"Finally my brethren be strong."--EPHESIANS VI. 10.
The younger men were still inclined to rebel. They felt that they were
in great numbers and that they were strong: they believed--with that
optimism of excited youth--that their will must prevail in the end. In
their opinion the Cæsar had done nothing to atone for his crime against
the praefect of Rome, or for his dastardly cringing before the power of
his people.
But the older men, those who had mayhap more than once witnessed street
rioting and the bloody reprisals that invariably followed open
rebellion--they counselled prudence, an acceptance of what had come
about, since the imperial decree had been fixed to the rostrum of the
great Augustus, promising pardon for all delinquencies.
And--what would you?--but was not the praefect of Rome dead? The
consul-major had stated it positively to all those who asked the
question of him, and he had it on the positive authority of Folces, the
praefect's most trusted slave. It was the consul-major who, preceded by
his lictors, had caused the imperial decree to be read out aloud to the
people of Rome from the topmost steps of the Temple of Mars, and it was
he who had then ordered the decree to be affixed to the wall of the
rostrum. The consul-major had received the precious parchment at the
hands of the special messenger sent by the Cæsar himself: that messenger
was none other than Folces, and he had stated positively that the
praefect of Rome was dead.
It was useless to demand that a man be proclaimed to the principate if
that man be dead. True that some of the malcontents--those young men who
were hot-headed and whose raging tempers were not easily curbed--refused
to accept the news and loudly demanded the body of the hero so that
divine honours might be accorded to it, to the lifelong shame of the
Cæsar who had so basely murdered him.
But the praetor urbanus had declared that the body of the praefect could
not be found, and the rumour had gained ground that it had been defiled
and thrown to the dogs. A sullen discontent reigned amongst the people
for this, and it could not be allayed by all the promises of pardon and
of rejoicings which the imperial proclamation decreed.
There had been some calls too for Dea Flavia. The Cæsar had nominated
his successor to the imperium in the Circus the other day. If the
Augusta would but make her choice, the people would perhaps be ready to
accept her lord now as Consort Imperii, with the ultimate hope that a
just and brave man would succeed to the principate in due course.
But no sound had as yet come from the house of Dea Flavia, and the
people hung about the Forum in desultory groups, discussing the
situation. That the gods had intervened in the Cæsar's favour no one
could reasonably doubt. Even whilst the anger of the populace was at its
height and dense masses had surrounded his palace to which he had been
known to flee, he had been spirited away out of the city. His
proclamation had come from Etruria, showing that he was already far from
his city and on his way to join his legions.
How did he succeed in making a way for himself through the dense masses
that had thronged the streets for nigh on forty-eight hours, since
first the tumult broke out in the Circus when the praefect of Rome was
stabbed?
Had Jupiter sent down his thunders yesterday, his lowering clouds and
heavy showers of rain, only in order to aid the Cæsar in his progress?
What hand had guided him down the declivities of the Palatine? What arm
shielded him from the anger of the people?
Dea Flavia had heard the news even as soon as the first hour of the day
had been called. Yesterday, bruised in mind and heart and body, she had
lain for close on an hour in a dreamless, semi-conscious state. It was
only when she awoke from that that the knowledge of her misery returned
to her in full.
She had found love, happiness, pride, all that makes life exquisite and
fair, only to lose all these treasures even before she had had time to
grasp them.
Love had been called to life by the look, the touch of one man,
happiness had come when she saw the love-light in his eyes, born in
response to hers: pride came with all the rich gifts which she could
lavish upon him. Now everything was gone, he had taken everything from
her, even as he gave it; and he took everything in order to offer it as
a sacrifice to his God.
Now her heart was numbed and her brain tried in vain to conjure up the
images of yesterday: the happy moments when she had lain against the
noblest heart in Rome. But the only vision that her dulled senses could
perceive was that of dying Menecreta speaking that awful curse, or of
herself--Dea Flavia--gazing with eyes of anger and of pride into vacancy
wherein her imagination had traced a glowing cross, and uttering words
of defiance that seemed so futile, so sacrilegious now.
The storm then had obscured the sky, drove the rain in heavy patter
overhead, the air was dismal and dark: now a brilliant sunshine flooded
the imperial city with its radiance, the wet marble glistened in the
dawn and a roseate hue tipped the seven hills of Rome with glory. But in
Dea Flavia's heart there was sorrow darker than the blackest night,
sleep forsook her eyelids, and all night long she tossed about
restlessly on her couch listening to the sounds that came from the city
in rebellion, counting them out as they died away one by one.
She had gone to her room quite early in the day; her guests she knew
were being well looked after, and she could not bear to remain in the
studio whose every corner reminded her of that powerful personality
which had lately filled it, and whose very walls still echoed with the
sound of that rough voice, rendered at times so exquisitely tender.
Blanca attended on her and put her to bed for she could not bear to have
Licinia near her. The old woman's gossip jarred upon her nerves and she
was physically afraid to hear indifferent lips utter the name of the
praefect of Rome.
Only the call, "Hail Taurus Antinor Cæsar! Hail!" which still came half
the night through from afar dulled her agony of mind for a few seconds
when it struck upon her ear. It set her wondering, thus allowing her
momentarily to forget her misery. Then she would lie, wide-eyed, looking
upwards and pondering.
Who was this god whom Taurus Antinor worshipped?
Who was he and what had he done? All she knew was that he had died upon
a cross, the most ignominious death mortal man could suffer, and the
praefect of Rome, the proud Roman patrician, had been content to obey
him as a slave.
Who was he and what had he done? On this she pondered half the night
through, while fever coursed through her veins and her brows were moist
and aching, her heart palpitating with pain.
The dawn found her wearied and sick. But she rose when Blanca came to
her in the first hour. She summoned Licinia and all her women and
ordered them to dress her in one of her richest robes. She looked very
girlish and very pale when she stood decked out in the embroidered tunic
which she had chosen; it was of a soft material, clinging to her
graceful figure in long straight folds, there was some elaborate
embroidery round the hem, below which her feet peeped out clothed in
sandals of gilt leather.
When she was dressed she went out into the atrium and then sent word to
the praetorian praefect and his friends that she was ready to receive
them.
Some of the news from the busy world outside had already reached her
ears. Licinia was not like to be chary in imparting to her mistress the
scraps of gossip which she had collected.
The Cæsar was outside the city, he would in due time return to Rome at
the head of his legions, and in the meanwhile he had by a comprehensive
and gracious act of clemency pardoned all those who had offended against
his majesty.
The noble patricians who yesterday had already deposed him, and had
called on her to name his successor, had been foiled in their ambitious
schemes by the very man whom she--Dea Flavia--would have set upon the
throne.
And once more that one all-absorbing puzzle confronted her: who and what
was this god who had exacted this all-embracing sacrifice?
She wandered somewhat aimlessly through the halls, for the great lords
were not yet ready to appear before her, and as she crossed the atrium
and went into the peristylium, looking with somewhat wistful longing
toward the open portals of the vestibule and the vista of open air and
sky from whence a breath of pure fresh air struck pleasingly on her
nostrils, she saw that in spite of the early hour a large number of the
poorer clients, suppliants at the door of the great Augusta, had already
assembled there.
Foremost amongst them was an elderly man dressed in the plain garb of a
slave, and wearing, embroidered on his tunic, the badge that proclaimed
him in the service of the praefect of Rome.
The man appeared to be very insistent, and to be receiving in
consequence, somewhat rough treatment from the janitors. Dea Flavia
turned to one of her own slaves and ordered the man to be brought to her
presence in her studio where she would receive him.
The man told the janitors that his name was Folces, that he belonged to
the praefect of Rome and desired speech with the Augusta. He walked in
very humbly, with back bent nearly double, and when he was shown into
the studio where the Augusta sat alone he fell on both knees before her.
"Thy name is Folces, I am told," she began graciously, "and thou art of
the household of the praefect of Rome?"
"I attend upon his person, gracious lady," replied the man.
"And thou hast brought me a message from him?" she asked, even as with
this hope her heart began to beat violently in her breast.
"Not from him, gracious lady," said Folces humbly, "for the praefect of
Rome is dead."
"Who told thee that he was dead?" she asked.
"Taurus Antinor named Anglicanus," replied the man simply; "he sent me
my freedom this night and a message to lay at the feet of Dea Flavia
Augusta."
"Give me the message," she said.
Still on his knees, Folces fumbled in the folds of his mantle and from
his breast he drew a roll of parchment which he offered to the Augusta.
"Rise, Folces, and go while I read," she said; "wait outside the door
till I do summon thee."
She waited until the man had closed the heavy door behind him: she
wanted to be alone with these last words which he had penned for her.
Now she untied the string that held the roll together, then she unfolded
the parchment and read:
"Idol of my soul, beloved of my heart. Aroused from dreams of
thee, my wakening soul takes its last flight to thy feet. This is
farewell, my dear, dear heart, even as my hand pens the word the
dawn around me turns to the likeness of the night, and it is
peopled with all the sorrows that wear out the heartstrings
slowly, one by one. The Cæsar is safe. Even as I write he starts
forth on his way to join his legions. Having left him in charge
of those who do not know how to betray, I succeeded in the night
in reaching the detachment of the praetorian guard encamped
around the Circus: a small company of them returned with me to
the lonely house on the Aventine, and from thence at break of day
they started with the Cæsar toward Etruria, where the legions
home from the expedition against the Allemanni were still known to
abide. In three or four days, or mayhap five, the Cæsar will
re-enter his city. His proclamation of pardon is so worded that
his keeping of his word is closely bound up both with his honour
and with his personal safety. The people therefore have naught to
fear from his vengeance: those who have more actively conspired
against him, and who would have drawn thee in their selfish
schemes, have time before them to put themselves and their
belongings out of the immediate reach of the Cæsar. Tell them to
live in retirement as far from Rome as they can until such time
as the events of the past few days have been erased from the
tablets of memory.
"The Cæsar is safe, and I, dear heart, do bid thee a last
farewell. When I parted from thee yesterday we both knew then
that the parting would be for ever; even though thine exquisite
hands clung to me and twined themselves round the very fibres of
my soul, and thy voice called me back with the ineffable
sweetness of thy love, I knew that it would be for ever. The
Cæsar will never forgive me that I witnessed his abject
humiliation. Even at dawn, when he stood surrounded by his
praetorian guard, as secure from danger as human agency could
make him, a gleam of hatred shone in his eyes whenever he looked
on me. He never would give thee to me, dear heart, and would vent
his wrath also upon thy dear head. 'Tis better that he too should
think me dead, for dead will I be to Rome and to the people among
whom my name might yet give cause for strife and for discontent.
"The Cæsar is safe, and I can go my ways in peace. He hath no
longer need of me but my Lord hath called and I His servant must
take up my cross and follow Him. The priceless gifts which thy
pure hands did hold out to me are registered in His book of
Heaven, and He never forgets. As for me I were less or more than
a man were I to ask thee to forget. I would have thee remember,
yet would I think of thee as happy and radiant as the stars
wherewith He hath gladdened the darkness of our nights. But think
not of me as unhappy. My Lord has called, and I the servant am
bound to follow. He laid a burden on me and this burden must I
bear even though I may bear with it all the pain that is greater
than the pain of the earth, greater than the ceaseless travail of
the sea, even though I may bear with it that bitterest of all
bitter fruits the labour that is nothing worth. That I know not!
Who knoweth, oh God? Truly not I. There was grief in the world,
dear heart, even before the stars were made or the sky stretched
its blue dome above; and as hour follows hour, day succeeds day
and the cycles of years come and go, even so do fresh griefs and
greener sorrows spring around us; like each recurrent season they
too come and go. Only one thing abideth, dear heart, and that is
the will of God, who made happiness and woe, love and pain, sleep
and death. And 'tis the will of God that I should lose thee and
yet continue to live, even though life to me henceforth will be
one long dream of death.
"Idol of my soul, beloved of my heart, farewell. I go to find
comfort from that bitter word on the summit of Golgotha, at the
foot of an abandoned, broken Cross. When my soul hath found peace
then will it be ready for the service of God.
"Farewell, my beloved! May God have thee in His keeping, even as
thy soul hath already been touched with His grace. Farewell! Mine
eyes are dim, my hand trembles, hot tears blur the writing on
this parchment. And as I look up through the open doorway to
where the limitless horizon lies beyond Rome's seven hills, I see
stretched out before me the long vista of years throughout which
my heart will be for ever weaving with threads of longing and of
sorrow the tether which binds undying memory to thee."
Her hands, which held the roll of parchment, dropped down upon her lap.
Her eyes too were dim and the hot tears fell from them one by one. A
sadness that was in no way bitter and yet was immeasurable as death had
filled her entire being as she read.
Slowly she laid the parchment in the bosom of her tunic, then, like one
who walks in sleep, she rose and crossed the studio, her hand--white and
slightly quivering--pushed back the heavy door that masked the inner
room. Silently it swung upon its hinges, disclosing the sanctum where
yesterday the stricken hero had lain helpless and sick.
The couch had not been touched since he had lain on it. It still bore
the imprint of the massive figure as it lay inert in the embrace of
drugged sleep. The pillow only had been smoothed out as if by a loving
hand, and as Dea Flavia came nearer to it she saw that a small object
had been laid there, as if reverently, right in the centre.
The tears in her eyes obscured her vision momentarily, but when they
fell one by one down her cheeks, she saw a little more clearly, and
having approached the couch she took up the small object that lay there
upon the pillow.
It was the wooden cross which she had last seen held between the clasped
hands of the man whom she loved.
She gazed on the small symbol, and gazed, even though the tears gathered
thick and fast in her eyes and the image that she saw was scarce
discernible as it rested in her hand.
How puzzled she had been two nights ago when she stole softly into this
room and saw him kneeling here beside the couch, clasping this wooden
symbol between his fingers--intertwined in a gesture of passionate
prayer. She had been puzzled because his actions of the day before had
seemed incomprehensible to her: his attitude to my lord Hortensius
Martius, an enemy whose life he saved at risk of his own, his loyalty
to the Cæsar whom everyone abhorred!
All this had puzzled her then, but how infinitely more profound was that
puzzle now. A riddle more mysterious than any sage could propound lay
hidden in the words of the letter which she had just read. The man who
had penned that letter had poured out his heart in it, and it was not a
heart that was void of pity or of love. It brimmed over with pity, it
was bruised with the intensity of love: but, crushed and broken though
it was, it did not murmur, it only endured.
Dea Flavia looked down upon the small object which to Taurus Antinor had
been an emblem of that god whom he worshipped and who had been man and
had died a shameful death.
Who was this god whom Taurus Antinor worshipped? for whose sake and at
whose bidding he was content to give up all the superheights of ambition
to which a Roman patrician could aspire? Who was this god? and what had
he done that a man like Taurus Antinor--a man filled with all a man's
strength and all a man's heroism, a man worshipped of the people and
glorified by an entire nation--should thus give up the lordship of Rome
in order to do him service? that he should give it up, too, without a
murmur, content to offer this final and absolute sacrifice.
"Think not of me as unhappy. My Lord has called me and I, His servant am
bound to follow."
Thus had the man written in loneliness and in peace after the sacrifice
had been accomplished, even after she--the Augusta--had, with
love-filled heart and generous hands, offered him everything that man
could desire on this earth. He had written it in loneliness and in
peace, having given up the world to follow his God.
Who was this god? and what had he done that his power over Taurus
Antinor's heart was greater than her own?
Yesterday she had cursed him loudly and called him cruel and unjust,
four days ago she had defied him and now he had conquered. Taurus
Antinor had obeyed him and she who loved him and whom he loved was left
desolate.
For this she never doubted: he loved her, that she knew. She was no
child now! The last four days had made a woman of her: in the past four
days she had tasted of and witnessed every passion that rends a human
heart, love, ambition, cruelty, hatred! She had seen them all! seen
through passion men brought down to a level lower than the beasts, and
through passion a man become equal to a god. No! she was no longer a
child, she was a woman now, and there was much that if she did not
understand she at least could not doubt. The man whom she loved, loved
her with an intensity at least equal to that which even now made her
heart throb at the memory of his kiss. He loved her, longed for her,
would have laid down his life for her even at the moment when he tore
himself away from her arms. He loved her and longed for her even whilst
his trembling fingers penned this last impassioned farewell.
He loved her and he loved Rome! But his god called to him and he, the
proud Roman patrician, the accepted lord of the Augusta and of Rome,
followed as would a slave.
Slowly she dropped down on her knees just where he too had knelt two
nights ago, and like unto him she clasped her hands together, scarce
conscious that the tiny wooden cross still lay between her fingers.
"Thou hast conquered, oh Galilean!" she murmured, whilst great sobs that
would not be suppressed rose to her throat. "At thy call he left
everything that makes life beautiful and happy: at thy call he left me
to mourn, he left the people of Rome who acclaimed him, he left the
throne of Augustus and the Empire of the world! Everything he left at
thy call! What hast thou in thy nail-pierced hands to give him in
return?"
For a while now she was able to give way to her immeasurable sorrow. Her
head buried in the pillow whereon his head had rested, she sobbed out
her loving, aching heart in a passionate fit of weeping.
Just like the Christian yesterday up on the heights, so was she--the
pagan--alone now with her grief. More lonely than he--she had no
anchorage, and in her ear had never sounded those all-compelling words,
sublime in their perfect gentleness:
"Come unto Me!"
But who shall tell what divine hand soothed her burning forehead? what
divine words of comfort were whispered in her ear?
Gradually her tears ceased to flow, the heavy sobs were stilled, her
aching and bruised body felt numb with the pain in her heart. But
outwardly she was more calm. She rose from her knees, and hiding the
small cross in the bosom of her gown, she drew forth the letter and read
it through once more.
"If only I knew!" she murmured. "If only I could understand!"
After a while she bethought her of the slave Folces, the one human link
left now between herself and the man whom she loved and who was gone
from her.
With reverent hands she smoothed out the couch, the pillow which had
supported his head, the coverlet which had lain over him. She was loth
to go from this room whose every corner seemed still to hold something
of his personality and whose every wall seemed to hold an echo of his
voice.
She would have stayed here for hours longer, talking to that absent
personality, powerful and mysterious more than ever now, listening to
the rugged voice which she would never hear again. But there was
something that she must do ere she gave herself over finally to her
dreams; there was a duty to accomplish which she knew he would ask of
her.
Therefore--after a last, long, all-embracing look on the place which
would for ever be as a sanctuary in her sight--she went back to the
studio at last, and herself going to the door she called Folces back to
her.
"The praefect of Rome, good Folces?" she asked as soon as the man had
entered, "wilt see him again?"
"Taurus Antinor named Anglicanus hath left Rome to-day on his way to
Syria, O Augusta!" said the man, humbly insisting on the name of his
master.
"Dost not go with him?"
"He hath commanded me to stay here and to look after his household until
such time as he doth direct."
"His household?" she said. "I had not thought of that. What is to become
of his house in Rome, his villa at Ostia and his slaves?"
"The praefect of Rome," said Folces, "made ere he died a testament
wherein he did command the freedom of all his slaves, and ordered a
certain sum of money to be set aside which will enable even the humblest
amongst us all to live decently like freedmen. The house in Rome and the
villa at Ostia are to be sold, whilst the remainder of Taurus Antinor's
private fortune is to be administered by his general agents. He said
that he would see to it later on. I am still his slave; he did not
confide in me."
"Yet he asked thee to look after his household."
"It will take a little time until the manumissio testamento can take
effect. In the meanwhile we all are Taurus Antinor's slaves and must
look after his houses until they have been sold."
"Wilt be happy as a freedman, Folces?"
"Yes, Augusta," replied the man simply, "for then I shall be at liberty
to follow Taurus Antinor as his servant."
She sat quite silently after this, her tear-stained eyes fixed into
vacancy. Folces was on his knees waiting to be dismissed. It was some
little while before she remembered his presence, then in a gentle voice
she bade him go.
"Shall I take a message back to my master?" he asked humbly. "I could
find him, I think, if I had a message."
"I have no message," she said; "go, good Folces."