THE VEILS OF ISHTAR.
Domitia did not go into the house, as desired, to receive Lamia.
She was well aware that he would come to her into the garden, if she did
not present herself within, and she preferred to speak with him away from
her mother.
She therefore continued to walk under the vines. She looked up at the
sunlight filtering through the broad green flaky shade, with here and
there a ray kissing a purple, pendent bunch of grapes.
Then she looked at the dreaming peacock, the sun flashing on its metallic
plumage.
No! matter was not evil. Matter, indeed, without life was not even like
the statue—for that was a copy of what lived, and failed just in this,
that it fell short of life. Domitia felt as though she were touching the
edge of a great verity, but had not set her foot upon it. Then she
considered what Euphrosyne had said to her, and she to her slave. Wherever
the path of duty lay, there violets bloomed and verbena scented the air.
Was not life itself, devoid of the knowledge of its purport, and its
obligations and its destiny, like matter uninformed by Life? Or if any
life entered into it, it was the disintegrating life of decay and
decomposition?
She, for her part, had no obligations laid on her. If, however, she were
married to Lamia, then at once duties would spring up, and her way would
be rosy. Till then her happiness hung in suspense, like that of her
mother, during the period of widowhood in which she was expected and
required to live in retirement. Out of society, not elbowing and
shouldering her way forward—that was a year of blank and of unhappiness to
Longa Duilia, in which she found no consolation save in badgering her
steward, and in scheming for the future.
Lamia, as Domitia expected he would, came to her under the trellis, and
she received him with that dimple in her cheek which gave her expression
so much sweetness mingled with pathos,
“Lucius,” she said, “you are good to come. My mother is, oh! so dull, and
restless withal.”
“It is well that she should be away from Rome, my Domitia. I have told her
as much. On no account must you leave Gabii. Rome is boiling over, and
will scald many fingers. None know who will be up to-morrow, and which
down. Galba is dead, almost torn to pieces by those who worshipped him
yesterday. Otho is proclaimed by the Senate. Yet there is fresh trouble
brewing and threats sound from the provinces. Methinks every general at
the head of an army is marching upon Rome to snatch the purple for his own
shoulders. Otho has but a poor chance. He can command the prætorians and
the household troops—none others. Soldiers that have disbanded themselves
and gangs of robbers prowl the streets, waylay men of substance and
plunder them, break into houses and strip them of their contents. Murders
are frequent. Thus far your palace in the Carinæ is undisturbed.”
“Oh, Lucius! my mother has so fretted over that house, as it stands back,
and makes no show behind its bank of yews and laurels, and yet those
evergreens, I believe, saved it in the fire. She says that the house is
unworthy of our dignity.”
“You may rejoice that it is so in such times of anarchy. Order in the city
is now at an end, none are safe unless attended by armed slaves; and, by
the Gods! no man is quite safe even from his own slaves.”
“What did my mother say to that?”
“She sighed and said—” there was a twinkle in Lamia’s eye, “that she was
glad the disturbances were taking place now, as at no time could they have
happened so happily, when she was obliged to live in retirement.”
“Lucius, what do you think will be the end?”
“That the gods alone can tell. At present the soldiers are masters in the
State, and the Senate proclaims whomsoever they set up. Rome is dishonored
in the face of the Barbarians.”
“What think you, my Lucius,—shall we ask the Chaldee if he can unveil the
future?”
“Not of the State, Domitia, that were too dangerous. Women have lost their
lives, or been banished on such a charge. No, do not risk it.”
“Nay, Lucius, like my mother, the State concerns me only so far as its
affairs affect my own silly little interests. But I do want to know
something of my future. Elymas is reputed to look into destiny. He hath
glimpses beyond the strain of a philosopher’s eye. I have offended him by
my quips and objections, and would humor him now by asking him to read in
the stars, or where he will, what the gods have in store for me.”
“I believe not in such vision.”
“Nor I greatly, Lucius. Yet I heard say that he had prognosticated evil on
the day my dear father set foot in Cenchræa.”
“It needed no prophet to foretell that.”
“Shall we seek him, Lucius?”
“As you will. I will attend thee. Only, no questions relative to the
prince, as to his life, his reign, his health. No questions concerning the
State—promise me that.”
“It shall be so, Lucius. Come with me to the Temple of Isis. He is there.”
The two young people walked to a small shrine or ædiculum at the extremity
of a terrace above the lake.
In the colonnade in front of the door was the Magus. He was out of humor,
offended at his treatment by Domitia. His sole satisfaction was that
Senecio, the Stoic, was placed below him in her estimation.
Now the girl went up to him, with a pretty, winning smile, and said:
“Sir! I fear me greatly that I gave you occasion to think I held your
theories cheaply. Indeed it is not so, they are too weighty to be
dismissed at once; they take time to digest. There is one thing you may do
for me, that I desire of you heartily, and in which I will not controvert
your authority. It is said that the stars rule the destinies of men, and
that in the far East, on the boundless plains of Mesopotamia, you and your
people have learned to read them. I would fain know what the heavens have
in store for me.”
“Indeed, lady, to consult the stars is a long and painful business, that I
will gladly undertake, but it cannot be done hastily. It will require
time. There are, however, other ways of reading the future than by the
stars. There is Ishtar, whom the Egyptians call Isis, whom thou mayest
consult in this temple.”
“I am ready.”
“That also cannot be undertaken at once. I must even send for my assistant
Helena. It is not I who see, save mediately. The goddess has her chosen
instrument, and such is Helena. Lady! Ishtar is the Truth, she has no
image. She is invisible to us veiled in matter. She hides herself behind
seven veils, or rather our eyes are so wrapped about that we cannot see
her who is visible only in spirit. Thou knowest that in the Temple floor
is a rent, and through that rent the breath of the gods ascends. I will
place Helena over that rent, and she will fall into a trance, and if I say
certain prayers and use certain invocations, then the veils will fall
away, and in pure spiritual essence she will look into the face of Ishtar
and read therein the Truth, past, present, and future. Is it your pleasure
to consult the goddess?”
“Indeed I do desire it,” said Domitia.
“Thou hast no fear?”
“Fear! fear of what?”
“Of the future. It is well for us that the gods hide this from our eyes.”
Domitia turned and looked at Lamia.
“No,” she said with a smile, “I have no fear for my future.”
“That which is anticipated does not always come, but rather that which is
unexpected.”
“Then when forewarned, one is forearmed.”
“If it be thy pleasure, lady, return at sunset. Then Helena shall be here,
and I shall have made my preparations.”
“That is but an hour hence. Be it so. Come, Lamia. Thou shalt row me on
the lake till Elymas call.”
“So be it,” said Lucius; and as they withdrew, he added, “I like that not.
If it pleased the gods to show us what is in store, then they would reveal
it to us. I mistrust me, this man is either an impostor or he deals with
the spirits of evil.”
“Nay, think not so. Why should not the Truth lie behind seven veils, and
if so, and we are able, why not pluck away those veils?”
“In good sooth, Domitia, thou hast more daring in thy little soul than
have I.”
The girl and Lucius Lamia had been so much together in Syria, that they
had come to regard each other with the affection of brother and sister. In
Greek life the females occupied a separate portion of the house to the
males, and did not partake of meals with them. There was no common family
life.
Old Roman domestic arrangements had been very different from this. There
the wife and mother occupied a place of dignity, with her daughters around
her, and sat and span in the atrium, where also the men assembled. She
prepared the meals, and partook of them with her husband, and the sisters
with their brothers. The only difference between them at table was that
the men reclined to eat, whereas the women sat on stools. But this home
life, which had been so wholesome and so happy, in the luxury and wealth
of the age at the fall of the Commonwealth and the rise of Imperialism,
had become an element of demoralization. For the conversation of the men
had grown shameless, the exhibitions at banquets of coarse drunkenness,
and of dancing girls, and the singing of ribald songs by musicians, had
driven away shame from the cheeks of the women, and corrupted the
freshness of the children’s innocence.
Yet there were, through even the worst periods, households in which the
healthy old Roman simplicity and familiarity between the sexes remained,
good fathers and mothers who screened their children’s eyes from evil
sights, devoted husbands and wives full of mutual reverence. Such had been
the house of Corbulo, whether in Rome, or in Syria. He had been a strict
and honorable soldier, and a strict and honorable father in his family.
Thus it was that Lucius Lamia, and Domitia had seen much of each other,
and that affection for each other mingled with respect had grown up
naturally and vigorously in their hearts.
And now Lucius was paddling on the glassy tarn. He used but little action.
Occasionally he dipped the paddles, then allowed the skiff to glide
forward till she ceased to be moving, when again he propelled her with one
stroke. He was musing; so also was Domitia.
All at once he roused himself.
“Domitia,” said he, “Do you know that there is a rumor about that Nero is
not dead, but has fled to the Parthians, and that he will return?”
“You do not say so!” The girl’s color died away.
“I do not believe it. It cannot be. The sword of your father would not
bite so feebly as to let him live. Yet the tale is circulating. Men are
uneasy—expecting something.
“If he be dead and burnt, he cannot return.”
“No,” said Lucius, “he cannot return from the dead. And yet—there be
strange rumors. Among the Christians, I am told, there has risen up a
seer, who hath been taken with an ecstasy, and hath beheld wonderful
visions. And this is reported, that he saw a beast arising out of the sea,
having seven heads, and on each head a golden crown. And one of those
heads, the fifth, received a death-wound. Then arose two other heads, and
after them the wounded head arose once again and breathed fire and
slaughter, and the second state was worse than the first.”
“But, Lucius, what can this signify?”
“They say it signifies the Empire of Rome, and that the heads are the
princes, and the fifth head, that is wounded as unto death, but not slain,
is Nero, and that after two have arisen, then he will return.”
Domitia shuddered.
“If he return, Lamia, he will not forget thee. Well, we will ourselves
look behind the veils; that is better than hearing through others what
some unknown prophet hath said. See, on the shore stands Elymas, calling
us.”