Suspicion was a weed which clothed the face of the island of Capreae. It
penetrated every nook of hill, cavern, or grove. The very air was charged
with its essence, as it is loaded with electricity at the time of a
thunderstorm. Every tiny leaf that nestled to the ground was the peering
eye of an Argus. Little or nothing could hope to pass unnoticed within the
narrow circuit of those sea‐girt rocks. There was an ear for each saying
worth repeating, an eye for each movement worth noting, and all finally
flowed into the channel which led to the dark, deep mind of Caesar. To the
ready ear of the ambitious, plotting Prefect also, in his villa of
Mercury, perched on the conical hill overlooking the Marina, the
mysterious whisperings and rumours of the isle did not fail to float. What
hope then was there of Plautia remaining secret?
The cottage of Tucca became the most curiously regarded spot in Capreae,
before the dawn of the morning following the circumstances related in the
last chapter. Invisible eyes watched it, so that not even a movement of
the ancient cur, which lay before the door, was missed, nor the flight of
a pigeon from the flock which perched on the roof.
The house was a small one almost facing the south, and, consequently,
looking nearly full upon the sea. With its left eye, as it were, it looked
across to the town of Capreae and the face of the island sloping up to the
eastern cliffs. To the right hand there was no path, nor yet foothold, for
anything but a bird of the air, and a few yards further on, the crags
descended sheer into the sea. These crags rose up above the house, forming
the side of the hill, upon which gleamed, above, the walls of the villa of
Mars. Thus, it may be seen that the dwelling of Tucca had, for some
reason, been perched as far round the outside, seaward face of the hill as
possible.
Tucca, the owner and occupier of this abode, was an old man, who lived
alone with his wife. He was a small man, with a head nearly bald, and had
sharp features, withered and prodigiously wrinkled. He was evidently very
aged, but of that spare, wiry toughness of body which best defies time. He
did not seem to be scrupulously clean in person. His garments might have
been worn night and day for months, by their greasy surfaces and obstinate
creases, whilst the leather‐like folds of his face had the appearance of
being engrained with dirt. He derived his livelihood from wine‐growing and
otherwise tilling the ground, and his arduous and lifelong toil had had
the effect of imparting a stoop to his slight dried‐up frame. His tenement
stretched from the left of his house along the path which led to the town,
and his vines, likewise, reached upward, draping the hillside, as far as
sufficient soil could be gathered together to give them sustenance.
Tigellinus had made, no doubt, the best choice possible for the purpose
required, when he led the beautiful young Roman lady hither to this spot,
hidden away half round a hill, on the brink of the cliffs, as far as a
human foot could venture; but, as no previous notice had been made to its
resident, of the unexpected honour about to be conferred upon him, the
ancient husbandman was, as might be expected, considerably startled. A few
whispered words from Tigellinus in his ear, however, charmed away the
astonished and ill‐tempered expression of his restless, mistrustful eyes,
and he became readiness, compliance, and amiability itself. The haughty
and even scornful bearing of his visitor, as she glanced around her
lodging, and scanned him from head to foot, might seem to have warmed his
old heart with gratefulness, so deep was his obeisance, and so great was
the grimace of joy with which he contorted his face. His wife, as lean and
withered as himself, had a hard time of it for a space; but, finally, all
arrangements were made for the comfortable bestowment of the visitors, and
the household sank into sleep and oblivion.
The following morning, as day was breaking, Tucca came out of his house
into the raw air. Water was an element he did not favour at any time, but
more particularly thus early. Hence he proceeded to his work in a state of
semi‐wakefulness. A little grove of fruit trees covered the left flank of
the house, and through this he directed his steps, more by instinct than
due perception of where he was going. In the midst there was an arbour, or
summer‐house, in a state of bad repair, being a structure designed for
ornament and ease, with which Tucca had no sympathy whatever. Its frame,
in fact, was mainly held together by the twining creepers, which thickly
enwrapped it, and almost hid the doorway from view. As the old husbandman
passed close by this, an arm was thrust forth from amid the creepers, and
the hand thereof grasped him by the shoulder. Tucca, startled out of his
comatose state, gave vent to a yelp of surprise, very largely mixed with
fear, but it was lost within the gloom of the arbour whither he was
dragged.
‘Good morrow, Tucca; you are out betimes; you deserve to be as rich as
people say you are.’
Tucca gazed at his captor; but the gloom, combined with his confused
faculties, prevented him from making anything out save a figure clothed in
a long cloak and peaked hood, or burnoose, which well‐nigh enveloped the
face as well as the head.
‘Who are you and what do you want?’ was the natural response of the wine‐
grower.
‘I am one you know, and I am here to see you on particular business.’
‘You may be some one I know, but this is a strange time and a strange
place to lie in wait; I don’t like the look of it myself,’ was the short,
crusty answer. ‘Come into the daylight, such as it is, so far!’
‘No,’ replied the figure, holding him back; ‘I prefer staying here until
we have finished.’
‘I ought to know your voice.’
‘I told you that I am known to you.’
‘Then why in the name of the furies do you not show me your face?’
‘I will, gossip; but, first of all, a few words. You received two visitors
last night?’
‘Eh!’ said the old man, giving a start.
‘I say you received two visitors last night—two women.’
Tucca kept his hand upon the handle of a knife stuck in his girdle, and he
eyed his questioner keenly in silence for a moment, as if to think twice
before he spoke.
‘Well?’ said the other sharply.
‘It’s none of your business whether I did or whether I did not—I’ll not
tell you.’
‘You will have to tell me more than that—look, old man!’
Tucca’s visitor stepped towards the doorway, where his face might meet the
fast‐increasing light, and he threw back the ample burnoose from his head.
The ancient legs of the wine‐grower shook beneath him. He became fully
awake; for the classic face of Zeno, the Emperor’s steward, looked down
upon him, as perfect and beautiful as if sculptured in tinted marble, but
with the cold, metallic eyes which were fatal to all accompanying grace.
‘It is my worshipful Zeno!’ exclaimed Tucca, with gestures of abject
humility and apology. ‘Pardon, noble Zeno; but how could your servant know
you in this light and with that hood over your face—and with my eyes
too—seventy‐five years old? But why come here so early in the cold? Come
into—no, I mean—a—a—what can old Tucca do to serve your worship?’
‘Thank you, Tucca. Had I thought fit to go into your house I would have
done so without an invitation, knowing your esteem and love for me. But,’
continued Zeno, with a meaning smile, ‘I knew it would not be convenient
for you, since you harbour guests beneath your roof. I thought it best to
speak with you out of doors first before I ran the chance of making myself
an intruder, unwelcome as it might be. Shall we go in now?’
‘Well—ah—it is hardly fit to receive you—at this time of day—nothing in
order or——’
‘No matter for that,’ said Zeno, interrupting the stammering and confused
old man; ‘I only want a seat and a draught of wine.’
‘Then wait only one minute until I tell my wife, and she will straighten
up and make tidy for your worship,’ returned Tucca, turning to trot out of
the arbour.
Zeno caught him by the arm.
‘Not so fast,’ said he; ‘I have changed my mind. Old fool, did I not know
for a surety that you had those I speak of within your house, your very
manner would have revealed it to me, as plainly as written parchment
telling the same. Do you deny it?’
‘Most worshipful——’ began Tucca imploringly.
‘Do you deny, I say?’
‘Why do you ask me? What can it be to you?’ said the wine‐grower, with a
show of resistance.
‘To me—nothing!’ responded the steward, with a grim smile; ‘I am only one
of the tiger’s paws to be stretched out at the tiger’s will. It rests upon
you at present, Tucca, so be wise. I have come from the villa of Neptune
this morning straight.’
‘Good Zeno, be easy with me, for you have dealt well with me so far,’
whined the perplexed and terrified old man.
‘You are not proceeding in the way most calculated to incline me to do so.
Tell me!’ said Zeno, pointing meaningly towards the house.
‘I cannot—there is one as great in Capreae as Caesar—I dare not.’
‘You will repent of that delusion when you find yourself, very shortly,
about to be cast from one of the cliffs of Capreae. What’s he that you
compare with Caesar? There is but one you can mean—is it the Prefect?’
Tucca hung his head and did not answer. Zeno thereby gained a little
information, which had the effect of giving him, at once, some more
personal concern in the matter. To spy upon a probable arrangement of the
formidable Prefect was a task unlooked for and likely to prove of some
interest.
‘You are obstinate, Tucca, and you are simple and foolish to put the
servant before his master. I might be disposed to leave you in a huff and
allow you to take the consequences of your idiocy, but I will take more
pains with you, and try and reason you out of your ideas. You live so much
out of the way here in this corner that you are ignorant of how things
run. Listen: last night a certain merchant, named Tigellinus, brought two
females to your house, and there they are at this moment. It is folly for
you to deny it. You grow excellent wine, Tucca—I have bought it from you
for the Emperor’s table, and the Emperor likes it. Caesar is a resident,
and if you wish to continue his custom you had better do as I advise you;
if not, you will assuredly have every drop of blood drawn out of your old
veins, as well as every quart of wine out of your cellars. The same finger
that can do this can, equally as well, do the same to the most noble
Prefect if sad necessity compelled. Do your duty to your ruler and patron,
therefore, and rest easy.’
‘You know what I know—I cannot tell you more,’ said the husbandman
despairingly.
‘Their names?’
‘Before Jupiter, I know not.’
‘I have also orders to dispense certain coins to those who make themselves
particularly useful in this matter—it is surely best to please the
strongest party and be paid for it—at least my notions run that way.’
Zeno made a dull jingling of some money under his cloak, and marked, with
a smile, the flash of the old man’s eyes and the pricking up of his ears.
‘Noble Zeno, you were ever liberal with me, but if I could serve you
without——’
‘It will be easily earned, Tucca; good pay, and never fear for your old
bones.’
‘What, then, do you require?’
‘To use your memory and duly relate to me anything that your visitors may
say loud enough for your ears to catch. If it be anything about the
weather, or matters of equal importance, you need not trouble to store it
up; but if there may be a chance remark or inquiry concerning any person
or persons of any note in the island, you must truly bring the same to me,
as I should like to hear it. You must, likewise, take notice of their
movements, and everything which may be likely to throw a light upon the
reason of their presence here. You see, therefore, Tucca, that your task
is of the easiest and lightest, and beyond suspicion—merely to keep your
eyes and ears open.’
‘And will you be at hand, or must I go to seek you at the palaces?’
‘Inquire for Alexander at the little tavern of the Widow Paula, and you
will be told where to find me—you will remember to inquire for Alexander,
old man?’
‘For Alexander, noble Zeno.’
‘Good; it is important. Now, by way of commencement, tell me the names of
these women.’
‘I swear by all the gods in heaven, Zeno, I do not know. They came and ate
a slight supper, such as we were able to put before them,—for we knew no
more than the dead that we were to have any visitors,—and then they
retired, and we have not seen them since. It is the truth, as I stand
here!’
‘Well, and what of their appearance? are they young?’
‘Young, Zeno, and the mistress as beautiful as the sun.’
‘Ah!’ said Zeno, nodding, whilst a smile spread over his handsome face; ‘I
think there will nothing very serious spring out of this matter, although
a ten years’ war did once arise on account of a woman. But, nevertheless,
be vigilant.’
‘I will be all ears and eyes.’
‘And secret—do not ask impertinent questions, or you will spoil all.’
‘Not one, noble Zeno.’
‘Consider your next amphorae of wine as sold and delivered, at a point
above the best price in Capreae.’
‘Generous Zeno!’ said Tucca, bending low.
‘And for this,’ rejoined the steward, artfully chinking the coins beneath
his cloak, ‘we will settle when this business is over.’
‘May it be soon; why they should pitch upon my house, and mix a harmless
man up with their women and their works, I know not—but I would they were
away.’
‘And so do I, Tucca, for this early morning watch does not agree with your
humble servant.’
‘But what safeguard can you offer me if he, for whom these people are in
charge, should know that I play the spy on them?’
‘He cannot know if you do only as I tell you; and if he does, leave the
rest to me.’
‘Hermes guard me—I should be but the earthen pipkin between two brazen
pots.’
The steward was looking cautiously through the leafy screen of the doorway
towards the house. He started and said, ‘Hasten, Tucca, look upon your
housetop! There are these same mysterious beings gazing therefrom upon the
landmarks of the island and tasting the morning air—hasten to the
house—they may want thee to ask thee this or that, it may be—there is a
chance—so go!’
‘I will.’
‘And hearken, Tucca, it is best to reckon up both sides of our bargain,’
added Zeno, catching him by the arm for a moment; ‘I rely upon your faith
and have no reason to doubt it, being, as you are, in your right mind; but
if you play me false from fear, or hope, or promise of what you would
expect to be greater in pay, as sure as you stand by me at this very
moment you shall suffer!’
‘Dear Zeno and friend, I could never——’
‘I think not, but if you do—in yonder villa of Jove, within the walls
there, is more than one catapult—you shall be shot from the cliffs a
league into the sea, like a pebble from a sling. Go, and forget not
Alexander at the tavern of Paula!’
The husbandman went back to his house, on the flat roof of which Plautia
and her maid were standing, taking the keen morning air and viewing the
landscape, as Zeno had said.
The old man shuffled about in view down below, and presently the voice of
Plautia hailed him and desired, or rather commanded, him to go up to her.
He did so, and the stoop in his small, withered body was doubled in
humility as he remained before her awaiting her pleasure. She looked
haughtily down upon him, and the light of day did not improve his
appearance. The grease and the dirt‐engrained wrinkles, somewhat softened
and mellowed by the lamplight of the night before, were as perceptible as
only daylight could make them. The finely‐curved nose of Plautia was
elevated at its tip, as much as it was capable of doing, as she surveyed
her host in all his glory. She formed the most complete contrast possible.
Her noble figure, large and erect, fronting his small, bent, insignificant
frame; her dark piercing eyes and her glowing skin, fresh from the early
morning toilet, and tinted with a yet richer bloom by the keen sea‐breeze.
It seemed to the ancient husbandman as if the glorious Juno herself had
descended on to the roof of his dwelling to survey the isle and sea
sleeping and silent in the gray light of dawn.
‘I wish to tell you, old man,’ she began abruptly, ‘that you shall be well
paid for our lodging here.’
‘That I feel sure of, gracious lady,’ replied the reverent Tucca.
‘Your house is retired and not overlooked, and for that reason I come
here. We wish to be entirely unobserved. It is necessary that our presence
here be not known. Therefore you and your wife must refrain from prating a
single word thereof. You understand?’
‘Perfectly, lady, you may rest easy—we shall give neither word nor sign.’
‘Good! if you do I would not stand in your shoes for all the island is
worth. Now show me all that can be seen from where we stand—what is yon
house on yon hill?—I have been in Capreae ere this, but I forget.’
She pointed across to the villa of Mercury, crowning the conical hill
above the Marina, on the other side of the valley. Tucca told her.
‘And who dwells therein?’ she inquired.
‘The Prefect, who is betrothed to Livia, the Emperor’s daughter‐in‐law—he
is the greatest man in the Empire they say—he lives there at present. But
the villa belongs to Caesar—like that one, and that, and that.’ He pointed
to the elevated summits around.
‘The greatest man in the Empire,’ she murmured, with a smile; ‘and what of
Caesar?’
‘He is even now over there,’ explained Tucca, sweeping his grimy hand up
toward the towering heights behind them; ‘he moves about from one place to
another. To‐morrow may find him over there—as likely as not.’
She followed his pointing finger to the eastern cliff in the distance,
where the white walls of the fortress peeped up against the sky.
‘And that?’ she inquired.
‘Is the villa of Jove, of which he is the fondest. It is built in with
huge walls; it is full of guards and stores of provisions they say, and
the sea roars a thousand feet below.’
Tucca shuddered as he recalled the threat of Zeno.
‘Full of guards, say you—do you know any of those same guards?’
‘No, good lady; I have seen them, but I know none of them. They keep watch
and ward over Caesar wherever he goes.’
‘Are they Pretorians, think you?’
‘Surely.’
‘And they are lodged in yonder villa?’
‘The bulk of them, yes.’
‘What, up there?’ said Plautia, looking thither earnestly.
Tucca nodded.
‘And the Prefect—does his guard lodge with him?’
‘I know not, lady; it is little I know of these great people.’
Plautia remained in thought for a minute, then she said, ‘You must find me
a messenger who will be trusty and secret—but no! You had better do my
errands—it would be safer.’
‘As you wish, noble lady.’
‘Come then, we will go down—we may be seen.’
‘It would be safer—there may be curious eyes prying,’ rejoined Tucca.