To return to Plautia, whom we left on the way from Tucca’s cottage to the
villa Jovis, in the stormy, gray dawn.
Her litter was set down at a side door of the palace, and Zeno, the
steward, stood by to hand her out. His proffered courtesy was loftily
ignored, so he turned on his heel and led the way inside.
Not a living soul was to be seen; it was, doubtless, before the usual hour
for any one of the Imperial household to be astir about the duties of the
day.
The Greek brought them into a small peristyle close at hand. He threw open
the door of a handsomely appointed room, and the noise brought forward,
from within, three or four young female slaves, particularly noticeable
for their good looks.
‘My prison?’ ejaculated Plautia grimly.
The Greek’s face grew pitiable with an injured look.
‘Caesar has ordered these apartments for your use; and these slaves will
be under your orders,’ said he, bowing her in with a deep obeisance.
Plautia gave a haughty nod and passed in with her own attendant. Zeno
gently closed the door upon them, and his deprecating look gave place to a
satisfied grin, as he hurried away to a different portion of the palace,
in order to report to his master.
Plautia found that the room formed one of a suite. After the unwonted
experience of a husbandman’s kennel, the space and luxurious arrangements
of these apartments could not fail to draw from her a sigh of
satisfaction, in spite of her position.
The state of her mind was indeed unenviable.
After the horror and misery of the night in her wretched quarters, the
brief moments of slumber, which fell, finally, on her exhausted senses,
had not sufficed to relieve her fevered mind. They had seemed, instead, to
have only sunk her faculties into the first leaden state of suspension,—to
have lulled the wakefulness of her tortured brain, and plunged it into the
horrors of a narcotic sleep, amid whose heavy vapours, her struggling
reflections became the distorted phantasms of an oppressive dream.
Even yet her mind had not recovered sufficient elasticity to entirely
throw off this soporific load. Stupor still seemed to clog her senses and
maintain her in a condition of waking sleep. The scenes of the past night
still floated through her brain and mingled with what was actually
occurring, as if on common ground of unsubstantiality. The pale, soft
crescent of the moon hung phantom‐like in her distempered mind, just as it
had struck upon her gaze over the Pretorian’s shoulder; save that now its
bulk swam magnified, and its paleness shone intensified to ghastliness.
Then the play of his warm breath on her forehead, and one or two of his
gestures, which lived, as if fire‐impressed in her brain—all the sharper,
in relief to the dark, blurred, frenzied moments of sudden agony and
despair which had followed, like a gulf of blackness. After this her
mental awakening in the pitchy darkness and crash of the sudden storm, the
misery of the night, the phantoms of her short drowsiness, the coming of
Caesar’s messenger, the cold gray of sea and sky, the palace—it was all
like the unbroken course of a shadow‐play.
She moved through the rooms, and, in the furthest, found the marble basin
of a bath with all appliances. With more animation, she turned instantly,
and bade the flock of young slaves prepare it for her immediate use. To
have been obliged to forego, for a considerable period, this luxury so
necessary to a Roman, had been not the lightest privation she had incurred
in her headstrong expedition.
The crystal water, foaming and flooding out of the brazen dolphin’s mouth
into the polished basin, was so welcome a sight as to rouse her not a
little. Whilst preparing to enjoy it, one of the slaves answered a summons
at the outer door, and brought back a message, saying, that Caesar would
pay her a visit in an hour.
Infinitely revived and invigorated, Plautia returned from the bath to eat
and drink. She had recovered also so much of her ancient humour, as to
visit with a sharp word and a frown, a slight clumsiness on the part of
the trembling girl who served her on bended knee. The lady’s face had lost
some of its customary richness of colour, whilst dark rings showed under
her eyes, as evidences of the night’s passionate tumult; but to one of her
physical robustness and wanton health, it required an enormous and
continuous strain to make any material inroads on her outward appearance.
The slaves apportioned to her, who had dwelt in secret on the splendid
form and beauty of their new mistress, wondering what princess she might
be, and whence she had come, now marked the imperious flash of her eyes
with inward quaking.
Plautia dismissed them, and awaited the coming of her Imperial visitor.
The thoughtful knitting of her brows and lips were beginning to relax
under the drowsiness which crept over her, when the pale, blotched face,
and tall, stooping form of Tiberius glided slowly into her presence.
He stopped in the middle of the room, and his brilliant eyes fixed
themselves upon her with a scrutiny which she seemed to feel in every part
of her frame. Not a sign, however, glimmered in their depths, or stirred
the gravity of his countenance, to show that her appearance in any way
moved him.
She rose from the couch and gave a slight obeisance of her head, which he
returned. He was familiar enough to her by sight; but now, on close
personal contact, there was something which struck her uncomfortably.
Whether it was the piercing ruthlessness of his gaze she knew not. She
began to think uneasily, that she had been wise if she had listened to the
advice she had scouted more than once already. Her keen feminine
perceptions flashed out upon him. It was the odour of the tiger of which
she had been so heedless; and yet, withal, an old, stooping, emaciated,
unsightly man. Her thoughts, from some curious fancy, momentarily left her
own concerns, and conjured up alongside Caesar the form of his handsome,
ambitious, dashing Prefect. The comparison left its mark on her mind.
Returning to herself, her indignation and her courage, she awaited to hear
him speak.
‘Plautia, I bid you welcome to my house,’ he said, in his slow way. ‘Not
until last night did I know you had favoured the island with your
beautiful presence. I have hastened, therefore, to give you a more fitting
reception than the hovel of a husbandman can afford. It was unkind thus to
steal upon my island home with the intention of leaving it again as
silently.’
‘I have no claim upon your hospitality, Caesar,’ replied Plautia; ‘I came
hither on a trifling concern of my own, and sought to disturb no one. The
poor house in which I lodged was freely chosen, and willingly endured for
the short time of my stay. To‐day was to have seen my departure, and
indeed will do so. I am grieved that you should have learnt of my
presence, and so caused you kindly trouble on my account. If my intrusion
into Capreae is wrong and impertinent, I crave your gracious pardon and
indulgence. Indeed, no disrespect was intended.’
‘Dismiss all that from your mind,’ said Tiberius; ‘the only fact which
gives me pain is, that you should have sought to deprive us of the delight
of your fair presence; I repeat, it was unkind.’
‘It is not for me to thrust myself upon a stranger’s hospitality—much less
upon Caesar’s.’
‘Hospitality despised is the grievance, Plautia.’
The old Emperor’s manner was highly‐bred, perfectly graceful, and
polished, and a smile gently parted his lips. Nevertheless, in spite of
the delicate, deprecating speech which fell so softly, slowly, but
fluently from his honied tongue, every word seemed but the tinkling of
artifice. Had she dared to retort as she felt, she would have said that
hospitality enforced was as grievous a burden as hospitality despised.
With this idea firmly in possession of her mind, she recognised her jailer
before her, and felt the grim hardness of the captor’s hand toying with
her through the soft sheathing of ceremony and politeness. Nevertheless it
was not her nature to feel fear, and she never quailed.
‘That is all past,’ continued the Emperor; ‘youth and loveliness are right
and might in themselves. In their presence it is possible for no ruffle of
the mind to remain unsmoothed. Now that you have graciously honoured my
house, all is well, and——’
‘Pardon, Caesar! I was brought hither, favour or no favour,’ interrupted
Plautia majestically.
‘But now since you have honoured me,’ continued he, with the same
unruffled smile, ‘my spirit is at rest. Be pleased to use my house and all
it contains, as if it were your own. Your will shall be law within the
limits of Capreae. Small as this island is, it contains some beauties,
which we shall be eager to show, and which have been deemed worthy of
notice. It may be you have never visited them before.’
‘Once as a child, I think,’ replied Plautia, with a rigid aspect. ‘Your
proffered kindness is beyond words of mine to acknowledge, but I regret
that my engagements will not allow to take advantage of it. I must return
home without further delay—it is imperative.’
Tiberius shook his head and forefinger at her playfully.
‘I could not allow you to carry out a determination which you would regret
to your dying day. The island would grow black with scowls were I to
suffer the fair Plautia to quit it in such haste. Besides which, the
furious wind and sea renders it impossible. Hark, how the storm roars!’
‘I will risk the sea and the wind—I fear them not!’
‘Possibly; but it is otherwise with those whose business it would be to
transport you to the opposite shore. Nor would I consent for one moment to
the hazard—and though a feeble old man, I am obeyed somewhat.’
‘No one shall run any hazard for me, if it come to that. I will pay any
fisherman the cost of his boat twice over, and go myself.’
Tiberius suffered an expression of admiration to gleam on his face as the
deep colour flushed in her cheeks, and the mettle sparkled in her eyes.
‘Permit me, fair Plautia!’ said he, stepping forward and raising her hand
to his lips; ‘what have I lost in not knowing you before? What so
delightful to aging eyes as the spectacle of youth and beauty and high
spirit? Doubly grateful to me the assurance, that the spirit of my people
will hardily live and flourish. ’Tis such women as you who have nourished
the masters of the world, and with such as you left behind me, I may die
in the comforting knowledge that dominion will not leave them. But to
cross those miles of stormy water alone! Ah, it is wonderful courage—it
conquers me! But it cannot be—it is madness! Were I to allow it I would
esteem myself your murderer. No, no, you must live, and be the mother of
heroes!’
‘It is imperative that I return home immediately, and I entreat that you
will not seek to detain me,’ said Plautia, with fierce rage eating her
heart.
‘It remains a marvel to us how you came to land here without the fact
being duly reported,’ said Tiberius, as if he were stone deaf; ‘it was a
feat quite in accordance with your spirit, to be able to cheat the
vigilance on which we pride ourselves. Can it be possible that you
alighted in our midst as the soft goddess herself would do?’
‘Had it been so, I would have retired in the same manner ere this,’ she
replied, with scarcely veiled scorn.
The Emperor laughed silently.
‘Thank heaven,’ he said, ‘which leaves you dependent on mortal means of
locomotion like the rest of us, and so preserves your presence to us. I,
myself, prefer warm flesh and blood to these airy immortals whom we never
know, save in the fables of the poets. I leave you, therefore, for the
present, lady, with the satisfaction that you cannot depart through the
air. I am the richer in your acquaintance, which must be extended. Now
that I have the assurance of my own eyes of your comfort, I will intrude
no longer at present.’
‘For that receive my thanks, Caesar,’ she cried, advancing, as he retired;
‘but circumstances make it impossible for me to remain—at all hazards I
must quit the island.’
‘To‐day it is quite impossible,’ returned Tiberius, gliding nearer the
door; ‘to‐morrow, I am satisfied, your mind will be changed. Till then,
farewell, fair Plautia!’
As the last word left his lips he contrived to retreat, and summarily
close the conference by shutting the door upon it, yet so dexterously as
to leave no impression of unseemly haste. Plautia sprang after him, but
her devoted slave seized her skirts and besought her to be prudent.
‘Fool!’ cried her mistress in a fury, flashing out at the same time a
superb oath and a blow. Her retainer started back in affright, and Plautia
rushed out into the peristyle. Not a sight or a sound of a living being
were distinguishable. She flew along what seemed to be the Emperor’s most
likely line of retreat, and boldly called upon him in loud tones. But
nothing answered save the short echo of her own voice: the place seemed
deserted. Passage ran out of passage in bewildering intricacy. Again she
stopped and called, and again the echoes sank around her into dead
silence, as she stood with her senses strained to their utmost. Was the
palace really inhabited? If so, what part? She pressed on again, keeping
to what she assumed was the main corridor. Suddenly her course was stopped
by a door. In the dim light she sought in vain for a handle or latch, or
anything which might cause the door to yield. Nothing but a smooth hard
surface met her touch, wherever it strayed: there was not even a keyhole.
Wasting no time, therefore, she instantly turned back. On either hand she
had passed the entrances of room after room. She darted in and out,
exploring them with wonderful energy. She was fully roused, but more with
passion than sense of danger. Her explorations, however, availed her
nothing. Some of the apartments were furnished, and more were just as the
workmen’s hands had left them. All alike were uninhabited. Forming another
resolution, she relinquished this task, in order to make her way back to
her own apartments. The time to be consumed in this, however, was a matter
dependent on chance, since her movements had become merely at random. With
nothing to guide her she hastened along, doubling on her track now and
again when she considered herself to be wrong, or when her flying steps
led her into a _cul‐de‐sac_. At last she struck the right path, and
finally ran out into the peristyle of her own rooms, very much relieved in
mind and temper, and scant of breath. She found she had made a circuit of
the maze. Nearly opposite, her slave was standing by the open door, where
she had been left in the agonies of doubt and fear.
‘’Tis nothing but a maze of empty passages and rooms,’ exclaimed her
mistress, bursting on her savagely. ‘Where the people dwell, I know
not—nor where the old dotard has disappeared to. I had caught him if you
had not held me, fool. Come, let us see if we cannot find the outer door
through which we entered, and so let us begone; it was nigh at hand
somewhere.’
Plautia had no recollection of the way, but her companion had been more
attentive. They went almost straight to the narrow outer door which they
required. To their joy it opened to their touch, and they passed outside.
Before them was a long stretch of ornamental garden of irregular shape,
but rectangular in the main. It was picturesquely laid out with artificial
mounds, grottoes, and groves, in the miniature semblance of a sylvan
wilderness, and the whole was encircled by a wall. In this outside domain,
as within‐doors, no living being was visible.
The storm still roared and blustered. The winding irregular parapet of the
wall was the horizon, and above it the gray watery masses of clouds drove
across the sky. Even, sheltered as they were, the trees and shrubs of the
tiny thickets and groves bent low to the blast.
It had, of course, been previously necessary to pass through a portion of
this garden to enable them to reach the door of the palace. They proceeded
at once to search for the entrance, and found it amid the winding depths
of a grove and ornamental rockery‐work. It profited them nothing, however,
for the door was as fast and firm as the wall in which it was embedded.
They hurried on, looking for an opening, or a weak spot in the ring of
masonry, for it was too lofty to afford any hope of surmountal. To hide it
from view had taxed the utmost ingenuity of arrangement; but the efforts
of the gardeners had met with considerable success.
When the two females had swiftly threaded a succession of miniature
alleys, glades, groves, and rocky glens, to the furthest end of the
garden, and were skirting along the opposite side, on their return
journey, their eyes were suddenly gladdened by observing the forbidding
wall slope abruptly down, and continue at a considerably lower level.
Moreover, here and there the earth was heaped up in grassy mounds, within
three or four feet of the top. Up one of these Plautia sprang with a cry
of joy. Reaching the summit, she stood aghast, for, as she peered over the
parapet, nothing stood between her and the gray foam‐streaked water, more
than a thousand feet below. Leaning over, she looked down the smooth wall,
cunningly faced with the verge of the sheer cliffs, right down into the
waters, roaring and dashing into spouts of foam against the rocks far away
at the bottom. Nothing but a sea‐bird could ever set a foot there.
She shivered and drew back, and the slave gave a cry of dismay. One or two
observations more, where opportunity offered, gave the same result, and
thus they arrived back at the palace. There was a wall of smooth‐dressed
stone on one hand, high and unscaleable, and on the other was a leap of a
thousand feet, plumb down into the foaming sea.
The Roman damsel looked from one to the other with a fierce glance. She
was entrapped, beyond doubt, and like a trapped animal she stood for a few
moments, as if at bay, with scowling brows and labouring breast.
The slave observed, and stood discreetly back.
‘Come!’ said Plautia, suddenly wheeling toward the entrance of the villa,
‘we can do nothing out here but starve ourselves; we must play the fox and
not the lion; let us get in again and wait for a fool’s face.’