THE FACE OF THE DEAD.
The Imperial galley!
Domitia leaped to her feet. Everything was forgotten in the one thought
that before her, on the sea, floated the man who had caused the death of
her father.
“Lucius I must see——”
He drew her forward, but at the same time checked her speech.
“Every word dropped is fraught with danger,” he said. “What know you but
that yon physician be a spy?”
“He is not that,” she answered, “show him to me—him——”
They walked together to the bows.
With the declining of the sun, the light wind had died away, and, although
the sea heaved after the recent storm, like the bosom of a sleeping girl,
in the stillness of the air, the sail drooped and the ship made no way.
Accordingly the sail was furled, and, by the advice of the mate, the
rowers, who had rested during the day, were summoned to their benches and
bidden work the oars during the night.
The sky was clear, and the stars were beginning to twinkle. No part of the
voyage in calm weather would be less dangerous than this, which might be
performed at night, across open sea, unbroken by rocks and sand-banks.
So long as the vessel had to thread her way between the headland of Araxus
and the Echinades, and then betwixt the isles of Cephalonia and Zacynthus,
an experienced navigator was necessary, and caution had to be exercised
both in the management of the sail and in the manipulation of the helm.
But now all was plain, and the mate had retired below to rest. During the
time he reposed Lamia took charge of the vessel, assisted by the second
mate.
“You take your meridian by Polaris, Castor and Pollux, steer due west; if
there be a slight deviation from the right course, that is a trifle. I
will set it right when my watch comes.”
Such was the mate’s injunction as he retired below.
“The steersman is done up,” said Lamia; “he shall rest now, and no better
man can be found to replace him than Eboracus, who has been accustomed to
the stormy seas of Britain, and whose nerves are of iron.”
Indeed, the _gubernator_ or helmsman had hard work for his arms. The two
enormous paddles had short cross-pieces let into them, like the handles of
a scythe, and the clumsy and heavy mechanism for giving direction to the
head of the vessel was worked by leverage in this manner.
The sailors managed everything on deck, the cordage, the anchors, the sail
and the boats. In rough weather they undergirded the ship; that is to say,
passed horizontal cords round her to brace the spars together so as to
facilitate resistance to the strain when laboring against the waves. The
sailors were under the direction of the captain or trierarch, so called
whether he commanded a trireme or a Liburnian of two benches.
On deck the steersman occupied a sort of sentry-box in the stern, and
beside him sat the mate, the second mate, and often also the captain,
forming a sort of council for the direction of the vessel.
It was a favorite figure in the early Church to represent the Bishop as
the helmsman of the sacred vessel, and the presbyters who sat about him as
the mates occupying the stern bench. As already said, in a Roman vessel,
there was a lack of that unity in direction under the captain to which we
are accustomed. A military officer was always supreme everywhere on sea as
on land.
When the sailors were engaged in sailing, then the rowers rested or
caroused, and when they in turn bowed over the oars, the sailors had
leisure.
The sun went down in the west, lighting up the sky above where he set with
a rainbow or halo of copper light fading into green.
The night fell rapidly, and the stars looked out above and around, and
formed broken reflections in the sea.
In winter the foam that broke and was swept to right and left had none of
the flash and luminosity it displayed in summer, when the water was warm.
Already in the wake the Greek isles and mountain ridges had faded into
night.
The oars dipped evenly, and the vessel sped forward at a speed equal to
that of a modern Channel steamer.
At a signal from Lamia the mourners on the quarter-deck ceased to intone
their wail.
He and Domitia stood in the bows and looked directly before them. They
could see a large vessel ahead, of three banks of oars, but she floated
immovable on the gently heaving, glassy sea. The oars were all shipped and
she was making no way.
The deck sparkled with lights. Torches threw up red flames, lamps gave out
a fainter yellow gleam. To the cordage lights had been suspended, and
braziers burning on the quarter-deck, fed with aromatic woods, turned the
water around to molten fire, and sent wafts of fragrance over the sea.
The twang of a lyre and the chirp of a feeble voice were faintly audible;
and then, after a lull, ensued a musical shout of applause in rhythmic
note.
“It is the Augustus singing,” said Lamia in a tone of smothered rage and
mortification. “And he has his band of adulators about him.”
“But why do not the rowers urge on the vessel?” asked Domitia.
“Because the piper giving the stroke would be committing high treason in
drowning the song of the princely performer. By the Gods! the grinding of
the oars in the rowlocks and the plash in the water would drown even his
most supreme trills.”
“Hast thou seen him on the stage, Lamia?”
“The Gods forbid,” answered the young man passionately, “this fancy to be
the first of singers and mimes had not come on him before I left Rome for
Syria. To think of it, that he—the head of the magistracy, of the army, of
the senate, of the priesthood, should figure as Apollo, half naked, in a
gold-powdered wig, and with painted cheeks before sniggering Greeks! The
Gods deliver me from such a sight!”
“But you will behold it now. As we speed along we shall overtake this
floating dramatic booth.”
“I will give her a wide berth, and stop my ears with wax, though, by the
Gods! this is no siren song.”
Domitia leaned over the side of the vessel.
“Are they sharp, Lucius?”
“Are what sharp, Domitia?”
“The beaks.”
“Sharp as lancets.”
“And strong?”
“Strong as rams.”
“Then, Lucius, we will not give her wide berth. You loved my father. You
regard me. You will do what I desire, for his sake and for mine.”
“What would you have of me?”
“Ram her!”
Lucius Lamia started, and looked at the girl.
She laid her hand on his arm, and gripped it as with an iron vice.
“Run her down, Lucius! Sink the accursed murderer and mountebank in the
depths of the Ionian sea.”
Lamia gasped for breath.
She looked up into his face.
“Can it be done?”
“By Hercules! we could rip up her side.”
“Then do so.”
He stood undecided.
“Hearken to me. None will suspect our intention as we swiftly shoot up—no,
none in this vessel, only Eboracus must be in it. Suddenly we will round
and ram and welt her; and send the new Orion with his fiddle to the
fishes. By the Furies! We shall hear him scream. We shall see him beat the
waves. Lucius, let me have a marline-spike to dash at him as he swims and
split his skull and let out his brains for the fishes to banquet on them.”
“We risk all our lives.”
“What care I? My father, your friend, will be avenged.”
Still Lamia stood in unresolve.
“Lucius! I will twine my white arms about your neck, and will kiss you
with my red lips, the moment his last scream has rung in my ears.”
“In the name of Vengeance—then,” said Lamia.
“Eboracus I can count on,” said Domitia.
“There is the under-mate. If any one on board suspect our purpose, we are
undone.”
“None need suspect,” said the girl. “Say that the prince is holding
festival on board the trireme, and that it behoves us to salute. None will
think other than that we are befooling ourselves like the rest. At the
right moment, before any has a thought of thy purpose, call for the
double-stroke, and trust Eboracus—he will put the helm about, and in a
moment we run her down.”
Lamia walked to the quarter-deck, bade the mourning women go below. He
extinguished the funeral torches, and threw the ashes from the tripod into
the sea. Then the Artemis was no longer distinguishable by any light she
bore.
Next Lamia walked aft, and in a restrained voice said:
“The vessel of Cæsar is before us. We dare not pass without leave asked
and granted.”
“All right, sir,” said the second mate. “Any orders below?”
“Keep on at present speed. When I call Slack, then let them slacken. When
I call Double, then at once with full force double.”
“Right, sir. I will carry down instructions.”
The mate went to the ladder and descended into the hold.
There were now left on deck only Lamia, Domitia, the steersman, Eboracus,
one sailor and the physician, who was leaning over the bulwarks looking
north at the glittering constellation of Cassiopea’s Chair.
He was near the quarter-deck, in the fore part of the vessel, and had been
unobserved in the darkness by Lamia and Domitia, till they returned aft.
Then the young man started as he observed him.
Was it possible that the man had overheard the words spoken? There was
nothing in the attitude or manner of the physician to show that he
entertained alarm. Lamia resolved on keeping an eye upon him that he did
not communicate with the crew.
Luke returned aft when the young people came in that direction, and seated
himself quietly on a bench.
Eboracus was rapidly communicated with and gained.
The Artemis flew forward, noiselessly, save for the plunge of the oars and
the hiss of the foam, as it rushed by like milk, and from the hold sounded
the muffled note of the _symphonicius_ or piper.
Every moment the vessel neared the imperial galley, and sounds of revelry
became audible. Nothing showed that any on board were aware of the
approach of a Liburnian.
It was now seen that tables were spread on the deck of the Imperial
vessel, and that the prince and his attendants, and indeed the entire crew
were engaged in revelry.
Between the courses which were served, Nero ascended the quarter-deck, and
sang or else delivered a recitation from a Greek tragedian, or a piece of
his own composition.
If the approach of the bireme was observed, which did not seem to be the
case, it caused no uneasiness. The Emperor’s vessel had been accompanied
by a convoy, but the ships had been dispersed by the storm; and the
bireme, if perceived, was doubtless held to be one of the fleet.
And now Helios, the confidant of Nero, had ascended the quarter-deck to
his master, and began to declaim the speech of the attendant in the
Electra descriptive of the conquests of Orestes—applying the words, by
significant indications to the prince returning a victor from the Grecian
games.
“He, having come to the glorious pageantry of the sports in Greece,
entered the lists to win the Delphic prizes, he, the admired of every eye.
And having started from his goal in wondrous whirls he sped along the
course, and bore away the of all coveted prize of victory. But that I may
tell thee in few words amidst superfluity I have never known such a man of
might and deeds as he—” and he bowed and waved his hands towards Nero.
A roar of applause broke out, interrupted by a cry from Nero who suddenly
beheld a dark ship plunge out of the night and come within the radiance of
the lights on board his vessel.
Meanwhile, on the Artemis, with set face sat Eboracus, guiding the head of
the Liburnian as directed. He could see the twinkling lights, and hear the
sounds of rejoicing.
“Slack speed,” called Lamia.
“Slack your oars,” down into the hold.
There was a pause—all oars held poised for a moment.
“Double!” shouted Lamia.
“Double your oars!” down the ladder.
Instantly the water hissed about the bows, and the oars plunged.
Eboracus by a violent movement threw himself and his entire weight on the
handle of one paddle, so as to turn the bireme about, and ram her midships
into the Imperial trireme, when suddenly, without a word, Luke had drawn a
knife through the thong that restrained the paddle, and instantly the
_pedalion_ leaped out of place, and would have gone overboard, had not the
physician caught and retained it.
Immediately the direction of the Artemis was altered and in place of
running into the trireme, she swerved and swung past the Imperial galley
without touching her.
Nero, white with alarm and rage shrieked from the quarter-deck,
“Who commands?”
Then to those by him, “Pour oil on the flames.”
At once from the braziers, tongues of brilliant light leaped high into the
air.
“The name!” yelled the furious prince.
Then came the reply:—
“Cnæus Domitius Corbulo.”
And by the glare he saw, standing by the mast, distinct against the
darkness of the night behind, the form of a man—and the face was the face
of the murdered general.
Nero staggered back—and would have fallen unless caught by Helios.
“The dead pursue me,” he gasped. “Wife, mother, brother, and now,
Corbulo!”
[Illustration: “THE DEAD PURSUE ME.” _Page 61._]