After the Emperor's body-slave had started up to go to the aid of Selene,
who was attacked by his sovereign's dog, something had happened to him
which he could not forget; he had received an impression which he could
not wipe out, and words and tones had stirred his mind and soul which
incessantly echoed in them, so that it was in a preoccupied and half-
dreamy way that he had done his master those little services which he was
accustomed to perform every morning, briskly and with complete attention.
Summer and winter Mastor was accustomed to leave his master's bedroom
before sunrise to prepare everything that Hadrian could need when he rose
from his slumbers. There was the gold plating to clean on the narrow
greaves and the leather straps which belonged to his master's military
boots, his clothes to air and to perfume with the slight, hardly
perceptible scent that he liked, but the preparations for Hadrian's bath
were what took up most of his time. At Lochias there were not as yet--
as there were in the imperial palace at Rome--properly-filled baths;
still his servant knew that here, as there, his master would use a due
abundance of water. He had been told that if he required anything for
his master he was to apply to Pontius. Him he found, without seeking
him, outside the room meant for Hadrian's sitting-room, to which, while
the Emperor still slept, he was endeavoring, with the help of his
assistants, to give a comfortable and pleasing aspect. The architect
referred the slave to the workmen who were busy laying the pavement in
the forecourt of the palace; these men would carry in for him as much
water as ever he could need. The body-servant's position relieved him of
such humble duties, still, when on the chase, when travelling, or as need
arose, he was accustomed to perform them unasked, and very willingly.
The sun had not yet risen when he went out into the court, a number of
slaves were lying on their mats asleep, others had camped round a fire
and were waiting for their early broth, which was being stirred with
wooden sticks by an old man and a boy. Mastor would not disturb either
group; he went up to a party of workmen, who seemed to be talking
together, and yet remained attentive to the speech of an old man who was
evidently telling them a story.
The poor fellow's heart was heavy and his mind was little bent on tales
and amusements. All life was embittered. The services required of him
usually seemed to him of paramount importance, beyond everything else;
but to-day it was different. He had an obscure feeling as though fate
herself had released him from all his duties, as if misfortune had cut
the bonds which bound him to his service to the Emperor, and had made him
an isolated and lonely being. It even came into his head whether he
should not take in his hand all the gold pieces given him sometimes by
Hadrian, or which the wealthy folks who wished to be the foremost of
those introduced into the Emperor's presence, after waiting in the
antechamber, had flung to him or slipped into his hand--make his escape
and carouse away all that he possessed in the taverns of the great city,
in wine and the gay company of women. It was all the same to him what
might happen to him.
If he were caught he would probably be flogged to death; but he had had
kicks and blows in plenty before he had got into the Emperor's service,
nay; when he was brought to Rome he had once even been hunted with dogs.
If he lost his life, after all what would it matter? He would have done
with it then, once for all, and the future offered him no prospect but
perpetual fatigue in the service of a restless master, anxiety and
contempt. He was a thoroughly good-hearted being who could not bear to
hurt any one, and who found it equally hard to disturb a fellow-man in
his pleasures or amusement. He felt particularly disinclined to do so
just now, for a wounded soul is keenly alive to the moods and feelings of
others; so, as he approached the group of workmen, from among whom he
proposed to choose his water-carrier, he determined that he would not
interrupt the story-teller, on whose lips the gaze of his audience was
riveted with interest.
The glare of the blaze under the soup-kettle fell full on the speaker's
face. He was an old laborer, but his long hair proclaimed him a freeman.
His abundant white beard induced Mastor to suppose that he must be a Jew
or a Phoenician, but there was nothing remarkable in the old man, who was
dressed in a poor and scanty tunic, excepting his peculiarly brilliant
eyes, which were immovably fixed on the heavens, and the oblique position
in which he held his head, supporting it on the left side with his raised
hands.
"And now," said the speaker, dropping his arms, "let us go back to our
labors, my brethren. 'In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread,' it
is written. It is often hard to us old men to heave stones and bend our
stiff backs for so long together, but we are nearer than you younger ones
to the happy future. Life is not easy to all of us, but it is we who
labor and are heavy laden--we above all others--that the Lord has bidden
to be his guests, and not last among us the slaves."
"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will refresh
you," interrupted one of the younger men repeating the words of Christ.
"Yea, thus saith the Saviour," said the old man approvingly, "and he
surely then was thinking of us. I said just now our load is not light,
but how much heavier was the burden he took upon him of his own free will
to release us from woe. Every one must work, nay even Caesar himself,
but he who could dwell in the glory of his Father let himself be mocked
and scorned and spit in the face, let the crown of thorns be pressed on
his suffering head, bore his heavy cross, sinking under its weight, and
endured a death of torment, and all for our sakes, without a murmur. But
he suffered not in vain, for God accepted the sacrifice of his Son, and
did his will and said, 'All that believe on Him should not perish, but
have everlasting life.' And though a new and weary day is now beginning,
and though it should be followed by a thousand wearier still, though
death is the end of life--still we believe in our Redeemer, we have God's
word bidding us out of sorrows and sufferings into his Heaven, promising
us for a brief time of misery in this world, endless ages of joy.--Now go
to work. Our sturdy friend Krates will work for you dear Knakias until
your finger is healed. When the bread is distributed remember, each of
you, the children of our poor deceased brother Philammon. You, poor
Gibbus, will find your labors bitter to-day. This man's master, my dear
brethren, sold both his daughters yesterday to a dealer from Smyrna; but
if you never see them again in Egypt, or in any other country, my friend,
you will meet them in the home of your Heavenly Father--of that you may
rest assured. Our life on earth is but a pilgrimage, and Heaven is the
goal, and the Guide who teaches us never to miss the way, is our Saviour.
Weariness and toil, sorrow and suffering are easy to bear, to him who
knows that when the solemn hour is near, the King of Kings shall throw
open his dwelling-place, and invite him to enter as a favored guest to
inhabit there, where all we have loved have found joy and rest."
"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will refresh
you," said a man's loud voice again from the circle that sat round the
old man. The old man stood up, signed to a boy who distributed the bread
in equal shares to the workmen, and took up a jar with handles, out of
which he filled a large wooden cup with wine.
Not a word of this discourse had escaped Mastor, and the often repeated
verse, "Come unto me all ye that labor," dwelt in his mind like the
invitation of a hospitable friend bidding him to happy days of freedom
and enjoyment. A distant gleam shone through the weight of his troubles,
seeming to promise the dawn of a new day, and he reverently went up to
the old man, in the first place to ask him if he was the overseer of the
workmen who stood round him.
"I am," replied the old man, and as soon as he learnt what Mastor
required as a commission from the controlling architect, he pointed out
some young slaves who quickly brought the water that he needed.
Pontius met the Emperor's servant and his water-carriers and remarked,
loudly enough for Mastor to understand him, to Pollux who was with him:
"The architect's servant is getting Christians to wait upon his master
to-day. They are regular and sober workmen who do their duty silently
and well."
While Mastor was giving his master towels, and helping to dry and dress
him, he was far less attentive than usual, for he could not get the words
he had heard from the overseer's lips out of his mind. He had not
understood them all, but he had fully comprehended that there was a kind
and loving God who had suffered in his own person the utmost torments,
who was especially gracious to the poor, the miserable, and the bondsman,
and who promised to refresh them and comfort them, and to re-unite them
to those who had once been dear to them. "Come unto me," sounded again
and again in his ears, and struck so warmly to his heart that he could
not help thinking first of his mother, who, so many a time, when he was a
child, had called to him only to clasp him in her arms as he ran towards
her, and to press him to her heart. Just so had he often called his poor
little dead son, and the feeling that there could be any one who might
still call to him--the forsaken lonely man--with loving words to release
him from his griefs, to reunite him to his mother, his father, and all
the dear ones left behind in his lost and distant home, took half the
bitterness from his pain.
He was accustomed to listen to all that was said in the Emperor's
presence, and year by year he had learnt to understand more of what he
heard. He had often heard the Christians discussed, and usually as
deluded but dangerous fools. Many of his fellow-slaves, too, he had
heard called Christian idiots, but still not unfrequently very reasonable
men, and sometimes even Hadrian himself, had taken the part of the
Christians.
This was the first time that Mastor had heard from their own lips what
they believed and hoped, and now, while fulfilling his duties he could
hardly bear the delay before he could once more seek out the old
pavement-worker, to enquire of him, and to have the hopes confirmed which
his words had aroused in his soul.
No sooner had Hadrian and Antinous gone into the living-room than Mastor
had hastened off across the court to find the Christians. There he tried
to open a conversation with the overseer concerning his faith, but the
old man answered that there was a season for everything; just now he
could not interrupt the work, but that he might come again after sundown,
and that he then would tell him of Him who had promised to refresh the
sorrow-laden.
Mastor thought no more of making his escape. When he appeared again in
his master's presence there was such a sunny light in his blue eyes that
Hadrian left the angry words he had prepared for him unspoken, and cried
to Antinous, laughing and pointing to the slave:
"I really believe the rascal has consoled himself already, and found a
new mate. Let us, too, follow the precept of Horace, so far as we may,
and enjoy the present day. The poet may let the future go as it will,
but I cannot, for, unfortunately, I am the Emperor."
"And Rome may thank the gods that you are," replied Antinous.
"What happy phrases the boy hits upon sometimes," said Hadrian with a
laugh, and he stroked the lad's brown curls. "Now till noon I must work
with Phlegon and Titianus, whom I am expecting, and then perhaps we may
find something to laugh at. Ask the tall sculptor there behind the
screens, at what hour Balbilla is to sit to him for her bust. We must
also inspect the architect's work, and that of the Alexandrian artists by
daylight; that, their zeal has well deserved."
Hadrian retired to the room where his private secretary had ready for him
the despatches and papers for Rome and the provinces, which the Emperor
was required to read and to sign. Antinous remained alone in the
sitting-room, and for an hour he continued to gaze at the ships which
came to anchor in the harbor, or sailed out of the roads, and amused
himself with watching the swift boats which swarmed round the larger
vessels, like wasps round ripe fruit. He listened to the songs of the
sailors, and the music of the flute-players, to the measured beat of the
oars, which came up from the triremes in the private harbor of the
Emperor as they went out to sea. Even the pure blue of the sky and the
warmth of the delicious morning were a pleasure to him, and he asked
himself whether the smell of tar, which pervaded the seaport, were
agreeable or not.
Presently as the sun mounted in the sky, its bright sphere dazzled him;
he left the window with a yawn, stretched himself on a couch, and stared
absently up at the ceiling of the room without thinking of the subject
which the faded picture on it was intended to represent.
Idleness had long since grown to be the occupation of his life; but
accustomed to it as he was, he was sometimes conscious of its dark
attendant shadow ennui--as of a disagreeable and intrusive interruption
to the enjoyment of life. Generally in such lonely hours of idle reverie
his thoughts reverted to his belongings in Bithynia, of whom he never
dared to speak before the Emperor, or perhaps of the hunting excursions
he had made with Hadrian, of the slaughtered game, of the fish he--an
experienced angler--had caught, or such like. What the future might
bring him troubled him not, for to the love of creativeness, to ambition
--to all, in short, that bore any resemblance to a passionate excitement
his soul had, so far, remained a stranger. The admiration which was
universally excited by his beauty gave him no pleasure, and many a time
he felt as though it was not worth while to stir a limb or draw a breath.
Almost everything he saw was indifferent to him excepting a kind word
from the lips of the Emperor, whom he regarded as great above all other
men, whom he feared as Destiny incarnate, and to whom he felt himself
bound as intimately as the flower to the tree, the blossom that must die
when the stem is broken, on which it flaunts as an ornament and a grace.
But, to-day, as he flung himself on the divan his visions took a new
direction. He could not help thinking of the pale girl whom he had saved
from the jaws of the blood-hound--of the white cold hand which for an
instant had clung to his neck--of the cold words with which she had
afterwards repelled him.
Antinous began to long violently to see Selene. That same Antinous, to
whom in all the cities he had visited with the Emperor, and in Rome
particularly, the noble fair ones had sent branches of flowers and tender
letters, and who nevertheless, since the day when he left his home, had
never felt for any woman or girl half so tender a sentiment, as for the
hunter the Emperor had given him, or for the big dog. This girl stood
before his memory like breathing marble. Perchance the man might be
doomed to death who should rest on her cold breast, but such a death must
be full of ecstasy, and it seemed to him that it would be far more
blissful to die with the blood frozen in his veins, than of the too rapid
throbbing of his heart.
"Selene," he murmured, now and again, with soft hesitation; a strange
unrest foreign to his calm nature seemed to propagate itself through all
his limbs, and he who commonly would be stretched on a couch for hours
without stirring, lost in dreams, now sprang up and paced the room,
sighing deeply, and with long strides.
It was a passionate longing for Selene that drove him up and down, and
his wish to see her again crystallized into resolve, and prompted him to
contrive the ways and means of meeting her once more before the Emperor's
return.
Simply to invade her father's lodging without farther ceremony, seemed to
him out of the question, and yet he was certain of finding her there,
since her injured foot would of course keep her at home. Should he once
more go to the steward with a request for bread and salt? But he dared
not ask anything of Keraunus in Hadrian's name after the scene which had
so recently taken place. Should he go there to carry her a new pitcher
in the place of the broken one? But that would only freshly enrage the
arrogant official.
Should he--should he--should he not? But no, it was quite impossible--
still, that no doubt--that was the right idea. In his medicine-chest
there were a few extracts which had been given to him by the Emperor; he
would offer her one of these to dilute with water and apply to her
bruised foot. And this act of sympathy could not displease even his
master, who liked to prove his healing art on the sick or suffering. He
at once called Mastor, and desired him to take charge of the hound which
had followed his steps as he paced the room, then he went into his
sleeping-room, took out a phial of a most costly essence, which Hadrian
had given him on his last birthday, and which had formerly belonged to
Trajan's wife, Kotina, and then proceeded to the steward's rooms. On the
steps where he had found Selene, he found the black slave with some
children. The old man had sat down them and got no farther for fear of
the Roman's dog. Antinous went up to him and begged him to guide him to
his master's quarters, and the negro immediately showed him the way,
opened the door of the antechamber, and pointing to the living-room said:
"There--but Keraunus is absent."
Without troubling himself any further about Antinous the slave went back
to the children, but the Bithyman stood irresolute, with his flask in his
hand, for besides Selene's voice he heard that of another girl and the
deeper tones of a man. He was still hesitating when Arsinoe's loud
exclamation of "Who's there?" obliged him to advance.
In the sitting-room Selene was standing dressed in a long light-colored
robe with a veil over her head, as if prepared to go out, but Arsinoe was
perched on the edge of a table, in such a way as that the tips of her
toes only touched the ground, and on the table lay a quantity of old-
fashioned things. Before her stood a Phoenician, of middle age, holding
in his hand a finely-carved cup; apparently he was in treaty for it with
the young girl.
Keraunus had been again to-day to a dealer in curiosities, but he had not
found him at home, so he had left word at his shop that Hiram might call
upon him in his rooms at Lochias, where he could show him several
valuable rarities. The Phoenician had arrived before the return of the
steward himself, who had been detained at a meeting of the town council,
and Arsinoe was displaying her father's treasures, whose beauties she was
extolling with much eloquence. Hiram unfortunately offered a no higher
price than Gabinius, whom the steward had sent off so indignantly the
previous evening.
Selene had been convinced from the first of the bootlessness of the
attempt, and was now anxious to bring the transaction to a speedy
conclusion, as the hour was approaching when she and Arsinoe had to go to
the papyrus factory. To her sister's refusal to accompany her, and to
the old slave-woman's entreaty that she would rest her foot, at any rate
for to-day, she had responded only with a resolute, "I am going."
The appearance of the youth on the scene occasioned the girls some
embarrassment. Selene recognized him at once, Arsinoe thought him
handsome but awkward, while the curiosity-dealer gazed at him in perfect
admiration, and was the first to offer him a greeting. Antinous returned
it, bowed to the sisters, and then said turning to Selene:
"We heard that your head was cut, and your foot hurt, and as we were
guilty of your mishap, we venture to offer you this phial which contains
a good remedy for such injuries."
"Thank you," replied the girl. "But I feel already so well that I shall
try to go out."
"That you certainly ought not to do," said Antinous, beseechingly.
"I must," replied Selene, gravely.
"Then, at any rate, take the phial to use for a lotion when you return.
Ten drops in such a cup as that, full of water."
"I can try it when I come in."
"Do so, and you will see how healing it is. You are not vexed with us
any longer?"
"No."
"I am glad of that!" cried the boy, fixing his large dreamy eyes on
Selene with silent passion. This gaze displeased her, and she said more
coldly than before to the Bithyman.
"To whom shall I give the phial when I have used the stuff in it?"
"Keep it, pray keep it," begged Antinous. "It is pretty, and will be
twice as precious in my eyes when it belongs to you."
"It is pretty-but I do not wish for presents."
"Then destroy it when you have done with it. You have not forgiven us
our dog's bad behavior, and we are sincerely sorry that our dog--"
"I am not vexed with you. Arsinoe pour the medicine into a saucer."
The steward's younger daughter immediately obeyed, and noticing as she
did so, how pretty the phial was, sparkling with various colors, she said
frankly enough:
"If my sister will not have it, give it to me. How can you make such a
pother about nothing, Selene?"
"Take it," said Antinous, looking anxiously at the ground, for it had now
just occurred to him how highly the Emperor had valued this little
bottle, and that he might possibly ask him some time what had become of
it. Selene shrugged her shoulders, and drawing her veil round her head,
she exclaimed, with a glance of annoyance at her sister:
"It is high time!"
"I am not going to-day," replied Arsinoe, defiantly, "and it is folly for
you to walk a quarter of a mile with your swollen foot."
"It would be wiser to take some care of it," observed the dealer,
politely, and Antinous anxiously added:
"If you increase your own suffering you will add to our self-reproach."
"I must go," Selene repeated resolutely," and you with me, sister."
It was not out of mere wilfulness that she spoke, it was bitter
necessity, that forced her to utter the words. To-day, at any rate, she
must not miss going to the papyrus factory, for the week's wages for her
work and Arsinoe's were to be paid. Besides, the next day, and for four
days after, the workshops and counting-house would be closed, for the
Emperor had announced to the wealthy proprietor his intention of visiting
them, and in his honor various dilapidations in the old rooms were to be
repaired, and various decorations added to the bare-looking building.
Hence, to remain away from the works to-day meant, not merely the loss of
a week's pay, but the sacrifice of twelve days, since it had been
announced to the work-people, that as a token of rejoicing, and in honor
of the imperial visit, full pay would be given for the unemployed days;
and Selene needed money to maintain the family, and must therefore
persist in her intention.
When she saw that Arsinoe showed no sign of accompanying her, she once
more asked with stern determination:
"Are you coming?--Yes, or no."
"No," cried Arsinoe, defiantly, and sitting farther on the table.
"Then I am to go alone?"
"You are to stay here."
Selene went close up to her sister and looked at her enquiringly and
reproachfully; but Arsinoe adhered to her refusal. She pouted like a
sulky child, and slapping the hand on which she was leaning three times
on the table, she repeated, "No--no--no."
Selene called to the old slave-woman, and desired her to remain in the
sitting-room till her father should return, greeted the dealer politely,
and Antinous with a careless nod, and then left the room. The lad had
followed her, and they both met the children. Selene pulled their
dresses straight, and strictly enjoined them not to go near the corridor
on account of the strange dog. Antinous stroked the blind boy's pretty
curly head, and then, as Selene was about to descend the stairs, he asked
her:
"May I help you?"
"Yes," said the girl, for at the very first step an acute pain in the
ancle checked her, and she put out her arm to the young man that he might
support her elbow on his hand. But her answer would assuredly have been
"no," if she had had the smallest feeling of liking for the Emperor's
favorite; but she bore the image of another in her heart, and did not
even perceive that Antinous was beautiful. The Bithynian's heart, on the
other hand, had never beaten so violently as during the brief moments
when he was permitted to hold Selene's arm. He felt intoxicated, while
he was alive to the fact that during the descent of the few steps she was
suffering great pain.
"Stay at home, and spare yourself!" he begged her once more in a
trembling voice.
"You worry me!" she said, in a tone of vexation. "I must go, and it is
not far."
"May I accompany you?"
She laughed aloud and answered somewhat scornfully:
"Certainly not. Only conduct me through the corridor that the dog may
not attack me again, then go where you will--but not with me."
He obeyed when at the end of the passage where it opened into a large
hall, he bid her farewell, and she thanked him with a few friendly words.
There were two ways out from her father's rooms into the road, one led
through the rotunda where the Ptolemaic Queens were placed, and across
several terraces up and down steps through the forecourt; the other, on a
level all the way, through the rooms and halls of the palace. She was
forced to choose the latter, for it would have been impossible for her
with her aching foot to clamber up a number of steps without help and
down them again, but she came to this conclusion much against her will,
for she knew what numbers of men were engaged in the works of
restoration; and to get through them safely it struck her that she might
ask her old playfellow to escort her through the crowd of workmen and
rough slaves as far as his parent's gatehouse. But she did not easily
decide on this course, for, since the afternoon when Pollux had shown her
mother's bust to Arsinoe before showing it to her, she had felt a grudge
towards the sculptor, who so lately before had touched and opened her
weary and loveless soul; and this sore feeling had not diminished, but
had rather increased with time. At every hour of the day, and whatever
she was occupied in, she could not help repeating to herself, that she
had every reason to be vexed with him.
She had stood to him a second time as a model for his work, had spoken to
him many times, and when last they parted had promised to allow him this
very evening to study once more the folds of her mantle. With what
pleasure she had looked forward to each meeting with Pollux, how truly
lovable she had thought him on every fresh occasion; how frankly he too,
expressed his pleasure as often as they met! They had talked of all
sorts of things, even of love, and how eager he had been when he told her
that the only thing she needed to make her happy was a good husband who
would succor and comfort her as she deserved, and as he spoke he had
looked at his own strong hands while she had turned red, and had thought
to herself that if he liked it she would willingly make the experiment of
enjoying life heartily by his side.
It seemed to her as though they belonged to each other, as if she had
been born for him alone, and he for her. Why then yesterday had he shown
Arsinoe her mother's bust before her?
Well, now she would ask him plainly whether he had placed it on the
rotunda for her or for her sister, and let him see she was not pleased.
She must tell him, too, that she could not stand as his model that
evening; if only on account of her foot that would be impossible.
With increasing pain and effort she crossed the threshold of the hall of
the Muses, and went up to the screen behind which her friend was
concealed. He was not alone, for she heard voices within--and it was not
a man but a woman who was with him; she could hear her clear laugh at
some distance. When she came close up to the screen to call Pollux, the
woman, who was certainly sitting to him as a model, spoke louder than
before, and called out merrily:
"But this is delicious! I am to let you fulfil the office of my maid,
what audacity these artists have!"
"Say yes," begged the artist, in the gay and cordial tone which more than
once had helped to ensnare Selene's heart. "You are beautiful, Balbilla,
but if you would allow me, you might be far handsomer than you are even."
And again there was a merry laugh behind the screen. The pleasant voice
must have hurt poor Selene acutely for she drew up her shoulders, and her
fair features were stamped with an expression of keen suffering, and she
pressed both hands over her heart as she went on past the screen and her
handsome flirting playfellow, limping across the courtyard and into the
road.
What tortured the poor child so cruelly? The poverty of her house, and
her bodily pain, which increased at every step, or her numbed and sore
heart, betrayed of her newly-blossoming, last, and fairest hope?