JUCUNDUS AT SUPPER.
The house of Jucundus was closed for the night when Juba reached it, or
you would see, were you his companion, that it was one of the most showy
shops in Sicca. It was the image-store of the place, and set out for sale,
not articles of statuary alone, but of metal, of mosaic work, and of
jewellery, as far as they were dedicated to the service of paganism. It
was bright with the many colours adopted in the embellishment of images,
and the many lights which silver and gold, brass and ivory, alabaster,
gypsum, talc, and glass reflected. Shelves and cabinets were laden with
wares; both the precious material, and the elaborated trinket. All tastes
were suited, the popular and the refined, the fashion of the day and the
love of the antique, the classical and the barbarian devotion. There you
might see the rude symbols of invisible powers, which, originating in
deficiency of art, had been perpetuated by reverence for the past: the
mysterious cube of marble sacred among the Arabs, the pillar which was the
emblem of Mercury or Bacchus, the broad-based cone of Heliogabalus, the
pyramid of Paphos, and the tile or brick of Juno.
There, too, were the unmeaning blocks of stone with human heads, which
were to be dressed out in rich robes, and to simulate the human form.
There were other articles besides, as portable as these were unmanageable:
little Junos, Mercuries, Dianas, and Fortunas, for the bosom or the
girdle. Household gods were there, and the objects of personal devotion:
Minerva or Vesta, with handsome niches or shrines in which they might
reside. There, too, were the brass crowns, or _nimbi_ which were intended
to protect the heads of the gods from bats and birds. There you might buy,
were you a heathen, rings with heads on them of Jupiter, Mars, the Sun,
Serapis, and above all Astarte. You would find there the rings and signets
of the Basilidians; amulets too of wood or ivory: figures of demons,
preternaturally ugly; little skeletons, and other superstitious devices.
It would be hard, indeed, if you could not be pleased, whatever your
religious denomination—unless indeed you were determined to reject all the
appliances and objects of idolatry indiscriminately—and in that case you
would rejoice that it was night when you arrived there, and, in
particular, that darkness swallowed up other appliances and objects of
pagan worship, which to darkness were due by a particular title, and by
darkness were best shrouded, till the coming of that day when all things,
good and evil, shall be made light.
The shop, as we have said, was closed, concealed from view by large
lumbering shutters, and made secure by heavy bars of wood. So we must
enter by the passage or vestibule on the right side, and that will conduct
us into a modest _atrium_, with an _impluvium_ on one side, and on the
other the _triclinium_ or supper-room, backing the shop. Jucundus had been
pleasantly engaged in a small supper-party; and, mindful that a
_symposium_ should lie within the number of the Graces and of the Muses,
he had confined his guests to two, the young Greek Aristo, who was one of
his principal artists, and Cornelius the son of a freedman of a Roman of
distinction, who had lately got a place in one of the _scrinia_ of the
proconsular _officium_, and had migrated into the province from the
imperial city where he had spent his best days.
The dinner had not been altogether suitable to modern ideas of good
living. The grapes from Tacape, and the dates from the lake Tritonis, the
white and black figs, the nectarines and peaches, and the watermelons,
address themselves to the imagination of an Englishman, as well as of an
African of the third century. So also might the liquor derived from the
sap or honey of the Getulian palm, and the sweet wine, called _melilotus_,
made from the poetical fruit found upon the coast of the Syrtis. He would
have been struck, too, with the sweetness of the mutton; but he would have
asked what the sheep’s tails were before he tasted them, and found how
like marrow the firm substance ate of which they consisted. He would have
felt he ought to admire the roes of mullets, pressed and dried, from
Mauritania; but he would have thought twice before he tried the lion
cutlets though they had the flavour of veal, and the additional _goût_ of
being imperial property, and poached from a preserve. But when he saw the
indigenous dish, the very haggis and cock-a-leekie of Africa, in the shape
of—(alas! alas! it _must_ be said, with whatever apology for its
introduction)—in shape, then, of a delicate puppy, served up with
tomatoes, with its head between its fore-paws, we consider he would have
risen from the unholy table, and thought he had fallen upon the
hospitality of some sorceress of the neighbouring forest. However, to that
festive board our Briton was not invited, for he had some previous
engagement that evening, either of painting himself with woad, or of
hiding himself to the chin in the fens; so that nothing occurred to
disturb the harmony of the party, and the good humour and easy
conversation which was the effect of such excellent cheer.
Cornelius had been present at the Secular Games in the foregoing year, and
was full of them, of Rome, and of himself in connection with it, as became
so genuine a cockney of the imperial period. He was full of the high
patriotic thoughts which so solemn a celebration had kindled within him.
“O great Rome!” he said, “thou art first, and there is no second. In that
wonderful pageant which these eyes saw last year was embodied her majesty,
was promised her eternity. We die, she lives. I say, _let_ a man die. It’s
well for him to take hemlock, or open a vein, after having seen the
Secular Games. What was there to live for? I felt it; life was gone; its
best gifts flat and insipid after that great day. Excellent—Tauromenian, I
suppose? We know it in Rome. Fill up my cup. I drink to the genius of the
emperor.”
He was full of his subject, and soon resumed it. “Fancy the Campus Martius
lighted up from one end to the other. It was the finest thing in the
world. A large plain, covered, not with streets, not with woods, but
broken and crossed with superb buildings in the midst of groves, avenues
of trees, and green grass, down to the water’s edge. There’s nothing that
isn’t there. Do you want the grandest temples in the world, the most
spacious porticoes, the longest racecourses? there they are. Do you want
_gymnasia_? there they are. Do you want arches, statues, obelisks? you
find them there. There you have at one end the stupendous mausoleum of
Augustus, cased with white marble, and just across the river the huge
towering mound of Hadrian. At the other end you have the noble Pantheon of
Agrippa, with its splendid Syracusan columns, and its dome glittering with
silver tiles. Hard by are the baths of Alexander, with their beautiful
groves. Ah! my good friend! I shall have no time to drink if I go on.
Beyond are the numerous chapels and fanes which fringe the base of the
Capitoline hill; the tall column of Antoninus comes next, with its
adjacent basilica, where is kept the authentic list of the provinces of
the empire, and of the governors, each a king in power and dominion, who
are sent out to them. Well, I am now only beginning. Fancy, I say, this
magnificent region all lighted up; every temple to and fro, every bath,
every grove, gleaming with innumerable lamps and torches. No, not even the
gods of Olympus have anything that comes near it. Rome is the greatest of
all divinities. In the dead of night all was alive; then it was, when
nature sleeps exhausted, Rome began the solemn sacrifices to commemorate
her thousand years. On the banks of the Tiber, which had seen Æneas land,
and Romulus ascend to the gods, the clear red flame shot up as the victims
burned. The music of ten thousand horns and flutes burst forth, and the
sacred dances began upon the greensward. I am too old to dance; but, I
protest, even I stood up and threw off. We danced through three nights,
dancing the old millenary out, dancing the new millenary in. We were all
Romans, no strangers, no slaves. It was a solemn family feast, the feast
of all the Romans.”
“Then we came in for the feast,” said Aristo; “for Caracalla gave Roman
citizenship to all freemen all over the world. We are all of us Romans,
recollect, Cornelius.”
“Ah! that was another matter—a condescension,” answered Cornelius. “Yes,
in a certain sense, I grant it; but it was a political act.”
“I warrant you,” retorted Aristo, “most political. We were to be fleeced,
do you see? so your imperial government made us Romans, that we might have
the taxes of Romans, and that in addition to our own. You’ve taxed us
double; and as for the privilege of citizenship, much it is, by Hercules,
when every snob has it who can wear a _pileus_ or cherish his hair.”
“Ah! but you should have seen the procession from the Capitol,” continued
Cornelius, “on, I think, the second day; from the Capitol to the Circus,
all down the Via Sacra. Hosts of strangers there, and provincials from the
four corners of the earth, but not in the procession. There you saw, all
in one _coup-d’œil_, the real good blood of Rome, the young blood of the
new generation, and promise of the future; the sons of patrician and
consular families, of imperators, orators, conquerors, statesmen. They
rode at the head of the procession, fine young fellows, six abreast; and
still more of them on foot. Then came the running horses and the chariots,
the boxers, the wrestlers, and other combatants, all ready for the
competition. The whole school of gladiators then turned out, boys and all,
with their masters, dressed in red tunics, and splendidly armed. They
formed three bands, and they went forward gaily, dancing and singing the
Pyrrhic. By-the-bye, a thousand pair of gladiators fought during the
games—a round thousand, and such clean-made, well-built fellows, and they
came against each other so gallantly! You should have seen it; _I_ can’t go
through it. There was a lot of satyrs, jumping and frisking, in burlesque
of the martial dances which preceded them. There was a crowd of trumpeters
and horn-blowers; ministers of the sacrifices with their victims, bulls
and rams, dressed up with gay wreaths; drivers, butchers, haruspices,
heralds; images of gods with their cars of ivory or silver, drawn by tame
lions and elephants. I can’t recollect the order. O! but the grandest
thing of all was the Carmen, sung by twenty-seven noble youths, and as
many noble maidens, taken for the purpose from the bosoms of their
families to propitiate the gods of Rome. The flamens, augurs, colleges of
priests, it was endless. Last of all came the emperor himself.”
“That’s the late man,” observed Jucundus, “Philip; no bad riddance his
death, if all’s true that’s said of him.”
“All emperors are good in their time and way,” answered Cornelius; “Philip
was good then, and Decius is good now;—whom the gods preserve!”
“True,” said Aristo, “I understand; an emperor cannot do wrong, except in
dying, and then everything goes wrong with him. His death is his first bad
deed; he ought to be ashamed of it; it somehow turns all his great virtues
into vices.”
“Ah! no one was so good an emperor as our man, Gordianus,” said Jucundus,
“a princely old man, living and dead; patron of trade and of the arts;
such villas! he had enormous revenues. Poor old gentleman! and his son
too. I never shall forget the day when the news came that he was gone. Let
me see, it was shortly after that old fool Strabo’s death—I mean my
brother; a good thirteen years ago. All Africa was in tears; there was no
one like Gordianus.”
“That’s old world philosophy,” said Aristo; “Jucundus, you must go to
school. Don’t you see that all that is, is right; and all that was, is
wrong? ‘Te nos facimus, Fortuna, deam,’ says your poet; well, I drink ‘to
the fortunes of Rome,’—while it lasts.”
“You’re a young man,” answered Cornelius, “a very young man, and a Greek.
Greeks never understand Rome. It’s most difficult to understand us. It’s a
science. Look at this medal, young gentleman; it was one of those struck
at the games. Is it not grand? ‘Novum sæculum,’ and on the reverse,
‘Æternitati.’ Always changing, always imperishable. Emperors rise and
fall; Rome remains. The eternal city! Isn’t this good philosophy?”
“Truly, a most beautiful medal,” said Aristo, examining it, and handing it
on to his host. “You might make an amulet of it, Jucundus. But as to
eternity, why, that is a very great word; and, if I mistake not, other
states have been eternal before Rome. Ten centuries is a very respectable
eternity; be content, Rome is eternal already, and may die without
prejudice to the medal.”
“Blaspheme not,” replied Cornelius: “Rome is healthier, more full of life,
and promises more, than at any former time, you may rely upon it. ‘Novum
sæculum!’ she has the age of the eagle, and will but cast her feathers to
begin a fresh thousand.”
“But Egypt,” interposed Aristo, “if old Herodotus speaks true, scarcely
had a beginning. Up and up, the higher you go, the more dynasties of
Egyptian kings do you find. And we hear strange reports of the nations in
the far east, beyond the Ganges.”
“But I tell you, man,” rejoined Cornelius, “Rome is a city of kings. That
one city, in this one year, has as many kings at once as those of all the
kings of all the dynasties of Egypt put together. Sesostris, and the rest
of them, what are they to imperators, prefects, proconsuls, _vicarii_, and
_rationales_? Look back at Lucullus, Cæsar, Pompey, Sylla, Titus, Trajan.
What’s old Cheops’ pyramid to the Flavian amphitheatre? What is the
many-gated Thebes to Nero’s golden house, while it was? What the grandest
palace of Sesostris or Ptolemy but a second-rate villa of any one of ten
thousand Roman citizens? Our houses stand on acres of ground, they ascend
as high as the Tower of Babylon; they swarm with columns like a forest;
they pullulate into statues and pictures. The walls, pavements, and
ceilings are dazzling from the lustre of the rarest marble, red and
yellow, green and mottled. Fountains of perfumed water shoot aloft from
the floor, and fish swim in rocky channels round about the room, waiting
to be caught and killed for the banquet. We dine; and we feast on the head
of the ostrich, the brains of the peacock, the liver of the bream, the
milk of the murena, and the tongue of the flamingo. A flight of doves,
nightingales, beccaficoes are concentrated into one dish. On great
occasions we eat a phœnix. Our saucepans are of silver, our dishes of
gold, our vases of onyx, and our cups of precious stones. Hangings and
carpets of Tyrian purple are around us and beneath us, and we lie on ivory
couches. The choicest wines of Greece and Italy crown our goblets, and
exotic flowers crown our heads. In come troops of dancers from Lydia, or
pantomimes from Alexandria, to entertain both eye and mind; or our noble
dames and maidens take a place at our tables; they wash in asses’ milk,
they dress by mirrors as large as fish-ponds, and they glitter from head
to foot with combs, brooches, necklaces, collars, ear-rings, armlets,
bracelets, finger-rings, girdles, stomachers, and anklets, all of diamond
and emerald. Our slaves may be counted by thousands, and they come from
all parts of the world. Everything rare and precious is brought to Rome:
the gum of Arabia, the nard of Assyria, the papyrus of Egypt, the
citron-wood of Mauretania, the bronze of Ægina, the pearls of Britain, the
cloth of gold of Phrygia, the fine webs of Cos, the embroidery of Babylon,
the silks of Persia, the lion-skins of Getulia, the wool of Miletus, the
plaids of Gaul. Thus we live, an imperial people, who do nothing but enjoy
themselves and keep festival the whole year; and at length we die—and then
we burn: we burn—in stacks of cinnamon and cassia, and in shrouds of
_asbestos_, making emphatically a good end of it. Such are we Romans, a
great people. Why, we are honoured wherever we go. There’s my master,
there’s myself; as we came here from Italy, I protest we were nearly
worshipped as demi-gods.”
“And perhaps some fine morning,” said Aristo, “Rome herself will burn in
cinnamon and cassia, and in all her burnished Corinthian brass and scarlet
bravery, the old mother following her children to the funeral pyre. One
has heard something of Babylon, and its drained moat, and the soldiers of
the Persian.”
A pause occurred in the conversation as one of Jucundus’s slaves entered
with fresh wine, larger goblets, and a vase of snow from the Atlas.