The blow, with which Domitius Afer sought to rid himself of his
troublesome client, nigh the huge moonlit pile of the Circus Maximus, on
the night of the attempted assassination of Fabricius, was not lacking in
force, but was a trifle out of direction to prove fatal. Had the stricken
man lain without attention, much longer than he did, it would have been
sufficient to answer the end that Afer had in view. But it was fated that
a house door hard by should open, not long after the knight had
disappeared, to allow a man to pass out into the silent street. The
luckless Cestus was, as described, lying in the shadow of the wall,
whither his patron had dragged him. He was, therefore, directly across the
very narrow sidewalk; and, the gloom of the shadow of the wall being
intensified by reason of the bright moonlight adjacent, the individual we
have mentioned did not perceive the body in his hurry, until he was made
aware of its presence by falling over it. He straightway drew the Suburan
into the light to make a more minute examination, not having succeeded in
awakening any sign of consciousness. In passing his hand over the breast,
his fingers met a damp, clammy matter which caused him to shiver. He held
his hand in the light, and saw it was blood. The stricken man was still
warm and breathing, as he thought; so he, at once, ran back to the house
whence he had issued, and knocked loudly. The help of the inmates was
readily obtained, and the sorely wounded man was borne inside, and laid on
a bed, pending the arrival of a physician. That person came, and practised
so well that Cestus recovered consciousness ere he left him.
‘Here is no matter of killing for theft,’ observed the leech to the
household, gathered in concern to hear his dictum, ‘unless, indeed, as may
be easily believed, that he was the thief. More likely a street scuffle
with some night‐hawks of his own feather. ’Tis a deep gash, but ill‐aimed.
He is a tough rogue, and will recover most likely. Had he been a good,
honest citizen of worth to be deplored, he most likely would have died.
But being what I take him to be, a rascal, he will come round no doubt. I
am afraid, neighbour, you will never be requited for your benevolence.’
‘No matter,’ responded the master of the house, who was an elderly man,
with sparse, gray hair, and a sad expression of face; ‘do your best to
effect a cure, if possible; if he lives, it may perhaps prove a lesson.’
‘More likely to walk off with your valuables,’ said the physician, as he
went out of the door.
‘Never could be such ingratitude,’ murmured the other; ‘even my wicked,
wayward boy would scarce be so inhuman; and he has descended as low,
perhaps, as this poor wretch.’
Cestus had every care paid to him, and for some days he remained in a
critical state. Then he took a favourable turn for the better, and, aided
by his robust constitution, very shortly became convalescent.
His ingenuity was very lightly taxed to explain his disaster to his
benefactor. He had refused, he said, to join a society of his fellow‐
workmen, who, no doubt, had attempted to be rid of him as being a thorn in
their sides. He, likewise, hinted that he would be in danger of his life
if he remained in Rome, and that he would take the earliest opportunity to
be quit of it. As he was accustomed to lounge away his time in idleness,
the period of his confinement did not prove so irksome as it might
otherwise have done. His benefactor learnt to come and converse at
tolerable length, when he became aware of the patient’s plausible and
fluent tongue. It was, therefore, impossible, that, speaking thus
familiarly and often, Cestus should not obtain a certain insight into the
family affairs of his host. Amongst other things, he discovered that he
owned a scapegrace son, whose misdoings were the sorrow of his life. The
great and varied knowledge which the Suburan possessed of the outlawry of
the city, enabled him to pitch upon the erring youth as a denizen of the
same notorious locality as himself. This much he did not think prudent to
reveal, and so, at the same time, saved the grieving parent a far darker
evidence of crime than that which he already lamented. Hardened as he was,
the old man’s sorrow and sense of shame touched him. His narrow escape
from death and his enfeebled state, no doubt, had softened the crust about
his heart. Had he been a member of the family he could not have been
tended with more care and kindness, and this tugged at his heartstrings
likewise. He acknowledged his gratefulness, and, for the time at least, it
is certain he felt it. But, in the silent and lonely hours of his
reveries, his mind was constantly engaged in weaving a web around his
treacherous patron. It was, literally, war to the knife.
‘He thinks I am dead,’ he muttered to himself, with a smile of
satisfaction. ‘Good! his awakening will be all the more sudden and
startling.’
When once safely delivered out of the jaws of death, the march of Cestus
toward complete recovery was wonderfully rapid. Day by day he made a huge
stride, and, day by day, his appetite grew more and more surprising. When
at length the physician ceased from paying his visits, the patient hinted
at his own speedy departure.
‘Had it been safe for me to have been removed to my own home I would not
have troubled you so far,’ he said to his generous host; ‘but I am strong
enough now to bear a journey, and I will betake myself from the city
altogether.’
But his friend in need bade him beware of a relapse, and advised him not
to mar a wonderful restoration of strength by premature exertion, for the
sake of a few days’ earlier liberty. Cestus listened and took the advice,
which protracted his sojourn for a week.
His plan of action had already been resolved on from the first, and he now
made the few arrangements to carry it out. To gather strength and harden
his frame by gentle exercise he made short excursions out of doors. The
first time he did so his entertainer tried to dissuade him, on account of
the danger he ran of being seen by his supposed enemies.
‘Why, master,’ returned Cestus, ‘there is less danger than you think; for,
in the first place, it is the time of day when those fine fellows, who
left me for dead, with a curse on them, are all at their daily labour.
Then again, I would remind you, that my looks are altered for the time. I
am as thin and shrunken in body as an eel‐skin; my beard is two inches
long; and I further purpose to alter myself with a certain juice of a
berry which I can buy for a sesterce; so have no fear, my kind
benefactor.’
Now, in safe keeping in the Subura, Cestus had an amount of money which
remained of the last instalment he had demanded of his patron, as we have
related previously. A tolerable portion had been already squandered, but
the residue was enough to enable any Roman artisan, such as he represented
himself to be, to live comfortably for a year without labouring. But, not
knowing to what exigencies the execution of his plans might bring him, he
resolved to incur no suspicion by its immediate use. He, therefore,
applied to his host, to provide him with a small loan to cover the cost of
a few clothes and the expenses of his journey.
‘Your honour,’ he said, ‘has been so good already that I shame to ask more
from you. To take in a poor wretch—to snatch him from death’s door—to
nurse him, feed him like a brother, and with small hope of return, is a
thing that the gods will bless you for and prosper you.’
‘Say no more,’ replied the other; ‘here is what will help you.’
He placed in the Suburan’s hand a sum equal to about five pounds sterling.
‘Heaven reward your worship!’ said Cestus, kissing the robe of his
generous friend. ‘If I have health and strength I will repay you this
loan, as well as the cost you have been put to on my account; but, if I
could discharge the debt of gratitude as easily as the money, I would be
thankful indeed.’
‘Think no more of it,’ rejoined the other.
It is not too much to say that Cestus was really touched and grateful for
his treatment. He even swore to himself that he would prove it
practically, at some future time, if possible.
The first thing that he did, on getting out of doors, was to obtain a
supply of a certain kind of berry, yielding a juice which he diluted to
bring to a requisite tinge. This he applied to his skin, and it, at once,
gave him the appearance of a man bronzed by exposure to the weather,
whilst his thinned drawn features easily suggested, at the same time, the
effects of fatigues and privations. Presenting himself suddenly before his
host, he was gratified to learn that the change was so great as to mystify
that worthy man for a moment.
This excursion proved to Cestus how very far his limbs were from their
pristine state of sturdiness. His next expedition, with his embrowned
face, was a ramble into the Subura. He took the most unfrequented streets,
and, when he arrived at his destination, he avoided all chance of contact
with acquaintances. Sending for the individual whom he had constituted his
banker, he remained closeted with that worthy in a retreat secure from
intrusion. This man was a tavern‐keeper in the lowest part of the Subura.
His business was large, and Cestus one of his prodigal customers. Not a
coin of the money he amassed in the practice of his trade but had been
obtained by its spenders in the vocations of crime and vice. Learned as
Cestus was in the secret history of his native locality, his knowledge was
superficial compared with this man’s. Without actually engaging in any
unlawful pursuit himself he was the confidant of all others who did. He
was receptive and silent as the grave. Without incriminating himself he
aided his hideous customers, and they, in return, bestowed on him their
patronage. His trustworthiness was his power, and Cestus had perfect
confidence in applying to him for the little help he required. The
publican was truly surprised to see his friend, for all clue to his
whereabouts had been completely lost. Cestus speedily made him acquainted
with the history of his disappearance, and wound up with a tremendous oath
for revenge. The other tried to get at the relations of his friend with
his patron, the knight, but the Suburan only smiled and put his finger
along his nose.
‘Some day, brother,’ he said, ‘but not now.’
‘Well, well, as you please—I care little.’
‘All I want you to do now is to send and get to know, while I wait here,
if my patron is in Rome and likely to be,’ proceeded Cestus. ‘I like to
know where I have him, for I am going to take a holiday with a kinsman in
Puteoli until I get strong again. The sea air will bring me round, and
then I will return to pay attention to my worthy patron on the Esquiline.’
‘Do you intend to knife him straight off?’ inquired the publican.
‘Humph! you are not very flattering,’ returned Cestus; ‘but haste, and let
me have what I want to know, and along with it all the cash I left with
you. I shall want all I can scrape together.’
The publican departed, and, in an hour, was back with what Cestus wanted.
The latter stowed away his treasure safely in the breast of his tunic, and
learned that his patron was in the island of Capreae, in the train of the
Prefect.
‘And when returns?’ he demanded.
‘That is more than any one can tell,’ answered his banker.
‘Capreae is where Caesar dwells?’
‘It is, brave Cestus—hast ever been there?’
‘No; but it can be seen at times, like a speck, from Puteoli. He can’t
stay there for ever.’
‘Who—Caesar?’
‘No, you fool—Afer.’
‘Ah!’
‘Well, I can bide my time,’ said Cestus, rising to go. ‘No one was ever
worth much that could not. He may rest where he will until I am strong—and
then!’
The Suburan shook his fist, and, bidding farewell to his friend, took his
slow way homeward.
With this daily increase of exercise his body began to gather something of
its wonted firmness. His last excursion was down to the river bank, where
he took passage in a regular trader to Puteoli. The vessel was to sail the
following day, and Cestus took his farewell of his host with many
expressions of gratitude.
The voyage to Puteoli is not long, and in that most important centre of
commerce Cestus remained two days. He stayed at a public inn, and, on the
evening of the second day, he left the town after dark, and took his way
toward Neapolis.
‘Good!’ he muttered to himself, as he quitted the gates; ‘if any curious
eyes have been watching me now they will be mystified. They may search
Puteoli from end to end, and they will as soon find my kinspeople as
myself;’ the said kinsfolk being, in fact, a mere fabrication as far as
Puteoli was concerned.
He did not think it prudent to strain his budding strength by traversing
the whole distance to Neapolis on that night, so he put up at the first
tavern he met with, at a convenient distance from Puteoli. The next
morning he was astir early and entered Neapolis. Here he loitered for a
day, and then proceeded on a leisurely walking tour of the bay. He ambled
along through the towns and past the villas which lined that matchless
shore, drinking in the pure air, and enjoying the scenery as far as he was
capable of doing. He had a well‐filled purse, and he took his ease at his
inn, where he fed and drank of the best. He did not overtask his strength,
and every day increased it, for, indeed, he could not have hit upon a
better plan for that end.
In this way he proceeded through Herculaneum, Pompeii, Stabiae, the most
considerable towns on his route, till at length, on one afternoon, he sat
to rest himself upon the worn basin of the self‐same ancient fountain, of
which we have already spoken, on the verge of the town of Surrentum.
‘Houf!’ he sighed, as he seated himself; ‘and here is the place at last!
And now to find my potter!’ He sank into a reverie, and then lifted his
head and looked around him. ‘The place looks the same as far as I can
remember—it must be fourteen years since I was here. Fourteen years! How
in the name of the furies do I know what has happened since then! Tibia,
my sister, may be dead and dust by this time—her husband too, and—and the
whole lot, and then what better shall I be? It is strange I never seemed
to think seriously of this till now, at the very gates of the place—what
if they are gone, flitted to no one knows where—Greece, Egypt, Africa,
Gaul,—why, then I shall have only the small satisfaction of treating my
patron to a taste of his own play—humph! No matter, I shall soon know.’
He arose from his seat and walked a few paces onward, when he called to a
lad who was nigh.
‘Boy, do you know a potter hereabouts, by name Masthlion—if he be dead or
alive? or——’
The boy simply turned and pointed to the end of a narrow lane which
debouched close to. Cestus, thereupon, looked more inquiringly about him,
as if striving to recall some remembrance of the spot.
‘I seem to have a sort of recollection of this place—up there is it?’ The
lad nodded.
‘Alive?’
The taciturn youth nodded once more, and Cestus walked on with his mind
considerably relieved. Once in the little street his memory served him
better. ‘Just the same,’ he said, striding into the shop. No one being
there he proceeded into the house, where he was equally unsuccessful in
discovering any sign of life. He then tried the workshop, and, at last,
stood in the presence of those within, as we have described.