When the sun flashed upon the white walls of the palace next morning,
Masthlion was still upon his pallet bed, much in the same posture as when
Zeno had left him. Indeed, the cramped space of the cell gave not much
opportunity for movement.
He was free to enter the servants’ hall, to eat at their table, and
otherwise to amuse himself within the limits of the villa; but he had
remained in his narrow retreat heedless of all.
As the morning wore on, the door opened, and the handsome steward entered.
He gazed upon Masthlion with surprise. The potter was gaunt, haggard, and
wasted—a single night had scored his face with the careworn furrows of
twenty years.
‘Well!’ said the latter, starting up with an unsettled look, which had
supplanted his usual calm gaze. ‘Well!’
‘Well!’ echoed the Greek, regarding him with undisguised curiosity.
‘What message from the hoary tyrant—what are his commands?’
‘None, as yet, Surrentine—and speak respectfully of your betters, for
walls have ears.’
Masthlion sank back on his pallet, and dropped his head on his hand with
an action of utter weariness, mental and physical.
‘Hark’ee, brother; no one has seen or heard anything of you since
yesterday, when I took thee to the presence chamber—have you never stirred
from here since I quitted you?’
‘No.’
‘Then you have neither eaten nor drunken?’
The potter shook his head.
‘Nor slept either, I daresay.’
‘I think not.’
‘In truth, you look like a man who has been sealed up in a vault for a
month. What is the trouble? Is it because your business has gone amiss
with Caesar, or that he scared your life half away—or both? At any rate
this is not the way to mend it. I recommend meat and drink and fresh air,
taking care not to breathe the latter beyond the outer gate.’
‘Thanks!’ replied Masthlion, rising; ‘you are kind. I will do as you say,
and wait and hope for the freedom of these cursed walls.’
‘Hum—if you lived in them long enough you would be more guarded in your
language. Your visit has not been pleasant—it is hard to have one’s
expectations unduly knocked on the head—you take it to heart, and you have
had an ill night of it.’
‘It has passed now.’
‘Every man to his own way. If you had tried to drown your sorrow, instead
of nursing it, you would have been a better man this morning.’
‘Every man to his own way,’ said Masthlion, with a wan smile.
‘The gods be praised—mine now lies elsewhere,’ returned Zeno. ‘Mark! don’t
attempt to pass the outer gate!’
So saying, he vanished, and Masthlion, after a few more minutes’
reflection, followed, to act on the recommendation of the steward, and
break his long fast.
His misery of mind led him to shun, as far as possible, all intercourse
with others; so, hastily swallowing a few mouthfuls of food and a hearty
draught of rough wine, apart in a quiet corner, he stole out‐of‐doors.
The wine and the fresh morning air restored him vastly, but his condition
was yet pitiable. He sought a warm sunny corner of a wall and sat down,
but could not rest. Cramped by his narrow room, he had remained motionless
the past night, till the acute suffering of his apprehension had produced
a merciful species of drowsiness. But now, under the open heavens, and
with ample space on every side, the functions of his mind resumed such
activity, as to develop a painful nervous disorder which impelled him
ceaselessly hither and thither. A wider field for reflection might have
brought him relief, but that was denied him. He knew only, that one whom
he loved better than his own life was in worse danger than that of death.
On this dread fact he brooded in passive agony. Like an orb of torment it
pierced him with its searing flame amid encasing blackness, through which
his mind struggled in vain to escape for relief. It scorched into his
brain; and round and round, hither and thither, without rest, his feet
wandered within the girdle of the infernal walls which imprisoned him. His
was the soul of the true artist—keenly sensitive, deeply emotional—all the
worse for him.
The hours passed on. Would Caesar’s commands never come to end his
terrible suspense?
The vast palace, gleaming in the sun, seemed to mock him as he watched its
silent entrances with feverish glances. He knew not but what his home had
already been invaded. Knew! No, he knew nothing, save that he was
helpless.
More than once, despair urged him to force his way into the presence of
the tyrant himself and demand his freedom, or to boldly pass the outer
gate and gain the fishermen’s boats. But the madness of such an act was
evident even to his own wild thoughts. At every outlet a guard was lolling
lazily on his spear, his gilded panoply shining in the sun. One shadowy
hope there was, that Cestus might have persuaded Neæra to proceed to Rome.
But that was hoping against hope: the unhappy potter knew in his heart she
would never consent. No—there she would remain until he returned, and
there she would be the prey of the spoiler.
The big drops stood on his pale forehead as the agony of his mind tore
him. His overloaded brain seemed to rock with a vague, hideous burden.
Suddenly the sunlight brightened, as it were, into a fierce white glare.
The vast fabric of the palace, with each neighbouring object, seemed to
heave up round him with a motion which filled him with a deadly sickness,
and caused him to spread out his arms, as if the surging masses were about
to be launched upon him.
Out of the sky gigantic shapes whirled and swooped upon him; but when, as
it seemed, they were on the point of crushing him, they dwindled and fled
as suddenly away. His very brain seemed to contract and distend as rapidly
in the same awful proportions. It was terrific—he strove to shout aloud in
his terror, but his voice died within him, and his limbs were immovable.
The colossal masses and spheres which darted down upon him shot away again
into tiny twinkling specks—so far away, into such immensity of space, that
his soul shuddered with a frightful sensation at the awful gulf yawning
before him. Back they came—swelling as they rushed, in the brief second of
their career, like Titanic globes upon his paralysed vision. One of them
took the semblance of a face, distorted and ghastly. Down it swooped in
stupendous bulk, so close that his brain seemed to burst with its
appalling proximity. His delirious senses saw in it a livid, grinning
caricature of Caesar’s ghastly visage—he thrust out his arms at it and
shrieked in terror—tottered and fell senseless to the ground.
* * * * * * *
When he recovered consciousness he found himself lying on the ground where
he had fallen. A circle of faces surrounded him, and Zeno was kneeling
beside him with a cup in his hand.
‘Ah, now he is coming to,’ said the Greek, as the potter gave a deep sigh
and slightly opened his eyes. ‘Back, back—further back!’
The idle, gazing menials gave way, and Zeno held the cup to Masthlion’s
lips. A few mouthfuls restored the potter, and he looked around. His
faculties cleared, and he shuddered as his memory brought back those dread
visions of his overstrained brain.
‘This comes of fasting and watching, Surrentine,’ quoth Zeno, offering him
the cup again; ‘Nature is spiteful when robbed of her due.’
‘I must have fainted,’ muttered Masthlion feebly.
‘Ay, with a yell which was enough to curdle the heart of a dead man!’
‘I shall soon be all right, but I must confess to a certain weakness and
dizziness.’
‘Come, these fellows shall help you to your bed.’
But Masthlion, refusing the offer, walked away unassisted, though somewhat
falteringly, inside the palace to his pallet, whereon he stretched himself
gladly, for he was not a little shaken and confused.
Zeno flung a cloak over him, and set some drink near him. Masthlion
thanked him for his kindness.
‘I was bidden to take care of thee, and I dare not disobey—that is all,’
answered the other, with a grin. ‘But listen, potter, I may tell thee this
much, and it is as much as I know so far, that thou art to go away before
nightfall—how and in what way I know not.’
‘The gods bless you for the words,’ cried Masthlion, whose face lighted
with unspeakable joy.
Zeno shrugged his shoulders, and hastened away.
The joyful intelligence appeared to pour a calm, soothing influence on the
suffering man’s spirit, and, in weariness and weakness of mind and body,
he fell into a profound slumber.
He seemed to have slept only a few minutes when he was aroused by a hand
touching him on the shoulder. He looked up and saw Zeno once more beside
him. The daylight had failed, and the little room was nearly dark.
‘How do you feel?’ asked the steward.
‘Better—I have slept.’
‘Three good hours—you are now to depart—make ready.’ Masthlion, with
trembling hands, lifted his wallet from the floor.
‘I am ready,’ said he.
They went out, and the steward never spoke until they reached the outer
gate.
Conversing with the soldier on guard was an individual well wrapped up in
a cloak.
‘Here is your charge,’ said Zeno, addressing him.
The other nodded and ejaculated, ‘Good,’ as he bestowed a sharp glance on
the potter.
‘Farewell,’ pursued the Greek to the latter; ‘I come no further, and here
our acquaintance ends, I suppose. Plautus goes to the opposite shore; he
will take charge of you, and has instructions to see you safely
bestowed—farewell, Surrentine!’
The man called Plautus laughed. Masthlion, in his eager excitement to be
gone, uttered his farewell and thanks rather hastily.
‘Come, then, Surrentine,’ quoth Plautus, striding through the gate, ‘the
boat waits, and I have far to go and much to do.’
The potter needed no encouragement to quit the abhorred precincts of the
villa, and when once clear of its shadow, he breathed a prayer of
thankfulness and relief. With a light step and eager heart he followed the
rapid pace of his conductor, his mind being too full of hopes and fears to
attempt a conversation.
The absence of any command from the Emperor with regard to Neæra, he
regarded with satisfaction, as a plausible argument that no further
insistance in the matter was intended. Yet he was anxious—more anxious
than he cared to own. He burned for the moment to arrive when he should
enter his own door again—and yet he dreaded it too.
Once he was curious enough to ask of his companion, if he was to be landed
on the opposite point, in which case he would have a long journey on foot
to accomplish. He received only an unintelligible growl in response; so,
fearing to irritate what seemed to be a cross‐grained temper, he held his
peace.
Descending the steep declivity they issued on the narrow Marina, where a
galley ready drawn up awaited them. Its crew of about eight men were
lolling about amongst the idlers, but when the gruff voice of Plautus fell
on their ears, they sprang to their places in readiness to ply their heavy
oars.
‘In with you,’ said Plautus to Masthlion; and the boat, by a vigorous
shove, was swept out on the bay.
‘Give way—bend your backs, and the sooner we shall be home again,’ called
Plautus, as he seized the steering oar.
‘Sit you just there, and move not, Surrentine.’
He pointed to a place just astern of the stroke‐oarsman. The potter sat
down and became again absorbed in his reflections.
The slaves were all picked men of large frame and muscle, and they urged
the boat through the water at a swift pace. The dusk was beginning to
fall, and the distant shore was barely visible, though the dark masses of
mountain above were sharply outlined against the clear sky. They skirted
the stupendous cliffs, upon the brink of which, far above, rested the
walls of the villa Jovis. The sea broke with a sullen, dismal plash
against the perpendicular wall of ragged rock, and the boat was still
moving in the shadow of the overhanging cliffs, when Plautus, in his deep
tones, bade the men cease rowing.
They lay on their oars, and the boat, with its freight of motionless
forms, glided silently along like a phantom. Masthlion looked up to
account for the sudden command. The frowning, towering rocks, the
portentous gloom, and the cold inky water sent a shudder through his
frame.
‘Surrentine,’ said the voice of Plautus, ‘you are the potter who came to
show to Caesar a curious kind of glassware?’
Masthlion answered in the affirmative. The question took him by surprise,
so completely had all thoughts of his unlucky invention been displaced by
those of Neæra.
‘Are you alone possessed of the secret of making that same glass?’
‘I alone—why, friend?’ replied Masthlion.
‘Why,’ said the cloaked Plautus in his grating tones, ‘because it has been
decreed that you shall take your secret with you elsewhere.’
‘Elsewhere!’ cried Masthlion, with a sharp foreboding; ‘what mean
you—where am I to take it?’
‘Where it can never be found again—to the bottom of the sea!’
As Plautus uttered the words he threw up his arm. Simultaneously the
potter’s throat was grasped from behind by a hand of iron. As he fell
helplessly back, a poniard was plunged deep into his heart—all in a brief
second of time, ere he could make a sound or motion.
The assassin raised his weapon for another stroke, but it was unneeded—he
had already done his terrible work too well. His victim had died on the
instant, without a murmur; his gentle heart was still for ever.
The voice of Plautus broke on the terrible silence. ‘Habet!’ he said, ‘a
good stroke—Caesar’s justice must be done. Now for the daughter, whom he
is bound to father in this one’s place. We must get on—quick, in with
him!’
A heavily‐weighted cord was produced—there was a sullen plunge, and the
boat again went foaming through the water to complete its mission of
violence.