Next day she rose white and self-restrained, she summoned to her

Euphrosyne, but did not look at her tear-reddened eyes.

“Euphrosyne,” said she, “I bid you go, and take with you Eboracus, I place

you both wholly at the disposal of your sister—and bid her spare no cost,

but give to him who has been, a splendid funeral at my expense. Here is

money. And—” she paused a moment to obtain mastery over herself, as her

emotion threatened to get the upper hand—“and, Euphrosyne, tell Glyceria

that I shall go to see her later. Not for a few days, not till the first

agony of her grief is over; but go I will—for go I must—and I pray the

Gods I may not be a cause of fresh evil. O, Euphrosyne, does she curse

me?”

“Glyceria curses none, dear mistress, least of all you. Do not doubt, she

will welcome you when you do her the honor of a visit.”

“If she were to curse me, I feel as if I should be glad—glad, too, if the

curse fell heavy on my head—but you know—she knows—I meant to do well, to

be kind—to—but go your way—I can speak no more. Tell Glyceria not to curse

me—no—I could not bear that—not a curse from her.”

Euphrosyne saw by her mistress’s manner, by her contradictory words, how

deeply she was moved, how great was her suffering. She stooped, took up

the hem of her garment, and kissed the purple fringe. Then sobbing,

withdrew.

That day tidings came to Domitia to render her pain more acute.

The kindly, sympathetic people in the _insula_ of Castor and Pollux, in

poetic, picturesque fashion had come with baskets of violets and late

roses, and had strewn with the flowers the spot stained with the blood of

Paris.

This was reported to the Emperor, and he sent his guards down the street

to disperse the people, and in doing this, they employed their swords,

wounding several and killing two or three, of whom one was a child.

Three days later, Domitia ordered her litter and attendants that she might

go to the Insula in the Suburra.

She had said nothing of her intentions, or probably Domitian would have

heard of them—she was surrounded by spies who reported in his ear whatever

she did—and he would have forbidden the visit.

Only when the Forum had been crossed, did she instruct the bearers as to

the object of her excursion.

On entering the block of lodgings and ascending the stairs Domitia was

received with respect but with some restraint. The people did not press

about her with enthusiasm as before; they knew that it was through her

that evil had overtaken them, and they dreaded her visit as inauspicious.

Yet there was no look of resentment in any face, only timorous glances,

and reverential bows, and salutations with the hand to the lips. The poor

folk knew full well that it was through no ill-will on her part that Paris

and his pupil, and some of their own party had fallen.

It was already bruited about that Julia daughter of Titus was honored in

the palace, and advanced above Domitia, the Empress. Some said that

Domitian would repudiate his wife, that he might marry his niece, and that

he waited only till the months of mourning for her husband were passed, so

as not to produce a scandal. Others said that he would not repudiate

Domitia, but treat her as Nero had treated Octavia, trump up false charges

against her and then put her to death.

Already Domitia was regarded as unlucky, and on the matter of luck

attaching to or deserting certain persons, the Roman populace were vastly

superstitious.

And now, although these poor creatures loved the beautiful woman of

imperial rank who deigned to come among them, and care for one of their

most broken and bruised members, yet they feared for themselves, lest her

presence should again draw disaster upon them.

Domitia was conscious rather than observant of this as she passed along

the gallery to the apartment of Glyceria.

At the door to the poor woman’s lodgings she knocked, and in response to a

call, opened and entered. She waved her attendants to remain without and

suffer none to enter.

Then she approached the bed of the sick woman, hastily, and threw herself

on her knees beside it.

“Glyceria,” she said, “can you forgive me?”

The crippled woman took the hands of Domitia and covered them with kisses,

whilst her tears flowed over them.

This was more than the Empress could bear. She disengaged her hands, threw

her arms about the widow, and burst into convulsive weeping.

“Nay, nay!” said Glyceria, “do not give way. It was not thy doing.”

“But you fear me,” sobbed Domitia, “they do so—they without. Not one

touched, not one kissed me. They think me of evil omen.”

“There is nothing unlucky. Everything falls out as God wills; and whatever

comes, if we bow under His hand, He will give sweetness and grace.”

“You say this! You who have lost everything!”

“Oh, no! lady,” then the cripple touched the cornelian fish. “This

remains.”

“It is a charm that has brought no luck.”

“It is no charm. It is a symbol—and to you dark. To me full of light and

joy in believing.”

“I cannot understand.”

“No—that I know full well. But to one who does, there is comfort in every

sorrow, a rainbow in every cloud, roses to every thorn.”

“Glyceria,” said Domitia, and she reared herself upon her knees, and took

hold of both the poor woman’s hands; so that the two, with tear-stained

cheeks, looked each other full in the face. “My Glyceria! wilt thou grant

me one favor?”

“I will give thee, lady, anything that thou canst ask. I should be

ungrateful to deny thee ought.”

“It is a great matter, a sharp wrench I ask of thee,” said the daughter of

Corbulo.

“I will do all that I can,” replied the widow.

“Then come with me to the palace. Here you have none to care for you, none

to earn a livelihood for you,—I want you there.”

Glyceria hesitated.

“Do you fear?”

“I fear nothing for myself.”

“Nor I,” said Domitia. “Oh, Glyceria, I am the most miserable woman on

earth. I thought I could not be more unhappy than I was—then come—I will

not speak of it,—thy loss—caused unwillingly by me, because I came

here—and that has broken my heart. I have done the cruellest hurt to the

one I loved best. I am most miserable—most miserable.” She covered her

face, sank on the bed and wept.

The widow of the player endeavored to soothe her with soft words and

caresses.

Then again Domitia spoke. “I have no one, I have nothing to look to, I am

as one dead, and the only life in me is hate, that bites and writhes as a

serpent.”

“And that thou must lay hold of and strangle as did Hercules.”

“I cannot, and I will not.”

“That will bring thee only greater suffering.”

“I cannot suffer more.”

“It is against the will of God.”

“But how know we His will?”

“It has been revealed.”

Again Domitia threw her arms about the sick woman, she pressed her wet

cheek to her tear-moistened face, and said:—

“Come with me, and tell me all thou knowest—and about the Fish. Come with

me, and give me a little happiness, that I may think of thee, comfort

thee, read to thee, talk with thee—I care for no other woman. And

Euphrosyne, thy sister, she is with me, and I will keep thee as the apple

of mine eye.”

“Oh, lady! this is too great!”

“What? anon thou wouldst deny me naught, and now refusest me this.”

“In God’s name so be it,” said Glyceria. “But when?”

“Now. I will have no delay, see—” she went to the door and spoke with her

slaves. “They shall bear thee in my litter, at once. Euphrosyne shall

tarry here and collect thy little trifles, and the good Eboracus, he shall

bear them to thy new home. O Glyceria! For once I see a sunbeam.”

Never could the dwellers in the Insula have dreamt of beholding that which

this day they saw. The actor’s crippled widow lifted by imperial slaves

and placed in the litter of the Empress, the Augusta, to whom divine

honors had been accorded. And, further, they saw the cripple borne away,

down the lane of the Suburra in which was their block of lodgings, and the

Empress walked by the side, holding the hand of the patient who lay

within.

They did not shout, they uttered no sound indicative of approval, no

applause. They held their breaths, they laid their hands on their mouths,

they looked each other in the eyes—and wondered what this marvel might

portend. A waft of a new life had entered into the evil world, whence it

came, they knew not, what it would effect, that also they could not

conceive—whom it would touch, how transform, all was hid from their eyes.

CHAPTER X.

THE ACCURSED FIELD.

No notice was taken by Domitian of the presence in the palace of the

murdered actor’s widow. It concerned him in no way, and he allowed the

unfortunate woman to remain there, under the care of his wife, and without

making any protest.

Domitia found an interest and a delight in the society of the paralyzed

woman, so simple in mind, gentle in thought, always cheerful, ever serene,

who lived in an atmosphere of love and harbored no resentments.

She marvelled at what she saw, but it was to her an unattainable

condition. Her own affections were seared, and a gnawing hate against the

man who had blighted her life, and to whom she was tied, ever consumed

her.

She was like a dead plant in the midst of spring vegetation. It looks down

on the beautiful life about its feet, but itself puts forth no buds, shows

no signs of mounting sap.

Every now and then Glyceria approached the topic of the Fish, and the

mysteries involved in the symbol, but would not disclose them, for she saw

that Domitia, however miserable she felt, however hopeless, was not in a

frame of mind to receive and welcome the interpretation. For in her, the

one dominating passion was hate—a desire to have her wrongs revenged, and

a chafing at her powerlessness to do anything to revenge them.

Her treatment by Domitian was capricious. At one time he neglected her;

then he went sometimes out of his way to offer her a slight; at others he

made real efforts to heal the breach between them, and to show her that he

loved her still.

But he met with not merely a frosty but a contemptuous reception, that

sent him away, his vanity hurt, and his blood in a ferment.

In her indifference to life, she was able to brave him without fear, and

he knew that if he ordered her to execution she would hail death as a

welcome means of escape from association with himself.

His blundering and brutal tyranny was no match for her keen wit cutting

into him, and maddening him. He revenged himself by a coarse insult or by

a side blow at her friends. She was without ambition. Many a woman would

have endured his treatment without repining, for the sake of the splendor

with which she could surround herself, and the towering position which she

occupied. But neither had any attraction for Domitia. The one thing she

did desire, to be left alone in retirement, in the country, that he could

not, he would not accord her.

Usually, when he was in his splendid villa at Albanum, she elected to

remain in Rome, and when he came to the palace on the Palatine, if

permitted, she escaped to Albanum; but he would not always suffer this.

Thus a wretched life was dragged on, and the heart of Domitia became

harder every day. It would have become as adamant but for the presence of

Glyceria, whom the Empress sincerely loved, and who exercised a subtle,

softening and purifying influence on the princess.

Glyceria saw how the Empress suffered, and she pitied her, saw how

hopeless the conditions were for improvement; she saw also what was hidden

to other eyes, that circumstances were closing round and drawing towards a

crisis.

Beyond a certain point Glyceria could effect nothing, once only did she

dare to suggest that the Augusta should assume a gentler demeanor towards

the sovereign of the world, but she was at once cut back with the words:—

“There, Glyceria, I allow no interference. He has wronged me past

endurance. I can never forgive. I have but one hope, I make but one

prayer—and that for revenge.”

When Domitian was at Albanum, the Empress enjoyed greater freedom. She was

not compelled when she went out, to journey in state; and she could make

excursions into the country as she pleased. The absence of gardens on the

Palatine and the throng of servants and officers made it an almost

intolerable residence to her, beautiful as the situation was, and splendid

as were the edifices on it. Nor was this all. Domitian had not rested

content with the palaces already erected and crowding the summit of the

rock,—those of Augustus, of Tiberius, and of Caligula, he must build one

himself, and to find material, he tore down the golden house of Nero.

But the construction of his palace served still further to reduce the

privacy of the Palatine, for it was thronged with masons, carpenters and

plasterers. Indeed the Palatine hill-top was almost as crowded and as

noisy as was the Forum below.

From this, then, Domitia was glad to escape to a little villa on the Via

Nomentana, on a height above the Anio, commanding a view of the Sacred

Mount.

On one occasion, when Domitian was away at Albanum, she had been at this

modest retreat, where she was surrounded by a few servants, and to which

she had conveyed Glyceria, to enjoy the pure air and rest of the country.

But she was obliged to return to Rome; and with a small retinue, and

without heralds preceding her, she started, and in the morning arrived at

the Porta Collina. Then Eboracus, coming to the side of the litter, said:—

“Lady, there is a great crowd, and the street is full to choking. What is

your good pleasure? shall we announce who you are, and command a passage?”

“Nay,” answered the princess, “my good Eboracus, let us draw aside, and

the swarm will pass, then we can go our way unconcerned. I am in no

precipitate haste, and, in faith, every minute I am outside Rome, the

better satisfied am I.”

“But, madam, it is an ill spot, we are opposite the Accursed Field.”

“That matters not. It is but for a brief while. Go forward, Eboracus, and

inquire what this crowd signifies. Methinks the people are marvellously

still. I hear no shout, not even a murmur.”

“There be priests leading the way.”

“It is some religious rite. Run forward, Eboracus, and make inquiries.

That boy bears an inverted torch.”

The sight was extraordinary. A procession of priests was advancing in

silence, and an enormous crowd followed through the gate, pouring forth

like water from a sluice, yet without a word spoken. The only sound was

that of the tramp of feet.

The place where Domitia had halted was just outside the Collina gateway,

where was the wall of Servius Tullius and in its moat, thirty feet deep,

but dry, out of which rose the wall of massive blocks to another thirty

above the level of the ground.

This ditch was a pestilential refuse place into which the carcasses of

beasts, foul rags, sometimes even the bodies of men, and all the

unmentionable filth of a great city were cast. So foul was the spot, so

unwholesome the exhalations that no habitations were near it, and the wide

open space before the wall went by the designation of the Accursed Field.

And now, through the gateway came a covered hearse, and at each corner

walked a youth in mourning garb, one bearing a lamp and oil, another milk

in a brass vessel, a third water, and a fourth bread. Now, and now only,

with a shudder of horror, did Domitia suspect what was about to take

place. She saw how that as the crowd deployed, it thickened about one

portion of the bank of the ditch, and she saw also the battlements above

crowded with the faces of men and women leaning over to look down into the

dyke. And there, at one spot in the fosse stood three men. Instinctively

Domitia knew who they were—the executioner and his assistants.

But who was to be put to death—and on what charge, and by what means?

Now the hearse was slowly brought to the edge of the moat and the curtains

were raised.

Then Domitia saw how that within, prostrate, lay a woman, bound hand and

foot to the posts by leather straps, with her face covered, and her mouth

muffled that her cries might not be heard.

She saw the attendants of the priests untie the thongs and the unfortunate

woman was raised to a sitting posture, yet still her face was veiled, and

her hands were held by servants of the pontiff. Now one by one the

attendants descended into the moat bearing the lamp and the bread and

milk, and each handed what he had borne in the procession to the

executioner, who gave each article as received to one of his deputies; and

the man immediately disappeared with it.

Domitia’s heart beat furiously, she put forth her head to look, and

discovered a hole at the base of the wall, and through this hole she

discerned the twinkling light of the lamp as it passed within, then it was

lost. The bread followed, the milk and the water, all conveyed into some

underground cellar.

And now the chief pontiff present plucked the veil from the face of the

victim, and with a gasp—she could not cry out, the power was taken from

her—the Empress recognized Cornelia.

She made an effort to escape from her litter, and fly to her friend with

outstretched arms, but Eboracus, who with white face had returned, caught

and restrained her.

“Madam,” he said in a low tone, vibrating with emotion, “I pray you, for

the sake of the Gods—do nothing rash. Stay where you are. No power—not

that of the Sacred Twelve can save her.”

“Ye Gods! But what has she done?”

“She has been accused of breach of her vows, and condemned by the

Augustus, as Chief Priest—” in a lower tone, hardly above a whisper,

“unheard in her defence.”

“I must go to her.”

“You must not. Nothing can save her. Pray for a speedy death.”

With glazed eyes, with a surging in her ears, and throbbing in the

temples—as in some paralyzing nightmare—Domitia looked on.

And now the gag was removed, and with dignity the Great Mother of the

Vestals descended from the bier. She stood, tall and with nobility in her

aspect, and looked round on the crowd, then down into the moat, at the

black hole under the roots of the wall.

“Citizens, by the sacred fire of Vesta, I swear I am innocent of the

charge laid against me, and for which I am sentenced. No witnesses have

been called. I have not been suffered to offer any defence. I knew not,

citizens, until I was told that I was sentenced, that any accusation had

been trumped up against me. Thou, O Eternal God—above all lights in the

firmament, Thou, O Sovereign Justice that holdest true balances—I invoke

Thee—I summon the Chief Pontiff who has sentenced me, before your just

thrones, to answer for what is done unto me this day. I summon him for

midnight three days hence.”

Then the deputy of the Chief Pontiff, who presided at the execution,

Domitian being absent at Albanum (he being Pontifex Maximus), raised his

arms to heaven in silent prayer.

His prayer ended, he extended his hand to Cornelia, but she refusing his

help, unaided descended into the fosse.

The vast concourse was as though turned to stone by a magician’s wand—so

immovable was it and so hushed. Some swallows swept screaming along the

moat, and their shrill cries sent a shudder through the entire concourse,

wrought to such a tension, that even the note of the birds was an

intolerable addition.

The Vestal reached the mouth of the pit—the ends of a ladder could be seen

at the threshold of this opening. It was evident that the opening gave

access to a vault of some depth.

Beside it were stones from the wall piled up, and mortar. As soon as the

Abbess reached the opening, she turned, and again declared her innocence.

“The Emperor,” said she in clear, firm tones, “has adjudged me guilty,

knowing that my prayers have obtained for him victory, triumph and an

immortal name. I repeat my summons. I bid him answer before the throne on

high, at midnight, three days hence.”

Then she looked steadily at the blue sky—then up at the sun,—to take a

last view of light. With calmness, with fortitude, she turned, and

entering the opening began to disappear, descending the ladder.

In so doing her veil caught in one of the ends of the side poles of the

ladder. She must have reascended a step or two, for her hand was visible

disengaging the white veil, and then—hand and veil disappeared.

Immediately stones were caught up, trowels and mortar seized, and with

incredible celerity the opening was walled up. The pontiff applied his

leaden seal.

“Be speedy! Remove her! Run—” shouted Eboracus, for his mistress had

fallen back in the litter in a dead faint,—“At once—to the Palace!”

CHAPTER XI.

AGAIN: THE SWORD OF CORBULO.

Eboracus was able to open a way for the litter through the crowd, now

clustered on the bank of the dyke, watching as the workmen threw down

earth and stones, and buried deep that portion of the wall in which was

the vault where the unhappy Abbess Cornelia was buried alive. And now the

populace broke forth in sighs and tears, and in murmurings low expressed

at the injustice committed in sentencing a woman without allowing her to

know that she had been accused, and of saying a word in her own defence.

Some of the crowd was drifting back into Rome, and by entering this

current, the train of Domitia travelled along.

Eboracus returned from the head of the litter repeatedly to the side, to

look within and ascertain whether his mistress were recovering. At the

first fountain he stopped the convoy and obtained for her water to bathe

her face, and at a little tavern, he procured strong Campanian wine, which

he entreated her to sip, so as to nerve her.

As the litter approached the Forum, the crowd again coagulated and at last

remained completely stationary. Again the street was blocked.

Eboracus went forward and forced his way through, that he might ascertain

the cause, and whether the block was temporary and would speedily cease.

He came back in great agitation, and said hastily to his mistress:—

“Lady, you cannot proceed. Suffer me to recommend that you go to the

Carinæ and tarry there—with your lady mother for a while, till your

strength is restored, and till the streets be more open.”

“Eboracus—what is going on? tell me.”

“Madam, there is something being transacted in the _comitium_ that causes

all the approaches to be packed with people. We might make a circuit—but,

lady! I think if you would deign to repose for an hour at your mother’s

house, after what you have suffered, it would be advisable.”

“Tell me what is taking place in the _comitium_.”

“I should prefer, lady, not to be asked.”

“But I have asked.”

“Then, dear mistress, do not require of me to make answer.”

“Answer truly. Tell me no lie. What is it?”

He hesitated. Then Domitia said:—

“Look at my hand, it is firm, it does not tremble. Nothing that I hear can

be worse than what I have seen.”

“Lady—your strength has already failed.”

“And now I have gathered my resolution together, and can bear anything. I

adjure you, by your duty to me—answer me, what is taking place in the

_comitium_, what is it that causes the streets leading thereto to be

impassable.”

“If I must reply——”

“If you do not, I will have you scourged.”

“Nay, lady, that is not like thee. It is not fear that will make me speak,

but because I know that if I do not, the information can be got from

another.”

“Well—what is it?”

“The knight Celer, on the same charge as that which lost the Great Mother

Cornelia, is being whipped to death with the scorpion.”(15)

“By the same orders? To my mother’s in the Carinæ.”

Hastily Domitia drew the curtains of her litter, and was seen no more,

spoke no more till she reached the door of Longa Duilia.

Here she descended and entered the house.

“My dear Domitia! my august daughter! What a pleasure! What an honor!”

The lady Duilia started up to embrace the Empress.

Domitia received the kiss coldly, and sank silent on a stool.

Her mother looked at her with surprise. Domitia was waxen white, her eyes

with dark rings about them, and unnaturally large and bright. The color

had left her lips and these were leaden in hue.

Domitia did not speak, did not move. She remained for some moments like a

statue.

“As the Gods love me!” exclaimed her mother after a long pause, “you are

not going to be ill, surely—nothing dangerous, nothing likely to end

unhappily. Ye Gods! and I have so much I want you to do for me. Tell me, I

entreat you. Hide nothing from me. You are suffering. Where is it? What is

it? Shall I send for a doctor?”

“Mother, no doctor can cure me. It is here,” Domitia pressed her hands to

her heart—“and here,” to her temples. “I am the most miserable, the most

unfortunate of women.”

“Ye Gods! He has divorced you?”

“No, mother. I would that he had.”

“Then what is the matter? Have you eaten what disagrees with you? As the

Gods love me! you should not come out such a figure. Who was your

face-dresser to-day? she ought to be crucified! Not a particle of

paint—white as ivory. Intolerable—and it has given me such a turn.”

Domitia made no reply.

“But what is it? What has made you look like Parian marble?”

“The Great Mother Cornelia—” Domitia could say no more, a lump rose in her

throat and choked her. Then all at once she began to shiver as though

frost-stricken and her teeth chattered.

“I have an essence—you must take that,” said the lady Duilia. “My dear, I

know all about that. An estimable lady. I mean she was so till the

Augustus decreed otherwise. I am sorry, and all that—but you know—well,

these things do happen and must, and I dare be bound that some are glad,

as it makes an opening for another needy girl, of good family of course.

What is one person’s loss is another’s gain. The world is so and we can’t

alter it, and a good thing, I say, that it is so.”

“Mother—she was innocent.”

“Well, well, we know all about that. Of course it was all nonsense what

was charged against her, that we quite understand. It would never have

done for the real truth to have been advertised.”

“And what was the truth?”

“My dear Domitia! How can you ask such a silly, infantile question? It was

your doing, you must understand that. You threw yourself on her

protection, embraced the altar of Vesta, and Cornelia with the assistance

of Celer did what she could to further your object in leaving Rome. If

people will do donkey-like things they must get a stick across their

backs. It is so, and always will be so in this world, and we cannot make

it otherwise.”

“I thought so. I was sure it was so,” said Domitia gravely. There was an

infinity of sadness, of despair in her tone. “Mother, I bring misfortune

upon all with whom I have to do.”

“Ye Gods! not on me! I hope to be preserved from that! Do not speak such

unlucky words—they are of bad omen.”

“I cannot help it, mother, it is true. I am the most unfortunate of women

myself——”

“You speak rank folly. Ye Gods forgive me! saying such a thing to one who

is herself divine. But, it is so—you are positively the most fortunate of

women. What more do you desire? You are the Augusta, the people swear by

your genius and fortune.”

“By _my_ fortune! Alack poor souls!”

“And is it not a piece of good fortune to be raised so high that there is

none above you?”

“My fortune! The Gods know—if they know anything—that I would gladly

exchange my lot with that of a poor woman in a cottage who spins and

sings, or of a girl among the mountains who keeps goats and is defended by

a boisterous dog. Mother, listen to me. I have brought misfortune on

Lucius Lamia, I have caused the death of that harmless actor Paris, I have

been the occasion of Cornelia being—buried alive—watching the expiring of

the one lamp. Ye Gods! Ye Gods! I shall go mad—and of Celer also.—He——”

She held her face, rocked herself on the seat and sobbed as if her heart

would break.

“Yes,” said the old lady, roused to anger at her daughter’s lack of

appreciation of the splendor of her position. “Yes, child, and mischief

you will work on every one, if you continue in the same course. Do men say

that the Augustus is morose? Who made him so?—you by your behavior. Do

they say that he is severe in his judgments? Who has hardened him and made

him cruel?—You—who have dried up all the springs of tenderness in his

breast. He was not so at first. If he be what men think—it is your work.

You with your stinging words goaded him to madness and as he cannot or

will not beat you, as you deserve, he deals the blows on some one else. Of

course he cuts away such as you regard and love—because they obtain that

to which he has a right, but which you deny him.”

“He—he—a right!”

Domitia started up, anger, resentment, hatred flared in her eyes,

stiffened the muscles of her whole face, made her hair bristle above her

brow.

“He a right, mother! he who tore me away from my dear Lamia, to whom I had

given my whole heart, to whom I had been united by your sanction and our

union blessed by the Gods! He who violated hospitality, the most sacred

rights that belong to a house, who repaid your kindness in saving his

life—when he was hunted like a wolf, by breaking and destroying, by

trampling under his accursed heel, the brittle, innocent heart of the

daughter of her who had protected him! No, mother, I owed him no love. I

have never given him any, because he never had a right to any. Mother—this

must have an end.”

She sank into silence that continued for some while.

Duilia did not speak. She did not desire another such explosion, lest the

slaves should hear and betray what had been said. Presently, however, she

whispered coaxingly:—

“My dear Domitia, you are overwrought. You have eaten something that has

affected your temper. I find gherkins always disagree with me. There, go

and take a little ginger in white wine, and sleep it off.”

Domitia rose, stiffly, as though all her joints were wooden.

“Yes, mother, I will go. But there is one thing I desire of thee. I have

long coveted it, as a remembrancer of my father—may I take it?”

“Anything—anything you like.”

Domitia went to the wall and took down the sword of Corbulo, there

suspended.

“It is this, mother. I need it.”

Then she departed.

“That sword—ah!” said Duilia. “It has been a little overdone. I have

caught my guests exchanging winks when I alluded to it, and dropped a

tear. O by all means she shall have it. It has ceased to be of use to me.”

CHAPTER XII.

THE TABLETS.

Elymas the sorcerer stood bowing before Domitia, his hands crossed upon

his breast.

She looked scrutinizingly into his dark face, but could read nothing

there. He remained immovable and silent before her, awaiting the

announcement of her will.

“I have sent for thee,” she said. “How long, I would know, before the

sixth veil falls?”

“Lady and Augusta,” answered the Magian, “remember that when thou lookest

out upon the Sabine Mountains, on one day all is so distinct that thou

wouldst suppose a walk of an hour would bring thee to them. On the morrow,

the range is so faint and so remote, that thou wouldst consider it must

require days of travel to attain their roots. It is so with the Future. We

look into its distance and behold forms—but whether near or far we know

not. This only do we say with confidence, that we are aware of their

succession, but not of their nearness or remoteness.”

“What! and the stars, will they not help thee?”

“There is at this time an ominous conjuncture of planets.”

“I pray thee, spare me the details, and tell me that which they portend.”

“Is it thine own future, Augusta, thou desirest to look into?”

“Elymas, my story has been unfolded—to what an extent it has been managed

by such as thyself, that I cannot judge. But of a certainty it was thou

who didst contrive that I was carried away from my husband’s house. Then

what followed, the Gods know how far thou wast in it, but I have heard it

said that the God Titus would not have had his mortal thread cut short but

that, when in fever, thou didst persuade him to a bath in snow water. It

is very easy to predict what will be, when with our hands we mould the

future. And now—I care not whether thou makest or predictest what is to

be—but an end there must be, and that a speedy one—for thine own safety

hangs thereon.”

“How so, lady?”

“The Augustus has been greatly alarmed of late at sinister omens and

prophesies; and he attributes them to thee. Perhaps,” with a scornful

intonation, “he also is aware that fulfilment is assured before a prophesy

is given out.”

The Magus remained motionless, but his face became pale.

“I know, because at supper with his intimates, Messala and Regulus and

Carus, he swore by the Gods he would have you cast to savage dogs, and he

would make an example of such as filled men’s minds with expectation of

evil.”

“Lady——”

But Domitia interrupted him. “Thou thinkest that I say this to alarm thee

and bend thee to my will. If the Augustus has his spies that watch and

repeat to him whatsoever I do, whomsoever I see, almost every word I

say—shall not I also have a watch put upon him? Even now, Magus, that I

have sent for thee, and that thou art closely consulted by me this has

been carried to his ears, and as he knows how I esteem him, he will think

this interview bodes him no good.”

“When, Lady Augusta, was this said?”

“The Emperor is this day returned from Albanum, and the threat was made

but yesterday. Who can say but that the order has already been given for

thy arrest, and for the gathering together of the dogs that are to rend

thee.”

The man became alarmed and moved uneasily.

“Magus,” said Domitia, “I cannot save thee, thine own wits must do that.

Find it written in the stars that thy life is so bound up with that of the

Cæsar, that the death of one is the extinction of the other; or that thou

holdest so potent a charm that if thou wilt thou canst employ it for his

destruction. It is not for me to point out how thou mayest twist out of

his grasp—thou art a very eel for slipperiness, and a serpent for

contrivance. What I desire to know is—How much longer is this tyranny to

last, and how long am I to suffer?”

Then the magician looked round the room, to make sure that he was

unobserved; he raised the curtain at the door to see that none listened

outside, and satisfied that he was neither observed nor overheard, he

pointed to a clepsydra.

This was an ingenious, but to our minds a clumsy, contrivance for

measuring time. It consisted of a silver ball, with a covered opening at

the top, through which the interior could be replenished. About the base

of the globe were minute perforations through which the liquid that was

placed in the vessel slowly oozed, and oozing ran together into a drop at

the bottom which fell at intervals into the bucket of a tiny wheel.

When the bucket was full, the wheel revolved and decanted the liquid

whilst presenting another bucket to the distilling drops.

At each movement of the wheel a connection with it gave motion to the hand

of a statuette of Saturn, who with his scythe indicated a number on an arc

of metal. The numbers ranged from one to twelve, and the contrivance

answered for half the twenty-four hours.

“Lady,” said the Magus, “before Saturn has pointed to the twelfth hour——”

Steps were heard, approaching the room, along the mosaic-laid passage, and

next moment, the curtain was snatched aside, and Domitian, his face

blazing with anger, entered the apartment of his wife.

“So?” said he, “you are in league with astrologers and magicians against

me! But, by the Gods! I can protect myself.”

He clapped his hands, and some of the guard appeared in the doorway.

“Remove him,” said the Emperor. “I have given orders concerning him

already. Hey! Magus! knowest thou what will be thy doom, thou who

pretendest to read the fate of men in the stars?”

“Augustus,” answered the necromancer, “I have read that I should be rent

by wild dogs.”

“Sayest thou so? Then by Jupiter! I will make thy forecast come to naught.

Go, Eulogius!—it is my command that he be at once, mark you, this very

night, burned alive. We will see whether his prophecies come true. Here is

my order.”

Domitian plucked a packet of tablets from his bosom, bound together with a

string, drew forth one, and wrote hastily on it, then pressed his seal on

the wax that covered the slab and handed it to the officer.

Then the guard surrounded the astrologer, and led him away.

Domitian waved his hand.

“Every one out of earshot,” ordered he, and he walked to the window and

looked forth.

It was already night; to the south the sky was quivering with lightning,

summer flashes, without thunder.

“A storm, a storm is coming on,” said the Emperor; “there’ll be storms

everywhere, and lightning falling on all sides—portents they say. So be

it! as the sword of heaven smites, so does mine. But it falls not on me,

but on my enemies. Domitia,” said he, leaving the window, “there has been

a conspiracy entered into against my life, and the fools thought to set up

Clemens—he, that weakling, that coward; but I have sent him to his death,

and those who were associated with him, the sentence is gone forth against

them also.”

“I marvel only that any in Rome are suffered to live.”

“Minerva gives me wisdom—to defend myself.”

“Any wild beast can employ teeth and claws.”

“Domitia,” he came close to her, “I am the most lonely of men. I have no

friends; my kinsmen either have been, or hate me; my friends are the most

despicable of flatterers, who would betray their own parents to save their

own throats; I use them, but I scorn them. You know not what it is to be

alone!”

“I! I have been alone ever since you tore me from Lamia.”

“Lamia!” he ground his teeth; “still Lamia! But by the Gods! not for long.

And you—you my wife whom I have loved, for whom I would have done

anything—you are against me; you take counsel with a Chaldæan how long I

have to live; the Senate, the nobles hate me, and by Jupiter, they have

good cause, for I cut them with a scythe like ripe wheat. That was a good

lesson of Tarquin to his son Sextus to nip off the heads of the tallest

poppies. And the people—you have been currying favor with them—against me;

the soldiers alone love me, because I have doubled their pay; let another

offer to treble it and, to a man, they will desert me. By the Immortals!

it is terrible to be alone—and to be plotted against, even by one’s wife.”

He walked the room, flourishing his tablets, then halted in front of the

clepsydra.

“What said that star-gazer about the twelfth hour?” he asked. “Walls have

ears, nothing is said that does not reach me. So, old Saturn, with thy

scythe, dost thou threaten? Then I defy thee—ha! I saw the storm was

coming up over Rome.”

A long-drawn growl of thunder muttered through the passages of the palace.

“I saw no flash,” said the prince, “yet lightning falls somewhere, maybe

to kindle the pyre on which that sorcerer will burn; I care not. Fire of

heaven fall and strike where and whom thou wilt!”

He went again to the window and looked forth. The air was still and close.

The sky was enveloped in vapor and not a star could be seen. A continuous

quiver of electric light ran along the horizon. Then the heavens seemed to

be rent asunder and a blaze of lightning shot forth, blinding to the eyes.

Domitian turned away, and laid the tablets on the marble sideboard as he

pressed his hands to his eyeballs.

“By the Gods!” he exclaimed a moment later, “here comes the rain; it

descends in cataracts; it falls with a roar.”

He paced the room, halted, stood in front of the clepsydra and looked at

the dropping water. The water had been reddened, and it seemed like blood

sweated out of the silver globe. At that moment the wheel revolved, and

sent a crimson gush into the receiver. With a jerk Saturn raised his

scythe and indicated the hour ten.

The Emperor turned away, and came in front of Domitia.

“None have ever loved me,” he said bitterly, “how then can it be expected

that I shall love any? my father disliked me, my brother distrusted me—and

you—my wife, have ever hated me. I need not ask the cause of that. It is

Lamia, always Lamia. Because he has never married you think he still

harbors love for you; and you—you hate me because of him. It is hard to be

a prince, and to be alone. If I hear a play—I think I catch allusions to

me; if it be a comedy—there is a jest aimed at me; if a tragedy, it

expresses what men wish may befall me. If I read a historian, he declaims

on the glories of a commonwealth before these men, these Cæsars became

tyrants, and as for your philosophers—away with them, they are wind-bags,

but the wind is poisonous, it is malarious to me. When I am at the circus,

because I back green—you, the entire hoop of spectators cheer, bet on the

blue—to show me that they hate me. At the Amphitheatre, if I favor the big

shields, then every one else is for the small targets. A prince is ever

the most solitary of men. If you had protested that you loved me, had

fondled me, I would have held you in suspicion, mistrusted your every word

and look and gesture. Perhaps it is because that you have never given me

good word, gentle look, and gesture of respect that I feel you are

true—cruelly true, and I have loved you as the only true person I know.

Now answer me—you asked after my death?”

“Yes,” answered Domitia.

“I knew it.”

“And,” said she, in cold, hard tones, looking straight into his agitated,

twitching countenance, “I bear to you a message.”

“From whom?”

“From Cornelia, the Great Mother.”

“Well, and what——” he stopped, some one approached the door. “What would

you have?”

The mime Latinus appeared.

“Well—speak.”

“Sire, the rain extinguished the pyre, before that the astrologer was much

burnt; then the dogs fell on him, as he was unbound, and they tore him and

he is dead.”

“Ye Gods!” gasped Domitian, putting up his hand. “His word has come true

after all.”

Domitia signed to the actor to withdraw.

“You have not heard the message of Cornelia.”

He did not speak.

“She has summoned you, the Augustus, the Chief Pontiff, the unjust Judge,

to answer before the All-righteous Supreme Justice, above—before the

scythe points to Twelve.”

Domitian answered not a word, he threw his mantle about his face and left

the room.

He had left his tablets on the table.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE HOUR OF TWELVE.

For some moments Domitia remained without stirring. But then, roused by a

glare of lightning, succeeded by a crash so loud as to shake the palace,

she saw in the white blaze the tablets of the Emperor lying on the table.

At once, aware of the importance of what she had secured, she seized them,

and went to the lamp to open them.

They consisted of thin citron-wood boards, framed and hinged on one side,

the surfaces within covered with a film of wax, on which notes were

inscribed with a _stile_ or iron pen. There were stray leaves that served

for correspondence, orders and so forth, but what Domitia now held was a

diptych, that is to say, two leaves hinged, like a book-cover, which had

included loose sheets and were bound together by strings.

She at once opened the diptych, and saw on the first page:—

“To be executed immediately:—

In the Tullianum, by strangulation,

Lucius Ælius Lamia Plautius Ælianus.

To be torn by dogs:—

The Chaldæan Elymas, otherwise called Ascletarion.”

On the second leaf:

“To be executed on the morrow:—

By decapitation:

Petronius Secundus, Præfect of the Prætorium.

Norbanus, likewise Præfect of the Prætorium.

By strangling, in the Tullianum:

Parthenius and Sigerius, Chamberlains of the Palace.

To be bled to death:

Stephanus: steward to my niece Domitilla.

Entellus: Secretary _a __libellis_.”

The words applying to Lamia acted on her as a blow against her heart. She

staggered to a stool, sank on it and struggled for breath.

But the urgency of the danger allowed no delay—she rallied her strength

immediately, flew from the room and summoned Eboracus.

To him, breathless, she said: “Fly—summon me at once Stephanus the

steward, Petronius and Norbanus, præfects, and the chamberlains Parthenius

and Sigerius. Bid them come to me at once—not make a moment’s delay.”

She sank again on the stool and put her hands to her temples and pressed

them.

The lightning continued to flare and the thunder to roll. There ensued a

turmoil, and a sound of voices crying; then a rush of feet. Euphrosyne

entered with startled mien—“My mistress! The bolt of heaven has fallen on

the Palatine, and the chamber of the Augustus has been struck. The Temple

of the Flavians is on fire, and is burning in despite of the rain.”

The chamberlain, Parthenius, entered.

“Augusta!” said he, “the lightning has struck that part of the palace

occupied by Cæsar. He must have his apartment for the night on this side.”

“That is well,” answered Domitia. “Parthenius, have you received my

message from Eboracus?”

“No, lady.”

“Then read this,” she extended to him the wax tablets.

The chamberlain turned ash gray and trembled.

“Parthenius,” said Domitia, “it is no vain augury that lightning has

struck the Temple of the Flavians, and driven Cæsar from his apartments.

Let his place of rest be to-night in the room adjoining this—and—if he

wakes—” she looked at the clepsydra, as at that moment with a click the

wheel turned and Saturn moved his scythe—“there is but an hour in which

the fate of more than yourself, of Lamia—of Entellus must be decided. Take

the tablets.”

Scarce had she spoken, before quick steps were heard, and in a moment

Domitian entered.

Parthenius hastily concealed the tablets by throwing a fold of his garment

over the hand that held them. “Sire,” said he, “I have come to announce

that thy chamber must be on this side.”

“Go thy way,” said Domitian roughly, “see to it that I have a bed brought

at once. Hast heard, Domitia, the fire has fallen!”

“Sire,” said Parthenius, “I haste to obey and pray the Gods that in spite

of thunder and lightning you may sleep sound and not wake.”

The Emperor walked to the clepsydra, and laughed scornfully. “The bolt of

Jove has missed me,” said he. “The red-handed One made a mistake. I am

wont to be in bed at this hour—by good luck, this night I was not. He has

levelled his bolt at my pillow and burnt that—I am escaped scot-free. Now

I have no further fear.”

“The temple of your divine family is in flames.”

“What care I? I will rebuild it—the majesty, the divinity of the Flavians

resides not in stones and marble—it is incorporate in Me. I may have been

in danger for a moment. Now I snap my fingers in the face of that

blunderer Jove, who burnt a hole in my pillow instead of transfixing my

head. And yon old Chronos—” he made a sign of contempt towards scythed

Time, “I defy thee and thy bucket of blood. Twelve o’clock! In spite of

Jove’s bolt, and the summons of Cornelia—I shall be asleep by that hour.”

“I pray the Gods it may be so.”

Then Domitian went out precipitately. His defiant attitude, his daring

talk did not serve to disguise the alarm which he felt. Suddenly, after

having left the room he turned, came back and said, “Domitia! What sword

is that? What need has a woman with a sword?”

He pointed to that of Corbulo, suspended against the wall.

He went to it and took it down.

“Leave it,” said she harshly. “It is that on which my father fell. It is

stained likewise with the blood of Nero.”

He held it by the scabbard. She caught the handle and, as he turned, drew

forth the blade.

At the same moment he heard steps in the passage approaching the door, and

without noticing that he held but the sheath, or else purposing to demand

the weapon itself later, when the interruption was over, he walked towards

the entrance uttering an expression of impatience, holding the empty

scabbard in his right hand.

In the doorway stood Stephanus, a freedman, the steward of Flavia

Domitilla, wife, or rather widow of Clemens, whom Domitian had recently

put to death. Domitilla had been exiled, and the Emperor had appropriated

to his own use the estates of his kinsman.

“Why camest thou hither?” asked the prince roughly. “I shall have enough

to say to thee on the morrow because of thy embezzlements.”

“Augustus! I am innocent.”

“A thief, a vile purloiner, a blood-sucking leech, that has fattened as do

all thy kind on thy masters. Go thy way—I want thee not here.”

And striding towards him, with Corbulo’s scabbard he struck the freedman

across the face.

Stephanus uttered a cry of rage and pain, and instantly smote at the

Emperor with a dagger he had held concealed in his sleeve.

“What, hound! You dare! You shall be flayed alive! Ho! to my aid!”

Stephanus threw himself on the Emperor.

Then Domitia stepped between the struggling men and the doorway, and with

one hand drew together the curtains so as to muffle the cries.

“To my aid! to my aid!” called Domitian, as the powerful steward grappled

him, and struck his dagger into the thigh of the prince.

“To my aid! Ho, a sword!” shouted the Emperor, and he grasped the weapon

of the steward but so that, holding the blade with his hand, the weapon

cut it across and the blood streamed forth.

He now made an effort to reach the doorway; and the steward, holding him,

strove to wrench away the dagger and inflict a mortal wound. But Domitian,

aware of his object, with his bleeding hand retained his grasp of the

blade.

All at once, the Emperor let go his hold, and seizing the steward by the

head drove his thumbs into his eyes.

Stephanus instantly dropped the dagger in his attempt to save himself from

being blinded.

The two men twisted and writhed in grapple with each other. The freedman

was a powerful man—it was for this reason he had been sent to despatch the

prince. But Domitian was battling for his life. Though his legs were thin

and out of proportion to his body, he was a strong man—he had ever

maintained his vigor by exercise of the muscles and had never weakened

himself by excess in eating and drinking.

By a happy turn he flung Stephanus, but clasped by him fell with him on

the floor.

And now the two men rolled and tossed in a tangled mass together. Their

snorts and gasps and the bestial growl of rage filled the room.

“Quick! Domitia—the sword! At once—the sword—the sword!” said the Emperor.

He spoke in gulps and gasps.

He had Stephanus under him; his knee was on his chest and his hand, the

gashed left hand flowing with blood, contracted the prostrate man’s

throat.

“Domitia! the sword!”

[Illustration: “DOMITIA! THE SWORD!” _Page 316._]

But she stood, stern, cold, without stirring a step, and she folded the

sword of her father to her breast, with her arms crossed over it.

“Because of Paris—No!”

“The sword! be speedy. I will finish him!”

“Because of Cornelia—No!”

“Domitia—help!”

“Because of Lucius Lamia—No!”

She went to the curtains, drew them apart, and called down the passage to

Norbanus.

The two Prætorian præfects were there with the chamberlains—but they were

ill able to restrain the guard who suspected that their prince and Emperor

was in danger and scented treachery.

Instantly a rush was made. Some of the soldiers, with the præfect

Norbanus, came on running, whilst the other, Petronius Secundus,

endeavored by his authority to restrain the rest.

But from the other end of the passage came gladiators running, hastily

brought together by Parthenius.

For a moment there was a jam in the doorway, a burly gladiator and a

soldier of the guard were wedged together, each endeavoring to hold the

other back and force himself in.

Meanwhile Petronius continued to exhort his soldiers to stand back, and

Parthenius to promise rewards to the gladiators who pressed on. The tumult

became terrible. Men came to blows without, there was a running together

of slaves and freedmen—of frightened women and pages from all sides. Some

had leaped from their beds, roused from sleep, and were not clothed. Some

bore lamps—but again certain others attempted to extinguish the lights.

Some cried “Treason!” Others “Away with the monster!” Some called out

“Nerva is the Emperor!” others “Domitian is the Augustus!”

Then the gladiator at the door, by dint of elbowing, forced his way

within, but he was unarmed.

Next moment the Prætorian guardsman held back by the gladiator entered and

struck at Stephanus, dealing a frightful blow.

Relieved by this assistance, Domitian staggered to his feet and glared

about him. He was too much out of breath to speak, and in at the door came

others pressing, some crying one thing, some another.

Then Domitia unfolded her arms, and taking the sword of Corbulo in her

right hand, extended it to the gladiator and said—“Make an end.”

The man snatched at the haft; and with a blow drove the blade into the

breast of the Emperor.

Still the prince remained standing, and stretched forth his hands

gropingly for a weapon.

Parmenas leaped at him, and with a knife struck him in the throat.

Then he reeled; in another moment he was surrounded, blows from all sides

were rained on him. Again the sword of Corbulo was lifted and again smote,

and he fell as a heap on the body of Stephanus.

For a moment there was stillness.

Then in that hush sounded a click and a gush. The bucket of the clepsydra

had discharged, and with a jerk Saturn raised his scythe and pointed to

the hour of midnight.

“He has answered his summons before the seat of Divine Justice!” said

Domitia.

She stooped and plucked the signet ring from the finger of the murdered

prince.

CHAPTER XIV.

IN THE TULLIANUM.

No sooner had Domitia got the signet from the finger of the dead Emperor,

than she hastened from the room, trembling, almost blind as to her course,

but armed with more than her natural strength to force her way through

those who filled the passage.

Parmenas was now there, and he cleared a way for her, and in a loud voice

forbade any of the slaves to leave the palace; Petronius at the same time

gave orders to the soldiers of the guard to remain where they were,

keeping watch that none left to spread the tidings, until Cocceius Nerva

had been communicated with, and the Senate had been summoned.

Domitia, however, made her way from among the excited and alarmed throng,

and finding some of her own slaves, bade them bring Eboracus to her.

“I am here, lady,” answered the Briton.

“Then quick—with me. Not a moment is to be lost. Light a torch and lead

the way.”

“Whither, mistress?”

“To the Tullianum.”

He stared at her in amazement.

“Quick—a life, a precious life is at stake. Not a minute must we delay or

it will be too late.”

“I am ready, lady.”

He snatched a torch from an attendant, and advanced towards a postern gate

that communicated with a flight of steps leading to the Forum. It was

employed almost wholly by the servants and was used for communication

between the kitchen and the markets.

“Shall we take any one else with us?” asked Eboracus. He answered

himself—“Yes—here is Euphrosyne. She shall attend, and a boy shall carry

the link. At night—and on such a night, I must have both arms at my

disposal.”

Domitia said nothing. She was eager to be on her way, was impatient of the

smallest delay. Euphrosyne came up, and obeyed a sign from the Briton. He

caught a scullion who was rubbing his sleepy eyes, and wondering what had

caused the commotion, and had roused him from his bed. Eboracus thrust the

torch into his hand and opened the door for the Empress.

Domitia stepped out to the head of the stairs. The rain had ceased, but

the steps were running with water. The eaves dripped. The shrubs were

laden with rain, they stooped their boughs and shed a load of moisture on

the soil, then raised their leaves again, once more to accumulate the wet,

and again to stoop and shower it down. Runnels conveying water from the

roof were flowing as streams, noisily: the ground covered with pools,

reflected the torch; as also every gleam from the retiring storm. Still in

the distance thunder muttered, but it was a grumble of discontent at

having failed to achieve all it had been sent to execute.

On such a night few would be abroad, except the patrols of the _Vigiles_

and them there would be no difficulty in passing as the watchword was

known to Eboracus, the word which allowed those only who could say it to

traverse the streets at night in the respectable portions of the city. But

there were no lamps, not even the feeble glimmer of a lantern slung in the

midst of the street. Notwithstanding all the civilization of ancient Rome

the art of lighting the thoroughfares at night was unknown. Such as were

constrained to walk abroad after dark were attended by slaves bearing

torches.

The streets of Rome had for long been of bad repute for the brawls and

murders committed in them at night. Tipsy youths and rufflers had

assaulted honest men, and should a woman be out after dark, she was

certain of insult. Nero himself had distinguished himself in such vulgar

performances. But under the Flavian princes much had been done to

establish order and to ensure protection to life and purse of such as were

out after dark, so that now, except in the slums, a citizen could visit

his friends, a doctor his patients, by night, without fear of molestation.

And of all portions of Rome, the Forum with its splendid monuments, its

rich temples, especially that of Saturn, that contained the city

treasures, was most patrolled and therefore the safest. Eboracus had

little expectation that his mistress would meet with rudeness or encounter

danger, the rain must have swept the street of all idlers.

The long flight of steps was descended with caution, as they were slippery

with rain, indeed with more caution than Domitia approved, so impatient

was she to reach the object of her journey. The distance was not great.

She had but to traverse the upper end of the Forum.

That at which she aimed was the prison of Rome. It lay at the foot of the

Capitoline Hill, and consisted of an ancient well or subterranean chamber

in which flowed a small spring. Above this was the prison, consisting of a

series of cells that rose in stages to a considerable height, against the

rock, the chambers being in part scooped out of the travestine. From the

top of the hill ran a set of steps called the Gemonian stair, and it was

customary for State prisoners who had been condemned to death, after

execution to be cast from the upper chamber of the Tullianum down the

stairs; whence with hooks the corpses were dragged across the Forum and

then flung into the Tiber.

To the house of the jailer, Domitia with her attendants made her way. She

had been stopped once in crossing the Forum, but the watch recognized her,

and saluted with respect, though with an expression of astonishment on his

countenance at seeing Cæsar’s wife abroad at such a time of the night, in

such weather and with such scant attendance.

On reaching the jailer’s door, Eboracus knocked. No answer was given. He

knocked again and louder, and continued knocking, till at length a gruff

voice from within called to know who was without, and what was wanted.

“Open—in the name of the Augustus,” said the British slave; and at once

the keeper of the prison let down the bars and withdrew the bolts and

chains, then carrying a lamp, peered out at those who demanded admittance.

Then Domitia stood forward.

“You have a prisoner here—Lucius Ælius Lamia?”

“Yes.”

“You must lead me to him.”

The jailer appeared disconcerted, he held his lamp aloft and eyed the

woman who spake. He did not know her, his light was feeble, and as it

happened, he had seen little of the Empress.

“You do not know me,” said Domitia. “Know you this ring?”

The prison-keeper held the flame of his lamp to the signet, and made the

usual sign of respect and recognition.

“You are required to lead me within,” said Domitia.

The jailer at once stood aside, and suffered the Empress and her

attendants to enter. Then he barred and bolted the door again.

“And now,” said Domitia, impatient at the leisurely proceeding of the man,

“lead me to him.”

Without another word he went forward, holding his lamp down that those who

followed might see the steps and not stumble at them.

“This way,” said he, “and bow your heads, the entrance is low; but most of

them that pass this way have to hold their heads still lower when they are

taken out. Look at these stones—great blocks built by the Kings—by Servius

Tullus, they say. By Hercules! this is not a tavern where men tarry long,

nor do they relish our fare. One thing I must say in our favor, we make no

charge for our hospitality.” Thus the jailer muttered as he went along.

“Look there—on your right—there is the cell where Simon Bar Gioras, the

Jew, was strangled—he who was the last to maintain the struggle against

the God Titus, in defence of Jerusalem; and see—” he threw open a door.

“Here is the Bath of Mamertius in which Jugurtha was starved, all in

blackness of darkness and soaking in ice-cold water. What! Impatient—do

you not care to see the sights and hear my gossip? Well, well—but I have

pretty things to show. I have a shankbone of Appius Claudius, who

committed suicide in yon cell, and a garment of Sejanus, and the very

bowstring wherewith—I am going on as fast as may be. See! we have had

Christians here also. There was another Jew, Simon Petrus by name, he was

in this cell, and I have the chain whereby he was bound, and I sell the

links to the followers of the Nazarene,” he began to cackle. “By Hercules!

the chain is long enough. They come for more links than there would be,

were the chain to reach across the Tiber. But any bit of old iron will

serve, and they are not particular—take any scrap and pay in silver. I am

going as fast as may be. I am not young. Fast enough I warrant. He is in

no hurry—not Lamia. He can wait. All the same to him whether we reach him

now or an hour hence.”

Then Domitia, whose brow was beaded with cold sweat, like the stones of

the vault that ran with moisture, laid hold of the prison-keeper’s arm and

said:—“Tell me—is he—” she could not say the word, her heart beat so

furiously, and everything swam before her eyes.

“Aye, aye, you shall see for yourself. Come from the Augustus to satisfy

him that we do our work properly, I trow. I have not much strength in

these old-hands, but my two sons are lusty—and say the word—they will bend

your back and snap the spine, smite and shear off your head like a pumpkin

under a scythe, twist, and the life is throttled out of you. Here—here we

are. Go in and see for yourself that we are good workmen.”

He threw open a door and raised his lamp.

A low vaulted chamber was faintly illumined by the flame, the torch held

by Eboracus was behind Domitia and the jailer; he had taken it from the

link boy at the prison door. He and Euphrosyne attended their mistress,

the boy was left without.

The old prison-keeper stood on one side.

“The order came yesterday,” said he, “and we are not slack in the

execution.”

Domitia saw the figure of a man lying on the stone floor. She started

forward—

“He sleeps!”

“I warrant you—right soundly.”

She uttered a smothered cry.

“Put down the lamp!”

She turned and faced the jailer. “Leave me alone with him. I will wake

him. I know he but sleeps.”

The man hesitated.

Then Eboracus pressed forward and laid hold of the jailer and

whispered—“Go without, it is the Augusta!”

The keeper of the prison started, raised his hand to his lips, bowed, set

the lamp on the moist floor and drew back.

“Without! Without all!” ordered Domitia.

Then Eboracus pulled the jailer out of the cell. Euphrosyne stood doubtful

whether to remain with her mistress or obey—but an impatient sign from the

Empress drove her forth, and the British slave closed the door.

“He is dead,” said the jailer. “Did the Augustus desire to withdraw the

order? His signet has arrived too late. The prisoner has been throttled by

my sons.”

The old man and the two slaves remained for some quarter of an hour in the

passage almost smothered by the smoke emitted by the torch.

From within they heard a voice—at intervals, now raised in weeping, then

uttering low soothing tones, then raised in a cry as the _conclamatio_ of

hired wailers for the dead, calling on Lamia by name to return, to return,

to leave the Shadowland and come back into light.

And then—a laugh.

A laugh so weird, so horrible, so unexpected, that with a thrust, without

scruple, Eboracus threw open the door.

On the stone pavement sat Domitia, her hair dishevelled, and on her lap

the head of the dead man. She was wiping his brow with her veil, stooping,

kissing his lips, weeping, then laughing again—then pointing to purple

letters, crossed L’s woven into his tunic.

Eboracus saw it all—her reason was gone.

CHAPTER XV.

DRAWING TO THE LIGHT.

In the old home of Gabii, under the tender care of Euphrosyne and in the

soothing company of Glyceria, little by little, stage by stage, Domitia

recovered.

There was a horrible past to which no reference might be made. The true

British slave, Eboracus, was ever at hand to help—when needed. Never a

day, never half a day, but his honest face appeared at the door to inquire

after his dear lady, and as her senses came flickering back, it was he to

whom she clung to take her in his arms into the trellised walk, or when

stronger to lead her where she could pick violets for Glyceria, and to

pile about the feet of the little statue of the Good Shepherd. He took her

a row on the lake and let her fish—he found nests of young birds and

brought them to her; and all at once disclosed great powers of

story-telling; he told marvellous British tales as to a little child, of

the ploughing of Hu Cadarn, of Ceridwen and her cauldron. And he would

sing—he fashioned himself a harp, of British shape, and sang as he

accompanied himself, but his ballads were all in the Celtic tongue that

Domitia could not understand—nevertheless it soothed and pleased her to

listen to his music.

Longa Duilia did not visit her often. She made formal duty calls at long

intervals, and as Domitia became better, these visits grew proportionately

fewer.

Duilia, as she herself said, was not created to be a nurse. She knew that

some were fitted by nature to attend to the sick, and all that sort of

thing—but it was not her gift. Society was her sphere in which she floated

and which she adorned, but she was distraught and drooping in a sick-room.

She wished she had the faculty—and all that sort of thing—but all women

were not cast in the same mould, run out of the same metal—and, my dear,

parenthetically—some are of lead, others of Corinthian brass—and which are

which it is not for me to say—she thanked the Gods it was so.

Nor did the visits and efforts to amuse, of Duilia, avail anything towards

Domitia’s cure. On the contrary, she was always worse after her mother had

been with her. The old lady ripped up ill-healed sores, harped on old

associations, could not check her tongue from scolding.

“My poor dear child—I never made a greater blunder in my life—I, too, who

have the pedigree at my finger’s ends—as to fancy that there was any

connection with those Flavians. My dear! yellow hair is quite out of

fashion now, quite out. Look at mine, a raven’s wing is not darker. It was

through Vespasia Polla—I thought we were related—stupid that I was—it was

the Vipsanians we were allied to, not those low and beggarly Vespasians.

As the Gods love me, I believe Polla’s father was an army contractor. But

I have made it all right. I have smudged out the line I had added to the

family tree, and as for the wax heads of those Flavians, I have had them

melted up. Will you believe it—I had the mask of Domitian run into a pot

and that stupid Lucilla did not put a cover on it, and the rats have eaten

it—eaten all the wax. I hope it has clogged their stomachs and given them

indigestion. They doubtless thought it was dripping. But I really have

made a most surprising discovery. I find there was an alliance with the

Cocceii—most respectable family, very ancient, admirable men all—and so

there is a sort of cousinship with the present admirable prince. His

brother Aulus—rather old perhaps—but an estimable man—is—well—may be—in a

word, I intend to give a little supper—a dainty affair—all in the best

style—so sorry you can’t be there, my dear Domitia—but of course

absolutely impossible. Your state of health and all that sort of thing.

Don’t be surprised if you hear—but there, there—he is rather old though,

for one who is only just turning off the very bloom of life and beauty.”

After such a visit and such talk the mind of Domitia was troubled for

several days. She became timid, alarmed at the least noise, and

distraught. But then the poor crippled woman succeeded in comforting and

laying her troubles, and the painful expression faded from her face. It

became placid, but always with a sadness that was inseparable from the

eyes, and a tremulousness of the lips, as though a very little—a rough

word or two—would dissolve her into tears.

With the spring, the growing light, the increasing warmth, the bursting

life in plant and insect, she began to amend more steadily, and relapses

became fewer.

One sweet spring day, when Glyceria had been carried forth into the

garden, and Domitia sat on the turf near her with purple anemones in her

lap, that she was binding into a garland, the paralyzed woman was startled

by hearing Domitia suddenly speak of the past.

She spoke, and continued weaving the flowers, “My Glyceria, I intend this

for the little temple of my father. It is all I can do for him—to give

flowers where his ashes lie—but it does not content me. There were two

whom I loved and looked up to as the best of men, and both are gone—gone

to dust: my own dearest father, and my lover, my husband, Lamia. I cannot

bear to think of them as heaps of ashes or as wandering ghosts. When that

thought comes over me, I seem to be as one drowning, and then darkness is

before my eyes. I cannot cry—I smother.”

“Why should you think of them as wandering ghosts or as heaps of dust?”

“I know that they are dust—I suppose they are shadows. But of anything

else, all is guess-work, we know nothing—and that is so horrible. I love

two only—have loved two only—and they are no more than shadows. No, no! I

mean not that.” She flung her arms about Glyceria, and laid her cheek

against that of the sick woman. “No, I do love you, and I love Euphrosyne

and I love Eboracus. But I mean—I mean in a different manner. One was my

father, and the other my husband. It is so terribly sad to think they are

lost to me like yesterday or last summer.”

“They are not lost. You will see them again.”

“See my father! See my Lamia!”

“Yes—I know it will be so.”

“O, Glyceria, do not say such things. You make my heart jump. How can it

be? They have been.”

“They are and will be. Death is swallowed up in Life.”

“That is impossible. Death is death and nothing more.”

Then Glyceria took the hand of Domitia, and looking into her eyes, said

solemnly: “Dost thou remember having asked me about the Fish?”

“Yes—this amulet,” answered the noble lady, and she detached the cornelian

from her throat, and held it in the hand not engaged by Glyceria. “Yes—I

recollect—there was some mystery, but what was it?”

“The Fish is a symbol, as I said once before, and it is no amulet.”

“Of what is it the symbol?”

“Of One who died—who tasted of the bitterness of the parting of soul and

body, and who went into the region of Shadows and returned—the soul to the

body, and rose from the dead, and by the virtue of His resurrection gives

power to all who believe in Him to rise in like manner.”

“And he could tell about what the ghosts do—how they wander?”

“I cannot say that. There would be no comfort in that. He rose to give us

joy and to rob death of its terrors.”

“But what has this to do with the Fish?”

“You know what the word Fish is in Greek.”

“Very well.”

“Take each letter of that word, and each letter is the first of words that

contain the very substance of the Christian belief—Jesus Christ, the Son

of God, the Saviour.”

Domitia looked at the little cornelian fish; she could not understand.

“I believe that one could die and wake again. I have fainted and come

round. And he might say what was in the spirit world into which he had

been—but the region of ghosts is very dreary, very sad.”

“Nay, He can do more. As He rose, He can raise us to new life, and He will

do it, for He is God. He made us, and He will recall us from death.”

“What—my father! Lucius! I shall see them again—not as shadows, but as

they were—?”

“Not so—not as they were, mortal; but raised to an immortal life.”

“I shall kiss my darling father—put my arms around my Lucius from whom I

have been parted so long, and so cruelly, and who has been so—so true to

me.”

Then Domitia burst into tears.

Glyceria stroked her hand.

“There—you see how joyous is our hope. Death is nothing—it is only a

good-bye for a bit to meet again.”

“O, Glyceria! O, if I could see them—O Glyceria! O, you should not have

said this if it be not true. My heart will break. O, if it might be so! if

I could! but once only—for a moment——”

“Nay, that would not suffice; forever, never to be separated; no more

tears, no more death.”

“O, Glyceria—not another word—I cannot bear it. My heart is over full.

Another time. My head, my head! O, if it might—it could be!”

Next day Glyceria saw by the red eyes of Domitia that she had slept little

and had wept much. She did not turn the conversation to the same topic;

she wisely waited for the noble lady to begin on it herself, and she

judged that she would take some time to consider what had been spoken

about and to digest it.

And in fact Domitia made no further allusion to the matter for some days.

But after about a week, when alone with the paralyzed woman, she said to

her abruptly: “You have never been in Syria?”

“No, dear lady.”

“I have—and I have been on the confines of the desert and looked away, as

far as the eye could reach, and have seen nothing but sand and barren

rock. Behind me a rose-garden, syringas, myrtle and citron trees, and

murmuring streams, before me—no green leaf, only death. It is to me, as I

stand now and look back on my life as if it were that barren desert; and

the fearful thing is—I dare not turn and look the other way, for it is

into impenetrable night. But no, my life is not all desolation, there are

just two green spots in it where the date palms stand and there are

wells—my childhood, when I sat on my father’s knee and cuddled into his

arms; and once again, when I was recovering from the loss of him and was

basking in the joy of my love for Lucius Lamia. All the rest—” she made a

gesture of despair—“Death.”

“Dearest lady! I would like to turn you about and show you that where you

think only blackness reigns, lies a beautiful garden, a paradise, and One

at the gate who beckons and says, Come unto Me, all you that labor and are

heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

“Ah! but that may be all fancy and dream work like the promises of the

Magi, and the mysteries of Isis.”

Glyceria got no further than this. Domitia was disposed to talk with her

on her hope, and on the Christian belief, but always with reserve and some

mistrust.

There were old prejudices to be overcome, there was the consciousness that

the promises so largely made by the votaries of the many cults from East

and South who came to Rome were unfulfilled, and this made her unable to

place confidence in the new religion held by slaves and ignorant people,

however alluring it might seem.

Among the very few who came to Gabii during her illness and convalescence,

was Flavia Domitilla, the widow of Flavius Clemens, who had been put to

death by Domitian. Domitilla had been banished, but returned immediately

on the death of the tyrant. She had suffered as had Domitia. In her manner

and address there was something so gentle and assuring, that the poor

ex-empress, in the troubled condition of her brain, was drawn to her, and

after her visits felt better. She knew, or rather supposed, that Domitilla

was a Christian. Her husband had been one, and had suffered for his faith.

It was with real pleasure that she ran to welcome her one morning, when

the steward entered and announced: “The Lady Flavia Domitilla.”

CHAPTER XVI.

AN ECSTASY.

“I have come, dear Domitia, with a petition,” said the widow of Flavius

Clemens. “And it is one you will wound me if you refuse.”

“But who would wound so gentle a breast?” answered Domitia, kissing her

visitor. “He must be heartless who draws a bow against a dove.”

“Hearken first to what I ask. I am bold—but my very feebleness inspires me

with audacity.”

“What is it, then?”

“That you come with me to my villa for a little change of scene, air and

society. It will do you good.”

“And I cannot refuse. It is like your sweet spirit to desire nothing save

what is kindly intended and does good to others.”

“As you have assented so graciously, I will push my advance a little

further and say—Return with me to-day. Let us travel together. If you

will—I have a double litter—and we can chatter as two magpies together.”

“Magpies bring sorrow.”

“Nay, two—mirth—we have cast our sorrows behind us. You said I was a dove,

so be it—a pair of doves, perhaps wounded, lamed—but we coo into each

other’s ear, and lay our aching hearts together and so obtain solace.”

“I will refuse you nothing,” said Domitia, again kissing her visitor.

Accordingly, a couple of hours later the two ladies started, Domitia

taking with her some attendants, but travelling, as was proposed, in the

large litter of Domitilla.

This latter lady was, as already mentioned, the widow of Clemens, one of

the two sons of Flavius Sabinus, præfect of the city, who had held the

Capitol against the Prætorians of Vitellius and had been murdered but a

few hours before Rome was entered by the troops that favored his brother

Vespasian. On that occasion his sons had escaped, and the elder was

married to Julia, daughter of Titus, but had been put to death by

Domitian. The younger brother, Clemens, a quiet, inoffensive man, who took

no part in public affairs, had been executed as well, shortly before

Domitian himself perished.

And now Flavia Domitilla lived quietly on her estate not far from the

Ardeatine Gate of Rome.

“How!” said Flavia, suddenly, as she espied the little cornelian suspended

on the bosom of Domitia, “you have the Fish!”

“Yes, Glyceria gave it me—long ago.”

“Do you know what it means?”

“Glyceria told me—but it is a dream, a beautiful fancy, nothing more.

There is no evidence.”

“Domitia, you have not sought for it.”

“My cousin, Rome is full of religions. Some say the truth is in Sabazius,

some in Isis, some in the stars, some in Mithras—a new importation—and

some will go back to the old Gods of our Latin ancestors. But one and

another all are naught.”

“How know you that?”

“By the spirit that is within me. It can discern between what is true and

false. Not that which promises best is the most real.”

“You are right, Domitia—that is truest and most real which meets and

satisfies the seeking, aching heart.”

“And where is that?”

“Where you have not sought for it.”

“If I were sure I would seek. But I am weary of disillusionings and

disappointments.”

“Well—will you hear?”

“I am not sure. I have met with too many disappointments to desire

another.”

Nothing further was said on this topic till the villa was reached. Domitia

showed that she did not desire to have it pursued.

As Flavia alighted from her litter, a young man approached, handed her

something and asked for an answer.

The widow of Clemens opened a tied diptych and read some words written

therein.

She seemed disconcerted and doubtful. She looked questioningly at Domitia,

and then asked leave of the latter to say a word in private to Euphrosyne.

Leave was granted and a whispered communication passed between them.

Again Flavia looked inquiringly at Domitia, and it was with considerable

hesitation that she signed to the young man to approach, and said:—“Be it

so. The Collect shall be here.”

That evening before she and her guest parted for the night, Flavia took

Domitia by the hand and said:—“You are right—the faculty of determination

is seated in every breast. Inquire and choose.”

A few days passed, and then the hostess became uneasy. Evidently she had

something that she desired to say, but was afraid of broaching the

subject.

At length, abruptly, she began on it.

“Domitia, I show you the utmost confidence. I must tell you something. You

know how that the Christians have been persecuted under—I mean of late,

and how we have suffered. My dear husband shed his blood for the cause,

and he was but one among many. Now there is a respite granted, but how

long it will last we know not. The laws against us stand unrepealed and

any one who wishes us ill can set them in motion for our destruction.”

“You do not think, Cousin——”

“Nay, hear me out, Domitia. You saw a young man approach me as we arrived

here. He is what we term a deacon, and he came to announce that, if I saw

fit, the Church would assemble in my house next first day of the week,

that is the day after the Jewish Sabbath. It is customary with us to

assemble together for prayer on that day, early, before dawn, sometimes in

one house, then in another, so as to escape observation. And now, on the

morrow—this assembly, which we term the Collect, will take place. Do thou

tarry in thy chamber, and thou shalt be summoned when all have dispersed.”

“Nay, I would see and hear what takes place.”

“That may not be, Domitia, that is only for the initiated.”

“But why secrecy if there be naught of which to be ashamed?”

“Our Master said, Give not that which is holy unto dogs, neither cast ye

your pearls before swine. Tell me, Domitia, how would you endure were your

father made a mock of, his sayings and acts parodied on the stage, and

turned into a matter of low buffoonery?”

Domitia’s brow flamed and her eyes flashed.

“I see your answer in your face. So with our Great Master. His mysteries

are holy, and we would preserve them from outrage. Now you understand why

you cannot be present.”

“But I would not mock.”

“It is our rule, to avoid the chance of profanity.”

“As you will.”

“There is one thing more,” said Flavia. “You will not be angry if I have

sent to have poor Glyceria brought here. Owing to her infirmity she has

not been able to be present at a gathering of the Church for a long time,

and nothing could give her greater consolation and happiness.”

“I am willing for anything that can cheer her,” answered Domitia; then in

a tone of vexation, “So—a freedwoman, and Euphrosyne, a slave, will be

admitted where I am shut out—I, who was Empress——”

“Do not be offended. Is it not so in every sodality, that the members of

the Club alone attend the gatherings of the Club.”

“You are a Club then?”

“We are the worshippers of God.”(16)

Domitia was silent, then Flavia started up. “I hear them—they have come

with Glyceria. I must see that she be cared for. The long journey to that

frail and broken frame will have exhausted her slender powers.”

“And I will go, too”—with a tinge of jealousy in her manner. Domitia

little liked that another should interest herself about the poor woman,

and should stand to her in a more intimate relation than herself.

On going forth, all feeling of envy disappeared at once before a sense of

alarm.

An accident had occurred on the way. Owing to some fault in the paving of

the road, one of the bearers had stumbled and, in falling, the litter had

been thrown down and the woman within injured.

Domitia saw by the ashen face and the green hue about the mouth and

temples that Glyceria was in great pain. But her eyes were bright and

sought her at once and a world of love flowed out of them, she put forth

her thin hand to lay hold of the great lady. Domitia at once flashed into

anger. “This comes of bringing her here. Had she been left at Gabii it

would never have happened. Where is the fellow who threw her down?—Flavia!

have him whipped with the scorpion.”

Glyceria caught her hand. “It was an accident. He was not in fault. I am

happy. It is the will of God—that is everything to me.”

“You suffer.”

The paralyzed woman could not speak more. She was being lifted out of the

litter, and fainted as she was moved. She was conveyed, in a condition of

unconsciousness, to the room she was to occupy, a room opening out of the

same corridor as that given up to Domitia.

The family physician was summoned; he gave little hopes of the poor woman

recovering from the shock, her natural strength and recuperative power had

long ago been exhausted.

All that evening Domitia remained silent, apparently in ill humor, or

great distress, and Flavia Domitilla was unable to get many words from

her.

She retired early to rest, but could not sleep. Before going to her bed,

she had visited the sick woman, and she convinced herself with her own

eyes that the flame of the lamp of life was flickering to extinction.

Domitia loved the actor’s widow with all the passion of her stormy heart;

and the thought of losing her was to her unendurable.

The night was still, balmy, and the heavens star-besprent. She looked from

the corridor at the lights above, and then dropped the curtains over her

door. She threw herself on her cushions, but her thoughts turned and

tossed in her head.

She pressed her knuckles to her eyeballs to close her eyes, but could not

force on sleep.

It was to her as though every person whom she loved was taken from her;

till she had no one left to whom her heart could cling.

“I vow a pig to Æsculapius!” she said, “if he will recover her!” and then

impatiently turned to the wall. “What can Æsculapius do? Whom has he

succored at any time? He is but a name.” To whom could she cry? What god

of Olympus would stoop to care for—even to look at an actor’s widow, a

poor Greek freedwoman.

The gods! They revelled and drank Ambrosia; made love and deceived the

simple, and lied and showed themselves to be arrant knaves. They were

greedy of sacrifices, they accepted all that was given—but they gave

nothing in return. Their ears were open to flattery, not to prayer. They

were gods for the merry and rich, not for the miserable and poor.

She thought she heard hasty steps in the passage, then voices. “And He!

the God of Glyceria—why had not He saved her from this fall? Was He as

powerless, as regardless, of His votaries as those of Olympus?”

Yes—something was the matter—there was a stir in the house—at that hour—at

dead of night—Domitia’s heart bounded. Was Glyceria passing away?

She threw a mantle about her, and barefooted as she was, ran forth into

the gallery.

She saw at the further end a light at the door of the sick room, and

sounds issued thence.

Instantly she flew thither, plucked aside the curtain, and stood in the

doorway, arrested by the sight.

Euphrosyne was seated on the bed, and had raised her sister in her arms;

the sick woman rested against her in a sitting posture; Flavia Domitilla

was there as well. Directly she saw Domitia she signed to her to approach.

But Glyceria!—she was at once transfigured. Her face seemed to shine with

a supernatural light—it had acquired a loveliness and transparency as of

an angel—her eyes were upraised and fixed as in a trance, and her arms

were outspread. She seemed not to weigh on Euphrosyne, but to be raised

and sustained by supernatural power.

The joy, the rapture in that sublimated countenance were beyond

description. She saw, she knew, she felt none of those things that usually

meet the senses. And yet Domitia, Flavia, were convinced that those

illumined happy eyes looked on some One—were gazing into a light to

themselves unseen.

From her lips poured rapturous prayer.

“I see Thee! Thou—the joy of my heart, my hope and my portion forever!

Thee whom I have loved and longed for! I hold Thee—I clasp Thy feet! O

give her to me—the dear mistress! Take me, take me to Thyself—but ere I

go—by Thy wounded hands—by Thy thorn-crowned head—by Thy pierced

side—bring her to the light! To the light! To the light!” And

suddenly—with an instantaneous eclipse the illumination died off from her

face, the tension was over, the arms, the entire body sank heavily against

the bosom of Euphrosyne, the eyes closed; she heaved a long sigh, but a

smile lingered about her lips.

Awed, not daring to draw nearer, unwilling to go back, Domitia stood

looking. Neither did Flavia Domitilla stir.

After a little while, however, the latter signed to Domitia to depart, and

made as though she also would go.

“She sleeps,” she said.

Then Glyceria’s bright eyes opened, and she said:—

“Not till after the Collect—at that I must be—bear me down—then only——”

CHAPTER XVII.

HAIL, GLADSOME LIGHT!

Before the day began to break, from various quarters came men and women,

in twos and threes to the house of Flavia Domitilla.

The visitor to Rome may see the very spot where stood her house and

garden. For this good woman converted the latter into a place of sepulture

for the Christians, and the catacomb that bears her name is one of the

most interesting of those about Rome. Not only so, but the ruins of her

villa remain, on the farm of Tor Marancia, or the Ardeatine Way. Here

lived the widow of the martyr Clemens, with her sister-in-law, Plautilla,

and her niece, of the same name as herself, all three holy women, serving

God and ministering to the necessities of the poor.

The Collect, or assembly of the Faithful, was to take place in the atrium

or hall of the villa. Domitilla had only Christian slaves with her in her

country residence, and could trust them.

In the large mansions of the Roman nobility there were grand reception

halls, called basilicas, with rows of pillars down the sides dividing them

into a nave and aisles, with an apse, or _bema_ as it was termed, at the

end, in which the master of the house sat to receive his visitors. Here he

and his clients, his parasites and friends walked, talked, declaimed,

listened to readings, when the weather was wet or cold. At a later period,

when the nobility became Christian, many of them gave up their basilicas

to be converted into churches, and such is the origin of several churches

of Rome. They never were, as some have erroneously supposed, halls of

justice—they were, as described, the halls attached to the great Roman

palaces.

But at the time I am speaking of, no such surrenders had been made. The

great families had not been converted, only here and there, at rare

intervals, some of their members had embraced the Gospel. But smaller

people had become Christian, and these did temporarily give up the more

public portion of the house, the atrium and tablinum for Christian

worship. It was dangerous to thus assemble, and it would have been

infinitely more dangerous had the assemblies taken place always at the

same house. Accordingly it was contrived to vary the place of meeting and

to give secret notice to the faithful where the gathering would be on the

ensuing Lord’s day.

The danger of these Collects was further reduced by their being held

sometimes in the churches underground in the catacombs, or in the _cellæ_

near the tombs; and these gatherings passed uncommented on, as it was

customary for the pagans to meet for a solemn banquet in the decorated

chambers attached to their places of interment on the anniversaries of the

death of their friends.

The various guilds also had their meeting for the transaction of business,

a sacred meal, and a sacrifice to the gods, and the early Christians were

able so to copy the customs of the guilds or sodalities, as to carry on

their worship undetected by the authorities, who supposed their assemblies

were mere guild gatherings.

The hour was so early that lights were necessary, and lamps were suspended

in the tablinum, which was raised a couple of steps above the floor of the

hall.

Round the arc of the chamber, which was semi-circular, seats had been

arranged, and in the centre against the wall one of more dignity than the

rest, covered with white linen. In the midst of the tablinum at the top of

the two steps was a table, and on one side a desk on legs.

Great care was taken at the door to admit none but such as could give the

sign that they were Christians. The _ostiarius_ or porter in the early

Church held a very important office, on his discretion much of the safety

of the Church depended. He had to use the utmost caution lest a spy should

slip in.

The hall rapidly filled.

Before the steps into the apse lay Glyceria on a sort of bier, her hands

folded, and her earnest eyes upraised! She had been gently, carefully

conveyed thither, to be for the last time united in worship with the

Church on earth, before she passed into the Church beyond.

On each side of the tablinum were curtains, that could be easily and

rapidly drawn along a rod and so close the apse.

In the atrium itself there were few lights. They were not needed, day

would soon break.

In the tablinum, against the wall, sat the presbyters with Clement, the

bishop, in the centre. He was an old man, with a gentle face, full of

love. He had been a freedman of the Flavians, and it was out of respect to

them that he had taken the name of Clement, which was one of those in use

in their family.

At his side, on the right hand, was one far more aged than he—one we have

seen before, Luke the Physician and Evangelist.

Now one with a pair of clappers gave a signal and all rose who had been

seated.

A deacon standing at the top of the step said:—“Let us pray for the

Emperor.”

Whereupon all the congregation responded as with a single voice: “Lord,

have mercy.”

Then Clement, the Bishop, prayed:—“We beseech Thee, O Father, to look down

upon the Emperor and to strengthen him against his foes, and to illumine

his mind that he may rule in Justice, and be Thou his defence and strong

tower.”

Thereupon the deacon called again:—“Let us pray for the magistrates.” To

which the people responded in the same manner, and the Bishop prayed in

few terse words for the magistrates. In precisely similar manner was

prayer made for the bishops and clergy, for all the faithful, for those in

chains, working in mines, for the sick and the sorrowful, for the widows

and orphans; it was as though a flood of all-embracing charity flowed

forth.

Then the intercessions ended, Luke came to the desk, and a deacon brought

the roll of the Law and unfolded it before him, and another held aloft a

torch.

He read as follows:—“This commandment which I command thee this day, it is

not hidden from thee neither is it far off.... But the word is very nigh

thee in thy heart and in thy mouth, that thou mayest do it. See, I have

set before thee life and good, and death and evil.... I call heaven and

earth to record this day that I have set before you life and death,

blessing and cursing; therefore choose life ... that thou mayest love the

Lord thy God, and that thou mayest obey His voice, and that thou mayest

cleave unto Him.”

Then the Evangelist closed the roll and returned it to the deacon, and he

spake some words of exhortation thereon.

Next came another deacon and unfolded the roll of the Prophets; and Luke

read:—“The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me; because the Lord hath

anointed me to preach good tidings unto the meek; He hath sent me to bind

up the broken-hearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the

opening of the prison to them that are bound. To proclaim the acceptable

year of the Lord, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all that

mourn.... To give to them that mourn beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for

mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; that they

might be called Trees of Righteousness, the Planting of the Lord, that He

might be glorified.”

Then again Luke spoke a few simple words and declared how that the

prophecy of old was fulfilled in Christ who was the healer of all sick

souls, and the strengthener of all who were feeble, the restorer of the

halt, the comforter of all that mourn, and the planter in the field of the

Church of such as would grow up plants of righteousness to bear their

fruit in due season.

And when he ceased, the congregation sang a psalm: “Praise the Lord, O my

soul: and all that is within me praise His holy name.”

In the first age of the Church the liturgical service grew out of that of

the synagogue. As in the latter there were the two lessons from Law and

Prophet, so was there in the Church, but after the Psalm there were added

to these, two more lessons, one from an Epistle by an Apostle and one from

a Gospel.

At the time of our narrative the service was in process of formation and

was not yet formed; and the sequence of Epistle and Gospel had not as yet

been established. However, now Luke stood forward and said:—

“Beloved, we have a letter written by the Blessed John—the Disciple that

Jesus loved, and therefrom I will read a few words.”

Then he unfolded a short roll and read as follows:—

“Behold what manner of love the Father hath bestowed upon us, that we

should be called the sons of God! therefore the world knoweth us not,

because it knew Him not. Beloved, now are we the sons of God; and it doth

not yet appear what we shall be; but we know that, when He shall appear,

we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is. And every man that

hath this hope in him purifieth himself, even as he is pure.”

He ceased, for a strange sound reached the ears of all—a sound that

swelled and rose and then fell away and became all but inaudible.

Once again he began to read—and again this sound was heard.

“This is the message that ye heard from the beginning, that we should love

one another.”

Again he ceased, and looked round, and listened. For once more this

strange wailing sound arose.

But as it declined, he resumed his reading.

“Marvel not, my brethren, if the world hate you. We know that we have

passed from death unto life, because we love the brethren.”

He was constrained to cease.

Then at a signal, two deacons went in the direction of the sound. And the

whole congregation was hushed. But Glyceria, on her bed, lifted her hands

and her eyes shone with expectation.

Presently the deacons returned:—“A woman—a weeping woman in a dark room.”

Then Luke descended from the _bema_, and attended by them went in the

direction of the voice, and came, where crouching, concealed, Domitia lay

on the ground, sobbing as if her heart would break—they could not stay

her—they did not try—they waited.

And presently she raised her face, streaming with tears, and said—“The

light! the glorious light!”

And the sun rose over the roof, and shone down into the atrium, on the

face of Glyceria.

Then Flavia Domitilla stooped over her, laid her hand on her eyes and

said:—“In the Joy of thy Lord, Face to Face!”

[Illustration: “THE LIGHT! THE GLORIOUS LIGHT!” _Page 348._]

FOOTNOTES

1 Double-dyed Tyrian wool cost over £40 in English money per lb.

2 The term used of St. Paul by the wise men of Athens. It means a

picker up of unconsidered trifles which he strings together into an

unintelligible system.

3 A laurel on the Palatine, planted by the wife of Augustus. It died

suddenly just before the end of Nero.

4 The statuette of the Good Shepherd, of beautiful art, 2d century, in

the Lateran Museum. It is an error to suppose in early Christians a

complete emancipation from old usages and modes of thought.

5 Probably _Dictamnus Fraxinella_. For properties of these plants see

Pliny, H. N. _lib._ xxv., xxvi., xxvii.

6 Our word _nuptial_ comes from the veil wherewith the bride’s head

was covered.

7 The reference was to the “Peace” of Aristophanes. Trygdeus was

carried up to the Gods on the back of a dung-beetle.

8 The allusion was to the death of Claudius attributed to poisoned

mushrooms administered to him by his wife-niece Agrippina.

9 The left was lucky with the Romans, the reverse with the Greeks.

10 Informers were so termed, because they obtained a quarter of the

goods of such as they denounced and who were condemned. The Latin

word is _quadruplator_.

11 On another occasion, a show of gladiators, this savage order was

actually given and carried out under the eyes of Domitian.

12 The titles of lord and god were given to Domitian by his flatterers,

and accepted and used by him, as of right.

13 There are mosaic pavements at Rome representing a floor after a

dinner, with crawfish heads, oyster shells, nuts, picked bones,

flower leaves, strewn about.

14 Calvisius Sabinus, a rich and ignorant man, made one of his slaves

learn Homer by heart, another Hesiod and others the nine Greek lyric

poets. When he gave a dinner, he concealed them under the table to

prompt him with quotations.

15 A scourge of leather thongs and nails knotted in them.

16 The Roman benefit Clubs were under the invocation of some god or

goddess, and the members were called Cultores Apollinis, or Jovi, as

the case might be.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE

Variations in hyphenation (“reception room”, “reception-room”) and

spelling have not been changed. In several places, punctuation and

quotation marks have been silently corrected.

Other changes, which have been made to the text:

page 65, “Gautists” changed to “flautists”

page 66, “mournners” changed to “mourners”

page 123, “Antenines” changed to “Antonines”

page 186, “Clivius” changed to “Clivus”

page 187, “learn” changed to “learned”

page 196, “Domitia” changed to “Domitian”

page 267, “beween” changed to “between”