harm in it that I can see. You have heard what has

passed, and I can call your confession, if it is what I expect it to be,

only by as hard a name as a misfortune. Speak!’

A simple ‘Yes’ was the reply, in a voice so low and yet so clear that it

caused her lover’s blood to bound in his veins with exquisite joy. He

stepped forward as if to take her, but the hand of Masthlion restrained

his eager advance.

‘Enough,’ said the potter, ‘the mischief is done, it is clear, but yet the

matter must rest as it is for a time. I am yet unconvinced, and I give not

my consent so heedlessly to a partnership so brimful of hazard. I must be

better assured. In the meantime, Centurion, I ask of thee one condition.’

Martialis was burning with eagerness, for his beloved now stood before him

ready to his arms, with downcast eyes and cheeks blushing with sudden joy

and hope.

‘Name it!’ he said quickly.

‘It is that you neither visit nor correspond with this child without my

knowledge.’

‘It is no more than I have done hitherto,’ said Martialis.

‘I believe it, and it is much to your credit,’ returned Masthlion. ‘Now

go, Centurion. Stand by our agreement; and may the gods direct the matter

to the best end—for I need their help.’

‘Farewell!’ said the young man, reaching forward to clasp Neæra to his

breast.

‘No!’ said the potter, once more stretching his ruthless arm before him.

The Centurion frowned; but the cloud fled when he saw the tender, curving

lips of Neæra moving, as though silently fashioning his name, and her

beautiful eyes, more beautiful still, with the light of love and hope and

joy. From the divine smile on her face he drew consolation, as he grasped

the earthy hand of the potter instead of hers.

With a lingering look he drew his cloak around him, and hastened away at a

pace which received additional lightness and speed from his feelings. A

couple of minutes more and he was galloping at a headlong speed on the

road to Rome.

As soon as their visitor had departed, Masthlion withdrew to his workshop

at the rear of his premises. He found it vain, however, to try and use his

tools during the disturbed state of his mind; for every now and then he

discovered himself standing motionless with them in his hand, his thoughts

being far away. After a wasted half hour, therefore, he threw them down,

and, washing his hands and face, left the house to wander away on a lonely

ramble along the edge of the sea, and up the ravines of the hills, in

order to give unrestrained liberty in his meditations.

The mountains were looming dark and purple in the gathering gloom, and a

chilly breath from the dusky sea was stirring the leaves when he turned

his steps homeward. He found his simple supper and his wife and daughter

awaiting him. An unusual restraint weighed upon them all. The customary

familiar chat was lacking, and the meal passed quickly and in silence.

When Neæra put her arms round her father’s neck for her nightly caress,

she whispered, ‘Have I done wrong in loving him, father? Are you

displeased with your Neæra?’

‘I am not displeased, child. I blame no one for loving; yet would I be

less anxious had you loved some humbler man.’

‘He is noble and good, father.’

‘The gods grant it true.’

‘If you will it I will see him no more.’

‘Nay, you talk foolishly—I hope I am neither harsh nor selfish. Get to

bed, child, and try if you can sleep, though your heart be galloping, this

moment, to Rome.’

‘Say you are not angry with me then!’ she murmured.

‘I blame you not, silly girl; I blame six feet or more of human flesh, and

a handsome face, which hath beguiled your silly girlish thoughts. Heaven

only knows how much more mischief of the same nature they are guilty of

already, for I do not—now go!’

Her lips pouted a little, but she left the room with a light step.

The firm, determined mouth of the man quivered, and the moisture dimmed

his deep‐set eyes. He passed his hand over his massive brow and gave a

deep sigh.

‘Wife!’ he said briefly, ‘I am going to Rome.’

‘To Rome!’ echoed Tibia fearfully, for the mention of the great city

always loaded her simple rustic mind with a sense of mystery and danger.

‘Ay, to Rome,’ rejoined Masthlion; ‘the time has come when I must try and

find your brother, if alive. Silo will give me a passage in his

trader—’tis about his time to be touching here Tiberward.’

CHAPTER II.

On the following day, in Rome, about the seventh hour, or noon, a small

party descended the slope of the Janiculan Hill toward the Tiber.

Though not included in the more famous cluster of the seven hills across

the river, which formed the heart of Rome, the Janiculum, with its long

straight ridge running nearly north and south, was the greatest in

altitude, and commanded the noblest and most extensive view of the city

itself, as well as the loveliness of the surrounding plain, as far as the

circling Apennines beyond.

With the straight line of the hill as a base, a sharp curve of the river

forms the other two sides of a triangle, enclosing a level tract of

ground. This was the Transtibertine district, which formed the fourteenth,

and largest, region of the city, as arranged by Augustus. In interest and

importance it was perhaps the least, being populated by the lowest

classes, particularly fishermen, tanners, and the like. It was also the

original Ghetto, or quarter of the Jews, which now occupies the bank of

the river immediately opposite.

The obvious advantages of dwelling above the crammed and stifling valleys

naturally brought the hills, in time, from the princely and fashionable

Palatine, almost wholly in the hands of the powerful and wealthy classes.

The Janiculum, as a suburban mount, was greatly lacking in the noble

buildings and ancient traditions which clothed the urban seven. Neither

was it fashionable, for it lay too far from the public places of the city,

most frequented by society. Nevertheless, there were some who preferred

its fresher and purer air, its nobler prospect and its greater seclusion,

to the advantages and attractions of a more central residence.

One of these was a wealthy man who had long retired from a busy, public

life, to devote himself to the quiet pursuits of study, in a house he had

built, and gardens he had laid out, on a commanding eminence of the hill.

The name of Quintus Fabricius had once been celebrated in the city as that

of a senator distinguished for uprightness, firmness, and liberality, but

his public fame had almost passed away with a new generation. He was now,

at the time we speak of, far better known throughout Rome in connection

with a domestic matter, which will unfold itself in the following pages.

He was of an old family; and if wealth, taste, and an easy conscience

could make a man happy, surely he might be said to be truly so. We will

follow him, for it is he, and his five slaves, who form the small party

previously mentioned.

They walked in three divisions. Two powerful slaves led the van, whose

especial care was to clear a way for their master through the crowded,

tortuous lanes. When their cry of ‘Place, place,’ was unheeded, they

enforced a passage, after the usual custom, by a rough and ready use of

their brawny arms and shoulders. The remaining three slaves walked in the

rear, each bearing some trifling burden of personal attire or convenience

belonging to their master. In the centre walked Fabricius himself.

He was tall and spare, but with a slight stoop. His features were regular

and handsome. His hair, though closely cropped, was yet thick and

luxuriant, but white as snow. He could not have been less than seventy‐

five years of age; but the vigorous, free motions of his limbs, and the

healthy hue of his aged, wrinkled face, denoted a still sound

constitution, preserved by a temperate mode of life. His dark eyes, though

somewhat sunken, were yet bright and quick. As he now passed along,

engaged with no train of thought in particular, their expression was one

of settled melancholy abstraction. His mouth was closely knit and firm,

but, occasionally, as some poor neighbour saluted him, his lips curved

into a kindly smile. His vigorous old age, and the natural nobility of his

appearance, were calculated to inspire respect; but there were also

distinctions in his dress which marked his rank. His toga was made of

wool, in its natural colour of greenish white, a fashion of garment which

was preserved by men of distinguished rank long after the toga itself had

fallen into disuse. On the right breast of his short‐sleeved tunic, where

it peeped from beneath the graceful folds of the toga, might be seen a

glimpse of the ‘Angustus Clavus,’(1) or narrow purple stripe, which was

woven into the garment, and ran down perpendicularly from each shoulder.

The high buskins on his feet were each fastened in front by four black

thongs, ornamented by a small crescent, the exclusive, sartorial badge of

senatorial rank. Such little particulars were trifling enough in extent,

and unnoticeable to a stranger, but to a Roman eye they denoted at once

the rank and importance of the wearer. They were, however, unnecessary in

the poor and crowded suburb through which he and his slaves passed

leisurely towards the river. He was well known to the humble inhabitants,

in consequence of the proximity of his mansion, which stood on the height

overlooking them; and, also, by acts of liberality and good‐nature, which

ever met with full appreciation. Hence, as he wound his way through the

crowded and not altogether sweet‐flavoured district, his vanguard of

slaves before mentioned had only occasion now and again to use their

voices to open a free passage. The people gave way readily, with gestures

of respect.

The main street of the district which they traversed brought them, in a

few minutes, nigh to the river, just where it curved round the point of

land. In a right line before them stretched the Aemilian Bridge, leading

direct to the Palatine Mount and the city; to the left hand forked another

road over the island of the Tiber. At this junction the leading slaves

halted and turned to learn their master’s pleasure as to his intended

route. The old man hesitated as if undecided, and, as he did so, a slim

personage presented himself before the stationary group. Two or three

rings on his fingers proclaimed his gentility as a Roman knight, and every

fold of his toga was disposed with the most scrupulous exactness. He might

be about forty years of age, with straight black hair, a long nose, curved

very much downwards, and small black eyes, rather too prominent and close

set to be called handsome. As he halted, his lips parted in a smile, which

displayed a row of brilliant white teeth. The slaves of Fabricius, on

perceiving him, made him marked obeisance.

‘Titus Afer!’ murmured one of them in his master’s ear.

Fabricius looked up from his momentary deliberation or abstraction.

‘Ha, nephew, is it you?’ said he.

‘Even so, dear uncle. You seem to be on the horns of a dilemma,’ returned

the new‐comer; ‘have you started out to dine, uncle, not having settled

where to turn in for your dinner?’

‘Why, no; I am going to dine with my old friend Florus on the Quirinal—but

you, nephew?’

‘Oh, I!—it is of no consequence—I was coming just to spend an hour with

you. It is three days since I have seen you. With your permission I will

turn and go along with you, for a space, on your way, whichever it is!’

‘By the Circus Flaminius; it is less crowded, though a little longer in

distance,’ said Fabricius.

He gave a slight motion of his hand, indicating the left turn, and they

took their way over the Cestian Bridge unto the island of the Tiber,

sacred to Aesculapius. Thence by the bridge of Fabricius they were quickly

on the opposite bank, and passing round by the outer side of the

Capitoline.

So far they walked in silence. The elder seemed absorbed in abstraction,

and the younger to be waiting, as if in deference to his relative’s

cogitations. At length the old man turned his head toward the slaves who

followed and waved his hand. They fell back farther in rear.

‘Were you coming to tell me aught of your mission, Titus?’ he began.

‘I went as you desired,’ returned his nephew, nodding.

‘It was good of you, as ever, nephew; but to no purpose, I suppose—as

ever,’ said the old man, adding the last words with a weary, half‐

suppressed sigh.

‘None at all!’ rejoined Afer, with another and deeper sigh. ‘The woman was

six‐and‐twenty years old if she was a day; and, as for her appearance, she

was as likely to have grown from your Aurelia, as a barn‐door fowl from an

eaglet. These tales and rumours are detailed by knavish people simply to

work upon your weakness, uncle, and to squeeze your purse—why listen to

them?’

‘Ah, nephew—how can I shut my ears?’

‘You are an unfailing, bottomless gold‐mine to these people.’

‘Oh!’ cried the old man fervidly, throwing up his open palm to the blue

heavens, and looking up with a burning glance of his sunken, sorrow‐laden

eyes, ‘if the good gods would only give me back my lost darling, the joy

of my old age,—my gold, and all that I have, to the last farthing, might

be flung, if need be, broadcast over the streets of Rome.’

The black brows of the nephew knitted at the vehement words.

‘And, truly, if what you have spent already, uncle, on this vain quest

were sown broadcast, there would scarce be a gutter vagabond in the city

that would not be the richer. You have done all you can do, and I have

helped to the best of my ability.’

‘You have, nephew, right nobly. Think not that I have forgotten it.’

‘Then why cast good after bad? Will you not be assured after all these

silent years of the hopelessness of all efforts?’

‘If I lived to a hundred years, nephew, I could never sever hope from

me—it is part of me.’

‘And I have none left, though I grieve to say it, and, moreover, my reason

is less governed by feeling than yours—poor Aurelia!’

‘The gods overlook us,’ said Fabricius, with a quiver in his voice, while

the lips of the other curled in scorn.

‘The impudent scoundrel, whom you sent to pilot me to his supposed

discovery, demanded two thousand sesterces ere he would budge. It is

horrible, but I was forced to pay the extortioner. I would not mention it,

uncle, but for my misfortune of being not too well provided with

property.’

‘It shall cost thee no more than it ever has,’ returned Fabricius; ‘thou

shalt have it back and another two thousand, as well, for thy kindness.’

‘Nay—I should seem to make a trade of robbing you like the rest of them.’

‘Say no more, nephew, I insist upon it.’

The other shrugged his shoulders and was silent, and so they reached the

foot of the Quirinal Hill, upon which the house was situated where

Fabricius was to dine. Here Afer halted.

‘You are for the bath then?’ said Fabricius.

‘Even so; and then to dine with Apicius.’

‘Ah! we old‐fashioned men dine at an old‐fashioned hour. This Apicius

gives feasts such as we could never dream of.’

‘The finest in Rome.’

‘Well, every one to their own tastes. Florus and myself will, no doubt,

enjoy our modest entertainment as much as Apicius his profusion, though it

cost nothing in proportion. It is a foolish, empty way of spending one’s

money, Titus.’

‘From necessity I am not likely to copy it, uncle. Nevertheless, if he

choose to throw a portion of his away on me, I will not refuse it.’

‘Yet there is a subtle danger in it, for——’

‘Nay, nay, uncle,’ said his nephew, laughing; ‘if you begin to moralise

your dinner will grow cold. So I will go and tell you later how mine was

served.’

‘Come then to see me soon, nephew—a good appetite. Farewell!’

Fabricius and his slaves turned to ascend the hill, and Afer watched them

going. ‘Nothing will cure him of this delusive hope, it is clear,’ he

muttered. ‘Assuming, therefore, that all this profitless expense is

unavoidable, it is only just and prudent that it should flow mainly into

the purse of his heir, and not into the swindling hands of scamps and

aliens, in order to feed wine‐shops and brothels. Hermes himself will give

me witness that I spoke truth when I said that yon vagabond demanded two

thousand sesterces ere he would budge. So he did, but he only got two

hundred in the end. What a brilliant idea—what a stroke of genius it was,

on my part, to obtain the monopoly of this infatuation! Formerly, every

one of sufficient impudence could work upon his credulity, and extort

their own terms from the foolish old man; but since my appointment as

superintendent of inquiries, I regulate all to suit my own ideas. It

pleases him and it benefits me. Who could do better? Not the deities

themselves.’

‘But if your terms were more liberal your custom would increase, as well

as your profits, noble Afer,’ said a deep voice in his ear.

The knight wheeled round with the swiftness of light, and the severity of

the sudden surprise was seen in the rush of blood which suffused his

otherwise pale face. His brows knitted so as almost to hide the furious

glance of his eyes.

Before him stood a man whose superior bulk, lighter complexion, broader

and less marked physiognomy, betrayed other than the Latin blood. He was

dressed in the rough woollen tunic of the common citizen, girded with a

belt of untanned leather, whilst his feet were shod with a kind of sandal,

having strong leather soles. The short sleeves of his tunic displayed his

hairy, muscular arms. His chin was bristly and needed the razor, and his

hair unkempt and disordered. He might be anything in the lowest strata of

the city community, but there was that in his loafing, cunning appearance,

which seemed not to belong to an honest, industrious mechanic. His

attitude, as he stood regarding his superior, whom he had so familiarly

accosted, was cool and careless, and his smile as full of impertinence as

assurance.

If a glance could have laid him dead upon the pavement, he would have

fallen, straightway, before the rage, hate, and contempt which flashed

upon him from the glowing eyes of Afer. But, unabashed, he altered not a

jot of his bearing.

‘Is it thou?’ uttered Afer, in a voice thick with passion; ‘how darest

thou lurk at my elbow and play the eavesdropper?’

‘It needed no extra sharp ear to catch what you said, patron. But for the

noise of the streets you might have been heard somewhere between this and

the Palatine. It is dangerous to think in such a loud, public voice, and I

recommend you to shake off the habit, for your own good, patron.’

The familiar style of this speech in no way allayed the storm in the mind

of the knight, and he shook like an aspen leaf, with a passion impossible

wholly to hide.

‘You are not in the humour to see me, patron—you are angry with me,’ added

the man coolly; ‘it is as plain as anything can be.’

‘Take heed, or your presumption, which is growing beyond all bounds, will

run you into a certain amount of danger—impudent vagabond, is it for such

as you to accost me thus? More respect, I bid thee, or beware!’

The menacing tone of the knight, and the dangerous, evil expression on his

face, might have been judged sufficient warning in an ordinary case, but

the man’s hardihood was in no way daunted.

‘Presumption, patron,’ he echoed; ‘there, with your honour’s leave, I must

differ with you. I consider myself—in regard to the intimate relations

between us—a most modest, respectful, and untroublesome client. Why, it is

full three months since I presented myself to your honourable presence. I

have seen you at chance times—for I am compelled now and again to

encourage wearisome existence by the grateful sight of your person—but

these have only been glimpses at a distance. Nor would I intrude myself

upon you now, only that hard necessity compels me. In fact, patron, my

treasure is drained to the last sesterce, which went this very morning to

inspire my failing strength with a draught of vinegar, which they called

wine.’

‘I have nothing to give you—you are importunate beyond reason. You have,

already, had much more than was stipulated. That you know as well as I. I

will give you no more, so be off!’

‘What, patron, and without as much as the cost of a mouthful of dinner?

cast me off to starve?’—this with a burlesque of righteous horror in his

looks and gestures—‘I, too, who have had the blessed fortune to do you

such service! Some reptile has bitten my noble patron and changed his

nature. Poor Cestus, then, may go and hang himself, or throw himself to

fatten the pike in the Tiber; but no—you cannot, surely, refuse poor

Cestus, thus empty and naked before you.’

‘Silence!’ cried he of the toga, as fiercely as he could, without

attracting the attention of the passers‐by. ‘Good‐for‐nothing spendthrift,

you have had enough to have made you wantless for the remainder of your

life, with an ordinary amount of care in its use!’

‘I only follow the fashion of many of my betters, patron. To be free with

one’s treasure is an excellent way of becoming popular and powerful—none

better—in Rome at least.’

‘Enough, I have said! If you are wise you will leave your insolence behind

you, among your pot companions, when you seek to come before me.’

‘Surely, patron, when you consider the matter calmly, you can hardly

refuse me a small present,’ said Cestus, assuming instantly a mock

respect, which was only too palpably impudent.

The knight bit his lip, and the heaving of his breast stirred the folds of

his toga with rapid pulsations.

‘You fool!’ he said bitterly; ‘do you imagine I would beggar myself to

enrich you? No—I can afford no more!’

‘May I be cursed if I should ever think of bringing you to the same sad

state as mine,’ was the satirical answer. ‘Far from that, I know, so well,

that the fountain of your purse is fed from a stream which flows unfailing

out of Latium, even as the grateful spray of Orpheus, on the Esquiline

yonder, is fed by the aqueduct from the waters of heaven. You will excuse

the style for once, patron: you know I was once in the household of a

poet.’

These words drew upon him another viperous look, but being in a position

which rendered him careless of such exhibitions of his superior’s

feelings, he continued his simile. ‘It is wonderful to me, patron, that

you are content to see such scanty driblets filtered through a worn old

fountain, when you might, so easily, direct the full glorious flood

straight to your own coffers. My devotion to your welfare is my only

excuse for my tongue. But, patron—you are a most patient, enduring man.’

‘I am—of your insolence, you dog,’ was the rapid and burning answer. ‘A

less enduring man would have had your ribs tickled, or your tavern cup

flavoured long ere this, most noble Cestus.’

The man palpably changed colour and winced; but if the words of his patron

had not the effect of quelling him, they instantly changed his easy

impertinence and effrontery into a sullen, dogged front.

‘Come,’ growled he, with a dark, lowering visage, ‘if we get to

threatenings, you shall find that two can play at that game. Give me some

money and let me go—I must have it, and no more trifling!’

‘Good! If you _must_ have it you must, and I cannot refuse,’ answered the

knight, whose humour seemed as suddenly to change, as if in triumph, for

he actually allowed a smile to part his lips. ‘I grieve that words of mine

should have ruffled you. As I am not in the habit of carrying about with

me such an amount of money as you will doubtless consider proper to ask,

perhaps you will do me the favour to walk with me as far as my house, dear

Cestus?’

Cestus hesitated, and looked doubtingly on the unexpected spectacle of his

patron’s politeness. His cunning nature was suspicious.

‘What a changeable man!’ was the bland remark of the other; ‘a minute ago

he was demanding his wants, like a robber tearing spoil from a victim. Now

when he is asked to walk a short way to receive it, he hangs back.’

‘No tricks, master—or else!’ said Cestus, eyeing him keenly.

‘Tricks! Certainly not. You are very coarse. Come!’

Afer then led the way with the man at his heels, so close indeed that he

turned and motioned him to keep at a greater distance. Their course lay

through the middle of the Subura, a district which lay in the valley,

between the Eastern hills and the Fora. It was one of the most ancient

districts of the city, as well as the most densely peopled, and noted for

its crowded thoroughfares, its low society, its noise and dirt.

Occasionally the traffic would come to a dead‐lock, amid much shouting and

forcible language, caused, perhaps, by the stoppage of some heavy wain,

laden with blocks of building material, hauled along with ropes. Or,

again, some great man, in his litter, surrounded by his servants, thought

fit to halt, for some purpose, in the narrow ways. His suite would,

thereupon, become the nucleus of a squeezing crush of pedestrians, who

cast frowning glances at the litter and its occupant. At another place,

his greatness, moving along, would meet with a like obstruction, and there

would be seen the spectacle of rival slaves battling a passage through.

Nor were the customs of the tradesmen calculated to increase the public

convenience, for they intruded their business into the already too limited

space. Their stalls jutted out, and even then failed altogether to confine

their occupations. A cobbler hesitated not to ply his awl in public, nor a

barber to shave his customer outside his door. The gutters were frequented

by noisy hucksters plying their trade, and selling all kinds of articles,

from sulphur matches to boiled peas and beans. Importunate beggars were

rife with every sorrow, complaint, and ailment; from the lame, sick, and

blind, to the shipwrecked sailor, carrying a fragment of his ill‐starred

ship over his shoulder, as a proof of his sad lot. Down the narrower

alleys were noisome, reeking dens crammed with the scum of the city.

Thieves, murderers, blackguards, bullies loafed about; fallen women also

loitered and aired themselves till the evening approached, when all this

daylight idlesse of human filth betook itself to its frightful occupations

of crime and wickedness, either in its own refuges, or flooded abroad upon

the city. Yet this district, from its central position, was necessarily

frequented, and even inhabited, in a few cases, by the higher orders of

society. To imagine an unsealed Whitefriars, or a tract of the east end of

modern London, cramped and narrowed, after the style of the old Roman

city, and placed between two fashionable quarters, would give the best

idea of the character of the Subura of Rome. It was the peculiar situation

of the city which led to this intermixing of classes. In a city of a

plain, where no part of the ground offers any advantage over another, the

wealthy naturally form a district select from the poor. In Rome, the great

and wealthy sought the elevated and pleasanter faces of the hills, while

the poorer people remained beneath. Thus the intermediate valleys, however

populated, unavoidably became thoroughfares, and no doubt, to a certain

extent, the haunts of all classes.

Through the teeming Subura, then, we will follow our two characters. They

each threaded their way after their own manner. The knight, slim, supple,

and quick, slipped along like an eel, avoiding all contact and gliding

through every opening with the accustomed ease of a person city bred. On

the other hand the Subura was the home of Cestus, to whom every nook and

corner was familiar. This fact, combined with his superior weight and

bulk, rendered his movements more careless and independent of passers‐by,

some of whom came into collision with him, to their own sorrow. He was,

moreover, recognised by more than one fellow inhabitant as he passed

along. Two or three fellows, as idle and rough looking as himself, leered

knowingly at him from the open front of a wine‐shop where they were

lounging. Another one nodded and winked to him from out of a reeking,

steaming cook‐shop where he was munching a light meal of the simplest

character. Among the many street idlers, one greasy vagabond, with an

evil, bloated face, went so far as to catch his arm and whisper, with a

coarse laugh, ‘What, Cestus, boy, hast hooked thy patron? Thou wilt come

back like a prince!’ But Cestus shook him off, and having cleared the

Subura, he and his patron entered on a less crowded path, and the short,

steep ascent of the Esquiline Hill.

At the summit they passed a statue of Orpheus. He was represented playing

on the lyre to a group of wild animals, exquisitely modelled in the

attitudes of rapt attention to the inspired music. The group was placed in

the centre of a large circular basin for the reception of the spray, which

usually danced and sparkled from the head of the immortal musician. On

this day, however, for some reason, the fountain was dry.

As he passed, the knight turned round, and, pointing with his finger to

draw his follower’s attention to the fact, said, with a cold smile, ‘My

Cestus, when you likened the supply of my funds to the feeding of that

fountain, you made a bad comparison—it is a bad omen, good and faithful

man. Do you accept it?—I do.’

Cestus was in no way behind the age in superstition.

‘Humph!’ muttered he, bestowing a parting glance at the dry figures and

empty basin; ‘plague on the aediles for falling short of water just at

this time! No matter—water, or no water! omen, or no omen! I shall still

remain a faithful client to my patron.’ And he followed on with a grin.

After proceeding another hundred yards Afer stopped before the porch of a

dwelling, small and modest, but pleasantly situated, overlooking no small

portion of the city.

‘Step in, man, and drink a cup of wine while we arrange terms,’ said he,

with ironical politeness.

But some suspicion was awakened in the breast of the other and he did not

stir. ‘Bring it to me—I will wait here,’ said Cestus, with a shake of his

head.

‘But you have not told me what you want.’

‘Six thousand will serve me.’

‘You are growing modest, Cestus—come and I will give it you.’

But Cestus still refused to proceed inside the house.

‘Why—what do you fear?’ demanded Afer.

‘You said something over there, where we met, that I liked not, patron,’

returned Cestus doggedly; ‘there is something about you now that bodes no

good. I will, therefore, put no wall between me and the open street.’

‘What I said over there was true enough,’ said the knight, drawing near

and fastening upon him a peculiar look; ‘there are scores in Rome who

would have said “dead men tell no tales,” and, acting on that, would have

made you a breathless carcase long ago, if they had suffered the behaviour

which you have favoured me with. Fool, do you think I would hurt you any

more than you would harm me. No; you are as necessary to me as I to you—I

have more work for you to do—come!’

He went inside, and proceeded to one of the doorways which opened off the

spacious hall, or atrium, as it was called, which had a tesselated floor

and a small fountain in the midst. At the sound of his foot appeared two

or three slaves to wait upon him. Cestus followed more slowly, with a

keen, wary glance at the various doors and passages around, as though they

might, at any moment, belch forth vassals to fasten on him. The knight

lifted the curtain of an apartment and beckoned him to follow. He did so,

and found himself, with no small amount of misgiving, in a small room,

lighted by a narrow window of glass. There were a couple of couches, for

furniture, and a small carved table, and, for ornament, three or four

bronze statues of exquisite workmanship. In addition to these the walls

were adorned with frescoes of mythological subjects, done by no unskilful

hand. Afer, standing with the curtain still uplifted in one hand, pointed

with the other to a couch, and, bidding his follower wait, disappeared.

Cestus remained motionless, watching the screen of the doorway, with all

his senses strained like a beast of prey, to catch the least sound. But

nothing reached his ear, till, at the end of a quarter of an hour, his

patron returned. He came to the table and threw a bag thereon. It jingled

as it fell, and the eyes of Cestus flashed and fastened on the precious

object.

‘There, my worthy Cestus, are six thousand sesterces; take them and use

them economically.’

The broad hand of the man fell upon the bag and thrust it away in the

breast of his tunic.

‘What—are you not going to tell it over to see that I cheat you not?’ said

Afer mockingly.

‘No—I can trust your counting, noble patron,’ answered Cestus hurriedly;

‘and now I will go, for I am craving with hunger.’

‘And thirst!’ added Afer, clapping his hands loudly.

The echo had hardly died away when a young Greek slave entered, bearing a

cup and a larger vessel of variegated glass. At a nod from his master he

filled the cup with wine from the flagon and handed it to Cestus. But that

individual hesitated and declined with some amount of confusion. Nothing

but the direst need could have compelled him to make such a sacrifice.

‘I dare not drink with an empty stomach—I dare not indeed; ’tis rare wine,

but allow me to go, or I shall drop from sheer want of food, most noble

patron—indeed I shall!’

‘Then I will drink it for you, O man of tender stomach—you grow delicate,’

said Afer, with a derisive laugh; ‘fortune to us both!’

He drained it off, and the slave disappeared with the emptied cup.

‘If I want thee soon I can hear of thee at the same place, Cestus?’

‘As usual!’

‘I will keep you no longer. Go and feed on the best sausages you can

find.’

‘Thanks, noble patron—you will find me ever ready and devoted.’

‘As I found thee this morning. Expect to hear of me very soon.’

With these words they emerged into the hall, and Cestus, drawing a long

breath as he saw the way clear, went off at a pace which utterly belied

his fainting state.

CHAPTER III.

From the centre of his atrium Afer watched his well‐furnished client

retreat down the passage or lobby which led to the street, and marked,

with a sour smile, the hasty stride, or almost leap, with which he

vanished out of the sunlight which filled the porch. He stood a while with

lips compressed, as, with a heart aching with wrath and mortification, he

pondered on what had passed, on the sum of money he was lacking, and the

hateful manner of its extortion. Then he turned and bade his slaves

prepare to accompany him to the bath, which was an indispensable daily

luxury to a Roman, and usually indulged in previous to the dinner hour.

Though not what Rome would call a wealthy man, T. Domitius Afer was of

sufficient means, and from his connection with Fabricius, we may gather,

of sufficient right of birth, to rank him among the equestrian order. His

house, though small, was incontestably ruled by a master possessing the

somewhat rare quality of exquisite taste. Harmony and symmetry reigned

over all its appointments, ordered by the still more rare magic of the

hand, which rounds off the formal chilliness of perfect chastity and

regularity, by an artful and timely touch of graceful negligence.

There was no painting, statue, nor carved vase, nor couch, which might

not, from its beauty and delicacy of design and finish, have had a place

amid the household magnificence of Caesar. The combination of faculties

which we call taste can perform wonders of delight with the meanest

appliances. It requires inexhaustible resources, together with barbaric

ignorance and coarseness, to shock the senses.

Afer remained some minutes pacing up and down the atrium of his house in

deep thought. Then rousing himself he beheld his slaves awaiting his

departure, with towels, unguents, and other necessaries. Without further

delay, therefore, he left the house and proceeded to some private baths in

the neighbourhood, where he enjoyed the company of some acquaintances, as

well as the physical refreshment of what moderns call a Turkish bath. When

he had leisurely gone through this delightful process; when he had finally

been scraped with the strigil, rubbed dry and anointed from head to foot

with a perfumed unguent, his youthful Greek attendant robed him with most

elaborate care to suit his exacting taste, and he left the baths to step

into a kind of sedan chair, which awaited him at the doors. He was borne

thus, the short distance which intervened, to the house of one Apicius, on

the Palatine, the most fashionable quarter in Rome, and finally to become

almost the exclusive property of the emperors.

He alighted in a courtyard, whereon opened the magnificent entrance of a

very large and imposing mansion. He went in. The lofty interior gleamed

with rich marbles and gilding, and the air was laden with the scent of the

perfumed fountain which twinkled and sparkled in the shaft of light,

descending from the blue sunny sky through the square opening in the

centre of the roof. Beyond was the vista of the entire length of the

house, through its columns and peristyle to a portico and ornamental

garden beyond. The sumptuous magnificence which met the eye at every turn,

the priceless statuary, the frescoes on every wall, the rare, polished,

carved wood and stone, the ivory, gilding, and tapestries, betokened the

lavish extravagance of vast wealth. Crossing the spotless floor of marble,

Afer was ushered into a reception room of the same rich character, where

lounged or stood some half dozen guests engaged in conversation. Our

knight’s attire, though of irreproachable taste and fashion, was modest

compared with the superlative richness displayed by some of those he now

rubbed against.

Charinus was a dandy of the first water, whose glorious garments,

oppressive perfumes, smooth, well‐tended, effeminately handsome face and

languid hauteur, at once betrayed his disposition and ambition. Flaccus

was a dandy, whose still youthful and ambitious mind animated a physical

organisation long since bereft of vigour and beauty. Art did its best to

disguise the ruthless blight of time, and age put a good face on its

impotence, whilst it was being racked with follies and excesses which

belonged to its grandchildren. So the withered old trunk stuck itself over

with green boughs, seeking to hide its sapless rottenness, but succeeding

only in rousing the laughter of men.

In the puffy face, and uncertain wavering eyes of Pansa, together with his

nervous, trembling fingers, could be seen the demon of drunkenness; whilst

his seat apart, and his sullen, dejected, downcast looks, marked a

nightmare depression of spirits, during a brief separation from the wine

cup.

Torquatus, unlike Flaccus, retained no foolish vanity in his advanced

years, and his simple attire bore a strong contrast to the rest. Curiosity

might be awakened as to the reason why he was included in the company

present, for peevish, snappish acidity was plain as written symbols in his

prying, sharp, small eyes, in his hard, withered, wrinkled face, and thin,

sourly down‐drawn lips. To the host, in the middle of these, Afer

proceeded to pay his respects. Unheedful, unanswering to the chatter

around his chair, the lord of the house sat absorbed in his reflections.

He leant his head first on one hand and then on the other, shifting

continuously and restlessly, as if a prey to uneasy thoughts. His face was

pale, and his brows slightly contracted. Ever and anon, when his attention

was desired to hear something of interest, he gave a nod, or glimmering

smile, rather weary and ghastly than otherwise. His dress was the envy

even of the dandies, his guests; for his ‘synthesis,’ or loose upper

garment, which all wore, as more convenient for table than the toga, was

made of silk—a fabric, at that time, in Rome, of such extravagant cost, as

to be forbidden by imperial edict only a few years before the date of this

story. The appearance of Afer before him roused him from his reverie.

‘Welcome, my friend,’ said he, extending his hand, and shaking himself, as

if to clear away all thoughts that interfered with his duties as host;

‘welcome to my poor house!’

‘I trust you marked the poverty as you came through,’ rasped the voice of

Torquatus, the sour, ever on the watch to vent a sneer.

‘I came hastily to greet Apicius, our generous host,’ returned Afer, as he

exchanged courtesies with the smiling guests, all of whom he knew.

‘And faster still to eat his dinner,’ added the old man.

‘Ho! ho! Torquatus, I see you are in your best humour,’ cried Apicius,

joining in the laugh, with more vivacity and briskness in his appearance.

‘Who arrived first to his appointment, Apicius?’ inquired Afer.

‘When my slave called me to the room, I found Torquatus here alone to

greet me,’ replied the host.

‘Then has Torquatus the best right to the best part of your dinner, noble

host, since his eagerness to eat it outstripped us all. Hungry Torquatus!’

Loud laughter from all drowned the snarling reply of the old man, but his

scowling eyes spoke volumes.

‘Thou hast it fairly,’ said Apicius, when the merriment ceased; ‘but don’t

be ill‐humoured, Torquatus—it so ill becomes thee.’

The juvenile mirth of Flaccus shook his sides at this, and dislocated some

of the enamel on his face; and ere the amusement had subsided, the heavy

purple curtain of the doorway was drawn aside to admit another comer, a

man in the prime of his age, of tall commanding presence and handsome

countenance. He bestowed one rapid glance upon the occupants of the room,

and ere their eyes, in turn, were drawn towards him, his lips were

wreathed in a bland smile.

‘The Prefect Sejanus!’ announced the slave at the door.

As the name of the most powerful man in Rome fell on the ears of the

company, it banished the laughter from their lips. Following the example

of their host, they pressed around the new arrival, eager to salute him.

Flaccus, the elderly dandy, who was a small man, tried to strain himself,

like the frog in the fable, into an individual of imposing appearance.

Torquatus posed himself into a caricature of a philosopher of elevated and

dignified severity. Even the nerveless Pansa elevated his tremulous eyes,

and rose from his chair. But when the first greetings were over, the

conversation soon fell back once more into a current of liveliness and

jest, under the influence of the imperial minister’s good humour and

indiscriminate affability.

‘Come, friends, it is time to get to table,’ said Apicius; ‘and for the

laggards who are yet absent, let them abide by what their unpunctuality

may bring them. Ha! here comes one. Caius, I cannot enter my dinner as an

equal attraction to love; but yet, for once——’

‘What is the finest feast to a man in love! Heed him not, Martialis,’ said

Sejanus, grasping the hand of the newcomer. The latter, a young man of

about thirty, smiled in response to a shower of badinage which followed

this initiative, until a slave entered and announced the feast in

readiness to be served.

‘Come, then!’ cried the host; ‘we lack one, but he is ever behind—’tis

part of his religion. Let him take the empty place when he thinks fit.’ So

saying, he took Sejanus, as his most distinguished guest, by the hand,

and, followed by the others, led the way to the dining apartment, where a

table, blazing with an equipage of precious metal, awaited them.

It is no purpose of these pages to enter into a detailed description of

the extravagance, the innumerable and curious dishes, of a Roman banquet

of the first order. Antiquaries have already done so in accounts which are

easily to be met with. The recital of the ingenuity, invention, and wealth

lavished on a meal is extraordinary to modern measurement of luxury and

extravagance. Fish, fowl, and beast were brought from the ends of the

earth, in order that jaded appetites might nibble at them, or at some

particular part of them, dressed by a _chef_ of the highest art; and, in

the present instance, nothing was likely to be lacking from the feast of

one who won historic fame as a gourmand.

Nor was the entertainment deemed sufficient of itself, but it must be

served in an apartment of splendour equal to the occasion. That of Apicius

did not aspire to the novelty and outlay brought to bear on the saloon of

Nero’s golden house of a few years later, which was constructed like a

theatre, with scenes which changed at every course. But, for a private

individual, of a period just launching fairly into degraded luxury, his

dining‐room was, perhaps, the most magnificent in the city.

Along with the cunning of workers in ivory and precious metals, the hand

of the painter and sculptor had adorned it with the best children of their

genius. In the centre of the apartment was placed the square dinner‐table,

which had the repute of costing the owner a fortune in itself. It was made

from the roots of the citron tree, whereby the perfection of beautiful

markings was obtained. It was highly polished, and the massive legs which

supported it were of ivory and gold, elaborately carved at the extremities

into the semblances of lions’ feet. On three sides of the table were

ranged three couches of the same costly workmanship. They were spread with

deeply‐fringed cloth of gold and cushions to match. The latter were to

assist the diners in their attitude, for the Roman reclined at full length

at his meals; and, while he reached for his food with his right hand to

the table, on a lower level than the couch, his left elbow and hand, aided

by the cushions, supported his head and upper part of his body in a

convenient lounging posture.

The knotty face of Torquatus involuntarily twisted into a grimace of

delight as he and his companions stretched themselves in their places

around the glittering table. The failing eyes of Pansa emitted a feeble

flash as they fell on the old jars of Falernian wine of the Opimian brand,

the most celebrated vintage of all, and perfectly priceless.

When all the diners were placed according to the marshalling of the slave

who acted as master of ceremonies, the slippers of each guest were drawn

off by their own domestics, who attended them to table. A company of

musicians struck up a slow measured strain, and the professional carver of

the establishment forthwith commenced to show his dexterity in dividing

the dressed viands to the beat of the music. Then the diners spread their

napkins of fine linen edged with gold fringe, and directing their servants

to set before them whatever delicacy they fancied, they forthwith gave

their utmost energy and attention to the business of the evening with a

zest as critical as keen.

Torquatus gobbled and ravened like a beast of prey. The hard, protuberant

muscles of his face heaved and fell, and worked, incessantly, under the

skin, which soon began to shine and glisten with perspiration. Charinus,

the exquisite, nibbled at the most curious and highly‐seasoned delicacies,

with the pampered appetite of a gourmand. The first deep draught of old

Falernian restored Pansa and restrung his drooping nerves. His eyes

brightened, his face lightened, and, with a smack of his lips, he reached

briskly forward to the golden platter, which his slave had just placed

before him. It was the custom of his countrymen to temper their wine with

water; but, beyond cooling it with the snows of the Apennines, Pansa

approved of no such folly, so that his slave troubled the water pitcher no

more than to give an appearance of decency. As cup rapidly succeeded cup

his vivacity returned and his tongue became witty. It was a marvellous

restoration. The guest who in the greatest measure followed his example,

though still at a considerable distance, was Caius Martialis, who occupied

the place next and above his host, on the left hand, or third couch.

Dissipation had placed its marks on the noble features of this young man,

and he appeared to drink and talk with an increasing recklessness, and

even desperation.

Whilst in the middle of the first course the last guest entered the room

to make up the number of nine—three to each couch, the number of the

muses. The new‐comer was rather short in stature and thick‐set, with

squat, dark features, as though descended from negro blood. As he came

into the room he glanced round with a supercilious look. Scarcely bending

to his host, he bowed more markedly to Sejanus, whilst the remainder of

the company he seemed to ignore utterly. The seat reserved for him was the

lowest on the couch next his host—the worst at the table. He took it with

a scowl, amid the ill‐concealed smiles of the others. Apicius himself,

after bidding him welcome, sank back on his cushions with a sigh of

triumph and relief. Zoilus the millionaire, the son of a slave, the great

rival of himself in the extravagance of Rome, had on a splendid silk

garment, but it was only edged with gold, whereas his own was most

beautifully figured and wrought with the same all over.

The enormous acquired wealth of this individual, and his ostentatious use

of it, made him a very noted leader of fashion; but, while people

applauded and truckled to him they scoffed aside at his innate vulgarity

and arrogance. He began his dinner, at once, by asking haughtily and ill‐

humouredly for some unusual dish. It was at once supplied. Apicius ate

calmly on, and the rest smiled and winked covertly. It was a trial of

strength between the champions of luxury. The same thing happened more

than once throughout the banquet; but nothing, however rare, in the range

of culinary art was lacking from the plate of Zoilus that his ingenuity

could suggest. The face of Apicius, though calm and stoical, covered a

heart devoured by anxiety. A slight defection of his cook, a slight

oversight in the study of their records, a trifling mistake or

misadventure in the combination of their ingredients, might have opened

the way for his rival’s adverse, if courteous criticism. But everything

was perfect. The household, from its officers downwards, had surpassed

itself. The result was the perfection of culinary and decorative art,

combined with the utmost variety and rarity. Praises flew from lip to lip.

Some were fired into ecstasies of admiration and wonder; pleasure sat on

every countenance, except that of Zoilus. He had remained silent for full

a quarter of an hour. His ingenuity was exhausted, and his enemy’s armour

unpierced. It was the culminating point of the complete pre‐eminence of

Apicius. He gave a sign, and the butler, with much solemnity and ceremony,

set a magnificent dish on the table with his own hands, amid a flourish of

the musicians.

The guests looked on curiously.

Apicius announced the name of the delicacy which steamed on the gleaming

gold. He bade them try it. Its style was entirely new and novel to Rome. A

portion was cut and handed to Sejanus; after him the others were served.

Its delicious and novel flavour was proved by the enraptured expressions

of each feaster as he tasted the portion set before him. It had only one

fault, as Pansa said, with a sigh—there was not enough of it. Zoilus was

left to the last, and the only remaining piece on the dish was placed

before him. Livid and trembling with passion he motioned it away,

muttering something about his inability to digest it. Apicius, therefore,

with mock regret, beckoned the slave to transfer it to himself.

‘Good!’ said he, when he had finished it, speaking to his steward, whose

glance hung upon him. ‘Tell Silo, Hippias, and Macer, that they have

surpassed themselves. Their master is well pleased with them—with you all.

He will not forget.’

It is to be regretted that history has preserved only the tradition of

this remarkable production of Apicius’ kitchen, the fame of which

subsequently filled aristocratic circles. Further than relating that the

foundation of the dish was the carcase of a small unknown animal, captured

in the limits of the empire, and brought home by a recently arrived ship,

all details are wanting.

Gradually, after this interesting incident, the guests, languidly, fell

more at their ease on their cushions, with laden stomachs and appeased

appetites. Beyond nibbling furtively at sweet dainties and fruits, there

was only inclination left to sip at the precious wine, and to employ their

tongues and laugh at each other’s wit. But from this stage Apicius himself

relapsed once more into his former fit of silent, unconscious abstraction.

The minutes gathered into hours, and chatter and jest flew uninterruptedly

around. Only at times the host was roused by the jesting challenges of his

guests, rallying him on the subject of his absorbed reflections. Among the

numerous glorious entertainments of Apicius this, the guests admitted to

each other in many an aside, was the most perfect Rome had yet known. And

yet, instead of being blithe and jocund with success, the hospitable

entertainer reclined with melancholy, fixed eyes—opening his lips only to

sip his wine from time to time. This could not fail to have an effect

eventually, for what ought to have been the inspiration of their

conviviality was cold, fireless, and mute. They struggled on for some

time, but, at length, their cheerfulness sank beneath the chilling

influence of those fixed, sad, downcast eyes and heedless ears. A social

meeting largely takes its tone from its leader, and when the conversation

became slower and more fitful, Afer exchanged glances with Sejanus and

Flaccus with Charinus. Meaning looks went round from each to each to the

seemingly unconscious Apicius, and from Apicius back to each other. Zoilus

had no love or good‐feeling to detain him. More or less discomfited and

snubbed, he waited no longer, kicking against the pricks, but seized the

opportunity and began to rise, briefly hinting that his absence was

necessary.

‘Stay!’ said Apicius, suddenly starting, as if from a dream, at hearing

these words spoken in his ear. ‘Stay yet for a few moments, Zoilus. I—I

implore your pardon, friends, for I see I have fallen a prey to my

reflections and forgotten you. It was behaviour unworthy even of a

barbarian—I pray you give me your indulgence!’

‘Nay, noble Apicius, every one is liable to be overridden by his

thoughts,’ said Sejanus.

‘True, and I will forthwith give you the clue to mine,’ was the reply.

‘Ha! we will, therefore, begin again,’ quoth Pansa, in thick tones,

holding up his empty goblet for his slave to refill.

They all laughed, and then bent their eyes on the face of Apicius with

renewed interest.

‘Nothing, dear friends, but the most sorrowful thoughts could have led me

to exhibit such conduct toward you,’ said their host. ‘It has been my

greatest ambition—ever my pride and pleasure to see my friends happy

around my table.’

‘Dear Apicius, you have ever succeeded, and not the least this day,’ said

Martialis gently.

A murmur of approval ran round the couches.

‘You do me honour,’ resumed Apicius; ‘you have been good friends and

companions hitherto, and I have done, humbly, my best to return your love.

Be patient, I will not detain you long; and especially as you will never

again recline round this table at my request. I am grieved to say it,’

continued he, after allowing the expressions of startled surprise to pass,

‘but I am resolved to change my condition, and Rome will know me no more.’

Ill‐concealed joy lighted up the vulgar face of Zoilus, but the visages of

Torquatus, Flaccus, and Pansa were blank and thunderstruck at this

unlooked‐for announcement.

‘Say not so, Apicius!’ quoth Martialis, turning his prematurely worn, but

noble face toward his host, ‘you rend our hearts.’

Apicius, with a fond look, laid his hand gently on the speaker’s shoulder,

but did not speak.

‘This is rank treason that cannot pass,’ said Sejanus jestingly. ‘Rome

cannot spare thee, noble Apicius—thou shalt not even leave thy house—I

shall send a guard of my Pretorians, who shall block thee in.’

A faint smile rested on the lips of Apicius at this conceit.

‘We shall see how that plan will act, Prefect,’ said he. ‘Send thy

Pretorians—a whole cohort—only you must be quick.’

Torquatus sat dumb and forgot his jibes; the remainder listened for what

was to follow.

‘It is true, my friends, I am about to quit the pleasures, the bustle, the

virtues and vices of our beloved city of the hills. I am eager for perfect

serenity, far from the struggling crowd, and I go shortly to see it.’

‘Whither? We will seek you out—I, at least,’ interrupted the voice of

Martialis next to him.

‘Thou shalt learn ere very long, my Caius. Which among you does not, at

certain times, if not constantly, wish for the tranquillity of the rustic,

whose music is the whisper of the groves, the rippling of the stream, and

the notes of the birds? Eating simply, sleeping soundly, rising

cheerfully. Contented with what the gods have given him—the summer sun,

the pure air, the green pastures, sweet water and the vine‐clad slope; a

heart unvexed by ambitions, envyings, ingratitudes. When I see him wander,

wonderingly, through the streets, I envy him his brown cheek, his clear

skin, his cheerful simplicity, his vigorous body which cleaves the torrent

of pallid citizens. He seems to breathe the odour of the quiet groves and

dewy grass. I am sick at heart and weary, friends. I loathe the sight of

my once loved city of the hills—the marble, the stone, the thronging

people. Peace! Peace! That song of Horace haunts me. Hear it, although you

know it well—it will help you to divine my spirit in a little degree.’ He

then recited the beautiful song of Horace, the sixteenth of his second

book, of which we offer the following translation, inadequate as it is:—

‘Whosoever tempest‐tossed

Upon the wide Aegean waters,

Prays the gods for peace and rest,

When darkling the moon is hid

Amid the murky clouds,

And guiding stars shine not

To cheer the sailor’s breast.

‘War‐torn Thrace cries Peace!

And Peace! the quivered Median bold:

But, Grosphus, it is neither bought

With purple, gems, nor gold.

For neither riches

Nor the lictor of a consul’s nod,

Can drive the troubles of a mind aloof,

Nor flout the cares which flit

About a gilded roof.

‘With him who lives with little

Life goes well;

Whose father’s cup

Shines bright upon a simple board:

Whose slumbers light

Are never harmed by fear, nor sudden fright,

Which tells of hidden hoard.

‘Why strain ourselves to gain so much

In this short life of ours?

Why change our childhood’s homes for lands

That glow with other suns?

What banished man whose fate is such

He fain would shun himself?

‘Grim, cankering care climbs up the brazened ships,

And swifter than the stag,

Or eastern wind which sweeps

The storms and rattling rain,

It leaveth not the bands of horsemen

Trooping o’er the plain.

‘Be happy for the day,

And hate to think on what may follow!

Tempering all bitterness

With an easy laugh;

For no such happiness there is

As knows no sorrow.

‘Swift death bore off Achilles, and old age

Hath shrunk Tithonus—

Time, mayhap, will give to me

That which it denies to thee.’

This foreign rendering can give only a faint idea of the effect which

Apicius produced upon his hearers, by the beauty of his elocution, in his

native tongue; for it was given in a voice of singular, pathetic

melancholy. The hot burning tears dropped silently from the down‐turned

face of Martialis. Then, for a brief moment, he raised his swimming eyes

toward his friend. All that was purest and noblest in his nature struggled

with those welling drops, from beneath the load of a careless, misguided

life, and beautified his weary face. The voices of the others were raised

in entreaties and arguments, and even Torquatus summoned a snarling joke.

But Apicius was firm, and only shook his head.

‘Think not that I go heedlessly,’ said he; ‘we have passed many delightful

hours together. Although I shall henceforth be absent, I would not have my

memory altogether die amongst you. I have, therefore, to ask each of you

to accept of a slight memorial which may, at various times, as I hope,

recall something of Apicius and his days.’

‘But you tell us not where you go,’ murmured Martialis once more.

‘Patience, Caius—you shall know; it is within easy reach, on an easy

road.’

Martialis made a gesture of pleasure, and Apicius gave a sign to his

butler. On a sideboard stood a row of nine objects of nearly equal height,

entirely draped and hidden by white gold‐fringed napkins thrown over them.

They were curious and unusual, and had, many times, already, excited the

inward curiosity of the company.

The slave advanced to these and carefully took the first. At a nod from

his master he placed it before Martialis, on the table, with the snowy

white napkin still hiding whatever was beneath. The next was placed before

Sejanus. The others before Charinus, Flaccus, Torquatus, Pansa, Afer, and

Zoilus in rotation. One was left. Apicius pointed to his own place. The

slave put it down before him, and the table was ranged round with these

mysterious white‐robed objects.

‘Friends,’ said Apicius calmly, ‘beneath those covers you will find the

presents which I give to you in token of our fellowship. I have striven to

the best of my ability to render them suitable and useful to their owners.

Look at them and accept of them, I pray.’

They all, with more or less eagerness, lifted the napkins from their

allotted gifts and sat gazing thereat, at Apicius, and each other with

mingled expressions of ill‐suppressed anger, mortification, and

disappointment. The napkin before Apicius was still untouched, and he

received the rancorous glances which were shot towards him, with a calm,

scornful expression.

Before Sejanus was a small representation of a lictor’s fasces, a

miniature axe bound up in a bundle of twigs; but in addition to the axe

was the model of an iron hook, such as was used to drag the bodies of

traitors and malefactors down the Gemonian steps into the Tiber.

The cheek of the conspirator flushed, and from beneath his gathering brows

he flashed a look as dangerous and dark as a thundercloud.

‘Be not offended, Prefect,’ said Apicius; ‘I act as a true friend who

fears not the truth, and not as a parasite, who bestows nothing but what

may prove pleasant to the ear.’

His cold, mocking tone belied his words, and, ere he finished, Zoilus,

with a face purple with rage and fury, had jumped from his seat and dashed

the article he had uncovered to the floor. It was a small figure of a

negro, carved in ebony, having its nakedness barely draped in a ludicrous

fashion with a little cloak of figured silk.

‘What!’ cried Apicius jibingly; ‘displeased with the image of your

grandfather?’

But Zoilus, speechless and shuddering with his boiling feelings, rushed

from the room with his slaves. He was followed by a titter, which the

biting satire of the proceeding even wrung from the offended natures of

the others.

Torquatus sat scowling before a small stand, on which was placed a common

wooden platter having a copper coin in the centre. Pansa evinced his

disgust of a similar stand bearing a diminutive cup of silver. The figure

of a very ancient goat on its hind legs, having a garland of roses around

its horns, caused Flaccus to fume and fret immoderately. Afer smiled

scornfully upon a miniature gilded weather‐vane; whilst a mirror, upheld

by an Apollo, with an averted face, was regarded by Charinus with

ineffable disdain.

Thus had Apicius amused his invention. A small bronze casket was deemed

sufficient for Martialis. It was unpretentious in its outward appearance;

but a fast‐locked box ever provokes curiosity.

‘Lift it, Martialis!’ snapped Torquatus derisively, ‘and see whether it be

filled with iron, or chaff, or what is lighter still—emptiness.’

‘There is the key, my Caius,’ said Apicius, in answer, drawing the article

from his breast and handing it to his friend. ‘Before you leave the house

you shall use it—at present, sad necessity must deprive any one of the

pleasure of seeing what the box contains. Dear friends,’ he added, turning

his eyes upon them, ‘I grieve that my trifling tributes should not, by

appearances, have pleased you. Had I been less truthful and more liberal,

probably you would have overwhelmed me with gratitude. At least I have

ever found it thus. There is little more to add save farewell—Caius, give

me thy hand.’

The hand was extended and grasped fervently by Apicius, who then lifted

the napkin before him. A richly chased gold cup, studded with jewels, was

exposed, gorgeous and glowing, to the expectant gaze of all. The eyes of

Torquatus, Flaccus, and Pansa kindled. Sejanus still sat motionless, with

a cloud resting on his pale, immobile face. The sad brooding eyes of

Martialis showed no change.

‘That is my father’s cup,’ continued Apicius; ‘Martialis, thou wilt

preserve it—it is too rich for my future needs of simplicity. I will drink

to the future welfare of you all. May the gods send you plentiful pastures

of liberal purses and groaning tables; and may ye die the death of noble,

virtuous, uncovetous men. Listen, dear friends,’ he said, with a bitterly

scornful emphasis of the adjective, ‘I have lived to the age of forty

years. With your help and the help of others I have spent of my patrimony

sixty‐four thousand sestertia.’(2)

A movement of sensation passed round the couches at this calm statement of

such enormous extravagance.

‘In the process I have discovered how rarely the immortals make true

friends, and how idle it is to try and gain them with the glitter of gold

alone. I have met with but one in my career who has followed me for

love—Caius, true friend, may the gods repay you, for Apicius cannot.’ He

raised the goblet in his hand; it was partly filled with wine. Looking

round the company, while he poised the flashing cup, he said: ‘Vultures, I

have done. I have had my pleasure—I have spent my patrimony—what is left I

give to thee, Caius—that casket will vouch for it. I want it not; it is

not worth living on for. _Vale!_’

He emptied the cup at a draught, threw it from him on to the table, and

then proceeded to sink back to his former position on the cushions. Ere he

reached them, the smile on his lip became suddenly contorted into a

horrible grimace. The pallor of his face changed to a ghastly lividness.

His body and limbs gave a spasmodic twist of agony, and he fell back a

breathless corpse.

The room was filled with consternation and confusion. Martialis, with a

horrible suspicion, sprang up and encircled his friend. Slaves sped away

for a physician, and the remainder, together with the guests, gathered

round the dead Apicius with startled looks.

‘Come!’ said Sejanus to Afer in a low voice, ‘we can do nothing here but

waste time. Apicius has given the signal to depart. His only true friend

will attend to him—the slaves will probably see to the house—and

themselves.’

‘The fool,’ muttered Afer, following the imperial minister out of the

room, ‘he has lost his fortune and dies—I go to get one and live.’

The company fast melted away. Charinus, with haughty, measured step, and

sublimity of indifference on his unruffled face. Pansa, stupefied with

wine and fright, leaning on the necks of his slaves, who, indeed, nearly

carried him. Torquatus, with a keen eye for any movables and an

opportunity. So they departed to blow this strange business over the city.

A group of frightened domestics remained huddled in one corner of the

room. Martialis waved them away, and he was left, amid the gold and

glitter of the chamber of death, bending and sobbing alone, over the dead

body of his friend.

CHAPTER IV.

The entrance of one of the household domestics, bringing a physician,

roused the young man from the first stupor of his shocked feelings. He

rose to his feet and assumed a stoical calmness.

‘I am a physician,’ said the new‐comer, breathing somewhat heavily, by

reason of the pace at which the slave had hurried him thither. Martialis

made a gesture toward the dead man and sank his chin on his breast. It

needed no more than a moment for the practised eye of the mediciner to see

that life had been suddenly and utterly snatched away.

‘I can do nothing,’ said he, letting the hand of Apicius fall. ‘Out of

which cup did he drink?’

Following a slight motion of the young man’s head, he went and picked up

the jewelled goblet, which remained on its side, near the edge of the

table, where Apicius had thrown it. He put his nose to it and sniffed the

dregs. There was no odour but that of wine, yet the man of science

shrugged his shoulders significantly.

‘There still remains in the cup enough for the death of two or three, most

noble sir,’ said he.

‘I might do worse than try to prove your words,’ remarked Martialis

bitterly.

‘The gods forbid! Aesculapius himself could not save you if you did!’

‘To whom and to what place am I to send if I should want you again?’

‘I should be ever grateful for your notice, noble Martialis. I am

Charicles, and may be found without difficulty in the Vicus Tuscus.’

Martialis nodded, and Charicles, with much humility and expression of

sympathy, withdrew.

‘’Twas for himself then,’ he muttered, as he passed quickly through the

deserted hall. ‘O precious drug, swift and sure as light, when did you

ever fail or disgrace me!’

The eye of Martialis fell on the casket which Apicius had bequeathed him.

He stood regarding it for a few moments, and then turned to a slave who

remained, and said, with renewed vigour of faculties, ‘Let the kinsfolk of

Apicius be brought hither at once, if not already sent for—Plautia, his

sister, Sabellus, his uncle; and go you, yourself, bring with you back, in

all haste, Festus the lawyer, from nigh the forum of Caesar—haste!’

The slave disappeared and left him once more alone. He stood and gazed on

the face of the dead, and his grief broke beyond his control. Half‐

smothered sobs broke from his lips, and his eyes were blind with hot

pouring tears.

‘Oh Apicius,’ he groaned, ‘if thou wert weary of the world, hadst thou so

little regard for our love and companionship? This is thy retreat from men

so easily found! Easy indeed—thou didst not err. All may reach it when

they list, gods be praised! For in whose ear can I whisper, as I whispered

in thine, all that oppressed me? Gone—gone, Apicius! Thou hast forsaken

thy friend—selfish—selfish! Did you deem the void would be filled by

another of your blood? Oh, miserable thought!’

He lay stretched on a couch murmuring in broken sentences, but, as the

leaden minutes lagged on, he became more composed. The sound of a voice

without made him leap to his feet. The next instant the heavy curtains

were thrust back, and a young, richly‐attired female stepped into the

apartment. Despite the crushing blow the heart of Martialis had received,

it gave a bound at the entrance of the new‐comer. Her stature was above

the feminine standard, and her figure large and voluptuous, but perfect in

symmetry and grace. Whilst giving the impression of robustness and vigour,

its stately carriage admirably matched the brilliant and haughty beauty of

her face. The gaze of Martialis was riveted on her. Scarcely deigning to

return the look, she swept up to the suicide and bent over him. Drawing

herself up again she cast her glance over the room,—the disordered table

with its litter of plate and luscious fruits, fallen cups and crumpled

napkins, all glittering in a jumble of confusion under the light of the

huge candelabra. Thence her brilliant black eyes flashed upon him who

stood by, with infatuation and misery written on his face.

‘Speak, Martialis, what led him to do this?’

‘I know no more, Plautia, but what he said before us all here but now,’

answered the young man, sweeping his hand toward the table; ‘he was tired

of life—he had spent his patrimony—poverty haunted him—so he drank and

died, ere one could move or speak.’

‘Poverty!’ echoed she. She looked round again upon the extravagance which

glowed in every part of the room, and her red lips curled in scornful

incredulity.

‘Even so,’ he rejoined.

The farewell and eccentric gifts of the dead host to his guests were yet

remaining on the table where they had been put. Her eyes rested on them in

curiosity.

‘What are these?’ she demanded again.

Martialis explained their presence, and, being particularly interested,

she was not satisfied until she had learnt to whom each article had been

appropriated.

‘And that he gave to you?’ said she, pointing to the bronze casket.

‘He did,’ replied Martialis.

‘Know you what it contains?’

‘I can only guess.’

‘Well?’

‘With his last breath he bequeathed to me all that remains of his effects.

The box, doubtless, contains the documents relating thereto,’ said the

young man, in a voice trembling with emotion.

‘Doubtless—you were his nearest friend and companion,’ remarked the lady;

‘of me, his sister, doubtless, he said nothing. What little there was in

common between us was not much tempered with love and good‐humour.’

‘Alas, Plautia, take what there is! I want it not—I would give it a

hundred times over to gain one kind look from your eyes. He was your

brother—born of the same mother—to me he was more than a brother. There he

lies before us. Cannot his dead body, bereft of likes and dislikes, soften

your heart to me who loved him most?’

‘Martialis, you knew his intention before this night,’ said she,

disregarding his pleading tone as she would the whining of a dog.

‘No, before Heaven—or maybe we had never seen this bitter night.’

‘’Tis strange, and you two secretless friends, as I have heard you say.’

‘This, at least, was dark to me, as to every one else, until he drank from

yon fatal cup and fell back where he lies.’

Plautia took up the cup from the table where Charicles had placed it, and,

with a natural curiosity, smelled at it, as he had done.

‘Take care!’ ejaculated Martialis, as the golden rim seemed to graze her

ripe lips. ‘There is yet sufficient left to harm more than one—so the

physician has said—beware lest a drop smear thy lip.’

‘Tush, Martialis!—I am not so tired of life,’ she replied contemptuously,

setting down the goblet; ‘who comes?’

‘Festus, the lawyer, or thy uncle, Sabellus.’

‘Festus?’

He pointed to the box, and, at the same time, an old man entered,

wrinkled, grave, and thin. He made a profound obeisance, and then looked

inquiringly from one to the other.

‘Martialis summoned thee, he hath need of thee, Festus,’ exclaimed Plautia

haughtily; and, passing to the door, she summoned the domestics.

‘It is true I sent for thee,’ said Martialis briefly.

‘This is a woeful sight,’ said the lawyer, as the slaves crowded in, and,

under the directions of the lady, lifted their dead master and bore him

away to his own room. ‘It was only this very morn that I saw him and spoke

with him in the forum of Caesar, as well and content as ever he was, to

all seeming.’

Martialis took the key of the casket and placed it in the lawyer’s hand.

‘Open the box—it was the gift of Apicius to me, his friend.’

Plautia took up her position on one of the couches, stretching her

magnificent form on the place and cushions which had before been occupied

by Sejanus the Prefect. The long, loose, flowing drapery of the Roman

female clung and moulded itself to the voluptuous curves of her figure.

Gems and trinkets of gold glittered amid the wreathed and plaited masses

of her bluish‐black hair, and numberless jewels flashed upon the fingers

of her dainty white hands. Her features were slightly aquiline, but

perfect and delicate in outline, and her ivory‐like skin was warm and

glowing with the tints of a ripe peach. With her bold, imperious, black

orbs she looked like a queen as she reclined, the most apt and brilliant

centrepiece of that apartment of gorgeous splendour.

The grave, elderly Festus, as he opened the casket, cast at her a glance

filled with admiration. Martialis buried his face in his hands, as if

fearful of allowing his hungry eyes to rest upon her, except at intervals,

when the matter in hand called for some remark.

When the lawyer opened the casket he found therein several papers. After

glancing at each in turn, he took one up and said, ‘This is the will of M.

Gabius Apicius, bequeathing his property solely to Caius Julius Martialis,

knight, his friend.’

‘Read!’ said that unhappy personage in a hollow tone.

Festus obeyed. The task was brief and did not occupy many minutes. The

remaining papers were found to be informal inventories of effects.

Martialis bade him read them also. They were long; including, as they did,

everything of value in the house. Plautia signified her impatience long

before it was ended, and, during its progress, a slave entered to announce

that Sabellus of the Aventine was not to be found.

When the wearisome monotone of the lawyer at length ceased, Martialis

raised his pale face from his hands.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed the lawyer suddenly; ‘here I find the value of the whole

computed. Deducting the debts due, and a few minor bequests, the balance

amounts to an estimate of ten thousand sestertia.’(3)

Plautia started on her cushions at the statement.

‘What!’ she demanded, contracting her fine black brows; ‘ten thousand

sestertia, free?’

‘Absolutely, as the will expressly states,’ replied Festus. ‘The whole

total reaches a huger sum, but there are debts, as before mentioned. No

money is spoken of—these inventories must be realised.’

‘Was this the poverty he fled from? Why, it is a fortune—a heaven to the

greater part of mankind!’ she exclaimed.

‘Ay, but not to the mind of Apicius,’ interrupted the voice of Martialis;

‘for remember—scarce a coined piece within his coffers. Everything gone

but what the walls of the house compass. Had Apicius lived it was

necessary to live as hitherto. To do that he must needs have despoiled his

home—the noblest in Rome—of its treasures. Rather than strike, to all, the

note of disgrace and ruin, he did as he did. It was pride, not fear—it is

too plain. But small or great as the remnant may seem to thee, Plautia,

thou art his nearest of kin—to thee, therefore, it belongs. I have no

claim but what the love of a friend has given me. I render it up—take it

therefore.’

‘A noble deed!’ quoth Festus.

The glance of Plautia softened a little, and she held out her jewelled,

white hand to the young man. With eyes aflame he seized it, and covered it

with kisses.

‘It is truly high‐minded and generous of thee, Martialis,’ she said.

‘Take it—I need it not!’ he answered eagerly.

‘Foolish!’ she rejoined, drawing her hand away and accompanying her words

with a mocking smile. ‘Bid Festus teach thee to be wiser than rob

thyself.’

‘It is a question for his own heart to decide,’ remarked the lawyer,

replacing the papers in the box.

‘Festus has done his part and I will keep him no longer—say no more!’ said

Martialis.

The lawyer rose at this hint, and at the same moment a voice came from the

doorway. Looking thither they beheld a tall cloaked figure standing in the

doorway, regarding them and their surroundings with keen eyes.

Martialis started. ‘Lucius!’ he exclaimed.

‘Even so, brother,’ returned the new‐comer.

It was indeed the Centurion, bearing the stains of hard travel on his

garments and a jaded air on his face.

Plautia rose to her feet. Her cheeks were suffused with a sudden flood of

crimson, and her bosom stirred her tunic with deeper and more rapid

pulsations. A delicious tremor seemed to melt her natural stateliness of

carriage. Her eyes, so full of haughtiness and will, encountering the calm

gaze of the Pretorian, sank like a timid child’s, shaded beneath a deep

sweeping fringe of eyelashes.

A deadly sickness crept about the heart of Caius Martialis, for his

senses, preternaturally sharpened, saw all.

‘Do you seek me?’ he demanded, scarcely able, or caring, to conceal the

bitterness of his tones.

The Centurion dropped his cloak from his shoulder and stepped forward,

whilst, at the same time, Festus, the lawyer, glided from the room.

The resemblance between the brothers was traceable in the mould of their

features. But, whilst those of the soldier were scarcely so finely carved

as were his elder brother’s, they were considerably more manly and

decided. The expression of spirit and determination which was

characteristic of his bronzed face and fearless glance, were less

perceptible on the countenance of the civilian. The vigour and robustness

of the younger eminently fitted him to press forward in the battle and

strife of the world; whilst the characteristics of the elder were of a

more delicate organisation, which seeks the calmer atmosphere and placid

occupations of retirement and study. The personal appearance of the

Centurion, which has already been alluded to, spoke for his habits. His

commanding stature, rude health and strength and perfection of physical

training were all at the service of the readiness and resource of mind

which seemed to lie charactered in the glances of his eyes. On the other

hand, the person of Caius was medium‐sized, and the signs of habitual

ease, indulgence, luxury and pleasure, were only too plainly stamped on

his face, to the deep injury of its native nobleness and delicacy.

‘Do you seek me?’ said the latter.

‘No—I seek the Prefect. Not at the camp, I was directed to follow him

here. No porter in the lodge to tell me—no slave visible. I found a light

here—if I have intruded I am grieved, but you paid no attention to my

knock.’

‘Sejanus has left some time ago—a long time.’

‘Whither, then, Caius, do you know?’

‘No—nor care—faith not I!’ was the careless and somewhat uncourteous

answer.

‘You have travelled far?’ broke in Plautia’s voice; deeper, softer, and

more melodious than hitherto.

‘I have, Plautia, and I trust the Prefect will not lead me much farther.’

‘Whence have you come? You are fatigued—I see it in your face. You must,

then, have ridden a prodigious distance; for your fame, as a horseman, has

reached even me. You are a very centaur, so rumour tells me.’

‘Rumour tells many idle and foolish things, but, as I have posted fifty

leagues without stopping, save to change horses, since my last brief

resting‐place, I may claim to feel somewhat weary. I am thirsty too—with

your leave, I will drink a cup of wine with infinite relish.’

He turned toward the sideboard where the wine‐flagons stood; but, ere he

could take a second step, she glided past him, and selecting one of the

vessels, raised it with her own hands. Caius looked on and gnawed his lip.

‘I will be my own cupbearer,’ cried the Centurion; ‘you do me too much

honour, lady.’

As he relieved her of the pitcher, he would have been scarcely human not

to have dwelt with admiration on her brilliant beauty, which was unusually

flushed and animated. She parted with the jar, and, at the same time,

flashed a glowing glance upon him with her lustrous eyes.

He turned round from those dangerous orbs to fill with the wine the

nearest cup which stood on the table. The eyes of his brother Caius

suddenly gleamed with a hard, steel‐like glint, and his face turned,

simultaneously, deathly white. Lucius half turned as he raised to drink

from the cup he had filled. The bumper had barely reached his lips when a

scream burst from the throat of Plautia. With the cry she sprang forward

and dashed the vessel from his hand on to the polished floor. The wine

splashed them both and the goblet fell with such violence as to be dented.

It was that one which had already played such a fatal part that night.

Transfixed with astonishment the Centurion gazed upon the beautiful girl,

whose face crimsoned and paled, and whose bosom heaved and fell

tumultuously.

‘It was the cup—the poisoned cup!’ ejaculated she.

‘The poisoned cup!’ cried he, looking with increased surprise from one to

the other.

A terrible revulsion of feeling swept through, and shook, the frame of the

elder Martialis. At the look of his brother he gave a hysterical gasp and

dropped his head into his hands.

Plautia pointed to the fallen goblet with an impressive gesture, and said,

‘It has already taken the life of one man this night. Had you drunk

therefrom you would have shared his fate. That cup yet reeks of the fatal

drug. Though I saw you not fill it, fortune be praised that my poor eyes

perceived it ere your lips touched its horrid brim.’

‘How, the death of a man?’ repeated the bewildered Centurion.

‘Even so! From that very cup at the close of this night’s feast,’ said

she, waving her hand over the glittering disorder of the table, ‘Apicius,

of his own will, drank a poisoned draught.’

The young soldier was horror‐struck. He looked around and shuddered.

‘Apicius—poisoned himself!’ he muttered. ‘This is a dreadful tale—and for

what reason, in the name of the gods?’

‘Your brother can tell you better than I—he was his bosom friend, and,

moreover, was present,’ answered Plautia, turning away, as if to hide a

sudden burst of feeling.

‘Nay!’ said Lucius hastily, and with deep sympathy, ‘I will trouble you no

more with my presence. I will learn, in sad time enough, the terrible

tale—I would spare you the pain of a fresh recital. Alas, I dreamt not

what had happened, and yet I remarked it strange that Apicius was not

here. You will pardon me, Plautia. ’Tis a sudden and bitter

blow—farewell!’

He gathered up his cloak, and, as he turned to the door, he spurned the

goblet with his foot, muttering some expressions of abhorrence and

disgust.

‘Stay, Centurion,’ said Plautia, ‘go not without quenching your thirst. If

I was lucky enough to rob you of your first draught, here is wine enough,

and of the purest.’

While she spoke, she quickly filled another drinking vessel with wine and

water.

‘See,’ she said, coming forward with it, ‘I will be answerable for it.

Drink without fear—I will be your taster.’

She accordingly drank two or three mouthfuls and offered him the ample

remainder. He drank as briefly as herself and merely out of courtesy.

‘You said you were thirsty.’

‘I _was_. It seems to have left me.’

‘Had you drunk before, you would have been, now, far beyond all thirst on

earth.’

‘I am indebted to your keen eye and prompt arm for my life, therefore. I

trust chance may enable me, some day, to repay the debt.’

‘Tush, Centurion, you are jesting. You, the Pretorian Achilles,

acknowledging to the hand of a weak girl!’

The young man bowed coldly, for the style of the speech was not very

agreeable to his mind.

‘Farewell, Plautia. I trust you may speedily find comfort in your

affliction. Do you come, brother? My way lies with yours for a space.’

Caius shook his head.

‘Nay!’ said Plautia, ‘he must remain, where my brother hath left him, in

charge. But I will beg your escort, Centurion, as far as you will give it,

through the streets; for I came hither in haste, with scarce a follower.’

‘That shall be my task, Plautia. It belongs to me rather than to him,’

interposed Caius, starting up fiercely.

‘To whomsoever I choose to give it,’ said the lady, with an accent of

supreme haughtiness.

‘It must be as Caius says, nevertheless,’ observed the Centurion quickly.

‘I have that about me which must be delivered without further delay, and I

have dallied too long already. Forgive me the discourtesy, lady, for my

duty must take me back to the camp, in such direction and haste as would

prove inconvenient to you. It is unavoidable, and I must risk your

displeasure in deference to my business. Farewell!’

Bowing toward her, the Pretorian abruptly left the apartment and the

house. Plautia bit her lip and clenched her hand; and, when the voice of

Caius uttered some remark, she turned suddenly and fiercely upon him. She

shot a basilisk glance upon him and pointed, without a word, to the

jewelled cup on the floor. His cheek paled and his eyes wavered, and

finally fell before the incisive eloquence of her look and gesture.

He essayed to speak and move toward her, but an imperious wave of her hand

rooted him to his place in confusion. The next instant she was gone, and

he was left, once more alone, to wrestle with the tortures of remorse,

jealousy, and despair, which writhed together on the cold background of

his grief.

His brother, on quitting the gloomy house of Apicius, turned his tireless

steps toward the permanent fortified camp, or barracks, which had been

formed by the present emperor to accommodate the household troops, on the

north‐east edge of the city, beyond the slope of the Viminal and Esquiline

and the wall of Servius. His road lay tolerably straight across the city,

under the Carinae, partly through the Subura, and finally along the Vicus

Patricius, which followed the valley between the Esquiline and Viminal

hills. Then, directly in front of him, rose the ramparts and walls which

harboured about ten thousand horse and foot.

The origin of these celebrated troops is said to rest with Scipio

Africanus, who, in the first instance, formed a company of picked men to

guard his person. This cohort was exempted from all other duty and was

granted larger pay. Their number was increased from time to time, until

the Emperor Augustus established them in cohorts of a thousand men each,

horse and foot, to protect his power and person. They were chosen only

from Italy and the old colonies, and we have already hinted at their

superior privileges, pay, and equipment. Careful to avoid any appearance

of despotism, Augustus retained only a small portion of them in Rome, and

scattered the rest among the neighbouring towns. It remained for the fears

or craft of the Emperor, his successor, from whom our young Centurion now

bore a despatch in his breast, to assemble them all into one body within

their strong, fortified camp in Rome, thus fairly starting them on their

future path, in which they rivalled the janissaries of the eastern

emperors in making and unmaking the rulers of the empire.

Of these troops Sejanus was the commander, and entering the camp, the

Centurion proceeded to his quarters to find, to his satisfaction, that his

search was at an end.

Sejanus was sitting thoughtfully in a chair, with his brows contracted and

deep lines furrowing his forehead.

‘Ah, Martialis!’ he cried eagerly, as his eyes rested on the form of his

officer; ‘I heard you had returned.’

‘I followed you, Prefect, to the Palatine,’ replied Lucius.

‘To the Palatine! Ah, then you must know what has happened there. It will

be all over Rome to‐morrow. You have a despatch?’

He held out his hand, and the Centurion placed a sealed letter therein.

Turning his back on the messenger, the Prefect tore open the cover and

read the contents by the soft light of a silver lamp, which barely

illuminated the luxurious apartment. Pleasure and delight straightway

broke over his face like the first light of dawn shooting athwart the dark

earth. He perused the epistle twice, and smoothed his countenance ere he

turned to the waiting Centurion.

‘You have been an expeditious courier, as usual, my Lucius,’ he said, in a

brisk, elated tone. ‘When did you leave Capreae?’

Martialis related the time and particulars of his journey.

‘Thou art made of iron, I verily believe,’ returned the Prefect smilingly;

‘after such fatigue I am loth to use thee again. I work thee too hard; but

there is another service imminent, and I would have none perform it but

whom I could trust.’

‘I am ready. What fatigue I feel will pass with a night’s rest,’ answered

his officer.

‘What should I do without thee? It is the willing horse gets ever the most

work; but this matter is particular.’

Then before he told his officer the nature of the service required, he

proceeded to put to him a number of questions in relation to his

experiences during his mission. When he had exhausted his ingenuity

concerning everything he could think of, pertaining to matters in the

imperial household, he relapsed into silent reflection for a few minutes,

during which he paced up and down the room.

‘Centurion!’ he said, at length, ‘Drusus leaves Capreae and comes to Rome

shortly. To‐morrow, after nightfall, take a troop of twenty men and ride

to Ostia. Drusus will arrive there in a galley. You must stop it and

arrest him. Bring him to Rome, under guard, at night, and place him in

charge of the keeper of the palace on the Palatine. All will be in

readiness to receive him. Be careful and secret. Leave and enter the city

by night; and, when you have completed your mission, hasten to report the

same to me without delay. Now to bed!’

Martialis was not loth to obey, and, seeking his room, was in a few

minutes sleeping the profound slumber of tired limbs, an easy conscience,

and bright hopes.

CHAPTER V.

From the house of Apicius and the spectacle of his sudden and awful end

Sejanus had first gone to the modest abode of Domitius Afer. There they

remained closeted by themselves, engaged in earnest conversation, until

shortly before the meeting of the Prefect and his officer, as described.

Previous to this Afer had quietly sent off a message to Cestus by the

Greek Erotion. That astute youth threaded the inmost haunts and foul

intricacies of the Subura with sure confidence, and succeeded in

discovering the object of his search, deluged with wine, and revelling in

the heat of a brutal orgy, amid ruffians and women of the lowest type.

Assailed by the obscene chorus of this satanic crew, the Greek, with the

readiness and aptness of his race, exchanged witticisms with a fluency and

smartness which equalled, if not exceeded, their own. Seizing an

opportunity, he whispered into the ear of the intoxicated Cestus the

instruction to meet his master in the gardens of Maecenas, on the

following morning, at a particular spot, at a particular hour. The fellow,

with a leer, nodded and agreed, and the young slave departed to report the

result of his errand.

The gardens of Maecenas were on the north‐eastern side of the Esquiline,

nor must the term gardens be accepted in the modern sense; for, to suppose

that they were ornamental grounds, and duly kept in order by a staff of

servants, would be misleading. They seemed to be, and there were many such

in Rome, open places for the common recreation and airings of the

populace. These, to which Afer repaired to keep his appointment with

Cestus, had been formed by the celebrated patron of literature and art,

upon ground which, hitherto, had held bad repute, as the burial‐place of

the lowest orders of the people. It seems, even, to have been no uncommon

matter for the bodies to be thrown down and left without any covering of

earth whatever. To clear this charnel ground, and change it from a horrid

repository of mouldering bones and putrefying flesh into a pleasant lounge

for the people, was one of the generous works of Maecenas. It lay outside,

and adjoining, the ring wall of Servius, and we may conclude the place was

not altogether denuded of its sepulchral memories, since it was here that

Canidia, the witch of Horace, came to perform her incantations, and invoke

the shades of the dead amongst the tombs.

Though this particular part without the wall had the most need of

purifying measures, and bore the most infamous memories, it did not form

the whole extent of the gardens. They extended within the wall, for a

certain distance along the hill, toward the city. Near this extremity was

situated the noble mansion of Maecenas himself, commanding a fine prospect

of the city from its windows.

Past this dwelling, and at every step treading on ground so often pressed

by the famous Roman poet and his patron, Afer took his way to await the

arrival of Cestus. He passed through the Esquiline Gate of the huge

rampart of Servius, and entered the outer portion of the gardens. It was

the busy time of labour, and the morning itself was somewhat raw and

chilly, so that very few individuals were to be seen scattered here and

there over the open park. The few who did loiter about were of the class

that honest labour could well spare.

In the portion of this large tract which had been devoted to the burial of

the dead, were still many tombs scattered up and down. They were grass‐

grown, neglected, weather‐beaten, and still more defaced by the climbings,

scramblings, and mischievous peltings of children and youths. Among them

was one of larger size and more pretentious appearance than any other. It

was circular in shape, and constructed of massive masonry, which defied

all attempts at destruction. It bore no inscription, and was conspicuous

for nothing but its superior bulk. There was a tradition among the people

of the neighbourhood, that it marked the spot where an erring scion of a

noble house had sunk so low as to meet death and burial as a common

malefactor, in days past when the place was reserved for the wretched fate

of the dregs of pauperism and crime. Though disowned by his outraged

family during his depraved life, the death of the reprobate aroused the

inextinguishable feelings of kinship. Family pride could not leave even

this dishonoured member without some mark of attention due to his birth,

if to nothing else; but no chisel was suffered to raise a letter or figure

on the tomb which arose. Darkness and oblivion were the fittest shrouds of

disgrace, and the muteness of the masonry lent a mysterious affirmation of

the legend to the minds of posterity.

It was to this prominent object the knight bent his way across the park‐

like gardens in the raw morning air. With many backward glances in search

of the yet invisible Cestus, he finally reached the mysterious, moss‐grown

pile of stones, and after pacing up and down the grass for some time, with

fitful and angry mutterings on the laggard’s account, he began to think of

returning. Stray passengers came and went, with a solitary, melancholy

air, across the bleak, empty track, but still no form answering to the

powerful frame of the Suburan made its appearance.

‘The drunken fool has either not slept off his debauch or else not ended

it,’ said Afer angrily to himself, turning his eyes for the twentieth time

toward the Esquiline Gate. ‘A fine thing if I am to wait in the damp grass

for a vagabond; I’ll go back: maybe I shall meet him on the way.’

The expectation was realised. He had only gone a very short distance when

his eyes were gladdened by the expected figure of the Suburan, who came up

breathing hurriedly. Afer surveyed his bloodshot eyes and disordered

dress, his uncombed locks, and general hang‐dog, not to say ferocious,

aspect, with which a night of revelry, succeeded by very brief slumbers,

had endowed him.

‘Good‐morrow!’ said the knight, in reply to salutations and apologies. ‘I

perceive you have succeeded in appeasing your ravenous appetite, my

Cestus—I see it in your face. You have also drunk wine to aid digestion,

which has probably interfered with your sleep.’

‘It is the danger of the ravenous stomach that it overloads itself when it

gets the opportunity,’ replied Cestus, with a grin and a hiccough.

‘You are drunk yet, my good fellow!’ proceeded the knight calmly.

‘Nay, patron, I am sober enough to walk steadily and keep a secret.

Besides, I found that the aediles, or the gods, have caused the fountain

of Orpheus to play again this morning; so that, when I passed it just now,

I dipped my head into his clear basin, which makes me as fresh as a young

girl meeting sunrise.’

‘You have that appearance. Did you accept the renewed flow of the fountain

this morning as a favourable omen, reversing that of yesterday?’

‘I never thought of it in one way or another, patron. I was in too great

haste and concern lest I should keep your worship waiting.’

‘You are very considerate! Taking the circumstances of your case into

account, I am of the opinion that you have carried out this appointment

with remarkable credit. Do you know why I have brought you here?’

‘Something which needs only two pairs of ears,’ said Cestus, with a swift

glance around at the deserted fields.

‘Shrewd as ever, Cestus! I mean to unfold a plan by which we may both make

our fortunes. Am I to rely on your perfect faith, secrecy, and promptness

as before?’

‘Patron, you are the cleverest man in Rome, and I would not quit you to

serve the greatest. Whenever you call upon me to help you I come

instanter, knowing that the business will be something clever and

instructive. The pleasure of serving you, therefore, has as much weight

with me as the pay—it has indeed.’

‘The fluency and readiness of your language will never leave you; it is

the admirable fruit of your residence with a poet. It has already been of

immense service to you; but for the present it will be sufficient for you

to be brief and to the point. I wish to know if you are prepared to carry

out my wishes, even though they may incur some desperate action, which, if

discovered, would end most certainly in the executioner’s axe?’

‘I should like to hear more particulars, patron—I would be pleased to do

anything with a fair show of safety; but, at the same time, I have no

desire to be a bull‐headed fool.’

‘I think, with ordinary precautions, there will be not much danger. The

streets of the city are, at night‐time, as a rule, dark and secret enough

for a thrust or two, and an easy departure before the watch decides to

interfere.’

‘Oh, if that is all, I make no doubt but that we shall soon come to

terms,’ said Cestus, with a sinister smile on his bristly lips. ‘Is it

desired of me to meet by chance, or to escort some friend of my noble

patron home——?’

‘To Hades!’

‘Exactly,’ rejoined the Suburan, grinning.

‘Concerning your reward, I shall require you to name a lump sum, and to

promise, thereafter, to trouble me no more.’

‘That means dismissing me from your worship’s employ.’

‘I shall never lose sight of you, believe me,’ said the knight, with a

cold smile.

‘I know your goodness has always been most anxious for my welfare,’

returned Cestus ironically.

‘What figure would you consider sufficient to reward you for the pangs of

conscience, and the risks incurred, by ending the life of a respectable

member of society?’

‘The pay would vary according to the possible amount of hue and cry raised

by those belonging to the deceased,’ said Cestus cunningly. ‘For an

ordinary citizen I would not demand so much as for a person of rank and

importance.’

Afer smiled.

‘To what degree of boldness would five hundred sestertia inspire you?’ he

asked calmly.

‘What!’ almost yelled the ruffian. His eyes stared as if to start from his

head, and his breath came in gasps, as though he had been plunged into

ice‐cold water. ‘Five hu— five hundred sestertia! Patron—why—for that you

might bid me tap a senator, a consul—Sejanus—Caesar himself.’

‘Enough!’ replied Afer. ‘I am glad you consider the terms liberal; I

myself am sure of it. You will not have the desperate office of harming

any one of those you have mentioned.’

‘So much the better! Patron, you are the easiest of masters.’

‘It is a bargain then—you will be prompt, faithful, and secret?’

‘Have I ever failed?’

‘I cannot remember that you have; it is to your interest, as to mine, to

remain so trustworthy. I have told you that before, and your common‐sense

cannot but perceive it. Five hundred sestertia are not to be picked up

every day for the light labour of a few hours, together with the simple

task of keeping one’s mouth shut concerning the matter. You are not such a

fool, I think, as to destroy a profitable business connection, Cestus.’

‘You speak truly indeed, noble Afer—have no fear therefore. I am ready to

receive your commands and instructions for the business.’

‘The first is this,’ said the knight emphatically, ‘that from the first

moment, until the affair is satisfactorily settled, you abstain from the

wine‐pot.’

‘I will swear by the aqueducts, patron.’

‘Good! You will require, say, three stout fellows to help you. You will

select them and pay them a certain sum, and tell them no more than that

they are to help in a highway theft. You can, no doubt, find individuals

who are accustomed to such work.’

‘Leave that to me. But their pay, patron?’

‘It shall be exclusive of your own, and shall be discharged by me, my

careful Cestus. They need not cost much.’

‘Certainly not! I have a job in hand—I want them to help me, and I pay

them so much. I need not say another word, and they will not ask a

question.’

‘Exactly! You comprehend me perfectly. It is a positive pleasure to

arrange details with an intelligent person like yourself, Cestus.’

‘You are flattering, patron. Who is this individual who is so unfortunate

as to stand in your displeasure?’

‘I repeat it is a pleasure to do business with you, Cestus,’ resumed Afer

calmly. ‘Previous to the actual execution of your task, I shall require

you to act a little part. I shall require you, in fact, to clean and adorn

yourself in order to make a visit.’

‘Oh, oh!’ murmured Cestus doubtfully.

‘You are to be a decoy duck of the very best plumage, for a short time.

You will make an excellent one. Your poetical training will stand in

excellent stead. Indeed, there is no telling, but what the part will give

a new turn to your genius. We shall be seeing you treading the stage some

day.’

‘You are pleased to jest, noble patron, instead of allowing me to reflect

whether this part of the business is within my power or not to carry out.’

‘I have no anxiety on that point, Cestus. Listen! You will have to improve

your outward appearance, in order to represent an honest mechanic in his

holiday clothes—that is, as nearly as possible. That done, you will have

to go as far as the Janiculum and ask an audience of a certain patrician

who dwells there. He had once a granddaughter who was lost when a child.’

‘Ah, now I smell a rat! You are going to outdo yourself,’ cried Cestus

eagerly.

‘You understand, I perceive. You are merely to go to this gentleman with a

story, told in your best language and style, that you are a messenger from

a repentant man on his deathbed, who confesses that he formerly stole the

child. The dying man is most anxious for an interview with the gentleman

he has wronged, for the purpose of imploring his pardon and revealing the

whereabouts and position of the girl, who, he says, is yet living. When

you have succeeded in arousing the gentleman’s interest and eagerness, as

you doubtless will, he will almost surely send you to me. I shall not be

in Rome, and shall be careful to let him know beforehand. He will,

therefore, recollect himself, and, as we may hope, decide to accompany you

to this dying man. All this must be timed to fall tolerably late at night,

which will also give the affair all the more appearance of genuineness. On

the way to that dying man my worthy uncle must be left by the roadside,

for ever oblivious of missing child and present grief.’

‘By Pluto!’ cried the Suburan, smiting his thigh in delight and

admiration, ‘the very thing I advised you only yesterday. I marvel you

have not done this before; but then your worship is so merciful. However,

better late than never, and it was bound to come at some time. Bacchus,

what a cunning plan! Fate cut you out for a great man, and a thousand

Fabricii could not stay you.’

‘No names—walls have ears!’ said the knight sternly.

‘True,’ replied Cestus. ‘It was my delight which let it slip. _Euge_,

Cestus! Five hundred sestertia for simply helping an old man on the road

to the Elysian fields—why, patron, the pay is so princely, and the task so

light, that I feel somewhat ashamed of accepting the terms.’

‘You are perfectly at liberty to return whatever your conscience considers

to be superfluous,’ remarked Afer.

‘Well, we will see how matters turn out,’ answered Cestus, with a grin.

‘No doubt when the sad news is brought to your wondering ears, you will be

in a dreadful state of mind, and will lay the bloodhounds on the track of

the villains all over the city?’

‘It may, very probably, be necessary to act in some such way,’ responded

the knight, with a shadowy smile. ‘Let me see,’ he murmured, as he passed

his hand over his brow, and remained in deep thought for a few moments;

‘come to‐night, and we will arrange everything.’

‘To‐night!’

‘And, Cestus, be secret; and beware of the wine‐pot.’

‘Never fear; it is only when Cestus is idle that he amuses himself in that

way. Give him work, and work to some purpose, like this, and his head

remains clear as water—and when your honour lays the plan there is no more

to be added.’

‘Engage your comrades to‐day. To‐morrow I shall go to Tibur—the day after

to‐morrow meet me at the Sublician Bridge at nightfall.’

‘But I shall see you to‐night, as you said?’

‘Yes; and on the evening of the day after to‐morrow I will be at the

Sublician Bridge. It will involve much riding, but I can be nigh you and

yet return to Tivoli before morning breaks.’

Cestus held up his hands in affected admiration.

‘You are inspired, patron! But hold; how if the old man will not come

forth with me? What then comes of all this fine scheme?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Afer calmly. ‘We shall have to wait and devise again.’

‘I care not for this complicated notion. I prefer to have not so many

cooks to the broth. There is nothing so sure, and so easy, as a little

dust of a certain kind in his wine or meat.’

The knight shook his head.

‘It is too effective, my Cestus, and too common. It would not fail to be

talked about. No; our rough footpads leave the least suspicion.’

‘Well, you are perhaps right; for when the watchmen find the old man in

the gutter next morning, it will be said that he met his end at the hands

of thieves, who gave him a knock a little too heavy—not the first since

this good city was built.’

Afer nodded and said,

‘Come to‐night, as I bade you.’

‘I will. Am I not to have the honour of following you toward the city?’

‘No,’ replied the knight, turning away; ‘I go to the camp. Be

discreet—this will make us or mar us.’

Cestus bowed and loitered away leisurely in the direction of the Esquiline

Gate, whilst Afer walked quickly toward the Viminal Plain, on the border

of which lay the ramparts of the Pretorian camp.

CHAPTER VI.

Whilst this conversation, which we have related, was passing between Afer

and his client, a small coasting vessel was ascending the river Tiber,

making slow headway against the current. In the little poop‐house, along

with the captain of the craft, was standing Masthlion, an interested

observer of all that passed within view, as they wound up the famous

stream.

To go back a little. We left the potter retiring to rest full of a

determination to proceed to Rome. He arose next morning with a mind

unchanged, and soon after dawn took his way to the cliffs. As he was about

to set his foot to descend the steps which led down to the Marina, the

head of an ascending individual showed up above the level. He was a short,

thick‐set man, with a mahogany complexion, shaggy beard and moustache.

Each made an exclamation and then shook hands.

‘I was coming with no other reason than to seek tidings of you, Silo.’

‘Good!—here I am myself, Masthlion.’

‘I thought it about your time. Are you for the Tiber?’

‘Direct.’

‘When?’

‘At noon, or before. I don’t want to lose this wind,’ said the sailor,

casting his eye to the eastward.

‘I have business in Rome—give me a passage.’

‘In Rome! You? What has bitten you? Come, and welcome.’

‘I will come about noon then.’

‘An hour before, Masthlion; and if I want thee before that I will send.’

The potter went home, and after gathering a few articles of clothing and

food together in a wallet, he quietly resumed work until the time came for

departure. During this period Neæra glided into the workshop. A new and

radiant expression beamed on her face and sparkled in her beautiful gray

eyes. The delicate colour of her cheek was deeper. An unconscious smile

seemed to play on her lips, as though responding to the springs of joy and

hope within. The loosely‐girded tunic of coarse, poor fabric could not

hide the graceful curves of her lithe figure, which promised a splendid

maturity. Her household work had caused her to tuck up her sleeves, and

her revealed arms and wrists gleamed white and round. Her loveliness

seemed to the potter literally to bloom afresh as he glanced at her.

‘Father,’ said she, ‘you are going to Rome?’

‘I am, child, and Silo’s felucca sails by noon at the latest,’ he

answered, without raising his head.

‘You are going because of me, father?’ she continued, drawing nearer.

He did not answer.

‘It is I who am sending you to Rome, father?’

‘You have said it, child. But I shall, at the same time, satisfy a

lifelong desire to see the great city; and I may be able, likewise, to

pick up a hint or two from the Roman shops.’

‘As far as I am concerned, father, you need not give yourself the

trouble.’

‘Wherefore?’ asked the potter, in doubt as to her meaning.

‘Because I can save you the journey.’

Masthlion smiled.

‘You go to seek to know whether Lucius be a true man or false,’ she

continued, with animation and a heightened colour; ‘you may stay at home,

for I can tell you.’

‘And whence did you gain the knowledge I am truly in want of, child?’ he

said.

‘Here!’ she answered proudly, as she laid her hand over her heart.

A smile of admiration, and yet compassionate, rested on her father’s lips,

as he gazed into her kindling eyes, and watched the glowing hues spread

over her exquisite face. New graces, fresh nobility and dignity, unknown

before, seemed to blossom forth upon the maiden beneath his wondering

eyes. His acute brain comprehended the change; it was no longer the child,

but the woman.

‘The foolish heart is so often mistaken, Neæra,’ he said, touched by her

simple faith; ‘it would not be wise to trust entirely thereto.’

But she only shook her head.

‘Facts are against you,’ he continued; ‘how many have acted from their

impulse and have lived to use their eyes and minds soberly afterwards? But

no,—no more of that! I had rather try and bale the bed of the sea dry than

attempt to cure a lovesick girl of her folly. Meanwhile, I shall go to

Rome, as I intended, and try to satisfy my own mind, after the fashion of

cold, heartless men.’

‘You expect to come back with bad news of Lucius, and thus forbid me to

think of him again.’

‘That I never said.’

‘No, but you think it. I warn you that you will be disappointed, and that

your journey will go for nothing.’

As she said this, she wound her arms caressingly round his neck, and then

slipped from the room.

Masthlion’s eyes dulled, as though a reflected gleam had vanished, and,

heaving a sigh, he meditatively pursued his work. It was about an hour

before noon when a young urchin made his appearance with a message from

Silo, to hasten him on board, without delay. He went, accompanied by his

wife and Neæra; and as soon as he set foot on board the coaster, his

impatient friend cast off and hoisted sail.

The fair wind blew, and Silo, the sturdy skipper, was thoroughly amiable.

A fair wind and a good cargo, homeward bound, would render even a nautical

Caliban gracious.

Next morning they passed round the long mole, or breakwater, of the port

of Ostia, which lay at the mouth of the Tiber, and, thereon, Masthlion’s

eyes noticed a tall soldierly figure, standing and evidently watching them

keenly. Beneath the closely wrapped cloak the surprised potter recognised

the proportions and carriage of his daughter’s lover, and was even close

enough to make out, or fancy he did, the young man’s features, beneath his

polished crested helmet. Assuring himself on this point, the potter shrank

farther within the cover of the poop‐house, until all danger of

recognition had passed.

Toward evening they arrived at their destination, which was the emporium

of Rome, situated under the shadow of the Aventine Mount. Thus the

Surrentine found himself, at once, in the midst of one of the busiest

localities of the imperial city. Wharves lined the river, and warehouses

extended along the banks. Here were the corn, the timber, the marble, the

stone, the thousand species of merchandise from the ends of the earth

landed and stored. And hither, to the markets, assembled the buyers and

sellers thereof. The air was full of the noise and bustle on shore and

ship. Waggons rumbled and clattered to and fro, and weather‐beaten seamen

abounded. Through the maze Silo guided Masthlion, whose provincial senses

were oppressed and weighted by the unaccustomed roar and bustle into which

he had been suddenly plunged, and the shipmaster, with amused glances at

his wondering companion, hurried him along the river‐side, nearly as far

as the Trigeminan Gate. Here, not far from the spot where stood the altar

of Evander, the oldest legendary monument of Rome, the sailor entered a

tavern. It was an old building, with the unmistakable evidences of a

substantial reputation; for it was well filled with customers, and was

alive with all the bustle of a flourishing business. To the hard‐faced,

keen‐eyed proprietor of this establishment, who greeted Silo with

familiarity, the shipmaster presented his friend, in need of comfortable

lodgings for a time, and having seen him comfortably bestowed, returned to

the business of his coaster and cargo.

After Masthlion was satisfied with a good meal, a young lad, the son of

the landlord, was commissioned to guide him, on a stroll through the

adjacent parts of the city, as far as the decreasing light of day would

allow. On returning, he found his friend Silo released from his

engagements, and together they passed the evening.

‘Know you anything of the Pretorians?’ asked Masthlion of the innkeeper,

ere he retired to his bed.

‘I know they are camped on the far side of the city, beyond the Viminal,’

replied the lusty‐tongued publican, ‘I know that Caesar brought them there

some years ago, and that Sejanus is their Prefect—who is, between

ourselves, you know, a greater man in Rome than Caesar himself. All this I

know, and what is left is, that they are a set of overpaid, underworked,

overdressed, conceited, stuck‐up, strutting puppies. That’s about as much

as I can tell you of them.’

‘Ah!’ said Masthlion, somewhat disheartened by these bluff, energetic

words, which were delivered with a readiness and confidence, as if

expressing a generally received opinion; ‘then have you in Rome a poet by

name Balbus?’

‘A poet named Balbus!’ repeated the host, with a comical look; ‘faith, but

poetry is a trade I never meddled with, and I am on the wrong side of the

Aventine, where sailors and traders swarm, and not poets. I doubt not,

worthy Masthlion, that poets abound in Rome, for Rome is a very large

place, I warrant you. But you must go and seek them elsewhere. What,

gentlemen! does any one know of a poet named Balbus in Rome?’ cried he

abruptly, putting his head inside of a room tolerably well filled with

drinkers.

A laugh arose at the question. ‘North, south, east, or west?’ cried one.

‘Scarce as gladiators,’ shouted another; ‘the times have starved them.’

‘Nothing can starve them—the poets, I mean,’ answered a thin dry voice,

which seemed to quell the merriment for a space, ‘they are as thick as

bees in the porticoes and baths of Agrippa. Your Balbus, not being there,

landlord, enter the bookshops and you will find as many more, reading

their own books, since nobody else will. You will find plenty of Balbi, be

assured, but no poets—Horace was the last——’

Laughter drowned the remainder of his speech, and the landlord withdrew

his head into the passage, where Masthlion was awaiting.

‘Balbus the poet does not seem to be very well known,’ he said to the

potter. ‘But what do these rough swinkers know of these things any more

than myself? Nevertheless, he says true, and you might do worse than

inquire at the bookshops, the baths and porticoes, where the men of the

calamus and inkpot love to air the wit they have scraped together by

lamplight in their garrets at home.’

The potter, thereupon, retired with an uneasy feeling of helplessness and

hopelessness filling his mind, at least as far as regarded Balbus.

Next morning he sallied forth soon after dawn, determined to make the

utmost use of his time. He made an arrangement, by which he was again to

have the services of his young guide of the previous evening, feeling that

he would thus save himself much time and labour. In about three hours’

time he had walked a long distance. He had passed along the principal

streets in the centre of the city. He had gazed at the shops and

buildings. He had mounted the Palatine and Capitoline Hills; had viewed

many temples, porticoes and mansions, and from a lofty point had surveyed

the city, spread below, with delight and admiration. Then, deeming it time

to be about his business, he gave the order to proceed to the Pretorian

camp.

CHAPTER VII.

In a luxuriously fitted room, Aelius Sejanus, the Prefect, was alone,

busily engaged with his thoughts and pen.

He had inherited his father’s command; but, unlike his father, his

absorbing lust of power scorned to be bounded by his office. His were the

persuasions, by which the Emperor had been led to gather the cohorts of

the Guards together into one united body. Scattered about in isolated

garrisons, his subtle, aspiring spirit saw a great power broken and

nerveless. Here he held them under his hand, while he showered largesses,

rewards, promotions, and fair words upon them liberally. Popularity with

these picked troops was the life and strength of his ambition. They were,

at once, the ground‐work and leverage of his onward steps, if ever in need

of a bold stroke.

Far around lay the streets and barracks of his great camp, swarming with

thousands, and, in the midst, this dark‐thoughted, plotting mind was

silently hewing its path toward the goal of its hopes. On the table lay a

long sheet of paper, and on the paper a list of names was being

laboriously compiled. His brows were closely knit, and he paced the

apartment incessantly. As his reflections became matured he sat down to

write, and then, springing up again, he resumed the monotony of his walk.

Thus, at slow intervals, name after name was added to the list on the

paper; and, every now and then, he would stop at the end of his walk, and

peer through a chink of the curtain across the entrance to the ante‐

chamber, where a Pretorian was on guard, in full panoply of helmet,

cuirass, and buckler. There was that in the person and manner of the

Prefect which had succeeded, at least to all outward appearance, in

winning over such a profound, suspicious mind even as that of Tiberius,

his master. Nature had endowed him with a very formidable combination of

qualities to be fired with a burning ambition. With a handsome and

imposing exterior, energy of mind, activity of body, a plausible tongue,

and insinuating manners, this man was dangerous enough. But when the cold

subtlety of his brain and the devouring fire of his heart were unhampered

by scruple or remorse he became terrible. No tiger more murderous when

stealth and craft had failed; for he hesitated not to strike at the life

of the man in his path through the honour of the wife. He could glide to

the crime of murder through the guilty excitement and pleasure of female

conquest and debauchery, and there he bottomed the depths of infamy and

horror.

For what dread purpose was the steady lengthening of the list on the

table? What dark scheme was developing behind that white forehead? The

voice of the sentinel in the outer room broke upon his meditations, and he

hastily slipped to the table and thrust the paper into a drawer. He had

scarcely done so, when a voice in the ante‐chamber called the name ‘Titus

Afer!’

‘Enter, Afer!’ replied Sejanus. ‘I thought of you as breathing the pure

air of Tibur.’

The knight accordingly entered the room. A large travelling‐cloak

enveloped his form, and a Phrygian cap covered his head. ‘I am now on my

way,’ he answered; ‘yesterday I was lazy, and remained at home. In the

Baths of Faustus yesterday was Sabinus.’

‘Ah!’ said the Prefect.

‘He grows no wiser, but indeed more rash and calumnious respecting you. I

think it would be prudent to watch such a reckless fool; for even his

spite and virulence might do mischief amongst some people. He loudly

condemns you as being the bloodhound of the Germanici, and indeed is

equally bold and noisy in accusing you of usurping the place of Caesar,

and of misapplying your authority to your own ends. Such speeches have

been heard before, but there are those whose ears are only too ready and

willing to suck in such ravings.’

‘You are quite right, Afer; Sabinus has about reached the end of his

tether: he must be looked after,’ said Sejanus, taking out his tablets and

making a memorandum. ‘I am right glad he has, at last, given vent to his

ideas, so plainly in the presence of such an one as yourself, my friend.

So you stayed your journey to tell me this?—it was kind.’

‘Also to learn whether I can congratulate you on favourable news from

Capreae.’

‘Hush! not so loud, Afer!’ replied the Prefect, raising his finger

warningly; ‘it will be time enough to speak freely of a matter when

success is assured; then there is the better chance of possible failure

being buried in silence. I expect a courier any moment.’

‘Indeed!’

‘I have waited within doors until now for his arrival—what he will bring I

cannot tell.’

‘I could guess,’ remarked Afer, with a courtly smile.

‘Humph!’ quoth the Prefect, shrugging his shoulders and smiling also.

At the same moment the sound of voices caught his ears, and he stepped to

the curtain and looked into the ante‐chamber. The courier he was so

anxiously awaiting had just arrived, and the sentinel was advancing to

announce the same.

‘Ha!’ exclaimed the Prefect, stepping into the ante‐chamber, ‘I expected

you before this—your despatches!’

The courier unbuckled a stout leathern girdle which he wore underneath his

tunic, and took out of a pouch, attached thereto, a packet, which he

delivered into the eager hand of Sejanus.

‘Wait!’ said the latter briefly; and without returning to his chamber, he

turned aside and broke the seals of the packet. With fingers trembling,

and a heart eaten with excitement, he ran his eyes over the imperial

missive. The next second his eyes flashed. With exultation written on

every line of his handsome face he went back into the presence of Afer.

‘Ah,—I knew it,—I was right!’ remarked the latter, at the first glimpse of

the Prefect’s glowing visage. ‘I give thee joy of thy noble Livia; and I

congratulate myself that I am the first to do so.’

Sejanus grasped his client’s hand, and fairly laughed out in the

exuberance of his feelings.

‘Enough, my Titus! This letter hath proved thee a good prophet. The

daughter of Caesar is mine indeed, for Caesar himself declares it. Nay,

more—I go to Capreae in a few days to claim her. So prepare, my friend,

for thou must go along with me thither.’

‘Willingly, and gladly, if you will tell me when.’

‘Return within the week,’ said the Prefect. He clapped his hands loudly,

and a slave appeared.

‘Bid the courier be ready to return to‐morrow! Give him wine—and this!’ he

said, taking a small purse of money from the table and throwing it at the

domestic’s feet.

The slave picked it up, and said, ‘There is a man without demands to see

you, Prefect—a workman, by appearance.’

‘What is his business?’

‘He will not say—only that he has come from Surrentum to see you.’

‘Admit him then, and the sentinel as well.’

The slave retired, and, in a few moments, the armed Pretorian made his

appearance, ushering in our potter, whom we left on his way to the camp.

Sejanus gave him a hasty, but keen glance; and the potter, in his turn,

surveyed the famous and dreaded Prefect with a fearless but respectful

gaze. Bowing his square, sturdy frame, he waited to be addressed.

‘Who and what are you, and what do you want with me?’ asked Sejanus,

skimming his glance furtively over the welcome letter which he had just

received.

‘My name is Masthlion, and I am a potter of Surrentum,’ replied the other;

‘and, as I venture to trouble you, noble sir, on a personal matter,

concerning one of your officers, perhaps it would be prudent if this

soldier did not hear it.’

Sejanus looked up in surprise, and regarded his visitor more curiously.

With an amused look on his face, he nevertheless nodded to the sentinel,

who silently retired from the room. The deep‐set, expressive eyes of

Masthlion then rested on Afer, who had picked up a book from the table,

and was idly unrolling it.

‘As your business is not of the State, perhaps my friend can remain?’ said

the Prefect sarcastically.

‘No, Prefect, my business is not of the State,’ replied the potter, ‘but I

have come seeking information respecting one of your Centurions, and you

must judge whether it be right the noble knight hear it or not.’

‘Know then, potter of Surrentum, that I do not enter into nor suffer the

inquiries of any idle person with regard to my officers,’ said Sejanus

sternly.

‘I will leave it to your generosity, when I tell you the circumstances

which have brought me to make the request.’

‘Let me hear!’

‘I am only a poor man, earning my bread with the labour of my hands, yet

the peace of my home, and the welfare of those belonging to me, are as

dear to me as to the noblest,’ said Masthlion. ‘I have a daughter,

Prefect; all the more precious to me because she has no sister or

brother——’

‘Ah, I perceive,’ uttered Sejanus, with the shadow of a smile curling his

lips. ‘Go on!’

‘Ay—it is easily guessed!’ replied Masthlion, ‘and it needs few words.

This Centurion of whom I speak, in passing through the town, saw my

daughter. Since that time he has come more than once to visit her at my

house. She has been called beautiful, Prefect, but she is not his equal. I

bade her tell him so, and forbid him. On that he demanded her in marriage;

but though she loves him, yet I will be satisfied that he is not one to

deal lightly or carelessly by her, or I will not consent.’

‘You have forgotten the name of the Centurion, which is indispensable,’

said the Prefect; ‘and yet I can only guess one.’

‘His name is Martialis.’

‘Even so! The Centurion may well not object to as many journeys as I can

give him, and also prefer the land route to the sea—here is the

explanation.’

Sejanus burst into a laugh, whilst Afer, who was seemingly immersed in his

book, stroked his chin.

‘Potter, you are right,’ continued the Prefect. ‘Men and women, to be

prudent, should not marry out of their station. Your daughter must be a

paragon of loveliness, or cleverness, or goodness, to have ensnared my

Centurion.’

‘She is such as she is, Prefect, and ensnares no one,’ returned Masthlion,

with a frown of his shaggy eyebrows.

‘Whichever way it be, if they have fallen in love with each other you may

as well leave them to it, for you will be hard put to rule them,’ laughed

the commander. ‘When a woman is truly in love she parts with what little

forethought she had, and leaves her senses to find themselves in cooler

days. As for Martialis, I can only tell thee, potter, he is not the man to

change his mind lightly, or take away his hand when he has once set his

grip.’

‘I am sore beset,’ said Masthlion sadly; ‘in Surrentum I could know

nothing; here in Rome I thought I might learn something.’

‘The performance of the Centurion’s duties is what concerns me; beyond

that lies not within my province,’ replied Sejanus.

‘And yet it would be hard not to know something more,’ sighed the potter.

‘To conclude, you may go back to Surrentum with an easy mind as far as I

know to the contrary,’ said the Prefect, with signs of impatience. ‘This

seems to be a piece of lovers’ folly on the part of the Centurion. If he

is fool enough to marry your daughter, she may think herself lucky in her

elevation. Many a man in his position, of gentle blood, would have

proceeded differently. ’Tis pity none of his family remains to dissuade

him from grafting such a poor scion on to their ancient stem.’

‘I care nothing for that—I seek my daughter’s happiness, not her

position,’ replied the potter proudly.

‘Good! Then I know nothing more. Is the Centurion an acquaintance of

yours, Titus?’ cried Sejanus, turning to the knight.

‘No, I have not the honour,’ answered Afer.

‘Then, potter, you may take that as a strong assurance in his favour,’

added the Prefect satirically.

‘You are in the best of spirits,’ remarked Afer, showing his white teeth.

‘Now, potter, you can go,’ said Sejanus; ‘you have all I can give

you—stay, how is your daughter named?’

‘Neæra!’ replied Masthlion.

‘Then your girl Neæra will probably have her own way in the end in despite

of you. But deprive me not of my Centurion between ye, or you shall lose

my favour, I promise you. He is worth more to me than all the maids,

wives, widows, and hags in Campania, honest or not—wait!’

He clapped his hands, and the same slave attended as before—a dark‐skinned

Nubian.

‘Lygdus, is there not an old family friend of the Centurion Martialis,

whom he visits on the Aventine?’

‘Mamercus—near the temple of Diana,’ replied the slave laconically.

‘Go thither, potter,—Mamercus will serve your turn better than I,’ said

the Prefect, waving his hand and turning his back.

Masthlion followed the Nubian out of the apartment with a brighter

countenance, and was quickly on his way to the Aventine.

‘Your Centurion has caught your own complaint,’ said Afer to his patron

jestingly.

‘The gods confound it!’ replied the Prefect, ‘a wife will not improve his

Centurionship. The fool! to saddle himself with a wife now—a red‐faced,

brawny‐armed brat of a clay‐moulder, most likely. As if there were no

other arrangement; I’ll try my persuasion. And so for Capreae, my Titus!’

‘Whenever you are ready, Prefect.’

‘Be back within four days.’

‘No longer; and till then farewell—I leave you happy.’

‘Farewell! Remember our friends at Tibur!’

‘I will.’

Afer bowed, and left the Pretorian commander to ruminate with delight on

his good fortune, and to indulge his mind with dreams, more intoxicating

and glowing than ever, on the strength of the success of his last, and,

perhaps, most important move.

At the gate of the camp, a light two‐wheeled vehicle for rapid travelling,

and drawn by a couple of handsome, speedy mules, was waiting for the

knight. The two slaves, who formed on this occasion the modest retinue of

the traveller, had been despatched on before.

After proceeding about nine miles from Rome, the hired vehicle was

dismissed back to the city. A couple of hours before dusk Afer arrived, in

a second carriage, at the outskirts of the ancient town of Fidenae, which

stood on the steep banks of the Tiber, on the Salarian road, which led

nearly due north from Rome. He had thus completed two sides of a triangle,

and, as the first shades of evening began to gather, he began to traverse

the third side in a third conveyance. The road entered the Colline Gate in

the Agger of Servius; when he reached that point the dusk was thick enough

to prevent recognition. Here the knight descended and paid the driver his

fee; then he drew the hood of his cloak over his head, and bent his steps

towards the Sublician Bridge beneath the Aventine. In less than half an

hour’s rapid walking he arrived at his destination. The bridge was the

oldest in Rome, and had been built by Ancus Martius, to connect the

fortifications on the Janiculum with the city. It bore a sacred character,

and was under especial care. Being constructed of wood, however, the

increased traffic and burthens of the growing city began to overweight it.

A stone bridge was then built close by, and the old one preserved as a

venerable and sacred relic. In the proximity of these Afer loitered. It

was now dark, and the feeble glimmering of two oil lamps, suspended in the

gloom, denoted to passengers the foot of the modern bridge; its ancient

fellow being buried in darkness. Across the river the lights of the

Transtibertine portion of the city glimmered, extending up towards the

slopes of the Janiculum Hill. Behind the knight the Aventine Mount arose

with its answering gleams. The day’s toil was over, but the night was yet

young, and there was sufficient stir in the city to pervade the air with a

dim hum of life, broken by the tread and voices of passers‐by, and the

rumble of some belated waggon. Stealing silently along the pitchy stream

glided the light of an occasional vessel, its hull shrouded and invisible.

No one but the importunate beggars, sturdy, halt, and blind, who haunted

the bridge and pestered the passengers, as yet kept the impatient knight

company. Suddenly the figure of a man strode under the feeble glimmer of

the lamps and bestowed a few hearty curses on the tribe of mendicants.

Afer went up to him and laid his hand on his shoulder.

‘Oh, oh!’ said the new‐comer in the voice of Cestus; ‘it is you, patron!’

‘It is yet too early,’ replied Afer.

‘There are yet a few arrangements to complete, which will take up a little

time,’ replied the Suburan.

‘Come, then, let us about it at once; the old man retires early,’ said the

knight, and they disappeared in the darkness toward the Aventine.

CHAPTER VIII.

Pleasantly situated on the commanding height of the Janiculum was the

villa of Fabricius. More delightful in the enjoyment of its cool breezes

during the summer heats, yet in winter or summer, the old ex‐senator was

seldom away from it for a whole day together. At times, however, he would

yield to a desire to make the journey to visit his estates; but this was

not often. His suburban villa, and not his birthplace, was the scene of

his happiest days of prosperous domesticity. But that was all changed. A

few select friends of old times he yet preserved and cherished. With

these, and the serene consolations of a well‐stocked library, he passed

his uneventful days, in calm resignation, under the haunting sense of his

loneliness. As he sat and brooded in the seclusion of his silent house, he

conjured up the ghosts of former days; he listened to the well‐remembered

voices—he stirred, and all was gone again. And then, what painful sighs

arose from his breast. Alas! how many such had those walls listened to!

On this evening Fabricius sat in his winter room, before a fire which

burned brightly in a brazier on the ample hearth, for the October nights

were chilly. His elbow rested on a small table, whereon were lying books

and writing materials. But the old man’s eyes were bent on the blazing

logs, and his mind was far away in the past. The soft light of the silver

lamp beside him flooded over his face, and revealed every line and

wrinkle, as sharply as the level rays of the setting sun display the seams

and furrows on a mountain’s breast. The native expression of courage and

determination displayed by the high, bold curves of his features, was

relaxed and overborne by an air of melancholy, so deep, that it seemed

almost on the point of merging into actual tears had not the entrance of

an old grizzled slave roused him from his reverie.

‘What do you say, Natta?’ he asked, not catching the domestic’s

announcement.

‘There is a man awaiting in the porch, who wishes to see you.’

‘What kind of a man?’

‘A craftsman, I should say. He has something important to tell—so he

says,’ replied the old porter, with apparent sarcasm.

‘Ay, ay, I know!’ sighed Fabricius. ‘No matter, bring him in.’

The slave retired, and reappeared with Cestus, washed, clean‐shaved, and

wearing coarse but clean garments, such as an artisan would reserve as his

holiday attire. It was full two hours since Afer had tapped him on the

shoulder at the bridge below. He entered with a deep obeisance and a well‐

feigned nervousness and awkwardness. Natta, the slave, thought proper to

remain within the door, and keep a keen eye on the visitor.

The ex‐senator’s scrutiny did not, perhaps, beget the utmost confidence,

to judge by the slight and almost imperceptible contraction of his

eyebrows. There was that, evidently, in the broad Teutonic cast of face

and small eyes of the burly Cestus which soap and water and a razor could

not remove.

The habitual current of a man’s mind cannot, it is true, alter his

features, but it charges them with an essence as readable as a printed

page.

It was, therefore, the misfortune of the physiognomy of Cestus to leave no

favourable impression, for he had not as yet opened his lips.

‘You wish to see me,’ said Fabricius.

‘The noble Fabricius!’ answered Cestus, with deep humility—perhaps too

deep.

‘I am he; your business?’

‘So please you, noble sir, I am nothing but a poor labourer down at the

river below there, and I would never have the boldness to trouble your

worship, or to set my foot across the threshold of your palace, but that I

come not of my own accord, but to befriend a mate of mine who is dying.’

Cestus paused, and nervously fingered his belt.

‘Well!’ said Fabricius, ‘go on! You have not come on your own account, but

on that of a sick friend—what next?’

‘It concerns you also, and I was told to tell it to you alone,’ replied

Cestus, with a glance at Natta. The shadow of a smile rested on the face

of Fabricius as he signed to the slave to retire. Natta, however, feigned

not to observe the motion, and did not move.

‘You may go, Natta,’ said his master, and the old porter had no

alternative but to obey, which he did, with reluctant steps and sour

suspicious looks at the visitor.

‘Now speak,’ said Fabricius; ‘I think I could guess at the nature of your

message. Has it aught to do with a domestic matter of mine?’

‘So please,’ replied Cestus, ‘I will tell you exactly what I was told to

tell, for I know nothing more. Lupus—that is my friend—has been hurt to

death by a block of marble which slipped upon him whilst it was being

slung from the ship on to the quay. He sent for me to‐night, and I did but

clean myself and come straight to your palace. He said, “I did a deed some

years ago which has lain heavy on my mind ever since—heavier even than

that cursed block from Luna which fell upon me yesterday. I am going fast;

there is no hope, and I must ease my mind. On the top of Janiculum there

dwells a nobleman named Fabricius. Seek him, and bring him hither back

with thee, that I may tell him what I did, for my mind torments me more

than my crushed body. He had a granddaughter, a little child—a little

goddess; I can tell him of that child—bid him come with haste! Fourteen

years ago I stole her from his door and sold her. She yet lives—a slave!”’

In spite of himself; in spite of the numberless plausible tales and

previous disappointments, Fabricius felt his heart beat violently, and a

tremor seize his limbs. Cestus’s small keen eyes noted the change of

colour on his cheek.

‘Fourteen years!’ murmured Fabricius to himself; ‘right almost to the very

month; how could he know that if—alas, my little darling—my little

Aurelia! shall I be fooled again?’

‘I pray you, Fabricius, be speedy, out of pity for my poor comrade,’ urged

Cestus; ‘he will soon be beyond reach. It was a sore sin against you, but

your nobleness will pardon a dying man. And besides, you will forgive me,

noble sir, for offering a suggestion of my own; if Lupus departs without

seeing you, you may thus lose all chance of ever getting your lost

grandchild again. Ah me, that one could do such a deed as rob a house of

its sunshine for the sake of a few paltry sestertia!’

This was uttered in a sighing kind of _sotto voce_, and the old Senator,

racked with doubt and eagerness, with hope and the fear of oft‐repeated

disappointment and disgust, passed his hand over his brow in poignant

doubtfulness.

‘Go to the Esquiline to my nephew—but no! I forgot; his Greek boy came

hither t’other day to say he was going to Tibur for a space. Phœbus aid

me! Where does this comrade of thine dwell?’

‘Not far away, so please you,’ answered Cestus; ‘on the other side of the

Aventine, nigh to the Ostian road.’

‘It is late,’ muttered Fabricius.

‘It is,’ observed the friend of Lupus, ‘but Death is not particular as to

time. In fact he seems to prefer the night‐time. If Lupus live past

midnight I shall wonder. Imagine, noble sir, a block of marble crushing

poor flesh and bone—ugh, ’tis terrible!’

‘You saw it?’

‘I did—worse luck.’

‘You are a labourer like him?’

‘I am—see!’

The worthy labourer showed his hands. They had been specially rubbed and

engrained with dirt before washing. So cleverly were they prepared, that

they might have belonged to any hard‐handed son of toil.

‘Did your comrade never tell you of this theft before?’

‘Never.’

‘And what does he deserve, think you, if he have done as he says?’ said

Fabricius, speaking with agitation; ‘taking away what to me was more

precious than life itself. What harm had I ever done him? To sell the

sweet child for a slave—oh!’

‘’Twas a crime indeed, and no fate too hard for him,’ observed Cestus.

‘But haste, I beseech you! The poor devil is dying; have pity on him, and

serve yourself as well; for, as like as not, you may get your maid again.

’Tis all plain to me now. When I first knew Lupus, some twenty years ago,

he was as blithe a fellow as ever stepped; and then he began to change.

Ay, ay! It is plain enough to see now what weighed upon him.’

‘Humph; do you say so?’

‘That is easily vouched for by others than myself. Will you not come? or

must I go back and tell him——’

‘Faith, I am distraught. I know not——’

‘’Tis scarcely likely he would die with a lie on his lips, noble sir.’

‘I will go with you,’ said Fabricius, with a sudden determination. ‘Go to

the porch and wait! Natta, haste! Bid Pannicus, Cyrrha, and Crotus take

their staves and go forth with me to the Aventine. Fetch me my cloak and

cap!’

‘What, now—to‐night?’ demanded the astonished slave, who ran in at his

master’s call.

‘Yes, now, this minute—haste!’

Now that his mind was made up the old man was burning with eagerness, and,

ere long, he and his slaves were ready to depart.

In the meantime Cestus went to the porch and stood on the outer step. The

moon was rising behind some heavy cloud‐banks, and her effulgence shone

dimly through the rifts. The great city lay stretched below, with its

gleams peeping through the hazy gloom. In the uncertain light a form crept

noiselessly up to the pillars of the porch, and whispered to the Suburan

standing there.

‘Well, is he coming?’

‘Yes—take care; he is here!’ replied Cestus, and the figure glided back

into obscurity.

Fabricius, followed by the three slaves bearing lanterns, came forth.

‘It is moonlight, Fabricius—the lanterns will be rather a hindrance than

otherwise,’ observed Cestus.

‘It is moonlight truly, but not much as yet,’ answered Fabricius; ‘so

until it mends we will carry our own light with us. Lead on, good fellow,

with Pannicus, and we three will follow.’

Cestus did as he was told, cursing the lanterns in his heart. Pannicus

walked by his side. Far enough behind to escape observation, the cloaked

form, which had spoken to Cestus, dogged their steps like a stealthy

tiger. They passed down the hill and through the Transtibertine district

to the river. After crossing the Sublician Bridge they proceeded to the

gate of the Servian rampart called Trigemina, and then ascended the

Aventine Mount by the Publician Road.

In the earlier times of the city this hill had been regarded as ill‐

omened. It had been occupied chiefly by plebeian families, but now was

becoming more fashionable, following, as already said, the inevitable rule

of the wealthy classes seizing upon the most elevated and pleasant

situations, as the city waxed great. At the head of the upward road

Fabricius and his party passed the temple of Juno Regina, which Camillus

had built after his conquest of Veii. The three lanterns of the slaves

were undesirable accompaniments, in the estimation of Cestus, so he

rapidly hit upon a plan which might lead to their extinguishment. Fortune

favoured him as they passed the temple of the famous conqueror. The moon

glanced out with her silver‐bright disc from behind the sharp edge of a

black cloud, and bathed the columns of the temple, as well as every object

around, in a flood of splendour. The obnoxious lanterns, with their smoky,

yellow glare, were useless, and a contrast to the pure brightness around.

The moment was opportune. Pannicus the slave, walking on the left of

Cestus, carried his lantern hanging down at the full length of his right

arm. As the moonbeams fell to the earth, Cestus purposely slipped with his

left foot, and falling across his companion’s path, dashed the lantern out

of his hand to the ground, where it instantly became dark.

‘My ankle seemed to turn on some cursed stone,’ said Cestus, as he

gathered himself up, rubbing his elbows and knees.

Fabricius inquired if he was hurt.

‘No, not much—nothing that I can feel yet, save a bit of a shake.’

Pannicus took his lantern to his fellow‐slaves to have it relit.

‘Never mind the lantern, man! Who wants candles with such a light as this

Diana gives us?’ cried Cestus, with a parting rub at his dusty

clothes,—‘come, we can see better without.’

‘I think so,’ remarked Fabricius quietly, and the remaining two lanterns

were extinguished.

The road began to descend again toward the valley. In some places it was

cut through the rock, more or less deeply, and at one particular spot it

passed through a grove of trees. The chiselled rock, which walled the

upper side of the road, was scarcely breast‐high, and fringed to the very

edge with ancient trees, as though the process of cutting the path had

been limited by veneration for the spot and the bare requirements of the

work. This was a barrier on one hand which required considerable agility

to surmount. On the opposite side the face of the hill continued to slope

downward from the edge of the path into the dark depths of the grove,

which the moonlight was unable to penetrate. It was one of those silent,

secluded, mysterious spots, rich in tradition, which were fast

disappearing before the relentless march of the spreading city.

A few paces within it stood a large square altar, dedicated to the deity

of the grove. Its sculptured figures were indistinct, and worn by

centuries of elementary strife. The hoary trees surrounded and spread

their branching arms far above it. The silvery rays of Diana slipped

through upon it, and it stood, barred with light and shadow, in its sylvan

loneliness—ghostly, mysterious, and, as one might fancy, meditating on the

memories of generations.

It was to this spot the party led by Cestus now approached. The hour was

growing late according to the habits of people then. The road, never very

busy at any time, was deserted, and the dwellings had ceased before they

reached the sacred grove.

They walked on until they arrived within eighty or ninety yards of the

ancient altar. Fabricius was busy balancing his hopes against the logic of

his experiences, and his slaves were, no doubt, cursing the whim of their

master, in bringing them out on such a nocturnal expedition. Suddenly

Cestus, who had beguiled the way by an intermittent conversation with his

companion Pannicus, picked up a stone, and flung it vigorously, as far as

he could, among the branches of the trees, in the direction of the altar,

which they were approaching. The pebble rattled among the twigs, and fell,

with a thud, on the turfy sod beneath.

‘What now, good fellow?’ cried Fabricius from behind, ‘has your day’s

labour not given you sufficient exercise?’

‘Dost not see it?’ said Cestus, pointing to the tops of the trees,—‘an

owl! shu!’ And he made a loud noise and flung another stone.

‘Hush, man—you will stir the goddess of the grove—leave the owls in

peace!’ said Fabricius.

Cestus accordingly desisted, having done as much as he required. In a few

strides they were opposite the altar. The Suburan stopped, and wheeled

round so suddenly, that the old Senator and his two slaves well‐nigh ran

against him.

‘What now, man—what possesses you?’ said Fabricius sharply.

‘One minute, so please you, to pray to the goddess for my poor comrade?’

asked Cestus.

‘Go, then!’ replied Fabricius in a gentle tone, and the pretended workman

stepped aside to the altar, where he appeared to engage himself in

devotion. He prayed, as follows, in whispered tones:

‘Are you all there, and ready?’

A murmur and a voice rose from the thick shadow of the stones, ‘Ready, ay,

and sick of waiting—are they yonder?’

‘Three dogs of slaves who will run at a shout, and the old man himself. I

have come, on leave, for a minute to pray for a sick comrade to get better

who died five years ago. When we move on I shall whistle, and then come

you on our backs like four thunderbolts.’

Having said this Cestus turned to go back, when a sibilant ‘sh!’ detained

him.

‘Wait, Cestus, I think I hear horses’ feet, and the game will be

spoiled—hark!’

But Cestus was either not so keen of hearing, or else was too impatient to

make a speedy end of the business, so that, after listening for a brief

second or two, he snarled in reply, ‘What horses, you fool; there are no

horses out this time of the night, on this road—just as likely the goddess

herself—be ready for the whistle!’

With that he rejoined the party, who were resting unconscious of such a

dangerous trap. They had scarcely taken half a dozen steps onward, when

Cestus gave his signal, shrill and sudden. Four forms leaped like tigers

from the shadow of the altar and fell on the affrighted slaves. Cestus

himself bounded on Fabricius. At the same time the figure, which had

dogged their steps from the Janiculum, leaped down from the rock‐wall of

the road and stood apart to watch. Two of the slaves had fallen in the

sudden onslaught, but the third had managed to escape at the top of his

speed. Fabricius, who, in despite of his age, retained yet a large use of

his keen senses and bodily activity, had taken sufficient warning to raise

his staff, and meet the charge of Cestus with a vigorous blow. The ruffian

staggered, and the moonbeams flashed upon the polished blade of a weapon,

which was dashed from his hand by the lucky stroke.

‘Wretch!’ the old man shouted, when a blow from behind felled him

senseless. Cestus, furious with rage and pain, belched forth a frightful

imprecation. His right arm was benumbed or broken, and he stooped for his

knife with his other hand.

Not far away was a sharp turn in the road. The tramp of horses and the

jingle of accoutrements smote on their ears.

‘Bungling fool!’ hissed the mysterious figure, springing forward to

complete the work in which, so far, the Suburan had been foiled. But he

was met, and rudely thrust back by the powerful arm of the confederate who

had knocked the Senator down from behind.

‘Take your time, my lad,’ bellowed that individual hoarsely, ‘he’s more

mine than yours.’

The slash of a poniard was the answer, and they closed in a struggle, when

the others suddenly raised a cry of ‘_Cave!_’ and fled in all directions

into the recesses of the wood. A body of horsemen had rounded the bend in

the road and was almost upon them. They were in military attire, and the

moon glittered on their polished helmets and the trappings of the horses.

The foremost trooper immediately sprang to the ground and rushed forward,

followed by two or three more. The struggling men parted and darted into

the grove after their companions, whilst the foremost of the new‐comers,

singling out Cestus, followed him at the top of his speed. He was in a few

moments hard upon the heels of the Suburan, who strained every nerve in

fear of his pursuer, who possessed a far fleeter foot than himself.

Fortune favoured him just at the critical moment, when, in terror, he

seemed to feel a hand upon his collar. The outgrowing, straggling roots of

a tree tripped the foot of the trooper, and he flew, with a dire crash, to

the ground. The fall was so violent that he lay for a few seconds stunned.

When he picked himself up, the whole of the flying vagabonds had

disappeared among the gloomy boles, like water through a sieve, leaving

neither trace nor sound behind. He shook himself with a laugh, and

gathering up his brazen helmet, walked back to the road. Some others of

the troop were here dismounted, using their best efforts to revive the

unconscious Fabricius. Flasks were produced; wine and water were poured

into his mouth and rubbed on his temples. The two inanimate slaves were

laid side by side until a helmet full of water could be brought from a

neighbouring fountain to be dashed upon them.

The soldier we have particularised knelt down beside the prostrate

Fabricius. ‘Is he badly hurt?’ he asked.

‘It is hard to say, Centurion; but, dead or not, it is a man of the

Senate,’ replied the comrade, who was bathing the old man’s forehead.

‘Humph!’ said the Centurion, ‘is, or was, rather—he wears only the narrow

band. However, he is worth the trouble of a few minutes. Do your best. Do

you object to wait for a brief time, Drusus?’

This question was addressed to one who sat motionless on his horse close

by. Leading reins were attached to his charger’s bridle and held by a

mounted soldier on each side.

‘No!’ replied this person, ‘I hold this delay as kind and fortunate, for

the pleasant moonlight and the sweet air of heaven will soon know me no

more.’

Fabricius soon showed symptoms of life, and then his recovery was rapid.

He sat up and glanced around. ‘Where am I? What is all this? Ah, I know,’

he ejaculated. ‘I remember!—but you?’

‘Why, simply in this way,’ responded the officer; ‘we saw you on the

ground, and a couple of night‐hawks squabbling over you. A few moments

later, and probably you would never have spoken again on earth.’

‘Most surely—robbed of what little money I have about me, and deprived of

my life as well. I have been decoyed into a trap,’ said Fabricius, rising

to his feet, with the help of the Centurion’s arm. ‘Thanks! My name is

Quintus Fabricius, and I dwell on the Janiculum. I owe my life to you this

night, and I will prove my gratitude, if my means and exertions are able

to do so.’

‘There needs no thought, but thankfulness, that we chanced to arrive so

opportunely. The rest was easy—they ran off when they caught sight of

us—we came, saw, and conquered!’ said the officer, laughing.

‘Be that for me to determine,’ rejoined Fabricius; ‘I will ask but two

things of you.’

‘Name them.’

‘The first is the name of one I have cause to remember.’

‘We are a good score of fellows—would you wish for them all?’

‘Thine only. Through you I shall know the rest.’

‘For their sakes, then, we are Pretorians.’

‘So I see,’ observed Fabricius, with gentle impatience.

‘Well, then, I am Centurion thereof, and my name Martialis. But what of

that? We all have done, one as much as another, and the whole amounts to

nothing,—come, sir, and I will send two or three to guard you home.’

The old man, still somewhat confused and trembling, murmured once or twice

the name he had heard, as if it bore some familiar sound.

‘Your name seems to ring in my ears as if I had heard it of old,’ he said;

‘but that in good time. Having given me your name, you will not,

therefore, refuse me the honour of your friendship. Give me your word, you

will visit me, and speedily. In the Transtibertine I am to be found by the

simple asking.’

‘Willingly! I accept your kindness with pleasure,’ answered Martialis,

with growing impatience to go onward.

‘Come with me now! Your men could return without you,’ urged the old man.

‘What—entice me from my duty! Nay, you would not,’ cried Martialis,

shaking his head and laughing.

‘He would be bold, indeed, who would try to seduce an officer of our

Prefect,’ interposed the quietly bitter voice of him who sat on the led

horse, ‘especially when that zealous and frank‐minded Prefect sends his

officer to lead a son of Germanicus, like a felon, to Rome.’

‘What!—of Germanicus!’ exclaimed Fabricius, in astonishment, and ere he

could be stopped he pushed up to the speaker and seized his hand.

‘Drusus—of that same unhappy family. Evil fate spares us not.’

‘Your pardon, Prince, but this is against my orders,’ interposed

Martialis, quickly and firmly; ‘you will not compel me to enforce them?’

‘Enough! Lead on!’ responded the ill‐fated prince, in a mournful voice.

‘Farewell, friend, whoever thou art.’

‘March!’ commanded the Centurion, and the band proceeded. He himself

walked on foot at its head, in order to lend the old Senator the support

of his arm. The slaves Pannicus and Cyrrha, with no worse effects of their

adventures than a confused singing in their heads, brought up the rear. In

this wise they continued, until they had crossed the mount and descended

to the level ground near the Trigeminan Gate. Here Fabricius took leave of

his preserver, with a few warm heartfelt words of thanks, and Martialis

detached two of his men to escort him home. Continuing on his way the

Centurion led his troop in double file. The clang of the horses’ hoofs,

with the jingle of accoutrements, awoke the echoes of the silent, empty

streets. Ascending the Palatine they halted before the Imperial palace,

and were received by an official and a few slaves. The prisoner was

desired to dismount, and he was led into the palace. The lights of the

interior showed him to be a young man of not more than one or two‐and‐

twenty, and he maintained the sullen expression of one who has suddenly

been made the victim of deceit.

‘Is this my journey’s end?’ he asked of Martialis.

‘Here I must quit you, noble Drusus; I have no further instructions than

to leave you in charge of the keeper of the palace.’

‘Take me to my room then,’ said the prince, haughtily, to the keeper,

‘where I may eat, and drink, and sleep, and forget what I am.’

The keeper obeyed and led the way through the halls of Caesar, until they

arrived at a narrow passage, which terminated in a descending flight of

stone steps.

‘Whither are you taking me?’ demanded the prisoner sternly, as he came to

a sudden halt.

‘To the vaults of the palace,’ answered the official laconically.

‘Know you who I am?’

‘Perfectly well. But I am ordered to place you in the vaults, and I have

no alternative but to obey.’

The young prince looked fiercely around, but seeing how useless any

resistance would be, he dropped his chin on his breast with a silent

stoical resignation which touched Martialis to the heart. Torches were lit

and the party descended the steps, and went along an underground passage.

The keeper of the palace halted before a narrow, heavily‐barred door, and

unlocked it. It needed a strong pressure to cause it to move on its

hinges, and, as it did so, a heavy, damp, noisome atmosphere puffed forth,

which caused the torches to flicker and splutter. They went in. The

interior was hewn out of the rock; spacious enough, but humid, chill, and

horrible—a perfect tomb. The trickling moisture, which bedewed the walls,

glistened icily through the gloom in the light of the torches, and the

floor was damp and sticky, and traced with the slimy tracks of creeping

things. There was a pallet and a stool, and the slaves placed some

eatables thereon. Martialis felt sick at heart and shuddered.

‘You are sure you are right in bringing him to this fearful place—a place

unfit for a beast to rest in?’ he whispered to the gaoler.

‘It is the best of all the vaults,’ was the brief reply.

The unhappy prince looked round, in a stupefied way, and shivered. The

change was frightful, from the sunny skies and balmy air of the lovely

sea‐girt Capreae. Martialis stepped up to him. ‘I must leave you, Drusus,’

he said; ‘I am sorely grieved to quit you in such a lodging—it must be by

error, and if so, I will not fail to do my best to have it rectified at

once.’

‘Thanks, friend,’ said the unfortunate, looking with fixed eyes; ‘bid them

send their murderers speedily!’

Without another word he went to the pallet and sat down, and buried his

face in his hands in mute despair.

One of the torches was fixed into an iron socket on the wall, and the

order was given to withdraw. Full of distress, Martialis took a second

light from the hand of its bearer, and extinguishing it, he laid it on the

little stool, so that it might succeed the other when needed. Then taking

his large military cloak from his shoulders, he gently dropped it over the

unhappy prisoner’s form and turned away. The dungeon was then vacated and

locked, and the Centurion rushed, as hastily as he was able, with a heart

full of painful feelings, up into the fresh pure air and sweet moonlight

outside.

When he reached the camp with his troop, he was summoned to the Prefect to

deliver his report, which was received by the commander with every sign of

satisfaction. Proceeding, on his own impulse, to describe the dreadful

circumstances of the prisoner, he was coldly interrupted and dismissed. He

turned to go, inwardly burning with disgust and indignation.

‘Stay, Centurion!’ cried Sejanus; ‘you have been inquired for here to‐

day—it is right I should inform you.’

‘Indeed! In what manner, and by whom, may I ask?’ said Martialis coldly.

‘By a workman—a potter from Surrentum! Ha! You change colour!’

‘’Tis not from shame at least,’ returned the other haughtily.

‘No, no—from conscious folly rather. You would wed a potter’s girl. You

are blind to your own interests. Amuse yourself with her, if you wish, but

think twice ere you bind a clog about your neck.’

‘And even such clogs are as easily got rid off as assumed at the present

time,’ retorted the Centurion cuttingly.

Sejanus bit his lip, and his brows met darkly. The retort cut home, for he

had put away his wife Apicata, to further more freely his guilty intrigue

with Livia, the Emperor’s daughter‐in‐law.

However, he replied sarcastically, ‘That is true; but not in the case of

such eminently virtuous men as yourself, Martialis. But just as you think

proper—it is your own matter. As long as it affects not your Centurionship

I care not—not I.’

‘Rather than suffer that to happen, Prefect, I would relinquish my duties

entirely—you need have no fear,’ answered Martialis coldly, and, saluting,

he left the room.

CHAPTER IX.

Cestus, straining every nerve as he fled from the scene of his failure,

expected each moment to feel the fingers of his rapidly gaining pursuer

hooked into his collar. Doubling this way and that through the gloom, in

imminent peril of smashing his skull, and experiencing all the terrors of

a hunted hare, he gave a gasp of joy when he heard the crash of the

trooper’s fall at his heels. A few more leaps took him out of sight and

hearing; and then he doubled on his track. When he gained the edge of the

grove, he dropped down at full length in a convenient shelter, with his

heart throbbing well‐nigh to bursting, and his eyes swimming. His

slothful, indulgent habits rendered him totally unequal to such a terrible

trial of exertion, and his horrible gasping for breath was so severe as to

render him incapable of perceiving whether there were any signs of further

pursuit. Burying his face in the grass, he smothered, as well as he could,

his grievous pantings, until he recovered breath sufficiently to sit up

and listen with more attention. All was as still as death, however, and,

in another quarter of an hour, he felt emboldened to make the best of his

way to the safe haunts of his native Subura. Going cautiously he quitted

the Aventine and gained the Ostian road which ran to the heart of the

city. As he progressed along the deserted streets he began to curse his

ill‐luck and speculate on the consequences. The promised reward, though

further from his grasp than before, yet shed its glamour over his mind,

and whetted it to ponder over renewed plans, on a less delicate and

ingenious style, more peculiarly his own.

The vast exterior of the Circus Maximus towered on his left. Walking

swiftly along its moonlit, porticoed base, full of caves of ill‐repute,

another figure appeared, so as to converge on to the track of Cestus.

Traversing that mighty circuit of masonry, the Suburan overlooked the

approaching object, as one might have overlooked a small animal specked on

the side of a mountain, until he found himself in close proximity, and

then he quickened his pace. The result of this was that the stranger did

the same, and the mind of Cestus began to wax uneasy. He finally started

off at a smart trot, whereupon he was hailed by an angry voice.

‘Stop, you fool!’

Cestus recognised the tones of his patron and waited in as much dread as

surprise.

‘I did not recognise you, patron,’ he said, as the knight came up.

‘So you have got away clear,’ said Afer sharply.

‘More by good luck than anything else—there was a swifter foot than mine

behind me had it not slipped,’ replied Cestus, humbled and abashed by his

failure. ‘You were too bold to be nigh—had you been caught, it had been

fifty times worse.’

‘Rest yourself easy on that score—I am not such a bungler as yourself.’

‘Well, patron, the plan failed, but you can hardly blame me,’ began

Cestus.

‘Whom then? if not you. It is the climax of your bragging

worthlessness—idiot!’ said the knight wrathfully.

‘Well, but, patron—the soldiers! Who could be at both ends of the road at

once? Another minute and I had done my work to perfection—I had finished

it even now, but for that meddling fool, who chose to put in his word. Be

reasonable, patron; I carried out your plans to the very letter and

minute, but you made no provision for a troop of legionaries to

interfere.’

‘Silence, blockhead! could I not see?’ fumed Afer. ‘Why, the old dotard,

if they had left you to it, would have cracked your skull, thick as it

is.’

‘No, never—if he outlived Saturn!’ retorted the Suburan, with rising

voice, as well as choler, ‘nor fifty dotards from fifty Janiculums. Let me

do the job in my own way, without the useless tomfoolery of a whining tale

and a moonlight walk, and a cohort of asses lurking on one’s steps—leave

it to me alone and you shall see.’

‘Yes, I should see you with thy neck in a noose and myself proclaimed,’

sneered Afer. ‘Leave it to you, indeed! If you cannot do better than this,

with four stout fellows to back you, what would you do alone? Fool!’

‘I am no fool!’ returned Cestus fiercely; for the cutting contempt and

epithets of his patron were more than he could bear.

‘A double fool—a swaggering, bragging, drunken fool, thick of sense and

slow of hand—faugh!’

‘I tell thee, Afer, I am no fool!’ bawled Cestus; ‘it is thyself!’

‘I was, to trust your workmanship. Fabricius eats his postponed supper,

and you are off to your foxholes, like a cur, with its tail between its

legs. Begone and trouble me no more!’ thundered Afer, in uncontrollable

passion.

‘You shall know that—clever as you think yourself, you are under my thumb.

One word from me——’

‘Silence, you dog, when I bid you!’ hissed the knight, striding up to him

and clutching his collar.

‘Not I, by Hercules!’ cried Cestus, thoroughly roused and reckless as he

shook off the grasp. ‘You, a chicken‐hearted, double‐faced pauper, to be

my master——’

‘_Accipe——!_ Let that silence thee for ever!’

The knight threw up his arm as he spoke, and the Suburan, giving a sharp

cry, fell heavily, stabbed in the breast.

Afer hastily wiped his poniard and replaced it in the folds of his cloak.

‘There is no bungling in this,’ he muttered; ‘dead men tell no tales.’

Only delaying to drag the fallen man by the heels more into the shadow of

a wall, he hurried swiftly on; and, before morning dawned, he entered the

yet sleeping town of Tibur, disappointed in mind, and yet not altogether

without a feeling of satisfaction and relief at the course circumstances

had taken.

CHAPTER X.

Not far from the shadow of the Capitoline, and nigh the Forum of Caesar,

Plautia dwelt in a small, but handsome mansion. Her wealth, although not

as great as that squandered by her spendthrift brother, was yet ample, and

in her hands better controlled. Her entertainments were not very frequent,

but, nevertheless, were famous amongst a certain set for their

enjoyableness, which was due, not alone to the exquisite fare provided,

but more to the tact of the hostess in selecting her guests. We have

already attempted to describe the attractions of her brilliant, though

voluptuous, style of beauty. Of lovers she had no lack. Her manners with

all of them were perfectly free and familiar. So misleading, that more

than one, ere now, encouraged and inflamed thereby to presumption, became

sorrowfully aware of the claws which lay sheathed in velvet.

She was a mystery, therefore, and a tantalising one. Whispers and rumours

were perennial; but yet absolute proof was wanting to substantiate the

fame which people awarded her. She, herself, was indifferent, and could

return as haughty and unembarrassed a stare as any which the proudest

patrician matron bent upon her. Even those individuals, proverbial for the

possession of the most secret information—namely, her handmaids and

domestics—were at fault; so secret, variable, and contrary were her

actions and humours.

One morning, two or three days later in our story, she was going forth to

take the air, and she came to the porch of her house, where her litter,

borne by four powerful slaves, stood awaiting her. This litter was roofed

in, and of sufficient size to admit of the occupant lying at full length

if necessary. It was also furnished with curtains, which could be drawn so

as to secure perfect immunity from observation. This contrivance for

conveyance, so common in ancient Rome, was standing on the ground, and

Plautia stepped therein, before the admiring gaze of the pedestrians who

thronged the causeway. Lydia, a young female, who was half lady’s‐maid,

half companion, was about to follow, but her mistress waved her hand and

said she wished to be alone that day. With that she drew the curtains

partially to hide her face and yet not to interrupt her view. The maid

withdrew into the house abashed; it was the third consecutive morning she

had been so treated; such behaviour was unwonted, and being filled with

fears and doubts of all kinds, she forthwith began to weep heartily.

The four slaves, not at all grieved to lose the weight of the discomfited

girl, bore off their mistress toward the Esquiline Gardens. The human

beasts of burden dared no more than exchange a fleeting look. It was,

likewise, the third consecutive morning they had been given the same

direction.

To the north of the gardens lay that portion of the plain which was called

the field of the Viminal. This extended to the Pretorian camp, and was,

therefore, the natural drill and exercising ground of the troops. Thither

the litter of Plautia was carried by her direction; skirting the outside

of the rampart of Servius, after it had passed through the Esquiline Gate.

There were a number of the guards in the plain, busily engaged in

exercising. Approaching within convenient distance for witnessing their

movements, the slaves were ordered to set down the litter and rest

themselves. Plautia, reclining with the curtains withdrawn, scanned the

cohorts eagerly and keenly. After a lengthened survey a look of

disappointment gathered gradually on her face. She ordered her litter to

be raised, and from her elevated position once again scrutinised the

moving ranks. She seemed to get no more satisfaction than before, and gave

the word to return homeward.

The morning was bright and bracing, and the streets were full of citizens.

As her litter passed through the crowded Subura it was rudely jostled in a

narrow way, and in danger of being overturned by a crowd of slaves, who

preceded the litter of some presumably great personage. Amid the struggle,

clamour, and curses of angry voices, the litter of Plautia was rocked and

tilted, so violently, that she gave vent to a cry, more in anger than

fear. She thrust her face outside the curtains to look on the turbulent

scene, and grasped the side of her litter with her hand, in imminent dread

of being thrown out. Such struggles were very common in the narrow

streets, and called for no particular interference; but the sight of her

handsome face, perhaps, inspired the friendly interference of a tall young

man, who, along with a crowd of people, had been dammed up by the

contention. He hastily thrust himself forward, and Plautia’s face became

suffused with a deep flush when she perceived it was Lucius Martialis.

With one hand he grasped one of the foremost poles of her litter, and

raised it, so as to allow the burly slave, who held it, to recover his

overweighted grasp and position, whilst, with the other arm, he thrust

back the foremost of the opposing menials. There was something in the

stern resistless strength of the action which bade them think better of

their uncompromising manner of proceeding, and they edged away more to one

side, though not without much abuse. In another moment both parties were

free and disentangled, and the great personage, who had never thought fit

to show himself and notice the squabble, was carried on.

Plautia’s countenance was brilliant in colour, and her proud eyes soft and

lustrous as they dwelt on the Centurion, who was clothed as a private

citizen. She thanked him for his service, and her voice was tremulous and

rich. He merely bowed, and muttered some commonplace words in return, and,

ere she could say more, he turned away and disappeared amid the throng of

passers‐by.

Plautia gazed after him for a few moments, and then sank back on her

cushions in a deep reverie, which, judging by the smile resting on her

lips, seemed pleasant enough to entertain her agreeably for a much longer

time than sufficed to bring her to her own door.

The lady entered her favourite apartment, which was pervaded by the

perfume of the costly wood burning in a brazier on the hearth. The

appointments of the room were as rich and brilliant in colour as herself,

and on a small carved citron‐wood table stood a delicate basket,

tastefully packed with the most beautiful flowers.

Lydia took them up and presented them to her mistress, saying, ‘Martialis

sent these with best greetings.’

‘Which Martialis—there are two?’ asked Plautia, receiving them with a

smile.

‘Why, Caius Martialis!’ replied the handmaiden in surprise.

‘Humph!’ ejaculated the lady, dropping the basket carelessly, almost

flinging it on the table again. ‘They are not such as please me; take them

yourself. Who is that without?’

‘Glaucus, your freedman,’ answered a voice at the door, ‘with news!’

‘Enter, Glaucus, with your news!’ cried the lady, relinquishing her outer

cloaks and wraps to the care of Lydia, who retired. The freedman entered—a

low thick‐set man, having a rough, but yet intelligent look about him.

‘Well,’ said the lady, warming herself at the fire, ‘what sort of

news—private or public?’

‘I have reason to think that, at present, it is pretty well private,’

replied the freedman, with an air of self‐satisfaction and importance,

‘but ere long it will be public enough, that is very certain. I have

learned that the Prefect Sejanus has obtained Caesar’s consent to his

marriage with Livia.’

Glaucus paused, as if to allow the lady to take breath and recover from

the effects of his communication.

‘Well,’ said she, as unmoved as marble, ‘is that all?’

‘All!’ echoed Glaucus, staggering back in astonishment and disgust. ‘Why,

not half a score of people have yet heard a breath of it!’

Plautia burst into a fit of hearty laughter as she watched the fall of his

countenance. ‘Psa, you fool!’ she said, ‘every one knew that the mighty

Prefect was angling in the Imperial waters long ago. What reliance can I

place on your information? Where did you get it?’

‘In the camp itself, and from the lips of the Prefect’s own eunuch—Lygdus

himself.’

‘Truly he might be expected to know; but he is a cunning rogue.’

‘He does know,’ said Glaucus, with increasing emphasis; ‘and what is more

the Prefect has been summoned, or has been granted permission, to visit

his bride at Capreae, and he is going accordingly in a few days.’

‘Ah, that is something more to the purpose; that is twenty times worth the

other, my Glaucus, for it looks like business.’

‘The Prefect,’ continued the freedman, ‘so Lygdus told me, was only ill‐

pleased that Caesar would not allow more than two or three friends to

accompany him, in addition to his usual guard of Pretorians. Tiberius

seems mightily afraid of strangers in his enchanted island.’

‘Perhaps the worthy Lygdus also informed you who the favoured few friends

of the Prefect were to be? It might be interesting to know.’

‘No, noble Plautia, he did not say who was going, except, of course, the

guard of Pretorians, with the first Centurion—the tall young brother of

Caius Martialis.’

‘Ah! thus much you know for certain, Glaucus?’ said Plautia carelessly.

‘Yea, for Lygdus heard the order given.’

‘Well, there cannot be any better authority than that, unless the Prefect

change his mind.’

‘Truly he might.’

‘And so you cannot give me the names of the chosen companions of

Sejanus?—they would be worth hearing,’ said Plautia.

‘Indeed I cannot, at present, for the eunuch knew not himself; but I might

hear before long.’

‘In that case you will let me know.’

‘I shall fly, like a swallow, to acquaint you,’ was the answer of the

devoted freedman.

‘You are rather thick and heavy with flesh and years to do that,’ observed

the young lady satirically; ‘nevertheless, I am assured you will hasten on

your legs as fast as you can. I am indebted to you for several favours

lately, Glaucus——’

‘The noble Plautia deigns to be gracious to her humble freedman,’ said he,

smirking and bowing to the ground.

’See you that small drawer in the citron‐wood table? Open it—there is a

purse within it!’

The freedman did as he was desired with alacrity, and took out the purse.

‘Transfer the contents to your own pocket and replace the purse,’ said

Plautia.

Glaucus did so with admirable celerity, and gushed into profuse

expressions of gratitude.

‘Enough—you are a good man,’ said his patroness, nodding toward the door.

He took the hint and withdrew, and after a few moments’ reflection,

Plautia went to a writing‐table, and indited the following laconic

epistle:—

‘Come and see me at your earliest.’

Sealing it up, she gave it into the hands of a slave, with instructions to

deliver it to the Prefect himself, wheresoever he might find him. When the

slave had gone she wrote another letter, which she destroyed as soon as

she had read it over. She composed an amended one, which shared the fate

of the former, and not until four or five had been ruthlessly sacrificed

to her fastidious taste, did she succeed in completing one sufficiently

satisfactory to her mind to fold up. It was put into a secret drawer, and

its fair author proceeded to pass the hours with her usual occupations,

which were mainly the reception of visitors, and the lengthy and elaborate

business of the bath.

The time had long passed since her slave had returned from his errand, and

his embassy had, so far, been followed by no result. Her impatient temper

suffered considerably, and she was about to send off a more peremptory

mandate, when the appearance of the tall form of the Prefect himself

concluded the matter.

‘You sent for me, Empress—here I am!’ said he, smiling gaily, and pinching

her beautiful cheek. She pushed his hand away. Had she been really the

exalted personage he jokingly termed her, her gesture could not have been

haughtier in manner. He laughed.

‘Forgive me, beautiful Plautia! I ought to have known that my salutation

should have been warmer. Be not offended! I will hallow with my lips what

my fingers have profaned.’

He bent down his lips, as if to kiss her rich‐hued cheek, but she pushed

him away, and reared her head with an angry flash of her black eyes.

‘Alas! wherefore did you send for me to be so cruel?’ sighed he, with

burlesque sorrow and pain.

‘Psa!’ she said scornfully.

‘It was not so always,’ observed the Prefect, with an affected sigh.

‘And should be less so now,’ was the rejoinder; ‘the noble Livia should be

granted some measure of faithfulness—at the first at least.’

‘Ho! ho! jealous?’

She gave him a momentary glance of surprise, and then exploded into

uncontrollable laughter. Peal after peal rolled full and musically through

the apartment, and yet so freely and spontaneously, as to forbid any idea

of its mirth being forced.

‘Well—you seem amused at something,’ said the Prefect presently, with a

frown.

‘Jealous, mighty Prefect, on your account!’ quoth Plautia, sinking on a

couch with a sigh, and the fitful mutterings of her laughter. ‘I can

freely pay tribute to your invincible fascinations, but I am not jealous.

Never allow your conceit to grow at such a rate, Prefect, or it will do

you serious harm.’

‘There is no fear,’ he replied, biting his lip; ‘but whence did you know

concerning Livia?’

‘A bird of the air brought it this morning.’

‘If I could net that same bird I would, perhaps, clip its wings.’

‘To what purpose, but the pleasure of playing the tyrant? All Rome must

know, and speedily too, of the Prefect’s last move.’

‘That is true; but simply to teach him or her caution. Another time it

might happen to be a more secret matter, premature exposure of which might

lead to serious results. Bid your newsbearers be more wary, sweet lady.

But you have not yet told me why you sent for me.’

‘Partly for one more look at you, ere you depart on your matrimonial

expedition,’ she said satirically.

‘Do you also know that?’

‘It is part and parcel with the other.’

She rested her hand gently on his arm, and smiled in his face. ‘You are

going to Capreae—to your Livia,’ continued she. ‘I congratulate you on the

success of the whole affair. What follows then, Sejanus?’—she dropped her

voice in a low tone—‘Tiberius is an old man.’

‘What do you mean?’ said he, bending on her a cold, stony glance.

‘I spoke without thinking,’ she replied, with a careless shrug; ‘I mean

nothing—what could I?’

‘A careless and dangerous habit, and one to be guarded against.’

‘Psa! it is excusable in a woman.’

‘In some—in most perhaps; but there are many—and I include yourself

amongst them, beautiful Plautia—whose brains move busily before their

tongues wag.’

‘Ah me!’ sighed the lady impatiently, ‘why did I allow the one for once to

get before the other? And though you should turn inquisitor, and bring

hither your judicial chair, you will make no more of the matter.’

She stamped her foot with a charming affectation of wrath, and he smiled

grimly.

‘I shall not make the attempt,’ he answered; ‘I am content to think that

Plautia is wise and prudent. Come! what lies beneath all this?’

‘Why, see how you are at fault—something I do mean truly!’ she cried,

clapping her hands with glee.

‘Do you suppose I ever thought otherwise?’ he rejoined, rather puzzled.

‘No, most subtle of men; but your suspicions lie in a different groove.

What care I for your Livia, or Caesar himself, or the windings of your

politics, or the bubblings of your ambition—for you have ambition,

Prefect, and a goodly share thereof——’

‘Let him herd with oxen who has not.’

‘I care nothing for these; I am too content with, and intent upon, the

affairs of my own small world——’

‘Which is the rosy realm of Venus—go on!’ quoth he drily; ‘we shall,

probably, now hear what this has to do with Tiberius. He is an old

pensioner of the bright goddess.’

‘Fool—nothing whatever! I want to know who is going with you to Capreae.’

‘You have taken a strange method of proceeding in your quest. I shall not

tell you, sweet lady; you may await the tidings of that same trusty bird

again.’

‘I know already.’

‘Wonders upon wonders! The gods preserve you to the earth! Wherefore did

you ask, then?’

‘To catch you tripping, if possible.’

‘I should grieve to disappoint you, beauteous Plautia, astute as you are

lovely; but I cannot avoid it, for I know not myself who are to be my

companions.’

‘Miserable deceiver—I expose you at once! A Centurion and a troop of

guards go with you.’

‘This is folly; you have spent the day with children,’ he said, bursting

into a laugh. ‘I give you full credit for your penetration. Martialis and

his myrmidons certainly go along with me. Could a Prefect depart on a

mission without his trusty Pretorians? Who next?’

‘Pray tell me, Prefect!’ she wheedled.

‘I have already told you I know not myself, and, therefore, cannot tell.’

‘Then I will—_I am going with you!_’

The wily Prefect started back, and fairly opened his mouth in dumb

astonishment.

‘What! You! Go to Capreae—with me!’

Plautia set her lips firmly and bowed gravely.

‘Pooh! pooh! you are losing your wits!’ he said, with scornful

incredulity, and then he burst into laughter.

She watched him calmly until he had finished.

‘I am not going thither because I am unable to exist without you,’ she

remarked quietly.

‘Certainly not; I should be the last to entertain such a mad idea,’ he

replied, with a satisfied laugh which belied his words.

‘No, I am going because I wish to go, and because I will go: and you,

Aelius Sejanus, must contrive to convey me thither, openly or in secret.’

‘Oh, openly would be, of course, the most sensible and politic plan for

me, as I am situated,’ he said ironically; and then he added sternly,

‘What silly whim is this? It is impossible.’

‘It is possible and shall be.’

‘You mean to enslave Caesar with your charms. Ambition inspires others, it

seems, than myself.’

‘I care nothing for Caesar. As little for a foul old man in purple as a

foul old man in rags. I seek him not.’

‘It would come to the same thing, sweet Plautia, were you to set foot in

the island, supposing you were able to do so; for you would, most surely,

arrive before the ruler of the world in the end, willingly or

unwillingly.’

‘That would be my business. I would take care of myself.’

‘Humph! You have done so hitherto, it is true; but then you have had no

difficulties to overcome. The pretty, autocratic ways of Plautia have

always been carefully humoured. If you will take my advice, you will

remain where you are, the queen of your own domain, in Rome. If you step

outside into the world,—into Capreae, for instance, you may probably taste

of a different experience.’

‘I am determined, in spite of all you say.’

‘Be rational!’ said the Prefect, bending his brows impatiently. ‘Should I

be in my senses to appear before Livia and the Imperial court with you at

my heels?’

‘You are infatuated with the idea that I am chained and bound to you,’

scoffed Plautia. ‘I have no more affection for your heels than for any

other individual’s. Give me only the assurance that I shall not be

hindered in my desire, and I shall not trouble you at all.’

‘Tiberius is never deaf to the voice of a lovely woman. Let me tell him

you want him, and there will be no more difficulty.’

‘No!’ returned Plautia doggedly, ‘I mean to land by myself, quietly and

unobserved, on the island.’

‘The guards will prevent you,’ said Sejanus, with a scornful smile, ‘or,

rather, seize you, and hurry you before Caesar, and there will be an end

of your frolic. You will inevitably arrive at this conclusion if you

persist in your folly.’

‘I intend to persist.’

‘Good! Then you may take your own way and the consequences thereof. But,

bear in mind, if you give cause for awakening any suspicion to my

detriment, you will rue the day you allowed yourself to be possessed of

this absurd fancy.’

‘You may rest easy, if that comprises all your apprehensions,’ answered

Plautia composedly. ‘Disenchant yourself, as speedily as possible, on the

point of your supposed importance to me. Your vanity is your weakest

point. I will not meddle with you; for I have no desire.’

‘I cannot dissuade you, then?’

‘No.’

‘Then tell me how you mean to proceed.’

‘Whichever way you think best.’

The Prefect took a turn or two up and down the room, biting his thumb‐nail

in deep cogitation. He scarcely knew whether to carry matters with a high

hand and flatly forbid the importunate lady. He knew her determined nature

and her energy, and was well aware that she possessed sufficient knowledge

to make herself extremely troublesome, if she thought proper. At the same

time, her presence, along with himself, in the island of Capreae, where

his intended bride awaited him, was highly fraught with danger, on account

of the jealousy naturally to be expected on the part of that princess,

were the matter to come to her ears, as it was only too possible it might,

in that circumscribed domain. Perplexed as he was, therefore, a sudden

idea like an inspiration struck him and filled him with satisfaction.

‘Well, carissime?’ quoth the watchful Plautia, as the rays of his relief

flooded his countenance.

‘Hush—hush, girl! That no longer!’

‘What, then?’ she asked jeeringly.

‘Nothing whatever. No more folly!’

‘Agreed! You have thought of a plan. Tell it!’

‘When I choose my companions I can smuggle you under the wing of one of

them. It can easily be explained. You may perhaps be obliged to set out at

a different time; but that will matter little.’

‘Nothing! When am I to be assured of this arrangement?’

‘To‐morrow you shall know all particulars. What more do you want of me,

for I am full of business? Nevertheless, you see how a simple word from

you brought me to your side.’

‘I want nothing more. You are now free for your royal Livia.’

‘Free, but not forgotten—at least on my part.’

‘Farewell, Prefect!’ said Plautia, waving her white hand.

‘For the last time, then,’ he said, laughingly catching it and kissing it.

‘To‐morrow I shall hear from you without fail?’

‘To‐morrow most surely!’ he replied; and, wafting another kiss with his

hand, Sejanus left the room and hastened away. Entering the neighbouring

Subura, he sought a by‐court out of the stream of the bustling, main

thoroughfares. It was narrow, tortuous, dirty, and unsavoury. But little

of the sky could be seen above; and the denizens of the place were

slovenly, dirty, half‐dressed men and women, slouching along, or lounging

in knots. Any intruder of respectable appearance into their haunt,

encountered such a cross‐fire of baleful glances from these evil‐eyed

individuals, whose lowering visages were plainly stamped with night and

enormity, that, being of timid nature, the visitor might well breathe more

freely, and be thankful when he reached a public place once more. The

Prefect, however, was of different mould, and gave no heed to the scrutiny

of the night‐vultures whom he passed. He paused before a door, at which he

knocked. There was a considerable delay, and only, when he had thundered

two or three times more, was a shuffling step heard within. The bolts were

drawn and the door opened slowly a couple of inches, just sufficient to

afford a glimpse of elf‐locks, a withered skin, and a pair of watery,

glistening eyes.

‘What want ye?’ asked a harsh, but yet a woman’s voice.

‘Thy master, Tigellinus. Open quickly!’ said Sejanus roughly.

‘Nay, you must wait a little!’ answered the hideous doorkeeper, proceeding

to shut him out.

But the Prefect’s reply was a vigorous push, which nearly overturned her,

and brought him inside the passage, which was strongly pervaded by the

fumes of cooking.

The old hag, staggering nearly to the ground, recovered herself and rushed

at him, giving vent to an angry scream, and showing a formidable extension

of her bony claws.

‘Away, you filthy harpy. Hideous crow!’ shouted Sejanus, repulsing her

with another vigorous shove,—‘away and tell Tigellinus that Lars Porsena

awaits him from Etruria.’

His imperious, as well as vigorous, manner cowed the old woman, and she

shuffled away into the gloom of the interior, grumbling and muttering her

suspicions. For the few moments which intervened Sejanus paced the obscure

passage, inhaling the odours of the kitchen, to the disgust of his refined

senses, and listening to the distant bursts of chatter and laughter, of

what seemed to be female voices. A man made his appearance at length, and

greeted him with deference. He was young, and had swarthy and handsome

features.

‘I have had the misfortune to disturb you at your dinner, worthy

Tigellinus,’ quoth the Prefect; ‘deny it not, for I can smell it palpably.

I also hear the merry voices of your happy family, from which I have

dragged you. I apologise!’

‘Do not, P—I mean Porsena,’ replied Tigellinus, ‘fifty dinners and

families are not to be compared to the privilege of your visit. What can I

do for you, noble sir?’

‘In here and I will tell you,’ said Sejanus, and they entered a small

room. ‘When were you in Capreae last?’ inquired the Prefect, with a

lurking smile.

‘Three months ago,’ was the reply.

‘Would it be wise and politic for you to go again within a few days?’

‘I am at present anxiously on the look‐out for merchandise; the Imperial

connection is a business I would not readily lose.’

‘A lady wishes to visit the island. I want you to escort her. You

understand?’

‘Perfectly; if it is to serve you, Prefect.’

‘You will serve me and yourself at the same time. To you also, who are so

fond of female society, she will be a most exquisite companion, since she

is one of the most beautiful women in Rome.’

‘That will be delightful. I await your instructions.’

‘You will come to me to‐morrow at the fourth hour.’

‘I will obey.’

Sejanus took him by the arm and whispered in his ear. The eyes of

Tigellinus sparkled.

‘Well, what think you?’ said the Prefect.

‘I am astonished, bewildered, enraptured. It is mysterious and glorious!

Your lordship must tell me more.’

‘To‐morrow, Tigellinus, to‐morrow! Farewell! I need not warn you to be

secret.’

Sejanus, thereupon, went swiftly away from the reeking abode, and left the

man Tigellinus in the doorway bowing to the ground.

CHAPTER XI.

When the Centurion Martialis came to the rescue of the endangered

palanquin of Plautia, he was leisurely pursuing his way toward the

Janiculum, to redeem his promise given to Fabricius. The little incident

which befell him, as described, soon ceased to occupy his mind. He reached

the villa of Fabricius, and admired the far‐reaching prospect which it

commanded—from the city, at its foot, to the distant, circling Apennines.

At the bare mention of his name, Natta, the ancient porter, ushered him

direct to the presence of his master, with unmistakable signs of pleasure.

The visitor’s fame had evidently preceded him.

Fabricius was in his winter room, whose windows overlooked a pleasant

garden, sheltered and shaded from the cold winds. The old man scanned his

visitor’s manly face and form with a swift eager look; then he stepped

forward and opened his arms.

‘Welcome to my house!’ said he, embracing the Centurion. ‘It augurs well

that you should have remembered an old man and redeemed your promise. I

have longed for your coming.’

‘’Tis my first leisure morning, Fabricius—you may see,’ answered

Martialis, touching his toga.

‘Tell me, Centurion,’ said Fabricius earnestly, ‘for your name, on that

unlucky night, seemed to awake old memories. I am a Latian born, and my

patrimony lies near to Casinum. There, in the old days, when I was a lad,

dwelt neighbours and old family friends of thy name—tell me, then——’

‘I was born in Etruria, at Veii,’ said Martialis, with a smile.

‘Ah!’ said the old man disappointedly, ‘what led me to make up my mind?’

‘But my father, Caius Julius Martialis,’ continued the young man, ‘first

saw the light near to Casinum, as his forefathers did before him for

generations.’

‘Caius Martialis thy father!’ cried Fabricius, seizing the young man’s

hand with intense joy, ‘Caius thy father—he was my playfellow, boy, in

those happy, sunny days long ago! Together we made the summer‐day trips

and climbed the hills; and then, while yet a lad, I was sent to Rome and I

saw him no more. And thou art his son—thou, that didst save his old

playfellow’s life—how my heart warms to thee! I warrant thou art the

living image of him, though I never saw him in his manhood. But his boyish

frame shaped like thine—tall, spare, sinewy, and as strong as a young

lion: and what of him, Centurion; is he alive yet—tell me?’

‘Dead these ten years,’ replied Martialis.

‘Then I was not fated to see him again on this earth. We loved each other

as playfellows; but I shall not be long after him. I am a lonely old man,

who has outlived his time; thou wilt not forget me for the little time

that is left me to breathe and live? Ah, if the gods had preserved me a

son like thee!’

The young man’s heart softened to see the mingled emotions which swelled

the stately Senator’s breast, and he heartily returned the vigorous clasp

of his hands.

‘You are yet hale and strong, and such a friend as I can be, I hope to be,

for many a year to come,’ he answered.

‘The end cannot be far away now,’ said Fabricius, shaking his head. ‘I

stand in no fear of it, for in truth I have nothing left to live for. The

gods preserve thee from a solitary old age such as mine. This gloomy house

was once bright and happy enough; death has reaped a rich harvest in its

walls. One boy, Titus, came home to die from wounds received from the

barbarian in Pannonia; an ill‐fated galley, bearing another, foundered on

its way to Hispania; a third was yet a child when he left us. One girl

reached the most winsome years, when a malignant disease carried her

suddenly off and left us heartbroken; the last daughter lived and was

married, and died in giving birth to her first babe—my only grandchild.

That little maid, Centurion, was beauty and sweetness itself; it was all

that was left me—wife and children all gone. She frisked about these

halls, lightening them like a sunbeam; she had begun to lisp our names and

prattle like the sweetest woodland music—ah me!’

‘Died she too, Fabricius?’ asked Martialis, after a short pause.

‘I know not whether she lives or is dead,’ muttered the old man; ‘to me

she is dead—fourteen years ago she vanished on one accursed day, and no

tidings of her have ever reached us since.’

‘Alas, that was too cruel!’ murmured the other.

‘Crueller perhaps than all, for I am harassed by the thought that if she

lives she may be groaning under cruel slavery or bondage, which is worse

than death. Time has dulled somewhat the smart of this grievous thrust,

but tongue cannot speak the anguish I have known in my heart. As for the

wretch who dealt me this last fell, heartless stroke, let the gods deal

with him and his. Treasure and time I have lavished in vain search; and,

doubtless, I have been robbed through it all. Cunning people, knowing the

old man’s ever‐green hopes, have worked upon his credulity. The other

night on the Aventine was an instance which would have probably cost me my

life but for your timely appearance. One of those very villains, whom you

scattered, came to me in this very room, with a request from a supposed

dying man, purporting to be the fiend who had stolen away my little

Aurelia. It was nothing but a cunning tale to lead me into a trap—silly

fools, they might have taken my life, but little besides!’

‘Had not my foot tripped, one of those same rascals would now have been

safe under lock and key awaiting his deserts,’ observed Martialis.

‘I warrant it if your fingers had once closed upon him,’ replied

Fabricius, with an approving smile; ‘but it matters not much. It is only

another and more flagrant case of my infatuation, as my nephew calls it. I

shall fall under the lash of his tongue bravely for it. But what,

Centurion, if I give up hope, what need is there of living?’

‘None.’

‘And you, a young man, live vigorously, having copious hope. Ah, I see!’

continued Fabricius, smiling, as he noted the ready colour tinging the

sunburnt cheek of the Pretorian, ‘as well as if your shaven cheek had been

the delicate red and white of a young girl. First and foremost, at your

age, is the hope which is rooted in love—well, I shall know more when our

friendship enlarges.’

‘How old was your granddaughter when you lost her?’ inquired Martialis

hastily, coming back to the former subject of conversation.

‘How old! About three years,’ answered Fabricius, the smile fading from

his face.

‘You would hardly recognise her, then, if fate brought you face to face

with her?’

‘Not know her! She is as fairly pictured in my mind, with her bright silky

locks and fawnlike eyes, as if I had only kissed her last night ere she

went to her little bed.’

‘But then fourteen years make a vast change. The woman of seventeen

obliterates the child of three—by what token could you assure yourself

beyond doubt?’

‘Token—woman of seventeen!’ repeated Fabricius wonderingly, as though a

new light had struck upon his brain; ‘my little Aurelia a woman of

seventeen!’

‘Ay, truly, she must be, if alive,’ responded Martialis, regarding him

curiously.

The old man rose from his seat and walked across the room and back. Here

was a problem as startling as it was simple, since, strange to say, it had

never by any chance been suggested to his thoughts. His mind, up to this

moment, had been thoroughly filled, and absorbed to the exclusion of every

other reflection, by the picture of the ill‐fated child as he had last

seen her, say, dancing about his room, or sporting with her ball in the

garden, as he passed out on a visit or a walk.

‘My little maid a woman of seventeen!’ he repeated again in a bewildered

manner.

‘Not so strange as that you should expect to find her as she was,’

observed Martialis; ‘stature increases, and form changes and develops;

eyes alter, and hair changes in hue with years.’

‘That is true,’ said Fabricius absently.

‘Well then, how would you prove her identity?’

‘My heart would tell me!’ replied the other fervently.

Martialis shook his head gently.

‘You cannot believe it—is not instinct unerring?’ cried Fabricius. ‘It can

lead a mother to choose her child after a woful gap of years.’

‘A mother maybe,’ said Martialis, doubtingly.

‘And, if I brought not the girl into the world, I tended her; I was father

and mother in one to her—she was my sole care and I lived in her—yes, I

should know her.’

‘Heaven grant you may have the opportunity.’

The subject then dropped, and Martialis was not sorry, for he saw how

painful it was to his host. To entertain his visitor Fabricius then

proceeded to show his house and his treasures of art, his gardens and the

noble prospect therefrom. His interest in his young acquaintance and

preserver seemed to quicken his vivacity and cheerfulness in a wonderful

degree, and he drew upon his stores of knowledge and anecdote in a manner

which delighted his listener. The young soldier was easily led on, in this

way, toward the old man’s dinner‐hour, and found himself duly partaking of

a meal more varied and splendidly served than was usual with his host’s

simple and solitary habits.

They had reclined at table but a few minutes when Afer was ushered in,

bearing on his face the signs of extreme solicitude.

‘Praise be to the gods, uncle!’ said he, stooping over the couch and

taking the old man in his arms; ‘praise be to the gods,—I find you eating

and cheerful, and so I know you have suffered little. The murderous

thieves! I have but just returned, and have come straight from my house,

when I was told of the treachery which had befallen you. A fine thing, in

truth, to happen to a citizen. Nay, I will neither bite nor sup until you

assure me you are no worse.’

‘No worse, nephew; thanks to the Centurion there. I was only stunned, and

find I am tougher than I thought. Nephew, this is the Centurion Martialis

who befriended me—I have discovered also that he is of Latian stock, and

son of an old playfellow of Casinum. Martialis, this is my nephew, Titus

Afer.’

‘We are not totally unacquainted,’ said Afer, bowing coldly, whilst the

other returned the salutation in silence; ‘I have the honour of knowing

his brother more intimately.’

‘Brother! I never asked thee, Lucius, of any brothers or sisters—tell me,

then!’ interposed Fabricius.

‘I have one brother only.’

‘The nearest friend and heir of Apicius, whom you have heard of, uncle,’

said Afer; ‘he who spent his patrimony, and after dinner, t’other day,

poisoned himself because his treasure‐chest was empty.’

‘I heard something of a tale—Natta told me, I think. If I mistake not,

nephew, it was there you dined only a few days ago?’

‘I witnessed the whole affair; the Centurion’s brother was left as chief

mourner, and, I understand, what remains of the wealth of Apicius goes

entirely to compensate him for his long devotion. But the Centurion knows

better than I how the matter lies—perhaps brotherly affection has divided

the generosity of Apicius.’

‘For that information I must refer you to the same source whence you

derived the other,’ replied Martialis coldly.

‘It is what neither belongs to me nor to thee, nephew,’ said Fabricius.

‘You will make me know your brother at the first opportunity, Centurion.’

‘Ask him to dine with you, uncle; but you will have to provide him with a

more artistic banquet, in order to give him an opportunity of proving his

critical powers. Caius Martialis, the Centurion’s brother, is well known

for his perfect knowledge of the elegant arts and pleasures of life. No

one disputes his dictum as to the beauty of a woman, or the flavour of a

dish, or the fold of a garment—especially feminine,—or the business of the

bath, the action of a player, the knowledge of the midnight city—the whole

delicate art, in fact, of sustaining a continuous and uniform course of

pleasure, without rushing into undue excess, or relapsing into ennui. His

acquaintance is a privilege, uncle, and you will find it so.’

‘I prefer that my host should judge for himself of the character of my

brother, rather than accept it from your lips,’ said Martialis, with the

hot blood tingling in his veins at the sneering tones and curling lip of

the speaker.

‘That has ever been my custom, Centurion, and there is no reason why I

should alter it in this case,’ interposed Fabricius. ‘Take your place,

nephew—eat and drink, and tell me how the time has gone with you since you

went away.’

‘No, uncle, your turn before mine—I am burning to hear an account of this

adventure. How came you, in Heaven’s name, to be on the Aventine at that

time of night?’

The knight, as he spoke, took his place on the couch opposite Martialis.

The sinister glance of his eyes met the gaze of the latter, and declared

inevitable war. The slaves hastened to serve him, and, whilst he proceeded

to eat, Fabricius related the circumstances of his night’s adventure, not

forgetting, most particularly, to allude to the services of his deliverer,

who, straightway, began to wish that all recollection of the affair might

be buried in the sea.

‘It is very well, good uncle, you got out of the trap as you did,’

observed Afer at the conclusion; ‘this, I trust, is the last phase of your

credulity and infatuation—this, I humbly think, will act as a salutary

corrective, and effect what no reason or words of mine could do. As for

the Centurion, had he been a school‐lad appearing on the scene, he would

have been sufficient, at that critical point, to have startled and routed

the ruffians from their task, like so many rabbits. I trust, Centurion,

you received no hurt in your encounter with the vagabonds, when, like a

Patroclus, you bestrode the prostrate body of my uncle?’

‘I neither bestrode my host, nor drew a sword, nor even clenched my fist,’

answered Martialis calmly, though inwardly fuming with anger. ‘I did

nothing whereby I can claim the credit or praise which my host persists in

awarding to me against my will.’

‘Nor even with your troopers to lay hands on one or more of the

vagabonds?’

‘Nor even with my troopers lay hands on a single one of them.’

‘I crave pardon, Centurion, for the thoughtless question,’ said Afer

mockingly; ‘I ought to have known better than to suppose that Imperial

Pretorians would stoop to act as common city police.’

‘You labour under a wrong impression of the cohorts to which I have the

honour to belong,’ returned Martialis, with less command over the tone of

his voice. ‘If I know anything about them, I should say they are as ready

as any to frustrate rascality and bring it to account, whenever it lies in

their power.’

‘Hark ye! nephew,’ interposed Fabricius sternly, ‘whether you rose this

morning in an ill‐humour or not, I cannot tell, but I must have no

snapping tongue to break good‐fellowship here—let us finish our meal as it

was begun, in peace and pleasantness, I pray. There is little I would not

part with, rather than Martialis should associate anything disagreeable

with his first visit here. He has done me a service, which it may please

him to disparage and you to decry—enough! My old playmate has suddenly and

unexpectedly returned in the person of his son; for that, if for nothing

else, I seek his good opinion of all about me.’

‘I apologise for having been so foolish as to offend you, uncle,’ said

Afer, with a barely perceptible shrug of his shoulders; ‘I was, in truth,

only jesting. Centurion, I have the honour of drinking to your health!’ he

added, with an accompanying look which mocked the courteousness of his

voice. The Pretorian coldly returned the compliment, scarcely trusting his

tongue to speak, for fear of the scorn and dislike which filled him.

Fabricius nodded approvingly, and Afer continued, ‘And now, uncle, to the

news of our great Prefect—or, perhaps, your friend, the Centurion, has

already told, you? No—I am glad, then, to be the first to inform you.

Sejanus is the accepted son‐in‐law of Caesar, and goes forthwith to

Capreae to claim his bride.’

‘Ah!’ quoth Fabricius quietly, ‘he creeps up the ladder apace; but these

matters interest me not. Time was when I would have paid it more heed, but

now I live apart, and allow consuls and pretors and the like to pass on,

almost unheeded—with all respect to your commander, Lucius.’

‘I understand you accompany him on his pleasant expedition, Centurion?’

said Afer.

‘As a most intimate friend of the Prefect, you have, no doubt, been

already acquainted with most, or all, of his arrangements,’ answered the

other.

‘What—you going?’ observed Fabricius, with a disappointed air; ‘when then

will you return?’

‘I cannot tell you, Fabricius. Your nephew will, most probably, know more

than myself.’

‘Indeed, uncle, my knowledge is overrated,’ responded Afer; ‘but, if you

will take the opportunity, you will commission your preserver to bring

you, when he does return, some pottery ware from the adjacent Surrentum—it

is a town famed for its excellence in this manufacture, is it not,

Centurion?’

The glance and the sneer of the speaker were malicious enough, whilst the

cheeks of the young soldier flushed deeply at the allusion. The swift eyes

of his host drank all in; he had already gathered sufficient to see that

his guests were not altogether so ignorant of each other and each other’s

affairs as he had at first supposed. The mounting colour on the

Pretorian’s face, as well as the flash of his dark eyes, denoted that his

nephew’s last words, from some reason, had proved as disagreeable as his

former remarks. It became evident, also, that they were designedly so;

and, therefore, without waiting for any reply, he proceeded quietly to

discourse upon the artistic merits of pottery in general, with the fluency

of a critic familiar with his subject. Afer, as a man of elegant taste in

matters of art, was led into the discussion, which lasted for some time,

during which the Centurion sat silent, lending only fitful attention to

the conversation.

The subject had no charm for him, and his mind rankled with the irritating

bearing of the man opposite. His last allusion astonished him not a

little, inasmuch as the pointed manner of its delivery revealed to him the

knight’s knowledge of his connection with Surrentum; but, after the

potter’s communication to the Prefect, the matter would easily and

naturally filter to the ear of the confidant, Domitius Afer. Nevertheless,

the blood burned in his veins and flamed in his cheeks when his mind, so

sensitive on this question, tortured itself by imagining how the loose and

irreverent tongues of his commander and the sneering individual across the

table, had, doubtless, amused themselves with the purest and most delicate

feeling his heart could know. This thought added to the disgust and fierce

hostility which bubbled in his breast, on account of the nephew of

Fabricius, for whose disagreeable manner he was able to ascribe no reason,

except a paltry feeling of spite and envy. But even these distempered

reflections gave way to the soothing and delightful contemplation of his

speedy removal to the immediate neighbourhood of his beloved; and, in an

interval of these self‐communings, he became aware that the dialogue upon

the merits of artistic ware was flagging and moribund. The pleasure of his

visit had long departed, and he seized the opportunity of taking his

leave. Rising, therefore, he pleaded the exigency of some camp regulation,

and Fabricius left his seat also, to escort his guest to the porch.

‘My nephew has not made himself altogether agreeable to you,’ said the

latter, as they stood hand in hand ere they parted; ‘something has

probably tried his humour ere he came; but you will not allow that to

militate between us twain. You can afford to pass over his whims, for they

are not worth your serious thought.’

‘Easily!’

‘You are going to Capreae—I have one thing to say to you. Formerly I

busied myself in matters of state, though I have long retired therefrom.

But I still live here above the city; and I have yet a few friends of high

influence and large information in that busy hive of toil, ambition, and

passion down there; therefore, it is impossible that I can exist without

knowing something of what is passing. I have watched the course of your

Prefect Sejanus. He goes to become the Emperor’s son‐in‐law; such honour

and elevation would satisfy an ordinary man’s ambition, but not his. I

know him not personally, though the general whisper of public opinion

seldom errs; but Tiberius Caesar I have known thoroughly of old. Strange

and noisome tales of his island dwelling are, even now, wandering through

Rome like fitful, noxious night‐airs. You may possibly be better

acquainted with this than I, and I trust they may never infect you. But

apart from this, I would bid a man beware of Tiberius Caesar. His

intellect is strong and clear, and his energy unfailing. A tiger is not

more ruthless—the deep ocean is not more dark, mysterious, and subtle than

his nature; and his suspicions are clothed with the eyes of an Argus and

the tentacles of a polypus. I pity a man, from a Prefect to a slave, who

jars upon them. Take the advice of an old man, not inexperienced, and have

the greatest care to let your action be bounded scrupulously by the duties

of your military office. Do not be tempted beyond them by any one.

Remember that while you obey the Prefect there is yet one above all to

whom you owe allegiance—Caesar himself. If there be those who choose to

underrate his power, leave them alone to their folly. If events follow the

course I anticipate for them, you will, perhaps, at some time, be

thankful, that you allowed nothing to tempt you beyond the limits of your

Centurionship. Obey your legitimate orders and seek to know nothing more.

You are a soldier; remain one, and beware of adding the trade of

politician—at the present time. A volcano may burst beneath our feet

before long. You will ponder on my advice, boy?’

‘Fear not,’ replied Martialis; ‘I am in no hurry to change my occupation.

I prefer a sword to a pen. I have plenty to do without loading myself with

politics.’

‘Yes; Mars was in the habit of relieving his gory business with softer

pursuits,’ said the old man, smiling gently. ‘Success in both. Farewell. I

shall await your return with impatience, for I yearn to make a son of

you.’

When the Centurion arrived at his quarters in the camp he found two

strange slaves awaiting him with weary looks. One of them bore something

in his hands covered with a cloth of gold; the other presented him with

dainty small tablets, which he opened and read as follows:—

‘Plautia sends the Centurion Martialis a very trifling

acknowledgment of the ready service which his strong arm rendered

her in the Subura this morning, and begs him to accept it. She

also prays him to honour her by supping in her poor house on the

morrow. Let not the unhappy slaves bring back an unfavourable

answer.’

The great and ready service had almost passed from the young soldier’s

mind and his lip curled. As he hesitated, the slave who bore the gift held

it forward and lifted the covering. A small, carved, myrrhine drinking‐cup

was disclosed; it was a gem of exquisite workmanship, as even he was able

to see, though he had but small critical knowledge of such matters. Had

the offering been ostentatious, he would have refused it at once. As it

was the affair was sufficiently ridiculous in his eyes, and he doubted for

a few moments. Then he bade the slave go and set it down somewhere, whilst

he sat to write a reply.

His literary style was plain, blunt, and unstudied, and took the following

laconic form:—

‘Centurion Martialis keeps Plautia’s gift, lest he should offend

her by sending it back. She overrates the affair in the Subura;

but if she can remember the house of her brother and the gold cup,

she may consider that the writer has discharged a part of his

debt.’

As to the invitation to supper, he did not trouble to mention it, but

despatched a negative message by the slaves.

To say that he did not feel flattered by the evident interest of a

beautiful woman, would be to say that he was beyond human feelings; but

the impression, although gratifying, was fleeting, and the brilliant

loveliness of the Roman damsel soon fled before a more familiar picture

which arose, ever ready, to his thoughts.

PART II

CHAPTER I.

Whatsoever change may have been wrought in the rugged isle of Capreae by

the neglect, or the hand, of man, during the long ages since the days of

Imperial fame and favour, we can be sure, as we survey the sea‐girt spot

from one of its rocky eminences, that we look upon the same outlines and

formation of nature as met the eyes of humble fisherman and jaded

patrician of antiquity. A low‐lying sandy shore appears and disappears in

the lapse of centuries. What was once a sandy strand, worn by the waves,

grated by the keels of ships, and pressed by the busy feet of citizens a

thousand years ago, is now, perhaps, an inland region of cultivated fields

lying around a sleepy town. What was once a green plain, ages ago, is now

the sandy bottom of a waste of waters. But the rocky face of Capreae is

unchanged and changeless. Its flinty cliffs rise sheer from the blue sea;

beaten by the waves, but imperishable. At their feet are the natural caves

and grottoes which have been discovered from time to time in modern days,

and pointed out as marvels, when lo! on inspection, they are found to have

been better known and more frequented in the olden time.

There, starting out of the sea, lie, in a row, three huge detached crags,

as if they had been torn from the cliffs and hurled beneath—abrupt,

impregnable, immutable, as in the day when they saw the ships of the

fabled Aeneas sail by on their way to found a mighty empire.

What an ephemeral existence to theirs was that of the Pharos which once

stood adjacent, and, nightly, cast a gleam from its lofty lantern upon

their jagged tops, maybe for a long space of generations!

And, see, on the summit of one of them rest the remains of a Roman tomb,

which arouse strange wonderings as to the being of antiquity whose spirit

desired such an isolated, inviolable spot for a last resting‐place!

On the summits of the hills, in the valleys, even under the pellucid water

of the marge, are yet remaining the traces of the magnificence which

sprang at the Imperial nod to adorn this lovely island, in the period when

the Caesars sought it as a secluded residence. The traces are but small of

the much that is known to have once been; but, as the eye roves from one

elevation to another, over the luxuriant gardens, vineyards, and orange

plantations which carpet the valleys and clothe the terraced slopes, we

can picture to our imaginations the palaces and groves of Imperial luxury,

and, if tradition speak truth, of Imperial vice.