A lovely garden adjoined the Caesareum, the palace in which Sabina was
residing. Balbilla was fond of lingering there, and as the morning of
the twenty-ninth of December was particularly brilliant--the sky and its
infinite mirror the sea, gleaming in indescribably deep blue, while the
fragrance of a flowering shrub was wafted in at her window like an
invitation to quit the house she had sought a certain bench which, though
placed in a sunny spot, was slightly shaded by an acacia. This seat was
screened from the more public paths by bushes; the promenaders who did
not seek Balbilla could not observe her here, but she could command a
view, through a gap in the foliage, of the path, which was strewn with
small shells.
To-day, however, the young poetess was far from feeling any curiosity;
instead of gazing at the shrubbery enlivened by birds, at the clear
atmosphere or the sparkling sea, her eyes were fixed on a yellow roll of
papyrus and she was impressing very dry details on her retentive memory.
She had determined to keep her word to learn to speak, write, and compose
verses in the Aeolian dialect of the Greek tongue. She had chosen for
her teacher Apollonius, the great grammarian, who was apt to call his
scholars "the dullards;" and the work which was the present object of her
studies was derived from the famous library of the Serapeum, which far
exceeded in completeness that of the Museum since the siege of Julius
Caesar in the Bruchiom, when the great Museum library was burnt.
Any one observing Balbilla at her occupation could hardly have believed
that she was studying. There was no fixed effort in her eyes or on her
brow; still, she read line for line, not skipping a single word; only she
did it not like a man who climbs a mountain with sweat on his brow, but
like a lounger who walks in the main street of some great city, and is
charmed at every new and strange thing that meets his eye. Each time she
came upon some form of structure in the book she was reading that had
been hitherto unknown to her, she was so delighted that she clapped her
hands and laughed out softly. Her learned master had never before met
with so cheerful a student, and it annoyed him, for to him science was a
serious matter while she seemed to make a joke of it, as she did of every
thing, and so desecrated it in his eyes. After she had been sitting an
hour on the bench, studying in her own way, she rolled up the book and
stood up to refresh herself a little. Feeling sure that no one could see
her, she stretched herself in all her limbs and then stepped up to the
gap in the shrubbery in order to see who a man in boots might be who was
pacing up and down in the broad path beyond.
It was the praetor--and yet it was not! Verus, under this aspect at any
rate, she had never seen till now. Where was the smile that was wont to
twinkle in his merry eye like the sparkle of a diamond and to play
saucily about his lips--where the unwrinkled serenity of his brow and the
defiantly audacious demeanor of his whole handsome person? He was slowly
striding up and down with a gloomy fire in his eye, a deeply-lined brow,
and his head sunk on his breast: and yet it was not bowed with sorrow.
If so, could he have snapped his fingers in the air as he did just as he
passed in front of Balbilla, as much as to say: "Come what may! to-day I
live and laugh the future in the face!"
But this vestige of his old reckless audacity did not last longer than
the time it took to part his fingers again, and the next time Verus
passed Balbilla he looked, if possible, more gloomy than before.
Something very unpleasant must have arisen to spoil the good humor of her
friend's husband; and the poetess was sincerely sorry; for, though she
herself had daily to suffer under the praetor's impertinence, she always
forgave it for the sake of the graceful form in which he knew how to
clothe his incivilities.
Balbilla longed to see Verus content once more, and she therefore came
forth from her hiding place. As soon as he saw her he altered the
expression of his features and cried out as brightly as ever:
"Welcome, fairest of the fair!"
She made believe not to recognize him, but, as she passed him and bowed
her curly head, she said gravely and in deep tones:
"Good day to you, Timon."
"Timon?" he asked, taking her hand.
"Ah! is it you, Verus?" she answered, as though surprised. "I thought
the Athenian misanthrope had quitted Hades and come to take the air in
this garden."
"You thought rightly," replied the praetor. "But when Orpheus sings the
trees dance, the Muse can turn dull, motionless stones into a Bacchante,
and when Balbilla appears Timon is at once transformed into the happy
Verus."
"The miracle does not astonish me," laughed the girl. "But is it
permitted to ask what dark spirit so effectually produced the contrary
result, and made a Timon of the fair Lucilla's happy husband?"
"I ought rather to beware of letting you see the monster, or our joyous
muse Balbilla might easily become the sinister Hecate. But the malicious
sprite is close at hand, for he is hidden in this little roll."
"A document from Caesar?"
"Oh! no, only a letter from a Jew."
"Possibly the father of some fair daughter!"
"Wrongly guessed--as wrong as possible!"
"You excite my curiosity."
"Mine has already been satisfied by this roll. Horace is wise when he
says that man should never trouble himself about the future."
"An oracle!"
"Something of the kind."
"And can that darken this lovely morning to you? Did you ever see me
melancholy? Yet my future is threatened by a prophecy--such a hideous
prophecy."
"The fate of men is different to the destiny of women."
"Would you like to hear what was prophesied of me?"
"What a question!"
"Listen then; the saying I will repeat to you came to me from no less an
oracle than the Delphic Pythia:
"'That which thou boldest most precious and dear
Shall be torn from thy keeping,
And from the heights of Olympus,
Down shalt thou fall in the dust.'"
"Is that all?"
"Nay--two consolatory lines follow."
"And they are--?"
"Still the contemplative eye
Discerns under mutable sand drifts
Stable foundations of stone,
Marble and natural rock."
"And you are inclined to complain of this oracle?"
"Is it so pleasant to have to wade through dust? We have enough of that
intolerable nuisance here in Egypt--or am I to be delighted at the
prospect of hurting my feet on hard stones?"
"And what do the interpreters say?"
"Only silly nonsense."
"You have never found the right one; but I--I see the meaning of the
oracle."
"You?"
"Ay, I! The stern Balbilla will at last descend from the lofty Olympus
of her high-anti-mightiness and no longer disdain that immutable
foundation-rock, the adoration of her faithful Verus."
"That foundation--that rock!" laughed the girl. "I should think it as
well advised to try to walk on the surface of the sea out there as on
that rock!"
"Only try."
"It is not necessary; Lucilla has made the experiment for me. Your
interpretation is wrong; Caesar gave me a far better one."
"What was that?"
"That I should give up writing poetry and devote myself to strict
scientific studies. He advised me to try astronomy."
"Astronomy," repeated Verus, growing graver. Farewell, fair one; I
must go to Caesar!"
"We were with him yesterday at Lochias. How everything is changed there!
The pretty little gate house is gone, there is nothing more to be seen of
all the cheerful bustle of builders and artists, and what were gay
workshops are turned into dull, commonplace halls. The screens in the
hall of the Muses had to go a week ago, and with them the young scatter-
brain who set himself against my curls with so much energy that I was on
the point of sacrificing them--"
"Without them you would no longer be Balbilla," cried Verus eagerly.
"The artist condemns all that is not permanently beautiful, but we are
glad to see any thing that is graceful, and can find pleasure in it with
the other children of the time. The sculptor may dress his goddesses
after the fashion of graver days and the laws of his art, but mortal
women--if he is wise--after the fashion of the day. However, I am
heartily sorry for that clever, genial young fellow. He has offended
Caesar and was turned out of the palace, and now he is nowhere to be
found."
"Oh!" cried Balbilla, full of regret, "poor man--and such a fine fellow!
And my bust? we must seek him out. If the opportunity offers I will
entreat Caesar--"
"Hadrian will hear nothing about him. Pollux has offended him deeply."
"From whom do you know that?"
"From Antinous."
"We saw him, too, only yesterday," cried Balbilla, eagerly.
"If ever a man was permitted to wear the form of a god among mortals, it
is he."
"Romantic creature!"
"I know no one who could look upon him with indifference. He is a
beautiful dreamer, and the trace of suffering which we observed yesterday
in his countenance is probably nothing more than the outward expression
of that obscure regret, felt by all that is perfect, for the joy of
development and conscious ripening into an incarnation of the ideal in
its own kind, of which he is an instance in himself."
The poetess spoke the last words in a rapt tone, as if the form of a god
was then and there before her eyes. Verus had listened to her with a
smile, but now he interrupted her, and, holding up a warning finger, he
said:
"Poetess, philosopher, and sweetest maiden, beware of descending from
your Olympus for the sake of this boy! When imagination and dreaminess
meet half-way they make a pair which float in the clouds and never even
suspect the existence of that firmer ground of which your oracle speaks."
"Nonsense," said Balbilla crossly. "Before we can fall in love with a
statue, Prometheus must animate it with a soul and fire from heaven."
"But often," retorted the praetor, "Eros proves to be a substitute for
that unhappy friend of the gods."
"The true or the sham Eros," asked Balbilla testily.
"Certainly not the sham Eros," replied Verus. "On this occasion he
merely plays the part of a kindly monitor, taking the place of Pontius,
the architect, of whom your worthy matron-companion is so much afraid.
During the tumult of the Dionysiac festival you are reported to have
carried on as grave a discussion as any two gray-bearded philosophers
walking in the Stoa among attentive students."
"With intelligent men, no doubt, we talk with intelligence!"
"Aye, and with stupid ones gayly. How much reason have I to be thankful
that I am one of the stupid ones. Farewell, till we meet again, fair
Balbilla," and the praetor hurried off.
Outside the Caesareum he got into his chariot and set out for Lochias.
The charioteer held the reins, while he himself gazed at the roll in his
hand which contained the result of the calculations of the astrologer,
Rabbi Simeon Ben Jochai; and this was certainly likely enough to disturb
the cheerfulness of the most reckless of men.
When, during the night which preceded the praetor's birthday, the Emperor
should study the heavens with special reference to the position of the
stars at his birth, he would find that, as far as till the end of the
second hour after midnight all the favorable planets promised Verus a
happy lot, success and distinction. But, with the commencement of the
third hour--so said Ben Jochai--misfortune and death would take
possession of his house of destiny; in the fourth hour his star would
vanish, and anything further that might declare itself in the sky during
that night would have nothing more to do with him, or his destiny. The
Emperor's star would triumph over his. Verus could make out but little
of the signs and calculations in the tables annexed by the Jew, but that
little confirmed what was told in the written statement.
The praetor's horses carried him swiftly along while he reflected on what
remained for him to do under these unfavorable circumstances, in order
not to be forced to give up entirely the highest goal of his ambition.
If the Rabbi's observations were accurate--and of this Verus did not for
a moment doubt--all his hopes of adoption were at an end in spite of
Sabina's support. How should Hadrian choose for his son and successor a
man who was destined to die before him? How could he, Verus, expect that
Caesar should ally his fortunate star with the fatal star of another
doomed to die?
These reflections did nothing to help him, and yet he could not escape
from them, till suddenly his charioteer pulled up the horses abruptly by
the side of the footway to make room for a delegation of Egyptian priests
who were going in procession to Lochias. The powerful hand with which
his servant had promptly controlled the fiery spirit of the animals
excited his approbation, and seemed to inspire him to put a clog boldly
on the wheels of speeding fate. When they were no longer detained by the
Egyptian delegates he desired the charioteer to drive slowly, for he
wished to gain time for consideration.
"Until the third hour after midnight," said he to himself. "all is to go
well; it is not till the fourth hour that signs are to appear in the sky
which are of evil augury for me. Of course the sheep will play round the
dead lion, and the ass will even spurn him with his hoof so long as he is
merely sick. In the short space of time between the third and fourth
hours all the signs of evil are crowded together. They must be visible;
but"--and this "but" brought sudden illumination to the praetor's mind,
"why should Caesar see them?"
The anxious aspirant's heart beat faster, his brain worked more actively,
and he desired the driver to make a short circuit, for he wanted to gain
yet more time for the ideas that were germinating in his mind to grow and
ripen.
Verus was no schemer; he walked in at the front door with a free and
careless step, and scorned to climb the backstairs. Only for the
greatest object and aim of his life was he prepared to sacrifice his
inclinations, his comfort and his pride, and to make unhesitating use of
every means at hand. For the sake of that he had already done many
things which he regretted, and the man who steals one sheep out of the
flock is followed by others without intending it. The first degrading
action that a man commits is sure to be followed by a second and a third.
What Verus was now projecting he regarded as being a simple act of self-
defence; and after all, it consisted merely in detaining Hadrian for an
hour, interrupting him in an idle occupation--the observation of the
stars.
There were two men who might be helpful to him in this matter--Antinous
and the slave Mastor. He first thought of Mastor; but the Sarmatian was
faithfully devoted to his master and could not be bribed. And besides!--
No! it really was too far beneath him to make common cause with a slave.
But he could count even less on support from Antinous. Sabina hated her
husband's favorite, and for her sake Verus had never met the young
Bithynian on particularly friendly terms. He fancied, too, that he had
observed that the quiet, dreamy lad kept out of his way. It was only by
intimidation, probably, that the favorite could be induced to do him a
service.
At any rate, the first thing to be done was to visit Lochias and there to
keep a lookout with his eyes wide open. If the Emperor were in a happy
frame of mind he might, perhaps, be induced to appear during the latter
part of the night at the banquet which Verus was giving on the eve of his
birthday, and at which all that was beautiful to the eye and ear was to
be seen and heard; or a thousand favoring and helpful accidents might
occur--and at any rate the Rabbi's forecast furnished him good fortune
for the next few years.
As he dismounted from his chariot in the newly-paved forecourt and was
conducted to the Emperor's anteroom he looked as bright and free from
care as if the future lay before him sunny and cloudless.
Hadrian now occupied the restored palace, not as an architect from Rome
but as sovereign of the world; he had shown himself to the Alexandrians
and had been received with rejoicings and an unheard-of display in his
honor. The satisfaction caused by the imperial visit was everywhere
conspicuous and often found expression in exaggerated terms; indeed the
council had passed a resolution to the effect that the month of December,
being that in which the city had had the honor of welcoming the
'Imperator,' should henceforth be called:
"Hadrianus." The Emperor had to receive one deputation after another and
to hold audience after audience, and on the following morning the
dramatic representations were to begin, the processions and games which
promised to last through many days, or--as Hadrian himself expressed it--
to rob him of at least a hundred good hours. Notwithstanding, the
monarch found time to settle all the affairs of the state, and at night
to question the stars as to the fate which awaited him and his dominions
during all the seasons of the new year now so close at hand.
The aspect of the palace at Lochias was entirely changed. In the place
of the gay little gate-house stood a large tent of gorgeous purple stuff,
in which the Emperor's body-guard was quartered, and opposite to it
another was pitched for lictors and messengers. The stables were full of
horses. Hadrian's own horse, Borysthenes, which had had too long a rest,
pawed and stamped impatiently in a separate stall, and close at hand the
Emperor's retrievers, boar-hounds and harriers were housed in hastily-
contrived yards and kennels.
In the wide space of the first court soldiers were encamped, and close
under the walls squatted men and women--Egyptians, Greeks and Hebrews--
who desired to offer petitions to the sovereign. Chariots drove in and
out, litters came and went, chamberlains and other officials hurried
hither and thither. The anterooms were crowded with men of the upper
classes of the citizens who hoped to be granted audience by the Emperor
at the proper hour. Slaves, who offered refreshments to those who waited
or stood idly looking on, were to be seen in every room, and official
persons, with rolls of manuscript under their arms, bustled into the
inner rooms or out of the palace to carry into effect the orders of their
superior.
The hall of the Muses had been turned into a grand banqueting-hall.
Papias, who was now on his way to Italy by the Emperor's command, had
restored the damaged shoulder of the Urania. Couches and divans stood
between the statues, and under a canopy at the upper end of the vast room
stood a throne on which Hadrian sat when he held audience. On these
occasions he always appeared in the purple, but in his writing-room,
which he had not changed for another, he laid aside the imperial mantle
and was no more splendid in his garb than the architect Claudius Venator
had been.
In the rooms that had belonged to the deceased Keraunus now dwelt an
Egyptian without wife or children--a stern and prudent man who had done
good service as house-steward to the prefect Titianus, and the living-
room of the evicted family now looked dreary and uninhabited. The mosaic
pavement which had indirectly caused the death of Keraunus, was now on
its way to Rome, and the new steward had not thought it worth while to
fill up the empty, dusty, broken-up place which had been left in the
floor of his room by the removal of the work of art, nor even to cover it
over with mats. Not a single cheerful note was audible in the abandoned
dwelling but the twitter of the birds which still came morning and
evening to perch on the balcony, for Arsinoe and the children had never
neglected to strew the parapet with crumbs for them at the end of each
meal.
All that was gracious, all that was attractive in the old palace had
vanished at Sabina's visit, and even Hadrian himself was a different man
to what he had been a few days previously. The dignity with which he
appeared in public was truly imperial and unapproachable, and even when
he sat with his intimates in his favorite room he was grave, gloomy and
taciturn. The oracle, the stars, and other signs announced some terrible
catastrophe for the coming year with a certainty that he could not evade;
and the few careless days that he had been permitted to enjoy at Lochias
had ended with unsatisfactory occurrences.
His wife, whose bitter nature struck him in all its repellent harshness
here in Alexandria--where everything assumed sharper outlines and more
accentuated movement than in Rome--had demanded of him boldly that he
should no longer defer the adoption of the praetor.
He was anxious and unsatisfied; the infinite void in his heart yawned
before him whenever he looked into his soul, and at every glance at the
future of his external life a long course of petty trifles started up
before him which could not fail to stand in the way of his unwearying
impulse to work. Even the vegetative existence of his handsome favorite
Antinous, untroubled as it was by the sorrows or the joys of life, had
undergone a change. The youth was often moody, restless and sad. Some
foreign influences seemed to have affected him, for he was no longer
content to hang about his person like a shadow; no, he yearned for
liberty, had stolen into the city several times, seeking there the
pleasures of his age which formerly he had avoided.
Nay, a change had even come over his cheerful and willing slave Mastor.
Only his hound remained always the same in unaltered fidelity.
And he himself? He was the same to-day as ten years since: different
every day and at every hour of the day.