Baffled and chafing, Plautia stretched herself on the couch again, and,
this time, fell into a profound slumber, whilst her slave nodded and
dozed, in company, upon a cushion at her feet.
No sooner did the former awake, greatly refreshed, than one of her
attendants glided into the room, saying that the Emperor’s steward was
awaiting admittance to deliver a message. The handsome Greek was brought
in, and he handed her the tablets he bore. Plautia opened the missive, and
found it to be a scrawl in Caesar’s own hand, desiring her company at
breakfast, or luncheon, by whichever term the Roman prandium may be
called.
‘His highness honours me,’ she said frigidly; ‘but I am not well, and must
be excused.’
‘Does your ladyship wish me to take that message to Caesar?’ said Zeno,
with subdued regret in his tone.
She nodded, and swept majestically into her dressing‐room, where the
mirror gave her the satisfaction of beholding a recovered bloom in her
cheeks. She had never been prostrated a day with sickness in her memory.
Yet to accept a place of her own free will at the table of her jailer was
monstrous—at least so her indignant thoughts ran at that moment.
With recovered mental tone, her feminine curiosity began to indulge itself
in a more minute inspection of its surroundings than it had hitherto found
inclination for. In a small closet she came upon an array of female
vestments. Caesar and Capreae were in general forgotten for a period, amid
the rustle of beautiful and costly fabrics. Presently came another
message, that Charicles, the Emperor’s physician, was in attendance, and
would see her at her convenience. Plautia gave a grim kind of smile, and
directed inquiry to be made who had sent the physician, and why. The
answer was that it was by command of Caesar himself, who was much
concerned to learn of her indisposition. He also said, that if
sufficiently recovered, he would expect to see her at the Imperial supper‐
table.
‘Say to Caesar I am grateful for his thoughtful attention,’ said Plautia;
‘but my illness will not require a physician’s aid, and will amend itself
by and by.’
Contained in the rooms was a small library of books, and to these Plautia
at last turned her attention, when everything else had yielded its full
amusement. She lacked the fanciful and imaginative powers which are
enslaved by books. She had no resources, no world within to draw upon,
like the solitary dreamer or student, who usually finds his own company
the most entertaining. Her temperament was practical and her habits
active. The resources of the great city, with its variety and bustle, had
never failed to provide occupation to fill her time; but here, cooped in
the corner of a house, on an island, the situation was wholly different,
and already loomed as a serious matter.
She read for some time, and then was wearied. Her own thoughts had
remained passive too long, and began to reassert themselves very actively
to the subjection of her author. The book was finally tossed aside, and
its reader betook herself to pacing ceaselessly and aimlessly through the
rooms, with her hands behind her back and her eyes bent on the floor. She
gave full rein to her thoughts, and they sought the deep‐worn rut of their
former fierce torrent, as naturally as the quivering needle‐point seeks
the pole. Her brows grew dark and heavy once more. Suddenly she shut
herself up alone.
* * * * * * *
There was a brighter gleam in the air when, after a time, she came forth.
The small windows, high up, seemed more radiant, and outside, in the
peristyle, there was even hazy sunlight. The storm had broken. The place
seemed to stifle her. Catching up a cloak she sought the garden. The heavy
gale had dropped into a steady, brisk breeze, fresh, bracing, and salt.
The low, hurrying pall of gray vapours had melted away, and, far overhead,
the clouds were luminous. They were shredding and breaking fast into
feathery masses. Here and there already peeped the deep blue of the
heavens. The sea still tumbled its foamy billows far below, but, from the
great elevation of the villa garden, the agitation was scarcely
noticeable. It seemed like a huge plain thickly flecked with snow, across
the surface of which moved gleaming halos of radiance shooting down from
the sunny rifts overhead.
Plautia, on reaching the door previously described as fixed in the high
wall, turned to the palace attendants and bade them bring the means to
open it. They were visibly struck with embarrassment, but a tall handsome
girl, who seemed to have authority over the rest, was constrained to find
an answer, as the brow of the lady began speedily to blacken over. She
said she would be obliged to go to the steward, having no authority
herself in the matter. Plautia bade her do so, and she hurried away
accordingly. Presently she returned with the reply that the steward was
absent in attendance on the Emperor, and that nothing could be done until
his return. Plautia turned sharp on her heel, without a word, and
continued her walk.
In half an hour she was again within her room, attempting a perusal of her
book. But, though her eyes rested on the letters, she never read twenty
lines. Very soon she was again wandering here and there, aimlessly and
wearily, under the influence of her disturbed thoughts. Presently she
found herself standing before the mirror of her dressing‐room, gazing at
her reflected face with an unconscious and preoccupied stare. Becoming
attentive, or waking up, as it were, she noticed that either the fresh
breeze out‐of‐doors, or else the ferment of her mind, or both combined,
had more than restored the rich warmth of colour which was the crown of
her vivid type of beauty. Its brilliance was, perhaps, even a trifle more
than customary; yet it was magnificent, and no one understood that better
than herself. She drew herself up, folded her arms across her ample bosom,
and smiled sidelong at herself with proud satisfaction. A new idea had
possessed her, and she nodded approvingly to herself. Her black orbs
sparkled with a careless, reckless light. One passion had ruled her, but
that was all over. She had drunk to the dregs of the anguish which
stimulates despair, and she would meet Caesar on his own ground. Wearied
and harassed beyond her patience by the disappointment which poisoned her
thoughts, and which was yet increased by the unaccustomed restriction and
monotony of her position, she rushed from the idea of remaining passively
watching. With the recklessness of a gamester who has lost all, she would
go boldly forth. To act on the aggressive, with such potent weapons as her
wit and beauty, would be more likely to achieve her liberty, than standing
defiantly at bay in the corner of a cage. It might, moreover, bring her
more than mere liberty. She knew not what fate might have in store for
her; and, in truth, she cared little. At least she might calculate upon
the relief of some amount of novelty and excitement. It is better to die
in a dash for liberty, than to lie and rot away in a dungeon.
It was then resolved. She would recover from her indisposition, and appear
at Caesar’s supper‐table, wreathed with smiles and graciousness. It might
be called a feminine masked reconnaissance in force.
She, therefore, caused her intention to become known to the domestics when
the hour for supper approached; and through them it was conveyed to the
Imperial ears. To arm herself was the next and most important business.
Her own wardrobe, under the circumstances of her visit, was most humble
and scanty; but, in the plentiful supply already alluded to, she had
neither difficulty nor scruple in selecting an attire to her satisfaction.
The protracted and minute process of the toilet completed, she stood forth
brilliant, peerless, and resistless. The admiration of the women broke
forth in murmurs as she swept on in the wake of Zeno and his people, who
had come to marshal her to table.
* * * * * * *
From supper, at a late hour, she went back to her room triumphant.
Exultation shone in her eyes, and, for a time at least, lulled the
sticking pain in her heart.
Copious floods of wine flashed in Caesar’s cup, whilst his gaze was
riveted on the matchless beauty of his guest. The cool‐headed, temperate
Prefect, whom the Emperor had purposely brought into unexpected contact
with his guest, looked on and laughed in his sleeve. On Plautia, at times,
he bestowed an ironical smile, the spirit of which she defined, and
resented inwardly. Atticus, Flaccus, and Marinus, three devoted personal
friends of the Emperor, drank their wine, gazed their fill at the superb
woman, listened to her lively wit, and gave back what they could of their
own, in an excited ecstasy and jauntiness of foolish middle‐age. The night
waxed, and the faces of the waiting slaves grew weary. But the wine still
splashed into the gold goblet of Caesar, and his eyes scarce moved from
the girl before him. These only betrayed him to the watchful; for his
slow, cautious tongue, scarcely looser with wine, said little. The time
flew on. Draught followed draught still faster, until Plautia rose to go.
The pallid face of Tiberius had become gradually suffused with a faint
tint of the warm floods which were pouring through his veins. His kindling
eyes had begun to sparkle and blaze like a basilisk’s. The swift‐witted
damsel seized the moment, and, with the briefest delay, left the table and
the room.
The rich jewel which had set the ring was gone. The flame in the Emperor’s
eyes lacked its fuel, and quickly sank like the chilling embers of fire.
His gaze became a vacant stare, and then swiftly relapsed into the glassy
stupidity of intoxication: but all in complete silence. The remaining six
men, after a parting cup, took their leave of their Imperial host, who
made no sign in response.
One of the guests walked away from the palace, under the bright stars,
with a hot brow, and tumult in his breast. The Prefect, his companion,
suddenly startled the quiet night air with a loud laugh.
‘Is she not clever, my Titus? Is she not superb? Did she not play a pretty
game? Ha! ha! ha! Is it not a droll world this of ours? An emperor
besotted on what a poor centurion has spurned! Wouldst thou have turned a
goddess adrift who had knelt to thee? O, mighty Centurion! O, poor Caesar!
Was she ever so glorious as to‐night? But hark you—it was false fire. I
caught the spurious tone—did you not, Afer? But she was incomparable—do
you not hear, my friend?’
Afer ground his teeth, and muttered something unintelligibly between his
lips.
‘She was, do you say? You are insufferably dull, my friend. You have drunk
too much, or not enough. It is lucky our companionship is only to be
short. Here is my way! _Vale!_ sleep off your sombre fit!’ Afer went on,
but not to his bed. He burned with a fever which could not endure the
cramping walls of his lodging.
The first faint, luminous gleam of dawn in the eastern sky found him
watching, motionless, under the walls of the villa Jovis, and then, and
not until then, he went away homeward.