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Quo Vadis: A Narrative of the Time of Nero

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Title: Quo Vadis: A Narrative of the Time of Nero

Author: Henryk Sienkiewicz

Translator: Jeremiah Curtin


        
Release date: October 1, 2001 [eBook #2853]
                Most recently updated: November 19, 2016

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2853

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK QUO VADIS: A NARRATIVE OF THE TIME OF NERO ***




Produced by David Reed





QUO VADIS

A NARRATIVE OF THE TIME OF NERO

by Henryk Sienkiewicz


Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin



     TO AUGUSTE COMTE,

     Of San Francisco, Cal.,

     MY DEAR FRIEND AND CLASSMATE, I BEG TO DEDICATE THIS VOLUME.

     JEREMIAH CURTIN




INTRODUCTORY

IN the trilogy “With Fire and Sword,” “The Deluge,” and “Pan Michael,”
 Sienkiewicz has given pictures of a great and decisive epoch in modern
history. The results of the struggle begun under Bogdan Hmelnitski have
been felt for more than two centuries, and they are growing daily in
importance. The Russia which rose out of that struggle has become a
power not only of European but of world-wide significance, and, to all
human seeming, she is yet in an early stage of her career.

In “Quo Vadis” the author gives us pictures of opening scenes in the
conflict of moral ideas with the Roman Empire,--a conflict from which
Christianity issued as the leading force in history.

The Slays are not so well known to Western Europe or to us as they
are sure to be in the near future; hence the trilogy, with all its
popularity and merit, is not appreciated yet as it will be.

The conflict described in “Quo Vadis” is of supreme interest to a vast
number of persons reading English; and this book will rouse, I think,
more attention at first than anything written by Sienkiewicz hitherto.

JEREMIAH CURTIN

ILOM, NORTHERN GUATEMALA,

June, 1896





QUO VADIS

Quo Vadis A Narrative of the Time of Nero




Chapter I


PETRONIUS woke only about midday, and as usual greatly wearied. The
evening before he had been at one of Nero’s feasts, which was prolonged
till late at night. For some time his health had been failing. He said
himself that he woke up benumbed, as it were, and without power of
collecting his thoughts. But the morning bath and careful kneading of
the body by trained slaves hastened gradually the course of his slothful
blood, roused him, quickened him, restored his strength, so that he
issued from the elæothesium, that is, the last division of the bath, as
if he had risen from the dead, with eyes gleaming from wit and gladness,
rejuvenated, filled with life, exquisite, so unapproachable that Otho
himself could not compare with him, and was really that which he had
been called,--arbiter elegantiarum.

He visited the public baths rarely, only when some rhetor happened there
who roused admiration and who was spoken of in the city, or when in the
ephebias there were combats of exceptional interest. Moreover, he had in
his own “insula” private baths which Celer, the famous contemporary
of Severus, had extended for him, reconstructed and arranged with such
uncommon taste that Nero himself acknowledged their excellence over
those of the Emperor, though the imperial baths were more extensive and
finished with incomparably greater luxury.

After that feast, at which he was bored by the jesting of Vatinius with
Nero, Lucan, and Seneca, he took part in a diatribe as to whether woman
has a soul. Rising late, he used, as was his custom, the baths. Two
enormous balneatores laid him on a cypress table covered with snow-white
Egyptian byssus, and with hands dipped in perfumed olive oil began to
rub his shapely body; and he waited with closed eyes till the heat
of the laconicum and the heat of their hands passed through him and
expelled weariness.

But after a certain time he spoke, and opened his eyes; he inquired
about the weather, and then about gems which the jeweller Idomeneus
had promised to send him for examination that day. It appeared that the
weather was beautiful, with a light breeze from the Alban hills, and
that the gems had not been brought. Petronius closed his eyes again, and
had given command to bear him to the tepidarium, when from behind
the curtain the nomenclator looked in, announcing that young Marcus
Vinicius, recently returned from Asia Minor, had come to visit him.

Petronius ordered to admit the guest to the tepidarium, to which he
was borne himself. Vinicius was the son of his oldest sister, who years
before had married Marcus Vinicius, a man of consular dignity from the
time of Tiberius. The young man was serving then under Corbulo against
the Parthians, and at the close of the war had returned to the city.
Petronius had for him a certain weakness bordering on attachment, for
Marcus was beautiful and athletic, a young man who knew how to preserve
a certain aesthetic measure in his profligacy; this, Petronius prized
above everything.

“A greeting to Petronius,” said the young man, entering the tepidarium
with a springy step. “May all the gods grant thee success, but
especially Asklepios and Kypris, for under their double protection
nothing evil can meet one.”

“I greet thee in Rome, and may thy rest be sweet after war,” replied
Petronius, extending his hand from between the folds of soft karbas
stuff in which he was wrapped. “What’s to be heard in Armenia; or since
thou wert in Asia, didst thou not stumble into Bithynia?”

Petronius on a time had been proconsul in Bithynia, and, what is more,
he had governed with energy and justice. This was a marvellous contrast
in the character of a man noted for effeminacy and love of luxury; hence
he was fond of mentioning those times, as they were a proof of what he
had been, and of what he might have become had it pleased him.

“I happened to visit Heraklea,” answered Vinicius. “Corbulo sent me
there with an order to assemble reinforcements.”

“Ah, Heraklea! I knew at Heraklea a certain maiden from Colchis,
for whom I would have given all the divorced women of this city, not
excluding Poppæa. But these are old stories. Tell me now, rather, what
is to be heard from the Parthian boundary. It is true that they weary me
every Vologeses of them, and Tiridates and Tigranes,--those barbarians
who, as young Arulenus insists, walk on all fours at home, and pretend
to be human only when in our presence. But now people in Rome speak much
of them, if only for the reason that it is dangerous to speak of aught
else.”

“The war is going badly, and but for Corbulo might be turned to defeat.”

“Corbulo! by Bacchus! a real god of war, a genuine Mars, a great leader,
at the same time quick-tempered, honest, and dull. I love him, even for
this,--that Nero is afraid of him.”

“Corbulo is not a dull man.”

“Perhaps thou art right, but for that matter it is all one. Dulness,
as Pyrrho says, is in no way worse than wisdom, and differs from it in
nothing.”

Vinicius began to talk of the war; but when Petronius closed his eyes
again, the young man, seeing his uncle’s tired and somewhat emaciated
face, changed the conversation, and inquired with a certain interest
about his health.

Petronius opened his eyes again.

Health!--No. He did not feel well. He had not gone so far yet, it is
true, as young Sissena, who had lost sensation to such a degree that
when he was brought to the bath in the morning he inquired, “Am I
sitting?” But he was not well. Vinicius had just committed him to the
care of Asklepios and Kypris. But he, Petronius, did not believe in
Asklepios. It was not known even whose son that Asklepios was, the son
of Arsinoe or Koronis; and if the mother was doubtful, what was to be
said of the father? Who, in that time, could be sure who his own father
was?

Hereupon Petronius began to laugh; then he continued,--“Two years ago,
it is true, I sent to Epidaurus three dozen live blackbirds and a goblet
of gold; but dost thou know why? I said to myself, ‘Whether this helps
or not, it will do me no harm.’ Though people make offerings to the
gods yet, I believe that all think as I do,--all, with the exception,
perhaps, of mule-drivers hired at the Porta Capena by travellers.
Besides Asklepios, I have had dealings with sons of Asklepios. When
I was troubled a little last year in the bladder, they performed an
incubation for me. I saw that they were tricksters, but I said to
myself: ‘What harm! The world stands on deceit, and life is an illusion.
The soul is an illusion too. But one must have reason enough to
distinguish pleasant from painful illusions.’ I shall give command to
burn in my hypocaustum, cedar-wood sprinkled with ambergris, for during
life I prefer perfumes to stenches. As to Kypris, to whom thou hast also
confided me, I have known her guardianship to the extent that I have
twinges in my right foot. But as to the rest she is a good goddess! I
suppose that thou wilt bear sooner or later white doves to her altar.”

“True,” answered Vinicius. “The arrows of the Parthians have not reached
my body, but a dart of Amor has struck me--unexpectedly, a few stadia
from a gate of this city.”

“By the white knees of the Graces! thou wilt tell me of this at a
leisure hour.”

“I have come purposely to get thy advice,” answered Marcus.

But at that moment the epilatores came, and occupied themselves with
Petronius. Marcus, throwing aside his tunic, entered a bath of tepid
water, for Petronius invited him to a plunge bath.

“Ah, I have not even asked whether thy feeling is reciprocated,” said
Petronius, looking at the youthful body of Marcus, which was as if cut
out of marble. “Had Lysippos seen thee, thou wouldst be ornamenting now
the gate leading to the Palatine, as a statue of Hercules in youth.”

The young man smiled with satisfaction, and began to sink in the bath,
splashing warm water abundantly on the mosaic which represented Hera at
the moment when she was imploring Sleep to lull Zeus to rest. Petronius
looked at him with the satisfied eye of an artist.

When Vinicius had finished and yielded himself in turn to the
epilatores, a lector came in with a bronze tube at his breast and rolls
of paper in the tube.

“Dost wish to listen?” asked Petronius.

“If it is thy creation, gladly!” answered the young tribune; “if not,
I prefer conversation. Poets seize people at present on every street
corner.”

“Of course they do. Thou wilt not pass any basilica, bath, library, or
book-shop without seeing a poet gesticulating like a monkey. Agrippa, on
coming here from the East, mistook them for madmen. And it is just such
a time now. Cæsar writes verses; hence all follow in his steps. Only it
is not permitted to write better verses than Cæsar, and for that reason
I fear a little for Lucan. But I write prose, with which, however, I do
not honor myself or others. What the lector has to read are codicilli of
that poor Fabricius Veiento.”

“Why ‘poor’?”

“Because it has been communicated to him that he must dwell in Odyssa
and not return to his domestic hearth till he receives a new command.
That Odyssey will be easier for him than for Ulysses, since his wife
is no Penelope. I need not tell thee, for that matter, that he acted
stupidly. But here no one takes things otherwise than superficially. His
is rather a wretched and dull little book, which people have begun to
read passionately only when the author is banished. Now one hears on
every side, ‘Scandala! scandala!’ and it may be that Veiento invented
some things; but I, who know the city, know our patres and our women,
assure thee that it is all paler than reality. Meanwhile every man is
searching in the book,--for himself with alarm, for his acquaintances
with delight. At the book-shop of Avirnus a hundred copyists are writing
at dictation, and its success is assured.”

“Are not thy affairs in it?”

“They are; but the author is mistaken, for I am at once worse and less
flat than he represents me. Seest thou we have lost long since the
feeling of what is worthy or unworthy,--and to me even it seems that in
real truth there is no difference between them, though Seneca, Musonius,
and Trasca pretend that they see it. To me it is all one! By Hercules,
I say what I think! I have preserved loftiness, however, because I know
what is deformed and what is beautiful; but our poet, Bronzebeard, for
example, the charioteer, the singer, the actor, does not understand
this.”

“I am sorry, however, for Fabricius! He is a good companion.”

“Vanity ruined the man. Every one suspected him, no one knew certainly;
but he could not contain himself, and told the secret on all sides in
confidence. Hast heard the history of Rufinus?”

“No.”

“Then come to the frigidarium to cool; there I will tell thee.”

They passed to the frigidarium, in the middle of which played a fountain
of bright rose-color, emitting the odor of violets. There they sat in
niches which were covered with velvet, and began to cool themselves.
Silence reigned for a time. Vinicius looked awhile thoughtfully at a
bronze faun which, bending over the arm of a nymph, was seeking her lips
eagerly with his lips.

“He is right,” said the young man. “That is what is best in life.”

“More or less! But besides this thou lovest war, for which I have no
liking, since under tents one’s finger-nails break and cease to be rosy.
For that matter, every man has his preferences. Bronzebeard loves song,
especially his own; and old Scaurus his Corinthian vase, which stands
near his bed at night, and which he kisses when he cannot sleep. He has
kissed the edge off already. Tell me, dost thou not write verses?”

“No; I have never composed a single hexameter.”

“And dost thou not play on the lute and sing?”

“No.”

“And dost thou drive a chariot?”

“I tried once in Antioch, but unsuccessfully.”

“Then I am at rest concerning thee. And to what party in the hippodrome
dost thou belong?”

“To the Greens.”

“Now I am perfectly at rest, especially since thou hast a large property
indeed, though thou art not so rich as Pallas or Seneca. For seest thou,
with us at present it is well to write verses, to sing to a lute, to
declaim, and to compete in the Circus; but better, and especially safer,
not to write verses, not to play, not to sing, and not to compete in
the Circus. Best of all, is it to know how to admire when Bronzebeard
admires. Thou art a comely young man; hence Poppæa may fall in love with
thee. This is thy only peril. But no, she is too experienced; she cares
for something else. She has had enough of love with her two husbands;
with the third she has other views. Dost thou know that that stupid
Otho loves her yet to distraction? He walks on the cliffs of Spain, and
sighs; he has so lost his former habits, and so ceased to care for his
person, that three hours each day suffice him to dress his hair. Who
could have expected this of Otho?”

“I understand him,” answered Vinicius; “but in his place I should have
done something else.”

“What, namely?”

“I should have enrolled faithful legions of mountaineers of that
country. They are good soldiers,--those Iberians.”

“Vinicius! Vinicius! I almost wish to tell thee that thou wouldst not
have been capable of that. And knowest why? Such things are done, but
they are not mentioned even conditionally. As to me, in his place, I
should have laughed at Poppæa, laughed at Bronzebeard, and formed for
myself legions, not of Iberian men, however, but Iberian women. And what
is more, I should have written epigrams which I should not have read to
any one,--not like that poor Rufinus.”

“Thou wert to tell me his history.”

“I will tell it in the unctorium.”

But in the unctorium the attention of Vinicius was turned to other
objects; namely, to wonderful slave women who were waiting for the
bathers. Two of them, Africans, resembling noble statues of ebony,
began to anoint their bodies with delicate perfumes from Arabia; others,
Phrygians, skilled in hairdressing, held in their hands, which were
bending and flexible as serpents, combs and mirrors of polished steel;
two Grecian maidens from Kos, who were simply like deities, waited as
vestiplicæ, till the moment should come to put statuesque folds in the
togas of the lords.

“By the cloud-scattering Zeus!” said Marcus Vinicius, “what a choice
thou hast!”

“I prefer choice to numbers,” answered Petronius. “My whole ‘familia’
[household servants] in Rome does not exceed four hundred, and I judge
that for personal attendance only upstarts need a greater number of
people.”

“More beautiful bodies even Bronzebeard does not possess,” said
Vinicius, distending his nostrils.

“Thou art my relative,” answered Petronius, with a certain friendly
indifference, “and I am neither so misanthropic as Barsus nor such a
pedant as Aulus Plautius.”

When Vinicius heard this last name, he forgot the maidens from Kos for a
moment, and, raising his head vivaciously, inquired,--“Whence did Aulus
Plautius come to thy mind? Dost thou know that after I had disjointed
my arm outside the city, I passed a number of days in his house? It
happened that Plautius came up at the moment when the accident happened,
and, seeing that I was suffering greatly, he took me to his house; there
a slave of his, the physician Merion, restored me to health. I wished to
speak with thee touching this very matter.”

“Why? Is it because thou hast fallen in love with Pomponia perchance? In
that case I pity thee; she is not young, and she is virtuous! I cannot
imagine a worse combination. Brr!”

“Not with Pomponia--eheu!” answered Vinicius.

“With whom, then?”

“If I knew myself with whom? But I do not know to a certainty her name
even,--Lygia or Callina? They call her Lygia in the house, for she comes
of the Lygian nation; but she has her own barbarian name, Callina. It is
a wonderful house,--that of those Plautiuses. There are many people in
it; but it is quiet there as in the groves of Subiacum. For a number
of days I did not know that a divinity dwelt in the house. Once about
daybreak I saw her bathing in the garden fountain; and I swear to thee
by that foam from which Aphrodite rose, that the rays of the dawn passed
right through her body. I thought that when the sun rose she would
vanish before me in the light, as the twilight of morning does. Since
then, I have seen her twice; and since then, too, I know not what rest
is, I know not what other desires are, I have no wish to know what the
city can give me. I want neither women, nor gold, nor Corinthian bronze,
nor amber, nor pearls, nor wine, nor feasts; I want only Lygia. I am
yearning for her, in sincerity I tell thee, Petronius, as that Dream who
is imaged on the Mosaic of thy tepidarium yearned for Paisythea,--whole
days and night do I yearn.”

“If she is a slave, then purchase her.”

“She is not a slave.”

“What is she? A freed woman of Plautius?”

“Never having been a slave, she could not be a freed woman.”

“Who is she?”

“I know not,--a king’s daughter, or something of that sort.”

“Thou dost rouse my curiosity, Vinicius.”

“But if thou wish to listen, I will satisfy thy curiosity straightway.
Her story is not a long one. Thou art acquainted, perhaps personally,
with Vannius, king of the Suevi, who, expelled from his country, spent a
long time here in Rome, and became even famous for his skilful play with
dice, and his good driving of chariots. Drusus put him on the throne
again. Vannius, who was really a strong man, ruled well at first, and
warred with success; afterward, however, he began to skin not only his
neighbors, but his own Suevi, too much. Thereupon Vangio and Sido, two
sister’s sons of his, and the sons of Vibilius, king of the Hermunduri,
determined to force him to Rome again--to try his luck there at dice.”

“I remember; that is of recent Claudian times.”

“Yes! War broke out. Vannius summoned to his aid the Yazygi; his dear
nephews called in the Lygians, who, hearing of the riches of Vannius,
and enticed by the hope of booty, came in such numbers that Cæsar
himself, Claudius, began to fear for the safety of the boundary.
Claudius did not wish to interfere in a war among barbarians, but he
wrote to Atelius Hister, who commanded the legions of the Danube, to
turn a watchful eye on the course of the war, and not permit them to
disturb our peace. Hister required, then, of the Lygians a promise not
to cross the boundary; to this they not only agreed, but gave hostages,
among whom were the wife and daughter of their leader. It is known to
thee that barbarians take their wives and children to war with them. My
Lygia is the daughter of that leader.”

“Whence dost thou know all this?”

“Aulus Plautius told it himself. The Lygians did not cross the boundary,
indeed; but barbarians come and go like a tempest. So did the Lygians
vanish with their wild-ox horns on their heads. They killed Vannius’s
Suevi and Yazygi; but their own king fell. They disappeared with their
booty then, and the hostages remained in Hister’s hands. The mother died
soon after, and Hister, not knowing what to do with the daughter, sent
her to Pomponius, the governor of all Germany. He, at the close of the
war with the Catti, returned to Rome, where Claudius, as is known to
thee, permitted him to have a triumph. The maiden on that occasion
walked after the car of the conqueror; but, at the end of the
solemnity,--since hostages cannot be considered captives, and since
Pomponius did not know what to do with her definitely--he gave her to
his sister Pomponia Græcina, the wife of Plautius. In that house where
all--beginning with the masters and ending with the poultry in the
hen-house--are virtuous, that maiden grew up as virtuous, alas! as
Græcina herself, and so beautiful that even Poppæa, if near her, would
seem like an autumn fig near an apple of the Hesperides.”

“And what?”

“And I repeat to thee that from the moment when I saw how the
sun-rays at that fountain passed through her body, I fell in love to
distraction.”

“She is as transparent as a lamprey eel, then, or a youthful sardine?”

“Jest not, Petronius; but if the freedom with which I speak of my desire
misleads thee, know this,--that bright garments frequently cover deep
wounds. I must tell thee, too, that, while returning from Asia, I slept
one night in the temple of Mopsus to have a prophetic dream. Well,
Mopsus appeared in a dream to me, and declared that, through love, a
great change in my life would take place.”

“Pliny declares, as I hear, that he does not believe in the gods, but he
believes in dreams; and perhaps he is right. My jests do not prevent me
from thinking at times that in truth there is only one deity, eternal,
creative, all-powerful, Venus Genetrix. She brings souls together; she
unites bodies and things. Eros called the world out of chaos. Whether he
did well is another question; but, since he did so, we should recognize
his might, though we are free not to bless it.”

“Alas! Petronius, it is easier to find philosophy in the world than wise
counsel.”

“Tell me, what is thy wish specially?”

“I wish to have Lygia. I wish that these arms of mine, which now embrace
only air, might embrace Lygia and press her to my bosom. I wish to
breathe with her breath. Were she a slave, I would give Aulus for her
one hundred maidens with feet whitened with lime as a sign that they
were exhibited on sale for the first time. I wish to have her in my
house till my head is as white as the top of Soracte in winter.”

“She is not a slave, but she belongs to the ‘family’ of Plautius; and
since she is a deserted maiden, she may be considered an ‘alumna.’
Plautius might yield her to thee if he wished.”

“Then it seems that thou knowest not Pomponia Græcina. Both have become
as much attached to her as if she were their own daughter.”

“Pomponia I know,--a real cypress. If she were not the wife of Aulus,
she might be engaged as a mourner. Since the death of Julius she has
not thrown aside dark robes; and in general she looks as if, while still
alive, she were walking on the asphodel meadow. She is, moreover, a
‘one-man woman’; hence, among our ladies of four and five divorces, she
is straightway a phoenix. But! hast thou heard that in Upper Egypt the
phoenix has just been hatched out, as ‘tis said?--an event which happens
not oftener than once in five centuries.”

“Petronius! Petronius! Let us talk of the phoenix some other time.”

“What shall I tell thee, my Marcus? I know Aulus Plautius, who, though
he blames my mode of life, has for me a certain weakness, and even
respects me, perhaps, more than others, for he knows that I have never
been an informer like Domitius Afer, Tigellinus, and a whole rabble
of Ahenobarbus’s intimates [Nero’s name was originally L. Domitius
Ahenobarbus]. Without pretending to be a stoic, I have been offended
more than once at acts of Nero, which Seneca and Burrus looked at
through their fingers. If it is thy thought that I might do something
for thee with Aulus, I am at thy command.”

“I judge that thou hast the power. Thou hast influence over him; and,
besides, thy mind possesses inexhaustible resources. If thou wert to
survey the position and speak with Plautius.”

“Thou hast too great an idea of my influence and wit; but if that is the
only question, I will talk with Plautius as soon as they return to the
city.”

“They returned two days since.”

“In that case let us go to the triclinium, where a meal is now ready,
and when we have refreshed ourselves, let us give command to bear us to
Plautius.”

“Thou hast ever been kind to me,” answered Vinicius, with vivacity; “but
now I shall give command to rear thy statue among my lares,--just such a
beauty as this one,--and I will place offerings before it.”

Then he turned toward the statues which ornamented one entire wall
of the perfumed chamber, and pointing to the one which represented
Petronius as Hermes with a staff in his hand, he added,--“By the light
of Helios! if the ‘godlike’ Alexander resembled thee, I do not wonder at
Helen.”

And in that exclamation there was as much sincerity as flattery; for
Petronius, though older and less athletic, was more beautiful than even
Vinicius. The women of Rome admired not only his pliant mind and his
taste, which gained for him the title Arbiter elegantiæ, but also his
body. This admiration was evident even on the faces of those maidens
from Kos who were arranging the folds of his toga; and one of whom,
whose name was Eunice, loving him in secret, looked him in the eyes with
submission and rapture. But he did not even notice this; and, smiling
at Vinicius, he quoted in answer an expression of Seneca about
woman,--Animal impudens, etc. And then, placing an arm on the shoulders
of his nephew, he conducted him to the triclinium.

In the unctorium the two Grecian maidens, the Phrygians, and the two
Ethiopians began to put away the vessels with perfumes. But at that
moment, and beyond the curtain of the frigidarium, appeared the heads
of the balneatores, and a low “Psst!” was heard. At that call one of
the Grecians, the Phrygians, and the Ethiopians sprang up quickly, and
vanished in a twinkle behind the curtain. In the baths began a moment of
license which the inspector did not prevent, for he took frequent part
in such frolics himself. Petronius suspected that they took place; but,
as a prudent man, and one who did not like to punish, he looked at them
through his fingers.

In the unctorium only Eunice remained. She listened for a short time
to the voices and laughter which retreated in the direction of the
laconicum. At last she took the stool inlaid with amber and ivory,
on which Petronius had been sitting a short time before, and put it
carefully at his statue. The unctorium was full of sunlight and the hues
which came from the many-colored marbles with which the wall was faced.
Eunice stood on the stool, and, finding herself at the level of the
statue, cast her arms suddenly around its neck; then, throwing back her
golden hair, and pressing her rosy body to the white marble, she pressed
her lips with ecstasy to the cold lips of Petronius.




Chapter II


After a refreshment, which was called the morning meal and to which the
two friends sat down at an hour when common mortals were already long
past their midday prandium, Petronius proposed a light doze. According
to him, it was too early for visits yet. “There are, it is true,”
 said he, “people who begin to visit their acquaintances about sunrise,
thinking that custom an old Roman one, but I look on this as barbarous.
The afternoon hours are most proper,--not earlier, however, than that
one when the sun passes to the side of Jove’s temple on the Capitol and
begins to look slantwise on the Forum. In autumn it is still hot, and
people are glad to sleep after eating. At the same time it is pleasant
to hear the noise of the fountain in the atrium, and, after the
obligatory thousand steps, to doze in the red light which filters in
through the purple half-drawn velarium.”

Vinicius recognized the justice of these words; and the two men began
to walk, speaking in a careless manner of what was to be heard on
the Palatine and in the city, and philosophizing a little upon life.
Petronius withdrew then to the cubiculum, but did not sleep long. In
half an hour he came out, and, having given command to bring verbena, he
inhaled the perfume and rubbed his hands and temples with it.

“Thou wilt not believe,” said he, “how it enlivens and freshens one. Now
I am ready.”

The litter was waiting long since; hence they took their places, and
Petronius gave command to bear them to the Vicus Patricius, to the
house of Aulus. Petronius’s “insula” lay on the southern slope of the
Palatine, near the so-called Carinæ; their nearest way, therefore, was
below the Forum; but since Petronius wished to step in on the way to see
the jeweller Idomeneus, he gave the direction to carry them along the
Vicus Apollinis and the Forum in the direction of the Vicus Sceleratus,
on the corner of which were many tabernæ of every kind.

Gigantic Africans bore the litter and moved on, preceded by slaves
called pedisequii. Petronius, after some time, raised to his nostrils
in silence his palm odorous with verbena, and seemed to be meditating on
something.

“It occurs to me,” said he after a while, “that if thy forest goddess is
not a slave she might leave the house of Plautius, and transfer herself
to thine. Thou wouldst surround her with love and cover her with wealth,
as I do my adored Chrysothemis, of whom, speaking between us, I have
quite as nearly enough as she has of me.”

Marcus shook his head.

“No?” inquired Petronius. “In the worst event, the case would be left
with Cæsar, and thou mayst be certain that, thanks even to my influence,
our Bronzebeard would be on thy side.”

“Thou knowest not Lygia,” replied Vinicius.

“Then permit me to ask if thou know her otherwise than by sight? Hast
spoken with her? hast confessed thy love to her?”

“I saw her first at the fountain; since then I have met her twice.
Remember that during my stay in the house of Aulus, I dwelt in a
separate villa, intended for guests, and, having a disjointed arm, I
could not sit at the common table. Only on the eve of the day for which
I announced my departure did I meet Lygia at supper, but I could not
say a word to her. I had to listen to Aulus and his account of victories
gained by him in Britain, and then of the fall of small states in Italy,
which Licinius Stolo strove to prevent. In general I do not know whether
Aulus will be able to speak of aught else, and do not think that we
shall escape this history unless it be thy wish to hear about the
effeminacy of these days. They have pheasants in their preserves, but
they do not eat them, setting out from the principle that every pheasant
eaten brings nearer the end of Roman power. I met her a second time at
the garden cistern, with a freshly plucked reed in her hand, the top of
which she dipped in the water and sprinkled the irises growing around.
Look at my knees. By the shield of Hercules, I tell thee that they
did not tremble when clouds of Parthians advanced on our maniples with
howls, but they trembled before the cistern. And, confused as a youth
who still wears a bulla on his neck, I merely begged pity with my eyes,
not being able to utter a word for a long time.”

Petronius looked at him, as if with a certain envy. “Happy man,” said
he, “though the world and life were the worst possible, one thing in
them will remain eternally good,--youth!”

After a while he inquired: “And hast thou not spoken to her?”

“When I had recovered somewhat, I told her that I was returning from
Asia, that I had disjointed my arm near the city, and had suffered
severely, but at the moment of leaving that hospitable house I saw that
suffering in it was more to be wished for than delight in another place,
that sickness there was better than health somewhere else. Confused
too on her part, she listened to my words with bent head while drawing
something with the reed on the saffron-colored sand. Afterward she
raised her eyes, then looked down at the marks drawn already; once
more she looked at me, as if to ask about something, and then fled on a
sudden like a hamadryad before a dull faun.”

“She must have beautiful eyes.”

“As the sea--and I was drowned in them, as in the sea. Believe me that
the archipelago is less blue. After a while a little son of Plautius ran
up with a question. But I did not understand what he wanted.”

“O Athene!” exclaimed Petronius, “remove from the eyes of this youth the
bandage with which Eros has bound them; if not, he will break his head
against the columns of Venus’s temple.

“O thou spring bud on the tree of life,” said he, turning to Vinicius,
“thou first green shoot of the vine! Instead of taking thee to the
Plautiuses, I ought to give command to bear thee to the house of
Gelocius, where there is a school for youths unacquainted with life.”

“What dost thou wish in particular?”

“But what did she write on the sand? Was it not the name of Amor, or a
heart pierced with his dart, or something of such sort, that one might
know from it that the satyrs had whispered to the ear of that nymph
various secrets of life? How couldst thou help looking on those marks?”

“It is longer since I have put on the toga than seems to thee,” said
Vinicius, “and before little Aulus ran up, I looked carefully at those
marks, for I know that frequently maidens in Greece and in Rome draw on
the sand a confession which their lips will not utter. But guess what
she drew!”

“If it is other than I supposed, I shall not guess.”

“A fish.”

“What dost thou say?”

“I say, a fish. What did that mean,--that cold blood is flowing in her
veins? So far I do not know; but thou, who hast called me a spring bud
on the tree of life, wilt be able to understand the sign certainly.”

“Carissime! ask such a thing of Pliny. He knows fish. If old Apicius
were alive, he could tell thee something, for in the course of his
life he ate more fish than could find place at one time in the bay of
Naples.”

Further conversation was interrupted, since they were borne into crowded
streets where the noise of people hindered them.

From the Vicus Apollinis they turned to the Boarium, and then entered
the Forum Romanum, where on clear days, before sunset, crowds of idle
people assembled to stroll among the columns, to tell and hear news, to
see noted people borne past in litters, and finally to look in at the
jewellery-shops, the book-shops, the arches where coin was changed,
shops for silk, bronze, and all other articles with which the buildings
covering that part of the market placed opposite the Capitol were
filled.

One-half of the Forum, immediately under the rock of the Capitol, was
buried already in shade; but the columns of the temples, placed higher,
seemed golden in the sunshine and the blue. Those lying lower cast
lengthened shadows on marble slabs. The place was so filled with columns
everywhere that the eye was lost in them as in a forest.

Those buildings and columns seemed huddled together. They towered some
above others, they stretched toward the right and the left, they climbed
toward the height, and they clung to the wall of the Capitol, or some
of them clung to others, like greater and smaller, thicker and thinner,
white or gold colored tree-trunks, now blooming under architraves,
flowers of the acanthus, now surrounded with Ionic corners, now finished
with a simple Doric quadrangle. Above that forest gleamed colored
triglyphs; from tympans stood forth the sculptured forms of gods; from
the summits winged golden quadrigæ seemed ready to fly away through
space into the blue dome, fixed serenely above that crowded place of
temples. Through the middle of the market and along the edges of it
flowed a river of people; crowds passed under the arches of the basilica
of Julius Cæsar; crowds were sitting on the steps of Castor and Pollux,
or walking around the temple of Vesta, resembling on that great marble
background many-colored swarms of butterflies or beetles. Down immense
steps, from the side of the temple on the Capitol dedicated to Jupiter
Optimus Maximus, came new waves; at the rostra people listened to chance
orators; in one place and another rose the shouts of hawkers selling
fruit, wine, or water mixed with fig-juice; of tricksters; of venders
of marvellous medicines; of soothsayers; of discoverers of hidden
treasures; of interpreters of dreams. Here and there, in the tumult of
conversations and cries, were mingled sounds of the Egyptian sistra, of
the sambuké, or of Grecian flutes. Here and there the sick, the pious,
or the afflicted were bearing offerings to the temples. In the midst of
the people, on the stone flags, gathered flocks of doves, eager for
the grain given them, and like movable many-colored and dark spots, now
rising for a moment with a loud sound of wings, now dropping down again
to places left vacant by people. From time to time the crowds opened
before litters in which were visible the affected faces of women, or
the heads of senators and knights, with features, as it were, rigid and
exhausted from living. The many-tongued population repeated aloud their
names, with the addition of some term of praise or ridicule. Among
the unordered groups pushed from time to time, advancing with measured
tread, parties of soldiers, or watchers, preserving order on the
streets. Around about, the Greek language was heard as often as Latin.

Vinicius, who had not been in the city for a long time, looked with a
certain curiosity on that swarm of people and on that Forum Romanum,
which both dominated the sea of the world and was flooded by it, so that
Petronius, who divined the thoughts of his companion, called it “the
nest of the Quirites--without the Quirites.” In truth, the local element
was well-nigh lost in that crowd, composed of all races and nations.
There appeared Ethiopians, gigantic light-haired people from the distant
north, Britons, Gauls, Germans, sloping-eyed dwellers of Lericum; people
from the Euphrates and from the Indus, with beards dyed brick color;
Syrians from the banks of the Orontes, with black and mild eyes;
dwellers in the deserts of Arabia, dried up as a bone; Jews, with their
flat breasts; Egyptians, with the eternal, indifferent smile on their
faces; Numidians and Africans; Greeks from Hellas, who equally with the
Romans commanded the city, but commanded through science, art, wisdom,
and deceit; Greeks from the islands, from Asia Minor, from Egypt, from
Italy, from Narbonic Gaul. In the throng of slaves, with pierced ears,
were not lacking also freemen,--an idle population, which Cæsar amused,
supported, even clothed,--and free visitors, whom the ease of life and
the prospects of fortune enticed to the gigantic city; there was no lack
of venal persons. There were priests of Serapis, with palm branches in
their hands; priests of Isis, to whose altar more offerings were brought
than to the temple of the Capitoline Jove; priests of Cybele, bearing
in their hands golden ears of rice; and priests of nomad divinities; and
dancers of the East with bright head-dresses, and dealers in amulets,
and snake-tamers, and Chaldean seers; and, finally, people without any
occupation whatever, who applied for grain every week at the storehouses
on the Tiber, who fought for lottery-tickets to the Circus, who spent
their nights in rickety houses of districts beyond the Tiber, and sunny
and warm days under covered porticos, and in foul eating-houses of the
Subura, on the Milvian bridge, or before the “insulæ” of the great,
where from time to time remnants from the tables of slaves were thrown
out to them.

Petronius was well known to those crowds. Vinicius’s ears were
struck continually by “Hic est!” (Here he is). They loved him for his
munificence; and his peculiar popularity increased from the time when
they learned that he had spoken before Cæsar in opposition to the
sentence of death issued against the whole “familia,” that is, against
all the slaves of the prefect Pedanius Secundus, without distinction of
sex or age, because one of them had killed that monster in a moment of
despair. Petronius repeated in public, it is true, that it was all one
to him, and that he had spoken to Cæsar only privately, as the arbiter
elegantiarum whose æsthetic taste was offended by a barbarous slaughter
befitting Scythians and not Romans. Nevertheless, people who were
indignant because of the slaughter loved Petronius from that moment
forth. But he did not care for their love. He remembered that that crowd
of people had loved also Britannicus, poisoned by Nero; and Agrippina,
killed at his command; and Octavia, smothered in hot steam at the
Pandataria, after her veins had been opened previously; and Rubelius
Plautus, who had been banished; and Thrasea, to whom any morning might
bring a death sentence. The love of the mob might be considered rather
of ill omen; and the sceptical Petronius was superstitious also. He had
a twofold contempt for the multitude,--as an aristocrat and an æsthetic
person. Men with the odor of roast beans, which they carried in their
bosoms, and who besides were eternally hoarse and sweating from playing
mora on the street-corners and peristyles, did not in his eyes deserve
the term “human.” Hence he gave no answer whatever to the applause,
or the kisses sent from lips here and there to him. He was relating to
Marcus the case of Pedanius, reviling meanwhile the fickleness of that
rabble which, next morning after the terrible butchery, applauded Nero
on his way to the temple of Jupiter Stator. But he gave command to
halt before the book-shop of Avirnus, and, descending from the litter,
purchased an ornamented manuscript, which he gave to Vinicius.

“Here is a gift for thee,” said he.

“Thanks!” answered Vinicius. Then, looking at the title, he inquired,
“‘Satyricon’? Is this something new? Whose is it?”

“Mine. But I do not wish to go in the road of Rufinus, whose history I
was to tell thee, nor of Fabricius Veiento; hence no one knows of this,
and do thou mention it to no man.”

“Thou hast said that thou art no writer of verses,” said Vinicius,
looking at the middle of the manuscript; “but here I see prose thickly
interwoven with them.”

“When thou art reading, turn attention to Trimalchion’s feast. As to
verses, they have disgusted me, since Nero is writing an epic. Vitelius,
when he wishes to relieve himself, uses ivory fingers to thrust down his
throat; others serve themselves with flamingo feathers steeped in olive
oil or in a decoction of wild thyme. I read Nero’s poetry, and the
result is immediate. Straightway I am able to praise it, if not with a
clear conscience, at least with a clear stomach.”

When he had said this, he stopped the litter again before the shop of
Idomeneus the goldsmith, and, having settled the affair of the gems,
gave command to bear the litter directly to Aulus’s mansion.

“On the road I will tell thee the story of Rufinus,” said he, “as proof
of what vanity in an author may be.”

But before he had begun, they turned in to the Vicus Patricius, and
soon found themselves before the dwelling of Aulus. A young and sturdy
“janitor” opened the door leading to the ostium, over which a magpie
confined in a cage greeted them noisily with the word, “Salve!”

On the way from the second antechamber, called the ostium, to the atrium
itself, Vinicius said,--“Hast noticed that thee doorkeepers are
without chains?” “This is a wonderful house,” answered Petronius, in
an undertone. “Of course it is known to thee that Pomponia Græcina is
suspected of entertaining that Eastern superstition which consists in
honoring a certain Chrestos. It seems that Crispinilla rendered her
this service,--she who cannot forgive Pomponia because one husband has
sufficed her for a lifetime. A one-man Woman! To-day, in Rome, it is
easier to get a half-plate of fresh mushrooms from Noricum than to find
such. They tried her before a domestic court--”

“To thy judgment this is a wonderful house. Later on I will tell thee
what I heard and saw in it.”

Meanwhile they had entered the atrium. The slave appointed to it, called
atriensis, sent a nomenclator to announce the guests; and Petronius,
who, imagining that eternal sadness reigned in this severe house, had
never been in it, looked around with astonishment, and as it were with a
feeling of disappointment, for the atrium produced rather an impression
of cheerfulness. A sheaf of bright light falling from above through
a large opening broke into a thousand sparks on a fountain in a
quadrangular little basin, called the impluvium, which was in the middle
to receive rain falling through the opening during bad weather; this
was surrounded by anemones and lilies. In that house a special love for
lilies was evident, for there were whole clumps of them, both white and
red; and, finally, sapphire irises, whose delicate leaves were as if
silvered from the spray of the fountain. Among the moist mosses, in
which lily-pots were hidden, and among the bunches of lilies were little
bronze statues representing children and water-birds. In one corner a
bronze fawn, as if wishing to drink, was inclining its greenish head,
grizzled, too, by dampness. The floor of the atrium was of mosaic; the
walls, faced partly with red marble and partly with wood, on which were
painted fish, birds, and griffins, attracted the eye by the play of
colors. From the door to the side chamber they were ornamented with
tortoise-shell or even ivory; at the walls between the doors were
statues of Aulus’s ancestors. Everywhere calm plenty was evident, remote
from excess, but noble and self-trusting.

Petronius, who lived with incomparably greater show and elegance, could
find nothing which offended his taste; and had just turned to Vinicius
with that remark, when a slave, the velarius, pushed aside the curtain
separating the atrium from the tablinum, and in the depth of the
building appeared Aulus Plautius approaching hurriedly.

He was a man nearing the evening of life, with a head whitened by hoar
frost, but fresh, with an energetic face, a trifle too short, but still
somewhat eagle-like. This time there was expressed on it a certain
astonishment, and even alarm, because of the unexpected arrival of
Nero’s friend, companion, and suggester.

Petronius was too much a man of the world and too quick not to notice
this; hence, after the first greetings, he announced with all the
eloquence and ease at his command that he had come to give thanks
for the care which his sister’s son had found in that house, and that
gratitude alone was the cause of the visit, to which, moreover, he was
emboldened by his old acquaintance with Aulus.

Aulus assured him that he was a welcome guest; and as to gratitude, he
declared that he had that feeling himself, though surely Petronius did
not divine the cause of it.

In fact, Petronius did not divine it. In vain did he raise his hazel
eyes, endeavoring to remember the least service rendered to Aulus or to
any one. He recalled none, unless it might be that which he intended
to show Vinicius. Some such thing, it is true, might have happened
involuntarily, but only involuntarily.

“I have great love and esteem for Vespasian, whose life thou didst
save,” said Aulus, “when he had the misfortune to doze while listening
to Nero’s verses.”

“He was fortunate,” replied Petronius, “for he did not hear them; but
I will not deny that the matter might have ended with misfortune.
Bronzebeard wished absolutely to send a centurion to him with the
friendly advice to open his veins.”

“But thou, Petronius, laughed him out of it.”

“That is true, or rather it is not true. I told Nero that if Orpheus put
wild beasts to sleep with song, his triumph was equal, since he had put
Vespasian to sleep. Ahenobarbus may be blamed on condition that to a
small criticism a great flattery be added. Our gracious Augusta, Poppæa,
understands this to perfection.”

“Alas! such are the times,” answered Aulus. “I lack two front teeth,
knocked out by a stone from the hand of a Briton, I speak with a hiss;
still my happiest days were passed in Britain.”

“Because they were days of victory,” added Vinicius.

But Petronius, alarmed lest the old general might begin a narrative of
his former wars, changed the conversation.

“See,” said he, “in the neighborhood of Præneste country people found
a dead wolf whelp with two heads; and during a storm about that
time lightning struck off an angle of the temple of Luna,--a thing
unparalleled, because of the late autumn. A certain Cotta, too, who
had told this, added, while telling it, that the priests of that temple
prophesied the fall of the city or, at least, the ruin of a great
house,--ruin to be averted only by uncommon sacrifices.”

Aulus, when he had heard the narrative, expressed the opinion that such
signs should not be neglected; that the gods might be angered by an
over-measure of wickedness. In this there was nothing wonderful; and in
such an event expiatory sacrifices were perfectly in order.

“Thy house, Plautius, is not too large,” answered Petronius, “though
a great man lives in it. Mine is indeed too large for such a wretched
owner, though equally small. But if it is a question of the ruin of
something as great, for example, as the domus transitoria, would it be
worth while for us to bring offerings to avert that ruin?”

Plautius did not answer that question,--a carefulness which touched even
Petronius somewhat, for, with all his inability to feel the difference
between good and evil, he had never been an informer; and it was
possible to talk with him in perfect safety. He changed the conversation
again, therefore, and began to praise Plautius’s dwelling and the good
taste which reigned in the house.

“It is an ancient seat,” said Plautius, “in which nothing has been
changed since I inherited it.”

After the curtain was pushed aside which divided the atrium from the
tablinum, the house was open from end to end, so that through the
tablinum and the following peristyle and the hall lying beyond it which
was called the oecus, the glance extended to the garden, which seemed
from a distance like a bright image set in a dark frame. Joyous,
childlike laughter came from it to the atrium.

“Oh, general!” said Petronius, “permit us to listen from near by to that
glad laughter which is of a kind heard so rarely in these days.”

“Willingly,” answered Plautius, rising; “that is my little Aulus and
Lygia, playing ball. But as to laughter, I think, Petronius, that our
whole life is spent in it.”

“Life deserves laughter, hence people laugh at it,” answered Petronius,
“but laughter here has another sound.”

“Petronius does not laugh for days in succession,” said Vinicius; “but
then he laughs entire nights.”

Thus conversing, they passed through the length of the house and reached
the garden, where Lygia and little Aulus were playing with balls, which
slaves, appointed to that game exclusively and called spheristæ, picked
up and placed in their hands. Petronius cast a quick passing glance at
Lygia; little Aulus, seeing Vinicius, ran to greet him; but the young
tribune, going forward, bent his head before the beautiful maiden, who
stood with a ball in her hand, her hair blown apart a little. She was
somewhat out of breath, and flushed.

In the garden triclinium, shaded by ivy, grapes, and woodbine, sat
Pomponia Græcina; hence they went to salute her. She was known to
Petronius, though he did not visit Plautius, for he had seen her at the
house of Antistia, the daughter of Rubelius Plautus, and besides at the
house of Seneca and Polion. He could not resist a certain admiration
with which he was filled by her face, pensive but mild, by the dignity
of her bearing, by her movements, by her words. Pomponia disturbed his
understanding of women to such a degree that that man, corrupted to the
marrow of his bones, and self-confident as no one in Rome, not only felt
for her a kind of esteem, but even lost his previous self-confidence.
And now, thanking her for her care of Vinicius, he thrust in, as it were
involuntarily, “domina,” which never occurred to him when speaking, for
example, to Calvia Crispinilla, Scribonia, Veleria, Solina, and other
women of high society. After he had greeted her and returned thanks, he
began to complain that he saw her so rarely, that it was not possible to
meet her either in the Circus or the Amphitheatre; to which she answered
calmly, laying her hand on the hand of her husband:

“We are growing old, and love our domestic quiet more and more, both of
us.”

Petronius wished to oppose; but Aulus Plautius added in his hissing
voice,--“And we feel stranger and stranger among people who give Greek
names to our Roman divinities.”

“The gods have become for some time mere figures of rhetoric,” replied
Petronius, carelessly. “But since Greek rhetoricians taught us, it is
easier for me even to say Hera than Juno.”

He turned his eyes then to Pomponia, as if to signify that in presence
of her no other divinity could come to his mind: and then he began to
contradict what she had said touching old age.

“People grow old quickly, it is true; but there are some who live
another life entirely, and there are faces moreover which Saturn seems
to forget.”

Petronius said this with a certain sincerity even, for Pomponia Græcina,
though descending from the midday of life, had preserved an uncommon
freshness of face; and since she had a small head and delicate features,
she produced at times, despite her dark robes, despite her solemnity and
sadness, the impression of a woman quite young.

Meanwhile little Aulus, who had become uncommonly friendly with Vinicius
during his former stay in the house, approached the young man and
entreated him to play ball. Lygia herself entered the triclinium after
the little boy. Under the climbing ivy, with the light quivering on her
face, she seemed to Petronius more beautiful than at the first glance,
and really like some nymph. As he had not spoken to her thus far,
he rose, inclined his head, and, instead of the usual expressions of
greeting, quoted the words with which Ulysses greeted Nausikaa,--

“I supplicate thee, O queen, whether thou art some goddess or a mortal!
If thou art one of the daughters of men who dwell on earth, thrice
blessed are thy father and thy lady mother, and thrice blessed thy
brethren.”

The exquisite politeness of this man of the world pleased even Pomponia.
As to Lygia, she listened, confused and flushed, without boldness to
raise her eyes. But a wayward smile began to quiver at the corners of
her lips, and on her face a struggle was evident between the timidity
of a maiden and the wish to answer; but clearly the wish was victorious,
for, looking quickly at Petronius, she answered him all at once with the
words of that same Nausikaa, quoting them at one breath, and a little
like a lesson learned,--

“Stranger, thou seemest no evil man nor foolish.”

Then she turned and ran out as a frightened bird runs.

This time the turn for astonishment came to Petronius, for he had not
expected to hear verses of Homer from the lips of a maiden of whose
barbarian extraction he had heard previously from Vinicius. Hence he
looked with an inquiring glance at Pomponia; but she could not give
him an answer, for she was looking at that moment, with a smile, at the
pride reflected on the face of her husband.

He was not able to conceal that pride. First, he had become attached
to Lygia as to his own daughter; and second, in spite of his old Roman
prejudices, which commanded him to thunder against Greek and the spread
of the language, he considered it as the summit of social polish. He
himself had never been able to learn it well; over this he suffered in
secret. He was glad, therefore, that an answer was given in the language
and poetry of Homer to this exquisite man both of fashion and letters,
who was ready to consider Plautius’s house as barbarian.

“We have in the house a pedagogue, a Greek,” said he, turning to
Petronius, “who teaches our boy, and the maiden overhears the lessons.
She is a wagtail yet, but a dear one, to which we have both grown
attached.”

Petronius looked through the branches of woodbine into the garden, and
at the three persons who were playing there. Vinicius had thrown aside
his toga, and, wearing only his tunic, was striking the ball, which
Lygia, standing opposite, with raised arms was trying to catch. The
maiden did not make a great impression on Petronius at the first glance;
she seemed to him too slender. But from the moment when he saw her more
nearly in the triclinium he thought to himself that Aurora might look
like her; and as a judge he understood that in her there was something
uncommon. He considered everything and estimated everything; hence her
face, rosy and clear, her fresh lips, as if set for a kiss, her eyes
blue as the azure of the sea, the alabaster whiteness of her forehead,
the wealth of her dark hair, with the reflection of amber or Corinthian
bronze gleaming in its folds, her slender neck, the divine slope of her
shoulders, the whole posture, flexible, slender, young with the youth of
May and of freshly opened flowers. The artist was roused in him, and the
worshipper of beauty, who felt that beneath a statue of that maiden one
might write “Spring.” All at once he remembered Chrysothemis, and pure
laughter seized him. Chrysothemis seemed to him, with golden powder on
her hair and darkened brows, to be fabulously faded,--something in
the nature of a yellowed rose-tree shedding its leaves. But still Rome
envied him that Chrysothemis. Then he recalled Poppæa; and that most
famous Poppæa also seemed to him soulless, a waxen mask. In that maiden
with Tanagrian outlines there was not only spring, but a radiant soul,
which shone through her rosy body as a flame through a lamp.

“Vinicius is right,” thought he, “and my Chrysothemis is old, old!--as
Troy!”

Then he turned to Pomponia Græcina, and, pointing to the garden,
said,--“I understand now, domina, why thou and thy husband prefer this
house to the Circus and to feasts on the Palatine.”

“Yes,” answered she, turning her eyes in the direction of little Aulus
and Lygia.

But the old general began to relate the history of the maiden, and what
he had heard years before from Atelius Hister about the Lygian people
who lived in the gloom of the North.

The three outside had finished playing ball, and for some time had
been walking along the sand of the garden, appearing against the dark
background of myrtles and cypresses like three white statues. Lygia held
little Aulus by the hand. After they had walked a while they sat on a
bench near the fish-pond, which occupied the middle of the garden. After
a time Aulus sprang up to frighten the fish in the transparent water,
but Vinicius continued the conversation begun during the walk.

“Yes,” said he, in a low, quivering voice, scarcely audible; “barely had
I cast aside the pretexta, when I was sent to the legions in Asia. I
had not become acquainted with the city, nor with life, nor with love.
I know a small bit of Anacreon by heart, and Horace; but I cannot like
Petronius quote verses, when reason is dumb from admiration and unable
to find its own words. While a youth I went to school to Musonius,
who told me that happiness consists in wishing what the gods wish, and
therefore depends on our will. I think, however, that it is something
else,--something greater and more precious, which depends not on
the will, for love only can give it. The gods themselves seek that
happiness; hence I too, O Lygia, who have not known love thus
far, follow in their footsteps. I also seek her who would give me
happiness--”

He was silent--and for a time there was nothing to be heard save the
light plash of the water into which little Aulus was throwing pebbles
to frighten the fish; but after a while Vinicius began again in a voice
still softer and lower,--“But thou knowest of Vespasian’s son Titus?
They say that he had scarcely ceased to be a youth when he so loved
Berenice that grief almost drew the life out of him. So could I too
love, O Lygia! Riches, glory, power are mere smoke, vanity! The rich
man will find a richer than himself; the greater glory of another
will eclipse a man who is famous; a strong man will be conquered by a
stronger. But can Cæsar himself, can any god even, experience greater
delight or be happier than a simple mortal at the moment when at his
breast there is breathing another dear breast, or when he kisses beloved
lips? Hence love makes us equal to the gods, O Lygia.”

And she listened with alarm, with astonishment, and at the same time as
if she were listening to the sound of a Grecian flute or a cithara. It
seemed to her at moments that Vinicius was singing a kind of wonderful
song, which was instilling itself into her ears, moving the blood in
her, and penetrating her heart with a faintness, a fear, and a kind
of uncomprehended delight. It seemed to her also that he was telling
something which was in her before, but of which she could not give
account to herself. She felt that he was rousing in her something which
had been sleeping hitherto, and that in that moment a hazy dream
was changing into a form more and more definite, more pleasing, more
beautiful.

Meanwhile the sun had passed the Tiber long since, and had sunk low over
the Janiculum. On the motionless cypresses ruddy light was falling, and
the whole atmosphere was filled with it. Lygia raised on Vinicius her
blue eyes as if roused from sleep; and he, bending over her with a
prayer quivering in his eyes, seemed on a sudden, in the reflections
of evening, more beautiful than all men, than all Greek and Roman gods
whose statues she had seen on the façades of temples. And with
his fingers he clasped her arm lightly just above the wrist and
asked,--“Dost thou not divine what I say to thee, Lygia?”

“No,” whispered she as answer, in a voice so low that Vinicius barely
heard it.

But he did not believe her, and, drawing her hand toward him more
vigorously, he would have drawn it to his heart, which, under the
influence of desire roused by the marvellous maiden, was beating like a
hammer, and would have addressed burning words to her directly had not
old Aulus appeared on a path set in a frame of myrtles, who said,
while approaching them,--“The sun is setting; so beware of the evening
coolness, and do not trifle with Libitina.”

“No,” answered Vinicius; “I have not put on my toga yet, and I do not
feel the cold.”

“But see, barely half the sun’s shield is looking from behind the hill.
That is a sweet climate of Sicily, where people gather on the square
before sunset and take farewell of disappearing Phoebus with a choral
song.”

And, forgetting that a moment earlier he had warned them against
Libitina, he began to tell about Sicily, where he had estates and large
cultivated fields which he loved. He stated also that it had come to his
mind more than once to remove to Sicily, and live out his life there in
quietness. “He whose head winters have whitened has bad enough of hoar
frost. Leaves are not falling from the trees yet, and the sky smiles on
the city lovingly; but when the grapevines grow yellow-leaved, when snow
falls on the Alban hills, and the gods visit the Campania with piercing
wind, who knows but I may remove with my entire household to my quiet
country-seat?”

“Wouldst thou leave Rome?” inquired Vinicius, with sudden alarm.

“I have wished to do so this long time, for it is quieter in Sicily and
safer.”

And again he fell to praising his gardens, his herds, his house hidden
in green, and the hills grown over with thyme and savory, among which
were swarms of buzzing bees. But Vinicius paid no heed to that bucolic
note; and from thinking only of this, that he might lose Lygia, he
looked toward Petronius as if expecting salvation from him alone.

Meanwhile Petronius, sitting near Pomponia, was admiring the view of
the setting sun, the garden, and the people standing near the fish-pond.
Their white garments on the dark background of the myrtles gleamed like
gold from the evening rays. On the sky the evening light had begun to
assume purple and violet hues, and to change like an opal. A strip of
the sky became lily-colored. The dark silhouettes of the cypresses grew
still more pronounced than during bright daylight. In the people, in the
trees, in the whole garden there reigned an evening calm.

That calm struck Petronius, and it struck him especially in the people.
In the faces of Pomponia, old Aulus, their son, and Lygia there was
something such as he did not see in the faces which surrounded him every
day, or rather every night. There was a certain light, a certain repose,
a certain serenity, flowing directly from the life which all lived
there. And with a species of astonishment he thought that a beauty and
sweetness might exist which he, who chased after beauty and sweetness
continually, had not known. He could not hide the thought in himself,
and said, turning to Pomponia,--“I am considering in my soul how
different this world of yours is from the world which our Nero rules.”

She raised her delicate face toward the evening light, and said with
simplicity,--“Not Nero, but God, rules the world.”

A moment of silence followed. Near the triclinium were heard in the
alley, the steps of the old general, Vinicius, Lygia, and little Aulus;
but before they arrived, Petronius had put another question--“But
believest thou in the gods, then, Pomponia?”

“I believe in God, who is one, just, and all-powerful,” answered the
wife of Aulus Plautius.




Chapter III


“SHE believes in God who is one, all-powerful, and just,” said
Petronius, when he found himself again in the litter with Vinicius. “If
her God is all-powerful, He controls life and death; and if He is
just, He sends death justly. Why, then, does Pomponia wear mourning for
Julius? In mourning for Julius she blames her God. I must repeat this
reasoning to our Bronzebeard, the monkey, since I consider that in
dialectics I am the equal of Socrates. As to women, I agree that each
has three or four souls, but none of them a reasoning one. Let Pomponia
meditate with Seneca or Cornutus over the question of what their great
Logos is. Let them summon at once the shades of Xenophanes, Parmenides,
Zeno, and Plato, who are as much wearied there in Cimmerian regions as
a finch in a cage. I wished to talk with her and with Plautius about
something else. By the holy stomach of the Egyptian Isis! If I had told
them right out directly why we came, I suppose that their virtue would
have made as much noise as a bronze shield under the blow of a club.
And I did not dare to tell! Wilt thou believe, Vinicius, I did not dare!
Peacocks are beautiful birds, but they have too shrill a cry. I feared
an outburst. But I must praise thy choice. A real ‘rosy-fingered
Aurora.’ And knowest thou what she reminded me of too?--Spring! not our
spring in Italy, where an apple-tree merely puts forth a blossom here
and there, and olive groves grow gray, just as they were gray before,
but the spring which I saw once in Helvetia,--young, fresh, bright
green. By that pale moon, I do not wonder at thee, Marcus; but know that
thou art loving Diana, because Aulus and Pomponia are ready to tear thee
to pieces, as the dogs once tore Actæon.”

Vinicius was silent a time without raising his head; then he began to
speak with a voice broken by passion,--“I desired her before, but now I
desire her still more. When I caught her arm, flame embraced me. I
must have her. Were I Zeus, I would surround her with a cloud, as he
surrounded Io, or I would fall on her in rain, as he fell on Danaë; I
would kiss her lips till it pained! I would hear her scream in my arms.
I would kill Aulus and Pomponia, and bear her home in my arms. I will
not sleep to-night. I will give command to flog one of my slaves, and
listen to his groans--”

“Calm thyself,” said Petronius. “Thou hast the longing of a carpenter
from the Subura.”

“All one to me what thou sayst. I must have her. I have turned to thee
for aid; but if thou wilt not find it, I shall find it myself. Aulus
considers Lygia as a daughter; why should I look on her as a slave? And
since there is no other way, let her ornament the door of my house, let
her anoint it with wolf’s fat, and let her sit at my hearth as wife.”

“Calm thyself, mad descendant of consuls. We do not lead in barbarians
bound behind our cars, to make wives of their daughters. Beware of
extremes. Exhaust simple, honorable methods, and give thyself and me
time for meditation. Chrysothemis seemed to me too a daughter of Jove,
and still I did not marry her, just as Nero did not marry Acte, though
they called her a daughter of King Attalus. Calm thyself! Think that if
she wishes to leave Aulus for thee, he will have no right to detain her.
Know also that thou art not burning alone, for Eros has roused in her
the flame too. I saw that, and it is well to believe me. Have patience.
There is a way to do everything, but to-day I have thought too much
already, and it tires me. But I promise that to-morrow I will think of
thy love, and unless Petronius is not Petronius, he will discover some
method.”

They were both silent again.

“I thank thee,” said Vinicius at last. “May Fortune be bountiful to
thee.”

“Be patient.”

“Whither hast thou given command to bear us?”

“To Chrysothemis.”

“Thou art happy in possessing her whom thou lovest.”

“I? Dost thou know what amuses me yet in Chrysothemis? This, that she is
false to me with my freedman Theokles, and thinks that I do not
notice it. Once I loved her, but now she amuses me with her lying and
stupidity. Come with me to her. Should she begin to flirt with thee, and
write letters on the table with her fingers steeped in wine, know that I
shall not be jealous.”

And he gave command to bear them both to Chrysothemis.

But in the entrance Petronius put his hand on Vinicius’s shoulder, and
said,--“Wait; it seems to me that I have discovered a plan.”

“May all the gods reward thee!”

“I have it! I judge that this plan is infallible. Knowest what, Marcus?”

“I listen to thee, my wisdom.”

“Well, in a few days the divine Lygia will partake of Demeter’s grain in
thy house.”

“Thou art greater than Cæsar!” exclaimed Vinicius with enthusiasm.




Chapter IV


IN fact, Petronius kept his promise. He slept all the day following his
visit to Chrysothemis, it is true; but in the evening he gave command to
bear him to the Palatine, where he had a confidential conversation with
Nero; in consequence of this, on the third day a centurion, at the
head of some tens of pretorian soldiers, appeared before the house of
Plautius.

The period was uncertain and terrible. Messengers of this kind were more
frequently heralds of death. So when the centurion struck the hammer at
Aulus’s door, and when the guard of the atrium announced that there
were soldiers in the anteroom, terror rose through the whole house.
The family surrounded the old general at once, for no one doubted that
danger hung over him above all. Pomponia, embracing his neck with
her arms, clung to him with all her strength, and her blue lips moved
quickly while uttering some whispered phrase. Lygia, with a face pale
as linen, kissed his hand; little Aulus clung to his toga. From the
corridor, from chambers in the lower story intended for servant-women
and attendants, from the bath, from the arches of lower dwellings, from
the whole house, crowds of slaves began to hurry out, and the cries of
“Heu! heu, me miserum!” were heard. The women broke into great weeping;
some scratched their cheeks, or covered their heads with kerchiefs.

Only the old general himself, accustomed for years to look death
straight in the eye, remained calm, and his short eagle face became as
rigid as if chiselled from stone. After a while, when he had silenced
the uproar, and commanded the attendants to disappear, he said,--“Let me
go, Pomponia. If my end has come, we shall have time to take leave.”

And he pushed her aside gently; but she said,--“God grant thy fate and
mine to be one, O Aulus!”

Then, failing on her knees, she began to pray with that force which fear
for some dear one alone can give.

Aulus passed out to the atrium, where the centurion was waiting for him.
It was old Caius Hasta, his former subordinate and companion in British
wars.

“I greet thee, general,” said he. “I bring a command, and the greeting
of Cæsar; here are the tablets and the signet to show that I come in his
name.”

“I am thankful to Cæsar for the greeting, and I shall obey the command,”
 answered Aulus. “Be welcome, Hasta, and say what command thou hast
brought.”

“Aulus Plautius,” began Hasta, “Cæsar has learned that in thy house is
dwelling the daughter of the king of the Lygians, whom that king during
the life of the divine Claudius gave into the hands of the Romans as a
pledge that the boundaries of the empire would never be violated by the
Lygians. The divine Nero is grateful to thee, O general, because thou
hast given her hospitality in thy house for so many years; but, not
wishing to burden thee longer, and considering also that the maiden as
a hostage should be under the guardianship of Cæsar and the senate, he
commands thee to give her into my hands.”

Aulus was too much a soldier and too much a veteran to permit himself
regret in view of an order, or vain words, or complaint. A slight
wrinkle of sudden anger and pain, however, appeared on his forehead.
Before that frown legions in Britain had trembled on a time, and even
at that moment fear was evident on the face of Hasta. But in view of the
order, Aulus Plautius felt defenceless. He looked for some time at the
tablets and the signet; then raising his eyes to the old centurion, he
said calmly,--“Wait, Hasta, in the atrium till the hostage is delivered
to thee.”

After these words he passed to the other end of the house, to the
hall called oecus, where Pomponia Græcina, Lygia, and little Aulus were
waiting for him in fear and alarm.

“Death threatens no one, nor banishment to distant islands,” said he;
“still Cæsar’s messenger is a herald of misfortune. It is a question of
thee, Lygia.”

“Of Lygia?” exclaimed Pomponia, with astonishment.

“Yes,” answered Aulus.

And turning to the maiden, he began: “Lygia, thou wert reared in our
house as our own child; I and Pomponia love thee as our daughter. But
know this, that thou art not our daughter. Thou art a hostage, given
by thy people to Rome, and guardianship over thee belongs to Cæsar. Now
Cæsar takes thee from our house.”

The general spoke calmly, but with a certain strange, unusual voice.
Lygia listened to his words, blinking, as if not understanding what the
question was. Pomponia’s cheeks became pallid. In the doors leading
from the corridor to the oecus, terrified faces of slaves began to show
themselves a second time.

“The will of Cæsar must be accomplished,” said Aulus.

“Aulus!” exclaimed Pomponia, embracing the maiden with her arms, as if
wishing to defend her, “it would be better for her to die.”

Lygia, nestling up to her breast, repeated, “Mother, mother!” unable in
her sobbing to find other words.

On Aulus’s face anger and pain were reflected again. “If I were alone in
the world,” said he, gloomily, “I would not surrender her alive, and my
relatives might give offerings this day to ‘Jupiter Liberator.’ But I
have not the right to kill thee and our child, who may live to happier
times. I will go to Cæsar this day, and implore him to change his
command. Whether he will hear me, I know not. Meanwhile, farewell,
Lygia, and know that I and Pomponia ever bless the day in which thou
didst take thy seat at our hearth.”

Thus speaking, he placed his hand on her head; but though he strove to
preserve his calmness, when Lygia turned to him eyes filled with tears,
and seizing his hand pressed it to her lips, his voice was filled with
deep fatherly sorrow.

“Farewell, our joy, and the light of our eyes,” said he.

And he went to the atrium quickly, so as not to let himself be conquered
by emotion unworthy of a Roman and a general.

Meanwhile Pomponia, when she had conducted Lygia to the cubiculum, began
to comfort, console, and encourage her, uttering words meanwhile which
sounded strangely in that house, where near them in an adjoining chamber
the lararium remained yet, and where the hearth was on which Aulus
Plautius, faithful to ancient usage, made offerings to the household
divinities. Now the hour of trial had come. On a time Virginius had
pierced the bosom of his own daughter to save her from the hands of
Appius; still earlier Lucretia had redeemed her shame with her life.
The house of Cæsar is a den of infamy, of evil, of crime. But we, Lygia,
know why we have not the right to raise hands on ourselves! Yes! The law
under which we both live is another, a greater, a holier, but it gives
permission to defend oneself from evil and shame even should it happen
to pay for that defence with life and torment. Whoso goes forth pure
from the dwelling of corruption has the greater merit thereby. The earth
is that dwelling; but fortunately life is one twinkle of the eye, and
resurrection is only from the grave; beyond that not Nero, but Mercy
bears rule, and there instead of pain is delight, there instead of tears
is rejoicing.

Next she began to speak of herself. Yes! she was calm; but in her breast
there was no lack of painful wounds. For example, Aulus was a cataract
on her eye; the fountain of light had not flowed to him yet. Neither was
it permitted her to rear her son in Truth. When she thought, therefore,
that it might be thus to the end of her life, and that for them a moment
of separation might come which would be a hundred times more grievous
and terrible than that temporary one over which they were both suffering
then, she could not so much as understand how she might be happy even in
heaven without them. And she had wept many nights through already, she
had passed many nights in prayer, imploring grace and mercy. But she
offered her suffering to God, and waited and trusted. And now, when
a new blow struck her, when the tyrant’s command took from her a dear
one,--the one whom Aulus had called the light of their eyes,--she
trusted yet, believing that there was a power greater than Nero’s and a
mercy mightier than his anger.

And she pressed the maiden’s head to her bosom still more firmly. Lygia
dropped to her knees after a while, and, covering her eyes in the folds
of Pomponia’s peplus, she remained thus a long time in silence; but when
she stood up again, some calmness was evident on her face.

“I grieve for thee, mother, and for father and for my brother; but I
know that resistance is useless, and would destroy all of us. I promise
thee that in the house of Cæsar I will never forget thy words.”

Once more she threw her arms around Pomponia’s neck; then both went out
to the oecus, and she took farewell of little Aulus, of the old Greek
their teacher, of the dressing-maid who had been her nurse, and of all
the slaves. One of these, a tall and broad-shouldered Lygian, called
Ursus in the house, who with other servants had in his time gone with
Lygia’s mother and her to the camp of the Romans, fell now at her feet,
and then bent down to the knees of Pomponia, saying,--“O domina! permit
me to go with my lady, to serve her and watch over her in the house of
Cæsar.”

“Thou art not our servant, but Lygia’s,” answered Pomponia; “but if they
admit thee through Cæsar’s doors, in what way wilt thou be able to watch
over her?”

“I know not, domina; I know only that iron breaks in my hands just as
wood does.”

When Aulus, who came up at that moment, had heard what the question was,
not only did he not oppose the wishes of Ursus, but he declared that he
had not even the right to detain him. They were sending away Lygia as a
hostage whom Cæsar had claimed, and they were obliged in the same way to
send her retinue, which passed with her to the control of Cæsar. Here he
whispered to Pomponia that under the form of an escort she could add as
many slaves as she thought proper, for the centurion could not refuse to
receive them.

There was a certain comfort for Lygia in this. Pomponia also was glad
that she could surround her with servants of her own choice. Therefore,
besides Ursus, she appointed to her the old tire-woman, two maidens from
Cyprus well skilled in hair-dressing, and two German maidens for the
bath. Her choice fell exclusively on adherents of the new faith; Ursus,
too, had professed it for a number of years. Pomponia could count on the
faithfulness of those servants, and at the same time consoled herself
with the thought that soon grains of truth would be in Cæsar’s house.

She wrote a few words also, committing care over Lygia to Nero’s
freedwoman, Acte. Pomponia had not seen her, it is true, at meetings of
confessors of the new faith; but she had heard from them that Acte had
never refused them a service, and that she read the letters of Paul of
Tarsus eagerly. It was known to her also that the young freedwoman lived
in melancholy, that she was a person different from all other women of
Nero’s house, and that in general she was the good spirit of the palace.

Hasta engaged to deliver the letter himself to Acte. Considering it
natural that the daughter of a king should have a retinue of her own
servants, he did not raise the least difficulty in taking them to the
palace, but wondered rather that there should be so few. He begged
haste, however, fearing lest he might be suspected of want of zeal in
carrying out orders.

The moment of parting came. The eyes of Pomponia and Lygia were filled
with fresh tears; Aulus placed his hand on her head again, and after a
while the soldiers, followed by the cry of little Aulus, who in defence
of his sister threatened the centurion with his small fists, conducted
Lygia to Cæsar’s house.

The old general gave command to prepare his litter at once; meanwhile,
shutting himself up with Pomponia in the pinacotheca adjoining the oecus,
he said to her,--“Listen to me, Pomponia. I will go to Cæsar, though
I judge that my visit will be useless; and though Seneca’s word means
nothing with Nero now, I will go also to Seneca. To-day Sophonius,
Tigellinus, Petronius, or Vatinius have more influence. As to Cæsar,
perhaps he has never even heard of the Lygian people; and if he has
demanded the delivery of Lygia, the hostage, he has done so because some
one persuaded him to it,--it is easy to guess who could do that.”

She raised her eyes to him quickly.

“Is it Petronius?”

“It is.”

A moment of silence followed; then the general continued,--“See what it
is to admit over the threshold any of those people without conscience or
honor. Cursed be the moment in which Vinicius entered our house, for
he brought Petronius. Woe to Lygia, since those men are not seeking a
hostage, but a concubine.”

And his speech became more hissing than usual, because of helpless rage
and of sorrow for his adopted daughter. He struggled with himself some
time, and only his clenched fists showed how severe was the struggle
within him.

“I have revered the gods so far,” said he; “but at this moment I think
that not they are over the world, but one mad, malicious monster named
Nero.”

“Aulus,” said Pomponia. “Nero is only a handful of rotten dust before
God.”

But Aulus began to walk with long steps over the mosaic of the
pinacotheca. In his life there had been great deeds, but no great
misfortunes; hence he was unused to them. The old soldier had grown more
attached to Lygia than he himself had been aware of, and now he could
not be reconciled to the thought that he had lost her. Besides, he felt
humiliated. A hand was weighing on him which he despised, and at the
same time he felt that before its power his power was as nothing.

But when at last he stifled in himself the anger which disturbed his
thoughts, he said,--“I judge that Petronius has not taken her from
us for Cæsar, since he would not offend Poppæa. Therefore he took her
either for himself or Vinicius. Today I will discover this.”

And after a while the litter bore him in the direction of the Palatine.
Pomponia, when left alone, went to little Aulus, who did not cease
crying for his sister, or threatening Cæsar.




Chapter V


AULUS had judged rightly that he would not be admitted to Nero’s
presence. They told him that Cæsar was occupied in singing with the
lute-player, Terpnos, and that in general he did not receive those whom
he himself had not summoned. In other words, that Aulus must not attempt
in future to see him.

Seneca, though ill with a fever, received the old general with due
honor; but when he had heard what the question was, he laughed bitterly,
and said,--“I can render thee only one service, noble Plautius, not to
show Cæsar at any time that my heart feels thy pain, or that I should
like to aid thee; for should Cæsar have the least suspicion on this
head, know that he would not give thee back Lygia, though for no other
reason than to spite me.”

He did not advise him, either, to go to Tigellinus or Vatinius or
Vitelius. It might be possible to do something with them through money;
perhaps, also, they would like to do evil to Petronius, whose influence
they were trying to undermine, but most likely they would disclose
before Nero how dear Lygia was to Plautius, and then Nero would all the
more resolve not to yield her to him. Here the old sage began to speak
with a biting irony, which he turned against himself: “Thou hast been
silent, Plautius, thou hast been silent for whole years, and Cæsar does
not like those who are silent. How couldst thou help being carried
away by his beauty, his virtue, his singing, his declamation, his
chariot-driving, and his verses? Why didst thou not glorify the death
of Britannicus, and repeat panegyrics in honor of the mother-slayer,
and not offer congratulations after the stifling of Octavia? Thou art
lacking in foresight, Aulus, which we who live happily at the court
possess in proper measure.”

Thus speaking, he raised a goblet which he carried at his belt, took
water from a fountain at the impluvium, freshened his burning lips, and
continued,--“Ah, Nero has a grateful heart. He loves thee because thou
hast served Rome and glorified its name at the ends of the earth; he
loves me because I was his master in youth. Therefore, seest thou, I
know that this water is not poisoned, and I drink it in peace. Wine in
my own house would be less reliable. If thou art thirsty, drink boldly
of this water. The aqueducts bring it from beyond the Alban hills, and
any one wishing to poison it would have to poison every fountain in
Rome. As thou seest, it is possible yet to be safe in this world and to
have a quiet old age. I am sick, it is true, but rather in soul than in
body.”

This was true. Seneca lacked the strength of soul which Cornutus
possessed, for example, or Thrasea; hence his life was a series of
concessions to crime. He felt this himself; he understood that an
adherent of the principles of Zeno, of Citium, should go by another
road, and he suffered more from that cause than from the fear of death
itself.

But the general interrupted these reflections full of grief.

“Noble Annæus,” said he, “I know how Cæsar rewarded thee for the care
with which thou didst surround his years of youth. But the author of
the removal of Lygia is Petronius. Indicate to me a method against him,
indicate the influences to which he yields, and use besides with him all
the eloquence with which friendship for me of long standing can inspire
thee.”

“Petronius and I,” answered Seneca, “are men of two opposite camps; I
know of no method against him, he yields to no man’s influence. Perhaps
with all his corruption he is worthier than those scoundrels with whom
Nero surrounds himself at present. But to show him that he has done an
evil deed is to lose time simply. Petronius has lost long since that
faculty which distinguishes good from evil. Show him that his act is
ugly, he will be ashamed of it. When I see him, I will say, ‘Thy act is
worthy of a freedman.’ If that will not help thee, nothing can.”

“Thanks for that, even,” answered the general.

Then he gave command to carry him to the house of Vinicius, whom he
found at sword practice with his domestic trainer. Aulus was borne away
by terrible anger at sight of the young man occupied calmly with fencing
during the attack on Lygia; and barely had the curtain dropped
behind the trainer when this anger burst forth in a torrent of bitter
reproaches and injuries. But Vinicius, when he learned that Lygia had
been carried away, grew so terribly pale that Aulus could not for even
an instant suspect him of sharing in the deed. The young man’s forehead
was covered with sweat; the blood, which had rushed to his heart for a
moment, returned to his face in a burning wave; his eyes began to shoot
sparks, his mouth to hurl disconnected questions. Jealousy and rage
tossed him in turn, like a tempest. It seemed to him that Lygia,
once she had crossed the threshold of Cæsar’s house, was lost to him
absolutely. When Aulus pronounced the name of Petronius, suspicion flew
like a lightning flash through the young soldier’s mind, that Petronius
had made sport of him, and either wanted to win new favor from Nero by
the gift of Lygia, or keep her for himself. That any one who had seen
Lygia would not desire her at once, did not find a place in his head.
Impetuousness, inherited in his family, carried him away like a wild
horse, and took from him presence of mind.

“General,” said he, with a broken voice, “return home and wait for me.
Know that if Petronius were my own father, I would avenge on him the
wrong done to Lygia. Return home and wait for me. Neither Petronius nor
Cæsar will have her.”

Then he went with clinched fists to the waxed masks standing clothed in
the atrium, and burst out,--“By those mortal masks! I would rather kill
her and myself.” When he had said this, he sent another “Wait for me”
 after Aulus, then ran forth like a madman from the atrium, and flew to
Petronius’s house, thrusting pedestrians aside on the way.

Aulus returned home with a certain encouragement. He judged that if
Petronius had persuaded Cæsar to take Lygia to give her to Vinicius,
Vinicius would bring her to their house. Finally, the thought was no
little consolation to him, that should Lygia not be rescued she would be
avenged and protected by death from disgrace. He believed that Vinicius
would do everything that he had promised. He had seen his rage, and he
knew the excitability innate in the whole family. He himself, though he
loved Lygia as her own father, would rather kill her than give her
to Cæsar; and had he not regarded his son, the last descendant of his
stock, he would doubtless have done so. Aulus was a soldier; he had
hardly heard of the Stoics, but in character he was not far from their
ideas,--death was more acceptable to his pride than disgrace.

When he returned home, he pacified Pomponia, gave her the consolation
that he had, and both began to await news from Vinicius. At moments when
the steps of some of the slaves were heard in the atrium, they thought
that perhaps Vinicius was bringing their beloved child to them, and
they were ready in the depth of their souls to bless both. Time passed,
however, and no news came. Only in the evening was the hammer heard on
the gate.

After a while a slave entered and handed Aulus a letter. The old
general, though he liked to show command over himself, took it with a
somewhat trembling hand, and began to read as hastily as if it were a
question of his whole house.

All at once his face darkened, as if a shadow from a passing cloud had
fallen on it.

“Read,” said he, turning to Pomponia.

Pomponia took the letter and read as follows:--

“Marcus Vinicius to Aulus Plautius greeting. What has happened, has
happened by the will of Cæsar, before which incline your heads, as I and
Petronius incline ours.”

A long silence followed.




Chapter VI


PETRONIUS was at home. The doorkeeper did not dare to stop Vinicius, who
burst into the atrium like a storm, and, learning that the master of
the house was in the library, he rushed into the library with the same
impetus. Finding Petronius writing, he snatched the reed from his hand,
broke it, trampled the reed on the floor, then fixed his fingers into
his shoulder, and, approaching his face to that of his uncle, asked,
with a hoarse voice,--“What hast thou done with her? Where is she?”

Suddenly an amazing thing happened. That slender and effeminate
Petronius seized the hand of the youthful athlete, which was grasping
his shoulder, then seized the other, and, holding them both in his one
hand with the grip of an iron vice, he said,--“I am incapable only in
the morning; in the evening I regain my former strength. Try to
escape. A weaver must have taught thee gymnastics, and a blacksmith thy
manners.”

On his face not even anger was evident, but in his eyes there was a
certain pale reflection of energy and daring. After a while he let
the hands of Vinicius drop. Vinicius stood before him shamefaced and
enraged.

“Thou hast a steel hand,” said he; “but if thou hast betrayed me, I
swear, by all the infernal gods, that I will thrust a knife into thy
body, though thou be in the chambers of Cæsar.”

“Let us talk calmly,” said Petronius. “Steel is stronger, as thou seest,
than iron; hence, though out of one of thy arms two as large as mine
might be made, I have no need to fear thee. On the contrary, I grieve
over thy rudeness, and if the ingratitude of men could astonish me yet,
I should be astonished at thy ingratitude.”

“Where is Lygia?”

“In a brothel,--that is, in the house of Cæsar.”

“Petronius!”

“Calm thyself, and be seated. I asked Cæsar for two things, which he
promised me,--first, to take Lygia from the house of Aulus, and second
to give her to thee. Hast thou not a knife there under the folds of thy
toga? Perhaps thou wilt stab me! But I advise thee to wait a couple of
days, for thou wouldst be taken to prison, and meanwhile Lygia would be
wearied in thy house.”

Silence followed. Vinicius looked for some time with astonished eyes on
Petronius; then he said,--“Pardon me; I love her, and love is disturbing
my faculties.”

“Look at me, Marcus. The day before yesterday I spoke to Cæsar as
follows: ‘My sister’s son, Vinicius, has so fallen in love with a lean
little girl who is being reared with the Auluses that his house is
turned into a steambath from sighs. Neither thou, O Cæsar, nor I--we who
know, each of us, what true beauty is--would give a thousand sesterces
for her; but that lad has ever been as dull as a tripod, and now he has
lost all the wit that was in him.’”

“Petronius!”

“If thou understand not that I said this to insure Lygia’s safety, I am
ready to believe that I told the truth. I persuaded Bronzebeard that a
man of his æsthetic nature could not consider such a girl beautiful; and
Nero, who so far has not dared to look otherwise than through my eyes,
will not find in her beauty, and, not finding it, will not desire her.
It was necessary to insure ourselves against the monkey and take him
on a rope. Not he, but Poppæa, will value Lygia now; and Poppæa will
strive, of course, to send the girl out of the palace at the earliest.
I said further to Bronzebeard, in passing: ‘Take Lygia and give her to
Vinicius! Thou hast the right to do so, for she is a hostage; and if
thou take her, thou wilt inflict pain on Aulus.’ He agreed; he had not
the least reason not to agree, all the more since I gave him a chance
to annoy decent people. They will make thee official guardian of the
hostage, and give into thy hands that Lygian treasure; thou, as a friend
of the valiant Lygians, and also a faithful servant of Cæsar, wilt not
waste any of the treasure, but wilt strive to increase it. Cæsar, to
preserve appearances, will keep her a few days in his house, and then
send her to thy insula. Lucky man!”

“Is this true? Does nothing threaten her there in Cæsar’s house?”

“If she had to live there permanently, Poppæa would talk about her to
Locusta, but for a few days there is no danger. Ten thousand people
live in it. Nero will not see her, perhaps, all the more since he left
everything to me, to the degree that just now the centurion was here
with information that he had conducted the maiden to the palace and
committed her to Acte. She is a good soul, that Acte; hence I gave
command to deliver Lygia to her. Clearly Pomponia Græcina is of that
opinion too, for she wrote to Acte. To-morrow there is a feast at
Nero’s. I have requested a place for thee at the side of Lygia.”

“Pardon me, Caius, my hastiness. I judged that thou hadst given command
to take her for thyself or for Cæsar.”

“I can forgive thy hastiness; but it is more difficult to forgive rude
gestures, vulgar shouts, and a voice reminding one of players at mora. I
do not like that style, Marcus, and do thou guard against it. Know that
Tigellinus is Cæsar’s pander; but know also that if I wanted the
girl for myself now, looking thee straight in the eyes, I would say,
‘Vinicius! I take Lygia from thee and I will keep her till I am tired of
her.”

Thus speaking, he began to look with his hazel eyes straight into the
eyes of Vinicius with a cold and insolent stare. The young man lost
himself completely.

“The fault is mine,” said he. “Thou art kind and worthy. I thank thee
from my whole soul. Permit me only to put one more question: Why didst
thou not have Lygia sent directly to my house?”

“Because Cæsar wishes to preserve appearances. People in Rome will talk
about this,--that we removed Lygia as a hostage. While they are talking,
she will remain in Cæsar’s palace. Afterward she will be removed quietly
to thy house, and that will be the end. Bronzebeard is a cowardly
cur. He knows that his power is unlimited, and still he tries to give
specious appearances to every act. Hast thou recovered to the degree of
being able to philosophize a little? More than once have I thought, Why
does crime, even when as powerful as Cæsar, and assured of being beyond
punishment, strive always for the appearances of truth, justice, and
virtue? Why does it take the trouble? I consider that to murder a
brother, a mother, a wife, is a thing worthy of some petty Asiatic king,
not a Roman Cæsar; but if that position were mine, I should not write
justifying letters to the Senate. But Nero writes. Nero is looking for
appearances, for Nero is a coward. But Tiberius was not a coward;
still he justified every step he took. Why is this? What a marvellous,
involuntary homage paid to virtue by evil! And knowest thou what strikes
me? This, that it is done because transgression is ugly and virtue
is beautiful. Therefore a man of genuine æsthetic feeling is also a
virtuous man. Hence I am virtuous. To-day I must pour out a little
wine to the shades of Protagoras, Prodicus, and Gorgias. It seems that
sophists too can be of service. Listen, for I am speaking yet. I took
Lygia from Aulus to give her to thee. Well. But Lysippus would have made
wonderful groups of her and thee. Ye are both beautiful; therefore my
act is beautiful, and being beautiful it cannot be bad. Marcus, here
sitting before thee is virtue incarnate in Caius Petronius! If Aristides
were living, it would be his duty to come to me and offer a hundred minæ
for a short treatise on virtue.”

But Vinicius, as a man more concerned with reality than with treatises
on virtue, replied,--“To-morrow I shall see Lygia, and then have her in
my house daily, always, and till death.”

“Thou wilt have Lygia, and I shall have Aulus on my head. He will summon
the vengeance of all the infernal gods against me. And if the beast
would take at least a preliminary lesson in good declamation! He will
blame me, however, as my former doorkeeper blamed my clients but him I
sent to prison in the country.”

“Aulus has been at my house. I promised to give him news of Lygia.”

“Write to him that the will of the ‘divine’ Cæsar is the highest law,
and that thy first son will bear the name Aulus. It is necessary that
the old man should have some consolation. I am ready to pray Bronzebeard
to invite him to-morrow to the feast. Let him see thee in the triclinium
next to Lygia.”

“Do not do that. I am sorry for them, especially for Pomponia.”

And he sat down to write that letter which took from the old general the
remnant of his hope.




Chapter VII


ONCE the highest heads in Rome inclined before Acte, the former favorite
of Nero. But even at that period she showed no desire to interfere in
public questions, and if on any occasion she used her influence over
the young ruler, it was only to implore mercy for some one. Quiet and
unassuming, she won the gratitude of many, and made no one her enemy.
Even Octavia was unable to hate her. To those who envied her she seemed
exceedingly harmless. It was known that she continued to love Nero with
a sad and pained love, which lived not in hope, but only in memories of
the time in which that Nero was not only younger and loving, but better.
It was known that she could not tear her thoughts and soul from those
memories, but expected nothing; since there was no real fear that Nero
would return to her, she was looked upon as a person wholly inoffensive,
and hence was left in peace. Poppæa considered her merely as a quiet
servant, so harmless that she did not even try to drive her from the
palace.

But since Cæsar had loved her once and dropped her without offence in a
quiet and to some extent friendly manner, a certain respect was retained
for her. Nero, when he had freed her, let her live in the palace, and
gave her special apartments with a few servants. And as in their time
Pallas and Narcissus, though freedmen of Claudius, not only sat
at feasts with Claudius, but also held places of honor as powerful
ministers, so she too was invited at times to Cæsar’s table. This was
done perhaps because her beautiful form was a real ornament to a
feast. Cæsar for that matter had long since ceased to count with any
appearances in his choice of company. At his table the most varied
medley of people of every position and calling found places. Among them
were senators, but mainly those who were content to be jesters as well.
There were patricians, old and young, eager for luxury, excess, and
enjoyment. There were women with great names, who did not hesitate to
put on a yellow wig of an evening and seek adventures on dark streets
for amusement’s sake. There were also high officials, and priests who
at full goblets were willing to jeer at their own gods. At the side of
these was a rabble of every sort: singers, mimes, musicians, dancers of
both sexes; poets who, while declaiming, were thinking of the
sesterces which might fall to them for praise of Cæsar’s verses; hungry
philosophers following the dishes with eager eyes; finally, noted
charioteers, tricksters, miracle-wrights, tale-tellers, jesters, and the
most varied adventurers brought through fashion or folly to a few days’
notoriety. Among these were not lacking even men who covered with long
hair their ears pierced in sign of slavery.

The most noted sat directly at the tables; the lesser served to amuse
in time of eating, and waited for the moment in which the servants would
permit them to rush at the remnants of food and drink. Guests of this
sort were furnished by Tigellinus, Vatinius, and Vitelius; for these
guests they were forced more than once to find clothing befitting the
chambers of Cæsar, who, however, liked their society, through feeling
most free in it. The luxury of the court gilded everything, and
covered all things with glitter. High and low, the descendants of great
families, and the needy from the pavements of the city, great artists,
and vile scrapings of talent, thronged to the palace to sate their
dazzled eyes with a splendor almost surpassing human estimate, and to
approach the giver of every favor, wealth, and property,--whose single
glance might abase, it is true, but might also exalt beyond measure.

That day Lygia too had to take part in such a feast. Fear, uncertainty,
and a dazed feeling, not to be wondered at after the sudden change, were
struggling in her with a wish to resist. She feared Nero; she feared the
people and the palace whose uproar deprived her of presence of mind;
she feared the feasts of whose shamelessness she had heard from Aulus,
Pomponia Græcina, and their friends. Though young, she was not without
knowledge, for knowledge of evil in those times reached even children’s
ears early. She knew, therefore, that ruin was threatening her in the
palace. Pomponia, moreover, had warned her of this at the moment of
parting. But having a youthful spirit, unacquainted with corruption, and
confessing a lofty faith, implanted in her by her foster mother, she
had promised to defend herself against that ruin; she had promised
her mother, herself and also that Divine Teacher in whom she not only
believed, but whom she had come to love with her half-childlike heart
for the sweetness of his doctrine, the bitterness of his death, and the
glory of his resurrection.

She was confident too that now neither Aulus nor Pomponia would be
answerable for her actions; she was thinking therefore whether it would
not be better to resist and not go to the feast. On the one hand fear
and alarm spoke audibly in her soul; on the other the wish rose in her
to show courage in suffering, in exposure to torture and death. The
Divine Teacher had commanded to act thus. He had given the example
himself. Pomponia had told her that the most earnest among the adherents
desire with all their souls such a test, and pray for it. And Lygia,
when still in the house of Aulus, had been mastered at moments by a
similar desire. She had seen herself as a martyr, with wounds on her
feet and hands, white as snow, beautiful with a beauty not of earth, and
borne by equally white angels into the azure sky; and her imagination
admired such a vision. There was in it much childish brooding, but
there was in it also something of delight in herself, which Pomponia had
reprimanded. But now, when opposition to Cæsar’s will might draw after
it some terrible punishment, and the martyrdom scene of imagination
become a reality, there was added to the beautiful visions and to the
delight a kind of curiosity mingled with dread, as to how they would
punish her, and what kind of torments they would provide. And her soul,
half childish yet, was hesitating on two sides. But Acte, hearing of
these hesitations, looked at her with astonishment as if the maiden
were talking in a fever. To oppose Cæsar’s will, expose oneself from the
first moment to his anger? To act thus one would need to be a child that
knows not what it says. From Lygia’s own words it appears that she is,
properly speaking, not really a hostage, but a maiden forgotten by her
own people. No law of nations protects her; and even if it did, Cæsar
is powerful enough to trample on it in a moment of anger. It has pleased
Cæsar to take her, and he will dispose of her. Thenceforth she is at his
will, above which there is not another on earth.

“So it is,” continued Acte. “I too have read the letters of Paul of
Tarsus, and I know that above the earth is God, and the Son of God, who
rose from the dead; but on the earth there is only Cæsar. Think of this,
Lygia. I know too that thy doctrine does not permit thee to be what
I was, and that to you as to the Stoics,--of whom Epictetus has told
me,--when it comes to a choice between shame and death, it is permitted
to choose only death. But canst thou say that death awaits thee and not
shame too? Hast thou heard of the daughter of Sejanus, a young maiden,
who at command of Tiberius had to pass through shame before her death,
so as to respect a law which prohibits the punishment of virgins with
death? Lygia, Lygia, do not irritate Cæsar. If the decisive moment comes
when thou must choose between disgrace and death, thou wilt act as thy
faith commands; but seek not destruction thyself, and do not irritate
for a trivial cause an earthly and at the same time a cruel divinity.”

Acte spoke with great compassion, and even with enthusiasm; and being
a little short-sighted, she pushed her sweet face up to Lygia’s as if
wishing to see surely the effect of her words.

But Lygia threw her arms around Acte’s neck with childish trustfulness
and said,--“Thou art kind, Acte.”

Acte, pleased by the praise and confidence, pressed her to her heart;
and then disengaging herself from the arms of the maiden, answered,--“My
happiness has passed and my joy is gone, but I am not wicked.” Then she
began to walk with quick steps through the room and to speak to herself,
as if in despair.

“No! And he was not wicked. He thought himself good at that time, and he
wished to be good. I know that best. All his change came later, when he
ceased to love. Others made him what he is--yes, others--and Poppæa.”

Here her eyelids filled with tears. Lygia followed her for some time
with her blue eyes, and asked at last,--“Art thou sorry for him, Acte?”

“I am sorry for him!” answered the Grecian, with a low voice. And
again she began to walk, her hands clinched as if in pain, and her face
without hope.

“Dost thou love him yet, Acte?” asked Lygia, timidly.

“I love him.”

And after a while she added,--“No one loves him but me.”

Silence followed, during which Acte strove to recover her calmness,
disturbed by memories; and when at length her face resumed its usual
look of calm sorrow, she said,--

“Let us speak of thee, Lygia. Do not even think of opposing Cæsar; that
would be madness. And be calm. I know this house well, and I judge that
on Cæsar’s part nothing threatens thee. If Nero had given command
to take thee away for himself, he would not have brought thee to the
Palatine. Here Poppæa rules; and Nero, since she bore him a daughter, is
more than ever under her influence. No, Nero gave command, it is true,
that thou shouldst be at the feast, but he has not seen thee yet; he
has not inquired about thee, hence he does not care about thee. Maybe he
took thee from Aulus and Pomponia only through anger at them. Petronius
wrote me to have care of thee; and since Pomponia too wrote, as thou
knowest, maybe they had an understanding. Maybe he did that at her
request. If this be true, if he at the request of Pomponia will occupy
himself with thee, nothing threatens thee; and who knows if Nero may not
send thee back to Aulus at his persuasion? I know not whether Nero loves
him over much, but I know that rarely has he the courage to be of an
opinion opposite to his.”

“Ah, Acte!” answered Lygia; “Petronius was with us before they took
me, and my mother was convinced that Nero demanded my surrender at his
instigation.”

“That would be bad,” said Acte. But she stopped for a while, and then
said,--“Perhaps Petronius only said, in Nero’s presence at some supper,
that he saw a hostage of the Lygians at Aulus’s, and Nero, who is
jealous of his own power, demanded thee only because hostages belong to
Cæsar. But he does not like Aulus and Pomponia. No! it does not seem to
me that if Petronius wished to take thee from Aulus he would use such a
method. I do not know whether Petronius is better than others of Cæsar’s
court, but he is different. Maybe too thou wilt find some one else who
would be willing to intercede for thee. Hast thou not seen at Aulus’s
some one who is near Cæsar?”

“I have seen Vespasian and Titus.”

“Cæsar does not like them.”

“And Seneca.”

“If Seneca advised something, that would be enough to make Nero act
otherwise.”

The bright face of Lygia was covered with a blush. “And Vinicius-”

“I do not know him.”

“He is a relative of Petronius, and returned not long since from
Armenia.”

“Dost thou think that Nero likes him?”

“All like Vinicius.”

“And would he intercede for thee?”

“He would.”

Acte smiled tenderly, and said, “Then thou wilt see him surely at the
feast. Thou must be there, first, because thou must,--only such a child
as thou could think otherwise. Second, if thou wish to return to
the house of Aulus, thou wilt find means of beseeching Petronius and
Vinicius to gain for thee by their influence the right to return. If
they were here, both would tell thee as I do, that it would be madness
and ruin to try resistance. Cæsar might not notice thy absence, it is
true; but if he noticed it and thought that thou hadst the daring to
oppose his will, here would be no salvation for thee. Go, Lygia! Dost
thou hear the noise in the palace? The sun is near setting; guests will
begin to arrive soon.”

“Thou art right,” answered Lygia, “and I will follow thy advice.”

How much desire to see Vinicius and Petronius there was in this resolve,
how much of woman’s curiosity there was to see such a feast once in
life, and to see at it Cæsar, the court, the renowned Poppæa and other
beauties, and all that unheard-of splendor, of which wonders were
narrated in Rome, Lygia could not give account to herself of a
certainty. But Acte was right, and Lygia felt this distinctly. There was
need to go; therefore, when necessity and simple reason supported the
hidden temptation, she ceased to hesitate.

Acte conducted her to her own unctorium to anoint and dress her; and
though there was no lack of slave women in Cæsar’s house, and Acte had
enough of them for her personal service, still, through sympathy for the
maiden whose beauty and innocence had caught her heart, she resolved to
dress her herself. It became clear at once that in the young Grecian, in
spite of her sadness and her perusal of the letters of Paul of Tarsus,
there was yet much of the ancient Hellenic spirit, to which physical
beauty spoke with more eloquence than aught else on earth. When she
had undressed Lygia, she could not restrain an exclamation of wonder at
sight of her form, at once slender and full, created, as it were, from
pearl and roses; and stepping back a few paces, she looked with delight
on that matchless, spring-like form.

“Lygia,” exclaimed she at last, “thou art a hundred times more beautiful
than Poppæa!”

But, reared in the strict house of Pomponia, where modesty was observed,
even when women were by themselves, the maiden, wonderful as a wonderful
dream, harmonious as a work of Praxiteles or as a song, stood alarmed,
blushing from modesty, with knees pressed together, with her hands on
her bosom, and downcast eyes. At last, raising her arms with sudden
movement, she removed the pins which held her hair, and in one moment,
with one shake of her head, she covered herself with it as with a
mantle.

Acte, approaching her and touching her dark tresses, said,--

“Oh, what hair thou hast! I will not sprinkle golden powder on it; it
gleams of itself in one place and another with gold, where it waves.
I will add, perhaps, barely a sprinkle here and there; but lightly,
lightly, as if a sun ray had freshened it. Wonderful must thy Lygian
country be where such maidens are born!

“I do not remember it,” answered Lygia; “but Ursus has told me that with
us it is forests, forests, and forests.”

“But flowers bloom in those forests,” said Acte, dipping her hand in a
vase filled with verbena, and moistening Lygia’s hair with it. When she
had finished this work, Acte anointed her body lightly with odoriferous
oils from Arabia, and then dressed her in a soft gold-colored tunic
without sleeves, over which was to be put a snow-white peplus. But since
she had to dress Lygia’s hair first, she put on her meanwhile a kind of
roomy dress called synthesis, and, seating her in an armchair, gave her
for a time into the hands of slave women, so as to stand at a distance
herself and follow the hairdressing. Two other slave women put on
Lygia’s feet white sandals, embroidered with purple, fastening them to
her alabaster ankles with golden lacings drawn crosswise. When at
last the hair-dressing was finished, they put a peplus on her in very
beautiful, light folds; then Acte fastened pearls to her neck, and
touching her hair at the folds with gold dust, gave command to the women
to dress her, following Lygia with delighted eyes meanwhile.

But she was ready soon; and when the first litters began to appear
before the main gate, both entered the side portico from which were
visible the chief entrance, the interior galleries, and the courtyard
surrounded by a colonnade of Numidian marble.

Gradually people passed in greater and greater numbers under the lofty
arch of the entrance, over which the splendid quadrigæ of Lysias seemed
to bear Apollo and Diana into space. Lygia’s eyes were struck by that
magnificence, of which the modest house of Aulus could not have given
her the slightest idea. It was sunset; the last rays were falling on the
yellow Numidian marble of the columns, which shone like gold in those
gleams and changed into rose color also. Among the columns, at the
side of white statues of the Danaides and others, representing gods or
heroes, crowds of people flowed past,--men and women; resembling statues
also, for they were draped in togas, pepluses, and robes, falling with
grace and beauty toward the earth in soft folds, on which the rays of
the setting sun were expiring. A gigantic Hercules, with head in the
light yet, from the breast down sunk in shadow cast by the columns,
looked from above on that throng. Acte showed Lygia senators in
wide-bordered togas, in colored tunics, in sandals with crescents on
them, and knights, and famed artists; she showed her Roman ladies, in
Roman, in Grecian, in fantastic Oriental costume, with hair dressed in
towers or pyramids, or dressed like that of the statues of goddesses,
low on the head, and adorned with flowers. Many men and women did Acte
call by name, adding to their names histories, brief and sometimes
terrible, which pierced Lygia with fear, amazement, and wonder. For her
this was a strange world, whose beauty intoxicated her eyes, but whose
contrasts her girlish understanding could not grasp. In those twilights
of the sky, in those rows of motionless columns vanishing in the
distance, and in those statuesque people, there was a certain lofty
repose. It seemed that in the midst of those marbles of simple lines
demigods might live free of care, at peace and in happiness. Meanwhile
the low voice of Acte disclosed, time after time, a new and dreadful
secret of that palace and those people. See, there at a distance is the
covered portico on whose columns and floor are still visible red stains
from the blood with which Caligula sprinkled the white marble when he
fell beneath the knife of Cassius Chærea; there his wife was slain;
there his child was dashed against a stone; under that wing is the
dungeon in which the younger Drusus gnawed his hands from hunger; there
the elder Drusus was poisoned; there Gemellus quivered in terror, and
Claudius in convulsions; there Germanicus suffered,--everywhere those
walls had heard the groans and death-rattle of the dying; and those
people hurrying now to the feast in togas, in colored tunics, in
flowers, and in jewels, may be the condemned of to-morrow; on more than
one face, perhaps, a smile conceals terror, alarm, the uncertainty of
the next day; perhaps feverishness, greed, envy are gnawing at this
moment into the hearts of those crowned demigods, who in appearance
are free of care. Lygia’s frightened thoughts could not keep pace with
Acte’s words; and when that wonderful world attracted her eyes with
increasing force, her heart contracted within her from fear, and in
her soul she struggled with an immense, inexpressible yearning for the
beloved Pomponia Græcina, and the calm house of Aulus, in which love,
and not crime, was the ruling power.

Meanwhile new waves of guests were flowing in from the Vicus Apollinis.
From beyond the gates came the uproar and shouts of clients, escorting
their patrons. The courtyard and the colonnades were swarming with the
multitude of Cæsar’s slaves, of both sexes, small boys, and pretorian
soldiers, who kept guard in the palace. Here and there among dark or
swarthy visages was the black face of a Numidian, in a feathered helmet,
and with large gold rings in his ears. Some were bearing lutes and
citharas, hand lamps of gold, silver, and bronze, and bunches of
flowers, reared artificially despite the late autumn season. Louder and
louder the sound of conversation was mingled with the splashing of the
fountain, the rosy streams of which fell from above on the marble and
were broken, as if in sobs.

Acte had stopped her narration; but Lygia gazed at the throng, as if
searching for some one. All at once her face was covered with a blush,
and from among the columns came forth Vinicius with Petronius. They
went to the great triclinium, beautiful, calm, like white gods, in their
togas. It seemed to Lygia, when she saw those two known and friendly
faces among strange people, and especially when she saw Vinicius, that
a great weight had fallen from her heart. She felt less alone. That
measureless yearning for Pomponia and the house of Aulus, which had
broken out in her a little while before, ceased at once to be painful.
The desire to see Vinicius and to talk with him drowned in her other
voices. In vain did she remember all the evil which she had heard of the
house of Cæsar, the words of Acte, the warnings of Pomponia; in spite of
those words and warnings, she felt all at once that not only must she be
at that feast, but that she wished to be there. At the thought that soon
she would hear that dear and pleasant voice, which had spoken of love to
her and of happiness worthy of the gods, and which was sounding like a
song in her ears yet, delight seized her straightway.

But the next moment she feared that delight. It seemed to her that she
would be false to the pure teaching in which she had been reared, false
to Pomponia, and false to herself. It is one thing to go by constraint,
and another to delight in such a necessity. She felt guilty, unworthy,
and ruined.

Despair swept her away, and she wanted to weep. Had she been alone, she
would have knelt down and beaten her breast, saying, “Mea culpa! mea
culpa!” Acte, taking her hand at that moment, led her through the
interior apartments to the grand triclinium, where the feast was to
be. Darkness was in her eyes, and a roaring in her ears from internal
emotion; the beating of her heart stopped her breath. As in a dream, she
saw thousands of lamps gleaming on the tables and on the walls; as in
a dream, she heard the shout with which the guests greeted Cæsar; as
through a mist, she saw Cæsar himself. The shout deafened her, the
glitter dazzled, the odors intoxicated; and, losing the remnant of her
consciousness, she was barely able to recognize Acte, who seated her at
the table and took a place at her side.

But after a while a low and known voice was heard at the other side,--“A
greeting, most beautiful of maidens on earth and of stars in heaven. A
greeting to thee, divine Callina!”

Lygia, having recovered somewhat, looked up; at her side was Vinicius.
He was without a toga, for convenience and custom had enjoined to cast
aside the toga at feasts. His body was covered with only a sleeveless
scarlet tunic embroidered in silver palms. His bare arms were ornamented
in Eastern fashion with two broad golden bands fastened above the elbow;
below they were carefully stripped of hair. They were smooth, but too
muscular,--real arms of a soldier, they were made for the sword and the
shield. On his head was a garland of roses. With brows joining above the
nose, with splendid eyes and a dark complexion, he was the impersonation
of youth and strength, as it were. To Lygia he seemed so beautiful
that though her first amazement had passed, she was barely able to
answer,--“A greeting, Marcus.”

“Happy,” said he, “are my eyes, which see thee; happy my ears, which
hear thy voice, dearer to me than the sound of lutes or citharas. Were
it commanded me to choose who was to rest here by my side at this feast,
thou, Lygia, or Venus, I would choose thee, divine one!”

And he looked at the maiden as if he wished to sate himself with the
sight of her, to burn her eyes with his eyes. His glance slipped from
her face to her neck and bare arms, fondled her shapely outlines,
admired her, embraced her, devoured her; but besides desire, there was
gleaming in him happiness, admiration, and ecstasy beyond limit.

“I knew that I should see thee in Cæsar’s house,” continued he; “but
still, when I saw thee, such delight shook my whole soul, as if a
happiness entirely unexpected had met me.”

Lygia, having recovered herself and feeling that in that throng and in
that house he was the only being who was near to her, began to converse
with him, and ask about everything which she did not understand and
which filled her with fear. Whence did he know that he would find her in
Cæsar’s house? Why is she there? Why did Cæsar take her from Pomponia?
She is full of fear where she is, and wishes to return to Pomponia. She
would die from alarm and grief were it not for the hope that Petronius
and he will intercede for her before Cæsar.

Vinicius explained that he learned from Aulus himself that she had been
taken. Why she is there, he knows not. Cæsar gives account to no one of
his orders and commands. But let her not fear. He, Vinicius, is near her
and will stay near her. He would rather lose his eyes than not see her;
he would rather lose his life than desert her. She is his soul, and
hence he will guard her as his soul. In his house he will build to her,
as to a divinity, an altar on which he will offer myrrh and aloes,
and in spring saffron and apple-blossoms; and since she has a dread of
Cæsar’s house, he promises that she shall not stay in it.

And though he spoke evasively and at times invented, truth was to
be felt in his voice, because his feelings were real. Genuine pity
possessed him, too, and her words went to his soul so thoroughly that
when she began to thank him and assure him that Pomponia would love him
for his goodness, and that she herself would be grateful to him all
her life, he could not master his emotion, and it seemed to him that
he would never be able in life to resist her prayer. The heart began to
melt in him. Her beauty intoxicated his senses, and he desired her;
but at the same time he felt that she was very dear to him, and that
in truth he might do homage to her, as to a divinity; he felt also
irresistible need of speaking of her beauty and of his own homage. As
the noise at the feast increased, he drew nearer to her, whispered kind,
sweet words flowing from the depth of his soul, words as resonant as
music and intoxicating as wine.

And he intoxicated her. Amid those strange people he seemed to her ever
nearer, ever dearer, altogether true, and devoted with his whole soul.
He pacified her; he promised to rescue her from the house of Cæsar; he
promised not to desert her, and said that he would serve her. Besides,
he had spoken before at Aulus’s only in general about love and the
happiness which it can give; but now he said directly that he loved her,
and that she was dear and most precious to him. Lygia heard such words
from a man’s lips for the first time; and as she heard them it seemed
to her that something was wakening in her as from a sleep, that some
species of happiness was embracing her in which immense delight was
mingled with immense alarm. Her cheeks began to burn, her heart to beat,
her mouth opened as in wonder. She was seized with fear because she was
listening to such things, still she did not wish for any cause on earth
to lose one word. At moments she dropped her eyes; then again she raised
her clear glance to Vinicius, timid and also inquiring, as if she wished
to say to him, “Speak on!” The sound of the music, the odor of flowers
and of Arabian perfumes, began to daze her. In Rome it was the custom to
recline at banquets, but at home Lygia occupied a place between Pomponia
and little Aulus. Now Vinicius was reclining near her, youthful,
immense, in love, burning; and she, feeling the heat that issued from
him, felt both delight and shame. A kind of sweet weakness, a kind of
faintness and forgetfulness seized her; it was as if drowsiness tortured
her.

But her nearness to him began to act on Vinicius also. His nostrils
dilated, like those of an Eastern steed. The beating of his heart with
unusual throb was evident under his scarlet tunic; his breathing grew
short, and the expressions that fell from his lips were broken. For the
first time, too, he was so near her. His thoughts grew disturbed; he
felt a flame in his veins which he tried in vain to quench with wine.
Not wine, but her marvellous face, her bare arms, her maiden breast
heaving under the golden tunic, and her form hidden in the white folds
of the peplus, intoxicated him more and more. Finally, he seized her arm
above the wrist, as he had done once at Aulus’s, and drawing her toward
him whispered, with trembling lips,--“I love thee, Callina,--divine
one.”

“Let me go, Marcus,” said Lygia.

But he continued, his eyes mist-covered, “Love me, my goddess!”

But at that moment was heard the voice of Acte, who was reclining on the
other side of Lygia.

“Cæsar is looking at you both.”

Vinicius was carried away by sudden anger at Cæsar and at Acte. Her
words had broken the charm of his intoxication. To the young man even
a friendly voice would have seemed repulsive at such a moment, but he
judged that Acte wished purposely to interrupt his conversation with
Lygia. So, raising his head and looking over the shoulder of Lygia at
the young freedwoman, he said with malice:

“The hour has passed, Acte, when thou didst recline near Cæsar’s side
at banquets, and they say that blindness is threatening thee; how then
canst thou see him?”

But she answered as if in sadness: “Still I see him. He, too, has short
sight, and is looking at thee through an emerald.”

Everything that Nero did roused attention, even in those nearest
him; hence Vinicius was alarmed. He regained self-control, and began
imperceptibly to look toward Cæsar. Lygia, who, embarrassed at the
beginning of the banquet, had seen Nero as in a mist, and afterward,
occupied by the presence and conversation of Vinicius, had not looked at
him at all, turned to him eyes at once curious and terrified.

Acte spoke truly. Cæsar had bent over the table, half-closed one eye,
and holding before the other a round polished emerald, which he used,
was looking at them. For a moment his glance met Lygia’s eyes, and the
heart of the maiden was straitened with terror. When still a child on
Aulus’s Sicilian estate, an old Egyptian slave had told her of dragons
which occupied dens in the mountains, and it seemed to her now that all
at once the greenish eye of such a monster was gazing at her. She caught
at Vinicius’s hand as a frightened child would, and disconnected, quick
impressions pressed into her head: Was not that he, the terrible, the
all-powerful? She had not seen him hitherto, and she thought that he
looked differently. She had imagined some kind of ghastly face, with
malignity petrified in its features; now she saw a great head, fixed on
a thick neck, terrible, it is true, but almost ridiculous, for from a
distance it resembled the head of a child. A tunic of amethyst color,
forbidden to ordinary mortals, cast a bluish tinge on his broad and
short face. He had dark hair, dressed, in the fashion introduced by
Otho, in four curls.

He had no beard, because he had sacrificed it recently to Jove,--for
which all Rome gave him thanks, though people whispered to each other
that he had sacrificed it because his beard, like that of his whole
family, was red. In his forehead, projecting strongly above his
brows, there remained something Olympian. In his contracted brows the
consciousness of supreme power was evident; but under that forehead of
a demigod was the face of a monkey, a drunkard, and a comedian,--vain,
full of changing desires, swollen with fat, notwithstanding his youth;
besides, it was sickly and foul. To Lygia he seemed ominous, but above
all repulsive.

After a while he laid down the emerald and ceased to look at her. Then
she saw his prominent blue eyes, blinking before the excess of light,
glassy, without thought, resembling the eyes of the dead.

“Is that the hostage with whom Vinicius is in love?” asked he, turning
to Petronius.

“That is she,” answered Petronius.

“What are her people called?”

“The Lygians.”

“Does Vinicius think her beautiful?”

“Array a rotten olive trunk in the peplus of a woman, and Vinicius will
declare it beautiful. But on thy countenance, incomparable judge, I read
her sentence already. Thou hast no need to pronounce it! The sentence is
true: she is too dry, thin, a mere blossom on a slender stalk; and thou,
O divine æsthete, esteemest the stalk in a woman. Thrice and four times
art thou right! The face alone does not signify. I have learned much in
thy company, but even now I have not a perfect cast of the eye. But I am
ready to lay a wager with Tullius Senecio concerning his mistress, that,
although at a feast, when all are reclining, it is difficult to judge
the whole form, thou hast said in thy mind already, ‘Too narrow in the
hips.’”

“Too narrow in the hips,” answered Nero, blinking.

On Petronius’s lips appeared a scarcely perceptible smile; but Tullius
Senecio, who till that moment was occupied in conversing with Vestinius,
or rather in reviling dreams, while Vestinius believed in them, turned
to Petronius, and though he had not the least idea touching that of
which they were talking, he said,--“Thou art mistaken! I hold with
Cæsar.”

“Very well,” answered Petronius. “I have just maintained that thou hast
a glimmer of understanding, but Cæsar insists that thou art an ass pure
and simple.”

“Habet!” said Cæsar, laughing, and turning down the thumb, as was done
in the Circus, in sign that the gladiator had received a blow and was to
be finished.

But Vestinius, thinking that the question was of dreams,
exclaimed,--“But I believe in dreams, and Seneca told me on a time that
he believes too.”

“Last night I dreamt that I had become a vestal virgin,” said Calvia
Crispinilla, bending over the table.

At this Nero clapped his hands, other followed, and in a moment clapping
of hands was heard all around,--for Crispinilla had been divorced
a number of times, and was known throughout Rome for her fabulous
debauchery.

But she, not disconcerted in the least, said,--“Well! They are all old
and ugly. Rubria alone has a human semblance, and so there would be two
of us, though Rubria gets freckles in summer.”

“But admit, purest Calvia,” said Petronius, “that thou couldst become a
vestal only in dreams.”

“But if Cæsar commanded?”

“I should believe that even the most impossible dreams might come true.”

“But they do come true,” said Vestinius. “I understand those who do not
believe in the gods, but how is it possible not to believe in dreams?”

“But predictions?” inquired Nero. “It was predicted once to me, that
Rome would cease to exist, and that I should rule the whole Orient.”

“Predictions and dreams are connected,” said Vestinius. “Once a certain
proconsul, a great disbeliever, sent a slave to the temple of Mopsus
with a sealed letter which he would not let any one open; he did this
to try if the god could answer the question contained in the letter. The
slave slept a night in the temple to have a prophetic dream; he returned
then and said: ‘I saw a youth in my dreams; he was as bright as the sun,
and spoke only one word, “Black.”’ The proconsul, when he heard this,
grew pale, and turning to his guests, disbelievers like himself, said:
‘Do ye know what was in the letter?’” Here Vestinius stopped, and,
raising his goblet with wine, began to drink.

“What was in the letter?” asked Senecio.

“In the letter was the question: ‘What is the color of the bull which I
am to sacrifice: white or black?’”

But the interest roused by the narrative was interrupted by Vitelius,
who, drunk when he came to the feast, burst forth on a sudden and
without cause in senseless laughter.

“What is that keg of tallow laughing at?” asked Nero.

“Laughter distinguishes men from animals,” said Petronius, “and he has
no other proof that he is not a wild boar.”

Vitelius stopped half-way in his laughter, and smacking his lips,
shining from fat and sauces, looked at those present with as much
astonishment as if he had never seen them before; then he raised his two
hands, which were like cushions, and said in a hoarse voice,--“The ring
of a knight has fallen from my finger, and it was inherited from my
father.”

“Who was a tailor,” added Nero.

But Vitelius burst forth again in unexpected laughter, and began to
search for his ring in the peplus of Calvia Crispinilla.

Hereupon Vestinius fell to imitating the cries of a frightened woman.
Nigidia, a friend of Calvia,--a young widow with the face of a child
and the eyes of a wanton,--said aloud,--“He is seeking what he has not
lost.”

“And which will be useless to him if he finds it,” finished the poet
Lucan.

The feast grew more animated. Crowds of slaves bore around successive
courses; from great vases filled with snow and garlanded with
ivy, smaller vessels with various kinds of wine were brought forth
unceasingly. All drank freely. On the guests, roses fell from the
ceiling at intervals.

Petronius entreated Nero to dignify the feast with his song before the
guests drank too deeply. A chorus of voices supported his words, but
Nero refused at first. It was not a question of courage alone, he said,
though that failed him always. The gods knew what efforts every success
cost him. He did not avoid them, however, for it was needful to do
something for art; and besides, if Apollo had gifted him with a certain
voice, it was not proper to let divine gifts be wasted. He understood,
even, that it was his duty to the State not to let them be wasted. But
that day he was really hoarse. In the night he had placed leaden weights
on his chest, but that had not helped in any way. He was thinking even
to go to Antium, to breathe the sea air.

Lucan implored him in the name of art and humanity. All knew that the
divine poet and singer had composed a new hymn to Venus, compared with
which Lucretius’s hymn was as the howl of a yearling wolf. Let that
feast be a genuine feast. So kind a ruler should not cause such tortures
to his subjects. “Be not cruel, O Cæsar!”

“Be not cruel!” repeated all who were sitting near.

Nero spread his hands in sign that he had to yield. All faces assumed
then an expression of gratitude, and all eyes were turned to him; but he
gave command first to announce to Poppæa that he would sing; he informed
those present that she had not come to the feast, because she did not
feel in good health; but since no medicine gave her such relief as his
singing, he would be sorry to deprive her of this opportunity.

In fact, Poppæa came soon. Hitherto she had ruled Nero as if he had
been her subject, but she knew that when his vanity as a singer, a
charioteer, or a poet was involved, there was danger in provoking it.
She came in therefore, beautiful as a divinity, arrayed, like Nero,
in robes of amethyst color, and wearing a necklace of immense pearls,
stolen on a time from Massinissa; she was golden-haired, sweet, and
though divorced from two husbands she had the face and the look of a
virgin.

She was greeted with shouts, and the appellation “Divine Augusta.” Lygia
had never seen any one so beautiful, and she could not believe her own
eyes, for she knew that Poppæa Sabina was one of the vilest women on
earth. She knew from Pomponia that she had brought Cæsar to murder his
mother and his wife; she knew her from accounts given by Aulus’s guests
and the servants; she had heard that statues to her had been thrown
down at night in the city; she had heard of inscriptions, the writers
of which had been condemned to severest punishment, but which still
appeared on the city walls every morning. Yet at sight of the notorious
Poppæa, considered by the confessors of Christ as crime and evil
incarnate, it seemed to her that angels or spirits of heaven might look
like her. She was unable simply to take her eyes from Poppæa; and from
her lips was wrested involuntarily the question,--“Ah, Marcus, can it be
possible?”

But he, roused by wine, and as it were impatient that so many things
had scattered her attention, and taken her from him and his words,
said,--“Yes, she is beautiful, but thou art a hundred times more
beautiful. Thou dost not know thyself, or thou wouldst be in love with
thyself, as Narcissus was; she bathes in asses’ milk, but Venus bathed
thee in her own milk. Thou dost not know thyself, Ocelle mi! Look not at
her. Turn thy eyes to me, Ocelle mi! Touch this goblet of wine with thy
lips, and I will put mine on the same place.”

And he pushed up nearer and nearer, and she began to withdraw toward
Acte. But at that moment silence was enjoined because Cæsar had risen.
The singer Diodorus had given him a lute of the kind called delta;
another singer named Terpnos, who had to accompany him in playing,
approached with an instrument called the nablium. Nero, resting the
delta on the table, raised his eyes; and for a moment silence reigned in
the triclinium, broken only by a rustle, as roses fell from the ceiling.

Then he began to chant, or rather to declaim, singingly and
rhythmically, to the accompaniment of the two lutes, his own hymn to
Venus. Neither the voice, though somewhat injured, nor the verses were
bad, so that reproaches of conscience took possession of Lygia again;
for the hymn, though glorifying the impure pagan Venus, seemed to her
more than beautiful, and Cæsar himself, with a laurel crown on his head
and uplifted eyes, nobler, much less terrible, and less repulsive than
at the beginning of the feast.

The guests answered with a thunder of applause. Cries of, “Oh, heavenly
voice!” were heard round about; some of the women raised their hands,
and held them thus, as a sign of delight, even after the end of the
hymn; others wiped their tearful eyes; the whole hall was seething as in
a beehive. Poppæa, bending her golden-haired head, raised Nero’s hand
to her lips, and held it long in silence. Pythagoras, a young Greek
of marvellous beauty,--the same to whom later the half-insane Nero
commanded the flamens to marry him, with the observance of all
rites,--knelt now at his feet.

But Nero looked carefully at Petronius, whose praises were desired by
him always before every other, and who said,--“If it is a question of
music, Orpheus must at this moment be as yellow from envy as Lucan,
who is here present; and as to the verses, I am sorry that they are not
worse; if they were I might find proper words to praise them.”

Lucan did not take the mention of envy evil of him; on the contrary, he
looked at Petronius with gratitude, and, affecting ill-humor, began to
murmur,--“Cursed fate, which commanded me to live contemporary with such
a poet. One might have a place in the memory of man, and on Parnassus;
but now one will quench, as a candle in sunlight.”

Petronius, who had an amazing memory, began to repeat extracts from
the hymn and cite single verses, exalt, and analyze the more beautiful
expressions. Lucan, forgetting as it were his envy before the charm of
the poetry, joined his ecstasy to Petronius’s words. On Nero’s face were
reflected delight and fathomless vanity, not only nearing stupidity, but
reaching it perfectly. He indicated to them verses which he considered
the most beautiful; and finally he began to comfort Lucan, and tell him
not to lose heart, for though whatever a man is born that he is,
the honor which people give Jove does not exclude respect for other
divinities.

Then he rose to conduct Poppæa, who, being really in ill health, wished
to withdraw. But he commanded the guests who remained to occupy their
places anew, and promised to return, In fact, he returned a little
later, to stupefy himself with the smoke of incense, and gaze at further
spectacles which he himself, Petronius, or Tigellinus had prepared for
the feast.

Again verses were read or dialogues listened to in which extravagance
took the place of wit. After that Paris, the celebrated mime,
represented the adventures of Io, the daughter of Inachus. To the
guests, and especially to Lygia, unaccustomed to such scenes, it seemed
that they were gazing at miracles and enchantment. Paris, with motions
of his hands and body, was able to express things apparently impossible
in a dance. His hands dimmed the air, creating a cloud, bright, living,
quivering, voluptuous, surrounding the half-fainting form of a maiden
shaken by a spasm of delight. That was a picture, not a dance; an
expressive picture, disclosing the secrets of love, bewitching and
shameless; and when at the end of it Corybantes rushed in and began
a bacchic dance with girls of Syria to the sounds of cithara, lutes,
drums, and cymbals,--a dance filled with wild shouts and still wilder
license,--it seemed to Lygia that living fire was burning her, and that
a thunderbolt ought to strike that house, or the ceiling fall on the
heads of those feasting there.

But from the golden net fastened to the ceiling only roses fell, and
the now half-drunken Vinicius said to her,--“I saw thee in the house of
Aulus, at the fountain. It was daylight, and thou didst think that
no one saw thee; but I saw thee. And I see thee thus yet, though that
peplus hides thee. Cast aside the peplus, like Crispinilla. See, gods
and men seek love. There is nothing in the world but love. Lay thy head
on my breast and close thy eyes.”

The pulse beat oppressively in Lygia’s hands and temples. A feeling
seized her that she was flying into some abyss, and that Vinicius, who
before had seemed so near and so trustworthy, instead of saving was
drawing her toward it. And she felt sorry for him. She began again to
dread the feast and him and herself. Some voice, like that of Pomponia,
was calling yet in her soul, “O Lygia, save thyself!” But something
told her also that it was too late; that the one whom such a flame had
embraced as that which had embraced her, the one who had seen what was
done at that feast and whose heart had beaten as hers had on hearing the
words of Vinicius, the one through whom such a shiver had passed as had
passed through her when he approached, was lost beyond recovery. She
grew weak. It seemed at moments to her that she would faint, and then
something terrible would happen. She knew that, under penalty of Cæsar’s
anger, it was not permitted any one to rise till Cæsar rose; but even
were that not the case, she had not strength now to rise.

Meanwhile it was far to the end of the feast yet. Slaves brought new
courses, and filled the goblets unceasingly with wine; before the table,
on a platform open at one side, appeared two athletes to give the guests
a spectacle of wrestling.

They began the struggle at once, and the powerful bodies, shining from
olive oil, formed one mass; bones cracked in their iron arms, and from
their set jaws came an ominous gritting of teeth. At moments was heard
the quick, dull thump of their feet on the platform strewn with saffron;
again they were motionless, silent, and it seemed to the spectators that
they had before them a group chiselled out of stone. Roman eyes followed
with delight the movement of tremendously exerted backs, thighs, and
arms. But the struggle was not too prolonged; for Croton, a master,
and the founder of a school of gladiators, did not pass in vain for the
strongest man in the empire. His opponent began to breathe more and more
quickly: next a rattle was heard in his throat; then his face grew blue;
finally he threw blood from his mouth and fell.

A thunder of applause greeted the end of the struggle, and Croton,
resting his foot on the breast of his opponent, crossed his gigantic
arms on his breast, and cast the eyes of a victor around the hall.

Next appeared men who mimicked beasts and their voices, ball-players
and buffoons. Only a few persons looked at them, however, since wine had
darkened the eyes of the audience. The feast passed by degrees into a
drunken revel and a dissolute orgy. The Syrian damsels, who appeared
at first in the bacchic dance, mingled now with the guests. The music
changed into a disordered and wild outburst of citharas, lutes, Armenian
cymbals, Egyptian sistra, trumpets, and horns. As some of the guests
wished to talk, they shouted at the musicians to disappear. The air,
filled with the odor of flowers and the perfume of oils with which
beautiful boys had sprinkled the feet of the guests during the feast,
permeated with saffron and the exhalations of people, became stifling;
lamps burned with a dim flame; the wreaths dropped sidewise on the heads
of guests; faces grew pale and were covered with sweat. Vitelius rolled
under the table. Nigidia, stripping herself to the waist, dropped
her drunken childlike head on the breast of Lucan, who, drunk in like
degree, fell to blowing the golden powder from her hair, and raising
his eyes with immense delight. Vestinius, with the stubbornness of
intoxication, repeated for the tenth time the answer of Mopsus to the
sealed letter of the proconsul. Tullius, who reviled the gods,
said, with a drawling voice broken by hiccoughs,--“If the spheros of
Xenophanes is round, then consider, such a god might be pushed along
before one with the foot, like a barrel.”

But Domitius Afer, a hardened criminal and informer, was indignant at
the discourse, and through indignation spilled Falernian over his whole
tunic. He had always believed in the gods. People say that Rome will
perish, and there are some even who contend that it is perishing
already. And surely! But if that should come, it is because the youth
are without faith, and without faith there can be no virtue. People have
abandoned also the strict habits of former days, and it never occurs
to them that Epicureans will not stand against barbarians. As for him,
he--As for him, he was sorry that he had lived to such times, and that
he must seek in pleasures a refuge against griefs which, if not met,
would soon kill him.

When he had said this, he drew toward him a Syrian dancer, and kissed
her neck and shoulders with his toothless mouth. Seeing this, the consul
Memmius Regulus laughed, and, raising his bald head with wreath awry,
exclaimed,--“Who says that Rome is perishing? What folly! I, a consul,
know better. Videant consules! Thirty legions are guarding our pax
romana!”

Here he put his fists to his temples and shouted, in a voice heard
throughout the triclinium,--“Thirty legions! thirty legions! from
Britain to the Parthian boundaries!” But he stopped on a sudden, and,
putting a finger to his forehead, said,--“As I live, I think there are
thirty-two.” He rolled under the table, and began soon to send forth
flamingo tongues, roast and chilled mushrooms, locusts in honey, fish,
meat, and everything which he had eaten or drunk.

But the number of the legions guarding Roman peace did not pacify
Domitius.

No, no! Rome must perish; for faith in the gods was lost, and so were
strict habits! Rome must perish; and it was a pity, for still life was
pleasant there. Cæsar was gracious, wine was good! Oh, what a pity!

And hiding his head on the arm of a Syrian bacchanal, he burst into
tears. “What is a future life! Achilles was right,--better be a slave
in the world beneath the sun than a king in Cimmerian regions. And
still the question whether there are any gods--since it is unbelief--is
destroying the youth.”

Lucan meanwhile had blown all the gold powder from Nigidia’s hair, and
she being drunk had fallen asleep. Next he took wreaths of ivy from
the vase before him, put them on the sleeping woman, and when he had
finished looked at those present with a delighted and inquiring glance.
He arrayed himself in ivy too, repeating, in a voice of deep conviction,
“I am not a man at all, but a faun.”

Petronius was not drunk; but Nero, who drank little at first, out of
regard for his “heavenly” voice, emptied goblet after goblet toward the
end, and was drunk. He wanted even to sing more of his verses,--this
time in Greek,--but he had forgotten them, and by mistake sang an ode of
Anacreon. Pythagoras, Diodorus, and Terpnos accompanied him; but failing
to keep time, they stopped. Nero as a judge and an æsthete was enchanted
with the beauty of Pythagoras, and fell to kissing his hands in ecstasy.
“Such beautiful hands I have seen only once, and whose were they?” Then
placing his palm on his moist forehead, he tried to remember. After a
while terror was reflected on his face.

Ah! His mother’s--Agrippina’s!

And a gloomy vision seized him forthwith.

“They say,” said he, “that she wanders by moonlight on the sea around
Baiæ and Bauli. She merely walks,--walks as if seeking for something.
When she comes near a boat, she looks at it and goes away; but the
fisherman on whom she has fixed her eye dies.”

“Not a bad theme,” said Petronius.

But Vestinius, stretching his neck like a stork, whispered
mysteriously,--“I do not believe in the gods; but I believe in
spirits--Oi!”

Nero paid no attention to their words, and continued,--“I celebrated the
Lemuria, and have no wish to see her. This is the fifth year--I had
to condemn her, for she sent assassins against me; and, had I not been
quicker than she, ye would not be listening to-night to my song.”

“Thanks be to Cæsar, in the name of the city and the world!” cried
Domitius Afer.

“Wine! and let them strike the tympans!”

The uproar began anew. Lucan, all in ivy, wishing to outshout him, rose
and cried,--“I am not a man, but a faun; and I dwell in the forest.
Eho-o-o-oo!” Cæsar drank himself drunk at last; men were drunk, and
women were drunk. Vinicius was not less drunk than others; and in
addition there was roused in him, besides desire, a wish to quarrel,
which happened always when he passed the measure. His dark face became
paler, and his tongue stuttered when he spoke, in a voice now loud and
commanding,--“Give me thy lips! To-day, to-morrow, it is all one! Enough
of this!

“Cæsar took thee from Aulus to give thee to me, dost understand?
To-morrow, about dusk, I will send for thee, dost understand? Cæsar
promised thee to me before he took thee. Thou must be mine! Give me thy
lips! I will not wait for to-morrow,--give thy lips quickly.”

And he moved to embrace her; but Acte began to defend her, and she
defended herself with the remnant of her strength, for she felt that she
was perishing. But in vain did she struggle with both hands to remove
his hairless arm; in vain, with a voice in which terror and grief were
quivering, did she implore him not to be what he was, and to have pity
on her. Sated with wine, his breath blew around her nearer and nearer,
and his face was there near her face. He was no longer the former kind
Vinicius, almost dear to her soul; he was a drunken, wicked satyr, who
filled her with repulsion and terror. But her strength deserted her
more and more. In vain did she bend and turn away her face to escape his
kisses. He rose to his feet, caught her in both arms, and drawing her
head to his breast, began, panting, to press her pale lips with his.

But at this instant a tremendous power removed his arms from her neck
with as much ease as if they had been the arms of a child, and pushed
him aside, like a dried limb or a withered leaf. What had happened?
Vinicius rubbed his astonished eyes, and saw before him the gigantic
figure of the Lygian, called Ursus, whom he had seen at the house of
Aulus.

Ursus stood calmly, but looked at Vinicius so strangely with his blue
eyes that the blood stiffened in the veins of the young man; then the
giant took his queen on his arm, and walked out of the triclinium with
an even, quiet step.

Acte in that moment went after him.

Vinicius sat for the twinkle of an eye as if petrified; then he sprang
up and ran toward the entrance crying,--“Lygia! Lygia!”

But desire, astonishment, rage, and wine cut the legs from under him.
He staggered once and a second time, seized the naked arm of one of the
bacchanals, and began to inquire, with blinking eyes, what had happened.
She, taking a goblet of wine, gave it to him with a smile in her
mist-covered eyes.

“Drink!” said she.

Vinicius drank, and fell to the floor.

The greater number of the guests were lying under the table; others were
walking with tottering tread through the triclinium, while others were
sleeping on couches at the table, snoring, or giving forth the excess
of wine. Meanwhile, from the golden network, roses were dropping
and dropping on those drunken consuls and senators, on those drunken
knights, philosophers, and poets, on those drunken dancing damsels and
patrician ladies, on that society all dominant as yet but with the soul
gone from it, on that society garlanded and ungirdled but perishing.

Dawn had begun out of doors.




Chapter VIII


No one stopped Ursus, no one inquired even what he was doing. Those
guests who were not under the table had not kept their own places; hence
the servants, seeing a giant carrying a guest on his arm, thought him
some slave bearing out his intoxicated mistress. Moreover, Acte was with
them, and her presence removed all suspicion.

In this way they went from the triclinium to the adjoining chamber, and
thence to the gallery leading to Acte’s apartments. To such a degree
had her strength deserted Lygia, that she hung as if dead on the arm of
Ursus. But when the cool, pure breeze of morning beat around her, she
opened her eyes. It was growing clearer and clearer in the open air.
After they had passed along the colonnade awhile, they turned to a side
portico, coming out, not in the courtyard, but the palace gardens, where
the tops of the pines and cypresses were growing ruddy from the light
of morning. That part of the building was empty, so that echoes of music
and sounds of the feast came with decreasing distinctness. It seemed to
Lygia that she had been rescued from hell, and borne into God’s bright
world outside. There was something, then, besides that disgusting
triclinium. There was the sky, the dawn, light, and peace. Sudden
weeping seized the maiden, and, taking shelter on the arm of the giant,
she repeated, with sobbing,--“Let us go home, Ursus! home, to the house
of Aulus.”

“Let us go!” answered Ursus.

They found themselves now in the small atrium of Acte’s apartments.
Ursus placed Lygia on a marble bench at a distance from the fountain.
Acte strove to pacify her; she urged her to sleep, and declared that
for the moment there was no danger,--after the feast the drunken guests
would sleep till evening. For a long time Lygia could not calm
herself, and, pressing her temples with both hands, she repeated like a
child,--“Let us go home, to the house of Aulus!”

Ursus was ready. At the gates stood pretorians, it is true, but he
would pass them. The soldiers would not stop out-going people. The space
before the arch was crowded with litters. Guests were beginning to go
forth in throngs. No one would detain them. They would pass with the
crowd and go home directly. For that matter, what does he care? As the
queen commands, so must it be. He is there to carry out her orders.

“Yes, Ursus,” said Lygia, “let us go.”

Acte was forced to find reason for both. They would pass out, true; no
one would stop them. But it is not permitted to flee from the house of
Cæsar; whoso does that offends Cæsar’s majesty. They may go; but in the
evening a centurion at the head of soldiers will take a death sentence
to Aulus and Pomponia Græcina; they will bring Lygia to the palace
again, and then there will be no rescue for her. Should Aulus and his
wife receive her under their roof, death awaits them to a certainty.

Lygia’s arms dropped. There was no other outcome. She must choose her
own ruin or that of Plautius. In going to the feast, she had hoped
that Vinicius and Petronius would win her from Cæsar, and return her to
Pomponia; now she knew that it was they who had brought Cæsar to remove
her from the house of Aulus. There was no help. Only a miracle could
save her from the abyss,--a miracle and the might of God.

“Acte,” said she, in despair, “didst thou hear Vinicius say that Cæsar
had given me to him, and that he will send slaves here this evening to
take me to his house?”

“I did,” answered Acte; and, raising her arms from her side, she was
silent. The despair with which Lygia spoke found in her no echo. She
herself had been Nero’s favorite. Her heart, though good, could not feel
clearly the shame of such a relation. A former slave, she had grown too
much inured to the law of slavery; and, besides, she loved Nero yet. If
he returned to her, she would stretch her arms to him, as to happiness.
Comprehending clearly that Lygia must become the mistress of the
youthful and stately Vinicius, or expose Aulus and Pomponia to ruin, she
failed to understand how the girl could hesitate.

“In Cæsar’s house,” said she, after a while, “it would not be safer for
thee than in that of Vinicius.”

And it did not occur to her that, though she told the truth, her words
meant, “Be resigned to fate and become the concubine of Vinicius.”

As to Lygia, who felt on her lips yet his kisses, burning as coals and
full of beastly desire, the blood rushed to her face with shame at the
mere thought of them.

“Never,” cried she, with an outburst, “will I remain here, or at the
house of Vinicius,--never!”

“But,” inquired Acte, “is Vinicius hateful to thee?”

Lygia was unable to answer, for weeping seized her anew. Acte gathered
the maiden to her bosom, and strove to calm her excitement. Ursus
breathed heavily, and balled his giant fists; for, loving his queen with
the devotion of a dog, he could not bear the sight of her tears. In his
half-wild Lygian heart was the wish to return to the triclinium, choke
Vinicius, and, should the need come, Cæsar himself; but he feared to
sacrifice thereby his mistress, and was not certain that such an
act, which to him seemed very simple, would befit a confessor of the
Crucified Lamb.

But Acte, while caressing Lygia, asked again, “Is he so hateful to
thee?”

“No,” said Lygia; “it is not permitted me to hate, for I am a
Christian.”

“I know, Lygia. I know also from the letters of Paul of Tarsus, that it
is not permitted to defile one’s self, nor to fear death more than sin;
but tell me if thy teaching permits one person to cause the death of
others?”

“No.”

“Then how canst thou bring Cæsar’s vengeance on the house of Aulus?”
 A moment of silence followed. A bottomless abyss yawned before Lygia
again.

“I ask,” continued the young freedwoman, “for I have compassion on
thee--and I have compassion on the good Pomponia and Aulus, and on their
child. It is long since I began to live in this house, and I know what
Cæsar’s anger is. No! thou art not at liberty to flee from here. One way
remains to thee: implore Vinicius to return thee to Pomponia.”

But Lygia dropped on her knees to implore some one else. Ursus knelt
down after a while, too, and both began to pray in Cæsar’s house at the
morning dawn.

Acte witnessed such a prayer for the first time, and could not take her
eyes from Lygia, who, seen by her in profile, with raised hands, and
face turned heavenward, seemed to implore rescue. The dawn, casting
light on her dark hair and white peplus, was reflected in her eyes.
Entirely in the light, she seemed herself like light. In that pale
face, in those parted lips, in those raised hands and eyes, a kind of
superhuman exaltation was evident. Acte understood then why Lygia could
not become the concubine of any man. Before the face of Nero’s former
favorite was drawn aside, as it were, a corner of that veil which hides
a world altogether different from that to which she was accustomed. She
was astonished by prayer in that abode of crime and infamy. A moment
earlier it had seemed to her that there was no rescue for Lygia; now she
began to think that something uncommon would happen, that some aid would
come,--aid so mighty that Cæsar himself would be powerless to resist it;
that some winged army would descend from the sky to help that maiden, or
that the sun would spread its rays beneath her feet and draw her up to
itself. She had heard of many miracles among Christians, and she thought
now that everything said of them was true, since Lygia was praying.

Lygia rose at last, with a face serene with hope. Ursus rose too, and,
holding to the bench, looked at his mistress, waiting for her words.

But it grew dark in her eyes, and after a time two great tears rolled
down her checks slowly.

“May God bless Pomponia and Aulus,” said she. “It is not permitted me to
bring ruin on them; therefore I shall never see them again.”

Then turning to Ursus she said that he alone remained to her in the
world; that he must be to her as a protector and a father. They could
not seek refuge in the house of Aulus, for they would bring on it the
anger of Cæsar. But neither could she remain in the house of Cæsar or
that of Vinicius. Let Ursus take her then; let him conduct her out of
the city; let him conceal her in some place where neither Vinicius
nor his servants could find her. She would follow Ursus anywhere, even
beyond the sea, even beyond the mountains, to the barbarians, where the
Roman name was not heard, and whither the power of Cæsar did not reach.
Let him take her and save her, for he alone had remained to her.

The Lygian was ready, and in sign of obedience he bent to her feet
and embraced them. But on the face of Acte, who had been expecting a
miracle, disappointment was evident. Had the prayer effected only that
much? To flee from the house of Cæsar is to commit an offence against
majesty which must be avenged; and even if Lygia succeeded in hiding,
Cæsar would avenge himself on Aulus and Pomponia. If she wishes to
escape, let her escape from the house of Vinicius. Then Cæsar, who does
not like to occupy himself with the affairs of others, may not wish even
to aid Vinicius in the pursuit; in every case it will not be a crime
against majesty.

But Lygia’s thoughts were just the following: Aulus would not even know
where she was; Pomponia herself would not know. She would escape not
from the house of Vinicius, however, but while on the way to it. When
drunk, Vinicius had said that he would send his slaves for her in the
evening. Beyond doubt he had told the truth, which he would not
have done had he been sober. Evidently he himself, or perhaps he and
Petronius, had seen Cæsar before the feast, and won from him the promise
to give her on the following evening. And if they forgot that day, they
would send for her on the morrow. But Ursus will save her. He will come;
he will bear her out of the litter as he bore her out of the triclinium,
and they will go into the world. No one could resist Ursus, not even
that terrible athlete who wrestled at the feast yesterday. But as
Vinicius might send a great number of slaves, Ursus would go at once
to Bishop Linus for aid and counsel. The bishop will take compassion
on her, will not leave her in the hands of Vinicius; he will command
Christians to go with Ursus to rescue her. They will seize her and bear
her away; then Ursus can take her out of the city and hide her from the
power of Rome.

And her face began to flush and smile. Consolation entered her anew, as
if the hope of rescue had turned to reality. She threw herself on Acte’s
neck suddenly, and, putting her beautiful lips to Acte’s cheek, she
whispered:

“Thou wilt not betray, Acte, wilt thou?”

“By the shade of my mother,” answered the freedwoman, “I will not; but
pray to thy God that Ursus be able to bear thee away.”

The blue, childlike eyes of the giant were gleaming with happiness. He
had not been able to frame any plan, though he had been breaking his
poor head; but a thing like this he could do,--and whether in the day or
in the night it was all one to him! He would go to the bishop, for the
bishop can read in the sky what is needed and what is not. Besides,
he could assemble Christians himself. Are his acquaintances few among
slaves, gladiators, and free people, both in the Subura and beyond the
bridges? He can collect a couple of thousand of them. He will rescue his
lady, and take her outside the city, and he can go with her. They will
go to the end of the world, even to that place from which they had come,
where no one has heard of Rome.

Here he began to look forward, as if to see things in the future and
very distant.

“To the forest? Ai, what a forest, what a forest!”

But after a while he shook himself out of his visions. Well, he will go
to the bishop at once, and in the evening will wait with something like
a hundred men for the litter. And let not slaves, but even pretorians,
take her from him! Better for any man not to come under his fist, even
though in iron armor,--for is iron so strong? When he strikes iron
earnestly, the head underneath will not survive.

But Lygia raised her finger with great and also childlike seriousness.

“Ursus, do not kill,” said she.

Ursus put his fist, which was like a maul, to the back of his head, and,
rubbing his neck with great seriousness, began to mutter. But he must
rescue “his light.” She herself had said that his turn had come. He will
try all he can. But if something happens in spite of him? In every case
he must save her. But should anything happen, he will repent, and so
entreat the Innocent Lamb that the Crucified Lamb will have mercy on
him, poor fellow. He has no wish to offend the Lamb; but then his hands
are so heavy.

Great tenderness was expressed on his face; but wishing to hide it, he
bowed and said,--“Now I will go to the holy bishop.”

Acte put her arms around Lygia’s neck, and began to weep. Once more the
freedwoman understood that there was a world in which greater happiness
existed, even in suffering, than in all the excesses and luxury of
Cæsar’s house. Once more a kind of door to the light was opened a little
before her, but she felt at once that she was unworthy to pass through
it.




Chapter IX


LYGIA was grieved to lose Pomponia Græcina, whom she loved with her
whole soul, and she grieved for the household of Aulus; still her
despair passed away. She felt a certain delight even in the thought that
she was sacrificing plenty and comfort for her Truth, and was entering
on an unknown and wandering existence. Perhaps there was in this a
little also of childish curiosity as to what that life would be, off
somewhere in remote regions, among wild beasts and barbarians. But there
was still more a deep and trusting faith, that by acting thus she was
doing as the Divine Master had commanded, and that henceforth He Himself
would watch over her, as over an obedient and faithful child. In such a
case what harm could meet her? If sufferings come, she will endure them
in His name. If sudden death comes, He will take her; and some time,
when Pomponia dies, they will be together for all eternity. More than
once when she was in the house of Aulus, she tortured her childish head
because she, a Christian, could do nothing for that Crucified, of whom
Ursus spoke with such tenderness. But now the moment had come. Lygia
felt almost happy, and began to speak of her happiness to Acte, who
could not understand her, however. To leave everything,--to leave
house, wealth, the city, gardens, temples, porticos, everything that
is beautiful; leave a sunny land and people near to one--and for what
purpose? To hide from the love of a young and stately knight. In Acte’s
head these things could not find place. At times she felt that Lygia’s
action was right, that there must be some immense mysterious happiness
in it; but she could not give a clear account to herself of the matter,
especially since an adventure was before Lygia which might have an evil
ending,--an adventure in which she might lose her life simply. Acte was
timid by nature, and she thought with dread of what the coming evening
might bring. But she was loath to mention her fears to Lygia; meanwhile,
as the day was clear and the sun looked into the atrium, she began to
persuade her to take the rest needed after a night without sleep. Lygia
did not refuse; and both went to the cubiculum, which was spacious and
furnished with luxury because of Acte’s former relations with Cæsar.
There they lay down side by side, but in spite of her weariness Acte
could not sleep. For a long time she had been sad and unhappy, but now
she was seized by a certain uneasiness which she had never felt before.
So far life had seemed to her simply grievous and deprived of a morrow;
now all at once it seemed to her dishonorable.

Increasing chaos rose in her head. Again the door to light began to open
and close. But in the moment when it opened, that light so dazzled her
that she could see nothing distinctly. She divined, merely, that in that
light there was happiness of some kind, happiness beyond measure, in
presence of which every other was nothing, to such a degree that if
Cæsar, for example, were to set aside Poppæa, and love her, Acte, again,
it would be vanity. Suddenly the thought came to her that that Cæsar
whom she loved, whom she held involuntarily as a kind of demigod, was as
pitiful as any slave, and that palace, with columns of Numidian marble,
no better than a heap of stones. At last, however, those feelings which
she had not power to define began to torment her; she wanted to
sleep, but being tortured by alarm she could not. Thinking that Lygia,
threatened by so many perils and uncertainties, was not sleeping either,
she turned to her to speak of her flight in the evening. But Lygia was
sleeping calmly. Into the dark cubiculum, past the curtain which was not
closely drawn, came a few bright rays, in which golden dust-motes were
playing. By the light of these rays Acte saw her delicate face, resting
on her bare arm, her closed eyes, and her mouth slightly open. She was
breathing regularly, but as people breathe while asleep.

“She sleeps,--she is able to sleep,” thought Acte. “She is a child yet.”
 Still, after a while it came to her mind that that child chose to flee
rather than remain the beloved of Vinicius; she preferred want to shame,
wandering to a lordly house, to robes, jewels, and feasts, to the sound
of lutes and citharas.

“Why?”

And she gazed at Lygia, as if to find an answer in her sleeping face.
She looked at her clear forehead, at the calm arch of her brows, at
her dark tresses, at her parted lips, at her virgin bosom moved by calm
breathing; then she thought again,--“How different from me!”

Lygia seemed to her a miracle, a sort of divine vision, something
beloved of the gods, a hundred times more beautiful than all the flowers
in Cæsar’s garden, than all the statues in his palace. But in the Greek
woman’s heart there was no envy. On the contrary, at thought of the
dangers which threatened the girl, great pity seized her. A certain
motherly feeling rose in the woman. Lygia seemed to her not only as
beautiful as a beautiful vision, but also very dear, and, putting her
lips to her dark hair, she kissed it.

But Lygia slept on calmly, as if at home, under the care of Pomponia
Græcina. And she slept rather long. Midday had passed when she opened
her blue eyes and looked around the cubiculum in astonishment. Evidently
she wondered that she was not in the house of Aulus.

“That is thou, Acte?” said she at last, seeing in the darkness the face
of the Greek.

“I, Lygia.”

“Is it evening?”

“No, child; but midday has passed.”

“And has Ursus not returned?”

“Ursus did not say that he would return; he said that he would watch in
the evening, with Christians, for the litter.”

“True.”

Then they left the cubiculum and went to the bath, where Acte bathed
Lygia; then she took her to breakfast and afterward to the gardens of
the palace, in which no dangerous meeting might be feared, since Cæsar
and his principal courtiers were sleeping yet. For the first time in
her life Lygia saw those magnificent gardens, full of pines, cypresses,
oaks, olives, and myrtles, among which appeared white here and there a
whole population of statues. The mirror of ponds gleamed quietly; groves
of roses were blooming, watered with the spray of fountains; entrances
to charming grottos were encircled with a growth of ivy or woodbine;
silver-colored swans were sailing on the water; amidst statues and trees
wandered tame gazelles from the deserts of Africa, and rich-colored
birds from all known countries on earth.

The gardens were empty; but here and there slaves were working, spade in
hand, singing in an undertone; others, to whom was granted a moment
of rest, were sitting by ponds or in the shade of groves, in trembling
light produced by sun-rays breaking in between leaves; others were
watering roses or the pale lily-colored blossoms of the saffron. Acte
and Lygia walked rather long, looking at all the wonders of the gardens;
and though Lygia’s mind was not at rest, she was too much a child yet to
resist pleasure, curiosity, and wonder. It occurred to her, even, that
if Cæsar were good, he might be very happy in such a palace, in such
gardens.

But at last, tired somewhat, the two women sat down on a bench hidden
almost entirely by dense cypresses and began to talk of that which
weighed on their hearts most,--that is, of Lygia’s escape in the
evening. Acte was far less at rest than Lygia touching its success. At
times it seemed to her even a mad project, which could not succeed.
She felt a growing pity for Lygia. It seemed to her that it would be
a hundred times safer to try to act on Vinicius. After a while she
inquired of Lygia how long she had known him, and whether she did not
think that he would let himself be persuaded to return her to Pomponia.

But Lygia shook her dark head in sadness. “No. In Aulus’s house,
Vinicius had been different, he had been very kind, but since
yesterday’s feast she feared him, and would rather flee to the Lygians.”

“But in Aulus’s house,” inquired Acte, “he was dear to thee, was he
not?”

“He was,” answered Lygia, inclining her head.

“And thou wert not a slave, as I was,” said Acte, after a moment’s
thought. “Vinicius might marry thee. Thou art a hostage, and a daughter
of the Lygian king. Aulus and Pomponia love thee as their own child; I
am sure that they are ready to adopt thee. Vinicius might marry thee,
Lygia.”

But Lygia answered calmly, and with still greater sadness, “I would
rather flee to the Lygians.”

“Lygia, dost thou wish me to go directly to Vinicius, rouse him, if he
is sleeping, and tell him what I have told thee? Yes, my precious one, I
will go to him and say, ‘Vinicius, this is a king’s daughter, and a dear
child of the famous Aulus; if thou love her, return her to Aulus and
Pomponia, and take her as wife from their house.’”

But the maiden answered with a voice so low that Acte could barely hear
it,--

“I would rather flee to the Lygians.” And two tears were hanging on her
drooping lids.

Further conversation was stopped by the rustle of approaching steps, and
before Acte had time to see who was coming, Poppæa Sabina appeared in
front of the bench with a small retinue of slave women. Two of them held
over her head bunches of ostrich feathers fixed to golden wires; with
these they fanned her lightly, and at the same time protected her from
the autumn sun, which was hot yet. Before her a woman from Egypt, black
as ebony, and with bosom swollen as if from milk, bore in her arms
an infant wrapped in purple fringed with gold. Acte and Lygia rose,
thinking that Poppæa would pass the bench without turning attention to
either; but she halted before them and said,--“Acte, the bells sent by
thee for the doll were badly fastened; the child tore off one and put it
to her mouth; luckily Lilith saw it in season.”

“Pardon, divinity,” answered Acte, crossing her arms on her breast and
bending her head.

But Poppæa began to gaze at Lygia.

“What slave is this?” asked she, after a pause.

“She is not a slave, divine Augusta, but a foster child of Pomponia
Græcina, and a daughter of the Lygian king given by him as hostage to
Rome.”

“And has she come to visit thee?”

“No, Augusta. She is dwelling in the palace since the day before
yesterday.”

“Was she at the feast last night?”

“She was, Augusta.”

“At whose command?”

“At Cæsar’s command.”

Poppæa looked still more attentively at Lygia, who stood with bowed
head, now raising her bright eyes to her with curiosity, now covering
them with their lids. Suddenly a frown appeared between the brows of
the Augusta. Jealous of her own beauty and power, she lived in continual
alarm lest at some time a fortunate rival might ruin her, as she had
ruined Octavia. Hence every beautiful face in the palace roused her
suspicion. With the eye of a critic she took in at once every part of
Lygia’s form, estimated every detail of her face, and was frightened.
“That is simply a nymph,” thought she, “and ‘twas Venus who gave birth
to her.” On a sudden this came to her mind which had never come before
at sight of any beauty,--that she herself had grown notably older!
Wounded vanity quivered in Poppæa, alarm seized her, and various fears
shot through her head. “Perhaps Nero has not seen the girl, or, seeing
her through the emerald, has not appreciated her. But what would happen
should he meet such a marvel in the daytime, in sunlight? Moreover she
is not a slave, she is the daughter of a king,--a king of barbarians,
it is true, but a king. Immortal gods! she is as beautiful as I am, but
younger!” The wrinkle between her brows increased, and her eyes began to
shine under their golden lashes with a cold gleam.

“Hast thou spoken with Cæsar?”

“No, Augusta.”

“Why dost thou choose to be here rather than in the house of Aulus?”

“I do not choose, lady. Petronius persuaded Cæsar to take me from
Pomponia. I am here against my will.”

“And wouldst thou return to Pomponia?”

This last question Poppæa gave with a softer and milder voice; hence a
sudden hope rose in Lygia’s heart.

“Lady,” said she, extending her hand to her, “Cæsar promised to give
me as a slave to Vinicius, but do thou intercede and return me to
Pomponia.”

“Then Petronius persuaded Cæsar to take thee from Aulus, and give thee
to Vinicius?”

“True, lady. Vinicius is to send for me to-day, but thou art good, have
compassion on me.” When she had said this, she inclined, and, seizing
the border of Poppæa’s robe, waited for her word with beating heart.
Poppæa looked at her for a while, with a face lighted by an evil smile,
and said,--“Then I promise that thou wilt become the slave of Vinicius
this day.” And she went on, beautiful as a vision, but evil. To the ears
of Lygia and Acte came only the wail of the infant, which began to cry,
it was unknown for what reason.

Lygia’s eyes too were filled with tears; but after a while she took
Acte’s hand and said,--“Let us return. Help is to be looked for only
whence it can come.” And they returned to the atrium, which they did not
leave till evening.

When darkness had come and slaves brought in tapers with great flames,
both women were very pale. Their conversation failed every moment. Both
were listening to hear if some one were coming. Lygia repeated again and
again that, though grieved to leave Acte, she preferred that all should
take place that day, as Ursus must be waiting in the dark for her then.
But her breathing grew quicker from emotion, and louder. Acte collected
feverishly such jewels as she could, and, fastening them in a corner
of Lygia’s peplus, implored her not to reject that gift and means of
escape. At moments came a deep silence full of deceptions for the ear.
It seemed to both that they heard at one time a whisper beyond the
curtain, at another the distant weeping of a child, at another the
barking of dogs.

Suddenly the curtain of the entrance moved without noise, and a tall,
dark man, his face marked with small-pox, appeared like a spirit in the
atrium. In one moment Lygia recognized Atacinus, a freedman of Vinicius,
who had visited the house of Aulus.

Acte screamed; but Atacinus bent low and said,--“A greeting, divine
Lygia, from Marcus Vinicius, who awaits thee with a feast in his house
which is decked in green.”

The lips of the maiden grew pale.

“I go,” said she.

Then she threw her arms around Acte’s neck in farewell.




Chapter X


THE house of Vinicius was indeed decked in the green of myrtle and ivy,
which had been hung on the walls and over the doors. The columns were
wreathed with grape vine. In the atrium, which was closed above by a
purple woollen cloth as protection from the night cold, it was as clear
as in daylight. Eight and twelve flamed lamps were burning; these were
like vessels, trees, animals, birds, or statues, holding cups filled
with perfumed olive oil, lamps of alabaster, marble, or gilded
Corinthian bronze, not so wonderful as that famed candlestick used by
Nero and taken from the temple of Apollo, but beautiful and made by
famous masters. Some of the lights were shaded by Alexandrian glass,
or transparent stuffs from the Indus, of red, blue, yellow, or violet
color, so that the whole atrium was filled with many colored rays.
Everywhere was given out the odor of nard, to which Vinicius had grown
used, and which he had learned to love in the Orient. The depths of the
house, in which the forms of male and female slaves were moving, gleamed
also with light. In the triclinium a table was laid for four persons.
At the feast were to sit, besides Vinicius and Lygia, Petronius
and Chrysothemis. Vinicius had followed in everything the words of
Petronius, who advised him not to go for Lygia, but to send Atacinus
with the permission obtained from Cæsar, to receive her himself in the
house, receive her with friendliness and even with marks of honor.

“Thou wert drunk yesterday,” said he; “I saw thee. Thou didst act with
her like a quarryman from the Alban Hills. Be not over-insistent, and
remember that one should drink good wine slowly. Know too that it is
sweet to desire, but sweeter to be desired.”

Chrysothemis had her own and a somewhat different opinion on this point;
but Petronius, calling her his vestal and his dove, began to explain the
difference which must exist between a trained charioteer of the Circus
and the youth who sits on the quadriga for the first time. Then, turning
to Vinicius, he continued,--“Win her confidence, make her joyful, be
magnanimous. I have no wish to see a gloomy feast. Swear to her, by
Hades even, that thou wilt return her to Pomponia, and it will be thy
affair that to-morrow she prefers to stay with thee.”

Then pointing to Chrysothemis, he added,--“For five years I have acted
thus more or less with this timid dove, and I cannot complain of her
harshness.”

Chrysothemis struck him with her fan of peacock feathers, and
said,--“But I did not resist, thou satyr!”

“Out of consideration for my predecessor--”

“But wert thou not at my feet?”

“Yes; to put rings on thy toes.”

Chrysothemis looked involuntarily at her feet, on the toes of which
diamonds were really glittering; and she and Petronius began to laugh.
But Vinicius did not give ear to their bantering. His heart was beating
unquietly under the robes of a Syrian priest, in which he had arrayed
himself to receive Lygia.

“They must have left the palace,” said he, as if in a monologue.

“They must,” answered Petronius. “Meanwhile I may mention the
predictions of Apollonius of Tyana, or that history of Rufinus which I
have not finished, I do not remember why.”

But Vinicius cared no more for Apollonius of Tyana than for the history
of Rufinus. His mind was with Lygia; and though he felt that it was more
appropriate to receive her at home than to go in the rôle of a myrmidon
to the palace, he was sorry at moments that he had not gone, for the
single reason that he might have seen her sooner, and sat near her in
the dark, in the double litter.

Meanwhile slaves brought in a tripod ornamented with rams’ heads, bronze
dishes with coals, on which they sprinkled bits of myrrh and nard.

“Now they are turning toward the Carinæ,” said Vinicius, again.

“He cannot wait; he will run to meet the litter, and is likely to miss
them!” exclaimed Chrysothemis.

Vinicius smiled without thinking, and said,--“On the contrary, I will
wait.”

But he distended his nostrils and panted; seeing which, Petronius
shrugged his shoulders, and said,--“There is not in him a philosopher to
the value of one sestertium, and I shall never make a man of that son of
Mars.”

“They are now in the Carinæ.”

In fact, they were turning toward the Carinæ. The slaves called
lampadarii were in front; others called pedisequii, were on both sides
of the litter. Atacinus was right behind, overseeing the advance. But
they moved slowly, for lamps showed the way badly in a place not lighted
at all. The streets near the palace were empty; here and there only
some man moved forward with a lantern, but farther on the place was
uncommonly crowded. From almost every alley people were pushing out in
threes and fours, all without lamps, all in dark mantles. Some walked on
with the procession, mingling with the slaves; others in greater numbers
came from the opposite direction. Some staggered as if drunk. At moments
the advance grew so difficult that the lampadarii cried,--“Give way to
the noble tribune, Marcus Vinicius!”

Lygia saw those dark crowds through the curtains which were pushed
aside, and trembled with emotion. She was carried away at one moment by
hope, at another by fear.

“That is he!--that is Ursus and the Christians! Now it will happen
quickly,” said she, with trembling lips. “O Christ, aid! O Christ,
save!”

Atacinus himself, who at first did not notice the uncommon animation of
the street, began at last to be alarmed. There was something strange in
this. The lampadarii had to cry oftener and oftener, “Give way to the
litter of the noble tribune!” From the sides unknown people crowded up
to the litter so much that Atacinus commanded the slaves to repulse them
with clubs.

Suddenly a cry was heard in front of the procession. In one instant all
the lights were extinguished. Around the litter came a rush, an uproar,
a struggle.

Atacinus saw that this was simply an attack; and when he saw it he was
frightened. It was known to all that Cæsar with a crowd of attendants
made attacks frequently for amusement in the Subura and in other parts
of the city. It was known that even at times he brought out of these
night adventures black and blue spots; but whoso defended himself went
to his death, even if a senator. The house of the guards, whose duty it
was to watch over the city, was not very far; but during such attacks
the guards feigned to be deaf and blind.

Meanwhile there was an uproar around the litter; people struck,
struggled, threw, and trampled one another. The thought flashed on
Atacinus to save Lygia and himself, above all, and leave the rest to
their fate. So, drawing her out of the litter, he took her in his arms
and strove to escape in the darkness.

But Lygia called, “Ursus! Ursus!”

She was dressed in white; hence it was easy to see her. Atacinus, with
his other arm, which was free, was throwing his own mantle over
her hastily, when terrible claws seized his neck, and on his head a
gigantic, crushing mass fell like a stone.

He dropped in one instant, as an ox felled by the back of an axe before
the altar of Jove.

The slaves for the greater part were either lying on the ground, or had
saved themselves by scattering in the thick darkness, around the turns
of the walls. On the spot remained only the litter, broken in the
onset. Ursus bore away Lygia to the Subura; his comrades followed him,
dispersing gradually along the way.

The slaves assembled before the house of Vinicius, and took counsel.
They had not courage to enter. After a short deliberation they returned
to the place of conflict, where they found a few corpses, and among
them Atacinus. He was quivering yet; but, after a moment of more violent
convulsion, he stretched and was motionless.

They took him then, and, returning, stopped before the gate a second
time. But they must declare to their lord what had happened.

“Let Gulo declare it,” whispered some voices; “blood is flowing from his
face as from ours; and the master loves him; it is safer for Gulo than
for others.”

Gulo, a German, an old slave, who had nursed Vinicius, and was inherited
by him from his mother, the sister of Petronius, said,--

“I will tell him; but do ye all come. Do not let his anger fall on my
head alone.”

Vinicius was growing thoroughly impatient. Petronius and Chrysothemis
were laughing; but he walked with quick step up and down the atrium.

“They ought to be here! They ought to be here!”

He wished to go out to meet the litter, but Petronius and Chrysothemis
detained him.

Steps were heard suddenly in the entrance; the slaves rushed into the
atrium in a crowd, and, halting quickly at the wall, raised their hands,
and began to repeat with groaning,--“Aaaa!--aa!”

Vinicius sprang toward them.

“Where is Lygia?” cried he, with a terrible and changed voice.

“Aaaa!”

Then Gulo pushed forward with his bloody face, and exclaimed, in haste
and pitifully,--

“See our blood, lord! We fought! See our blood! See our blood!”

But he had not finished when Vinicius seized a bronze lamp, and with one
blow shattered the skull of the slave; then, seizing his own head with
both hands, he drove his fingers into his hair, repeating hoarsely,--“Me
miserum! me miserum!”

His face became blue, his eyes turned in his head, foam came out on his
lips.

“Whips!” roared he at last, with an unearthly voice.

“Lord! Aaaa! Take pity!” groaned the slaves.

Petronius stood up with an expression of disgust on his face. “Come,
Chrysothemis!” said he. “If ‘tis thy wish to look on raw flesh, I will
give command to open a butcher’s stall on the Carinæ!”

And he walked out of the atrium. But through the whole house, ornamented
in the green of ivy and prepared for a feast, were heard, from moment
to moment, groans and the whistling of whips, which lasted almost till
morning.




Chapter XI


VINICIUS did not lie down that night. Some time after the departure of
Petronius, when the groans of his flogged slaves could allay neither his
rage nor his pain, he collected a crowd of other servants, and, though
the night was far advanced, rushed forth at the head of these to look
for Lygia. He visited the district of the Esquiline, then the Subura,
Vicus Sceleratus, and all the adjoining alleys. Passing next around the
Capitol, he went to the island over the bridge of Fabricius; after that
he passed through a part of the Trans-Tiber. But that was a pursuit
without object, for he himself had no hope of finding Lygia, and if he
sought her it was mainly to fill out with something a terrible night.
In fact he returned home about daybreak, when the carts and mules of
dealers in vegetables began to appear in the city, and when bakers were
opening their shops.

On returning he gave command to put away Gulo’s corpse, which no one had
ventured to touch. The slaves from whom Lygia had been taken he sent to
rural prisons,--a punishment almost more dreadful than death. Throwing
himself at last on a couch in the atrium, he began to think confusedly
of how he was to find and seize Lygia.

To resign her, to lose her, not to see her again, seemed to him
impossible; and at this thought alone frenzy took hold of him. For the
first time in life the imperious nature of the youthful soldier met
resistance, met another unbending will, and he could not understand
simply how any one could have the daring to thwart his wishes. Vinicius
would have chosen to see the world and the city sink in ruins rather
than fail of his purpose. The cup of delight had been snatched from
before his lips almost; hence it seemed to him that something unheard of
had happened, something crying to divine and human laws for vengeance.

But, first of all, he was unwilling and unable to be reconciled with
fate, for never in life had he so desired anything as Lygia. It seemed
to him that he could not exist without her. He could not tell himself
what he was to do without her on the morrow, how he was to survive the
days following. At moments he was transported by a rage against her,
which approached madness. He wanted to have her, to beat her, to drag
her by the hair to the cubiculum, and gloat over her; then, again, he
was carried away by a terrible yearning for her voice, her form, her
eyes, and he felt that he would be ready to lie at her feet. He called
to her, gnawed his fingers, clasped his head with his hands. He strove
with all his might to think calmly about searching for her,--and was
unable. A thousand methods and means flew through his head, but one
wilder than another. At last the thought flashed on him that no one else
had intercepted her but Aulus, that in every case Aulus must know where
she was hiding. And he sprang up to run to the house of Aulus.

If they will not yield her to him, if they have no fear of his threats,
he will go to Cæsar, accuse the old general of disobedience, and obtain
a sentence of death against him; but before that, he will gain from them
a confession of where Lygia is. If they give her, even willingly, he
will be revenged. They received him, it is true, in their house and
nursed him,--but that is nothing! With this one injustice they have
freed him from every debt of gratitude. Here his vengeful and stubborn
soul began to take pleasure at the despair of Pomponia Græcina, when
the centurion would bring the death sentence to old Aulus. He was almost
certain that he would get it. Petronius would assist him. Moreover,
Cæsar never denies anything to his intimates, the Augustians, unless
personal dislike or desire enjoins a refusal.

Suddenly his heart almost died within him, under the influence of this
terrible supposition,--“But if Cæsar himself has taken Lygia?”

All knew that Nero from tedium soug

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