No tidings of Masthlion having been received for three days, his brother‐
in‐law, Cestus, had given himself up to the gloomiest forebodings. At the
end of the second day he had used all the arts of his persuasion to induce
Neæra and his sister to set off for Rome. At their distinct, unreasoning
refusal he had lost his temper, with the effect of causing his tongue, in
desperation, to speak more violently than he would otherwise have thought
prudent. The discourse had been suddenly brought to a close, by the abrupt
retirement of Neæra from the room, at which the worthy Suburan, in a rage,
slunk out of the house, to go and drown his anxiety and harassments at his
favourite wine‐shop.
A scene of much the same character had occurred on the following evening,
and, in a still more violent fit, he had again quitted the now detested
dwelling of his sister, to seek the solace of copious draughts of liquor.
Whilst he was thus engaged in a temporary return to his old indulgent
habits, we have seen what occurred at home.
An hour subsequent to the events already recorded, he went back, not
without a suspicion of unsteadiness in his gait. Although a faint,
luminous haze had succeeded to the short period of darkness, the moon had
not yet topped the crests of the hills which girdled the town and valley.
His vision being also a little blurred with the fumes of the wine, he did
not perceive that the door, which was always closed at this hour, was wide
open. He raised his fist to deal it a blow as usual, but, meeting no
resistance, he overbalanced himself and fell forward on his hands and
knees. With an oath of astonishment he got up and went forward. At every
step his feet crunched the fragments of glass and pottery. More astonished
than ever, and not without a suspicion of something wrong, he roared out
for a light, whilst he groped his way to the passage leading within. No
answer or sound relieving the silence, he was constrained to go forward in
the dark until he reached the common dwelling‐room. The door of this was
found to be also open, and the gloom impenetrable. He remained on the
threshold, for a moment, dumbfounded; but not a sign of life met his ear.
‘What in the name of all that’s damnable has come to the house?’ he
muttered; ‘is it a joke—thieves, or what? Where are
they—Tibia—Neæra—hillo!’
His voice was no mean one and his roar shook the little house; but he got
no return for his pains. With increasing alarm and soberness he groped his
way into the room, and, at once, caught his shin against a substantial
article of furniture, which was in a most unexpected position. He fell
with a cry of pain and rage, and some moments were absorbed in chafing his
leg. This done he proceeded more cautiously, and, after a long search,
succeeded in laying his hand on flint and steel. He produced a light and
surveyed the room. Every article had been dragged about and ransacked. He
looked on the scene, with mouth agape, in blank amazement. Then he rushed
forward into the shop. The shelves were bared of their contents, and the
floor littered with their fragments. Turning back he ascended to the upper
floor, and there, on her back, tied and gagged, he perceived the form of
Tibia, with her eyes resting upon him in the strange agony of speechless
helplessness.
‘What is it, Tibia—what is it? The girl—where is she?’ he cried, springing
forward.
Drawing his knife he cut her bonds, and raised her into a sitting posture.
Tibia burst into a paroxysm of grief. ‘Oh brother, brother—dead, dead!’
‘Who—the girl—Neæra? Don’t say that, woman!’ he cried furiously.
‘No, no! Masthlion—my husband!’
‘Did I not say he would never return? But the girl—where is she, in the
name of the furies?’
‘Gone—they have taken her away.’
With a cry like the howl of a wild beast, Cestus threw up his arms.
Everything was plain.
His face grew purple; the veins swelled like cords, and his eyes glared
with an insane fire. His tongue found vent in a torrent of mad ravings and
horrid imprecations, accompanied with the wildest gestures, till the
heart‐stricken woman herself forgot her own anguish for the moment, and
shuddered in horror.
When the fit had partially exhausted itself he turned to his sister, and
hoarsely demanded a recital of what had passed. A few words sufficed, and
she threw her apron over her head, and rocked herself to and fro.
The bluster of the tempest was over, and silence succeeded. For a moment
Cestus remained in meditation, with his eyes fixed on the floor. Then
bidding her not to quit the house, he rushed out headlong into the street,
and rapidly ran toward the Marina. Here, with much difficulty, for few
people were astir, he satisfied himself that no party had landed or
embarked, at all answering to those whose track he sought to discover.
Thence he hurried to the posting‐house in the town, where he was just as
unsuccessful. Sustained and spurred on by terrible excitement, he ran out
to the very outskirts of the town, till he reached a tavern, standing on
the side of the road which led from the southern coast. Here he was well
known, the establishment being a favourite port of call in his rambles. He
called the landlord aside, who looked with surprise on his customer’s
disordered aspect. In answer to the Suburan’s inquiries a youth was
summoned, who was employed in all kinds of outdoor jobs about the
premises, which included a small farm as well as the business of a tavern.
The lad, to the intense delight of his questioner, proved to have been
loitering at the entrance of the house about nightfall, and had taken
particular note of the six horsemen who had composed the party led by
Plautus. Giving the lad a coin, Cestus briefly informed the master of the
outrage and went back home.
‘It is as I said it would be!’ he burst out as he entered the room where
Tibia remained. ‘A gang of Caesar’s rascals from the island, and back they
have gone, taking her with them. It is all over with her, and I am ruined.
You would not listen to me, would you not?—they would have been cheated of
their prey if you had. Now you know who was the wisest! Fools! fools!
fools!’
Pale with excitement he threw himself on the floor, and, save for his
heavy breathing, deep silence fell on all—the terrible silence of
desolation and woe.
It was a dismal, weird scene, lighted by the dull, smoky flame of a rude
lamp. The contents of two chests littered the floor with homely linen and
wearing apparel, together with numberless odds and ends stored by a
thrifty housewife. The simple articles of furniture were awry and
overturned. The broad, burly form of the man lying face downwards, half
upon the pile of bedding and half upon the floor; the woman crouching
beside the naked pallet bed, with her head bowed down upon her knees. Two
or three locks of her thin gray hair had escaped from their fastening, and
hung loosely down over her tightly clasped hands. She was most to be
pitied. She had lost her husband and child, and sat, an aging woman,
amidst the wreck of her home, which had hitherto bounded her life and
thoughts.
The ghostly, unutterable stillness long continued, and the only thing
which seemed to have life was the smoky yellow flame of the lamp, as it
waved and flared in the currents of air which came through the open door.
Presently Cestus turned over with a sigh and sat up. He directed his gaze
toward the motionless form of his sister, and his eyes filled with an
unaccustomed compassion.
Long years ago, when, as a youth, he left his father’s cottage, in
consequence of some misdeed, to go and seek his fortune in the great city,
this sister had been the last one to give him tearful farewell words of
hope and encouragement. That scene was still bright in his memory. The
pretty maiden standing in the middle of the sunlit road, where she had
kissed him, waving her hand as he turned the bend which hid her from view.
There she was now—old, faded, wrinkled, toil‐worn, and broken‐hearted. And
he, since that day when her pure kiss and warm tears fell on his beardless
face——
He turned away his head, and resting his chin on his hand and his elbow on
his knee, he remained staring at vacancy. He might have been a stony
embodiment of abstraction, with widely‐distended, lustreless eyes which
stared as if frozen in grim despair. Such an expression Dante might have
figured among the sombre troops of the infernal regions.
Nearly half an hour passed; then Tibia raised her wan face. The sound of a
footstep in the passage below struck on her ears. It moved irresolutely,
and finally, from the foot of the stairs, came a subdued, yet anxious
voice calling upon the name of Neæra. Starting at the tones Tibia gave a
low cry, and turned her eyes anxiously on her brother. But he was buried
in a lethargy, and seemingly oblivious of everything. She, therefore,
bowed her face again, and rocked herself with the same weary motion. The
call was repeated a little louder, but no reply being vouchsafed, a step
came bounding up the stairs and entered the room. The glitter of a
polished cuirass crossed the tranced eyes of Cestus and broke the spell
which bound him. He looked up and beheld Martialis standing before him,
regarding the scene with knitted brows and utter astonishment.
With a yell of delight, impossible to describe, the Suburan leaped to his
feet, and seized the Centurion’s hand in a convulsive grip.
‘Welcome! welcome!’ he cried wildly. ‘Welcome as water in the desert. Here
is a pretty business within the last few hours—it is only yourself can
right it!’
Martialis looked on the crouching form of Tibia.
‘Where is Neæra—what has happened?’ he said hurriedly.
‘A gang of cut‐throats has been here, and has upset the house, and carried
away the girl——’
‘And you sitting here like a stock!’ thundered the young man in a frenzy.
‘Were there no neighbours to rouse to help, if you could not? Thieves that
steal maidens from a house in a peaceful town—whence come such villains
here? Where is her father—following on her track, while you sit here idle
and useless!’
‘Stop, Centurion,’ said Cestus, seizing him by the arm as he was turning
to dash out of the house, ‘you are all wrong together. There is only one
spot in the neighbourhood which can harbour kidnappers and the like. I was
absent at the time, and if I had been here I could not have followed—that
is for you to do.’
‘Name, then!’ cried Martialis, with contempt.
‘Capreae—Caesar!’
The young man stared as if petrified. His outstretched arm fell heavily to
his side, and he dropped his head on his breast with a groan.
‘Did I not foresee it—did I not warn and beseech them to go by my advice?’
cried Cestus, wringing his hands and giving way once more to a burst of
passion. ‘Did I not see and watch two fellows here in the shop some days
ago? They were from the accursed island, and they came to mark down their
game. I knew—I knew! But no one would listen. I begged and beseeched,
almost on my knees, for them to quit the place—to go back with me to Rome,
where they might be safe. But no—none would listen. Not they! And then the
potter must needs take off to the island himself—must needs run his head
into the tiger’s very jaws; all for the sake of showing some newfangled
kind of glass he had found out. As if no patron was to be found other than
a bloody, strangling, ravishing tyrant! The fool would not listen to what
I said, though I went nearly crazy, but went on his mad way with a light
heart, if one could judge by his smiling face. And here’s the end of it.
He will never see his home again—he is murdered—the girl is missing, and I
am robbed, ruined, cheated! Haste, Centurion, for all depends on thee.
Bring her back, by hook or crook, for hark you, man, she is more than you
think—she is of the Patrician order, and no more my sister’s child than
you are——’
‘Are you going mad?’ said Martialis hoarsely.
‘Mad—no!’ shouted Cestus; ‘had they taken a madman’s advice all would have
been well now, and the wench on her way to her people in Rome. She is no
potter’s child, for I hold the proofs. There was money paid, I tell you,
to put the child out of the way; but instead of murder she was brought
here quietly and no one the wiser, save the woman there, who has passed
for her mother—no, not even the villain who was at the bottom of it all.’
Martialis strode over to Tibia and laid his hand on her shoulder.
‘Mother,’ he said, ‘have you heard this?’
‘Yes,’ said the poor woman, looking up with her woe‐stricken face, ‘I
never had a child of my own.’
His eyes softened, and suddenly bending down, he pressed his lips against
her withered forehead. She burst into an agony of tears.
‘Bring her back—bring her back,’ she moaned.
‘It is too strange; but gentle or simple she is still Neæra to me. Oh, the
accursed tyrant—I shall bury my dagger in his foul heart if she be
harmed—even if they rend me in pieces after! But I may yet save her,
though I strike her dead to do it—yes, I may yet be in time!’
He laughed a short dry laugh, and his eyes shone with a terrible light as
he flung his long heavy cloak aside, the less to impede his motions.
‘Tell Caesar she belongs to the best blood in Rome,’ said Cestus. ‘He will
not dare to harm her—I will hasten to the city.’
‘He recks of nothing, idiot—her family, quick!’
‘Fabricius of the Janiculum is her grandsire—she has only him.’
‘Fabricius! He lost a child—is this true?’
‘As you stand there!’
‘And how came you to know all this?’
‘Simply because it was I who stole her as a child and brought her here—she
knows.’
Cestus nodded to Tibia.
‘Dog, if this be true!’ cried Martialis, springing on him and grasping his
throat with a hand of iron.
‘That you shall see,’ choked and sputtered Cestus. ‘It is likewise only I
who can restore her. You are losing time—save her first and the rest will
follow.’
‘Villain, what demon possessed you to do such a heartless deed?’
‘Money!—and now I would bring her back to the living for revenge—glorious
revenge!’
‘On whom?’
‘That is my concern, and mine only. Come, haste, Centurion!’
Without further parley Martialis sprang to the door.
‘Hark’ee,’ said Cestus, again catching his arm, ‘there is one man who must
never know what I have told you until the proper time arrives, or else it
might go hard with the girl. Beware, therefore!’
He whispered in his ear and the Pretorian started with surprise. Then he
dashed down the stairs and out of the house.