THE LATIN VILLA.
I come, O Agamemnon’s daughter fair,
To this thy sylvan lair.
ELECTRA.
Through a soft lap in the wooded chain of Mount Algidus, a bright pellucid
stream, after wheeling and fretting among the crags and ledges of the
upper valleys, winds its way gently, toward the far-famed Tiber.
Shut in, on every side, except the south, by the lower spurs of the
mountain ridge, in which it is so snugly nestled, covered with rich groves
of chesnut-trees, and sheltered on the northward by the dark pines of the
loftier steeps, it were difficult to conceive a fairer site for a villa,
than that sweet vale.
Accordingly, on a little knoll in the jaws of the gorge, whence issued
that clear streamlet, facing the pleasant south, yet sheltered from its
excessive heats by a line of superb plane trees, festooned with luxuriant
vines, there stood a long low building of the antique form, built of
dark-colored stone.
A villa, in the days of Cicero, was a very different thing from the
luxurious pleasure-houses which came into vogue in the days of the later
Emperors, of which Pliny has given us descriptions so minute and glowing;
yet even his Tusculan retreat was a building of vast pretension, when
compared with this, which was in fact neither more nor less than an old
Roman Farmhouse, of that innocent and unsophisticated day, when the
Consulars of the Republic were tillers of the soil, and when heroes
returned, from the almost immortal triumph, to the management of the spade
and the ploughshare.
This villa had, it is true, been adorned somewhat, and fitted to the
temporary abode of individuals more refined and elegant, than the rough
steward and rustic slaves, who were its usual tenants. Yet it still
retained its original form, and was adapted to its original uses.
The house itself, which was but two stories high, was in form a hollow
square, to the courts enclosed in which access was gained by a pair of
lofty wooden gates in the rear. It had, in the first instance, presented
on all sides merely a blank wall exteriorly, all the windows looking into
the court, the centre of which was occupied by a large tank of water, the
whole interior serving the purpose of a farm yard. The whole ground floor
of the building, had formerly been occupied by stables, root-houses,
wine-presses, dairies, cheese-rooms and the like, and by the slaves’
kitchen, which was the first apartment toward the right of the entrance.
The upper story contained the granaries and the dormitories of the
workmen; and three sides still remained unaltered.
The front, however, of the villa had been pierced with a handsome doorway,
and several windows; a colonnade of rustic stonework had been carried
along the façade, and a beautiful garden had been laid out before it, with
grassy terraces, clipped hedges, box trees, transmuted by the gardener’s
art into similitudes of Peacocks, Centaurs, Tritons, Swans, and many other
forms of fowls or fishes, unknown alike and unnamed by Gods or mortals.
The sun was within about half an hour of his setting, and his slant beams,
falling through a gap in the western hills, streamed down into the little
valley, casting long stripes of alternate light and shadow over the
smoothly shaven lawn, sparkling upon the ripples of the streamlet, and
gilding the embrowned or yellow foliage of the sere hill-sides, with
brighter and more vivid colors.
At this pleasant hour, notwithstanding the lateness of the season, and
looking upon this pleasant scene, a group of females were collected, under
the rustic colonnade of Italian marble, engaged in some of those light
toils, which in feminine hands are so graceful.
The foremost of these, seated apart somewhat from the others, were the
stately and still beautiful Hortensia, and her lovely daughter, both of
them employed in twirling the soft threads from the merrily revolving
spindle, into large osier baskets; and the elder lady, glancing at times
toward the knot of slave girls, as if to see that they performed their
light tasks; and at times, if their mirth waxed too loud, checking it by a
gesture of her elevated finger.
A little while before, Julia had been singing in her sweet low voice, one
of those favorite old ballads, which were so much prized by the Romans,
and to which Livy is probably so much indebted for the redundant imagery
of his "pictured page," commemorative of the deeds and virtues of the Old
Houses.
But, as her lay came to its end, her eye had fallen on the broad blood-red
disc of the descending day-god, and had followed him upon his downward
path, until he was lost to view, among the tangled coppices that fringed
the brow of the western hill.
Her hands dropped listlessly into her lap, releasing the snow-white
thread, which they had drawn out so daintily; and keeping her eyes still
fixed steadily on the point where he had disappeared, she gave vent to her
feelings in a long-drawn ’heigho!’ in every language, and in all times,
expression of sentimental sadness.
"Wherefore so sad a sigh, my Julia?" asked Hortensia, gazing
affectionately at the saddened brow of the fair girl—"methinks! there is
nothing very melancholy here; nothing that should call forth repining."
"See, see Hortensia, how he sinks like a dying warrior, amid those
sanguine clouds," cried the girl, pointing to the great orb of the sun,
just as its last limb was disappearing.
"And into a couch of bays and myrtles, like that warrior, when his duty is
done, his fame won!" exclaimed Hortensia, throwing her arm abroad
enthusiastically; and truly the hill-side, behind which he was lost to
view, was feathered thick with the shrubs of which she spoke—"methinks!
there is nought for which to sigh in such a setting, either of the sun, or
the hero!"
"But see, how dark and gloomy he has left all behind him!—the river which
was golden but now, while he smiled upon it, now that he is gone, is
leaden."
"But he shall rise again to-morrow, brighter and yet more glorious; and
yet more gloriously shall the stream blaze back his rising than his
setting lustre."
"Alas! alas! Hortensia!"
"Wherefore, alas, my Julia?"
"For so will not the warrior rise, who sinks forever, although it may be
into a bed of glory! And if the setting of the sun leave all here
lustreless and dark and gloomy, although _that_ must arise again
to-morrow, what must the setting do of one who shall arise no more for
ever; whose light of life was to one heart, what the sunbeam was to the
streamlet, but which, unlike that sunbeam, shall never shine on the heart
any more, Hortensia."
"My poor child," cried the noble matron, affected almost to tears, "you
are thinking of Paullus."
"When am I not thinking of him, mother?" said the girl. "Remember, we have
left the city, seeking these quiet shades, in order to eschew that
turmoil, that peril, in the heat of which _he_ is now striving for his
country! Remember, that he will plunge into all that strife, the more
desperately, because he fancies that he was too remiss before! Remember
this, Hortensia; and say, if thou canst, that I have no cause for sad
forebodings!"
"That can I not, my Julia," she replied—"For who is there on earth, who
knoweth what the next sun shall bring forth? The sunshine of to-day, oft
breeds the storm of to-morrow—and, again, from the tempest of the eve, how
oft is born the brightest and most happy morning. Wisest is he, and
happiest, my child, who wraps himself in his own virtue, careless of what
the day shall bring to pass, and confident, that all the shafts of fortune
must rebound, harmless and blunted, from his sure armor of philosophy."
"Must not the heart have bled, Hortensia, before it can so involve itself
in virtue?—must not such philosophy be the tardy offspring of great
sorrow?"
"For the most part I fear it is so, Julia," answered the matron, "but some
souls there are so innocent and quiet, so undisturbed by the outward
world, that they have that, almost by nature, which others only win by
suffering and tears."
"Cold and unfeeling souls, I fancy," replied the girl. "For it appears to
me that this philosophy which smiles on all spite of fortune, must be akin
to selfish and morose indifference. I see not much to love, Hortensia, or
to admire in the stoic!"
"Nor much more, I imagine," said Hortensia, not sorry to draw her mind
from the subject which occupied it so painfully, "in the Epicurean!"
"Much less!" answered Julia, quickly, "his creed is mere madness and
impiety. To believe that the Gods care nothing for the good or evil—ye
Gods!" she interrupted herself suddenly, almost with a shriek. "What is
this? a slave riding, as if for life, on a foaming horse, from the
cityward. Oh! my prophetic soul, Hortensia!"
And she turned pale as death, although she remained quite firm and
self-possessed.
"It may be nothing, Julia; or it may be good tidings," answered Hortensia,
although she was in truth scarce less alarmed, than her daughter, by the
unexpected arrival.
"Good tidings travel not so quickly. Beside, what can there be of good, so
unexpected? But we shall know—we shall know quickly," and she arose, as if
to descend the steps into the garden, but she sank back again into her
seat, crying, "I am faint, I am sick, _here_, Hortensia," and she laid her
hand on her heart as she spoke. "Nay! do not tarry with me, I pray thee,
see what he brings. Anything but the torture of suspense!"
"I go, I go, my child," cried the matron, descending the marble steps to
the lawn, on which the slave had just drawn up his panting horse. "He has
a letter in his hand, be of good courage."
And a moment afterward she cried out joyously, "It is in his hand, Julia,
Paullus Arvina’s hand. Fear nothing."
And with a quick light step, she returned, and gave the little slip of
vellum into the small white hand, which trembled so much, that it scarcely
could receive it.
"A snow-white dove to thee, kind Venus!" cried the girl, raising her eyes
in gratitude to heaven, before she broke the seal.
But as she did so, and read the first lines, her face was again overcast,
and her eyes were dilated with wild terror.
"It is so—it is so—Hortensia! I knew—oh! my soul! I knew it!" and she let
fall the letter, and fell back in her seat almost fainting.
"What?—what?" exclaimed Hortensia. "It is Arvina’s hand—he must be in
life!—what is it, my own Julia?"
"Wounded almost to death!" faltered the girl, in accents half choked with
anguish. "Read! read aloud, kind mother."
Alarmed by her daughter’s suffering and terror, Hortensia caught the
parchment from her half lifeless fingers, and scanning its contents
hastily with her eyes, read as follows;
"Paullus Arvina, to Julia and Hortensia, greeting! Your well known
constancy and courage give me the confidence to write frankly to you,
concealing nothing. Your affection makes me sure, that you will hasten to
grant my request. Last night, in a tumult aroused by the desperate
followers of Catiline, stricken down and severely wounded, I narrowly
missed death. Great thanks are due to the Gods, that the assassin’s weapon
failed to penetrate to my vitals. Be not too much alarmed, however;
Alexion, Cicero’s friend and physician, has visited me; and declares,
that, unless fever supervene, there is no danger from the wound. Still, I
am chained to my couch, wearily, and in pain, with none but slaves about
me. At such times, the heart asks for more tender ministering—wherefore I
pray you, Julia, let not one day elapse; but come to me! Hortensia, by the
Gods! bring her to the city! Catiline hath fled, the peril hath passed
over—but lo! I am growing faint—I can write no more, now—there is a
swimming of my brain, and a cloud over my eyes. Farewell. Come to me
quickly, that it prove not too late—come to me quickly, if you indeed love
ARVINA."
"We will go, Julia. We will go to him instantly," said Hortensia—"but be
of good cheer, poor child. Alexion declares, that there is no danger; and
no one is so wise as he! Be of good cheer, we will set forth this night,
this hour! Ere daybreak, we will be in Rome. Hark, Lydia," she continued,
turning to one of the slave girls, "call me the steward, old Davus. Let
the boy Gota, take the horse of the messenger; and bring thou the man
hither." Then she added, addressing Julia, "I will question him farther,
while they prepare the carpentum! Ho, Davus,"—for the old slave, who was
close at hand, entered forthwith—"Have the mules harnessed, instantly, to
the carpentum, and let the six Thracians, who accompanied us from Rome,
saddle their horses, and take arms. Ill fortune has befallen young Arvina;
we must return to town this night—as speedily as may be."
"Within an hour, Hortensia, all shall be in readiness, on my head be it,
else."
"It is well—and, hark you! send hither wine and bread—we will not wait
until they make supper ready; beside, this youth is worn out with his long
ride, and needs refreshment."
As the steward left the room, she gazed attentively at the young slave,
who had brought the despatch, and, not recognising his features, a half
feeling of suspicion crossed her mind; so that she stooped and whispered
to Julia, who looked up hastily and answered,
"No—no—but what matters it? It is _his_ handwriting, and his signet."
"I do not know," said Hortensia, doubtfully—"I think he would have sent
one of the older men; one whom we knew; I think he would have sent
Medon"—Then she said to the boy, "I have never seen thy face before, I
believe, good youth. How long hast thou served Arvina?"
"Since the Ides of October, Hortensia. He purchased me of Marcus Crassus."
"Purchased thee, Ha?" said Hortensia, yet more doubtfully than
before—"that is strange. His household was large enough already. How came
he then to purchase thee?"
"I was hired out by Crassus, as is his wont to do, to Crispus the
sword-smith, in the Sacred Way—a cruel tyrant and oppressor, whom, when he
was barbarously scourging me for a small error, noble Arvina saw; and
then, finding his intercession fruitless, purchased me, as he said, that
thereafter I should be entreated as a man, not as a beast of burthen."
"It is true! by the Gods!" exclaimed the girl, clasping her hands
enthusiastically, and a bright blush coming up into her pale face. "Had I
been told the action, without the actor’s name, I should have known
therein Arvina."
"Thou shouldst be grateful, therefore, to this good Arvina"—said
Hortensia, gazing at him with a fixed eye, she knew not wherefore, yet
with a sort of dubious presentiment of coming evil.
"Grateful!" cried the youth, clasping his hands fervently together—"ye
Gods! grateful! Hortensia, by your head! I worship him—I would die for
him."
"How came he to send thee on this mission? Why sent he not Medon, or
Euphranor, or one of his elder freedmen?"
"Medon, he could not send, nor Euphranor. It went ill with them both, in
that affray, wherein my lord was wounded. The older slaves keep watch
around his bed; the strongest and most trusty, are under arms in the
Atrium."
"And wert thou with him, in that same affray?"
"I was with him, Hortensia,"
"When fell it out, and for what cause?"
"Hast thou not heard, Hortensia?—has he not told you? by the Gods! I
thought, the world had known it. How before Catiline, may it be ill with
him and his, went forth from the city, he and his friends and followers
attacked the Consuls, on the Palatine, with armed violence. It was fought
through the streets doubtfully, for near three hours; and the fortunes of
the Republic were at stake, and well nigh despaired of, if not lost.
Cicero was down on the pavement, and Catiline’s sword flashing over him,
when, with his slaves and freedmen, my master cut his way through the
ranks of the conspiracy, and bore off the great magistrate unharmed. But,
as he turned, a villain buried his _sica_ in his back, and though he saved
the state, he well nigh lost his life, to win everlasting fame, and the
love of all good citizens!"
"Hast seen him since he was wounded?" exclaimed Julia, who had devoured
every word he uttered, with insatiable longing and avidity.
"Surely," replied the boy. "I received that scroll from his own hands—my
orders from his own lips—’spare not an instant,’ he said, ’Jason; tarry
not, though you kill your steed. If you would have me live, let Julia see
this letter before midnight.’ It lacks as yet, four hours of midnight.
Doth it not, noble Julia?"
"Five, I think. But how looked, how spoke he? Is he in great pain, Jason?
how seemed he, when you left him?"
"He was very pale, Julia—very wan, and his lips ashy white. His voice
faltered very much, moreover, and when he had made an end of speaking, he
swooned away. I heard that he was better somewhat, ere I set out to come
hither; but the physician speaks of fever to be apprehended, on any
irritation or excitement. Should you delay long in visiting him, I fear
the consequences might be perilous indeed."
"Do you hear? do you hear that, Hortensia? By the Gods! Let us go at once!
we need no preparation!"
"We will go, Julia. Old Davus’ hour hath nearly passed already. We will be
in the city before day-break! Fear not, my sweet one, all shall go well
with our beloved Paullus."
"The Gods grant it!"
"Here is wine, Jason," said Hortensia. "Drink, boy, you must needs be
weary after so hard a gallop. You have done well, and shall repose here
this night. To-morrow, when well rested and refreshed, you shall follow us
to Rome."
"Pardon me, lady," said the youth. "I am not weary; love for Arvina hath
prevailed over all weariness! Furnish me, I beseech you, with a fresh
horse; and let me go with you."
"It shall be as you wish," said Hortensia, "but your frame seems too
slender, to endure much labor."
"The Gods have given me a willing heart, Hortensia—and the strong will
makes strong the feeble body."
"Well spoken, youth. Your devotion shall lose you nothing, believe me.
Come, Julia, let us go and array us for the journey. The nights are cold
now, in December, and the passes of the Algidus are bleak and gusty."
The ladies left the room; and, before the hour, which Davus had required,
was spent, they were seated together in the rich carpentum, well wrapped
in the soft many-colored woollen fabrics, which supplied the place of furs
among the Romans—it being considered a relic of barbarism, to wear the
skins of beasts, until the love for this decoration again returned in the
last centuries of the Empire.
Old Davus grasped the reins; two Thracian slaves, well mounted, and armed
with the small circular targets and lances of their native land, gallopped
before the carriage, accompanied by the slave who had brought the message,
while four more similarly equipped brought up the rear; and thus, before
the moon had arisen, travelling at a rapid pace, they cleared the
cultivated country, and were involved in the wild passes of Mount Algidus.
Scarcely, however, had they wound out of sight, when gallopping at mad and
reckless speed, down a wild wood-road on the northern side of the villa,
there came a horseman bestriding a white courser, of rare symmetry and
action, now almost black with sweat, and envelopped with foam-flakes.
The rider was the same singular-looking dark-complexioned boy, who had
overheard the exclamation of Aulus Fulvius, concerning young Arvina,
uttered at the head of the street Argiletum.
His body was bent over the rude saddle-bow with weariness, and he reeled
to and fro, as if he would have fallen from his horse, when he pulled up
at the door of the villa.
"I would speak," he said in a faint and faltering voice, "presently, with
Hortensia—matters of life and death depend on it."
"The Gods avert the omen!" cried the woman, to whom he had addressed
himself, "Hortensia hath gone but now to Rome, with young Julia, on the
arrival of a message from Arvina."
"Too late! too late!"—cried the boy, beating his breast with both hands.
"They are betrayed to death or dishonor!"
"How? what is this? what say you?" cried the chief slave of the farm, a
person of some trust and importance, who had just come up.
"It was a tall slight fair-haired slave who bore the message—he called
himself Jason—he rode a bay horse, did he not?" asked the new comer.
"He was! He did! A bay horse, with one white foot before, and a white star
on his forehead. A rare beast from Numidia, or Cyrenaica," replied the
steward, who was quite at home in the article of horse-flesh.
"He brought tidings that Arvina is sorely wounded?"
"He brought tidings! Therefore it was that they set forth at so short
notice! He left the horse here, and was mounted on a black horse of the
farm."
"Arvina is not wounded! That bay horse is Cethegus’, the conspirator’s!
Arvina hath sent _no_ message! They are betrayed, I tell you, man. Aulus
Fulvius awaits them with a gang of desperadoes in the deep cleft of the
hills, where the cross-road comes in by which you reach the Flaminian from
the Labican way. Arm yourselves speedily and follow, else will they carry
Julia to Catiline’s camp in the Appenines, beside Fiesolé! What there will
befall her, Catiline’s character best may inform you! Come—to arms—men! to
horse, and follow!"
But ignorant of the person of the messenger, lacking an authorized head,
fearful of taking the responsibility, and incurring the reproach, perhaps
the punishment, of credulity, they loitered and hesitated; and, though
they did at length get to horse and set out in pursuit, it was not till
Hortensia’s cavalcade had been gone above an hour.
Meanwhile, unconscious of what had occurred behind them, and eager only to
arrive at Rome as speedily as possible, the ladies journeyed onward, with
full hearts, in silence, and in sorrow.
There is a deep dark gorge in the mountain chain, through which this road
lay, nearly a mile in length; with a fierce torrent on one hand, and a
sheer face of craggy rocks towering above it on the other. Beyond the
torrent, the chesnut woods hung black and gloomy along the precipitous
slopes, with their ragged tree-tops distinctly marked against the clear
obscure of the nocturnal sky.
Midway this gorge, a narrow broken path comes down a cleft in the rocky
wall on the right hand side, as you go toward Rome, by which through a
wild and broken country the Flaminian way can be reached, and by it the
district of Etruria and the famous Val d’Arno.
They had just reached this point, and were congratulating themselves, on
having thus accomplished the most difficult part of their journey, when
the messenger, who rode in front, uttered a long clear whistle.
The twang of a dozen bowstrings followed, from some large blocks of stone
which embarrassed the pass at the junction of the two roads, and both the
Thracians who preceded the carnage, went down, one of them killed
outright, the other, with his horse shot dead under him.
"Ho! Traitor!" shouted the latter, extricating himself from the dead
charger, and hurling his javelin with fatal accuracy at the false slave,
"thou at least shalt not boast of thy villainy! Treachery! treachery! Turn
back, Hortensia! Fly, avus! to me! to me, comrades!"
But with a loud shout, down came young Aulus Fulvius, from the pass,
armed, head to foot, as a Roman legionary soldier—down came the gigantic
smith Caius Crispus, and fifteen men, at least, with blade and buckler, at
his back.
The slaves fought desperately for their mistress’ liberty or life; but the
odds were too great, both in numbers and equipment; and not five minutes
passed, before they were all cut down, and stretched out, dead or dying,
on the rocky floor of the dark defile.
The strife ended, Aulus Fulvius strode quickly to the carpentum, which had
been overturned in the affray, and which his lawless followers were
already ransacking.
One of these wretches, his own namesake Aulus, the sword-smith’s foreman,
had already caught Julia in his licentious grasp, and was about to press
his foul lips to her cheek, when the young patrician snatched her from his
arms, and pushed him violently backward.
"Ho! fool and villain!" he exclaimed, "Barest thou to think such dainties
are for thee? She is sacred to Catiline and vengeance!"
"This one, at least, then!" shouted the ruffian, making at Hortensia.
"Nor that one either!" cried the smith interposing; but as Aulus, the
foreman, still struggled to lay hold of the Patrician lady, he very coolly
struck him across the bare brow with the edge of his heavy cutting sword,
cleaving him down to the teeth—"Nay! then take that, thou fool."—Then
turning to Fulvius, he added; "He was a brawler always, and would have
kept no discipline, now or ever."
"Well done, smith!" replied Aulus Fulvius. "The same fate to all who
disobey orders! We have no time for dalliance now; it will be day ere
long, and we must be miles hence ere it dawns! Bind me Hortensia, firmly,
to yon chesnut tree, stout smith; but do not harm her. We too have
mothers!" he added with a singular revulsion of feeling at such a moment.
"For you, my beauty, we will have you consoled by a warmer lover than that
most shallow-pated fool and sophist, Arvina. Come! I say come! no one
shall harm you!" and without farther words, despite all her struggles and
remonstrances, he bound a handkerchief tightly under her chin to prevent
her cries, wrapped her in a thick crimson pallium, and springing upon his
charger, with the assistance of the smith, placed her before him on the
saddle-cloth, and set off a furious pace, through the steep by-path,
leaving the defile tenanted only by the dying and the dead, with the
exception of Hortensia, who rent the deaf air in vain with frantic cries
of anguish, until at last she fainted, nature being too weak for the
endurance of such prolonged agony.
About an hour afterward, she was released and carried to her Roman
mansion, alive and unharmed in body, but almost frantic with despair, by
the party of slaves who had come up, too late to save her Julia, under the
guidance of the young unknown.
He, when he perceived that his efforts had been useless, and when he
learned how Julia had been carried off by the conspirators, leaving the
party to escort Hortensia, and bear their slaughtered comrades homeward,
rode slowly and thoughtfully away, into the recesses of the wild country
whither Aulus had borne his captive, exclaiming in a low silent voice with
a clinched hand, and eyes turned heavenward, "I will die, ere dishonor
reach her! Aid me! aid me, thou Nemesis—aid me to save, and avenge!"