A few weeks subsequent to the last related circumstances of our story,
Domitius Afer, with nothing better to occupy his time, on a certain
afternoon, indulged an inclination for gentle exercise and solitary
reflection, and took his meditative way up the gradual ascent which led to
the eastern cliffs of the island of Capreae. The highest elevation at this
end of the island is the extreme north‐eastern promontory. Thereon stood
an extensive villa of the Emperor, which formed, for the most part, his
favourite residence. The suspicious nature of Tiberius had not deemed its
erection complete and satisfactory until it had been surrounded by what an
ordinary observer might have deemed the superfluity of a strong
fortification. It stood there in all the glory of its new, gleaming, white
masonry—a pile wellnigh impregnable to anything but starvation, surveying
island and sea and mainland for leagues, with the waves roaring a thousand
feet below around the base of the perpendicular cliffs. This residence
bore the name of the villa of Jove, and, although it claimed preference,
on account of the magnificent prospect which it enjoyed, together with the
natural strength of its position, it was only one of some dozen which had
arisen at the Emperor’s bidding, or were building, in various parts of the
island, each of them named after a deity. Thus the ruler of the world was
enabled to change his abode according to his whim, or oftener, perhaps, to
the workings of his subtle, mistrustful spirit.
Leaving this favoured retreat of the Emperor on his left hand, the knight
went some distance further along the brow of the cliffs, and wrapping his
cloak closer around him, he sat down in a nook of the limestone cliffs in
order to indulge more fully in a fit of abstraction. The scene, which was
displayed before him, has excited the raptures of gazers of all ages. But
it was the better fortune of those of antiquity to be able to see it at
its brightest, when its natural loveliness was embellished by the citizens
of an empire in the fulness of its power and wealth, and ere a most
melancholy‐famous eruption of nature had cruelly defaced it for ever.
So precipitous were the cliffs upon which the feet of the Roman knight
rested, that a stone, flung from beside him, would have dropped plumb into
the waters below. Thence, from this point of vantage, the delighted eye
drank in the matchless panorama which circled before it under the clearest
of skies.
Far on the extreme left, out of the blue waters, glimmered the green isle
of Aenaria, some sixteen miles away, together with the low‐lying islet of
Prochyta. Scarcely severed from the latter, rose the famous promontory of
Misenum, harbouring an Imperial fleet, and crowned by a Lucullan villa,
ere long the death‐scene of its Imperial owner. Baiae nestled close by, on
the lovely inlet which dented the palace‐covered shore. After which
Puteoli, the queen of commerce, the focus of the foreign‐going galleys—one
of the most frequented doors of Rome, with its mole, and its docks, and
busy quays. Then Neapolis, in the centre of the semicircle, and, still
nigher round the curving shore, the vine‐clad slopes of high Vesuvius,
with ill‐fated Herculaneum and Pompeii resting at its foot, on the brim of
the sparkling waters. Surrentum, in the green nook of its sheltering
hills, lay hid, but its cape, reaching out to within three miles of our
island, forms the southern horn of the crescent. The peaceful mountain in
the midst, so luxuriant with verdure, as yet gave no sign of the blot of
awful desolation with which it was about to mar for posterity the
loveliest prospect in nature. Not as now, but from end to end, a
continuous belt of buildings circumscribed the bay; for this enchanting
strand was the favoured region for the retirement and residence of the
wealthy. Villa upon villa, in thick profusion, sustained the line between
village and town, until it seemed as if it were an unbroken city which
gleamed so white along the circuit of the lustrous Campanian shore.
Turning again to the right hand was expanded the less lovely Gulf of
Paestum, with the city of the roses itself lying on its edge, far away on
the opposite side. Behind the knight lay the valley of Capreae, rich and
green, and shut in by a mountain barrier from the other half of the
island, which was a high table‐land sloping towards the north‐west.
Conical hills, _taurubulae_, as they were called, rose from this valley on
either hand, crowned with buildings and clothed with foliage; whilst in
the midst, which was the neck of the island, nestled a little town. Yet
even this part, the lowest point, and saddle‐seat, as it were, was high
above the sea; and steep descents, to the north and south, led down on
either coast to the only two practicable landings the precipitous shores
possessed. Thus it may be seen how secluded and safe from intrusion this
isolated spot of only eleven miles in circumference could be maintained.
Scarcely could a man, had he the choice of the world, pitch upon such
another place, where he could revel so peacefully in the beauties which
nature had so lavishly clustered around, under a climate so equable and
genial, as to render mere existence delicious.
But the sensations caused by such a prospect are rather for the breast of
the stranger of a northern clime than for our Roman Afer, for whom life‐
long familiarity with the scenes described had blunted his appreciation of
their beauty. Although his glance appeared to be earnestly fixed upon the
opposing shore across the strait, his eyes retained that far‐away
expression which is produced by absorbing thought. There was sufficient
within the narrow limits of the island at his back to occupy his thoughts,
as it did those of the whole political world. For, in the palaces which
gleamed on the summits of the hills or amid the groves of that insular
retreat, were the persons of the despot himself, whose touch ruled the
world; of the all‐powerful, ambitious Prefect, who, as it was darkly
hinted, ruled his master—as well as others of blood royal, whose youth and
close affinity with Caesar rendered them the objects of a too jealous
care.
But to these the mind of the knight did not at present pay any heed. His
thoughts were running back to the villa on the Janiculum overlooking Rome,
and were recalling the circumstances recorded in a previous chapter. The
strong interest displayed by his uncle in the young Centurion gave him
many a moment of uneasy mistrust. Not willing to allow the smallest
communication to pass unobserved, if his jealous watchfulness could avoid
it, he had stolen after the new‐made friends towards the porch, and had
there overheard the parting words of the aged host to his guest: ‘I shall
await your return in impatience, for I long to make a son of you.’ They
rang in his ears with discomforting freshness, and his face grew darker
the more he pondered on them. They had been made in a generous impulse of
courtesy and gratitude, he argued. It was absurd to take them literally,
even though the meddlesome Pretorian had proved to be the son of an old
playmate. Thus the knight proceeded, as he had often done before, in
trying to soothe himself; but the logic of his arguments failed to
entirely satisfy his apprehensive nature.
‘Old men take strange whims,’ he communed with himself, though without
unclosing his thin lips even on that lonesome crag. ‘But then I have
nothing to fear, being the only living kinsman of my worthy uncle, whose
conscientious rectitude would never allow him to play false with his
lawful heir, especially when that heir has been so dutiful!’—this was a
favourite joke, and his lips curved slightly. ‘But for that cursed bungler
Cestus, I might have been at this present hour in the serene enjoyment of
my rights, instead of biting my nails in a daily worry. Well, at least, it
afforded one happy stroke of genius, which rid me, at a single thrust, of
a cunning beast, whose knowledge has robbed me of at least five years of
my life on the score of anxiety. _Euge_, it was well done! and it was a
deed which had to be faced, sooner or later, for it was impossible that
both could live without something of the kind happening. Let me be
thankful; for if the ill performance of the business of that night led to
confusion in one way, it led to an unpremeditated conclusion in another,
equally as good. I am rid of the past—it concerns me no more; but of the
future—pah, it worries! I am too scrupulous, too patient, too long‐
suffering! There are more obvious affairs bungled through and winked at in
Rome every day. Meanwhile, I must watch my gay young Centurion, and do him
a good turn at the first chance I have.’
These and a hundred other thoughts floated through the brain of the
knight; when, as he sat, a coasting vessel, which had been approaching
from the northward, attracted his attention. It came on, running before
the wind, with its large square sail set full; but, from the great
elevation at which the knight sat, it looked like a small insect
struggling through the waves. He regarded it in a listless kind of way as
it went by through the straits between the island and the mainland, but,
when he saw it heave up in the wind, as if to bring to under the lee of
the southern side of the island, he increased his attention to its
movements at the expense of his meditations. The well‐braced up sail of
the galley began to shake and flap as it lost the wind under the cliffs,
and it was then hauled down and the sweeps run out. The vessel, whatever
its business, was, therefore, bent on making a port on the south side of
the island. This was calculated to increase curiosity, inasmuch as it had
passed the northern and customary landing‐place, to, apparently, make use
of the other, which was comparatively unused, and, in the present case,
more undesirable in every way. At this moment, as he was trying to account
for the cause, he heard the sound of voices approaching. Glancing round
the corner of the large boulder which formed his shelter, he perceived two
men hurrying from the direction of the villa, previously described, toward
the south. One he intuitively recognised as Martialis, our Centurion, of
whom his thoughts were so unpleasantly full. From the rapid pace and the
attention which the pair seemed to bestow upon the approaching galley
below, Afer concluded that they were proceeding down to the southern
landing‐place, to watch the movements of the vessel, in accordance with
the severe and rigorous guard which was kept over the Emperor’s island
home. A few words, overheard as they passed, at a very short distance from
him, confirmed this conjecture. The natural bent of his inclination to
know as much as possible of what was going on around him was in the
greatest measure stimulated by the monotony of island life. The growing
sharpness of the evening air, moreover, prompted action, so he rose and
followed in the same direction, as soon as he could do so without being
observed.
The night shades were falling, and objects were beginning to wear an
indistinct and uncertain shape. The Campanian shores were already dim, but
the mountains behind heaved in dark purple masses against the clear
heavens. The valley of Capreae lay in the dusk of its groves, backed by
the clear‐cut, towering peak of the island mountain, over which hung the
slender crescent of a young silver moon in the luminous flush of the
western sky. The faint, wan rays of the satellite rendered the light only
more ghostly and uncertain, save on the uplifted summit of the cliffs,
where the white masonry of the villa Jovis gleamed with a pale
illumination. Following the footsteps of Martialis and his companion,
Afer, with scarcely less rapid step, soon quitted the cliffs, and, after
crossing a small valley, arrived at the foot of one of those conical hills
before mentioned. Skirting the base of this, he came out upon an
elevation, wherefrom he could see to which point the vessel was tending.
Having satisfied himself on this point, that she was undoubtedly making
for the landing‐place below, he once more made his devious and steep, not
to say difficult, way down to the rocky strand. He debouched at last, by a
zigzag flight of steps cut out of the rock, upon a little strip of stony
beach, encumbered by large boulders, of which one or two were fragments of
huge dimensions. To the westward loomed the large forms of the three
detached rocks lying in the sea, one beyond the other, like gigantic
stepping‐stones, and passing now by these the knight observed the slowly
approaching galley. It was as much as he was able to do, for the gloom was
fast merging into darkness. Several fishing‐boats were drawn up on the
pebbly beach, and, at the foot of the steps, a portion of rock had been
excavated and turned into a shelter‐house, or coastguard station. In the
dark shadow of this Afer noticed, as he expected, the forms of some
watchers, and as he was already sufficiently near to hear and see all that
occurred, he quietly arrested his steps, and refrained from subjecting
himself to an inquisitive scrutiny. The watchers awaited in silence,
broken only by whispers, and listened to the slow measured clank of the
sweeps which sounded across the calm water from the approaching galley.
She came tolerably close in shore, and forged ahead past their lurking‐
place for some distance. Then the strokes of the cumbersome oars ceased,
and the tones of a voice in command came over the water. The hollow plunge
of an anchor immediately followed, and all dropped into silence for a
time.
The watchers now left their shelter, and went forward along the beach.
Arriving at a small creek, at the base of one of the large boulders before
described, they halted, and once again clustered in the shade.
A rattling on board the galley, followed by a splash, struck their ears,
and in a few minutes more, the proof of the justness of their dispositions
appeared, in the shape of a small boat, directed with vigorous strokes
toward their station.
‘Gently! just to the left of that biggest rock, and you can run us
ashore,’ said a voice in the boat. Under this guidance the oarsman sent
the keel of the little bark grating on the pebbles. ‘So,’ uttered the
voice again, ‘that is perfection; and now we will go on shore, and you
will not be sorry, I warrant, lady.’
A man leaped on land, and then helped two female forms to follow.
When they were quite clear of the boat they found themselves surrounded by
the party which had been awaiting them. The masked lanterns which the
latter carried were uncovered, and cast a stream of light upon the
features of the new arrivals. The two females, closely hooded, shrank
away, with sudden fear to still further hide their faces; but the man was
heard to laugh behind his cloak, which he had raised before his features.
‘You are amused,’ said Martialis, who was the foremost of the guard. ‘Who
are you, and why are you here?’
At the sound of his voice, one of the muffled females started and swerved,
so as to obtain a glance at the speaker, whilst, at the same time, her
male companion dropped his cloak, and disclosed the handsome, swarthy, and
smiling features of Tigellinus.
An expression of disgust crossed the face of his questioner. A murmur and
a slight laugh broke from his comrades.
‘A fair night to you, Centurion,’ answered Tigellinus; ‘I thought the
shadow of that rock would hold some of you—it usually does. But you are
not so well acquainted with me as some of the regular folk of the island.’
‘A misfortune for me, doubtless,’ responded Martialis. ‘You have
authority, I believe, to come and go at will?’
‘Quite right, Centurion, I have,—as well as for whatever merchandise I can
bring along with me. I go at once to my royal patron to offer what I have
for his approval. I am afraid I must rob you of one of your men,
Centurion, to go on an errand to the villa Jovis; I am sorry, but it is
for Caesar’s sake, whom we must all obey. Had I been going thither myself
direct, I might have spared the legs of some one else, but, you see, I
have to look after the wellbeing of my two friends here.’
‘The men are there at your service. You need not be at so much pains to
excuse the trouble you feel called upon to give,’ said Martialis, with a
frown at the man’s impertinence and vulgar assumption of importance.
‘Thanks, Centurion, much,’ responded Tigellinus; ‘then, with your kind
permission, I will ask my good friend Rufus, whom I see there, to go on my
errand.’
Singling out a certain man from amongst the guard, he took him aside and
imparted his injunctions. The man departed, and Tigellinus turned round
and said: ‘In which palace does Caesar rest at present, Centurion?’
‘In the villa of Neptune,’ returned Martialis briefly, turning to leave
the shore.
‘The villa of Neptune!’ echoed the other, with a grimace. ‘Just my luck!
Of course, when I come on shore, I must needs find my patron in the
furthest corner of the island, at the far end of the most toilsome
path—humph! And the Prefect, the mighty Sejanus, your commander,
Centurion?—Proud‐stomached puppy!’
The last expression was not applied to the dreaded Prefect, but, in an
undertone, to the contemptuous back which the young officer had abruptly
turned upon him.
‘’Tis the pampered creature of the pampered master,’ he muttered
sneeringly to himself, ‘but there is a day in store for them, or I am
mistaken. Tell me then quickly, where is the Prefect lodging in this
island of palaces? with which of the gods does he at present reside, if
the Caesar lives with Neptune?’
This last question, loudly asked, was answered by one of the coastguard
men, to the effect that the Prefect was housed, with his retinue, in the
villa dedicated to Mercury, which stood on the hill, on the north side,
overlooking the town and the Marina.
‘Take us not to the Mercury of the Prefect, nor yet the Neptune of
Caesar,’ said the guarded voice of one of the heavily‐shrouded females, in
his ear; ‘but to the lares and penates of some humble and obscure
islander, where we may rest unnoticed and secure.’
‘If that be your wish, noble lady, you had better retire at once into one
of the grottoes of the cliffs,’ replied Tigellinus, ‘for on this mite of
an island everything is known; and one cannot hope to live on its face and
remain secret. This is not Rome, but a tiny spot, where want of occupation
renders everybody and their business the concern of everybody else. It is
a strange place, and one not lightly to be meddled with, as no doubt you
will discover before you are quit of it, my lady.’
The merchant, or whatever he was, gave a laugh.
‘Spare your remarks, and do as I bid you,’ said Plautia, for it was no
other than she, who, together with a slave, had thus carried out her
intention of visiting Capreae; ‘you know to whom you are answerable for my
safe and secret conveyance to this spot.’
‘Perfectly well, noble Plau——’
‘Silence; you have already said sufficient, and it is unnecessary for your
lips to speak my name at any time—still less in this spot. Come, let us
dally here no longer.’
‘I will but give a few directions to these fellows concerning the landing
of my merchandise to‐night, and then I will proceed with you speedily.’
Stepping up to one of the coastguards, he spent a minute in conversation.
Then he intimated he was ready, and proceeded up the steps before
described, followed by the adventurous lady and her maid.
No item of all this scene escaped the keen senses of Afer, who had varied
his position in accordance with the circumstances. Every outspoken word he
had heard, and whatever the furtive flash of the lanterns had revealed, he
had duly observed.
Surprised with what he had witnessed, and still more puzzled to account
for such an unexpected visitor, he lost no time in following up the path
taken by the females and their escort.
‘I might have known that yon galley bore something strange about her,’ he
murmured to himself as he went along, ‘but for the fair Plautia to skip
ashore on the sly in Capreae, was a thing undreamt of. What brings her
here? She comes in brave company, however, and she seems to know it; but
whether she is here on Caesar’s account, or the Prefect’s, or her own,
remains to be seen. The presence of the worthy Tigellinus seems to smack
of Tiberius. Sejanus would hardly risk his billing and cooing with his
royal sweetheart by such a presence. But, whatever be the reason, she
seems to agree wonderfully with the arrangement. Time will soon show
everything.’
Having climbed up to the level road above, a very few minutes brought them
upon the verge of the little town of Capreae, when Tigellinus swerved to
the left, which caused them to avoid the houses. This turn led them once
more back to the south shore, or rather to the steep cliffs which formed
the coast‐line. Tigellinus proceeded to the extreme edge, where they came
suddenly upon a low, flat‐roofed house, flanked by fruit‐trees and
gardens, and nestling behind a face of the hill which rose up behind it.
After a sharp knock, the self‐designated merchant entered the house,
followed by the two females. The knight, who dogged their steps, waited,
and when, after a lapse of a few minutes, Tigellinus came out alone, and
went rapidly past him in the gloom, he also wended his way toward the
town, where he had his lodging. ‘A very snug retreat, and now I suppose
the jackal is off to the lion,’ he said.