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Title: A Friend of Caesar
       A Tale of the Fall of the Roman Republic. Time, 50-47 B.C.

Author: William Stearns Davis

Release Date: April 24, 2005 [EBook #15694]

Language: English

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A Friend of Caesar

A Tale of the Fall of the Roman Republic

Time, 50-47 B.C.

By William Stearns Davis





  "Others better may mould the life-breathing brass of the image,
  And living features, I ween, draw from the marble, and better
  Argue their cause in the court; may mete out the span of the heavens,
  Mark out the bounds of the poles, and name all the stars in their turnings.
  _Thine_ 'tis the peoples to rule with dominion--this, Roman, remember!--
  These for thee are the arts, to hand down the laws of the treaty,
  The weak in mercy to spare, to fling from their high seats the haughty."

--VERGIL, _AEn._ vi. 847-858.


New York
Grosset & Dunlap Publishers
1900




To My Father

William Vail Wilson Davis

Who Has Taught Me More
Than All My Books




Preface


If this book serves to show that Classical Life presented many phases
akin to our own, it will not have been written in vain.

After the book was planned and in part written, it was discovered that
Archdeacon Farrar had in his story of "Darkness and Dawn" a scene,
"Onesimus and the Vestal," which corresponds very closely to the scene,
"Agias and the Vestal," in this book; but the latter incident was too
characteristically Roman not to risk repetition. If it is asked why such
a book as this is desirable after those noble fictions, "Darkness and
Dawn" and "Quo Vadis," the reply must be that these books necessarily
take and interpret the Christian point of view. And they do well; but
the Pagan point of view still needs its interpretation, at least as a
help to an easy apprehension of the life and literature of the great age
of the Fall of the Roman Republic. This is the aim of "A Friend of
Caesar." The Age of Caesar prepared the way for the Age of Nero, when
Christianity could find a world in a state of such culture, unity, and
social stability that it could win an adequate and abiding triumph.

Great care has been taken to keep to strict historical probability; but
in one scene, the "Expulsion of the Tribunes," there is such a confusion
of accounts in the authorities themselves that I have taken some slight
liberties.

W. S. D.

Harvard University,
January 16,1900.




Contents


Chapter                                      Page

    I. Praeneste                                1

   II. The Upper Walks of Society             21

  III. The Privilege of a Vestal              37

   IV. Lucius Ahenobarbus Airs His Grievance  50

    V. A Very Old Problem                     73

   VI. Pompeius Magnus                       102

  VII. Agias's Adventure                     117

 VIII. "When Greek Meets Greek"              146

   IX. How Gabinius Met with a Rebuff        159

    X. Mamercus Guards the Door              172

   XI. The Great Proconsul                   198

  XII. Pratinas Meets Ill-Fortune            217

 XIII. What Befell at Baiae                   241

  XIV. The New Consuls                       262

   XV. The Seventh of January                277

  XVI. The Rubicon                           302

 XVII. The Profitable Career of Gabinius     329

XVIII. How Pompeius Stamped with His Feet    334

  XIX. The Hospitality of Demetrius          364

   XX. Cleopatra                             387

  XXI. How Ulamhala's Words Came True        409

 XXII. The End of the Magnus                 433

XXIII. Bitterness and Joy                    448

 XXIV. Battling for Life                     464

  XXV. Calm after Storm                      496




Chapter I

Praeneste


I

It was the Roman month of September, seven hundred and four years after
Romulus--so tradition ran--founded the little village by the Tiber which
was to become "Mother of Nations," "Centre of the World," "Imperial
Rome." To state the time according to modern standards it was July,
fifty years before the beginning of the Christian Era. The fierce
Italian sun was pouring down over the tilled fields and stretches of
woodland and grazing country that made up the landscape, and the
atmosphere was almost aglow with the heat. The dust lay thick on the
pavement of the highway, and rose in dense, stifling clouds, as a mule,
laden with farm produce and driven by a burly countryman, trudged
reluctantly along.

Yet, though the scene suggested the heat of midsummer, it was far from
being unrefreshing, especially to the eyes of one newly come. For this
spot was near "cool Praeneste," one of the favourite resorts of Latium to
the wealthy, invalid, or indolent of Rome, who shunned the excessive
heat of the capital. And they were wise in their choice; for Praeneste,
with its citadel, which rose twelve hundred feet over the adjoining
country, commanded in its ample sweep both the views and the breezes of
the whole wide-spreading Campagna. Here, clustering round the hill on
which stood the far-famed "Temple of Fortune," lay the old Latin town of
the Praenestians; a little farther westward was the settlement founded
some thirty odd years before by Sulla as a colony. Farther out, and
stretching off into the open country, lay the farmhouses and villas,
gardens and orchards, where splendid nuts and roses, and also wine, grew
in abundant measure.

A little stream ran close to the highway, and here an irrigating
machine[1] was raising water for the fields. Two men stood on the
treadmill beside the large-bucketed wheel, and as they continued their
endless walk the water dashed up into the trough and went splashing down
the ditches into the thirsty gardens. The workers were tall,
bronze-skinned Libyans, who were stripped to the waist, showing their
splendid chests and rippling muscles. Beside the trough had just come
two women, by their coarse and unpretentious dress evidently slaves,
bearing large earthen water-pots which they were about to fill. One of
the women was old, and bore on her face all the marks which a life of
hard manual toil usually leaves behind it; the other young, with a
clear, smooth complexion and a rather delicate Greek profile. The
Libyans stopped their monotonous trudge, evidently glad to have some
excuse for a respite from their exertions.

  [1] Water columbarium.

"Ah, ha! Chloe," cried one of them, "how would you like it, with your
pretty little feet, to be plodding at this mill all the day? Thank the
Gods, the sun will set before a great while. The day has been hot as
the lap of an image of Moloch!"[2]

  [2] The Phoenician god, also worshipped in North Africa, in whose idol
  was built a fire to consume human sacrifices.

"Well, Hasdrubal," said Chloe, the younger woman, with a pert toss of
her head, "if my feet were as large as yours, and my skin as black and
thick, I should not care to complain if I had to work a little now and
then."

"Oh! of course," retorted Hasdrubal, a little nettled. "Your ladyship
is too refined, too handsome, to reflect that people with black skins
as well as white may get heated and weary. Wait five and twenty years,
till your cheeks are a bit withered, and see if Master Drusus doesn't
give you enough to make you tired from morning till night."

"You rude fellow," cried Chloe, pouting with vexation, "I will not
speak to you again. If Master Drusus were here, I would complain of
you to him. I have heard that he is not the kind of a master to let a
poor maid of his be insulted."

"Oh, be still, you hussy!" said the elder woman, who felt that a life
of labour had spoiled what might have been quite the equal of Chloe's
good looks. "What do you know of Master Drusus? He has been in Athens
ever since you were bought. I'll make Mamercus, the steward, believe
you ought to be whipped."

What tart answer Chloe might have had on the end of her tongue will
never be known; for at this moment Mago, the other Libyan, glanced up
the road, and cried:--

"Well, mistress, perhaps you will see our master very soon. He was due
this afternoon or next day from Puteoli, and what is that great cloud
of dust I see off there in the distance? Can't you make out carriages
and horsemen in the midst of it, Hasdrubal?"

Certainly there was a little cavalcade coming up the highway. Now it
was a mere blotch moving in the sun and dust; then clearer; and then
out of the cloud of light, flying sand came the clatter of hoofs on
the pavement, the whir of wheels, and ahead of the rest of the party
two dark Numidian outriders in bright red mantles appeared, pricking
along their white African steeds. Chloe clapped her little hands,
steadied her water-pot, and sprang up on the staging of the treadmill
beside Mago.

"It is he!" she cried. "It must be Master Drusus coming back from
Athens!" She was a bit excited, for an event like the arrival of a new
master was a great occurrence in the monotonous life of a country
slave.

The cortege was still a good way off.

"What is Master Drusus like?" asked Chloe "Will he be kind, or will he
be always whipping like Mamercus?"

"He was not in charge of the estate," replied Lais, the older woman,
"when he went away to study at Athens[3] a few years ago. But he was
always kind as a lad. Cappadox, his old body-servant, worshipped him.
I hope he will take the charge of the farm out of the steward's hands."

  [3] A few years at the philosophy schools of that famous city were
  almost as common to Roman students and men of culture as "studying
  in Germany" to their American successors.

"Here he comes!" cried Hasdrubal. "I can see him in the nearest
carriage." And then all four broke out with their salutation, "_Salve!
Salve, Domine!_"[4] "Good health to your lordship!"

  [4] Master, "Lord" of slaves and freedmen.

A little way behind the outriders rolled a comfortable, four-wheeled,
covered carriage,[5] ornamented with handsome embossed plate-work of
bronze. Two sleek, jet-black steeds were whirling it swiftly onward.
Behind, a couple of equally speedy grey mules were drawing an open
wagon loaded with baggage, and containing two smart-looking
slave-boys. But all four persons at the treadmill had fixed their eyes
on the other conveyance. Besides a sturdy driver, whose ponderous
hands seemed too powerful to handle the fine leather reins, there were
sitting within an elderly, decently dressed man, and at his side
another much younger. The former personage was Pausanias, the freedman
and travelling companion[6] of his friend and patron, Quintus Livius
Drusus, the "Master Drusus" of whom the slaves had been speaking.
Chloe's sharp eyes scanned her strange owner very keenly, and the
impression he created was not in the least unfavourable. Drusus was
apparently of about two and twenty. As he was sitting, he appeared a
trifle short in stature, with a thick frame, solid shoulders, long
arms, and large hands. His face was distinctively Roman. The features
were a little irregular, though not to an unpleasant extent. The
profile was aquiline. His eyes were brown and piercing, turning
perpetually this way and that, to grasp every detail of the scene
around. His dark, reddish hair was clipped close, and his chin was
smooth shaven and decidedly firm--stern, even, the face might have
been called, except for the relief afforded by a delicately curved
mouth--not weak, but affable and ingenuous. Drusus wore a dark
travelling cloak,[7] and from underneath it peeped his tunic, with its
stripe of narrow purple--the badge of the Roman equestrian order.[8]
On his finger was another emblem of nobility--a large, plain, gold
ring, conspicuous among several other rings with costly settings.

  [5] _Rheda_.

  [6] Most wealthy Romans had such a _major domo_, whose position was
  often one of honour and trust.

  [7] _Paenula_.

  [8] The second order of the Roman nobility.

"_Salve! Salve, Domine!_" cried the slaves a second time, as the
carriage drew near. The young master pushed back the blue woollen
curtains in order to gain a better view, then motioned to the driver
to stop.

"Are you slaves of mine?" was his question. The tone was interested
and kindly, and Mago saluted profoundly, and replied:--

"We are the slaves of the most noble Quintus Livius Drusus, who owns
this estate."

"I am he," replied the young man, smiling. "The day is hot. It grows
late. You have toiled enough. Go you all and rest. Here, Pausanias,
give them each a philippus,[9] with which to remember my home-coming!"

  [9] A Greek gold piece worth about $3.60 at the time of the story.
  At this time Rome coined little gold.

"_Eu! Eu! Io!_[10] _Domine!_" cried the slaves, giving vent to their
delight. And Chloe whispered to Lais: "You were right. The new master
will be kind. There will not be so many whippings."

  [10] Good! Good! Hurrah!

But while Pausanias was fumbling in the money-bags, a new instance of
the generosity of Drusus was presented. Down a by-path in the field
filed a sorrowful company; a long row of slaves in fetters, bound
together by a band and chain round the waist of each. They were a
disreputable enough gang of unkempt, unshaven, half-clothed wretches:
Gauls and Germans with fair hair and giant physiques; dark-haired
Syrians; black-skinned Africans,--all panting and groaning, clanking
their chains, and cursing softly at the two sullen overseers, who,
with heavy-loaded whips, were literally driving them down into the
road.

Again Drusus spoke.

"Whose slaves are these? Mine?"

"They are your lordship's," said the foremost overseer, who had just
recognized his newly come employer.

"Why are they in chains?" asked Drusus.

"Mamercus found them refractory," replied the guard, "and ordered them
to be kept in the underground prison,[11] and to work in the chain
gang."

  [11] _Ergastulum_.

The young man made a motion of disgust.

"Bah!" he remarked, "the whole _familia_[12] will be in fetters if
Mamercus has his way much longer. Knock off those chains. Tell the
wretches they are to remain unshackled only so long as they behave.
Give them three skins to-night from which to drink their master's
health. Drive on, Cappadox!"

  [12] Slave household.

And before the fettered slaves could comprehend their release from
confinement, and break out into a chorus of barbarous and uncouth
thanksgivings and blessings, the carriage had vanished from sight down
the turn of the road.


II

Who was Quintus Livius Drusus? Doubtless he would have felt highly
insulted if his family history had not been fairly well known to every
respectable person around Praeneste and to a very large and select
circle at Rome. When a man could take Livius[13] for his gentile name,
and Drusus for his cognomen, he had a right to hold his head high, and
regard himself as one of the noblest and best of the imperial city.
But of course the Drusian house had a number of branches, and the
history of Quintus's direct family was this. He was the grandson of
that Marcus Livius Drusus[14] who, though an aristocrat of the
aristocrats, had dared to believe that the oligarchs were too strong,
the Roman Commons without character, and that the Italian freemen were
suffering from wrongs inflicted by both of the parties at the capital.
For his efforts to right the abuses, he had met with a reward very
common to statesmen of his day, a dagger-thrust from the hand of an
undiscovered assassin. He had left a son, Sextus, a man of culture and
talent, who remembered his father's fate, and walked for a time warily
in politics. Sextus had married twice. Once to a very noble lady of
the Fabian gens, the mother of his son Quintus. Then some years after
her death he took in marriage a reigning beauty, a certain Valeria,
who soon developed such extravagance and frivolity, that, soon after
she bore him a daughter, he was forced "to send her a messenger"; in
other words, to divorce her. The daughter had been put under the
guardianship of Sextus's sister-in-law Fabia, one of the Vestal
virgins at Rome. Sextus himself had accepted an appointment to a
tribuneship in a legion of Caesar in Gaul. When he departed for the
wars he took with him as fellow officer a life-long friend, Caius
Cornelius Lentulus; and ere leaving for the campaign the two had
formed a compact quite in keeping with the stern Roman spirit that
made the child the slave of the father: Young Quintus Drusus should
marry Cornelia, Lentulus's only child, as soon as the two came to a
proper age. And so the friends went away to win glory in Gaul; to
perish side by side, when Sabinus's ill-fated legion was cut off by
the Eburones.[15]

  [13] Every Roman had a _praenomen_, or "Christian name"; also a gentile
  name of the gens or clan to which he belonged; and commonly in addition
  a cognomen, usually an epithet descriptive of some personal peculiarity
  of an ancestor, which had fastened itself upon the immediate descendants
  of that ancestor. The _Livii Drusi_ were among the noblest of the Roman
  houses.

  [14] Died in 91 B.C.

  [15] In 54 B.C.

The son and the daughter remained. Quintus Drusus had had kindly
guardians; he had been sent for four years to the "University" at
Athens; had studied rhetoric and philosophy; and now he was back with
his career before him,--master of himself, of a goodly fortune, of a
noble inheritance of high-born ancestry. And he was to marry Cornelia.
No thought of thwarting his father's mandate crossed his mind; he was
bound by the decree of the dead. He had not seen his betrothed for
four years. He remembered her as a bright-eyed, merry little girl, who
had an arch way of making all to mind her. But he remembered too, that
her mother was a vapid lady of fashion, that her uncle and guardian
was Lucius Cornelius Lentulus Crus, Consul-elect,[16] a man of little
refinement or character. And four years were long enough to mar a
young girl's life. What would she be like? What had time made of her?
The curiosity--we will not call it passion--was overpowering. Pure
"love" was seldom recognized as such by the age. When the carriage
reached a spot where two roads forked, leading to adjacent estates,
Drusus alighted.

  [16] The two Roman consuls were magistrates of the highest rank, and
  were chosen each year by the people.

"Is her ladyship Cornelia at the villa of the Lentuli?" was his demand
of a gardener who was trimming a hedge along the way.

"Ah! Master Drusus," cried the fellow, dropping his sickle in delight.
"Joy to see you! Yes, she is in the grove by the villa; by the great
cypress you know so well. But how you have changed, sir--"

But Drusus was off. The path was familiar. Through the trees he caught
glimpses of the stately mazes of colonnades of the Lentulan villa,
surrounded by its artificially arranged gardens, and its wide
stretches of lawn and orchard. The grove had been his playground. Here
was the oak under which Cornelia and he had gathered acorns. The
remnants of the little brush house they had built still survived. His
step quickened. He heard the rush of the little stream that wound
through the grove. Then he saw ahead of him a fern thicket, and the
brook flashing its water beyond. In his recollection a bridge had here
crossed the streamlet. It had been removed. Just across, swayed the
huge cypress. Drusus stepped forward. At last! He pushed carefully
through the thicket, making only a little noise, and glanced across
the brook.

There were ferns all around the cypress. Ivies twined about its trunk.
On the bank the green turf looked dry, but cool. Just under the tree
the brook broke into a miniature cascade, and went rippling down in a
score of pygmy, sparkling waterfalls. On a tiny promontory a marble
nymph, a fine bit of Greek sculpture, was pouring, without respite,
from a water-urn into the gurgling flood. But Drusus did not gaze at
the nymph. Close beside the image, half lying, half sitting, in an
abandon only to be produced by a belief that she was quite alone,
rested a young woman. It was Cornelia.

Drusus had made no disturbance, and the object on which he fastened
his eyes had not been in the least stirred out of a rather deep
reverie. He stood for a while half bashful, half contemplative.
Cornelia had taken off her shoes and let her little white feet trail
down into the water. She wore only her white tunic, and had pushed it
back so that her arms were almost bare. At the moment she was resting
lazily on one elbow, and gazing abstractedly up at the moving ocean of
green overhead. She was only sixteen; but in the warm Italian clime
that age had brought her to maturity. No one would have said that she
was beautiful, from the point of view of mere softly sensuous Greek
beauty. Rather, she was handsome, as became the daughter of Cornelii
and Claudii. She was tall; her hair, which was bound in a plain knot
on the back of her head, was dark--almost black; her eyes were large,
grey, lustrous, and on occasion could be proud and angry. Yet with it
all she was pretty--pretty, said Drusus to himself, as any girl he had
seen in Athens. For there were coy dimples in her delicate little
chin, her finely chiselled features were not angular, while her cheeks
were aglow with a healthy colour that needed no rouge to heighten. In
short, Cornelia, like Drusus, was a Roman; and Drusus saw that she was
a Roman, and was glad.

Presently something broke the reverie. Cornelia's eyes dropped from
the treetops, and lighted up with attention. One glance across the
brook into the fern thicket; then one irrepressible feminine scream;
and then:--

"Cornelia!" "Quintus!"

Drusus sprang forward, but almost fell into the brooklet. The bridge
was gone. Cornelia had started up, and tried to cover her arms and
shake her tunic over her feet. Her cheeks were all smiles and blushes.
But Drusus's situation was both pathetic and ludicrous. He had his
fiancee almost in his arms, and yet the stream stopped him. Instantly
Cornelia was in laughter.

"Oh! My second Leander," she cried, "will you be brave, and swim again
from Abydos to Sestos to meet your Hero?"

"Better!" replied Drusus, now nettled; "see!" And though the leap was
a long one he cleared it, and landed close by the marble nymph.

Drusus had not exactly mapped out for himself the method of
approaching the young woman who had been his child playmate. Cornelia,
however, solved all his perplexity. Changing suddenly from laughter
into what were almost tears, she flung her arms around his neck, and
kissed him again and again.

"Oh, Quintus! Quintus!" she cried, nearly sobbing, "_I am_ so glad you
have come!"

"And I am glad," said the young man, perhaps with a tremor in his
voice.

"I never knew how I wanted you, until you are here," she continued; "I
didn't look for you to-day. I supposed you would come from Puteoli
to-morrow. Oh! Quintus, you must be very kind to me. Perhaps I am very
stupid. But I am tired, tired."

Drusus looked at her in a bit of astonishment.

"Tired! I can't see that you look fatigued."

"Not in body," went on Cornelia, still holding on to him. "But here,
sit down on the grass. Let me hold your hands. You do not mind. I want
to talk with you. No, don't interrupt. I must tell you. I have been
here in Praeneste only a week. I wanted to get away from Baiae.[17] I
was afraid to stay there with my mother."

  [17] The famous watering-place on the Bay of Naples.

"Afraid to stay at that lovely seashore house with your mother!"
exclaimed Drusus, by no means unwilling to sit as entreated, but
rather bewildered in mind.

"I was afraid of Lucius Ahenobarbus, the consular[18] Domitius's
second son. _I don't like him! there!_" and Cornelia's grey eyes lit
up with menacing fire.

  [18] An ex-consul was known by this title.

"Afraid of Lucius Ahenobarbus!" laughed Drusus. "Well, I don't think I
call him a very dear friend. But why should he trouble you?"

"It was ever since last spring, when I was in the new theatre[19]
seeing the play, that he came around, thrust himself upon me, and
tried to pay attentions. Then he has kept them up ever since; he
followed us to Baiae; and the worst of it is, my mother and uncle
rather favour him. So I had Stephanus, my friend the physician, say
that sea air was not good for me, and I was sent here. My mother and
uncle will come in a few days, but not that fellow Lucius, I hope. I
was so tired trying to keep him off."

  [19] Built by Pompeius the Great, in 55-54 B.C.

"I will take care of the knave," said Drusus, smiling. "So this is the
trouble? I wonder that your mother should have anything to do with
such a fellow. I hear in letters that he goes with a disreputable
gang. He is a boon companion with Marcus Laeca, the old Catilinian,[20]
who is a smooth-headed villain, and to use a phrase of my father's
good friend Cicero--'has his head and eyebrows always shaved, that he
may not be said to have one hair of an honest man about him.' But he
will have to reckon with me now. Now it is my turn to talk. Your long
story has been very short. Nor is mine long. My old uncle Publius
Vibulanus is dead. I never knew him well enough to be able to mourn
him bitterly. Enough, he died at ninety; and just as I arrive at
Puteoli comes a message that I am his sole heir. His freedmen knew I
was coming, embalmed the body, and wait for me to go to Rome to-morrow
to give the funeral oration and light the pyre. He has left a fortune
fit to compare with that of Crassus[21]--real estate, investments, a
lovely villa at Tusculum. And now I--no, _we_--are wealthy beyond
avarice. Shall we not thank the Gods?"

  [20] A member of the band who with Catiline conspired in 63 B.C. to
  overthrow the Roman government.

  [21] The Roman millionaire who had just been slain in Parthia.

"I thank them for nothing," was her answer; then more shyly, "except
for your own coming; for, Quintus, you--you--will marry me before very
long?"

"What hinders?" cried the other, in the best of spirits. "To-morrow I
go to Rome; then back again! And then all Praeneste will flock to our
marriage train. No, pout no more over Lucius Ahenobarbus. He shan't
pay disagreeable attentions. And now over to the old villa; for
Mamercus is eating his heart out to see me!"

And away they went arm in arm.

Drusus's head was in the air. He had resolved to marry Cornelia, cost
what it might to his desires. He knew now that he was affianced to the
one maiden in the world quite after his own heart.


III

The paternal villa of Drusus lay on the lower part of the slope of the
Praeneste citadel, facing the east. It was a genuine country and
farming estate--not a mere refuge from the city heat and hubbub. The
Drusi had dwelt on it for generations, and Quintus had spent his
boyhood upon it. The whole mass of farm land was in the very pink of
cultivation. There were lines of stately old elms enclosing the
estate; and within, in regular sequence, lay vineyards producing the
rather poor Praeneste wine, olive orchards, groves of walnut trees, and
many other fruits. Returning to the point where he had left the
carriage, Drusus led Cornelia up a broad avenue flanked by noble
planes and cypresses. Before them soon stood, or rather stretched, the
country house. It was a large grey stone building, added to, from time
to time, by successive owners. Only in front did it show signs of
modern taste and elegance. Here ran a colonnade of twelve red porphyry
pillars, with Corinthian capitals. The part of the house reserved for
the master lay behind this entrance way. Back of it rambled the
structure used by the farm steward, and the slaves and cattle. The
whole house was low--in fact practically one-storied; and the effect
produced was perhaps substantial, but hardly imposing.

Up the broad avenue went the two young people; too busy with their own
gay chatter to notice at a distance how figures were running in and
out amid the colonnade, and how the pillars were festooned with
flowers. But as they drew nearer a throng was evident. The whole farm
establishment--men, women, and children--had assembled, garlanded and
gayly dressed, to greet the young master. Perhaps five hundred
persons--nearly all slaves--had been employed on the huge estate, and
they were all at hand. As Drusus came up the avenue, a general shout
of welcome greeted him.

"_Ave! Ave! Domine!_" and there were some shouts as Cornelia was seen
of, "_Ave! Domina!_"

"_Domina_[22] here very soon," said Drusus, smiling to the young lady;
and disengaging himself from her, he advanced to greet personally a
tall, ponderous figure, with white, flowing hair, a huge white beard,
and a left arm that had been severed at the wrist, who came forward
with a swinging military stride that seemed to belie his evident years.

  [22] _Domina_, mistress.

"All hail, dearest Mamercus!" exclaimed the young man, running up to
the burly object. "Here is the little boy you used to scold, fondle,
and tell stories to, back safe and sound to hear the old tales and to
listen to some more admonitions."

The veteran made a hurried motion with his remaining hand, as if to
brush something away from his eyes, and his deep voice seemed a trifle
husky when he replied, speaking slowly:--

"_Mehercle!_[23] All the Gods be praised! The noble Sextus living
again in the form of his son! Ah! This makes my old heart glad;" and
he held out his hand to Drusus. But the young man dashed it away, and
flinging his arms around Mamercus's neck, kissed him on both cheeks.
Then when this warm greeting was over, Drusus had to salute Titus
Mamercus, a solid, stocky, honest-faced country lad of eighteen, the
son of the veteran; and after Titus--since the Mamerci and Drusi were
remotely related and the _jus oscului_[24]--less legally, the "right
of kissing"--existed between them, he felt called upon to press the
cheek of AEmilia, Mamercus's pretty daughter, of about her brother's
age. Cornelia seemed a little discomposed at this, and perhaps so gave
her lover a trifling delight. But next he had to shake all the
freedmen by the hand, also the older and better known slaves; and to
say something in reply to their congratulations. The mass of the
slaves he could not know personally; but to the assembled company he
spoke a few words, with that quiet dignity which belongs to those who
are the heirs of generations of lordly ancestors.

  [23] By Hercules.

  [24] The right of kissing kinsfolk within the sixth degree.

"This day I assume control of my estate. All past offences are
forgiven. I remit any punishments, however justly imposed. To those
who are my faithful servants and clients I will prove a kind and
reasonable master. Let none in the future be mischievous or idle; for
them I cannot spare. But since the season is hot, in honour of my
home-coming, for the next ten days I order that no work, beyond that
barely needed, be done in the fields. Let the familia enjoy rest, and
let them receive as much wine as they may take without being unduly
drunken. Geta, Antiochus, and Kebes, who have been in this house many
years, shall go with me before the praetor, to be set free."

And then, while the slaves still shouted their _aves_ and _salves_,
Mamercus led Drusus and Cornelia through the old villa, through the
atrium where the fountain tinkled, and the smoky, waxen death-masks of
Quintus's noble ancestors grinned from the presses on the wall;
through the handsomely furnished rooms for the master of the house;
out to the barns and storehouses, that stretched away in the rear of
the great farm building. Much pride had the veteran when he showed the
sleek cattle, the cackling poultry-yard, and the tall stacks of hay;
only he growled bitterly over what he termed the ill-timed leniency of
his young patron in releasing the slaves in the chain-gang.

"Oh, such times!" he muttered in his beard; "here's this young upstart
coming home, and teaches me that such dogs as I put in fetters are
better set at large! There'll be a slave revolt next, and some night
all our throats will be cut. But it's none of my doing."

"Well," said Drusus, smiling, "I've been interested at Athens in
learning from philosophy that one owes some kindness even to a slave.
But it's always your way, Mamercus, to tell how much better the old
times were than the new."

"And I am right," growled the other. "Hasn't a man who fought with
Marius, and helped to beat those northern giants, the Cimbri and
Teutones, a right to his opinion? The times are evil--evil! No justice
in the courts. No patriotism in the Senate. Rascality in every consul
and praetor. And the 'Roman People' orators declaim about are only a
mob! _Vah!_ We need an end to this game of fauns and satyrs!"

"Come," said Drusus, "we are not at such a direful strait yet. There
is one man at least whom I am convinced is not altogether a knave; and
I have determined to throw in my lot with him. Do you guess,
Mamercus?"

"Caesar?"

Drusus nodded. Mamercus broke out into a shout of approval.

"_Euge!_ Unless my son Decimus, who is centurion with him, writes me
false, _he_ is a man!"

But Cornelia was distressed of face.

"Quintus," she said very gravely, "do you know that I have often heard
that Caesar is a wicked libertine, who wishes to make himself tyrant?
What have you done?"

"Nothing rashly," said Drusus, also quite grave; "but I have counted
the matter on both sides--the side of Pompeius and the Senate, and the
side of Caesar--and I have written to Balbus, Caesar's manager at Rome,
that I shall use my tiny influence for the proconsul of the Gauls."

Cornelia seemed greatly affected; she clasped and unclasped her hands,
pressed them to her brows; then when she let them fall, she was again
smiling.

"Quintus," she said, putting her arm around him, "Quintus, I am only a
silly little girl. I do not know anything about politics. You are
wiser than I, and I can trust you. But please don't quarrel with my
uncle Lentulus about your decision. He would be terribly angry."

Quintus smiled in turn, and kissing her, said: "Can you trust me? I
hope so. And be assured I will do all I may, not to quarrel with your
uncle. And now away with all this silly serious talk! What a pity for
Mamercus to have been so gloomy as to introduce it! What a pity I must
go to Rome to-morrow, and leave this dear old place! But then, I have
to see my aunt Fabia, and little Livia, the sister I haven't met since
she was a baby. And while I am in Rome I will do something else--can
you guess?" Cornelia shook her head. "Carpenters, painters, masons! I
will send them out to make this old villa fresh and pretty for some
one who, I hope, will come here to live in about a month. No, don't
run away," for Cornelia was trying to hide her flushed face by flight;
"I have something else to get--a present for your own dear self. What
shall it be? I am rich; cost does not matter."

Cornelia pursed her lips in thought.

"Well," she remarked, "if you could bring me out a pretty boy, not too
old or too young, one that was honest and quick-witted, he would be
very convenient to carry messages to you, and to do any little
business for me."

Cornelia asked for a slave-boy just as she might have asked for a new
pony, with that indifference to the question of humanity which
indicated that the demarcation between a slave and an animal was very
slight in her mind.

"Oh! that is nothing," said Drusus; "you shall have the handsomest and
cleverest in all Rome. And if Mamercus complains that I am extravagant
in remodelling the house, let him remember that his wonderful Caesar,
when a young man, head over ears in debt, built an expensive villa at
Aricia, and then pulled it down to the foundations and rebuilt on an
improved plan. Farewell, Sir Veteran, I will take Cornelia home, and
then come back for that dinner which I know the cook has made ready
with his best art."

Arm in arm the young people went away down the avenue of shade trees,
dim in the gathering twilight. Mamercus stood gazing after them.

"What a pity! What a pity!" he repeated to himself, "that Sextus and
Caius are not alive; how they would have rejoiced in their children!
Why do the fates order things as they do? Only let them be kind enough
to let me live until I hold another little Drusus on my knee, and tell
him of the great battles! But the Gods forbid, Lentulus should find
out speedily that his lordship has gone over to Caesar; or there will
be trouble enough for both his lordship and my lady. The consul-elect
is a stubborn, bitter man. He would be terribly offended to give his
niece in marriage to a political enemy. But it may all turn out well.
Who knows?" And he went into the house.




Chapter II

The Upper Walks of Society


I

It was very early in the morning. From the streets, far below, a dull
rumbling was drifting in at the small, dim windows. On the couch,
behind some faded curtains, a man turned and yawned, grunted and
rubbed his eyes. The noise of the heavy timber, stone, and merchandise
wagons hastening out of the city before daybreak,[25] jarred the room,
and made sleep almost impossible. The person awakened swore quietly to
himself in Greek.

  [25] No teaming was allowed in Rome by day.

"_Heracles!_ Was ever one in such a city! What malevolent spirit
brought me here? Throat-cutting on the streets at night; highwaymen in
every foul alley; unsafe to stir at evening without an armed band! No
police worth mentioning; freshets every now and then; fires every day
or else a building tumbles down. And then they must wake me up at an
unearthly hour in the morning. Curses on me for ever coming near the
place!" And the speaker rolled over on the bed, and shook himself,
preparatory to getting up.

"Bah! Can these Roman dogs never learn that power is to be used, not
abused? Why don't they spend some of their revenues to level these
seven hills that shut off the light, and straighten and widen their
abominable, ill-paved streets, and keep houses from piling up as if to
storm Olympus? Pshaw, I had better stop croaking, and be up and
about."

The speaker sat up in bed, and clapped his hands. Into the ill-lighted
and unpretentiously furnished room came a tall, bony, ebon-skinned old
Ethiopian, very scantily attired, who awaited the wishes of his
master.

"Come, Sesostris," said the latter, "get out my best
_himation_[26]--the one with the azure tint. Give me a clean
_chiton_,[27] and help me dress."

  [26] Greek outer mantle.

  [27] Greek under garment.

And while the servant bustled briskly about his work, Pratinas, for
such was his lord's name, continued his monologue, ignoring the
presence of his attendant. "Not so bad with me after all. Six years
ago to-day it was I came to Rome, with barely an obol of ready money,
to make my fortune by my wits. Zeus! But I can't but say I've
succeeded. A thousand sesterces here and five hundred there, and now
and then a better stroke of fortune--politics, intrigues, gambling;
all to the same end. And now?--oh, yes, my 'friends' would say I am
very respectable, but quite poor--but they don't know how I have
economized, and how my account stands with Sosthenes the banker at
Alexandria. My old acquaintance with Lucius Domitius was of some use.
A few more months of this life and I am away from this beastly Rome,
to enjoy myself among civilized people."

Pratinas went over to a large wooden chest with iron clasps, unlocked
it, and gazed for a moment inside with evident satisfaction. "There
are six good talents in there," he remarked to himself, "and then
there is Artemisia."

He had barely concluded this last, hardly intelligible assertion, when
the curtain of the room was pushed aside, and in came a short, plump,
rosy-faced little maiden of twelve, with a clearly chiselled Greek
profile and lips as red as a cherry. Her white chiton was mussed and a
trifle soiled; and her thick black hair was tied back in a low knot,
so as to cover what were two very shapely little ears. All in all, she
presented a very pretty picture, as the sunlight streamed over her,
when she drew back the hangings at the window.

"Good morning, Uncle Pratinas," she said sweetly.

"Good morning, Artemisia, my dear," replied the other, giving her
round neck a kiss, and a playful pinch. "You will practise on your
lyre, and let Sesostris teach you to sing. You know we shall go back
to Alexandria very soon; and it is pleasant there to have some
accomplishments."

"And must you go out so early, uncle?" said the girl. "Can't you stay
with me any part of the day? Sometimes I get very lonely."

"Ah! my dear," said Pratinas, smoothly, "if I could do what I wished,
I would never leave you. But business cannot wait. I must go and see
the noble Lucius Calatinus on some very important political matters,
which you could not understand. Now run away like a good girl, and
don't become doleful."

Artemisia left the room, and Pratinas busied himself about the fine
touches of his toilet. When he held the silver mirror up to his face,
he remarked to himself that he was not an unhandsome man. "If I did
not have to play the philosopher, and wear this thick, hot beard,[28]
I would not be ashamed to show my head anywhere." Then while he
perfumed himself with oil of saffron out of a little onyx bottle, he
went on:--

  [28] At an age when respectable men were almost invariably smooth
  shaven, the philosophers wore flowing beards, as a sort of professional
  badge.

"What dogs and gluttons these Romans are! They have no real taste for
art, for beauty. They cannot even conduct a murder, save in a bungling
way. They have to call in us Hellenes to help them. Ha! ha! this is
the vengeance for Hellas, for the sack and razing of Corinth and all
the other atrocities! Rome can conquer with the sword; but we Greeks,
though conquered, can, unarmed, conquer Rome. How these Italians can
waste their money! Villas, statues, pretty slaves, costly vases, and
tables of mottled cypress,[29] oysters worth their weight in gold, and
I know not what else! And I, poor Pratinas, the Greek, who lives in an
upper floor of a Subura house at only two thousand sesterces rental,
find in these noble Roman lords only so much plunder. Ha! ha! Hellas,
thou art avenged!"

  [29] A "fad" of this time. Such tables often cost $20,000.

And gathering his mantle about him, he went down the several flights
of very rickety stairs, and found himself in the buzzing street.


II

The Romans hugged a fond belief that houses shut out from sunlight and
air were extremely healthy. If such were the fact, there should have
been no sickness in a great part of the capital. The street in which
Pratinas found himself was so dark, that he was fain to wait till his
eyes accommodated themselves to the change. The street was no wider
than an alley, yet packed with booths and hucksters,--sellers of
boiled peas and hot sausage, and fifty other wares. On the worthy
Hellene pressed, while rough German slaves or swarthy Africans jostled
against him; the din of scholars declaiming in an adjoining school
deafened him; a hundred unhappy odors made him wince. Then, as he
fought his way, the streets grew a trifle wider; as he approached the
Forum the shops became more pretentious; at last he reached his
destination in the aristocratic quarter of the Palatine, and paused
before a new and ostentatious mansion, in whose vestibule was swarming
a great bevy of clients, all come in the official calling costume--a
ponderous toga--to pay their respects to the great man. But as the
inner door was pushed aside by the vigilant keeper, all the rest of
the crowd were kept out till Pratinas could pass within.

The atrium of the house was a splendid sight, with its veined marble
pillars, mosaic floor, bubbling fountain, choice frescoes, and
expensive furniture upholstered in Tyrian purple. A little in the rear
of this gorgeous room was seated in a high armchair the individual who
boasted himself the lord of this establishment, Lucius Atilius
Calatinus. He was a large, coarse man, with a rough, bull-dog face and
straight red hair. He had been drinking heavily the night before, and
his small bluish eyes had wide dark circles beneath them, and his
breath showed strongly the garlic with which he had seasoned the bread
and grapes of his early lunch. He was evidently very glad to see his
Greek visitor, and drove the six large, heavily gemmed rings which he
wore on one of his fat fingers, almost into the other's hand when he
shook it.

"Well met, Pratinas!" was his salutation. "Tell me, is that little
affair of yours settled? Have you stopped the mouth of that beastly
fellow, Postumus Pyrgensis, who said that I was a base upstart, with
no claim to my gentile name, and a bad record as a tax farmer in
Spain, and therefore should not be elected tribune[30]?"

  [30] The ten tribunes had power to convene the people and Senate,
  propose laws and "veto" the actions of other magistrates.

"I have stopped him," said Pratinas, with a little cough. "But it was
expensive. He stuck out for ten thousand sesterces."

"Oh, cheaply off," said Calatinus, laughing. "I will give you my
cheque on Flaccus the banker. But I want to know about the other
matter. Can you make sure of the votes of the Suburana tribe? Have you
seen Autronius?"

"I have seen him," said Pratinas, dryly.

"And he said?"

"Twenty thousand sesterces for him to deposit with trustees[31] until
the election is over. Then he as go-between[32] will make sure of a
majority of the tribesmen, and distribute to them the money if all
goes well at the _comitia_.[33] It was the best bargain I could make;
for Autronius really controls the tribe, and some one might outbid us."

  [31] _Sequestres_.

  [32] _Interpres_.

  [33] Assembly of the Roman tribes for election.

"All right," broke out Calatinus with a laugh, "another cheque on
Flaccus."

"One thing else," said Pratinas; "I must have a little money to shut
up any complaints that those ridiculous anti-bribery Licinian and
Pompeian Laws are being broken. Then there is my fee."

"Oh, yes," replied the other, not to be daunted in his good humour,
"I'll give you fifty thousand in all. Now I must see this rabble."

And the mob of clients swept up to the armchair, grasping after the
great man's hand, and raining on him their _aves_, while some daring
mortals tried to thrust in a kiss.

Pratinas drew back and watched the crowd with a smile half cynical,
half amused. Some of the visitors were regular hangers-on, who perhaps
expected an invitation to dine; some were seekers of patronage; some
had an eye to political preferment, a few were real acquaintances of
Calatinus or came on some legitimate business. Pratinas observed three
friends waiting to speak with Calatinus, and was soon in conversation.

The first of the trio was known as Publius Gabinius, who was by far
the oldest. Coarse-featured, with broken complexion, it needed but a
glance to proclaim him as gifted with no other distinctions than those
of a hard drinker, fast liver, and the owner of an attenuated
conscience. Servius Flaccus, the second, was of a different type. He
was languid; spirited only when he railed at a slave who brushed
against his immaculate toga. The frills on his robes made him almost
feminine; and he spoke, even in invective, in a soft, lisping voice.
Around him floated the aroma of countless rare unguents, that made his
coming known afar off. His only aim in life was evidently to get
through it with as little exertion of brain or muscle as was possible.
The third friend was unlike the others. Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus
clearly amounted to more than either of his companions. A constant
worship of three very popular gods of the day--Women, Wine, and
Gaming--with the other excitements of a dissipated life, had ruined a
fine fair complexion. As it was, he had the profile of a handsome,
affable man; only the mouth was hard and sensual, and his skin was
faded and broken. He wore a little brown beard carefully trimmed
around his well-oiled chin after the manner of Roman men of fashion;
and his dark hair was crimped in regular steps or gradations, parting
in the middle and arranged on both sides like a girl's.[34]

  [34] Suet., "Nero," 51.

"Good morning, Pratinas!" said Lucius, warmly, taking the Greek's
hand. "How glad we are to find you here. I wanted to ask you around to
Marcus Laeca's to-night; we think he will give something of a feast,
and you must see my latest sweetheart--Clyte! She is a little pearl. I
have had her head cut in intaglio on this onyx; is she not pretty?"

"Very pretty," said Pratinas, looking at the engraving on the ring.
"But perhaps it is not right for me, a grave philosopher, to go to
your banquet."

"How (h)absurd! (H)of c(h)ourse you c(h)an!" lisped Flaccus, who
affected Greek so far as to aspirate every word beginning with a
vowel, and to change every _c_ into a _ch_.

"Well," said Pratinas, laughing, for he was a dearly loved favourite
of all these gilded youth, "I will see! And now Gabinius is inviting
Calatinus also, and we are dispersing for the morning."

"Alas," groaned Ahenobarbus, "I must go to the Forum to plead with
that wretch Phormio, the broker, to arrange a new loan."

"And I to the Forum, also," added Calatinus, coming up, "to continue
this pest of a canvass for votes."

The clients fell into line behind Calatinus like a file of soldiers,
but before Pratinas could start away with the other friends, a
slave-boy came running out from the inner house, to say that "the Lady
Valeria would be glad of his company in her boudoir." The Greek bowed
his farewells, then followed the boy back through the court of the
peristylium.[35]

  [35] An inner private court back of the atrium.


III

The dressing room occupied by Valeria--once wife of Sextus Drusus and
now living with Calatinus as her third husband in about four
years--was fitted up with every luxury which money, and a taste which
carried refinement to an extreme point, could accomplish. The walls
were bright with splendid mythological scenes by really good artists;
the furniture itself was plated with silver; the rugs were
magnificent. The mistress of this palatial abode was sitting in a low
easy-chair, holding before her a fairly large silver mirror. She wore
a loose gown of silken texture, edged to an ostentatious extent with
purple. Around her hovered Arsinoe and Semiramis, two handsome Greek
slave-girls, who were far better looking than their owner, inasmuch as
their complexions had never been ruined by paints and ointments. They
were expert hairdressers, and Valeria had paid twenty-five thousand
sesterces for each of them, on the strength of their proficiency in
that art, and because they were said to speak with a pure Attic Greek
accent. At the moment they were busy stripping off from the lady's
face a thick layer of dried enamel that had been put on the night
before.

Had Valeria been willing, she might have feared no comparison with her
maids; for from a merely sensuous standpoint, she would have been
reckoned very beautiful. She had by nature large brown eyes, luxuriant
brown hair, and what had been a clear brunette skin, and well-rounded
and regular features. But her lips were curled in hard, haughty lines,
her long eyelashes drooped as though she took little interest in life;
and, worse than all, to satisfy the demands of fashion, she had
bleached her hair to a German blonde, by a process ineffective and
injurious. The lady was just fuming to herself over a gray hair
Arsinoe had discovered, and Arsinoe went around in evident fear lest
Valeria should vent her vexation on her innocent ministers.

Over in one corner of the room, on a low divan, was sitting a
strange-looking personage. A gaunt, elderly man clothed in a very
dingy Greek himation, with shaggy grey hair, and an enormous beard
that tumbled far down his breast. This personage was Pisander,
Valeria's "house-philosopher," who was expected to be always at her
elbow pouring into her ears a rain of learned lore. For this worthy
lady (and two thousand years later would she not be attending lectures
on Dante or Browning?) was devoted to philosophy, and loved to hear
the Stoics[36] and Epicureans expound their varying systems of the
cosmos. At this moment she was feasting her soul on Plato. Pisander
was reading from the "Phaidros," "They might have seen beauty shining
in brightness, when the happy band, following in the train of Zeus (as
we philosophers did; or with the other gods, as others did), saw a
vision, and were initiated into most blessed mysteries, which we
celebrated in our state of innocence; and having no feeling of evils
yet to come; beholding apparitions, innocent and simple and calm and
happy as in a mystery; shining in pure light; pure ourselves, and not
yet enchained in that living tomb which we carry about, now that we
are imprisoned in the body ..."

  [36] The opponents of the Epicureans; they nobly antagonized the mere
  pursuit of pleasure held out as the one end of life by the Epicurean,
  and glorified duty.

"Pratinas, to see her ladyship!" bawled a servant-boy[37] at the
doorway, very unceremoniously interrupting the good man and his
learnedly sublime lore. And Pratinas, with the softest and sweetest of
his Greek smiles, entered the room.

  [37] _Cubicularius_.

"Your ladyship does me the honour," he began, with an extremely
deferential salutation.

"Oh, my dear Pratinas," cried Valeria, in a language she called Greek,
seizing his hand and almost embracing him, "how delighted I am to see
you! We haven't met since--since yesterday morning. I did so want to
have a good talk with you about Plato's theory of the separate
existence of ideas. But first I must ask you, have you heard whether
the report is true that Terentia, Caius Glabrio's wife, has run off
with a gladiator?"

"So Gabinius, I believe," replied Pratinas, "just told me. And I heard
something else. A great secret. You must not tell."

"Oh! I am dying to know," smirked Valeria.

"Well," said the Greek, confidentially, "Publius Silanus has divorced
his wife, Crispia. 'She went too much,' he says, 'with young
Purpureo.'"

"You do not say so!" exclaimed the lady. "I always knew that would
happen! Now tell me, don't you think this perfume of iris is delicate?
It's in that little glass scent bottle; break the neck.[38] I shall
use it in a minute. I have just had some bottles sent up from Capua.
Roman perfumes are so vulgar!"

  [38] To let out the ointment. Capua was a famed emporium for perfumes
  and like wares.

"I fear," said Pratinas, doing as bidden, and testing the essence with
evident satisfaction, "that I have interrupted your philosophical
studies." And he glanced at Pisander, who was sitting lonesome and
offended in his corner.

"Oh! not in the least," ran on Valeria; "but though I know you are
Epicurean, surely you enjoy Plato?"

"Certainly," said Pratinas, with dramatic dignity, "I suck the sweets
from the flowers left us by all the wise and good. Epicurean though I
am, your ladyship must permit me to lend you a copy of an essay I have
with me, by that great philosopher, the Stoic Chrysippos,[39] although
I cannot agree with all his teachings; and this copy of Panaitios, the
Eclectic's great _Treatise on Duty_, which cannot fail to edify your
ladyship." And he held out the two rolls.

  [39] Born 180 B.C.

"A thousand thanks," said Valeria, languidly, "hand them to Pisander.
I will have him read them. A little more white lead, Arsinoe, I am too
tanned; make me paler. Just run over the veins of my temples with a
touch of blue paint. Now a tint of antimony on my eyelids."

"Your ladyship seems in wonderfully good spirits this morning,"
insinuated Pratinas.

"Yes," said Valeria, with a sigh, "I endure the woes of life as should
one who is consoled by philosophy."

"Shall I continue the Plato?" edged in poor Pisander, who was raging
inwardly to think that Pratinas should dare to assume the name of a
"lover of learning."

"When you are needed, I can tell you," snapped Valeria, sharply, at
the feeble remonstrance. "Now, Semiramis, you may arrange my hair."

The girl looked puzzled. To tell the truth, Valeria was speaking in a
tongue that was a babel of Greek and Latin, although she fondly
imagined it to be the former, and Semiramis could hardly understand
her.

"If your ladyship will speak in Latin," faltered the maid.

"Speak in Latin! Speak in Latin!" flared up Valeria. "Am I deceived?
Are you not Greeks? Are you some ignorant Italian wenches who can't
speak anything but their native jargon? Bah! You've misplaced a curl.
Take that!" And she struck the girl across the palms, with the flat of
her silver mirror. Semiramis shivered and flushed, but said nothing.

"Do I not have a perfect Greek pronunciation?" said the lady, turning
to Pratinas. "It is impossible to carry on a polite conversation in
Latin."

"I can assure your ladyship," said the Hellene, with still another
bland smile, "that your pronunciation is something exceedingly
remarkable."

Valeria was pacified, and lay back submitting to her hairdressers[40],
while Pratinas, who knew what kind of "philosophy" appealed most to
his fair patroness, read with a delicate yet altogether admirable
voice, a number of scraps of erotic verse that he said friends had
just sent on from Alexandria.

  [40] _Ornatrices_.

"Oh! the shame to call himself a philosopher," groaned the neglected
Pisander to himself. "If I believed in the old gods, I would invoke
the Furies upon him."

But Valeria was now in the best of spirits. "By the two
Goddesses,"[41] she swore, "what charming sentiments you Greeks can
express. Now I think I look presentable, and can go around and see
Papiria, and learn about that dreadful Silanus affair. Tell Agias to
bring in the cinnamon ointment. I will try that for a change. It is in
the murrhine[42] vase in the other room."

  [41] Demeter and Persephone, a Greek woman's oath.

  [42] A costly substance, probably porcelain agate.

Iasus the serving-boy stepped into the next apartment, and gave the
order to one of his fellow slaves. A minute later there was a crash.
Arsinoe, who was without, screamed, and Semiramis, who thrust her head
out the door, drew it back with a look of dismay.

"What has happened?" cried Valeria, startled and angry.

Into the room came Arsinoe, Iasus, and a second slave-boy, a
well-favoured, intelligent looking young Greek of about seventeen. His
ruddy cheeks had turned very pale, as had those of Iasus.

"What has happened?" thundered Valeria, in a tone that showed that a
sorry scene was impending.

The slaves fell on their knees; cowered, in fact, on the rugs at the
lady's feet.

"_A! A! A!_ Lady! Mercy!" they all began in a breath. "The murrhina
vase! It is broken!"

"Who broke it?" cried their mistress, casting lightning glances from
one to another.

Now the truth had been, that while Agias was coming through a door
covered with a curtain, carrying the vase, Iasus had carelessly
blundered against him and caused the catastrophe. But there had been
no other witnesses to the accident; and when Iasus saw that his
mistress's anger would promptly descend on somebody, he had not the
moral courage to take the consequences of his carelessness. What
amounted to a frightful crime was committed in an instant.

"Agias stumbled and dropped the vase," said Iasus, telling the truth,
but not the whole truth.

"Send for Alfidius the _lorarius_,"[43] raged Valeria, who, with the
promptness that characterizes a certain class of women, jumped at a
conclusion and remained henceforth obstinate. "This shall not happen
again! Oh! my vase! my vase! I shall never get another one like it! It
was one of the spoils of Mithridates, and"--here her eye fell on
Agias, cringing and protesting his innocence in a fearful agony.

  [43] Whipper; many Roman houses had such a functionary, and he does
  not seem to have lacked employment.

"Stand up, boy! Stop whining! Of course you broke the vase. Who else
had it? I will make you a lesson to all the slaves in my house. They
need one badly. I will get another serving-boy who will be more
careful."

Agias was deathly pale; the beads of sweat stood out on his forehead;
he grasped convulsively at the hem of his mistress's robe, and
murmured wildly of "mercy! mercy!" Pratinas stood back with his
imperturbable smile on his face; and if he felt the least pity for his
fellow-countryman, he did not show it.

"Alfidius awaits the mistress," announced Semiramis, with trembling
lips.

Into the room came a brutish, hard-featured, shock-headed man, with a
large scar, caused by branding, on his forehead. He carried a short
rope and scourge,[44]--a whip with a short handle to which were
attached three long lashes, set at intervals with heavy bits of
bronze. He cast one glance over the little group in the room, and his
dull piglike eyes seemed to light up with a fierce glee, as he
comprehended the situation.

  [44] _Flagellum_.

"What does your ladyship wish?" he growled.

"Take this wretched boy," cried Valeria, spurning Agias with her foot;
"take him away. Make an example of him. Take him out beyond the Porta
Esquilina and whip him to death. Let me never see him again."

Pisander sprang up in his corner, quivering with righteous wrath.

"What is this?" he cried. "The lad is not guilty of any real crime. It
would be absurd to punish a horse for an action like his, and a slave
is as good as a horse. What philosopher could endure to see such an
outrage?"

Valeria was too excited to hear him. Pratinas coolly took the
perturbed philosopher round the waist, and by sheer force seated him
in a chair.

"My friend," he said calmly, "you can only lose your place by
interfering; the boy is food for the crows already. Philosophy should
teach you to regard little affairs like this unmoved."

Before Pisander could remonstrate further Alfidius had caught up Agias
as if he had been an infant, and carried him, while moaning and
pleading, out of the room. Iasus was still trembling. He was not a
knave--simply unheroic, and he knew that he had committed the basest
of actions. Semiramis and Arsinoe were both very pale, but spoke never
a word. Arsinoe looked pityingly after the poor boy, for she had grown
very fond of his bright words and obliging manners. For some minutes
there was, in fact, perfect silence in the boudoir.

Alfidius carried his victim out into the slaves' quarters in the rear
of the house; there he bound his hands and called in the aid of an
assistant to help him execute his mistress's stern mandate.

Agias had been born for far better things than to be a slave. His
father had been a cultured Alexandrine Greek, a banker, and had given
his young son the beginnings of a good education. But the rascality of
a business partner had sent the father to the grave bankrupt, the son
to the slave-market to satisfy the creditors. And now Alfidius and his
myrmidon bound their captive to a furca, a wooden yoke passing down
the back of the neck and down each arm. The rude thongs cut the flesh
cruelly, and the wretches laughed to see how the delicate boy writhed
and faltered under the pain and the load.

"Ah, ha! my fine _Furcifer_,"[45] cried Alfidius, when this work was
completed. "How do you find yourself?"

  [45] Furca-bearer, a coarse epithet.

"Do you mock at me, you '_three letter man_'?" retorted Agias in grim
despair, referring cuttingly to FVR[46] branded on Alfidius's
forehead.

  [46] Thief. Branding was a common punishment for slaves.

"So you sing, my pretty bird," laughed the executioner. "I think you
will croak sorrowfully enough before long. Call me '_man of letters_'
if you will; to-night the dogs tear that soft skin of yours, while my
hide is sound. Now off for the Porta Esquilina! Trot along with you!"
and he swung his lash over the wretched boy's shoulders.

Agias was led out into the street. He was too pained and numbed to
groan, resist, or even think and fear. The thongs might well have been
said to press his mind as much as his skin.




Chapter III

The Privilege of a Vestal


I

Drusus started long before daybreak on his journey to Rome; with him
went Cappadox, his ever faithful body-servant, and Pausanias, the
amiable and cultivated freedman who had been at his elbow ever since
he had visited Athens. For a while the young master dozed in his
carriage; but, as they whirled over mile after mile of the Campagna,
the sun arose; then, when sleep left him, the Roman was all alive to
the patriotic reminiscences each scene suggested. Yonder to the far
south lay Alba, the old home of the Latins, and a little southward too
was the Lake of Regillus, where tradition had it the free Romans won
their first victory, and founded the greatness of the Republic. Along
the line of the Anio, a few miles north, had marched Hannibal on his
mad dash against Rome to save the doomed Capua. And these pictures of
brave days, and many another vision like them, welled up in Drusus's
mind, and the remembrance of the marble temples of the Greek cities
faded from his memory; for, as he told himself, Rome was built of
nobler stuff than marble;--she was built of the deeds of men strong
and brave, and masters of every hostile fate. And he rejoiced that he
could be a Roman, and share in his country's deathless fame, perhaps
could win for her new honour,--could be consul, triumphator, and lead
his applauding legions up to the temple of Capitoline Jove--another
national glory added to so many.

So the vision of the great city of tall ugly tenement houses, basking
on her "Seven Hills," which only on their summits showed the nobler
temples or the dwellings of the great patricians, broke upon him. And
it was with eyes a-sparkle with enthusiasm, and a light heart, that he
reached the Porta Esquilina, left the carriage for a litter borne by
four stout Syrians sent out from the house of his late uncle, and was
carried soon into the hubbub of the city streets.

Everywhere was the same crowd; shopping parties were pressing in and
out the stores, outrunners and foot-boys were continually colliding.
Drusus's escort could barely win a slow progress for their master.
Once on the Sacred Way the advance was more rapid; although even this
famous street was barely twenty-two feet wide from house wall to house
wall. Here was the "Lombard" or "Wall Street" of antiquity. Here were
the offices of the great banking houses and syndicates that held the
world in fee. Here centred those busy equites, the capitalists, whose
transactions ran out even beyond the lands covered by the eagles, so
that while Gaul was yet unconquered, Cicero could boast, "not a
sesterce in Gaul changes hands without being entered in a Roman
ledger." And here were brokers whose clients were kings, and who by
their "influence" almost made peace or war, like modern Rothschilds.

Thither Drusus's litter carried him, for he knew that his first act on
coming to Rome to take possession of his uncle's property should be to
consult without delay his agent and financial and legal adviser, lest
any loophole be left for a disappointed fortune-hunter to contest the
will. The bearers put him down before the important firm of Flaccus
and Sophus. Out from the open, windowless office ran the senior
partner, Sextus Fulvius Flaccus, a stout, comfortable, rosy-faced old
eques, who had half Rome as his financial clients, the other half in
his debt. Many were his congratulations upon Drusus's manly growth,
and many more upon the windfall of Vibulanus's fortune, which, as he
declared, was too securely conveyed to the young man to be open to any
legal attack.

But when Drusus intimated that he expected soon to invite the good man
to his marriage feast, Flaccus shook his head.

"You will never get a sesterce of Cornelia's dowry," he declared. "Her
uncle Lentulus Crus is head over ears in debt. Nothing can save him,
unless--"

"I don't understand you," said the other.

"Well," continued Flaccus, "to be frank; unless there is nothing short
of a revolution."

"Will it come to that?" demanded Drusus.

"Can't say," replied Flaccus, as if himself perplexed. "Everybody
declares Caesar and Pompeius are dreadfully alienated. Pompeius is
joining the Senate. Half the great men of Rome are in debt, as I have
cause to know, and unless we have an overturn, with 'clean accounts'
as a result, more than one noble lord is ruined. I am calling in all
my loans, turning everything into cash. Credit is bad--bad. Caesar paid
Curio's debts--sixty millions of sesterces.[47] That's why Curio is a
Caesarian now. Oh! money is the cause of all these vile political
changes! Trouble is coming! Sulla's old throat cuttings will be
nothing to it! But don't marry Lentulus's niece!"

  [47] I.e. $2,400,000; a sesterce was about 4 cents.

"Well," said Drusus, when the business was done, and he turned to go,
"I want Cornelia, not her dowry."

"Strange fellow," muttered Flaccus, while Drusus started off in his
litter. "I always consider the dowry the principal part of a
marriage."


II

Drusus regained his litter, and ordered his bearers to take him to the
house of the Vestals,--back of the Temple of Vesta,--where he wished
to see his aunt Fabia and Livia, his little half-sister. The Temple
itself--a small, round structure, with columns, a conical roof which
was fringed about with dragons and surmounted by a statue--still
showed signs of the fire, which, in 210 B.C., would have destroyed it
but for thirteen slaves, who won their liberty by checking the blaze.
Tradition had it that here the holy Numa had built the hut which
contained the hearth-fire of Rome,--the divine spark which now shed
its radiance over the nations. Back of the Temple was the House of the
Vestals, a structure with a plain exterior, differing little from the
ordinary private dwellings. Here Drusus had his litter set down for a
second time, and notified the porter that he would be glad to see his
aunt and sister. The young man was ushered into a spacious, handsomely
furnished and decorated atrium, where were arranged lines of statues
of the various _maximae_[48] of the little religious order. A shy young
girl with a white dress and fillet, who was reading in the apartment,
slipped noiselessly out, as the young man entered; for the novices
were kept under strict control, with few liberties, until their elder
sisters could trust them in male society. Then there was a rustle of
robes and ribbons, and in came a tall, stately lady, also in pure
white, and a little girl of about five, who shrank coyly back when
Drusus called her his "Liviola"[49] and tried to catch her in his
arms. But the lady embraced him, and kissed him, and asked a thousand
things about him, as tenderly as if she had been his mother.

  [48] Senior Vestals.

  [49] A diminutive of endearment.

Fabia the Vestal was now about thirty-seven years of age. One and
thirty years before had the Pontifex Maximus chosen her out--a little
girl--to become the priestess of Vesta, the hearth-goddess, the
home-goddess of Pagan Rome. Fabia had dwelt almost all her life in the
house of the Vestals. Her very existence had become identified with
the little sisterhood, which she and her five associates composed. It
was a rather isolated yet singularly pure and peaceful life which she
had led. Revolutions might rock the city and Empire; Marians and
Sullians contend; Catilina plot ruin and destruction; Clodius and his
ruffians terrorize the streets; but the fire of the great
hearth-goddess was never scattered, nor were its gentle ministers
molested. Fabia had thus grown to mature womanhood. Ten years she had
spent in learning the Temple ritual, ten years in performing the
actual duties of the sacred fire and its cultus, ten years in teaching
the young novices. And now she was free, if she chose, to leave the
Temple service, and even to marry. But Fabia had no intention of
taking a step which would tear her from the circle in which she was
dearly loved, and which, though permitted by law, would be publicly
deplored as an evil omen.

The Vestal's pure simple life had left its impress on her features.
Peace and innocent delight in innocent things shone through her dark
eyes and soft, well-rounded face. Her light brown hair was covered and
confined by a fillet of white wool.[50] She wore a stola and outer
garment of stainless white linen--the perfectly plain badge of her
chaste and holy office; while on her small feet were dainty sandals,
bound on by thongs of whitened leather. Everything about her dress and
features betokened the priestess of a gentle religion.

  [50] _Infula_.

When questions and repeated salutations were over, and Livia had
ceased to be too afraid of her quite strange brother, Fabia asked what
she could do for her nephew. As one of the senior Vestals, her time
was quite her own. "Would he like to have her go out with him to visit
friends, or go shopping? Or could she do anything to aid him about
ordering frescoers and carpenters for the old Praeneste villa?"

This last was precisely what Drusus had had in mind. And so forth aunt
and nephew sallied. Some of the streets they visited were so narrow
that they had to send back even their litters; but everywhere the
crowds bowed such deference and respect to the Vestal's white robes
that their progress was easy. Drusus soon had given his orders to
cabinet-makers and selected the frescoer's designs. It remained to
purchase Cornelia's slave-boy. He wanted not merely an attractive
serving-lad, but one whose intelligence and probity could be relied
upon; and in the dealers' stalls not one of the dark orientals,
although all had around their necks tablets with long lists of
encomiums, promised conscience or character. Drusus visited, several
very choice boys that were exhibited in separate rooms, at fancy
prices, but none of these pretty Greeks or Asiatics seemed promising.

Deeply disgusted, he led Fabia away from the slave-market.

"I will try to-morrow," he said, vexed at his defeat. "I need a new
toga. Let us go to the shop on the Clivus Suburanus; there used to be
a good woollen merchant, Lucius Marius, on the way to the Porta
Esquilina."

Accordingly the two went on in the direction indicated; but at the
spot where the Clivus Suburanus was cut by the Vicus Longus, there was
so dense a crowd and so loud a hubbub, that their attendants could not
clear a way. For a time it was impossible to see what was the matter.
Street gamins were howling, and idle slaves and hucksters were pouring
forth volleys of taunts and derision at some luckless wight.

"Away with them! the whip-scoundrel! _Verbero!_"[51] yelled a lusty
produce-vender. "Lash him again! Tan his hide for him! Don't you enjoy
it? Not accustomed to such rough handling, eh! my pretty sparrow?"

  [51] A coarse epithet.

Fabia without the least hesitation thrust herself into the
dirty-robed, foul-mouthed crowd. At sight of the Vestal's white dress
and fillets the pack gave way before her, as a swarm of gnats at the
wave of a hand. Drusus strode at her heels.

It was a sorry enough sight that met them--though not uncommon in the
age and place. Some wretched slave-boy, a slight, delicate fellow, had
been bound to the bars of a furca, and was being driven by two brutal
executioners to the place of doom outside the gates. At the
street-crossing he had sunk down, and all the blows of the driver's
scourge could not compel him to arise. He lay in the dust, writhing
and moaning, with the great welts showing on his bare back, where the
brass knots of the lash had stripped away the cloth.

"Release this boy! Cease to beat him!" cried Fabia, with a commanding
mien, that made the crowd shrink further back; while the two
executioners looked stupid and sheepish, but did nothing.

"Release this boy!" commanded the Vestal. "Dare you hesitate? Do you
wish to undo yourselves by defying me?"

"Mercy, august lady," cried Alfidius,--for the chief executioner was
he,--with a supplicatory gesture. "If our mistress knows that her
commands are unexecuted, it is we, who are but slaves, that must
suffer!"

"Who is your mistress?" demanded Fabia.

"Valeria, wife of Lucius Calatinus."

"Livia's precious mother!" whispered Drusus. "I can imagine her doing
a thing like this." Then aloud, "What has the boy done?"

"He dropped a murrhine vase," was the answer.

"And so he must be beaten to death!" exclaimed the young man, who,
despite the general theory that most slaves were on a par with cattle,
had much of the milk of human kindness in his nature. "_Phui!_ What
brutality! You must insist on your rights, aunt. Make them let him
go."

Sulkily enough the executioners unbound the heavy furca. Agias
staggered to his feet, too dazed really to know what deliverance had
befallen him.

"Why don't you thank the Vestal?" said Alfidius. "She has made us
release you--you ungrateful dog!"

"Released? Saved?" gasped Agias, and he reeled as though his head were
in a whirl. Then, as if recollecting his faculties, he fell down at
Fabia's feet, and kissed the hem of her robe.

"The gods save us all now," muttered Alfidius. "Valeria will swear
that we schemed to have the boy released. We shall never dare to face
her again!"

"Oh! do not send me back to that cruel woman!" moaned Agias. "Better
die now, than go back to her and incur her anger again! Kill me, but
do not send me back!"

And he broke down again in inward agony.

Drusus had been surveying the boy, and saw that though he was now in a
pitiable enough state, he had been good-looking; and that though his
back had been cruelly marred, his face had not been cut with the
lashes. Perhaps the very fact that Agias had been the victim of
Valeria, and the high contempt in which the young Drusian held his
divorced stepmother, made him instinctively take the outraged boy's
part.

"See here," began Drusus, "were you to be whipped by orders of
Calatinus?"

"No," moaned Agias; "Valeria gave the orders. My master was out."

"Ha!" remarked Drusus to his aunt, "won't the good man be pleased to
know how his wife has killed a valuable slave in one of her tantrums?"
Then aloud. "If I can buy you of Calatinus, and give you to the Lady
Cornelia, niece of Lentulus, the consul-elect, will you serve her
faithfully, will you make her wish the law of your life?"

"I will die for her!" cried Agias, his despair mingled with a ray of
hope.

"Where is your master?"

"At the Forum, I think, soliciting votes," replied the boy.

"Well then, follow me," said Drusus, "our road leads back to the
Forum. We may meet him. If I can arrange with him, your executioners
have nothing to fear from Valeria. Come along."

Agias followed, with his head again in a whirl.


III

The little company worked its way back to the Forum, not, as now, a
half-excavated ruin, the gazing-stock for excursionists, a commonplace
whereby to sum up departed greatness: the splendid buildings of the
Empire had not yet arisen, but the structures of the age were not
unimposing. Here, in plain view, was the Capitoline Hill, crowned by
the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus and the Arx. Here was the site of
the Senate House, the Curia (then burned), in which the men who had
made Rome mistress of the world had taken counsel. Every stone, every
basilica, had its history for Drusus--though, be it said, at the
moment the noble past was little in his mind. And the historic
enclosure was all swarming, beyond other places, with the dirty,
bustling crowd, shoppers, hucksters, idlers. Drusus and his company
searched for Calatinus along the upper side of the Forum, past the
Rostra, the Comitium,[52] and the Temple of Saturn. Then they were
almost caught in the dense throng that was pouring into the plaza from
the busy commercial thoroughfares of the Vicus Jugarius, or the Vicus
Tuscus. But just as the party had almost completed their circuit of
the square, and Drusus was beginning to believe that his benevolent
intentions were leading him on a bootless errand, a man in a
conspicuously white toga rushed out upon him from the steps of the
Temple of Castor, embraced him violently, and imprinted a firm,
garlic-flavoured kiss on both cheeks; crying at the same time
heartily:--

  [52] _Comitium_, assembly-place round the Rostra.

"Oh, my dear Publius Dorso, I am so glad to meet you! How are all your
affairs up in Fidenae?"

Drusus recoiled in some disgust, and began rubbing his outraged
cheeks.

"Dorso? Dorso? There is surely some mistake, my good man. I am known
as Quintus Drusus of Praeneste."

Before he had gotten further, his assailant was pounding and shaking a
frightened-looking slave-lad who had stood at his elbow.

"The gods blast you, you worthless _nomenclator_![53] You have
forgotten the worthy gentleman's name, and have made me play the fool!
You may have lost me votes! All Rome will hear of this! I shall be a
common laughing-stock! _Hei! vah!_ But I'll teach you to behave!" And
he shook the wretched boy until the latter's teeth rattled.

  [53] Great men, and candidates for office who wished to "know"
  everybody, kept smart slaves at their elbow to whisper strangers'
  names in their ears. Sometimes the slaves themselves were at fault.

At this instant a young man of faultless toilet, whom we have already
recognized as Lucius Ahenobarbus, pushed into the little knot as a
peacemaker.

"Most excellent Calatinus," said he, half suppressing his laughter at
the candidate's fury, the nomenclator's anguish, and Drusus's vexed
confusion, "allow me to introduce to you a son of Sextus Drusus, who
was an old friend of my father's. This is Quintus Drusus, if in a few
years I have not forgotten his face; and this, my dear Quintus, is my
good friend Lucius Calatinus, who would be glad of your vote and
influence to help on his candidacy as tribune."

The atmosphere was cleared instantly. Calatinus forgot his anger, in
order to apologize in the most obsequious manner for his headlong
salutation. Drusus, pleased to find the man he had been seeking,
forgave the vile scent of the garlic, and graciously accepted the
explanation. Then the way was open to ask Calatinus whether he was
willing to dispose of Agias. The crestfallen candidate was only too
happy to do something to put himself right with the person he had
offended. Loudly he cursed his wife's temper, that would have wasted a
slave worth a "hundred thousand sesterces" to gratify a mere burst of
passion.

"Yes, he was willing to sell the boy to accommodate his excellency,
Quintus Drusus," said Calatinus, "although he was a valuable slave.
Still, in honesty he had to admit that Agias had some mischievous
points. Calatinus had boxed his ears only the day before for licking
the pastry. But, since his wife disliked the fellow, he would be
constrained to sell him, if a purchaser would take him."

The result of the conference was that Drusus, who had inherited that
keen eye for business which went with most of his race, purchased
Agias for thirty thousand sesterces, considerably less than the boy
would have brought in the market.

While Drusus was handing over a money order payable with Flaccus,
Lucius Ahenobarbus again came forward, with all seeming friendliness.

"My dear Quintus," said he, "Marcus Laeca has commissioned me to find a
ninth guest to fill his _triclinium_[54] this evening. We should be
delighted if you would join us. I don't know what the good Marcus will
offer us to-night, but you can be sure of a slice of peacock[55] and a
few other nice bits."

  [54] Dining room with couch seats for nine, the regular size.

  [55] The _ne plus ultra_ of Roman gastronomy at the time.

"I am very grateful," replied Drusus, who felt all the while that
Lucius Ahenobarbus was the last man in the world with whom he cared to
spend an evening's carousing; "but," and here he concocted a white
lie, "an old friend I met in Athens has already invited me to spend
the night, and I cannot well refuse him. I thank you for your
invitation."

Lucius muttered some polite and conventional terms of regret, and fell
back to join Servius Flaccus and Gabinius, who were near him.

"I invited him and he refused," he said half scornfully, half
bitterly. "That little minx, Cornelia, has been complaining of me to
him, I am sure. The gods ruin him! If he wishes to become my enemy,
he'll have good cause to fear my bite."

"You say he's from Praeneste," said Gabinius, "and yet can he speak
decent Latin? Doesn't he say '_conia_' for '_ciconia_,' and
'_tammodo_' for '_tantummodo_'_?_ I wonder you invite such a boor."

"Oh! he can speak good enough Latin," said Lucius. "But I invited him
because he is rich; and it might be worth our while to make him
gamble."

"Rich!" lisped Servius Flaccus. "Rich (h)as my (h)uncle the broker?
That silly straightlac(h)ed fellow, who's (h)a C(h)ato, (h)or worse?
For shame!"

"Well," said Lucius, "old Crassus used to say that no one who couldn't
pay out of his own purse for an army was rich. But though Drusus
cannot do quite that, he has enough sesterces to make happy men of
most of us, if his fortune were mine or yours."

"(H)its (h)an (h)outrage for him to have (h)it," cried Servius
Flaccus.

"It's worse than an outrage," replied Ahenobarbus; "it's a sheer
blunder of the Fates. Remind me to tell you about Drusus and his
fortune, before I have drunk too much to-night."

       *       *       *       *       *

Agias went away rejoicing with his new master. Drusus owned an
apartment house on the Vicus Longus, and there had a furnished suite
of rooms. He gave Agias into the charge of the porter[56] and ordered
him to dress the boy's wounds. Cappadox waited on his master when he
lunched.

  [56] Porter--_Insularius._

"Master Quintus," said he, with the familiar air of a privileged
servant, "did you see that knavish-looking Gabinius following Madame
Fabia all the way back to the Temple of Vesta?"

"No," said Drusus; "what do you mean, you silly fellow?"

"Oh, nothing," said Cappadox, humbly. "I only thought it a little
queer."

"Perhaps so," said his master, carelessly.




Chapter IV

Lucius Ahenobarbus Airs His Grievance


I

The pomp and gluttony of Roman banquets have been too often described
to need repetition here; neither would we be edified by learning all
the orgies that Marcus Laeca (an old Catilinian conspirator) and his
eight guests indulged in that night: only after the dinner had been
cleared, and before the Gadesian[57] dancing girls were called in, the
dice began to rattle, and speedily all were engrossed in drink and
play.

  [57] From Cadiz, Spain.

Lucius Ahenobarbus soon lost so heavily that he was cursing every god
that presided over the noble game.

"I am ruined next Ides," he groaned. "Phormio the broker has only
continued my loan at four per cent a month. All my villas and
furniture are mortgaged, and will be sold at auction. _Mehercle_,
destruction stares me in the face!"

"Well, well, my dear fellow," said Pratinas, who, having won the
stakes, was in a mood to be sympathetic, "we must really see what can
be done to remedy matters."

"I can see nothing!" was his answer.

"Won't your father come to the rescue?" put in Gabinius, between deep
pulls on a beaker.

"My father!" snapped Ahenobarbus. "Never a sesterce will I get out of
him! He's as good as turned me adrift, and Cato my uncle is always
giving him bad reports of me, like the hypocritical Stoic that Cato
is."

"By the bye," began Gabinius again, putting down the wine-cup, "you
hinted to-day that you had been cheated out of a fortune, after a
manner. Something about that Drusus of Praeneste, if I recollect.
What's the story?"

Lucius settled down on his elbow, readjusted the cushions on the
banqueting couch, and then began, interrupted by many a hiccough
because of his potations.

"It is quite a story, but I won't bore you with details. It has quite
as much to do with Cornelia, Lentulus Crus's pretty niece, as with
Drusus himself. Here it is in short. Sextus Drusus and Caius Lentulus
were such good friends that, as you know, they betrothed their son and
daughter when the latter were mere children. To make the compact
doubly strong, Sextus Drusus inserted in his will a clause like this:
'Let my son Quintus enjoy the use of my estate and its income, until
he become twenty-five and cease to be under the care of Flaccus his
_tutor_.[58] If he die before that time, let his property go to
Cornelia, the daughter of Caius Lentulus, except;' and here Sextus
left a small legacy for his own young daughter, Livia. You see Drusus
can make no will until he is five-and-twenty. But then comes another
provision. 'If Cornelia shall marry any person save my son, my son
shall at once be free to dispose of my estates.' So Cornelia is laid
under a sort of obligation also to marry Quintus. The whole aim of the
will is to make it very hard for the young people to fail to wed as
their fathers wished."

  [58] Commercial adviser required for young men under five-and-twenty.

"True," said Gabinius; "but how such an arrangement can affect you and
your affairs, I really cannot understand."

"That is so," continued Ahenobarbus, "but here is the other side of
the matter. Caius Lentulus was a firm friend of Sextus Drusus; he also
was very close and dear to my father. Caius desired that Cornelia wed
young Drusus, and so enjoined her in his will; but out of compliment
to my father, put in a clause which was something like this: 'If
Quintus Drusus die before he marry Cornelia, or refuse to marry
Cornelia at the proper time, then let Cornelia and all her property be
given to Lucius, the second son of my dearly loved friend, Lucius
Domitius Ahenobarbus,' Now I think you will begin to see why Quintus
Drusus's affairs interest me a little. If he refuse to marry Cornelia
before he be five-and-twenty, she falls to me. But I understand that
Lentulus, her uncle, is badly in debt, and her dowry won't be much.
But if Drusus is not married to her, and die before he is twenty-five,
_his property is hers and she is mine._ Do you understand why I have a
little grudge against him?"

"For what?" cried Laeca, with breathless interest.

"For living!" sighed Ahenobarbus, hopelessly.

The handsome face of Pratinas was a study. His nostrils dilated; his
lips quivered; his eyes were bright and keen with what evidently
passed in his mind for a great discovery.

"Eureka!" cried the Greek, clapping his hands. "My dear Lucius, let me
congratulate you! You are saved!"

"What?" exclaimed the young man, starting up.

"You are saved!" repeated Pratinas, all animation. "Drusus's sesterces
shall be yours! Every one of them!"

Lucius Ahenobarbus was a debauchee, a mere creature of pleasure,
without principle or character; but even he had a revulsion of spirit
at the hardly masked proposal of the enthusiastic Greek. He flushed in
spite of the wine, then turned pale, then stammered, "Don't mention
such a thing, Pratinas. I was never Drusus's enemy. I dare not dream
of such a move. The Gods forefend!"

"The Gods?" repeated Pratinas, with a cynical intonation. "Do you
believe there are any?"

"Do you?" retorted Lucius, feeling all the time that a deadly
temptation had hold of him, which he could by no means resist.

"Why?" said the Greek. "Your Latin Ennius states my view, in some of
your rather rough and blundering native tetrameters. He says:--

  "'There's a race of gods in heaven; so I've said and still will say.
  But I deem that we poor mortals do not come beneath their sway.
  Otherwise the good would triumph, whereas evil reigns to-day.'"

"And you advise?" said Ahenobarbus, leaning forward with pent-up
excitement.

"I advise?" replied Pratinas; "I am only a poor ignorant Hellene, and
who am I, to give advice to Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, a most noble
member of the most noble of nations!"

If Pratinas had said: "My dear Lucius, you are a thick-headed,
old-fashioned, superstitious Roman, whom I, in my superior wisdom,
utterly despise," he would have produced about the same effect upon
young Ahenobarbus.

But Lucius still fluttered vainly,--a very weak conscience whispering
that Drusus had never done him any harm; that murder was a dangerous
game, and that although his past life had been bad enough, he had
never made any one--unless it were a luckless slave or two--the victim
of bloodthirsty passion or rascality.

"Don't propose it," he groaned. "I don't dare to think of such a
thing! What disgrace and trouble, if it should all come out!"

"Come, come, Ahenobarbus," thrust in Marcus Laeca, who had been
educated in Catilina's school for polite villains and cut-throats.
"Pratinas is only proposing what, if you were a man of spirit, would
have been done long ago. You can't complain of Fortune, when she's put
a handsome estate in your hands for the asking."

"My admirable fellow," said Pratinas, benevolently, "I highly applaud
your scruples. But, permit me to say it, I must ask you to defer to me
as being a philosopher. Let us look at the matter in a rational way.
We have gotten over any bogies which our ancestors had about Hades, or
the punishments of the wicked. In fact, what we know--as good
Epicureans--is that, as Democritus of Abdera[59] early taught, this
world of ours is composed of a vast number of infinitely small and
indivisible atoms, which have by some strange hap come to take the
forms we see in the world of life and matter. Now the soul of man is
also of atoms, only they are finer and more subtile. At death these
atoms are dissolved, and so far as that man is concerned, all is over
with him. The atoms may recombine, or join with others, but never form
anew that same man. Hence we may fairly conclude that this life is
everything and death ends all. Do you follow, and see to what I am
leading?"

  [59] Born about 470 B.C.

"I think so," said the wretched Lucius, feeling himself like a bird
caught in a snare, yet not exactly grasping the direct bearing of all
this learned exposition.

"My application is this," went on Pratinas, glibly. "Life is all--all
either for pleasure or pain. Therefore every man has a right to
extract all the sweetness he can out of it. But suppose a man
deliberately makes himself gloomy, extracts no joy from life; lets
himself be overborne by care and sorrow,--is not such a man better
dead than living? Is not a dreamless sleep preferable to misery or
even cold asceticism? And how much more does this all apply when we
see a man who makes himself unhappy, preventing by his very act of
existence the happiness of another more equably tempered mortal! Now I
believe this is the present case. Drusus, I understand, is leading a
spare, joyless, workaday sort of existence, which is, or by every
human law should be, to him a burden. So long as he lives, he prevents
you from enjoying the means of acquiring pleasure. Now I have Socrates
of imperishable memory on my side, when I assert that death under any
circumstances is either no loss or a very great gain. Considering then
the facts of the case in its philosophic and rational bearings, I may
say this: Not merely would it be no wrong to remove Drusus from a
world in which he is evidently out of place, but I even conceive such
an act to rise to the rank of a truly meritorious deed."

Lucius Ahenobarbus was conquered. He could not resist the inexorable
logic of this train of reasoning, all the premises of which he fully
accepted. Perhaps, we should add, he was not very unwilling to have
his wine-befuddled intellect satisfied, and his conscience stilled. He
turned down a huge beaker of liquor, and coughed forth:--

"Right as usual, Pratinas! By all the gods, but I believe you can save
me!"

"Yes; as soon as Drusus is dead," insinuated the Greek who was already
computing his bill for brokerage in this little affair, "you can raise
plenty of loans, on the strength of your coming marriage with
Cornelia."

"But how will you manage it?" put in the alert Gabinius. "There
mustn't be any clumsy bungling."

"Rest assured," said Pratinas, with a grave dignity, perhaps the
result of his drinking, "that in my affairs I leave no room for
bungling."

"And your plan is--" asked Lucius.

"Till to-morrow, friend," said the Greek; "meet me at the Temple of
Saturn, just before dusk. Then I'll be ready."


II

Lucius Ahenobarbus's servants escorted their tipsy master home to his
lodgings in a fashionable apartment house on the Esquiline. When he
awoke, it was late the next day, and head and wits were both sadly the
worse for the recent entertainment. Finally a bath and a luncheon
cleared his brain, and he realized his position. He was on the brink
of concocting a deliberate murder. Drusus had never wronged him; the
crime would be unprovoked; avarice would be its only justification.
Ahenobarbus had done many things which a far laxer code of ethics than
that of to-day would frown upon; but, as said, he had never committed
murder--at least had only had crucified those luckless slaves, who did
not count. He roused with a start, as from a dream. What if Pratinas
were wrong? What if there were really gods, and furies, and
punishments for the wicked after death? And then came the other side
of the shield: a great fortune his; all his debts paid off; unlimited
chances for self-enjoyment; last, but not least, Cornelia his. She had
slighted him, and turned her back upon all his advances; and now what
perfect revenge! Lucius was more in love with Cornelia than he
admitted even to himself. He would even give up Clyte, if he could
possess her. And so the mental battle went on all day; and the prick
of conscience, the fears of superstition, and the lingerings of
religion ever grew fainter. Near nightfall he was at his post, at the
Temple of Saturn. Pratinas was awaiting him. The Greek had only a few
words of greeting, and the curt injunction:--"Draw your cloak up to
shield your face, and follow me." Then they passed out from the Forum,
forced their way through the crowded streets, and soon were through
the _Porta Ratumena,_ outside the walls, and struck out across the
Campus Martius, upon the Via Flaminia. It was rapidly darkening. The
houses grew fewer and fewer. At a little distance the dim structures
of the Portico and Theatre of Pompeius could be seen, looming up to an
exaggerated size in the evening haze. A grey fog was drifting up from
the Tiber, and out of a rift in a heavy cloud-bank a beam of the
imprisoned moon was struggling. Along the road were peasants with
their carts and asses hastening home. Over on the Pincian Mount the
dark green masses of the splendid gardens of Pompeius and of Lucullus
were just visible. The air was filled with the croak of frogs and the
chirp of crickets, and from the river came the creak of the sculls and
paddles of a cumbrous barge that was working its way down the Tiber.

Ahenobarbus felt awed and uncomfortable. Pratinas, with his mantle
wrapped tightly around his head, continued at a rapid pace. Lucius had
left his attendants at home, and now began to recall gruesome tales of
highwaymen and bandits frequenting this region after dark. His fears
were not allayed by noticing that underneath his himation Pratinas
occasionally let the hilt of a short sword peep forth. Still the Greek
kept on, never turning to glance at a filthy, half-clad beggar, who
whined after them for an alms, and who did not so much as throw a kiss
after the young Roman when the latter tossed forth a denarius,[60] but
snatched up the coin, muttered at its being no more, and vanished into
the gathering gloom.

  [60] Four sesterces, 16 cents.

"Where are you leading me?" asked Ahenobarbus, a second time, after
all his efforts to communicate with the usually fluent Greek met with
only monosyllables.

"To the _lanista_[61] Dumnorix," replied Pratinas, quickening an
already rapid pace.

  [61] Keeper of a school of gladiators.

"And his barracks are--?"

"By the river, near the Mulvian bridge."

At length a pile of low square buildings was barely visible in the
haze. It was close to the Tiber, and the rush of the water against the
piling of the bridge was distinctly audible. As the two drew near to a
closed gateway, a number of mongrel dogs began to snap and bark around
them. From within the building came the roar of coarse hilarity and
coarser jests. As Pratinas approached the solidly barred doorway, a
grating was pushed aside and a rude voice demanded:--

"Your business? What are you doing here?"

"Is Dumnorix sober?" replied Pratinas, nothing daunted. "If so, tell
him to come and speak with me. I have something for his advantage."

Either Pratinas was well known at the gladiators' school, or something
in his speech procured favour. There was a rattling of chains and
bolts, and the door swung open. A man of unusual height and ponderous
proportions appeared in the opening. That was all which could be seen
in the semi-darkness.

"You are Pratinas?" he asked, speaking Latin with a northern accent.
The Hellene nodded, and replied softly: "Yes. No noise. Tell Dumnorix
to come quietly."

The two stepped in on to the flags of a courtyard, and the doorkeeper,
after rebolting, vanished into the building. Ahenobarbus could only
see that he was standing in a large stone-paved court, perhaps one
hundred and forty feet wide and considerably longer. A colonnade of
low whitewashed pillars ran all about: and behind them stretched rows
of small rooms and a few larger apartments. There were _tyros_
practising with wooden swords in one of the rooms, whence a light
streamed, and a knot of older gladiators was urging them on, mocking,
praising, and criticising their efforts. Now and then a burly
gladiator would stroll across the court; but the young noble and his
escort remained hidden in shadow.

Presently a door opened at the other end of the courtyard, and some
one with a lantern began to come toward the entrance. Long before the
stranger was near, Ahenobarbus thought he was rising like a giant out
of the darkness; and when at last Dumnorix--for it was he--was close
at hand, both Roman and Greek seemed veritable dwarfs beside him.

Dumnorix--so far as he could be seen in the lantern light--was a
splendid specimen of a northern giant. He was at least six feet five
inches in height, and broad proportionately. His fair straight hair
tumbled in disorder over his shoulders, and his prodigiously long
mustaches seemed, to the awed Ahenobarbus, almost to curl down to his
neck. His breath came in hot pants like a winded horse, and when he
spoke, it was in short Latin monosyllables, interlarded with
outlandish Gallic oaths. He wore cloth trousers with bright stripes of
red and orange; a short-sleeved cloak of dark stuff, falling down to
the thigh; and over the cloak, covering back and shoulders, another
sleeveless mantle, clasped under the chin with a huge golden buckle.
At his right thigh hung, from a silver set girdle, by weighty bronze
chains, a heavy sabre, of which the steel scabbard banged noisily as
its owner advanced.

"Holla! Pratinas," cried the Gaul, as he came close. "By the holy oak!
but I'm glad to see you! Come to my room. Have a flagon of our good
northern mead."

"Hist," said the Greek, cautiously. "Not so boisterous. Better stay
here in the dark. I can't tell who of your men may hear us."

"As you say," said Dumnorix, setting down the light at a little
distance and coming closer.

"You remember that little affair of last year," said Pratinas,
continuing;--"how you helped me get rid of a witness in a very
troublesome law case?"

"Ha! ha!" chuckled the giant, "I wish I had the sesterces I won then,
in my coffer now."

"Well," replied Pratinas, "I don't need to tell you what I and my
noble friend here--Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus--have come for. A
little more business along the same line. Are you our man?"

"I should say so," answered Dumnorix, with a grin worthy of a baboon.
"Only make it worth my while."

"Now," said Pratinas, sinking his voice still lower, "this affair of
ours will pay you well; but it is more delicate than the other. A
blunder will spoil it all. You must do your best; and we will do the
fair thing by you."

"Go on," said the Gaul, folding his huge paws on his breast.

"Have you ever been in Praeneste?" questioned Pratinas.

"I matched two _mirmillones_[62] of mine there against two
_threces_[63] of another lanista, and my dogs won the prize; but I
can't say that I am acquainted with the place," answered the other.

  [62] Gladiators equipped as Gaulish warriors.

  [63] Buckler men.

"You should find out, then," said Pratinas, "for here lies your work."
And then he proceeded, with occasional prompting from the
better-informed Ahenobarbus, to point out the location of Drusus's
estate, and the character and habits of the man whom Dumnorix was
cheerfully proposing to put out of the way. Dumnorix assented and bade
him go on, with hoarse grunts; and when the Greek had concluded,
growled out in his barbarous Latin:--

"But why all this pother? Why not let me send a knave or two and knock
the fellow some dark night in the head? It will save us both time and
trouble."

"My excellent master of the gladiators," said Pratinas, as smoothly as
ever, "you must not take it ill, if I tell you that to have a taking
off such as you propose would be a very bad thing both for you and the
most noble Ahenobarbus. This Drusus is not a helpless wight, without
friends, waiting to become the fair prey of any dagger man.[64] He has
friends, I have learned, who, if he were to be disposed of in such a
rude and bungling manner, would not fail to probe deeply into the
whole thing. Flaccus the great banker, notably, would spare no pains
to bring the responsibility of the matter home, not merely to the poor
wretch who struck the blow, but the persons who placed the weapon in
his hands. All of which would be very awkward for Ahenobarbus. No,
your rough-and-ready plan won't in the least work."

  [64] _Sicarius_.

"Well," replied Dumnorix, testily, "I'm a man of shallow wits and hard
blows. If I had been of keener mind, the gods know, I would have been
a free chief among the Nervii, instead of making sport for these
straw-limbed Romans. If what I propose won't answer, what can be
done?"

"A great deal," said Pratinas, who knew perfectly how to cringe low,
yet preserve his ascendency; "first of all, it is very necessary that
the murderers of the amiable Drusus should receive a meet reward for
their crime--that justice should be speedy and severe."

"Man!" cried Dumnorix, griping the Greek's arm in his tremendous
clutch. "What are you asking?"

"By  Zeus!" burst out Pratinas, rubbing his crushed member. "What a
grip is yours! Don't be alarmed. Surely you would be as willing to
have one or two of your newest _tiros_ hung on a cross, as stabbed on
the arena--especially when it will pay a great deal better?"

"I don't follow you," said the Gaul, though a little reassured.

"Simply this," said Pratinas, who evidently felt that he was coming to
the revealing of an especially brilliant piece of _finesse_. "My
general proposal is this. Let you and your company march through
Praeneste,--of course carefully timing your march so as to find the
innocent and unfortunate Drusus at his farm. You will have a very
disorderly band of gladiators, and they begin to attack Drusus's
orchard, and maltreat his slaves. You try to stop them,--without
avail. Finally, in a most unfortunate and outrageous outbreak they
slay the master of the house. The tumult is quelled. The heirs proceed
against you. You can only hand over the murderers for crucifixion, and
offer to pay any money damages that may be imposed. A heavy fine is
laid upon you, as being responsible for the killing of Drusus by your
slaves. You pay the damages. Ahenobarbus marries Cornelia and enters
upon the estate. The world says that all that can be done to atone for
Drusus's murder has been done. All of the guilty are punished. The
dead cannot be recalled. The matter is at an end. Ahenobarbus has what
he wished for; you have all the money you paid in damages quietly
refunded; also the cost of the poor rascals crucified, and a fair sum
over and above for your trouble."

"By the god Belew!"[65] cried the enthusiastic Dumnorix. "What a
clever plan! How the world will be cheated! Ha! ha! How sharp you
little Greeks must be. Only I must have fair return for my work, and
an oath that the business shall never be coming to the point of giving
my eyes to the crows. I can't risk my life in anything but a square
fight."

  [65] The Gallic sun-god.

"Well," said Pratinas, after a few words with his companion, "how will
this proposition suit you? All expenses, before and after the affair
itself, of course refunded; one hundred thousand sesterces clear gain
for doing the deed, twenty-five thousand sesterces for every poor
fellow we have to nail up to satisfy the law, and you to be guaranteed
against any evil consequence. Is this sufficient?"

"I think so," growled Dumnorix, in his mustaches, "but I must have the
oath."

"The oath?" said Pratinas, "oh, certainly!" and the Greek raised his
hands toward heaven, and muttered some words to the effect that "if he
and his friend did not fulfil their oath, let Zeus, the regarder of
oaths, destroy them," etc., etc.--an imprecation which certainly, so
far as words went, was strong enough to bind the most graceless. Then
he proceeded to arrange with Dumnorix how the latter should wait until
it was known Drusus had gone back to Praeneste, and was likely to stay
there for some time; as to how many gladiators the lanista was to have
ready. Dumnorix complained that the rather recent law against keeping
gladiators at Rome prevented him from assembling in his school any
considerable number. But out of his heterogeneous collection of Gauls,
Germans, Spaniards, Greeks, and Asiatics he would find enough who
could be used for the purpose without letting them know the full
intent with which they were launched against Drusus. At all events, if
their testimony was taken, it would have to be as slaves on the rack;
and if they accused their master of instigating them to riot, it was
what any person would expect of such degraded and lying wretches. So,
after promising to come again with final word and some bags of
earnest-money, Pratinas parted with the lanista, and he and Lucius
Ahenobarbus found themselves again in the now entirely darkened Campus
Martius. Lucius again feared brigands, but they fell in with no
unpleasant nocturnal wayfarers, and reached the city without incident.
Ahenobarbus seemed to himself to be treading on air--Cornelia, villas,
Drusus's money--these were dancing in his head in a delightful
confusion. He had abandoned himself completely to the sway of
Pratinas; the Greek was omniscient, was invincible, was a greater than
Odysseus. Ahenobarbus hardly dared to think for himself as to the plan
which his friend had arranged for him. One observation, however, he
made before they parted.

"You swore that Dumnorix should get into no trouble. May it not prove
expensive to keep him out of difficulty?"

"My dear Lucius," replied Pratinas, "in cases of that kind there is a
line from the Hippolytus of the immortal tragedian Euripides, which
indicates the correct attitude for a philosopher and a man of
discretion to assume. It runs thus,--

  "'My tongue an oath took, but my mind's unsworn.'

Not an inelegant sentiment, as you must see."


III

We left the excellent man of learning, Pisander, in no happy frame of
mind, after Agias had been dragged away, presumably to speedy doom.
And indeed for many days the shadow of Valeria's crime, for it was
nothing else, plunged him in deep melancholy. Pisander was not a fool,
only amongst his many good qualities he did not possess that of being
able to make a success in life. He had been tutor to a young Asiatic
prince, and had lost his position by a local revolution; then he had
drifted to Alexandria, and finally Rome, where he had struggled first
to teach philosophy, and found no pupils to listen to his lectures;
then to conduct an elementary school, but his scholars' parents were
backward in paying even the modest fees he charged. Finally, in sheer
despair, to keep from starving, he accepted the position as Valeria's
"house-philosopher."

His condition was infinitely unsatisfactory for a variety of reasons.
The good lady wished him to be at her elbow, ready to read from the
philosophers or have on hand a talk on ethics or metaphysics to
deliver extempore. Besides, though not a slave or freedman, he fared
in the household much worse sometimes than they. A slave stole the
dainties, and drained a beaker of costly wine on the sly. Pisander,
like Thales, who was so intent looking at the stars that he fell into
a well, "was so eager to know what was going on in heaven that he
could not see what was before his feet."[66] And consequently the poor
pedant dined on the remnants left after his employer and her husband
had cleared the board; and had rancid oil and sour wine given him,
when they enjoyed the best. The slaves had snubbed him and made fun of
him; the freedmen regarded him with absolute disdain; Valeria's
regular visitors treated him as a nonentity. Besides, all his
standards of ethical righteousness were outraged by the round of life
which he was compelled daily to witness. The worthy man would long
before have ceased from a vassalage so disgraceful, had he possessed
any other means of support. Once he meditated suicide, but was scared
out of it by the thought that his bones would moulder in those huge
pits on the Esquiline--far from friend or native land--where artisans,
slaves, and cattle, creatures alike without means of decent burial,
were left under circumstances unspeakably revolting to moulder away to
dust.

  [66] See Plato's "Theaetetus," 174.

The day of Agias's misfortune, Pisander sat in his corner of the
boudoir, after Valeria had left it, in a very unphilosophical rage,
gnawing his beard and cursing inwardly his mistress, Pratinas, and the
world in general.

Arsinoe with a pale, strained face was moving about, replacing the
bottles of cosmetics and perfumery in cabinets and caskets. Pisander
had been kind to Arsinoe, and had taught her to read; and there was a
fairly firm friendship between the slave and the luckless man, who
felt himself degraded by an equal bondage.

"Poor Agias," muttered Pisander.

"Poor Agias," repeated Arsinoe, mournfully; then in some scorn, "Come,
Master Pisander, now is the time to console yourself with your
philosophy. Call out everything,--your Zeno, or Parmenides, or
Heraclitus, or others of the thousand nobodies I've heard you praise
to Valeria,--and make thereby my heart a jot the less sore, or Agias's
death the less bitter! Don't sit there and snap at your beard, if your
philosophy is good for anything! People used to pray to the gods in
trouble, but you philosophers turn the gods into mists or thin air.
You are a man! You are free! Do something! Say something!"

"But what can I do?" groaned Pisander, bursting into tears, and
wishing for the instant Epicureans, Stoics, Eclectics, Peripatetics,
and every other school of learning in the nethermost Hades.

"_Phui!_ Fudge!" cried Arsinoe. "What is life made for then, if a man
who has spent all his days studying it is as good as helpless! Look at
me! Have I not hands, feet, a head, and wits? Am I not as well
informed and naturally capable as three fine ladies out of every four?
Would I not look as handsome as they, if I had a chance to wear their
dresses and jewels? Have I any blemish, any defect, that makes me
cease to be a woman, and become a thing? Bah, master _Pisander!_ I am
only a slave, but I will talk. Why does my blood boil at the fate of
Agias, if it was not meant that it should heat up for some end? And
yet I am as much a piece of property of that woman whom I hate, as
this chair or casket. I have a right to no hope, no ambition, no
desire, no reward. I can only aspire to live without brutal treatment.
That would be a sort of Elysium. If I was brave enough, I would kill
myself, and go to sleep and forget it all. But I am weak and cowardly,
and so--here I am."

Pisander only groaned and went away to his room to turn over his
Aristotle, and wonder why nothing in the "Nicomachean Ethics" or any
other learned treatise contained the least word that made him
contented over the fate of Agias or his own unhappy situation. Arsinoe
and Semiramis, when he went from them, cried, and cried again, in pity
and helpless grief at their whole situation. And so a considerable
number of days passed. Calatinus could have given joy to the hearts of
several in his household if he had simply remembered that Agias had
not been scourged to death, but sold. But Calatinus feared, now that
he was well out of the matter, to stir up an angry scene with his
wife, by hinting that Agias had not been punished according to her
orders. Alfidius, too, and the other slaves with him, imagined that
his mistress would blame them if they admitted that Agias was alive.
So the household gathered, by the silence of all concerned, that the
bright Greek boy had long since passed beyond power of human torment.
Pisander recovered part of his equanimity, and Arsinoe and Semiramis
began to see life a shade less darkened.

Pratinas occasionally repeated his morning calls upon Valeria. He
seemed much engrossed with business, but was always the same suave,
elegant, accomplished personage that had endeared him to that lady's
heart. One morning he came in, in unusually good spirits.
"Congratulate me," he exclaimed, after saluting Valeria; "I have
disposed of a very delicate piece of work, and my mind can take a
little rest. At least I have roughly chiselled out the matter, as a
sculptor would say, and can now wait a bit before finishing. Ah! what
elegant study is this which is engrossing your ladyship this morning?"

"Pisander is reading from the works of Gorgias of Leontini," said
Valeria, languidly.

"To be sure," went on Pratinas; "I have always had the greatest
respect for the three nihilistic propositions of that philosopher. To
read him one is half convinced of the affirmation that nothing exists;
that if anything existed, the fact could not be known, and that if the
fact were known, it could not be communicated; although of course, my
dear madam, there are very grave objections to accepting such views in
their fulness."

"Of course," echoed Valeria. "Pisander, read Pratinas that little poem
of Archilochus, whose sentiment I so much admired, when I happened on
it yesterday."

Pisander fumbled among his rolls, then read, perhaps throwing a bit of
sarcasm into his tone:--

  "Gyges'[67] wealth and honours great
    Come not nigh to me!
  Heavenly pow'r, or tyrant's state,
    I'll not envy thee.
  Swift let any sordid prize
  Fade and vanish from my eyes!"

  [67] A Lydian king whose wealth was placed on a par with that of the
  better known Croesus.

"Your ladyship," said Pratinas, appearing entranced by the lines, "is
ever in search of the pearls of refined expression!"

"I wish," said Valeria, whose mind ran from Gorgias to Archilochus,
and then back to quite foreign matters, with lightning rapidity, "you
would tell Kallias, the sculptor, that the head-dress on my statue in
the atrium must be changed. I don't arrange my hair that way any
longer. He must put on a new head-dress without delay."[68]

  [68] Such alterations were actually made in Rome.

"Certainly," assented the Greek.

"And now," said the lady, half entreating, half insinuating, "_you
must_ tell me what has made you so abstracted lately; that business
you mentioned, which compelled you to restrict your calls."

"My dear Valeria," said Pratinas, casting a glance over at Pisander in
his corner, "I dislike mysteries; but perhaps there are some things
which I had better not reveal to any one. Don't be offended, but--"

"I am offended," exclaimed the lady, striking her lap with her hands,
"and I accept no '_buts_.' I will be as silent about all your affairs
as about the mysteries of the _Bona Dea_.[69]"

  [69] To whose mysteries only women were admitted.

"I believe I can be confident you will not betray me," said Pratinas,
who in fact considered precautions that were necessary to take among
so blundering and thick-witted people as the Latins, almost
superfluous. He muttered to himself, "I wouldn't dare to do this in
Alexandria,--prate of a murder,--" and then glanced again toward
Pisander.

"Pisander," said Valeria, sharply, noting Pratinas's disquietude, "go
out of the room. I don't need you at present."

Pisander, unlike many contemporaries, was affected by a sensitive
conscience. But if there was one man whom he despised to the bottom of
his soul, it was Pratinas. Pratinas had lorded it over him and
patronized him, in a way which drove the mild-tempered man of learning
to desperation. The spirit of evil entered into the heart of Pisander
as he left the room. The average chatter of Pratinas and Valeria had
been gall and wormwood to him, and he had been glad enough to evade
it; but here was Pratinas with a secret which he clearly did not wish
Pisander to know. And Pisander, prompted by most unphilosophical
motives, resolved within himself to play the eavesdropper. The boudoir
was approached by three doors, one from the peristylium, one from
Valeria's private sleeping chamber, one from the servants' quarters.
Pisander went out through the first, and going through other rooms to
the third, took his station by that entrance. He met Arsinoe, and took
the friendly maid into his plot, by stationing her on guard to prevent
the other servants from interfering with him. Then applying his ear to
the large keyhole of the door, he could understand all that was
passing in the boudoir. What Pratinas was saying it is hardly
necessary to repeat. The Greek was relating with infinite zest, and to
Valeria's intense delight and amusement, the story of the two wills
which placed Drusus's estate and the hand of Cornelia within reach of
Lucius Ahenobarbus; of the manner in which this last young man had
been induced to take steps to make way with an unfortunate rival.
Finally, in a low, half-audible tone, he told of the provisional
arrangements with Dumnorix, and how very soon the plan was to be put
in execution.

"And you must be sure and tell me," cried Valeria, clapping her hands
when Pratinas concluded, "what the details of the affair all are, and
when and how you succeed. Poor Quintus Drusus! I am really sorry for
him. But when one doesn't make use of what Fortune has given him,
there is nothing else to do!"

"Yes," said Pratinas, sententiously. "He who fails to realize what is
for him the highest good, forfeits, thereby, the right to life
itself."

Pisander slipped away from the keyhole, with a white face, and panting
for breath. Briefly, he repeated what he had gathered to Arsinoe, then
blurted out:--

"I will go in and meet that well-oiled villain face to face. By Zeus!
I will make him feel the depths of an honest man's scorn and
indignation!"

"You will be a fool," replied Arsinoe, quietly, "if you do. Valeria
would instantly dismiss you from her service."

"I will go at once to Drusus," asserted Pisander.

"Drusus may or may not be convinced that what you say is true,"
answered the girl; "but he, I gather from what you repeat, has just
gone back to Praeneste. Before you could reach Praeneste, you are a dead
man."

"How so?" demanded the excited philosopher, brandishing his fists. "I
am as strong as Pratinas."

"How little wisdom," commented Arsinoe, "you do gather from your
books! Can't you see Pratinas is a reckless scoundrel--with every
gladiator in Dumnorix's school at his call if needs be--who would stop
at nothing to silence promptly the mouth of a dangerous witness? This
isn't worse than many another case. Don't share the ruin of a man who
is an utter stranger! We have troubles enough of our own."

And with this consolation Arsinoe left him, again consumed with
impotent rage.

"Villain," fumed Pisander to himself, "if I could only place my
fingers round your neck! But what can I do? What can I do? I am
helpless, friendless, penniless! And I can only tear out my heart, and
pretend to play the philosopher. I, a philosopher! If I were a true
one, I would have had the courage to kill myself before this."

And in this mental state he continued, till he learned that Pratinas
had taken his farewell, and that Calatinus wished him--since all the
slaves seemed busy, and the poor house philosopher was often sent on
menial errands--to go to the _Forum Boarium_,[70] and bring back some
ribs of beef for a dinner that evening. Pisander went as bidden,
tugging a large basket, and trying to muster up courage to continue
his walk to the Fabrician Bridge, and plunge into the Tiber. In
classic days suicide was a commendable act under a great many
circumstances, and Pisander was perfectly serious and sincere in his
belief that he and the world had been companions too long for the good
of either. But the jar and din of the streets certainly served to make
connected philosophical meditation upon the futility and unimportance
of human existence decidedly unfruitful. By the time he reached the
cattle-market the noise of this strange place drove all suicidal
intentions from him. Butchers were slaughtering kine; drovers were
driving oxen off of barges that had come down the Tiber; sheep and
goats were bleating--everywhere around the stalls, booths, shops, and
pens was the bustle of an enormous traffic. Pisander picked his way
through the crowd, searching for the butcher to whom he had been
especially sent. He had gone as far as the ancient shrine of Mater
Matuta, which found place in these seemingly unhallowed precincts,
when, as he gazed into the throng before him, his hair stood as it
were on end, his voice choked in his throat, and cold sweat broke out
over him. The next moment his hand was seized by another, young and
hearty, and he was gasping forth the name of Agias.

  [70] Cattle-market.




Chapter V

A Very Old Problem


I

Drusus had at last finished the business which centred around the
death of his uncle, old Publius Vibulanus. He had walked behind the
bier, in company with the other relatives of the deceased--all very
distant, saving himself. On the day, too, of the funeral, he had been
obliged to make his first public oration--a eulogy delivered in the
Forum from the Rostra--in which Drusus tried to pay a graceful but not
fulsome tribute to the old eques, who had never distinguished himself
in any way, except the making of money. The many clients of Vibulanus,
who now looked upon the young man as their patron, had raised a
prodigious din of applause during the oration, and Quintus was
flattered to feel that he had not studied rhetoric in vain. Finally,
as next of kin, he had to apply the torch to the funeral pyre, and
preside over the funeral feast, held by custom nine days after the
actual burning, and over the contests of gladiators which took place
at this festivity. Meanwhile Sextus Flaccus had been attending to the
legal business connected with the transfer of the dead man's estate to
his heir. All this took time--time which Drusus longed to be spending
with Cornelia in shady and breezy Praeneste, miles from unhealthy,
half-parched Rome.

Drusus had sent Agias ahead to Cornelia, as soon as the poor boy had
recovered in the least from his brutal scourging. The lad had parted
from his deliverer with the most extravagant demonstrations of
gratitude, which Quintus had said he could fully repay by implicit
devotion to Cornelia. How that young lady had been pleased with her
present, Drusus could not tell; although he had sent along a letter
explaining the circumstances of the case. But Quintus had other things
on his mind than Agias and his fortunes, on the morning when at last
he turned his face away from the sultry capital, and found his
carriage whirling him once more over the Campagna.

Drusus had by personal experience learned the bitterness of the
political struggle in which he had elected to take part. The Caesarians
at Rome (Balbus, Antonius, and Curio) had welcomed him to their
number, for young as he was, his wealth and the prestige of the Livian
name were not to be despised. And Drusus saw how, as in his younger
days he had not realized, the whole fabric of the state was in an evil
way, and rapidly approaching its mending or ending. The Roman Republic
had exported legions; she had imported slaves, who heaped up vast
riches for their masters, while their competition reduced the free
peasantry to starvation. And now a splendid aristocracy claimed to
rule a subject world, while the "Roman people" that had conquered that
world were a degenerate mob, whose suffrages in the elections were
purchasable--almost openly--by the highest bidder. The way was not
clear before Drusus; he only saw, with his blind, Pagan vision, that
no real liberty existed under present conditions; that Pompeius and
his allies, the Senate party, were trying to perpetuate the
aristocracy in power, and that Caesar, the absent proconsul of the
Gauls, stood, at least, for a sweeping reform. And so the young man
made his decision and waited the march of events.

But once at Praeneste all these forebodings were thrust into the
background. The builders and frescoers had done their work well in his
villa. A new colonnade was being erected. Coloured mosaic floors were
being laid. The walls of the rooms were all a-dance with bright Cupids
and Bacchantes--cheerful apartments for their prospective mistress.
But it was over to the country-house of the Lentuli that Drusus made
small delay to hasten, there to be in bliss in company with Cornelia,

"And how," he asked, after the young lady had talked of a dozen
innocent nothings, "do you like Agias, the boy I sent you?"

"I can never thank you enough--at least if he is always as clever and
witty as he has been since I have had him," was the reply. "I was
vexed at first to have a servant with such dreadful scars all over
him; but he is more presentable now. And he has a very droll way of
saying bright things. What fun he has made of Livia's dear mother, his
former mistress! I shall have to give up reading any wise authors, if
it will make me grow like Valeria. Then, too, Agias has won my favour,
if in no other way, by getting a thick grass stem out of the throat of
my dear little pet sparrow, that was almost choking to death. I am so
grateful to you for him!"

"I am very glad you are fond of him," said Drusus. "Has your uncle
come back from Rome yet? I did not meet him while there. I was busy;
and besides, to speak honestly, I have a little hesitation in seeing
him, since the political situation is so tense."

"He returns to-night, I believe," replied Cornelia. Then as if a bit
apprehensive, "Tell me about the world, Drusus; I don't care to be one
of those fine ladies of the sort of Clodia,[71] who are all in the
whirl of politics, and do everything a man does except to speak in the
Senate; but I like to know what is going on. There isn't going to be a
riot, I hope, as there was two years ago, when no consuls were
elected, and Pompeius had to become sole magistrate?"

  [71] She was a sister of Clodius, a famous demagogue, and was a
  brilliant though abandoned woman.

"There have been no tumults so far," said Drusus, who did not care to
unfold all his fears and expectations.

"Yet things are in a very bad way, I hear," said Cornelia "Can't Caesar
and my uncle's party agree?"

"I'm afraid not," replied Drusus, shaking his head. "Caesar wishes to
be consul a second time. Pompeius and he were friends when at Lucca
six years ago this was agreed on. Caesar was then promised that he
should have his Gallic proconsulship up to the hour when he should be
consul, and besides Pompeius promised to have permission granted Caesar
to be elected consul, without appearing as a candidate in Rome; so at
no moment was Caesar to be without office,[72] and consequently he was
not to be liable to prosecution from his enemies. All this was secured
to Caesar by the laws,--laws which Pompeius aided to have enacted. But
now Crassus the third triumvir is dead; Julia, Caesar's daughter and
Pompeius's wife, whom both dearly loved, is dead. And Pompeius has
been persuaded by your uncle and his friends to break with Caesar and
repudiate his promise. Caesar and Pompeius have long been so powerful
together that none could shake their authority; but if one falls away
and combines with the common enemy, what but trouble is to be
expected?"

  [72] Without the _imperium_--so long as a Roman official held this
  he was above prosecution.

"The enemy! the enemy!" repeated Cornelia, looking down, and sighing.
"Quintus, these feuds are a dreadful thing. Can't you," and here she
threw a bit of pathetic entreaty into her voice, "join with my uncle's
party, and be his friend? I hate to think of having my husband at
variance with the man who stands in place of my father."

Drusus took her face between his hands, and looked straight at her.
They were standing within the colonnade of the villa of the Lentuli,
and the sunlight streaming between the pillars fell directly upon
Cornelia's troubled face, and made a sort of halo around her.

"My dearest, delectissima," said Quintus, earnestly, "I could not
honourably take your hand in marriage, if I had not done that which my
conscience, if not my reason, tells me is the only right thing to do.
It grieves me to hurt you; but we are not fickle Greeks, nor servile
Easterns; but Romans born to rule, and because born to rule, born to
count nothing dear that will tend to advance the strength and
prosperity not of self, but of the state. You would not love me if I
said I cared more for keeping a pang from your dear heart, than for
the performance of that which our ancestors counted the one end of
life--duty to the commonwealth."

Cornelia threw her arms around him.

"You are the noblest man on the whole earth!" she cried with bright
enthusiasm. "Of course I would not love you if you did what you
believed to be wrong! My uncle may scold, may storm. I shan't care for
all his anger, for you _must be_ right."

"Ah! delectissima," cried Drusus, feeling at the moment as if he were
capable of refuting senates and confounding kings, "we will not look
at too gloomy a side of the picture. Pompeius and Caesar will be
reconciled. Your uncle's party will see that it is best to allow the
proconsul an election as promised. We will have wise laws and moderate
reforms. All will come out aright. And we--we two--will go along
through life as softly and as merrily as now we stroll up and down in
the cool shade of these columns; and I will turn philosopher and
evolve a new system that will forever send Plato and Zeno, Epicurus
and Timon, to the most remote and spider-spun cupboard of the most
old-fashioned library, and you shall be a poetess, a Sappho, an
Erinna, who shall tinkle in Latin metres sweeter than they ever sing
in Aiolic. And so we will fleet the time as though we were Zeus and
Hera on Olympus."

"Zeus and Hera!" repeated Cornelia, laughing. "You silly Graecule.[73]
You may talk about that misbehaved pair, who were anything but
harmonious and loving, if Homer tells truly. I prefer our own Juppiter
and our Juno of the Aventine. _They_ are a staid and home-keeping
couple, worth imitating, if we are to imitate any celestials. But
nothing Greek for me."

  [73] Contemptuous diminutive for Greek.

"Intolerant, intolerant," retorted Drusus, "we are all Greek, we
Romans of to-day--what is left of old Latium but her half-discarded
language, her laws worse than discarded, perverted, her good pilum[74]
which has not quite lost its cunning, and her--"

  [74] The heavy short javelin carried by the Roman legionary, only
  about six feet long. In practised hands it was a terrible weapon,
  and won many a Roman victory.

"Men," interrupted Cornelia, "such as you!"

"And women," continued Drusus, "such as you! Ah! There is something
left of Rome after all. We are not altogether fallen, unworthy of our
ancestors. Why shall we not be merry? A Greek would say that it was
always darkest before Eos leaves the couch of Tithonus,[75] and who
knows that our Helios is not soon to dawn and be a long, long time ere
his setting? I feel like throwing formality to the winds, crying
'Iacchos evoe,' and dancing like a bacchanal, and singing in tipsy
delight,--

  [75] The "rosy-fingered Dawn" of Homer; Tithonos was her consort.

  "'Oh, when through the long night,
    With fleet foot glancing white,
  Shall I go dancing in my revelry,
    My neck cast back, and bare
    Unto the dewy air,
  Like sportive faun in the green meadow's glee?'[76]

  [76] Milman, translator.

as old Euripides sings in his 'Bacchae.' Yes, the Hellenes were right
when they put nymphs in the forest and in the deep. Only our blind
practical Latin eyes will not see them. We will forget that we are
Romans; we will build for ourselves some cosey little Phaeacia up in
the Sabine hills beside some lake; and there my Sappho shall also be
my Nausicaa to shine fair as a goddess upon her distressed and
shipwrecked Odysseus."

"Yes," said Cornelia, smiling, "a delightful idyl; but Odysseus would
not stay with Nausicaa."

"I was wrong," replied Drusus, as they walked arm in arm out from the
portico, and down the broad avenue of stately shade trees. "You shall
be the faithful Penelope, who receives back her lord in happiness
after many trials. Your clever Agias can act as Telemachus for us."

"But the suitors whom Odysseus must slay?" asked Cornelia, entering
into the fun.

"Oh, for them," said Drusus, lightly, "we need not search far. Who
other than Ahenobarbus?"


II

Rather late in the afternoon, a few days subsequently, the most noble
Lucius Cornelius Lentulus Crus, consul-designate, and one of the most
prominent politicians of his time and nation, arrived at Praeneste;
having hurried away from Rome to escape for a little while the summer
heats which made the capital anything but a pleasant place for
residence. Drusus's travelling cortege would have seemed small enough
compared with the hedge of outriders, footmen, and body-servants that
surrounded the great man. But notwithstanding his prospective
dignities, and his present importance, Lentulus Crus was hardly an
imposing personality. He was a bald-pated, florid individual, with
rough features, a low, flat forehead, and coarse lips. He was dressed
very fashionably, and was perfumed and beringed to an extent that
would have been derided anywhere save in the most select circles of
Rome. He was stout, and when he alighted from his carriage, he moved
away with a somewhat waddling gait, and lifted up a rasping,
high-pitched voice in unsonorous complaint against a slave who let
fall a parcel of baggage.

Clearly the master of the house had returned, and all the familia and
freedmen bustled about their various tasks with the unusual
promptitude and diligence which is the outcome of a healthy fear of
retribution for slackness. Lentulus went into the atrium, and there
had an angry conference with the local land-steward, over some
accounts which the latter presented. In fact, so ill was the humour of
the noble lord, that Cornelia avoided going out from her room to meet
him, and pretended to be so engrossed in her Ennius that she did not
hear he had come.

This pretence, however, could not last long. Lentulus called out in a
surly tone to know where his niece was, and the latter was fain to
present herself. It could not be said that the meeting between
Cornelia and her uncle was extremely affectionate. The interchange of
kisses was painfully formal, and then Lentulus demanded somewhat
abruptly:--

"How have you been spending your time? With that young ne'er-do-weel
son of Sextus Drusus?"

"Quintus was here this morning," said Cornelia, feeling a little
reproachful at the manner in which her uncle had spoken of her lover.

"Just back from Rome, I presume?" said Lentulus, icily, "and he must
fly over to the cote of his little dove and see that she hasn't
flitted away? He'd better have a care in his doings. He'll have
something more serious on hand than lovemaking before long."

"I don't understand you, uncle," said Cornelia, turning rather red;
"Quintus has never done anything for which he has cause to fear."

"Oh, he hasn't, eh?" retorted Lentulus. "_Mehercle!_ what donkeys you
women are! You may go, I want to see your mother."

"She is in her own room," said Cornelia, turning her back; "I wish you
would not speak to me in that way again."

Lentulus wandered through the mazes of courts, colonnades, and the
magnificently decorated and finished rooms of the villa, until he came
to the chamber of Claudia, his sister-in-law. Claudia was a woman of
the same fashionable type as Valeria, good-looking, ostentatious,
proud, selfish, devoid of any aim in life save the securing of the
most vapid pleasure. At the moment, she was stretched out on a thickly
cushioned couch. She had thrown on a loose dress of silken texture. A
negress was waving over her head a huge fan of long white feathers. A
second negress was busy mixing in an _Authepsa_,--a sort of silver
urn, heated by charcoal,--a quantity of spices, herbs, and water,
which the lady was to take as soon as it was sufficiently steeped.
Claudia had been enjoying an unusually gay round of excitement while
at Baiae, and she had but just come up to Praeneste, to recover herself
after the exertions of a score of fashionable suppers, excursions on
the Lucrine Lake, and the attendant exhausting amusements. When her
brother-in-law entered the room, she raised her carefully tinted
eyebrows, and observed with great languor:--

"So you have gotten away from Rome, at last, my Lucius?"

"For a few days," replied Lentulus, in no very affable tone; "the heat
and din of the city will drive me mad! And I have had no end of
troublesome business. The senators are all fools or slaves of Caesar.
That treacherous rascal, Curio, is blocking all our efforts. Even
Pompeius is half-hearted in the cause. It wouldn't take much to make
him go back to Caesar, and then where would we be?"

"Where would we be?" said Claudia, half conscious of what she said,
turning over wearily. "Don't talk politics, my dear brother. They are
distressingly dull. My head aches at the very word." And she held out
her hand and took the golden cup of hot drink which the negress
offered her.

"Aye," replied Lentulus, not in the least subdued, "where _will_ we
be, if Pompeius and Caesar become friends? If there is no war, no
proscription, no chance to make a sesterce in a hurry!"

"My dear brother," said Claudia, still more languidly, and yawning at
length, as she handed back the cup, "have I not said that the mere
mention of politics makes my head ache?"

"Then let it," said the other, brutally; "I must have some plain words
with you." And he pointed toward the door. The two serving-maids took
the hint, and retired.

Claudia settled her head back on the pillows, and folded her hands as
if to resign herself to a very dull tete-a-tete.

"Have you any new debts?" demanded Lentulus.

"What a tiresome question," murmured the lady. "No--no--yes; I owe
Pomponius the fancier--I don't quite know how much--for my last
Maltese lap dog."

"Thank the gods that is all," went on her brother-in-law. "Now listen
to me. I have been living beyond my means. Last year the canvass to
get on the board of guardians of the Sibylline Books--in which that
graceless son-in-law of Cicero's, Publius Dolabella, defeated me--cost
a deal of money. This year I have the consulship. But it has taken
every denarius I own, and more too. All my estates are involved, so
that it will require years to redeem them, in the ordinary way."

"How extremely unfortunate!" sighed Claudia, looking dreadfully bored.

"If that was all I had to tell you," snapped back Lentulus, "I would
not have disturbed your ladyship's repose. But you must be so
indulgent as to listen."

"Well?" said Claudia, yawning again and settling herself.

"Your late husband left some little property," began the other.

"Yes, to be sure; oh! my poor Caius!" and Claudia began to sob and
wipe away the tears.

"And this property I have involved," continued Lentulus, driving
straight ahead and never heeding the widow's display of emotions. "It
will be impossible for me to clear away the encumbrances for some
little time."

Claudia was excited now. She sprang up from her cushions and cried, or
rather screamed:--

"Brute! Robber of orphans and widows! Heartless wretch! Have you
pledged the slender fortune Caius left me, and the dowry of my poor
dear Cornelia?" And her voice sank into hoarseness, and she began to
sob once more.

Lentulus regarded her with vexation and contempt. "_Mehercle!_ what a
fuss you are making! The deed is done, and there's no helping it. I
came here, not to offer excuses, but to state the facts. You may call
me what you please; I _had to do it_, or lose the consulship. Now look
the matter in the face. You must contract no more debts; I can't
discharge the old ones. Live as reasonably as you can."

"And no more nice dinners? No more visits to Baiae?" groaned the lady,
rocking to and fro.

"Yes, yes," broke in her brother-in-law, sharply, "I can still raise
enough to meet all ordinary expenses. If I let down in my household,
my creditors would see I was pinched, and begin to pluck me. I can
weather the storm. But look here: Cornelia must have an end with that
young Drusus. I can never pay her dowry, and would not have him for a
nephew-in-law if I could."

"Cornelia break off with Drusus?" and Claudia stopped whimpering, and
sat staring at Lentulus with astonished eyes. To tell the truth she
had always liked the young Livian, and thought her daughter was
destined for a most advantageous match.

"Certainly, my dear Claudia," said the consul-elect, half relieved to
change what had been a very awkward subject; "I can assure you that
Quintus is far from being a proper and worthy man for a husband for
your daughter. I have heard very evil reports of him while in the
city. He has cast in his lot with that gang of knavish Caesarians
centring around Marcus Antonius, Caelius, and that Caius Sallustius[77]
whom our excellent censors have just ejected from the Senate, because
of his evil living and Caesarian tendencies. Do I need to say more of
him? A worthless, abandoned, shameless profligate!"

  [77] Sallust, the well-known historian.

Claudia had a little sense of humour; and when Lentulus was working
himself up into a righteous rage over the alleged misdoings of Drusus,
she interrupted:--

"You do well to say so, my dear Lucius; for all men know that your
life is as morally severe as your good friend Cato's."

Lentulus was silent for a moment, and bit his lip; then recommenced:--

"What I meant to say was this. Quintus Drusus and I are enemies; and I
will not give him my niece in marriage. If we were friends, I would
not be able to pay the dowry. You can complain if you please; but you
can't alter my inclinations or my inability to carry out the marriage
agreement."

Though Claudia in many respects was an empty woman of the world, she
had in a way a desire to promote her daughter's happiness, and, as has
been said, she had been extremely fond of Drusus. So she replied
diplomatically that Quintus was probably willing to wait a reasonable
time for the dowry; and that even if he had held communication with
the Caesarians, he was little more than a boy and could be shaken out
of any unfortunate political opinions.

"I will be reasonable," said Lentulus, after pacing up and down for a
few minutes. "I was told of his folly by Caius Calvus.[78] Calvus is
as a rule accurate in his information. He said he met Drusus in
company with Balbus and Curio. But there may have been some mistake.
And the lad, as you declare, may be willing to cut loose from a bad
course. If he really cares for Cornelia, he will be moderate in his
demands for the dowry. Your suggestion is worth taking, Claudia. Let
us send for him, and let him know the only terms on which he can have
my niece."

  [78] A distinguished poet and orator--a friend of Catullus.

Lentulus clapped his hands, and a serving-boy came in for orders.

"Go to the villa of Quintus Drusus," commanded the master, "and tell
him that I would see him at once on business of weight."

Claudia arose, and let her maids throw over her a long white
_stola_,[79] with deep flounces and an elaborate embroidery of
sea-nymphs and marine monsters. Lentulus went out into the atrium and
walked up and down, biting his nails, and trying to think out the
arguments by which he would confute the political heresies of Drusus.
Lentulus was too good a politician not to know that the young man
would be a valuable catch for the party that secured him; and the
consul-elect was determined, not so much to spare breaking the heart
of his niece, but to rob the enemy of a valuable adherent. Cornelia
had gone back to her book; but when she saw the boy go down the path,
evidently on an errand to the villa of the Drusi, she rolled up the
volume, and went into the atrium.

  [79] A long tunic worn by Roman ladies.

"You have sent after Quintus, uncle?" she asked.

"I have," was the reply; "I expect him shortly."

"What is the matter?" continued Cornelia, growing apprehensive.

"I wish to make the arrangements for your wedding," replied Lentulus,
continuing his pacing to and fro.

"Oh, I am so glad!" cried Cornelia, cheerily. "I am so pleased you
wish to make everything agreeable for Quintus and for me!"

"I hope so," was the rather gloomy response.

Presently Drusus was seen coming up the shaded path at a very brisk
stride. He had been playing at fencing with old Mamercus, and his face
was all aglow with a healthy colour; there was a bright light in his
eye. When he saw Cornelia in the doorway he gave a laugh and broke
into a run, which brought him up to her panting and merry.

Then as he saw Lentulus he paused, half ashamed of his display of
boyish ardour, and yet, with a smile and a gracious salutation, asked
the older man if he was enjoying good health, and congratulated him on
his election.

The consul-designate was a little disarmed by this straightforward
mode of procedure. He dropped unuttered the elaborate exordium he had
been preparing on the tendency of young men to be led astray by
speciously pleading schemers, and found himself replying mildly to
questions about himself and various old friends of his, whom Drusus
had known as a boy before he went to Athens. But finally the young man
interrupted this pacific discourse with the query:--

"And, most noble Lentulus, what is the business on which you sent for
me? So far as I am able, the uncle of Cornelia has but to command."

Lentulus glanced at Claudia, as if expecting her to open a delicate
subject; but that excellent lady only fingered her _palla_,[80] and
gave vent to a slight cough. Cornelia, whose fears had all passed
away, stood beside Drusus, with one arm resting on his shoulder,
glancing pertly from one man to the other. Lentulus began:--

  [80] A shawl worn over the stola.

"I am very sorry to tell you, Quintus, that I fear your wedding with
Cornelia cannot be celebrated as soon as you hoped."

"Must be postponed!" exclaimed the young man, in alarm; and Cornelia
dropped her arm, and stared at her uncle in dismay.

"I fear so," said Lentulus, dryly. "I have done my best to husband the
fortune Caius left his daughter; but, as perhaps you know, I invested
a very large part of it in the tax farming syndicate for farther
Spain. The speculation seemed safe, but local wars have so reduced the
profits that they amount to nothing, and it will be some time before
the principal is set free. Of course, in ordinary times I would make
up the sum from my own means, but I have had very heavy expenses
lately; consequently, I fear you cannot marry Cornelia until I am in a
position to pay over her dowry."

Drusus burst out into a hearty, boyish laugh.

"My dear uncle," cried he, "for do let me call you so, I would have
you know that when I take Cornelia I have dowry sufficient. Thanks to
old Vibulanus's will, I may call myself passing wealthy. As far as I
am concerned, you may pay over the marriage portion to my heirs, if so
you wish."

Lentulus seemed considerably relieved. Claudia broke out with loud
ejaculations to the effect that Drusus, she always knew, was a
generous, affectionate fellow, and she loved him dearly. Cornelia,
however, looked disturbed, and presently exclaimed:--

"It isn't right, Quintus, that I should come into your house with not
a sesterce in my own name, as if you had married some low farmer's
daughter."

"_Phy!_ pish!" replied Drusus. "You always scold the Greeks, my good
mistress, and yet, like them, you hold that a marriage between people
of unequal means is unhappy. A penny for your scruples! I have more
money to-day than I know what to do with. Besides, if it will make you
happier, your uncle can doubtless pay over the dowry before a great
while."

"It's certainly very kind of you, Quintus," said Lentulus (who had
quite made up his mind that if the young man could wait for what was a
very tidy fortune, through sheer affection for Cornelia, he would be
pliable enough in the political matter), "not to press me in this
affair. Rest assured, neither you nor my niece will be the losers in
the end. But there's one other thing I would like to ask you about.
From what Calvus told me in Rome, Curio and certain other still worse
_Populares_[81] were trying to induce you to join their abominable
faction. I trust you gave those men no encouragement?"

  [81] The party in opposition, since the time of Tiberius Gracchus,
  to the Senate party--Optimates; at this time the _Populares_ were
  practically all Caesarians.

Drusus was evidently confused. He was wishing strongly that Cornelia
was away, and he could talk to her uncle with less constraint. He felt
that he was treading on very dangerous ground.

"It is true," said he, trying painfully to answer as if the words cost
him no thought. "Antonius had met many of my father's old comrades in
Gaul, and they had sent a number of kind messages to me. Then, too,
Balbus invited me to a dinner-party and there I met Curio, and a very
pleasant time we had. I cannot recall that they made any special
efforts to enlist me as a partisan."

In this last, Drusus spoke truly; for he had already thrown in his lot
with the Caesarian cause. But Lentulus knew enough of the case to
realize that he was receiving not the whole truth but only a half; and
being a man of a sharp temper that was under very imperfect control,
threw diplomacy to the winds, and replied vehemently: "Don't attempt
to cover up your folly! I know how you have put yourself in the power
of those conspirators. Are you planning to turn out another Catilina?"

"My dear sir," expostulated Drusus, doing his best to retain his
outward calm, "I cannot understand of what fault I have become guilty.
Is it wrong in Rome to accept a kindly invitation from an old family
friend to a dinner? Am I responsible for the persons the host summoned
to meet me there?"

Drusus had been simply sparring to ward off the real point at issue;
like many persons he would not assert his convictions and motives till
fairly brought to bay. But that moment came almost instantly.

"Don't equivocate! _Mehercle!_" cried Lentulus, getting thoroughly
angry. "Can't you speak, except to lie and quibble before my face?
Have you joined the gang Curio is rallying for Caesar?"

Drusus was losing his own patience now.

"Yes! And we shall shortly see whether the Republic is to be longer
ruined by incompetence and corruption!"

"Uncle! Quintus!" implored Cornelia, forcing herself between them, and
casting out of her wide-open eyes on each a look full of distress.
"Don't contend! For my sake be friends!"

"For your sake!" raged Lentulus, his florid face growing redder and
redder. "I will take care to keep you out of the clutches of a man who
deliberately chooses to associate with all that is base and villanous.
Until your handsome lover throws over connections with Caesar and his
fellow-conspirators, let him never ask for your hand!"

"Sir," burst in Drusus, flushing with passion, "do you dare to set at
naught the will of your brother and its express commands? Dare you
withhold from me what is legally my own?"

"Legally?" replied Lentulus, with sharp scorn. "Don't use that word to
a consul-elect, who has the whole Senate and Pompeius behind him. Laws
are very dangerous tools for a young man to meddle with in a case like
this. You will be wise not to resort to the courts."

"You defy the law!" thundered Drusus, all the blood of his fighting
ancestors tingling in his veins. "Do you say that to a Livian; to the
heir of eight consuls, two censors, a master of the horse, a dictator,
and three triumphators? Shall not _he_ obtain justice?"

"And perhaps," said Lentulus, sinking into an attitude of irritating
coldness, "you will further press your claim on the ground that your
mother was a Fabian, and the Fabii claim the sole right to sacrifice
to Hercules on the Great Altar[82] in the Cattle-market by the
Flaminian Circus, because they are descended from Hercules and
Evander. I think the Cornelian gens can show quite as many death-masks
in its atria, and your mock heroics will only stamp you as a very bad
tragedian."

  [82] _Ara Maxima_.

"Uncle! Quintus!" implored Cornelia again, the tears beginning to
start from her eyes. "Cease this dreadful quarrel. Go away until you
can talk calmly."

"Quintus Livius," shouted Lentulus, dropping the "Drusus," a part of
the name which was omitted in formal address, "you can choose here and
now. Forswear your Caesarian connections, or consider my niece's
betrothal at an end!"

Drusus stood looking in blank dismay from one to the other of the
little company. Claudia had started to speak, but closed, her lips
without uttering a word. Lentulus faced him, hot, flushed, and with a
cynical smile of delight, at the infliction of mental torture, playing
over his face. Cornelia had dropped down upon a chair, buried her
pretty face in her hands, and was sobbing as if her heart would break.
It was a moment Drusus would not soon forget. The whole scene in the
atrium was stamped upon his memory; the drops of the fountain seemed
frozen in mid-air; the rioting satyr on the fresco appeared to be
struggling against the limitations of paint and plaster to complete
his bound; he saw Cornelia lift her head and begin to address him, but
what she said was drowned by the buzzing and swirl which unsteadied
the young man's entire faculties. Drusus felt himself turning hot and
cold, and in semi-faintness he caught at a pillar, and leaned upon it.
He felt numbed mentally and physically. Then, by a mental reaction,
his strong, well-balanced nature reasserted itself. His head cleared,
his muscles relaxed their feverish tension, he straightened himself
and met the cool leer of Lentulus with a glance stern and high; such a
glance as many a Livian before him had darted on foe in Senate or
field of battle.

"Lucius Cornelius," said he, his voice perfectly under command, "do
you propose to defy law and right and refuse me the hand of your
niece, unless I do your will?"

Lentulus thought that in this unimpassioned speech he detected the
premonitions of a capitulation on the part of Drusus, and with a voice
of ill-timed persuasion, replied, "Be reasonable, Drusus; you have
everything to gain and nothing to lose by not thwarting my wishes."

"Your wishes!" retorted Drusus, with a menacing step forward. "Your
wishes! You are consul-designate. You have the Senate, you have your
tool, Pompeius, you have the gangs of gladiators and street ruffians
and all the machinery of your political clubs to invoke to defy the
law! I grant it; but though you deny me Cornelia, though by your
machinations you bring me any other loss or shame, the grandson of the
murdered Marcus Drusus will do that which is right in his own eyes,
and accept no mandate from you or any man, against his will!"

"Cornelia," cried Claudia, infinitely distressed, "speak to Quintus,
reason with him, implore him, pray him not to resist the requests of
your uncle."

"Yes, girl!" said Lentulus, savagely, turning livid with sheer rage,
"use all your arts on that graceless would-be conspirator now, or see
his face no more!"

But Cornelia interposed in a most summary and unexpected manner. Her
face was very white; her nails pressed into her smooth arms, her
breath came thick and spasmodically, and her eyes flamed with the
intense passion of a strong spirit thoroughly aroused.

"Go, Quintus," she cried, with a strained, loud voice, "go, and never
see my face again, until my uncle repents of his cruel madness! He is
master here; only woe will come from defying him. Do not anger him
further; depart."

"Depart?" burst from Drusus.

"Depart!" replied Cornelia, desperately; "if you stay I shall go mad.
I shall beg you to yield,--which would be base of me; and if you heard
my prayers, it would be more base in you."

"Fool," shouted Lentulus, "don't you know you will be the first I'll
mark for slaughter in the next proscription? You, mistress, go to your
room, if you cannot keep a civil tongue! And you, sir, get you gone,
unless you wish the slaves to cast you out."

"Farewell, Cornelia!" gasped the young man; and he turned his back,
and started out into the colonnade.

"Oh, Quintus, return!" shrieked Claudia, wringing her hands. "All the
gods blast you!" muttered Lentulus, quivering with fury; then he
shouted at the top of his shrill, harsh voice: "My enemies are my
enemies. You are warned. Take care!"

"And do you take warning! A Livian never forgets! _Mars regat!_ Let
War rule!" cried Drusus, turning at the vestibule, and brandishing a
knotted fist. Lentulus stared after him, half furious, half
intimidated. But Claudia glanced back into the room from the just
emptied doorway, and gave a scream.

"The servants! Help! Water! Cornelia has fainted!"


III

Drusus strode down the long avenue of shade trees. The gardener stared
after him, as the young man went by, his face knitted with a scowl of
combined pain and fury, with never a word in reply to the rustic's
kindly salutation.

"_Papae!_"[83] muttered the man, "what has befallen Master Quintus? Has
he fallen out with her ladyship?"

  [83] "Strange! Marvellous!"

Drusus kept on, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left,
until he found himself past the boundary stone between his own estate
and that of the Lentuli. Then he stopped and passed his hand over his
forehead. It was damp with an unhealthy sweat. His hands and frame
were quivering as if in an ague. He seated himself on a stone bench by
the roadway, and tried to collect his faculties.

"Bear up, Drusus; be a Livian, as you boast yourself," he declaimed
frantically to himself. "Cornelia shall still be yours! All things are
possible to one who is young and strong, with a clear conscience!"

If this self-debate did not actually stimulate cheerfulness, it at
least revived the embers of hope; and Drusus found himself trying to
look the situation fairly in the face.

"You have thrown away your right to marry the dearest, loveliest, and
noblest girl in the world," he reflected bitterly. "You have made an
implacable enemy of one of the most powerful men of the state. In
short, your happiness is gone, and perhaps your life is in danger--and
for what? A dream of reform which can never be realized? A mad
conspiracy to overthrow the commonwealth? Is Caesar to be saviour or
despot? For what have you sacrificed yourself?"

Lentulus, he knew perfectly well, was really above law. No jury would
ever convict the leader of the Senate party. Drusus could never
contract lawful marriage with Cornelia, so long as her guardian
withheld consent. And for one moment he regretted of his
determination, of his defiance. Then came reaction. Drusus called up
all his innate pride, all the strength of his nobler inspirations.

"I have set my face toward that which is honourable and right," cried
Drusus to his own soul; "I will not doubt. Whether there be gods, I
cannot tell. But this I know, the wise and good have counted naught
dear but virtues; and toward this end I will strive."

And by a strong effort at self-command, he forced himself to arise
from the bench and walk back to his own estate, and soon he was
pouring the whole story into the sympathetic ears of Mamercus,
Pausanias, and other worthy retainers.

The scene that had taken place at the villa of the Lentuli, soon was
reported through all the adjacent farms; for several slaves had been
the mute witnesses of the angry colloquy, and had not been slow to
publish the report. The familia of Drusus was in a tumult of
indignation. All the brawny Germans and Africans whom the young master
had released from the slave-prison, and had since treated with
kindness, listened with no unfavourable ear to the proposal which
Titus Mamercus--more valorous than discreet--was laying before them:
to arm and attack Lentulus in his own villa, and so avenge their lord
in a summary fashion.

But the elder Mamercus dashed the martial ambitions of his son.

"Fool," cried the veteran, emphatically, when the project came to his
ears, "do you wish to undo yourself and Quintus too? No power short of
Jove could protect you and him, if aught were to befall Lentulus, in
the way you propose."

"But what can we do, father?" replied Titus, sorry to see his scheme
for vengeance blocked; "shall that despicable tyrant defy law and
justice, and refuse to give Mistress Cornelia to Quintus?"

"Silence your folly!" thundered the other, who was himself quite
nonplussed over the situation, and felt Titus's bold chatter would
goad him into something desperate.

The truth was, neither Pausanias nor any other of Quintus's friends
could see any means of coercing the consul-elect into receding from
his position. He was practically above law, and could not with safety
be attacked in any way. Pausanias could only counsel moderation and
patience; perhaps some fortunate chance would alter matters. Drusus
spent the evening in a pathetically forced attempt to read his
Callimachus. He was weary physically, and intended to retire early.
AEmilia, who felt sorry enough for the plight of her rather distant
cousin, had tried to console him and divert him with guitar[84] music,
and had called in an itinerant piper,[85] but these well-meant efforts
at amusement had been dreary failures. Drusus had just bidden his
body-servants undress him, when he was informed that Agias had come
from the Lentulan villa, and wished to see him.

  [84] _Cithara_.

  [85] Itinerant pipers have existed in Italy from earliest times;
  they still survive, albeit in alien lands and with less tuneful
  instruments.

Agias was full of protestations of delight at beholding his
intercessor and ransomer. Drusus could hardly recognize in the
supple-limbed, fair-complexioned, vivacious lad before him, the
wretched creature whom Alfidius had driven through the streets.
Agias's message was short, but quite long enough to make Drusus's pale
cheeks flush with new life, his sunken eyes rekindle, and his languor
vanish into energy. Cornelia would be waiting for him by the great
cypress in the gardens of the Lentulan villa, as soon as the moon
rose.

Drusus prepared himself hurriedly, and refused all the entreaties of
Titus to take him along as a body-guard. Time coursed on winged feet,
as the young man hastened out into the night, and half ran down the
familiar pathway. The day had been only moderately warm for the
season, and the night was cool, though not cold. A soft east wind was
blowing down from the distant Apennines, and all the trees were
rustling gently. Up to the giant arm of a gnarled oak, fluttered an
owl, which hooted noisily as the young man hurried beneath. The
crickets were chirping. A little way off was a small stream plunging
over a dam; from it came a liquid roar; and the little wall of white
spray was just visible in the darkness. Out from the orchards drifted
the fragrant scent of apple, pear, plum, and quince. Still more sweet
was the breeze, as it swept over the wide-stretching rose-beds.
Overhead Orion and Arcturus were glittering in that hazy splendour
which belongs to the heavens on a summer's night.

Drusus kept on, only half noting the beauty of the darkness. When he
entered the groves of the Lentulan villa, almost all light failed him,
and but for his intimate knowledge--from boyhood--of the whole
locality, he could never have kept the path. Then the moonlight began
to stream up in the east, and between the trees and thickets lay the
long, yellow bars of brightness, while all else was still in gloom.
Drusus pushed on with confidence, and soon the gurgle of the tiny
cataract told him that he was near the old cypress. A few steps more,
and a figure rose from out the fern thicket. It was Cornelia. Her hair
was tumbling loosely over her shoulders; she wore a soft, light-blue
dress that covered her arms and her feet. In the moonlight her face
and hands appeared as bloodless as white marble.

"I knew you would come, Quintus," she cried. "I couldn't say farewell
to you, in the presence of my uncle!"

"My beautiful!" cried Drusus; and he caught her in his arms.

The moments that followed were as bitter-sweet as may be conceivable.
Each knew that they had small hope of an honourable realization of
their love one for another; that the moment of parting would soon
come. But for the instant they were in Elysium, caught out of mortal
care and mortal sorrow, and knowing nothing but the pure delight of
the other's presence. Then, at last, their talk became less
enraptured; the vision of Olympus faded little by little; the stern
reality confronted them in all its seriousness.

"Cornelia," said Quintus, at length, "you are still a very young
woman. This day's heart-breakings may, perhaps, be long painful to
you; but the pangs will grow faint in time. You and I may still
cherish fondness in our hearts for each other, but how dare we
reasonably hope for more? Evil times are at hand. If your uncle's
party prevail in the struggle, my ruin is assured. But not yours.
There are many worthy men who would be proud to take in marriage the
niece of the next consul; and with one of these you can live happily.
Do not try to forget me. I don't ask that. But do not let my
misfortune cast a shadow over your dear life. Marry some honourable
man. Only think kindly of me sometimes."

They had been sitting beside the brooklet, on the soft green-sward.
Cornelia had been resting both her hands in Drusus's, but now she drew
them back, and sprang to her feet, as if swept away by a gust of
anger.

"How dare you!" she cried, "how dare you bid me throw away all that my
heart has turned on, and my hopes depended on, and my imagination
dreamed of, since our fathers were slain side by side; and more
especially since you came back from Athens? Why might not I bid you
renounce your adherence to Caesar's cause, and say, 'There is no need
of blasting your career by such a sacrifice; remember Caesar and his
party kindly, wish them well, but do not dwell too much thereon;
submit cheerfully to what is inevitable'? Shall I argue thus? Have I
argued thus? If you will, abandon me, and wed some other maiden, and
many there are, fair, wealthy, noble, who will be glad to be given in
marriage to a Livius Drusus. But till you thus repudiate your father's
will, no power of gods or of men shall drive me to violate that of
mine."

"Cornelia," said Drusus, in a husky voice, "do you know what you are
saying? What resistance to threats and unkind treatment your resolve
will mean?"

"I both know the future and accept it," answered the maiden firmly,
looking fairly into his face.

"Then by all the powers of earth, sky, and Hades!" cried the young
man, lifting one arm toward heaven, and throwing the other about his
sweetheart, "I will defy Lentulus, defy Pompeius, defy Senate, army,
mob, or any other human might. Hitherto I have thought to play the
patriot in espousing Caesar's cause. Now let love and fury fire my
ardour. When the party of violence and tyranny falls, then too will
fall the power of Lentulus to outrage your right and mine! Ours shall
be a triumph of Venus as well as of Mars, and until that time, may you
and I endure faithful unto our fathers, ourselves, and one another!"

Hardly had he spoken ere loud voices were heard calling through the
grove. Torches were glaring among the trees, and the harsh tones of
Lentulus burst out:--

"Take the wretched girl into the house when you find her; but as for
her lover, let him not escape!"

"My uncle!" groaned Cornelia, quivering with terror; "one of my maids
has betrayed me! Flee! run! He has called out all his slaves; they
will kill you!"

"Kill me?" gasped Drusus, incredulously; "commit deliberate murder?"

"Yes," moaned Cornelia; "he dares anything. He is all fury and
violence. Escape! Do not throw yourself away in vain!"

The lights flashed nearer; the slaves were shouting and blundering
through the bushes.

"Two philippi to the man who strikes Drusus down!" bawled Lentulus.

It was no time for delay and affectionate leave-taking. The young man
threw his arms around Cornelia, kissed her once, twice, and then
bounded into the thicket. A moment later several of the servants came
splashing over the little stream, and found Cornelia alone beside the
great cypress, pale and trembling and sobbing. Drusus caught one last
sight of her, surrounded by the torches of the pursuers. Then he
struck off into the grove, and thanks to his perfect local knowledge
easily avoided meeting Lentulus or his slaves. Lentulus he would
gladly have confronted alone. What would have followed, the athletic
young man could only surmise grimly; but he was unarmed, and for
Cornelia's sake he must take no risks.

Close to the confines of his own land he met the Mamerci, father and
son, and several slaves and freedmen, all armed and anxious to know
whether the din that had been raised over at the Lentulan villa
betokened any danger to their young master.

Drusus satisfied them that he had suffered no injury. The personal
peril through which he had passed brought a reaction of excitement
which raised his spirits, and he went to bed in a mood at least
tolerably cheerful. If he could not enjoy his love, he had at least
something else to live for--vengeance; and he told himself that he had
a whole mature lifetime left in which to make Lentulus repent of his
folly and tyrannical cruelty. He awoke late the next morn in a calm
frame of mind, and was able to receive with outward equanimity the
news that early in the morning Lentulus had taken his sister-in-law
and niece, and a large part of his household, back to Rome. This was
only to have been expected, and Drusus listened to the information
without useless comment.




Chapter VI

Pompeius Magnus


If we had been painting an ideal heroine, gifted with all the virtues
which Christian traditions of female perfection throw around such
characters, Cornelia would have resigned herself quietly to the
inevitable, and exhibited a seraphic serenity amid tribulation. But
she was only a grieved, embittered, disappointed, sorely wronged,
Pagan maiden, who had received few enough lessons in forbearance and
meekness. And now that her natural sweetness of character had received
so severe a shock, she vented too often the rage she felt against her
uncle upon her helpless servants. Her maid Cassandra--who was the one
that had told Lentulus of her mistress's nocturnal meeting with
Drusus--soon felt the weight of Cornelia's wrath. The young lady, as
soon as Lentulus was out of the way, caused the tell-tale to receive a
cruel whipping, which kept the poor slave-girl groaning in her cell
for ten days, and did not relieve Cornelia's own distress in the
slightest degree. As a matter of fact, Cornelia was perpetually goaded
into fresh outbursts of desperation by the tyrannical attitude of her
uncle. Lentulus boasted in her presence that he would accomplish
Drusus's undoing. "I'll imitate Sulla," he would announce, in mean
pleasure at giving his niece pain; "I'll see how many heads I can have
set up as he did at the Lacus Servilius. You can go _there_, if you
wish to kiss your lover."

But Cornelia's life at Rome was rendered unhappy by many other things
besides these occasional brutal stabs from her uncle. Her mother, as
has been hinted, was a woman of the world, and had an intense desire
to draw her daughter into her own circle of society. Claudia cared for
Cornelia in a manner, and believed it was a real kindness to tear the
poor girl away from her solitary broodings and plunge her into the
whirl of the world of Roman fashion. Claudia had become an intimate of
Clodia, the widow of Quintus Metellus, a woman of remarkable gifts and
a notoriously profligate character. "The Medea of the Palatine Hill,"
Cicero had bitingly styled her. Nearly all the youth of parts and
social distinction enjoyed the wild pleasures of Clodia's garden by
the Tiber. Catullus the poet, Caelius the brilliant young politician,
and many another had figured as lovers of this soulless and enchanting
woman. And into Clodia's gilded circle Claudia tried desperately to
drag her daughter. The Lentuli had a handsome palace on the Carinae,
one of the most fashionable quarters of the capital; and here there
were many gay gatherings and dinner parties. Cornelia was well born
enough, by reputation wealthy enough, and in feature handsome enough,
to have a goodly proportion of the young men of this coterie her
devoted admirers and slaves. Claudia observed her daughter's social
triumphs with glee, and did all she could to give Cornelia plenty of
this kind of company. Cornelia would not have been a mortal woman if
she had not taken a certain amount of pleasure in noticing and
exercising her power. The first occasion when she appeared at a formal
banquet in the splendid Apollo dinner hall of the Luculli, where the
outlay on the feast was fixed by a regular scale at two hundred
thousand sesterces, she gathered no little satisfaction by the
consciousness that all the young men were admiring her, and all the
women were fuming with jealousy. But this life was unspeakably
wearisome, after the first novelty had worn away. Cornelia lived in an
age when many of the common proprieties and decencies of our present
society would have been counted prudish, but she could not close her
eyes to the looseness and license that pervaded her mother's world.
Woman had become almost entirely independent of man in social and
economic matters, though the law still kept its fictions of tutelage.
Honourable marriages were growing fewer and fewer. Divorces were
multiplying. The morality of the time can be judged from the fact that
the "immaculate" Marcus Cato separated from his wife that a friend
might marry her; and when the friend died, married her himself again.
Scandals and love intrigues were common in the highest circles; noble
ladies, and not ballet-dancers[86] merely, thought it of little
account to have their names besmirched. Everything in society was
splendid, polished, decorous, cultivated without; but within, hollow
and rotten.

  [86] _Mimae_.

Cornelia grew weary and sick of the excitement, the fashionable
chatter, the mongering of low gossips. She loathed the sight of the
effeminate young fops who tried to win her smiles by presenting
themselves for a polite call each morning, polished and furbelowed,
and rubbed sleek and smooth with Catanian pumice. Her mother disgusted
her so utterly that she began to entertain the most unfilial feeling
toward the worthy woman. Cornelia would not or could not understand
that in such hot weather it was proper to wear lighter rings than in
winter, and that each ring must be set carefully on a different finger
joint to prevent touching. Cornelia watched her servants, and reached
the astonishing conclusion that these humble creatures were really
extracting more pleasure out of life than herself. Cassandra had
recovered from her whipping, and was bustling about her tasks as if
nothing had happened. Agias seemed to have a never failing fund of
good spirits. He was always ready to tell the funniest stories or
retail the latest news. Once or twice he brought his mistress
unspeakable delight, by smuggling into the house letters from Drusus,
which contained words of love and hope, if no really substantial
promises for the future. But this was poor enough comfort. Drusus
wrote that he could not for the time see that any good end would be
served by coming to Rome, and he would remain for the present in
Praeneste. He and she must try to wait in patience, until politics took
such a turn as would drive Lentulus into a more tractable attitude.
Cornelia found the days monotonous and dreary. Her uncle's freedman
kept her under constant espionage to prevent a chance meeting with
Drusus, and but for Agias she would have been little better than a
prisoner, ever in charge of his keepers.

In a way, however, Cornelia found that there was enough stirring in
the outside world to lend zest and often venom to the average
emptiness of polite conversation. Politics were penetrating deeper and
deeper into fashionable society. Cornelia heard how Paulus, the
consul, had taken a large present from Caesar to preserve neutrality;
and how Curio, the tribune, had checked Clodius Marcellus, the other
consul, when he wished to take steps in the Senate against Caesar. All
that Cornelia heard of that absent statesman was from hostile lips;
consequently she had him painted to her as blood-thirsty, treacherous,
of flagrant immorality, with his one object to gather a band of
kindred spirits to his cause, and become despot. And to hear such
reports and yet to keep confident that Drusus was not sacrificing both
himself and her in a worse than unworthy cause--this tested her to the
uttermost.

To add to her troubles, Lucius Ahenobarbus was ever thrusting in his
attentions at every party and at the theatre; and her uncle openly
favoured his suit.

"I wish you would be more friendly to him," remarked Lentulus on one
occasion. "I should be glad to have a closer tie between his family
and ours."

"Uncle," said Cornelia, much distressed, "I do not think I understand
what you mean."

"Well," chuckled Lentulus, moving away, "think it over until you do
understand."

Cornelia had been reading in the library when this conversation took
place. There was to be another party that evening at the house of
Marcus Favonius, a prominent anti-Caesarian, and since it was growing
late in the afternoon, it was time to dress. Cornelia went into her
own room, and was summoning her maids, when a young lady of about her
own age, who affected to be on terms of considerable intimacy, was
announced--Herennia, a daughter of a certain rich old eques, Caius
Pontius, who had kept out of politics and hoarded money, which his
daughter was doing her best to spend.

Herennia was already dressed for the party. Her brown hair had been
piled up in an enormous mass on her head, eked out by false tresses
and puffings, and the whole plentifully powdered with gold dust. She
wore a prodigious number of gaudily set rings; her neck and ears and
girdle were ablaze with gold and jewels. So far from aiming, as do
modern ladies, to reduce the waist to the slenderest possible
proportions, Herennia, who was actually quite thin, had carefully
padded out her form to proper dimensions, and showed this fact by her
constrained motions. She was rouged and painted, and around her
floated an incense of a thousand and one rare perfumes. Her
amethystine tunic and palla were of pure silk--then literally worth
its weight in gold--and embroidered with an elaborate pattern in which
pearls and other gems played a conspicuous part. For all this display
of extravagance, Herennia was of only very mediocre beauty; and it was
on this account that she was always glad to make uncomfortable flings
at her "dear friend" Cornelia, whenever possible.

Herennia seated herself on a divan, and proceeded to plunge into all
the flying gossip of the day. Incidentally she managed to hint that
Servius Maccus, her devoted admirer, had told her that the night
before Lucius Ahenobarbus and some of his friends had attacked and
insulted a lady on her way back from a late dinner.[87]

  [87] A common diversion for "young men of spirit."

"The outrageous scapegrace!" cried Cornelia, while her maids hurried
along a toilet which, if not as elaborate as Herennia's, took some
little time. "I imagined he might do such things! I always detested
him!"

"Then you are not so very fond of Lucius Ahenobarbus," said Herennia,
raising her carefully painted eyebrows, as if in astonishment. "I am
really a little surprised."

"Surprised?" reëchoed Cornelia. "What have I done or said that makes
Lucius Ahenobarbus anything more than a very distant, a _very_ distant
acquaintance?"

"My dear girl," exclaimed Herennia, throwing up her hands, "either you
are the best actress, or the most innocent little wight, in Rome!
Don't you know all that they say about you?"

"Who--say--what--about--me?" stammered Cornelia, rising in her chair
so suddenly, as to disarrange all the work Cassandra had been doing on
her hair.

"Why, everybody," said Herennia, smiling with an exasperating
deliberation. "And then it has all come out in the daily gazette."[88]

  [88] _Acta Diurna_, prepared officially.

"Where is it? Read! Let me see," pleaded Cornelia, agitated and
trembling.

"Why, how troubled you are," giggled Herennia. "Yes, I have my
freedman copy down the whole bulletin every day, as soon as it is
posted by the censor's officers; now let me see," and she produced
from under her robe a number of wooden, wax-covered tablets, strung
together: "the last praetor's edict; the will of old Publius Blaesus;"
and she ran over the headings with maddening slowness: "the speech in
the Senate of Curio--what an impudent rascal; the money paid yesterday
into the treasury,--how dull to copy all that down!--the meteor which
fell over in Tibur, and was such a prodigy; oh, yes, here it is at
last; you may as well hear what all Rome knows now, it's at the end,
among the private affairs. 'Lucius Ahenobarbus, son of Lucius
Domitius, the Consular, and Cornelia, daughter of the late tribune,
Caius Lentulus, are in love. They will be married soon.'"

These two brief sentences, which the mechanical difficulties under
which journalistic enterprise laboured at that day made it impossible
to expand into a modern "article," were quite sufficient to tell a
whole story to Rome. Cornelia realized instantly that she had been
made the victim of some vile trick, which she doubted not her would-be
lover and her uncle had executed in collusion. She took the tablets
from Herennia's hand, without a word, read the falsehoods once, twice,
thrice. The meaning of the day attached to the terms used intimated
the existence of a low intrigue, quite as much as any honourable
"engagement." If Cornelia did not soon become the lawful wife of
Lucius Ahenobarbus, the world would feel justified in piling scandal
upon her name. The blow was numbing in its brutality. Instead of
crying and execrating the liars, as Herennia fully expected her to do,
Cornelia merely handed back the tablets, and said with cold dignity,
"I think some very unfortunate mistake has been made. Lucius
Ahenobarbus is no friend of mine. Will you be so kind as to leave me
with my maids?"

Herennia was overborne by the calm, commanding attitude of the rival
she had meant to annoy. When Cornelia became not the radiant
_debutante_, but the haughty patrician lady, there was that about her
which made her wish a mandate. Herennia, in some confusion, withdrew.
When she was gone, Cornelia ordered her maids out of the room,
stripped off the golden tiara they had been plaiting into her hair,
tore away the rings, bracelets, necklaces, and flung herself upon the
pillows of the divan, quivering with sobs. She did not know of a
single friend who could help her. All the knowledge that she had
imbibed taught her that there was no God either to hear prayer, or
succour the wronged. Her name would become a laughing-stock and a
hissing, to be put on a par with Clodia's or that of any other
frivolous woman, unless she not merely gave up the man she loved, but
also threw herself into the arms of the man she utterly hated. The
craving for any respite was intense. She was young; but for the
moment, at least, life had lost every glamour. If death was an endless
sleep, why not welcome it as a blessed release? The idea of suicide
had a grasp on the ancient world which it is hard at first to
estimate. A healthy reaction might have stirred Cornelia out of her
despair, but at that instant the impulse needed to make her commit an
irrevocable deed must have been very slight. But while she lay on the
pillows, wretched and heart-sick, the voice of Agias was heard
without, bidding the maids admit him to their mistress.

"Stay outside. I can't see you now," moaned poor Cornelia, feeling
that for once the sight of the good-humoured, vivacious slave-boy
would be maddening. But Agias thrust back the curtains and boldly
entered. What he said will be told in its due time and place; but the
moment he had gone Cornelia was calling in Cassandra, and ordering the
maids to dress her with all possible speed for the dinner-party.

"I must be all smiles, all enchantments," she was saying to herself.
"I must dissemble. I must win confidences. I must do everything, and
anything. I have no right to indulge in grief any longer. Quintus's
dear life is at stake!"


II

Lentulus did not go to the banquet of Favonius, to see the unwonted
graciousness with which his niece received the advances of Lucius
Ahenobarbus, Neither was Favonius himself present at his own
entertainment. They, and several others of the high magnates of their
party, had been called away by an urgent summons, and spent the
evening in secluded conference with no less a personage than Pompeius,
or as he dearly loved to be called, "the Magnus," in his splendid
palace outside the walls on the Campus Martius. And here the conqueror
of Mithridates--a stout, soldierly man of six-and-fifty, whose best
quality was a certain sense of financial honesty, and whose worst an
extreme susceptibility to the grossest adulation--told them that he
had received letters from Labienus, Caesar's most trusted lieutenant in
Gaul, declaring that the proconsul's troops would never fight for him,
that Caesar would never be able to stir hand or foot against the
decrees of the Senate, and that he, Labienus, would desert him at the
first opportunity.

Cheerful news this to the noble lords, who had for years scented in
Caesar's existence and prosperity destruction to their own oligarchic
rule of almost the known world. But when Cato, the most violent
anti-Caesarian of them all, a sharp, wiry man with angular features,
and keen black eyes, demanded:--

"And now, Magnus, you will not hesitate to annihilate the enemies of
the Republic?" a look of pained indecision flitted across Pompeius's
face.

"_Perpol_, gentlemen," he exclaimed, "I would that I were well out of
this. Sometimes I think that you are leading me into breaking with
Caesar for some ends of your own. He was my friend before you had a
word of praise for me. He loved Julia; so did I." And the Magnus
paused a moment, overcome by the thought of his dead wife. "Perhaps
the Republic demands his sacrifice, perhaps--" and he cast a glance
half of menace upon Lentulus Crus and Cato, "you are the guilty, not
he. But I am in grievous doubt."

"Perhaps, Magnus," said Favonius, with half a sneer, "you think your
forces inadequate. The two legions at Luceria are just detached from
Caesar. Perhaps you question their fidelity."

"Man," retorted the general, fiercely, bringing his foot down upon the
soft rug on the floor, "I have but to stamp upon the ground to call up
legions out of Italy; it is not that which I fear!"

The members of the conference looked uneasy; there was still a bare
chance that Pompeius would go back to his old friendship with Caesar.

"Gentlemen," went on the Magnus, "I have called you here to reach a
final decision--peace or war. Let us consult a higher power than
human." And he touched a little silver bell that was upon the table
close at hand.

Forthwith there was a rustle of curtains, and out of the gloom of the
doorway--for the hour was now very late--advanced a tall, gaunt
figure, dressed in a plain, sleeveless robe that fell to the feet. The
skin was dry, hard, wrinkled by a hundred furrows; the bones of the
face were thrust out prominently; on the head was a plain white
turban, and a beard quite as white fell down upon the breast. Only
from under the turban shone the eyes, which were bright and piercing
as coals of fire.

The stranger advanced without a word, till he stood before Pompeius,
then knelt and made an elaborate Oriental prostration. The noble
Romans, twelve or more of the magnates of the greatest power on the
earth, held their breath in uneasy anticipation. Not one of them
perhaps really believed in a personal god; but though atheists, they
could not forswear their superstition. Piso, the censor, who
notoriously feared neither divine nor human law in his reckless life,
spat thrice to ward off the effects of the evil eye, if the stranger
were a magician.

"Ulamhala," said Pompeius, addressing the newcomer, "arise. Since I
have been in the East,[89] I have consulted you and your science of
the stars, in every intended step, and your warnings have never
failed."

  [89] "Chaldean" astrologers played an almost incredibly important
  part among even the highest-class Romans of the period.

"My lord doth overcommend the wisdom of his slave," replied Ulamhala
(for such was his name) in Syriac Greek, with a second deep obeisance.

"Now, therefore," went on Pompeius--and his voice was unsteady with
evident excitement and anxiety,--"I have called you hither to declare
the warnings of the stars upon the most important step of my life.
What lies now at stake, you know full well. Three days ago I bade you
consult the heavens, that this night you might be able to declare
their message, not merely to me, but to these my friends, who will
shape their actions by mine. Have you a response from the planets?"

"I have, lord," and again Ulamhala salaamed.

"Then declare, be it good or ill;" commanded Pompeius, and he gripped
the arms of his chair to conceal his anxiety.

The scene was in a way weird enough. The visitors exchanged uneasy
glances, and Cato, who broke out in some silly remark to Favonius, in
a bold attempt to interrupt the oppressive silence, suddenly found his
words growing thick and broken, and he abruptly became silent. Each
man present tried to tell himself that Pompeius was a victim of
superstition, but every individual felt an inward monition that
something portentous was about to be uttered.

The conference had lasted long. The lamps were flickering low. Dark
shadows were loitering in every corner of the room. The aroma of
flowers from the adjacent gardens floated in at the open windows, and
made the hot air drugged and heavy. Ulamhala slowly and noiseless as a
cat stepped to the window, and, leaning out over the marble railing,
looked up into the violet-black heavens. There was no moon, but a
trembling flame on one of the candelabras threw a dull, ruddy glow
over his white dress and snowy turban. His face was hid in the gloom,
but the others knew, though they could hardly see, that he was
pointing upward with his right hand.

"Behold," began the astrologer, "three thousand seven hundred and
fifty years since the days of the great Sargon of Agade have we of the
race of the Chaldeans studied the stars. One generation of watchers
succeeded another, scanning the heavens nightly from our
_ziggurats_,[90] and we have learned the laws of the constellations;
the laws of Sin the moon, the laws of Samas the sun, the laws of the
planets, the laws of the fixed stars. Their motions and their
influence on the affairs of men our fathers discovered, and have
handed their wisdom down to us."

  [90] Babylonian temple towers.

"But the word of the stars to _us_?" broke in Pompeius, in extreme
disquietude, and trying to shake off the spell that held him in
mastery.

"Know, lord, that thy slave has not been disobedient unto thy
commandment. Look, yonder burneth a bright red planet, called by us
Nergal, which ye Westerns call by the name of Mars. Who denieth that
when Mars shines in the heavens, war will break forth among men? Know
that I have carefully compared the settings, risings, and movements of
the planets at this season with their settings, risings, and movements
at the time when my lord was born; and also at the time of the birth
of his great enemy. I have made use of the tables which my wise
predecessors among the Chaldees have prepared; and which I myself, thy
slave, copied from those at the Temple of Bel, in Babylon."

"And they say?" breathlessly interrupted Lentulus.

"This is the message from the planets," and Ulamhala's form grew
higher, his voice firmer; he raised his long bony arms above his head,
and stood in the dull light like a skeleton arisen in all its white
grave clothes to convey a warning to the living. "To the Lord
Pompeius, this is the warning, and to his enemy,

  "'_He that is highest shall rise yet higher;
  He that is second shall utterly fall!_'

I have said."

And before the noble Romans could command the free play of their
senses, the vision at the window had vanished, either out of doors, or
behind some doorway or curtain. The company sat gazing uneasily at
each other for several minutes. The Magnus was breathing heavily, as
though he had passed through a terrible mental ordeal. Cato, the Stoic
and ascetic, had his eyes riveted on the carpet, and his face was as
stony as an Egyptian Colossus.

Then a coarse forced laugh from Piso broke the spell.

"Capital, Pompeius! You _are_ a favourite of the gods!"

"I?" ventured the Magnus, moving his lips slowly.

"Of course," cried several voices at once, catching the cue from Piso.
"You are the first in the world, Caesar the second! You are to rise to
new glories, and Caesar is to utterly fall!"

"The stars have said it, gentlemen," said Pompeius, solemnly; "Caesar
shall meet his fate. Let there be war."

       *       *       *       *       *

Lentulus Crus rode away from the conference, his litter side by side
with that of Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus, the consular, whom we will
know as Domitius to distinguish from his son and namesake. Domitius, a
handsome, highly polished, vigorous, but none the less unprincipled
man, who was just reaching the turn of years, was in high spirits. No
oligarch hated Caesar more violently than he, and the decision of
Pompeius was a great personal triumph, the crowning of many years of
political intrigue. What Pompeius had said, he had said; and Caesar,
the great foe of the Senate party, was a doomed man.

Lentulus had a question to ask his companion.

"Would you care to consider a marriage alliance between the Lentuli
and the Domitii?" was his proposition.

"I should be rejoiced and honoured to have the opportunity," was the
reply; and then in another tone Domitius added, "Lentulus, do you
believe in astrologers?"

"I do not really know," answered the other, uneasily.

"Neither do I," continued Domitius. "But suppose the stars speak
truly; and suppose," and here his voice fell, "it is Caesar who is
highest in power, in ability, in good fortune;--what then for
Pompeius? for us?"

"Be silent, O prophet of evil!" retorted Lentulus, laughing, but not
very naturally.




Chapter VII

Agias's Adventure


I

Pisander's view of life became a score of shades more rosy when he
seized the hand of the handsome slave-boy, then embraced him, and
began praising the gods for preserving his favourite's life. Then the
worthy philosopher recollected that his wisdom taught him there were
no gods, and he plunged into a rambling explanation of his position,
which would have lasted forever, unless Agias had cut him short with a
merry gibe, and told him that he must positively come to a tavern and
enjoy at least one beaker of good Massic in memory of old friendship.
And Pisander, whose spareness of living arose more from a lack of
means than from a philosophic aversion to food and good cheer, was
soon seated on a bench in one of the cheap restaurants[91] that
abounded in the city, balancing a very large goblet, and receiving a
volley of questions which Agias was discharging about Valeria's
eccentricities, Calatinus's canvass, Arsinoe, Semiramis, and the rest
of the household of which he had been a member.

  [91] _Popinae_.

"But you haven't told me, Agias," finally interrupted the poor
philosopher, who had been struggling in turn to satisfy his curiosity,
"how you are here, and not--ugh! I hate to think of it--feeding the
dogs and the crows."

Agias's face grew grave while he gave the story of his release by the
Vestal, and subsequent transfer of ownership.

"What was the name of the young man who purchased you, eh?"
interpolated Pisander. "I didn't get it."

"Quintus Livius Drusus," replied Agias.

"Who?" cried the philosopher, starting up.

"Quintus Drusus, of Praeneste," repeated the other.

"_Ai! Ai!_ In the name of Zeus!" cried Pisander, dropping the beaker,
and spilling the wine all over his threadbare himation. "Oh, such a
plot! Such a crime! Was ever anything so villanous ever heard of
before!"

"My dear Pisander," exclaimed Agias, all amazement, "what _is_ the
matter? Your speech is as obscure as Cinna's[92] poem called 'Zmyrna,'
which I've heard was ten years in being written, and must be very
fine, because no one can understand it. No more can I fathom you."

  [92] A poet at that time of some little reputation.

"What a stroke of fortune!" raved the philosopher. "How we will be
revenged on that rascal, Pratinas! O Destiny, thy decrees are just!"

Again Agias expostulated, and at last brought out of Pisander a
tolerably coherent account of the conversation which he had heard
between Valeria and Pratinas. Then, indeed, the merry slave-boy was
troubled. Accustomed to a rather limited ambition in life, he had
attached himself with implicit devotion to Cornelia; first because his
preserver, Drusus, had so enjoined him, and second because each day he
grew more drawn to her personally. The peril which yawned before the
unfortunate Drusus menaced at the same time the happiness of his
mistress and his own welfare,--for if Lucius Ahenobarbus had his way,
Agias himself would become the slave of that not very gentle
patrician. Cornelia and Drusus had had troubles enough before; but in
the present crisis, actual destruction stared Agias's saviour in the
face. The situation was maddening, was sickening. Agias wrung his
hands in anguish. Then came the healthy reaction. Drusus was still
alive and well. He could be warned. The plot could be thwarted.
Pratinas and Ahenobarbus were not yet beyond the reach of retribution.
He--Agias--was no longer to be a mere foot-boy and lackey; he was to
match his keen Greek wits in subtle intrigue against foemen worthy of
his steel. He would save Drusus's life, would save Cornelia's
happiness. If he succeeded, who knew but that his owner would reward
him--would give him freedom. And with a natural rebound of spirits,
Agias's eyes glittered with expectation and excitement, his cheeks
flushed, his form expanded to a manly height.

"_Euge!_ Well done, old friend!" he cried, with the merriment of
intense excitement. "No matter if you say you were only able to hear a
small part of what our dear fellow-Hellene, Pratinas, told Valeria. I
have gathered enough to defeat the plotters. Leave all to me. If you
learn anything new, send word to the house of Lentulus Crus, and ask
to see me. And now I must forsake this pleasant wine untasted, and
hurry away. My mistress will bless you, and perhaps there will be some
reward."

And leaving the bewildered Pisander to wipe the wine from his dress,
Agias had darted out of the tavern, and was lost in the hurly-burly of
the cattle-market.

How Agias had forced his way into Cornelia's presence we have related.
The young Greek had stated his unpleasant intelligence as
diplomatically and guardedly as possible; but Cornelia had borne this
shock--following so soon upon one sufficiently cruel--grievously
enough. After all, she was only a girl--perhaps more mature for her
years than the average maiden of her age of to-day, but almost
friendless, hopeless, and beset with many trials. And this new one was
almost more than she could bear. We have said that to her suicide had
but just before appeared a refuge to be desired; but to have Quintus
die, to have him taken out of that life that ought to be so fair for
him, no matter how darksome it was for her; to have him never realize
her ambition that he become a statesman, warrior, philosopher, in
short her ideal hero--this was unbearable! This phase of the question
was so overpowering that she forgot to feel rage against Ahenobarbus
and his wily ally. Cornelia threw herself down upon the floor, and
cried to Agias to slay her quickly. She did not care to live; she
could endure no more.

Agias here manifested exquisite tact. Instead of attempting any
ordinary means of expostulation, he pleaded with her not to give way
to despair; that Drusus was not yet at the mercy of his enemies; that
she, if she would, could do an infinite deal to assist him.

"I save Quintus?" questioned Cornelia, with white, quivering lips.

"You can do much, my lady," replied Agias, kindly taking her by the
hand, and with gentle pressure forcing her to sit on the divan. "You
can do what neither I, nor Pisander, nor any one else can accomplish.
You can make Lucius Ahenobarbus betray his own plot. You, and you
only, can penetrate the final plans of the conspirators. Therefore be
strong, and do not despair."

"I? What can _I_ do?" cried Cornelia, staring at him with sad,
tearless eyes.

"Lady Cornelia," said Agias, delicately, "Drusus would never receive
back his life if it were to be purchased by any sacrifice of honour on
your part. But this is not needed. Lucius Ahenobarbus--forgive my
plain speech--worships the ground whereon you tread. A smile from you
raises him to Olympus; a compliment from you makes him feel himself a
god; a soft word from you creates him the peer of Zeus. Lady, I know
you hate that man; but for Master Drusus's sake make Ahenobarbus
believe that you are not indifferent to his advances. Slander Drusus
before him. Complain of the provisions of your father's will that,
despite your uncle's intention, will make it difficult to avoid a
hateful marriage. If in the past you have been cold to Ahenobarbus,
grow gracious; but not too rapidly. Finally, at the proper time, do
not hesitate to urge him to commit the act we know he is meditating.
Then he will make you a full partner of his plot, and Pratinas and he
can be permanently thwarted."

"You say that Drusus can be saved by this?" asked Cornelia, steadying
herself as she rose from the divan;

"I will warn him at once," replied Agias. "Any premature attempt on
his life will certainly fail. But it is not Ahenobarbus that I fear;
it is Pratinas. Pratinas, if baffled once, will only be spurred on to
use all his cunning in a second trial. We must enmesh the conspirators
so completely that when their stab is parried, not merely will their
power to repeat it be gone, but they themselves will be in danger of
retribution. And for this, some one must be confederate to their final
plan."

"Agias," said Cornelia, quietly, "Quintus said that you would be a
faithful servant to him and to myself. I believe he was right. You
have asked a great thing of me, Agias. I would not do it unless I
believed that you were unlike other slaves. I might imagine that
Lucius Ahenobarbus had bribed you to tell me this story, in order that
I should put myself in his power. But I trust you. I will do anything
you say. For you Hellenes have wits as keen as sharp steel, and I know
that you will do all you may to repay your debt to Quintus."

Agias knelt down and kissed the robe of his mistress. "My lady," he
said gently, "it is no grievous thing to be a slave of such as you.
Believe me; I will not betray my trust. And now if you can let me
leave you, I will hurry to Praeneste, and for the present our minds may
be at rest. For old Mamercus will, I am sure, be able to take good
care of Master Drusus for yet awhile."

"Go, and the gods--if there be gods--go with you!" replied Cornelia.
Agias kissed her robe a second time, and was gone. His mistress stood
in the middle of the empty room. On the wall facing her was a painting
of "Aphrodite rising from the Foam," which Drusus had given her. The
sensuous smiles on the face of the goddess sickened Cornelia, as she
looked upon it. To her, at the moment, laughter was more hideous than
any sobbing. Outside the door she heard the gay, witless chatter of
the maids and the valets. They were happy--they--slaves, "speaking
tools,"--and she with the blood of the Claudii and Cornelii in her
veins, a patrician among patricians, the niece of a consul-elect, a
woman who was the heiress of statesmen and overturners of
kingdoms,--_she_ was miserable beyond endurance. Cornelia paced up and
down the room, wishing she might order the giggling maids to be
flogged and their laughter turned into howling. Then she summoned
Cassandra.

       *       *       *       *       *

Cornelia had never before tried to play the actress, but that night
she flung herself into the game for life and death with all the
earnestness of an energetic, intelligent, and spontaneous woman. She
had been barely civil to Lucius Ahenobarbus before; to-night the young
man began to persuade himself that the object of his affections was
really a most adorable coquette, who used a certain brusqueness of
speech to add to her witchery. He had heard that there had been some
very disagreeable scenes at Praeneste, when Lentulus had told his niece
that Drusus, on account of his dangerous politics, was unfit to be her
husband. But Ahenobarbus was sure that either these accounts were
exaggerated, or more likely, Cornelia, like most women, was quick to
fall in love and quick to leave an old sweetheart for a new one. Be
that as it may, Lucius felt that night on good terms with himself and
all the world. Phormio had consented to continue his loans--until his
debtor could realize on "certain property." Pratinas had said that
Dumnorix would shortly start with a band of gladiators for some local
festival at Anagnia, a little beyond Praeneste; and on the way back, if
nothing went amiss, the prearranged programme could be carried out.
Some pretext must be found for keeping Drusus on his estate at the
time when Dumnorix would march past it, and that task could be
confided to Phaon, Lucius's freedman, a sly fox entirely after his
patron's own heart.

Cornelia, to whom the dinner-party at Favonius's house began as a
dreary enough tragedy, before long discovered that it was by no means
more easy to suck undiluted sorrow than unmixed gladness out of life.
It gratified her to imagine the rage and dismay of the young exquisite
whose couch was beside her chair,[93] when he should learn how
completely he had been duped. Then, too, Lucius Ahenobarbus had a
voluble flow of polite small talk, and he knew how to display his
accomplishments to full advantage. He had a fair share of wit and
humour; and when he fancied that Cornelia was not impervious to his
advances, he became more agreeable and more ardent. Once or twice
Cornelia frightened herself by laughing without conscious forcing. Yet
it was an immense relief to her when the banquet was over, and the
guests--for Favonius had ordered that none should be given enough wine
to be absolutely drunken--called for their sandals and litters and
went their ways.

  [93] Women sat at Roman banquets, unless the company was of a
  questionable character.

"And you, O Adorable, Calypso, Circe, Nausicaa, Medea,--what shall I
call you?--you will not be angry if I call to see you to-morrow?" said
Ahenobarbus, smiling as he parted from Cornelia.

"If you come," was her response, "I shall not perhaps order the slaves
to pitch you out heels over head."

"Ah! That is a guarded assent, indeed," laughed Lucius, "but farewell,
_pulcherrima!_"[94]

  [94] Most beautiful.

Cornelia that night lay down and sobbed herself to sleep. Her mother
had congratulated her on her brilliant social success at the
dinner-party, and had praised her for treating Lucius Ahenobarbus as
she had.

"You know, my dear," the worthy woman had concluded, "that since it
has seemed necessary to break off with Drusus, a marriage with Lucius
would be at once recommended by your father's will, and in many ways
highly desirable."


II

Only a very few days later Lucius Ahenobarbus received a message
bidding him come to see his father at the family palace on the
Palatine. Lucius had almost cut himself clear from his relations. He
had his own bachelor apartments, and Domitius had been glad to have
him out of the way. A sort of fiction existed that he was legally
under _the patria potestas_,[95] and could only have debts and assets
on his father's responsibility, but as a matter of fact his parent
seldom paid him any attention; and only called on him to report at
home when there was a public or family festival, or something very
important. Consequently he knew that matters serious were on foot,
when he read in his father's note a request to visit Domitius's palace
as soon as convenient. Lucius was just starting, in his most spotless
toga,--after a prolonged season with his hairdresser,--to pay a
morning call on Cornelia, and so he was the more vexed and perturbed.

  [95] Sons remained under the legal control of a father until the
  latter's death, unless the tie was dissolved by elaborate ceremonies.

"Curses on Cato,[96] my old uncle," he muttered, while he waited in
the splendid atrium of the house of the Ahenobarbi. "He has been
rating my father about my pranks with Gabinius and Laeca, and something
unpleasant is in store for me."

  [96] Cato Minor's sister Portia was the wife of Lucius Domitius.
  Cato was also connected with the Drusi through Marcus Livius Drusus,
  the murdered reformer, who was the maternal uncle of Cato and Portia.
  Lucius Ahenobarbus and Quintus Drusus were thus third cousins.

Domitius presently appeared, and his son soon noticed by the affable
yet diplomatic manner of his father, and the gentle warmth of his
greeting, that although there was something in the background, it was
not necessarily very disagreeable.

"My dear Lucius," began Domitius, after the first civilities were
over, and the father and son had strolled into a handsomely appointed
library and taken seats on a deeply upholstered couch, "I have, I
think, been an indulgent parent. But I must tell you, I have heard
some very bad stories of late about your manner of life."

"Oh!" replied Lucius, smiling. "As your worthy friend Cicero remarked
when defending young Caelius, 'those sorts of reproaches are regularly
heaped on every one whose person or appearance in youth is at all
gentlemanly.'"

"I will thank you if you will not quote Cicero to me," replied the
elder man, a little tartly. "He will soon be back from Cilicia, and
will be prodding and wearying us in the Senate quite enough, with his
rhetoric and sophistries. But I must be more precise. I have found out
how much you owe Phormio. I thought your dead uncle had left you a
moderately large estate for a young man. Where has it gone to? Don't
try to conceal it! It's been eaten up and drunk up--spent away for
unguents, washed away in your baths, the fish-dealer and the caterer
have made way with it, yes, and butchers and cooks, and greengrocers
and perfume sellers, and poulterers--not to mention people more
scandalous--have made off with it."

Lucius stretched himself out on the divan, caught at a thick, richly
embroidered pillow, tossed it over his head on to the floor, yawned,
raised himself again upright, and said drawlingly:--

"Y-e-s, it's as you say. I find I spend every sesterce I have, and all
I can borrow. But so long as Phormio is accommodating, I don't trouble
myself very much about the debts."

"Lucius," said Domitius, sternly, "you are a graceless spendthrift. Of
course you must have the sport which all young blood needs. But your
extravagance goes beyond all bounds. I call myself a rich man, but to
leave you half my fortune, dividing with your older brother Cnaeus, who
is a far steadier and saner man than you, would be to assure myself
that Greek parasites and low women would riot through that part of my
estate in a twelvemonth. You must reform, Lucius; you must reform."

This was getting extremely disagreeable in spite of his expectations,
and the young man yawned a second time, then answered:--

"Well, I presume Uncle Cato has told you all kinds of stories; but
they aren't at all true. I really never had a great deal of money."

"Lucius," went on his father, "you are grown to manhood. It is time
that you steadied in life. I have let you live by yourself too long.
You are even too indolent to engage in politics, or to go into the
army. I have come to a determination. You must marry the woman I have
selected for you."

Ahenobarbus pricked up his ears. As a matter of fact, he had surmised
what was coming, but he had no intention of admitting anything
prematurely.

"Really, father," he said, "I hope you won't use your legal right and
force a wife on me. I have no desire to tie myself up to a decent
married life."

"I hardly think," said Domitius, smiling, "that you will resist my
wishes long. I have seen Lentulus Crus the consul-elect, and he and I
agree that since your mother's distant kinsman Quintus Drusus of
Praeneste is an unsuitable husband for Cornelia, Lentulus's niece, on
account of his very dangerous political tendencies, no happier
alliance could bind our families together than a marriage between
Cornelia and yourself."

Lucius yawned a third time and fell back on the couch.

"It's true," he ventured, "I have cared a good deal for Cornelia; and
I've thrown over that little Greek Clyte and all the others for her;
but then, to make a girl your sweetheart and to make her your wife are
two very different things. _Vina Opimia_ is best; but because one
drinks a _cyathus_[97] of that, why should he forego a good nil of
Thasian or Caecuban? If I could have but one choice, give me plenty of
the good, and I'll give up my few drops of the best."

  [97] About one-twelfth pint.

"Come, come," said Domitius, a little impatiently, "you must
positively reform. Besides, while appearances must be kept up, there
is no need for leading the life of a Stoic. You won't find Cornelia a
hard companion. You have your pleasures and she hers, and you will
live harmoniously enough and not the least scandal."

And with this remark Domitius closed the matter, and Lucius was
actually delighted at the situation. What his father had said had been
true enough; half, nay, nearly all, Rome lived in the manner Domitius
had guardedly proposed for his son and intended daughter-in-law.
Marriage was becoming more and more a mere formality, something that
was kept up as the ancient state Pagan worship was kept up by the
remnants of old-time superstition, and as a cloak to hide a multitude
of sins. Fifty-nine years before, the consul Metellus Numidicus had
declaimed, "Quirites, we would fain be free from all this annoyance
(of marriage); but since nature has so brought it about that it is
neither possible to live pleasantly with our wives nor by any means to
live (as a race) without them, we ought to consider the welfare of the
future rather than the mere passing pleasure of the present." And ever
since that day Romans had been striving desperately to make the
married state as endurable as possible; usually by reducing the
importance of lawful wedlock to a minimum.

Of course the announcement of the informal betrothal was soon spread
over Rome. The contracting parties were in the very highest life, and
everybody declared that the whole affair was a political deal between
Lentulus Crus and Domitius. It was commonly reported, too, how
Cornelia had broken with Drusus, and every one remarked that if the
young man had cared to enforce her father's will in the courts, his
claim to her hand and fortune would be valid unless--and here most
people exchanged sly winks, for they knew the power of Domitius and
Lentulus Crus over a jury.

And how had Cornelia borne it--she at whom Herennia had stared in
amazement, when that "dear friend" discovered the friendship the other
was displaying to Lucius Ahenobarbus? Cornelia had received the
announcement very quietly, one might almost say resignedly. She had
one great hope and consolation to support her. They would not force
her to marry Lucius Ahenobarbus until Drusus was dead or had reached
the age of five-and-twenty. The marriage formula with Ahenobarbus once
uttered, while Quintus lived, and by no possibility, save by an open
spoliation that would have stirred even calloused Rome, could Lucius
touch a sesterce of his intended victim's property. Cornelia's hope
now, strangely enough, was in the man she regarded as the most
consummate villain in the world, Pratinas. Ahenobarbus might have his
debts paid by his father, and forego risk and crime if he did not
absolutely need Drusus's fortune; but Pratinas, she knew, must have
planned to secure rich pickings of his own, and if Ahenobarbus married
permanently, all these were lost; and the Greeks never turned back or
let another turn back, when there was a fortune before them. It was a
fearful sort of confidence. Drusus had been warned promptly by Agias.
Old Mamercus had straightway taken every precaution, and forced his
foster son to put himself in a sort of custody, which was sufficiently
galling, in addition to the ever present sense of personal danger. The
villa at Praeneste was guarded quietly by several armed slaves and
peasants; not a morsel or drop passed Drusus's lips that had not been
tested and tasted by a trusty dependent. The young man was not to go
to Rome, despite his infinite yearning to see Cornelia, for every
opportunity would be given in the dark city streets for an assassin.
In fact, Drusus was virtually a prisoner in his own estates, for only
there could he feel reasonably safe from attack.

All these precautions Cornelia knew, for Agias was a master at
smuggling letters in and out. She had told Drusus frankly all that had
passed, and how that she was acting as she did only for his sake. She
asked him to trust her, and he wrote back that no doubt of her
fidelity to him had crossed his mind; he was not worthy of such love
as she had for him; it did not matter very much if Ahenobarbus did
kill him, except that it would give her new grief and pain, and the
thought of that he could not bear. Cornelia had replied that if Drusus
was murdered, she was woman enough and Roman enough to stab Lucius
Ahenobarbus on their marriage night, and then plunge the dagger into
her own breast. And there the fearful matter had rested; Cornelia
smiled by day, and dazzled all she met by her vivacity, and her
aggressive queenliness; and by night cried with tearless sobs, which
came out of the depths of her heart. And all the time she waited for
Agias to foil the plot, and assure Drusus of his life. Let Quintus
once be safe, and then--how could she resist the irresistible pressure
that would be brought to bear to force her into a hated marriage,
which Ahenobarbus--balked though he might be of a fortune--would no
longer care to defer? And when Cornelia thought of this, and when she
was alone, she would open a little casket, of which no other had the
key, and touch the ivory-carved hilt of a small damascened knife. The
blade was very sharp; and there was a sticky gum all along the
edge,--deadly poison; only a very slight scratch put one beyond aid of
physician.

The bitterest cup of all was the attitude she felt forced to assume
toward Lucius Ahenobarbus. There were limits of familiarity and
simulated affection beyond which she could not drive herself to go.
Lucius was with her at all hours and in all places. The more she saw
of him the more she abhorred his effeminate sensuality and lack of
almost every quality that made life worth the living. But she
must--she must learn the plot against Drusus, and precisely how and
when the trap was to be sprung. And in a measure, at least so far as
Lucius was concerned, she succeeded. By continually and openly
reviling Quintus, by professing to doubt the legality of a marriage
contracted against the terms of her father's will, by all but
expressing the wish that her late lover were out of harm's way, she
won her point. In a fit of half-drunken confidence Ahenobarbus assured
her that she would not be troubled by Drusus for long; that he would
soon be unable to annoy her. And then came a great disappointment.
When Cornelia asked--and how much the request cost her, only she
herself knew--to be let into the plot, Lucius owned that he had left
the details in the hands of Pratinas, and did not himself know just
how or when the blow was to fall. In Pratinas--whom Cornelia met very
seldom--she met with a sphinx, ever smiling, ever gracious, but who,
as if regretting the burst of confidence he had allowed Valeria, kept
himself closed to the insinuations and half-questions of every one
else. The truth was, the lanista Dumnorix was unwilling to do his part
of the business until the festival at Anagnia brought him and his band
through Praeneste, and this festival had been postponed. Consequently,
the projected murder had been postponed a few days also. Agias had
tried to penetrate into the secrets of Pratinas, but found that
judicious intriguer had, as a rule, carefully covered his tracks. He
spent a good deal of time and money, which Cornelia gave him, trying
to corrupt some of the gladiators of Dumnorix's band and get at the
intentions of their master; but he was not able to find that any of
these wretches, who took his gold greedily enough, really knew in the
least what were the appointments and engagements of the Gallic giant.
As a matter of fact, the boy began to feel decidedly discouraged.
Pisander had nothing more to tell; and, moreover, the worthy
philosopher often gave such contradictory accounts of what he had
overheard in Valeria's boudoir, that Agias was at his wit's end when
and where to begin.

So passed the rest of the month since Cornelia had been brought from
Praeneste to Rome.


III

Cornelia began to grow sick at heart. The conviction was stealing over
her that she was the victim of a cruel destiny, and it was useless to
fight against fate. She had made sacrifices for Drusus's sake that had
cost her infinitely. All Rome said that Cornelia returned the love of
Lucius Ahenobarbus. And with it all, she knew that she had not
succeeded in discovering the real plot of Pratinas, and could not
thwart it. She knew that nearly every one placed her, if actually not
as vicious as the rest, at least in the same coterie with Clodia, and
the wife of Lentulus Spinther the younger Metella, and only a grade
better than such a woman as Arbuscula, the reigning actress of the
day. There was no defence to offer to the world. Did she not go with
her mother to the gay gathering, in the gardens by the Tiber? Was she
not waited on by half the fashionable young aristocrats of Rome? Was
she not affianced to a man who was notoriously a leader of what might
to-day be called the "fast set" of the capital? And from Drusus, poor
fellow, she gained not the least consolation. That he loved her as she
loved him, she had never cause to doubt. But in his self-renunciation
he gave her advice that sprang out of his own sorrow and pessimism. It
was no use, ran his letters, for a woman like her to try and battle
against the evident decrees of Fortune. He was a man, and must fight
his battle or die his death bravely; but she was not called on for
this. There was no reason why she should not really enjoy herself, in
the way most of the world thought she was enjoying herself. She had
better wed Lucius Ahenobarbus, and stoop to the inevitable. Her
husband could go his way and she go hers, and none would complain.
Perhaps the Epicureans were right,--this life was all, and it was best
to suck from it all the sweets one might, and not be disturbed by
pricks of conscience. Drusus and Cornelia were not lovers of a modern
romance, to entertain fantastic ideas of love and duty, to throw
themselves away for a fancy, or tie themselves with vows which
militated against almost every worldly advantage. They were both
Romans, and by that we mean eminently practical persons, faithful to
one another, pure and noble in their affections, but habituated to
look a situation in the face and accept the plain consequences. In
this spirit Drusus had advised as he did, and Cornelia became
discouraged accordingly. Her reason told her to submit to the
inevitable. Her heart cried out against it. And so she continued to
finger the hilt of the little dagger, and look at its keen
poison-smeared edge.

But one day at the end of this dreary period Agias appeared before his
mistress with a smiling face.

"Don't raise high hopes, my lady, but trust me. I have struck a path
that I'm sure Pratinas will wish I'd never travelled." And that was
all he would say, but laid his finger on his lips as though it was a
great secret. When he was gone, for Cornelia the sun shone brighter,
and the tinkling of the water in the fountain in the peristylium
sounded sweeter than before. After all, there had come a gleam of
hope.

Cornelia needed the encouragement. That same day when Herennia called
to see her, that excellent young lady--for not the least reason in the
world--had been full of stories of poisoning and murders, how some
years ago a certain Balbutius of Larinum was taken off, it was said,
at a wedding feast of a friend for whom the poison had been intended;
and then again she had to tell how, at another time, poison had been
put in a bit of bread of which the victim partook. The stories were
old ones and perhaps nothing more than second-hand scandal, but they
were enough to make poor Cornelia miserable; so she was doubly
rejoiced when Agias that evening pressed his lips again and smiled and
said briefly: "All is going well. We shall have the root of the matter
in a few days."

Agias had actually come upon what he was right in considering a great
piece of good fortune. He had easily found the tenement in the Subura
where Pratinas lodged, but to learn anything there that would be
useful was a far more difficult affair. He had hung around the place,
however, as much as he dared, making his headquarters at a tavern
conveniently near, and tried to learn Pratinas's habits, and whether
he ever took any visitors home with him. All this came to little
purpose till one morning he observed an old Ethiop, who was tugging a
heavy provision basket, stagger up the street, through the nondescript
crowd. The old slave was being assailed by a mob of street gamins and
low pedlers who saw in the contents of the hamper so much fair
plunder. These vagabonds had just thrown the Ethiop down into the mud,
and were about to divide their booty, when Agias, acting on a generous
impulse, rushed out from the tavern to the rescue. Nimble, for his age
powerful, and armed with a stout staff which he had caught up in the
wine-shop to aid him, the young Greek won an easy victory over
cowardly antagonists, put all the plunderers to flight, and lifted the
old slave out of the mire. The Ethiop was profuse in his thanks.

"And whose slave are you?" demanded Agias, well pleased to be out of
the adventure.

"I'm Sesostris, servant of Pratinas the Greek."

Agias pricked up his ears. "And you live--"

"In the top story of this tenement;" and Sesostris tried to pick up
the hamper.

"Oh!" laughed his rescuer, "you must let me save you that trouble. I
will carry up the basket. Your master is a brute to pile on such
loads."

Sesostris again fawned his gratitude, and Agias, with quickened wits
and eyes alert, toiled up the dark stairway, and found himself at the
top of the building. He had "entered the enemy's country." The Ethiop
might not have been open to bribes, but he might be unlocked through
friendship, and Agias never needed all his senses more than now. They
had reached the topmost flight of stairs, and Sesostris had stopped as
if embarrassed whether to invite his deliverer in to enjoy some
hospitality, or say him farewell. Then of a sudden from behind the
closed door came a clear, sweet, girlish voice, singing, in Greek:--

  "O Aitne, mother mine: A grotto fair
    Scooped in the rocks have I, and there I keep
  All that in dreams man pictures! Treasured there
    Are multitudes of she-goats and of sheep,
    Swathed in whose wool from top to toe I sleep."

It was an idyl of Theocritus, very well known by Agias, and without
the least hesitation he took up the strain, and continued:--

  "The fire boils my pot; with oak or beech
    Is piled,--dry beech logs when the snow lies deep.
  And storm and sunshine, I disdain them each
    As toothless sires a nut, when broth is in their reach."[98]

  [98] Calverly's translation.

Agias paused. There was a silence, then a giggle behind the door, and
it half opened, and out peered the plump and rosy face of the young
girl we have heard Pratinas salute as his niece, Artemisia. The moment
she caught sight of the rather manly form of Agias, the door started
to close with a slam, but the latter thrust out his foot, blocked the
door, and forced an entrance.

"_Eleleu!_" cried Agias, pushing into a small but neatly furnished
room. "What have we here? Do the muses sing in Subura? Has Sappho
brought hither her college of poetesses from Lesbos?"

"_Ai!_" exclaimed Artemisia, drawing back, "who are you? You're
dreadfully rude. I never saw you before."

"Nor I you;" replied Agias, in capital good humour, "but that is no
reason why I should take my eyes away from your pretty little face.
No, you needn't point your middle finger at me so, to ward off the
evil eye. I'm neither Chaldean astrologer, nor Etruscan soothsayer.
Come, tell me who you are, and whom you belong to?"

Artemisia did not have the least idea what to say. Agias, partly
through youthful love of adventure, partly because he felt that he was
playing now for very high stakes and must risk a good deal, had thrown
himself on the divan, and was holding Artemisia captive under his
keen, genial eyes. She grew redder in face than before, began to
speak, then broke off with more confused blushes.

"She means to say," finally ventured Sesostris, "that she is
Artemisia, the niece of Pratinas."

"The niece of Pratinas!" exclaimed Agias, settling himself upon the
cushions in a manner that indicated his intention to make a prolonged
stay; "and does Pratinas keep his pretty niece shut up in a gloomy
tenement, when she has the voice of one of the Graces, and more than
their share of beauty! Shame on him; I thought he had better sense
than that!"

"Sir," ventured Artemisia, trying desperately to stand on her dignity,
"I do not know you. My uncle will be greatly vexed to find you here.
Will you go away at once?"

"That I will not," replied Agias, firmly; and he drew from the hamper
a baker's bun, and began to munch it, as though laying in provision
for a lengthy stay.

Artemisia and Sesostris exchanged glances of dismay.

"What _shall_ I do?" said the girl to the Ethiop in a very audible
whisper.

"Sing," interrupted Agias. "Let me hear the rest of the Theocritus."

"I don't like to sing those songs," objected Artemisia. "Pratinas
makes me, I don't know why."

"Well," said Agias, smiling, "I wouldn't for the-world make you sing
against your will. Suppose you tell me about yourself. Tell me when
your uncle is away, and when I may come and see you again."

"He's away nearly all the time," said Artemisia, very incautiously.
"But _who are_ you? Why do you want to come and see me?"

"Why do I want to look at a flower? Why do I want to hear the
nightingale sing? Why do I like a cup of good wine?" laughed Agias.
"Then, fair mistress, you may look for my answer when _you_ have
answered all of these questions of mine."

"I don't see what you mean," said poor Artemisia, looking dreadfully
puzzled.

"I mean," exclaimed the other, "what Sappho meant of the bride,--

  'She like an apple turned red; which reddens far up on the tree-top:--
  Upon the topmost of boughs,--the gatherers they have quite missed it.
  Yes, they saw it indeed; but too high to dare try to pluck it.'

Only I, if you don't greatly mind, will be the bold tree-climber and
pluck the apple."

"But I do mind," cried Artemisia, all blushes, and springing a little
back. Old Sesostris looked alarmed.

"You--you mean the girl no ill?" he faltered.

Agias looked from the innocent little thing over to the Ethiop,
snapped his finger, and replied:--

"Ill? I am not a human wolf, making pretty objects like this my prey!"
Then, choosing his moment carefully, by a quick turn he confronted
Sesostris sternly, and almost thundered: "_You_ speak of my doing ill
to this maiden? You speak--the slave of Pratinas, who is the leader in
every vice and wild prank in Rome! Has the slave as well as the master
learned to play the hypocrite? Do you want to be tortured into
confessing your part in all your master's crimes when the hour of
reckoning comes and he is brought to justice. _A! A!_" he went on,
seeing that Sesostris was rolling the whites of his eyes, and was
trembling in every limb, "you know for a certainty how and when
Pratinas is to have Quintus Drusus killed! Don't deny it. You will
soon be in the meshes. Don't hope to escape. If murder comes to Drusus
he may perish, but he has friends who will fearfully avenge his
death."

"Mercy! Mercy!" howled the Ethiop, falling on his knees and clutching
at the young Greek's robe, "I know very little of the plot. I only
know--"

"Don't equivocate," thundered Agias. "If I had known the kind of man
you were, I would hardly have saved you from those street ruffians.
You don't deserve to live. Well, the crows will soon have you! You
Egyptians believe in a judgment of the dead; what defence can you make
before the court of Osiris[99] for being privy to a foul murder?
You'll come back to earth as a fly, or a toad, or a dung-beetle, to
pay the penalty for your sins."

  [99] The Egyptian judge of the dead.

"Mercy," whined Sesostris, who was in a paroxysm of fright. "Indeed I
am innocent! I am only a poor slave! I can't help knowing what
Pratinas is doing; but how can I prevent him? Don't look at me so! I
am innocent--innocent!"

"I can scarce believe you," said Agias, affecting great reluctance to
show any leniency. "Doubtless you are steeped in blood. Still, you may
save yourself this once. Remember, you are known, and the plans of
Pratinas against Drusus are partly known. We know about Dumnorix, and
Lucius Ahenobarbus, and--"

"Oh!" cried Sesostris, as though a hot iron had touched him, "I will
find out everything, and tell you. Indeed I will. Only do not send me
to the rack or crucify me if my master's plans go astray!"

"Well," said Agias, still simulating hesitancy, "I will report to my
superiors. Perhaps you are not a willing accomplice of your master. In
that case, if he is apprehended, your life will doubtless be spared.
But we must thwart his plot before it can be carried out. This you
must aid us to do. When will Dumnorix start for Praeneste?"

Again Sesostris quailed. "I don't know," he faltered, "there has been
a postponement. There was a plan that if Drusus came to the city he
was to be lured outside the Esquiline gate, as if going to some villa,
and murdered in the sand-pits, as have been many people."

"But this plan has been given up? Speak the truth!" sharply demanded
Agias.

"Yes; for Drusus will not stir from Praeneste. So there the scheme must
be executed, as originally arranged."

"And Dumnorix will go soon?"

"I think in a few days. I will find out."

"As you love your own life do so! I will call on each day at this
hour. If Pratinas is at home, leave some bright garment outside near
the door, that I may not stumble on him. Deceive or betray me, and my
masters will take a terrible revenge on you; for you haven't the least
idea what is the power of the men Pratinas has for enemies."

Agias turned to depart. Then to Artemisia:--

"And you, my pretty,--when I come again, I will try to stay longer,
and make you feel as glad to see Agias, as Agias will be to see
Artemisia."

Agias was descending the stairs, when Sesostris called him back with a
whisper.

"You are a dreadful youth; but since I am so utterly in your power,
hear something that may prove that I am not a knave at heart. You have
a fancy to the girl?"

"Certainly I have eyes for her face, and ears for her sweet little
voice," said Agias, smiling.

"Then listen," went on the Ethiop; "I care for the dear more than
anything else in the world. She said she was Pratinas's niece. It
isn't true. She is a slave-girl he picked up when very little at
Delos,[100] as he told me, though I doubt it. He took a fancy to her,
and really thought of adopting her. Then his soul became so set on
money, that he saw she would fetch a great price when grown; and sell
her he will. He still pretends to call her his niece; but that won't
be for long. He is teaching her to sing, to add to her value. _A!_ But
my old heart is almost breaking for her sake. _Mu, mu!_" and Sesostris
puffed his groans through his nostrils. "Think of it! He has an idea
to sell her to that rich Roman, Lucius Calatinus--and then I don't
dare hint what will be her fate."

  [100] At this period the great slave emporium of the world.

"Calatinus!" hissed Agias, concentrating volumes of scorn into a word.

"You know him! You hate him!" cried Sesostris. "Then by Ammon-Ra, by
Isis, by every god in whom you believe, save my darling from worse
than death! Do that, and I will die for you!"

Sesostris's emotion was too genuine to be a mere trap for ensnaring
his visitor; and Agias in turn was stirred.

"Old man," he exclaimed, seizing the other's hand, "you and I have
suffered much from evil masters. Thank the gods, I am now serving one
I love--albeit unfortunate enough! But we have a common right to
punish the wrongdoers, and earn a little bit of happiness for
ourselves. Come, now! If Artemisia is a slave, she is in no wise above
me. Let me save Drusus from Pratinas, and I pledge my word that I will
save Artemisia from him and his nefarious schemes,--yes, and you, too.
If Artemisia likes me, why then there will be perhaps more to add to
the story. Come--I am your friend, and you, mine."

Sesostris wrung the other's hand. The honest servant was moved too
much to speak. His heart and soul had been bound up in Artemisia.

"May your _Ka_[101] stand before Osiris justified!" he choked. "I have
been privy to many a dark action, until I used to try to forget the
day when I must answer to the Judge of the Dead for every deed done
and word spoken. But I could not stifle my fear for the only dear
thing in the world."

  [101] The spiritual double which belonged to every man according to
  the Egyptian ideas.

Agias went away in a happy frame of mind. He had every confidence that
Sesostris would worm out of Pratinas the exact details of the plot,
and put the conspirators at the mercy of Drusus and Mamercus.

       *       *       *       *       *

And Agias had felt there was good reason to rejoice in his discovery
in more ways than one. Especially was he conscious that there were no
lips as red and as merry, no cheeks as rosy, no eyes as dancing, no
chatter as sweet, as those of Artemisia. And what is more, he rejoiced
to believe that that young lady was not half so shy of him as at
first, and was as anxious to see him as he to see her. Thanks to due
warnings and precautions, Agias never stumbled on Pratinas, when the
latter was at his lodgings. The time he dared to stay was all too
short for Artemisia. She was always telling how lonesome she was with
only old Sesostris for company, before she knew Agias. Once when the
latter was late in his daily visit, he was delighted to find scribbled
on the wall, "Artemisia to her Agias: you are real mean." Agias hated
to make her erase it lest it fall under Pratinas's eagle eye.

But still Sesostris had nothing to tell about the plot against Drusus.
Some days passed. Agias began to grow uneasy. Sesostris had
represented that he was conversant with everything his master had on
foot; but Pratinas might have been more discreet than to unfold all
his affairs, even before his servant; and then, too, there was always
the possibility that Sesostris was playing fast and loose, and about
to betray Agias to his master. So the latter grew disquieted, and
found it a little hard to preserve the character of cheerful mystery
which he simulated to Cornelia. The long-sought information came at a
time when he was really off his guard. Agias had been visiting
Artemisia. Sesostris as well as Pratinas had been out; the two young
people were amusing themselves trying to teach a pet magpie to speak,
when the Ethiop rushed into the room, all in a tremble with anxious
excitement.

"_A! A!_" he was ejaculating. "Up, speed, don't delay! There's murder
afoot!"

Agias let the bird slip from his hands, and never noticed that it
fluttered on its clipped wings around the room, to Artemisia's
infinite dismay.

"What? Is the plot hatched?"

"Yes, yes," puffed Sesostris, great beads of perspiration on his
honest face. "I was attending Pratinas when he met Lucius Ahenobarbus
in the Forum. They veiled their talk, but I readily caught its drift.
Dumnorix went yesterday with the pick of his band to Anagnia for some
games. To-morrow he will return through Praeneste, and the deed will be
done. Phaon, Ahenobarbus's freedman, has started already for Praeneste
to spy out the ground and be ready to direct Dumnorix where, when, and
how to find Drusus. Phaon has been spying at Praeneste, and is the
dangerous man!"

"He has gone?" demanded Agias.

"Gone, early this morning!"

"Then,--the gods reward you for your news,--I am gone too!"

And without another word to Artemisia or the old slave, Agias had
rushed out into the street. He had a double game to play--to prevent
Phaon from ever reaching Praeneste, and then get such help to Drusus as
would enable him to beat off Dumnorix and his gang. For Agias felt
certain that the hard-hitting Gaul would execute his part of the
bargain, whether he met Phaon or not, and afterward look into the
consequences of what--unmitigated by the freedman's _finesse_--would
take the form of an open clumsy murder. But Phaon had started that
morning; and it was now well into the afternoon. Time was dangerously
scanty. Cornelia he felt he should inform; but she could do nothing
really to help him. He turned his steps toward the Forum and the
Atrium Vestae. He had some difficulty in inducing the porter to summon
Fabia, to meet in personal interview a mere slave, but a gratuity won
the point; and a minute later he was relating the whole story and the
present situation of Drusus to Fabia, with a sincere directness that
carried conviction with it. She had known that Drusus had enemies; but
now her whole strong nature was stirred at the sense of her nephew's
imminent peril.

"If you were a freeman, Agias," were her words, "and could give
witness as such, Pratinas and Ahenobarbus--high as the latter
is--should know that my influence at the law outweighs theirs. But
they shall be thwarted. I will go to Marcellus the consul, and demand
that troops be started to Praeneste to-night. But you must go after
Phaon."

"You will send word to Cornelia?" requested Agias.

"Yes," said Fabia, "but not now; it is useless. Here is an order on
Gallus, who keeps a livery-stable[102] by the Porta Esquilina. He will
give you my new white Numidian, that I keep with him. Ride as you have
never ridden before. And here is money. Twenty gold philippi in this
bag. Bribe, do anything. Only save Drusus! Now go!"

  [102] Such establishments were common near the gates, and the Vestals
  often had their horses at such places.

"Farewell, lady," cried Agias, "may I redeem the debt of gratitude I
owe you!"

Fabia stood looking after him, as he hastened out from the quiet
atrium into the busy street. Little Livia had cuddled up beside her
aunt.

"Oh, Livia," said Fabia, "I feel as though it were of no use to live
good and pure in this world! Who knows what trouble may come to me
from this day's doings? And why should they plot against your
brother's dear life? But I mustn't talk so." And she called for her
attendants to escort her abroad.




Chapter VIII

"When Greek Meets Greek"


I

Cornelia had surmised correctly that Pratinas, not Lucius Ahenobarbus,
would be the one to bring the plot against Drusus to an issue. Lucius
had tried in vain to escape from the snares the wily intriguer had
cast about him. His father had told him that if he would settle down
and lead a moderately respectable life, Phormio should be paid off.
And with this burden off his mind, for reformation was very easily
promised, Lucius had time to consider whether it was worth his while
to mix in a deed that none of Pratinas's casuistry could quite
convince him was not a foul, unprovoked murder, of an innocent man.
The truth was, Ahenobarbus was desperately in love with Cornelia, and
had neither time nor desire to mingle in any business not connected
with the pursuit of his "tender passion." None of his former
sweethearts--and he had had almost as many as he was years old--were
comparable in his eyes to her. She belonged to a different world from
that of the Spanish dancers, the saucy maidens of Greece, or even the
many noble-born Roman women that seemed caught in the eddy of Clodia's
fashionable whirlpool. Lucius frankly told himself that he would want
to be divorced from Cornelia in five years--it would be tedious to
keep company longer with a goddess. But for the present her vivacity,
her wit, her bright intelligence, no less than her beauty, charmed
him. And he was rejoiced to believe that she was quite as much
ensnared by his own attractions. He did not want any unhappy accident
to mar the smooth course which was to lead up to the marriage in no
distant future. He did not need Drusus's money any longer to save him
from bankruptcy. The legacy would be highly desirable, but life would
be very pleasant without it. Lucius was almost induced by his inward
qualms to tell Pratinas to throw over the whole matter, and inform
Dumnorix that his services were not needed.

It was at this juncture that Cornelia committed an error, the full
consequences of which were, to her, happily veiled. In her anxiety to
discover the plot, she had made Lucius believe that she was really
pining for the news of the murder of Drusus. Cornelia had actually
learned nothing by a sacrifice that tore her very heart out; but her
words and actions did almost irreparable harm to the cause she was
trying to aid.

"And you have never given me a kiss," Lucius had said one morning,
when he was taking leave of Cornelia in the atrium of the Lentuli.
"Will you ever play the siren, and lure me to you? and then devour, as
it were, your victim, not with your lips, but with your eyes?"

"_Eho!_ Not so bold!" replied Cornelia, drawing back. "How can I give
you what you wish, unless I am safe from that awful Polyphemus up in
Praeneste?"

When Ahenobarbus went away, his thoughts were to the following effect:
"I had always thought Cornelia different from most women; but now I
can see that, like them all, she hates and hates. To say to her,
'Drusus is dead,' will be a more grateful present than the largest
diamond Lucullus brought from the East, from the treasure of King
Tigranes."

And it was in such a frame of mind that he met Pratinas by appointment
at a low tavern on the Vicus Tuscus. The Greek was, as ever, smiling
and plausible.

"Congratulations!" was his greeting. "Dumnorix has already started. He
has my orders; and now I must borrow your excellent freedman, Phaon,
to go to Praeneste and spy out, for the last time, the land, and
general our army. Let him start early to-morrow morning. The time is
ample, and unless some malevolent demon hinder us, there will be no
failure. I have had a watch kept over the Drusus estate. An old sentry
of a steward, Mamercus,--so I learn,--has been afraid, evidently, of
some foul play on the part of the consul-designate, and has stationed
a few armed freedmen on guard. Drusus himself keeps very carefully on
his own premises. This is all the better for us. Dumnorix will dispose
of the freedmen in a hurry, and our man will be in waiting there just
for the gladiators. Phaon will visit him--cook up some errand, and
inveigle him, if possible, well out in the colonnade in front of the
house, before Dumnorix and his band pass by. Then there will be that
very deplorable scuffle, and its sad, sad results. Alas, poor Drusus!
Another noble Livian gathered to his fathers!"

"I don't feel very merry about it," ventured Lucius. "I don't need
Drusus's money as much as I did. If it wasn't for Cornelia, I would
drop it all, even now. Sometimes I feel there are avenging
Furies--_Dirae_, we Latins call them--haunting me."

Pratinas laughed incredulously. "Surely, my dear fellow," he began,
"you don't need to have the old superstitions explained away again, do
you?"

"No, no," was his answer; Lucius capitulating another time.

So it came to pass that Pratinas had an interview with Phaon, Lucius's
freedman, a sleek, well-oiled Sicilian Greek, who wore his hair very
long to cover the holes bored in his ears--the mark of old-time
servitude. He was the darling of waiting-maids; the collector of all
current scandal; the master spirit in arranging dinners, able to tell
a Tuscan from a Lucanian boar by mere taste. He used also to help his
patron compose _billets-doux,_ and had, by his twistings and
scrapings, repeatedly staved off Phormio, Lucius's importunate
creditor. As for Phaon's heart, it was so soft and tender that the
pricks of conscience, if he ever had any, went straight through,
without leaving a trace behind. And when Pratinas now informed him as
to his final duties at Praeneste, Phaon rubbed his beringed hands and
smoothed his carefully scraped chin with ill-concealed satisfaction.

"And a word more in closing," said Pratinas, as he parted with Phaon
in the tavern--while Lucius, who had been drinking very heavily,
nodded stupidly over his goblet of amber Falernian, in a vain attempt
to gulp down eight _cyathi_ at once, one measure to each letter in the
name of Cornelia--"a word more. Dumnorix is a thick-skulled knave, who
is, after all, good for little but blows. I have made an arrangement
which will ensure having a careful man at his elbow in time of need.
You, of course, will have to do your best to save the unfortunate
Quintus from inevitable fate. But I have asked Publius Gabinius to
leave for Praeneste very early on the morning when Dumnorix passes
through that place. Gabinius has a small villa a little beyond the
town, and there will be nothing suspicious in a journey to visit one's
country house. He will meet Dumnorix, and be at his side when the
pinch comes. You see? He is an adventurous fellow, and will help us
just for the sake of the mischief. Besides, I believe he has a grudge
against the Drusian family as a whole, for he lately tried to pass
some familiarities with Fabia the Vestal, Drusus's aunt, and she
proved disgustingly prudish."

"And how much will you and I," said Phaon, with a sly smirk, "gain
out of this little business, if all goes well? Of course one should
help one's patron, but--"

"It is folly to divide the spoils of Troy before Troy is taken,"
laughed Pratinas. "Don't be alarmed, my good fellow. Your excellent
patron will reward us, no doubt, amply." And he muttered to himself:
"If I don't bleed that Lucius Ahenobarbus, that Roman donkey, out of
two-thirds of his new fortune; if I don't levy blackmail on him
without mercy when he's committed himself, and becomes a partner in
crime, I'm no fox of a Hellene. I wonder that he is the son of a man
like Domitius, who was so shrewd in that old affair with me at
Antioch."

       *       *       *       *       *

So it came to pass that the next morning, long before Pratinas and
Ahenobarbus met in the Forum and reviewed the steps taken in the words
that gave Sesostris the key to the situation, Phaon was driving toward
Praeneste. Of course a mere freedman, on a journey preferably kept
quiet, travelled in not the least state. He rode alone, but had
borrowed from his patron two of those small but speedy Gallic horses
called mammi, that whirled his gig over the Campagna at a rapid trot.
Still there was no great call for haste. He wished to get to Praeneste
about dark, and there make a few inquiries as to the whereabouts and
recent doings of Drusus. Pratinas had had considerable espionage kept
up over his intended victim, and the last results of this detective
work were to be reported to Phaon by the slaves of Ahenobarbus
performing it. Perhaps there would be no real harm in driving straight
through to Praeneste in the open daylight, but it was better not to
show himself until the right time. So it was that, halfway on the
road, Phaon turned in to the tavern of the decaying little town of
Gabii, gave his team to the hostler, and rested himself by fuming over
the squalor and poor cooking of the inn.


II

Agias secured the fast Numidian from the stables of Gallus, and was
soon away. His frequent journeys between Rome and Praeneste, in service
of Cornelia and Drusus, made him a fairly expert rider, and his noble
mount went pounding past the mile-stones at a steady, untiring gallop.
The young Hellene was all tingling with excitement and expectation; he
would save Drusus; he would send the roses back into his beloved
mistress's cheeks; and they would reward him, give him freedom; and
then the future would be bright indeed.

But it grew late, fast as the horse bore him. He felt it his duty to
press on with all speed to Praeneste. He had still a very vague notion
of the final form of the conspiracy, especially of the role assigned
to Phaon. Of one thing he was certain: to intercept Phaon was to
deprive Dumnorix of an essential ally; but how to intercept the wily
freedman was nothing easy.

As the Numidian swept into Gabii, Agias drew rein, telling himself
that the horse would make better speed for a little rest and baiting.
The tavern court into which he rode was exceedingly filthy; the whole
building was in a state of decay; the odours were indescribable. In
the great public-room a carter was trolling a coarse ditty, while
through the doorway ran a screaming serving-maid to escape some low
familiarity.

A shock-headed boy with a lantern took Agias's bridle, and the Greek
alighted; almost under his eyes the dim light fell on a handsome,
two-horse gig, standing beside the entrance to the court. Agias gave
the vehicle close attention.

"It belongs to a gentleman from Rome, now inside," explained the boy,
"one horse went lame, and the veterinary[103] is coming." Agias's eye
caught a very peculiar bend in the hollow in the neck-yoke. He had
seen that carriage before, on the fashionable boulevards--along the
Tiber, in the Campus Martius--the carriage of Lucius Ahenobarbus.
Phaon was waiting in the tavern!

  [103] _Equarius_.

"Care for my horse at once," remarked Agias, a little abruptly. "Time
presses." And he turned on his heel, and leaving the boy gaping after
him, went into the squalid public-room of the tavern.

The landlord of the establishment, a small, red-faced, bustling man,
was fussing over some lean thrushes roasting on a spit before the open
fire that was roaring on the hearth. The landlady, lazy, muscular,
corpulent, and high-voiced, was expostulating with a pedler who was
trying to slip out without settling. Four other persons, slaves and
peasants, were sitting on two low benches beside a small, circular
table, and were busy pouring down the liquor which a young serving-boy
brought them in tumbler-shaped cups, or eating greedily at loaves of
coarse bread which they snatched from the table. It was so late that
little light came into the room from the door and windows. The great
fire tossed its red, flickering glow out into the apartment and cast a
rosy halo over the hard brown marble pavement of the floor. Upon the
dingy walls and rafters hung from pegs flitches of bacon, sausages,
and nets of vegetables. Agias stopped in the doorway and waited till
his eyes were fairly accustomed to the fire-light. Over in a remote
corner he saw a lamp gleaming, and there, sprawling on a bench, beside
a table of his own, well piled with food and drink, he distinguished
in solitary majesty Phaon--too exquisite to mingle with the other
guests of the tavern.

The landlord quickly noticed his new customer, and sprang up from the
fire. Agias had on a coarse grey woollen cloak over his light tunic,
and he drew his hood up so as partly to cover his face as he stepped
into the room.

"_Salve!_" was the landlord's salutation. "What hospitality can the
Elephant[104] afford you?"

  [104] Inns were known by such signs.

The good host did not think Agias anything more by his dress than a
common slave, and saw no need of excessive politeness.

Agias noticed that he was expected to join the other drinkers around
the centre table.

"_Eho_, mine host!" cried he, letting the fire give one glint on a
gold piece. "Can't you give me a seat at the other end of the room? I
don't know these good people, and they won't thank me for thrusting
myself on them."

"Certainly, certainly," exclaimed the landlord, all condescension.
"There is a gentleman from Rome drinking by himself at that table over
there. Perhaps he will not object."

Now was the crisis. Agias had seen Phaon many times with Lucius
Ahenobarbus; but he was reasonably certain that the freedman had never
degraded himself by taking any notice of the numerous slaves of
Lentulus's household. Without waiting for the host to continue, he
hastened over to the farther table, and exclaimed with all the
effrontery at his command:--

"_Hem!_ Phaon; don't you remember an old friend?"

The freedman for once was completely off his guard. He started up,
stared at Agias, and began to mutter excuses for a very short memory.

"Well, well," cried Agias. "You _have_ a poor recollection of faces!
Don't you remember how Pratinas took you to the Big Eagle restaurant,
down on the Vicus Jugarius, on the last Calends, and how you met me
there, and what good Lesbian and Chian wine there was? None of your
weak, sickening Italian stuff! Surely you remember Cleombrotus, from
whom you won four hundred sesterces."

Phaon, who remembered the tavern, a visit, and winning four hundred
sesterces at one time or another, tried to make himself believe that
he won them from a young man, like the one before him, and that his
name was Cleombrotus.

"Um! Yes, of course," he faltered. "I'm very glad to see you. What
brings you here?"

"Business, business," complained Agias; "my master's a grain merchant
with dealings at Puteoli, and he has sent me thither, to make some
payments." Phaon pricked up his ears. "The Via Appia is more direct,
but there is less chance of robbers by the Via Praenestina."

"I hope your master can trust you not to lighten his pouch on the
way," remarked Phaon.

"Well," chuckled Agias, "he'll have to take his risk. If it's lost on
the road, why, highwaymen stripped me. It is one of the fortunes of
trade." Phaon was fully convinced that here was a fine chance to do
some picking on his own account.

"Doubtless," he began, "you are not in such haste that you cannot
enjoy one of those thrushes that sheep of a landlord is roasting for
me. _Phui!_ What a nasty place to have one's horse give out in. You
will give me at least a little company to pass the time?"

Agias affected reluctance; then as the host brought up the birds,
savory and hot, on an earthen platter, he gracefully accepted the
invitation. The thrushes and the rest of the bill of fare, bacon,
sweet nut-flavoured oil, bread, and the cheap wine of the Campagna
were not unwelcome, though Phaon cursed the coarse food roundly. Then,
when hunger had begun to yield, Phaon suggested that Cleombrotus "try
to secure revenge for his losses on the Calends"; and Agias, nothing
loth, replied that he did not wish to risk a great sum; but if a
denarius were worth playing for, there was no objection to venturing a
few casts, and "he would ask the host to bring them the gaming
implements."

So the landlord brought dice and dice boxes, and Phaon--who had come
to the conclusion that he had to deal with a light-headed bumpkin, who
represented merely so much fair plunder--began to play with a careless
heart. The landlord brought more and more flagons of wine, wine that
was mixed with little water and was consequently very heady. But the
game--with some veering of fortune--went the freedman's way. He won a
denarius; then another; then a third; lost a fourth time; won back
everything and five denarii more; and finally his opponent, heated
with play, consented to stake two gold pieces.

"What did you say a minute ago to the landlord?" muttered Phaon,
feeling that the undiluted liquor was getting the best of him. "This
wine is very strong. It makes my head ache."

"_Phy!_" retorted Agias. "Who complains of good liquor? I only told
the host to set another lamp near us. Shall we play again?"

"By Zeus!" exclaimed the delighted freedman. "Here I have cast four
'sixes' once more." And again he drained the beaker.

"_Vah!_" sniffed Agias. "Luck will turn at last. Let us play for real
stakes. More wine, mine host! I will put down ten philippi. This will
be worth winning or losing."

"As you say," gleefully chuckled Phaon, tossing the gold on the table.
"Yes, more wine, I say too. One always enjoys play when his temples
are all athrob."

Agias quietly reached over, took up his opponent's dice box, and
rattled it, and appeared inspecting and fingering the _tali_.[105]
"You have won your throws fairly," he said, handing it back. "Now let
us invoke the decision of Fortune once more. A libation to the Genius
of Good Luck!" And instead of spilling out a few drops only, he canted
the flagon too far and spattered the wine on to the floor.

  [105] Four-sided dice.

"Heracles!" growled Phaon, "what a poor hazard! I have thrown four
'ones'!"

"And I have all 'fours' and 'sixes,'" cried Agias, in delight,
sweeping the money toward him.

"The gods blast my luck," muttered the freedman, "I shall be ruined at
this rate." And he poured down more liquor. "I have hardly five
philippi left."

"Come," shouted Agias, jumping up; "I make a fair offer. Your five
philippi against all my winnings."

Phaon had a dim consciousness that he was getting very drunk, that he
ought to start at once for Praeneste, and that it was absolutely
needful for him to have some money for bribes and gratuities if he was
not to jeopardize seriously the success of his undertaking. But Agias
stood before him exultant and provoking. The freedman could not be
induced to confess to himself that he had been badly fleeced by a
fellow he expected to plunder. In drunken desperation he pulled out
his last gold and threw it on the table.

"Play for that, and all the Furies curse me if I lose," he stormed.

Agias cast two "threes," two "fours."

"I must better that," thundered the freedman, slapping the tali out on
to the table.

"'Ones' again," roared Agias; "all four! you have lost!"

Phaon sprang up in a storm of anger, and struck over the dice. "Three
of them are 'sixes,'" he raged. "I have won! You got loaded dice from
the landlord, just now, when he brought the wine!"

"Not at all, you cheating scoundrel," retorted Agias, who had already
scooped in the money, "I have you fairly enough."

"Fair?" shouted Phaon, dashing down the dice again, "they are loaded!
Lack-shame! Villain! Whipping-post! Tomb-robber! Gallows-bird! You
changed them when you pretended to inspect them! Give me my money,
thief, or--" and he took a menacing but unsteady step toward Agias.

The young Greek was ready for the emergency. He knew that Phaon was
almost overcome with his wine, and had no dread of the issue. A stroke
of his fist sent the freedman reeling back against the wall, all the
wind pounded from his chest. "You born blackguard," coughed Phaon, "I
won it." Agias was renewing the attack, when the landlord interfered.
Seizing both of the gamesters by their cloaks, he pushed them out a
side door into the court-yard. "Out with you!" cried the host.
"Quarrel without, if you must! This is no place for brawls."

Phaon staggered a step or two out into the dark, then reeled and fell
heavily upon the dirty pavement. Agias prodded him with his foot, but
he was quite insensible. For the present he was harmless enough.

"My good host," said Agias, to the disquieted landlord, "I did not ask
you to give us an unmixed wine and those dice for no purpose. This
excellent gentleman here seems sadly in need of a bed, where he must
stay for some time. But since I have won every sesterce he owns I must
needs pay for his board. Take good care of him, and here are six
philippi which are yours on condition that you keep him quiet until
to-morrow at this time, and suffer no one coming from Rome to see him,
or send him a message. To-morrow evening a messenger from Praeneste
will come here, and if your guest is still safe in your custody, you
shall have six more gold pieces. At that time, doubtless, you can let
him go; but don't violate my orders, or--"

"Your excellency pays like a senator," said the landlord, bowing, as
he fingered the gold. "Trust me that your wishes shall be obeyed."

"They had better be," hinted Agias. "I am not what I seem by my dress.
If you disobey, fear the wrath of a man before whom the world
trembles!"

"He must be an agent of Caesar, or Pompeius," muttered the landlord to
himself. And Agias, having seen two serving-boys tugging Phaon's prone
weight away to a secluded hay-mow, called for his refreshed Numidian,
clattered out of the filthy court, and rode away into the night, with
the stars burning above him.




Chapter IX

How Gabinius Met with a Rebuff


I

Publius Gabinius, the boon comrade of Lucius Ahenobarbus, differed
little from many another man of his age in mode of life, or variety of
aspirations. He had run through all the fashionable excitements of the
day; was tired of horse-racing, peacock dinners, Oriental sweethearts;
tired even of dice. And of late he had begun to grow morose, and his
friends commenced to think him rather dull company.

But for some days he had found a new object of interest. With Lucius
Ahenobarbus he had been at the Circus Flaminius, waiting for the races
to begin, when he startled his friend by a clutch on the arm.

"Look!" was Gabinius's exclamation. "Is she not beautiful?"

He pointed to where Fabia, the Vestal, was taking her seat upon a
cushion placed for her by a maid, and all the people around were
standing, very respectfully, until she was seated The priestess was
clothed in perfect white,--dress, ribbons, fillet--a notable contrast
to the brave show of purple, and scarlet, and blue mantles all about
her.

"Beautiful? Yes," repeated Lucius, rather carelessly. "But such birds
are not for our net."

"Are not?" repeated Gabinius, a little sharply. "What makes you so
sure of that?"

"I hardly think that you will find my dear friend Quintus Drusus's
aunt, for so I understand she is," said Ahenobarbus, "very likely to
reciprocate your devotion."

"And why not?" reiterated Gabinius, in a vexed tone.

"My dear fellow," answered Lucius, "I won't argue with you. There are
plenty of women in Rome quite as handsome as Fabia, and much younger,
who will smile on you. Don't meddle in a business that is too
dangerous to be profitable."

But Gabinius had been wrought up to a pitch of amorous excitement,
from which Ahenobarbus was the last one to move him. For days he had
haunted the footsteps of the Vestal; had contrived to thrust himself
as near to her in the theatre and circus as possible; had bribed one
of the Temple servants to steal for him a small panel painting of
Fabia; had, in fact, poured over his last romance all the ardour and
passion of an intense, violent, uncontrolled nature. Gabinius was not
the kind of a man either to analyze his motives, or express himself in
the sobbing lyrics of a Catullus. He was thrilled with a fierce
passion, and knew it, and it only. Therefore he merely replied to
Lucius Ahenobarbus:--

"I can't help myself. What does Terence say about a like case? 'This
indeed can, to some degree, be endured; night, passion, liquor, young
blood, urged him on; it's only human nature.'"[106]

  [106] Terence, "Adelphoe," 467 and 471.

And all the afternoon, while the chariots ran, and wager on wager
marked the excitement of the cloud of spectators, Gabinius had only
eyes for one object, Fabia, who, perfectly unconscious of his state of
fascination, sat with flushed cheeks and bright, eager eyes, watching
the fortunes of the races, or turned now and then to speak a few words
to little Livia, who was at her side. When the games were over,
Gabinius struggled through the crowd after the Vestal, and kept near
to her until she had reached her litter and the eight red-liveried
Cappadocian porters bore her away. Gabinius continued to gaze after
her until Fabia drew the leather curtains of her conveyance and was
hid from sight.

"_Perpol!"_ reflected Gabinius. "How utterly enslaved I am!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The following morning Fabia received a letter in a strange hand,
asking her to come to a villa outside the Porta Capena, and receive a
will from one Titus Denter, who lay dying. The receiving and
safe-keeping of wills was a regular duty of Vestals, and Fabia at once
summoned her litter, and started out of the city, along the Via Appia,
until, far out in the suburbs where the houses were wide apart, she
was set down before the country-house indicated. A stupid-appearing
slave-boy received her at the gateway. The villa was old, small, and
in very indifferent repair. The slave could not seem to explain
whether it had been occupied of late, but hastened to declare that his
master lay nigh to death. There was no porter in the outer
vestibule.[107] The heavy inner door turned slowly on its pivot, by
some inside force, and disclosed a small, darkened atrium, only
lighted by a clear sunbeam from the opening above, that passed through
and illumined a playing fountain. A single attendant stood in the
doorway. He was a tall, gaunt man in servile dress, with a rather
sickly smile on his sharp yellow face. Fabia alighted from her litter.
There was a certain secluded uncanniness about the house, which made
her dislike for an instant to enter. The slave in the door silently
beckoned for her to come in. The Vestal informed her bearers that she
was likely to be absent some little time, and they must wait quietly
without, and not annoy a dying man with unseemly laughter or loud
conversation. Then, without hesitancy, Fabia gathered her priestess's
cloak about her, and boldly entered the strange atrium. As she did so,
the attendant noiselessly closed the door, and what was further, shot
home a bolt.

  [107] _Ostium_.

"There is no need for that," remarked the Vestal, who never before in
her life had experienced such an unaccountable sense of disquietude.

"It is my habit always to push the bolt," said the slave, bowing, and
leading the way toward the peristylium.

"You are Titus Denter's slave?" asked Fabia. The other nodded. "And
your master is a very sick man?"

"Your most noble ladyship shall judge for herself."

"Take me to him at once, if he can see me."

"He is waiting."

The two went through the narrow passageway which led from the outer
court of the atrium into the inner court of the peristylium. Fabia was
surprised to see that here all the marble work had been carefully
washed clean, the little enclosed garden was in beautiful order, and
in various corners and behind some of the pillars were bronze and
sculptured statues of really choice art. The slave stopped and pointed
to a couch upholstered in crimson, beside the fish tank, where tame
lampreys were rising for a bit of food.

"Take me to your master!" repeated Fabia, puzzled by the gesture. "I
am not weary. You say he waits me?"

"He will be here," replied the servant, with another bow.

"Here?" exclaimed the Vestal, now really alarmed. "Here? He, a man
sick unto death?"

"Certainly; here!" broke in a strange voice; and forth from behind a
pillar stepped Publius Gabinius, all pomaded and rouged, dressed only
in a gauzy, many-folded scarlet _synthesis_.[108]

  [108] The "dinner coat" of the Romans.

Fabia gave a scream and sprang back in instinctive alarm. In the
twinkling of an eye it flashed over her that for some purpose or other
she had been trapped. Gabinius she knew barely by sight; but his
reputation had come to her ears, and fame spoke nothing good of him.
Yet even at the moment when she felt herself in the most imminent
personal peril, the inbred dignity and composed hauteur of the Vestal
did not desert her. At the selfsame instant that she said to herself,
"Can I escape through the atrium before they can stop me?" recovering
from her first surprise, and with never a quiver of eyelash or a
paling of cheek, she was saying aloud, in a tone cold as ice, "And
indeed, most excellent Gabinius, you must pardon me for being
startled; for all that I know of you tells me that you are likely to
find a sombre Vestal sorry enough company."

Gabinius had been counting coolly on a very noisy scene, one of a kind
he was fairly familiar with--an abundance of screaming, expostulation,
tearing of hair, and other manifestations of feminine agony--to be
followed, of course, by ultimate submission to the will of
all-dominant man. He was not accustomed to have a woman look him
fairly in the eye and speak in tones, not of bootless fury, but of
superior scorn. And his answer was painfully lacking in the ascendant
volubility which would have befitted the occasion.

"Forgive me; pardon; it was of course necessary to resort to some
subterfuge in order--in order to prevent your attendants from becoming
suspicious."

Fabia cast a glance behind her, and saw that before the two doors
leading to the atrium her conductor and another tall slave had placed
themselves; but she replied in a tone a little more lofty, if
possible, than before:--

"I cannot well, sir, understand you. Are you a friend of Titus Denter,
who is sick? I do not see that any subterfuge is necessary when I am
to receive the deposit of a will from a dying man. It is a recognized
duty of my office."

Gabinius was still more at a loss.

"You should certainly understand, lady," he began, cursing himself for
having to resort to circumlocutions, "that this is my own villa, and I
have not the pleasure of knowing Titus Denter. I sent the letter
because--"

"Because, my worthy sir," interrupted Fabia, not however raising her
voice in the least, "you are weary of Greek flute-players for
sweethearts or such Roman young ladies as admire either the ointments
or the pimples of your face, and consequently seek a little diversion
by laying snares for a sacred Vestal."

Gabinius at last found free use for his tongue.

"Oh, lady; Lady Fabia," he cried, stretching out his arms and taking a
step nearer, "don't misjudge me so cruelly! I will forsake anything,
everything, for you! I have nothing to dream of day or night but your
face. You have served your thirty years in the Temple, and can quit
its service. Why entertain any superstitious scruple against doing
what the law allows? Come with me to Egypt; to Spain; to Parthia;
anywhere! Only do not reject me and my entreaties! I will do anything
for your sake!"

Critical as was her situation, Fabia could not refrain from a sense of
humour, when she saw and heard this creature--the last intimate she
would select in the world--pressing his suit with such genuine
passion. When she answered, an exasperating smile was on her lips.

"By Castor!" she replied, "the noble Gabinius is not a bad tragedian.
If he has nothing further to inform me than that I am favoured by his
good graces, I can only decline his proposals with humble firmness,
and depart."

"By the immortal gods!" cried Gabinius, feeling that he and not his
would-be victim were like to go into a frenzy, "you shan't go! I have
you here. And here you shall remain until I have your word that you
will quit the Temple service and fly with me to Egypt. If you won't
have me as your slave, I'll have you as your master!" And again he
advanced.

"What restrains me here?" queried Fabia, sternly, the blood sinking
from her cheeks, but by step or by glance quailing not in the least.
"Who dare restrain or offer harm to a Vestal of the Roman Republic?"

"I!" shouted Gabinius in mad defiance, with a menacing gesture.

Fabia took a step toward him, and instinctively he fell back.

"You?" she repeated, her black eyes, ablaze with the fire of a holy
indignation, searching Gabinius's impure heart through and through.
"You, little man? Are you fond of death, and yet lack courage to drink
the poison yourself?"

"I dare anything!" cried Gabinius, getting more and more uncontrolled.
"This is my house. These are my slaves. The high walls will cut off
any screams you may utter in this court. I have you in my power. You
have placed yourself in my hands by coming here. Refuse to do as I
say, and a charge will be laid against you before the _pontifices_,[109]
that you have broken the vow which binds every Vestal. All the
appearances will be against you, and you know what will follow then!"

  [109] College of chief priests.

Fabia grew a shade paler, if it were possible, than before.

"I know," she replied, still very gently, "that an unfaithful Vestal
is buried alive in the Campus Sceleratus; but I know, too, that her
seducer is beaten to death with rods. Accuse me, or attack me, and
whatever be _my_ fate, I can say that which will send your black soul
down to Tartarus with guilt enough for Minos to punish. Your
delicately anointed skin would be sadly bruised by the stripes falling
upon it. And now, if these creatures will stand one side, I will leave
you."

And Fabia drew her mantle about her, and walked straight past the
awestruck slaves into the atrium, where she unbolted the door and
passed out. Gabinius stood gazing after her, half-fascinated,
half-dazed. Only when the door closed did he burst out to one of the
slaves:--

"Timid dog, why did you let her escape?"

"Dominus," whimpered the menial, "why did _you_ let her escape?"

"Insolence!" cried Gabinius, seizing a staff, and beating first one,
then the other, of his servants indiscriminately; and so he continued
to vent his vexation, until Fabia's litter was well inside the Porta
Capena.


II

Fabia had thus escaped from the clutches of Gabinius, and the latter
was sullen and foiled. But none the less the Vestal was in a tremor of
fear for the consequences of her meeting with the libertine. She knew
that Gabinius was determined, dexterous, and indefatigable; that he
was baffled, but not necessarily driven to throw over his illicit
quest. And Fabia realized keenly that going as she had unattended into
a strange house, and remaining there some time with no friendly eye to
bear witness to her actions, would count terribly against her, if
Gabinius was driven to bay. She dared not, as she would gladly have
done, appear before the pontifices and demand of them that they mete
out due punishment on Gabinius for grossly insulting the sanctity of a
Vestal. Her hope was that Gabinius would realize that he could not
incriminate her without ruining himself, and that he had been so
thoroughly terrified on reflection as to what might be the
consequences to himself, if he tried to follow the intrigue, that he
would prudently drop it. These considerations hardly served to lighten
the gloom which had fallen across Fabia's life. It was not so much the
personal peril that saddened her. All her life she had heard the ugly
din of the world's wickedness pass harmlessly over her head, like a
storm dashing at the doors of some secluded dwelling that shielded its
inhabitants from the tempest. But now she had come personally face to
face with the demon of impurity; she had felt the fetid touch almost
upon herself; and it hurt, it sickened her. Therefore it was that the
other Vestals marvelled, asking what change had come over their
companion, to quench the mild sunshine of her life; and Fabia held
little Livia very long and very closely in her arms, as if it were a
solace to feel near her an innocent little thing "unspotted of the
world."

All this had happened a very few days before the breathless Agias came
to inform Fabia of the plot against her nephew. Perhaps, as with
Cornelia, the fact that one near and dear was in peril aided to make
the consciousness of her own unhappiness less keen. None could
question Fabia's resolute energy. She sent Agias on his way, then
hurried off in her litter in quest of Caius Marcellus, the consul.
AEmilius Paulus, the other consul, was a nonentity, not worth appealing
to, since he had virtually abdicated office upon selling his
neutrality to Caesar. But Marcellus gave her little comfort. She broke
in upon the noble lord, while he was participating in a drunken
garden-party in the Gardens of Lucullus. The consul--hardly sober
enough to talk coherently--had declared that it was impossible to
start any troops that day to Praeneste. "To-morrow, when he had time,
he would consider the matter." And Fabia realized that the engine of
government would be very slow to set in motion in favour of a marked
Caesarian.

But she had another recourse, and hastened her litter down one of the
quieter streets of the Subura, where was the modest house occupied by
Julius Caesar before he became Pontifex Maximus. This building was now
used by the Caesarian leaders as a sort of party headquarters. Fabia
boldly ordered the porter to summon before her Curio--whom she was
sure was in the house. Much marvelling at the visit of a Vestal, the
slave obeyed, and in a few moments that tribune was in her presence.

Caius Scribonius Curio was probably a very typical man of his age. He
was personally of voluptuous habits, fearfully extravagant, endowed
with very few scruples and a very weak sense of right and wrong. But
he was clear-headed, energetic, a good orator, a clever reasoner, an
astute handler of men, courageous, versatile, full of recourse, and on
the whole above the commission of any really glaring moral infraction.
He was now in his early prime, and he came before Fabia as a man tall,
athletic, deep-chested, deep-voiced, with a regular profile, a clear,
dark complexion, curly hair carefully dressed, freshly shaven, and in
perfect toilet. It was a pleasure, in short, to come in contact with
such a vigorous, aggressive personality, be the dark corners of his
life what they might.

Curio yielded to no man in his love of Lucrine oysters and good
Caecuban wine. But he had been spending little time on the dining couch
that evening. In fact he had at that moment in his hand a set of
tablets on which he had been writing.

"_Salve! Domina!_" was his greeting, "what unusual honour is this
which brings the most noble Vestal to the trysting spot of us poor
Populares."

And, with the courtesy of a gentleman of the world, he offered Fabia
an armchair.

"Caius Curio," said the Vestal, wasting very few words, "do you know
my nephew, Quintus Drusus of Praeneste?"

"It is an honour to acknowledge friendship with such an excellent
young man," said Curio, bowing.

"I am glad to hear so. I understand that he has already suffered no
slight calamity for adhering to your party."

"_Vah!_" and the tribune shrugged his shoulders. "Doubtless he has had
a disagreeable time with the consul-elect, but from all that I can
hear, the girl he lost was hardly one to make his life a happy one.
It's notorious the way she has displayed her passion for young Lucius
Ahenobarbus, and we all know what kind of a man _he_ is. But I may
presume to remark that your ladyship would hardly come here simply to
remind me of this."

"No," replied Fabia, directly, "I have come here to appeal to you to
do something for me which Marcellus the consul was too drunk to try to
accomplish if he would."

Fabia had struck the right note. Only a few days before Appius
Claudius, the censor, had tried to strike Curio's name from the rolls
of the Senate. Piso, the other censor, had resisted. There had been an
angry debate in the Senate, and Marcellus had inveighed against the
Caesarian tribune, and had joined in a furious war of words. The Senate
had voted to allow Curio to keep his seat; and the anti-Caesarians had
paraded in mourning as if the vote were a great calamity.

Curio's eyes lit up with an angry fire.

"Lump of filth! Who was he, to disoblige you!"

"You will understand," said Fabia, still quietly; and then briefly she
told of the conspiracy against the life of Drusus, so far as she had
gathered it.

"Where did you learn all this," queried Curio, "if I may venture to
ask?"

"From Agias, the slave of Cornelia, niece of Lentulus."

"But what is Drusus to her?" demanded the marvelling tribune.

"He is everything to her. She has been trying to win her way into
Ahenobarbus's confidence, and learn all of the plot."

A sudden light seemed to break over the face of the politician. He
actually smiled with relieved pleasure, and cried, "_Papae!_ Wonderful!
I may be the farthest of all the world from Diogenes the Cynic; but a
man cannot go through life, unless he has his eyes shut, and not know
that there are different kinds of women. I was sorry enough to have to
feel that a girl like Cornelia was becoming one of Clodia's coterie.
After all, the world isn't so bad as we make it out to be, if it is
Curio the profligate who says it."

"But Drusus, my nephew?" exclaimed Fabia. "He is in frightful danger.
You know Dumnorix will have a great band of gladiators, and there is
no force in Praeneste that can be counted on to restrain him."

"My dear lady," said Curio, laughing, "I am praising the happy Genius
that brought you here. We Caesarians are taught by our leaders never to
desert a friend in need; and Drusus has been a very good friend to us,
especially by using all his influence, very successfully, for our
cause among the Praenestians and the people of those parts. When did
you say that Dumnorix would pass through the town?"

"Early to-morrow, possibly," replied the Vestal.

"_Phui!_ Dismiss all care. I'll find out at once how many gladiators
he took with him to Anagnia. Some of his gang will be killed in the
games there, and more will be wounded and weak or disabled. I am
tribune, and I imagine I ought not to be out of the city over
night,[110] but before daybreak to-morrow I will take Antonius and
Sallustius and Quintus Cassius; and perhaps I can get Balbus and our
other associates to go. We will arm a few slaves and freedmen; and it
will be strange indeed if we cannot scatter to the four winds
Dumnorix's gladiators, before they have accomplished any mischief."

  [110] This was the law, that the tribunes might always be ready to
  render help (_auxilium_) to the distressed.

"The gods reward you!" said Fabia, simply. "I will go back to the
Temple, and pray that my nephew be kept from harm; and you also, and
your friends who will defend him."

Curio stood in the atrium a long time after the Vestal had left.

"The gods reward you!" he repeated. "So _she_ believes in the gods,
that there are gods, and that they care for us struggling men. Ah!
Caius, Caius Curio; if the mob had murdered you that day you protected
Caesar after he spoke in the Senate in favour of the Catilinarians,
where would you be to-day? Whence have you come? Whither do you go?
What assurance have you that you can depend on anything, but your own
hand and keen wits? What is to become of you, if you are knocked on
the head in that adventure to-morrow? And yet that woman believes
there are gods! What educated man is there that does? Perhaps we
would, if we led the simple lives our fathers did, and that woman
lives. Enough of this! I must be over letters to Caesar at Ravenna till
midnight: and then at morn off to gallop till our horses are
foundered."




Chapter X

Mamercus Guards the Door


I

Agias left Phaon in the clutches of the landlord and his subordinates
and was reasonably certain that since the freedman had not a farthing
left with which to bribe his keepers, he was out of harm's way for the
time being. The moon was risen, and guided by its light the young
slave flew on toward Praeneste without incident. Whatever part of the
conspirator's plans depended on Phaon was sure to collapse. For the
rest, Agias could only warn Drusus, and have the latter arm his
clients and slaves, and call in his friends from the town. With such
precautions Dumnorix could hardly venture to risk himself and his men,
whatever might be the plot.

Thus satisfied in mind, Agias arrived at the estate of the Drusi,
close to Praeneste, and demanded admittance, about two hours before
midnight. He had some difficulty in stirring up the porter, and when
that worthy at last condescended to unbar the front door, the young
Greek was surprised and dismayed to hear that the master of the house
had gone to visit a farm at Lanuvium, a town some fifteen miles to the
south. Agias was thunderstruck; he had not counted on Drusus being
absent temporarily. But perhaps his very absence would cause the plot
to fail.

"And what time will he return?" asked Agias.

"What time?" replied the porter, with a sudden gleam of intelligence
darting up in his lack-lustre eyes. "We expect he will return early
to-morrow morning. But the road from Lanuvium is across country and
you have to skirt the Alban Mount. He may be rather late in arriving,
drives he ever so hard."

"Hercules!" cried the agitated messenger. "My horse is blown, and I
don't know the road in the dark. Send, I pray you--by all the gods--to
Lanuvium this instant."

"Aye," drawled the porter, "And wherefore at such an hour?"

"It's for life and death!" expostulated Agias.

The porter, who was a thick-set, powerful man, with a bristly black
beard, and a low forehead crowned by a heavy shock of dark hair, at
this instant thrust out a capacious paw, and seized Agias roughly by
the wrist.

"Ha, ha, ha, young cut-throat! I wondered how long this would last on
your part! Well, now I must take you to Falto, to get the beginning of
your deserts."

"Are you mad, fellow?" bawled Agias, while the porter, grasping him by
the one hand, and the dim lamp by the other, dragged him into the
house. "Do you know who I am? or what my business is? Do you want to
have your master murdered?"

"_Perpol!_ Not in the least. That's why I do as I do. Tell your story
to Falto. _Eho!_ What's that you've got under your cloak?" And he
pounced upon a small dagger poor Agias had carried as a precaution
against eventualities. "I imagine you are accustomed to use a little
knife like this." And the fellow gave a gleeful chuckle.

It was in vain that Agias expostulated and tried to explain. The
porter kept him fast as a prisoner, and in a few moments by his shouts
had aroused the whole sleeping household, and stewards, freedmen, and
slaves came rushing into the atrium. Candelabra blazed forth. Torches
tossed. Maids screamed. Many tongues were raised in discordant shout
and question. At last order was in some measure restored. Agias found
himself before a tribunal composed of Falto, the subordinate
_villicus_,[111] as chief judge, and two or three freedmen to act in
capacity of assessors. All of this bench were hard, grey-headed,
weazened agriculturists, who looked with no very lenient eye upon the
delicate and handsome young prisoner before them. Agias had to answer
a series of savagely propounded questions which led he knew not
whither, and which he was almost too bewildered to answer
intelligently. The true state of the case only came over him by
degrees. These were the facts. Drusus had known that there was a
conspiracy against his life, and had taken precautions against
poisoning or being waylaid by a small band of cut-throats such as he
imagined Ahenobarbus might have sent to despatch him. He had not
expected an attack on the scale of Dumnorix's whole band; and he had
seen no reason why, accompanied by the trusty Mamerci and Cappadox, he
should not visit his Lanuvian farm. The whole care of guarding against
conspirators had been left to Marcus Mamercus, and that worthy
ex-warrior had believed he had taken all needed precautions. He had
warned the porter and the other slaves and freedmen to be on the
lookout for suspicious characters, and had let just enough of the
plot--as it was known to him--leak out, to put all the household on
the _qui vive_ to apprehend any would-be assassin of their beloved
young master. But with that fatuity which often ruins the plans of
"mice and men," he had failed to inform even his subordinate Falto of
the likelihood of Agias arriving from Rome. It had obviously been
desirable that it should not be bruited among the servants that
Cornelia and Drusus were still communicating, and when Agias was haled
into the atrium, his only identification was by some over-zealous
slave, who declared that the prisoner belonged to the familia of
Lentulus Crus, the bitter foe of their master.

  [111] Farm steward.

With senses unduly alert the porter, as soon as he was aroused from
his slumbers, had noticed that evening that Agias had come on some
unusual business, and that he was obviously confused when he learned
that Drusus was not at home. With his suspicions thus quickened, every
word the luckless Greek uttered went to incriminate him in the mind of
the porter. Agias was certainly an accomplice in the plot against
Drusus, sent to the house at an unseasonable hour, on some dark
errand. The porter had freely protested this belief to Falto and his
court, and to support his indictment produced the captured dagger, the
sure sign of a would-be murderer. Besides, a large sum of gold was
found on Agias's person; his fast Numidian horse was still steaming
before the door--and what honest slave could travel thus, with such a
quantity of money?

Agias tried to tell his story, but to no effect; Falto and his
fellow-judges dryly remarked to one another that the prisoner was
trying to clear himself, by plausibly admitting the existence of the
conspiracy, but of course suppressing the real details. Agias
reasoned. He was met with obstinate incredulity. He entreated, prayed,
implored. The prejudiced rustics mocked at him, and hinted that they
cared too much for their patron to believe any tale that such a
manifest impostor might tell them. Pausanias, the Mamerci, and
Cappadox, the only persons, besides Drusus, who could readily identify
him, were away at Lanuvium.

The verdict of guilty was so unanimous that it needed little or no
discussion; and Falto pronounced sentence.

"Mago," to the huge African, "take this wretched boy to the
slave-prison; fetter him heavily. On your life do not let him escape.
Give him bread and water at sunrise. When Master Drusus returns he
will doubtless bid us crucify the villain, and in the morning Natta
the carpenter shall prepare two beams for the purpose."

Agias comforted himself by reflecting that things would hardly go to
that terrible extremity; but it was not reassuring to hear Ligus, the
crabbed old cellarer, urge that he be made to confess then and there
under the cat. Falto overruled the proposition. "It was late, and
Mamercus was the man to extort confession." So Agias found himself
thrust into a filthy cell, lighted only by a small chink, near the top
of the low stone wall, into which strayed a bit of moonlight. The
night he passed wretchedly enough, on a truss of fetid straw; while
the tight irons that confined him chafed his wrists and ankles.
Needless to add, he cursed roundly all things human and heavenly,
before he fell into a brief, troubled sleep. In the morning Mago, who
acted as jailer, brought him a pot of water and a saucer of uncooked
wheat porridge;[112] and informed him, with a grin, that Natta was
making the beams ready. Agias contented himself by asking Mago to tell
Drusus about him, as soon as the master returned. "You are very young
to wish to die," said the Libyan, grimly. Agias did not argue. Mago
left him. By climbing up a rude stool, Agias could peer through the
loophole, which by great luck commanded a fairly ample view of the
highway. Drusus he naturally expected would come from the south,
toward Praeneste. And thence every moment he trembled lest Dumnorix's
gang should appear in sight. But every distant dust-cloud for a long
time resolved itself sooner or later into a shepherd with a flock of
unruly sheep, or a wagon tugged by a pair of mules and containing a
single huge wine-skin. Drusus came not; Dumnorix came not. Agias grew
weary of watching, and climbed painfully down from the stool to eat
his raw porridge. Hardly had he done so than a loud clatter of hoofs
sounded without. With a bound that twisted his confined ankles and
wrists sadly, Agias was back at his post. A single rider on a handsome
bay horse was coming up from the direction of Rome. As he drew near to
the villa, he pulled at his reins, and brought his steed down to a
walk. The horseman passed close to the loophole, and there was no
mistaking his identity. Agias had often seen that pale, pimpled face,
and those long effeminate curls in company with Lucius Ahenobarbus.
The rider was Publius Gabinius, and the young Greek did not need to be
told that his coming boded no good to Drusus. Gabinius looked
carefully at the villa, into the groves surrounding it, and then up
and down the highway. Then he touched the spur to his mount, and was
gone.

  [112] _Puls_, the primitive Italian food.

Agias wrung his manacled hands. Drusus would be murdered, Cornelia's
happiness undone, and he himself would become the slave of Lucius
Ahenobarbus, who, when he had heard Phaon's story, would show little
enough of mercy. He cursed the suspicious porter, cursed Falto, cursed
every slave and freedman on the estate, cursed Mamercus for not
leaving some word about the possibility of his coming from Rome.
Agias's imprecations spent themselves in air; and he was none the
happier. Would Drusus never come? The time was drifting on. The sun
had been up three or more hours. At any instant the gladiators might
arrive.

Then again there was a clatter of hoofs, at the very moment when Agias
had again remounted to the loophole. There were voices raised in
questions and greetings; slave-boys were scampering to and fro to take
the horses; Drusus with Pausanias and the Mamerci had returned from
Lanuvium. Agias pressed his head out the loophole and screamed to
attract attention. His voice could not penetrate the domestic hubbub.
Drusus was standing shaking hands with a couple of clients and
evidently in a very good humour over some blunt rustic compliment.
Mago was nowhere to be seen. Agias glanced up the road toward
Praeneste. The highway was straight and fairly level, but as it went
over a hill-slope some little way off, what was that he saw upon
it?--the sun flashing on bright arms, which glinted out from the
dust-cloud raised by a considerable number of men marching!

"Drusus! Master Drusus!" Agias threw all his soul into the cry. As if
to blast his last hope, Drusus hastily bowed away the salves and aves
of the two clients, turned, and went into the villa. Agias groaned in
agony. A very few moments would bring Dumnorix to the villa, and the
young slave did not doubt that Gabinius was with the lanista to direct
the attack. Agias tore at his chains, and cursed again, calling on all
the Furies of Tartarus to confound the porter and Falto. Suddenly
before the loophole passed a slave damsel of winning face and
blithesome manner, humming to herself a rude little ditty, while she
balanced a large earthen water-pot on her head. It was Chloe, whom the
reader has met in the opening scene of this book, though Agias did not
know her name.

"By all the gods, girl!" he cried frantically, "do you want to have
your master slaughtered before your very eyes?"

Chloe stopped, a little startled at this voice, almost from under her
feet.

"Oh, you, Master Assassin!" she sneered. "Do you want to repeat those
pretty stories of yours, such as I heard you tell last night?"

"Woman," cried Agias, with all the earnestness which agony and fear
could throw into face and voice, "go this instant! Tell Master Drusus
that Dumnorix and his gang are not a furlong[113] away. They mean to
murder him. Say that I, Agias, say so, and he, at least, will believe
me. You yourself can see the sun gleaming on their steel as they march
down the hill."

  [113] About 606-3/4 English feet.

Perhaps it was the sight which Agias indicated, perhaps it was his
earnest words, perhaps it was his handsome face--Chloe was very
susceptible to good looks--but for some cause she put down the pot and
was off, as fast as her light heels could carry her, toward the house.


II

Drusus had ridden hard to get back early from Lanuvium and write some
letters to Cornelia, for he had expected that Agias would come on that
very afternoon, on one of his regular, though private, visits; and he
wished to be able to tell Cornelia that, so long a time had elapsed
since he had been warned against Ahenobarbus and Pratinas, and as no
attempt at all had been made on his life, her fears for him were
probably groundless and the plot had been for some cause abandoned.
Drusus himself was weary, and was glad to shake off the little knot of
clients and retire to his chamber, preparatory for a bath and a change
of clothes. He had seen Falto, but the latter deemed it best not to
trouble his patron at the time by mentioning the prisoner. Mago, too,
concluded that it was best to defer executing his promise. Drusus was
just letting Cappadox take off his cloak, when the shrill voice of
Chloe was heard outside the door, expostulating with the boy on guard.

"I must see the dominus at once. It's very important."

"Don't you see, you idiot, that you can't while he's dressing?"

"I _must!_" screamed Chloe. And, violating every law of subordination
and decorum, she threw open the door.

Cappadox flew to eject her, but Chloe's quick tongue did its work.

"A lad who calls himself Agias is chained in the ergastulum. He says
some gladiators are going to attack the house, and will be here in a
moment! Oh, I am so frightened!" and the poor girl threw her mantle
over her head, and began to whimper and sob.

"Agias!" shouted Drusus, at the top of his voice. "In the ergastulum?
_Per deos immortales!_ What's this? Mamercus! Falto!"

And the young master rushed out of the room, Cappadox, who like
lightning had caught up a sword, following him.

Falto came running from the stables; Mamercus from the garden. Drusus
faced his two subordinates, and in an eye's twinkling had taken in the
situation. Mamercus, who felt within himself that he, by his
oversight, had been the chief blunderer, to vent his vexation smote
Falto so sound a cuff that the under villicus sprawled his full
length.

"Go to the ergastulum and fetch Agias this instant," cried Drusus, in
thundering accents, to the trembling Mago, who had appeared on the
scene.

Mago disappeared like magic, but in an instant a din was rising from
the front of the house,--cries, blows, clash of steel. Into the
peristylium, where the angry young master was standing, rushed the old
slave woman, Lais.

"_Hei! hei!_" she screamed, "they are breaking in! Monsters! a hundred
of them! They will kill us all!"

Drusus grew calm in an instant.

"Barricade the doors to the atrium!" he commanded, "while I can put on
my armour. You, Mamercus, are too old for this kind of work; run and
call in the field-hands, the clients, and the neighbours. Cappadox,
Falto, and I can hold the doors till aid comes."

"I run?" cried the veteran, in hot incredulity, while with his single
hand he tore from its stout leather wall-fastenings a shield that had
been beaten with Punic swords at the Metaurus.[114] "I run?" he
repeated, while a mighty crash told that the front door had given way,
and the attackers were pouring into the atrium. And the veteran had
thrust a venerable helmet over his grizzled locks, and was wielding
his shield with his handless left arm, while a good Spanish
short-sword gleamed in his right hand.

  [114] The great battle won in 207 B.C. over Hasdrubal.

The others had not been idle. Cappadox had barred both doors leading
into the front part of the house. Drusus had armed, and Falto,--a more
loyal soul than whom lived not,--burning to retrieve his blunder, had
sprung to his patron's side, also in shield and helm.

"They will soon force these doors," said Drusus, quietly, growing more
composed as closer and closer came the actual danger. "Falto and I
will guard the right. Cappadox and you, Mamercus, if you will stay,
must guard the left. Some aid must come before a great while."

But again the veteran whipped out an angry oath, and thundered, "You
stay, you soft-fingered Quintus! You stay and face those German
giants! Why, you are the very man they are after! Leave fighting to an
old soldier! Take him away, Cappadox, if you love him!"

"I will never leave!" blazed forth Drusus. "My place is here. A Livian
always faces his foes. Here, if needs be, I will die." But before he
could protest further, Cappadox had caught him in his powerful arms,
and despite his struggles was running with him through the rear of the
house.

Pandemonium reigned in the atrium. The gladiators were shivering fine
sculptures, ripping up upholstery, swearing in their uncouth Celtic or
German dialects, searching everywhere for their victim in the rooms
that led off the atrium. A voice in Latin was raising loud
remonstrance.

"_AEdepol!_ Dumnorix, call off your men! Phaon hasn't led our bird into
the net. We shall be ruined if this keeps on! Drusus isn't here!"

"By the Holy Oak, Gabinius," replied another voice, in barbarous
Latin, "what I've begun I'll end! I'll find Drusus yet; and we won't
leave a soul living to testify against us! You men, break down that
door and let us into the rest of the house!"

Mamercus heard a rush down one of the passages leading to the
peristylium. The house was almost entirely deserted, except by the
shrieking maids. The clients and freedmen and male slaves were almost
all in the fields. The veteran, Falto, and Pausanias, who had come in,
and who was brave enough, but nothing of a warrior, were the only
defenders of the peristylium.

"You two," shouted Mamercus, "guard the other door! Move that heavy
chest against it. Pile the couch and cabinet on top. This door I will
hold."

There was the blow of a heavy mace on the portal, and the wood sprang
out, and the pivots started.

"Leave this alone," roared Mamercus, when his two helpers paused, as
if to join him. "Guard your own doorway!"

"Down with it!" bellowed the voice of the leaders without. "Don't let
the game escape! Strike again!"

Crash! And the door, beaten from its fastenings by a mighty stroke,
tumbled inward on to the mosaic pavement of the peristylium. The light
was streaming bright and free into that court, but the passageway from
the atrium was shrouded in darkness. Mamercus, sword drawn, stood
across the entrance.

"By the god Tarann!"[115] shouted Dumnorix, who from the rear of his
followers was directing the attack. "Here is a stout old game-cock!
Out of the way, greybeard! We'll spare you for your spirit. Take him,
some of you, alive!"

  [115] The Gallic thunder-god.

Two gigantic, blond Germans thrust their prodigious bodies through the
doorway. Mamercus was no small man, but slight he seemed before these
mighty Northerners.

The Germans had intended to seize him in their naked hands, but
something made them swing their ponderous long swords and then, two
flashes from the short blade in the hand of the veteran, and both the
giants were weltering across the threshold, their breasts pierced and
torn by the Roman's murderous thrusts.

"_Habet!_" cried Mamercus. "A fair hit! Come on, you scum of the
earth; come on, you German and Gallic dogs; do you think I haven't
faced the like of you before? Do you think your great bulks and fierce
mustaches will make a soldier of Marius quiver? Do you want to taste
Roman steel again?"

And then there was a strange sight. A phantasm seemed to have come
before every member of that mad, murderous band; for they saw, as it
were, in the single champion before them, a long, swaying line of men
of slight stature like him; of men who dashed through their phalanxes
and spear hedges; who beat down their chieftains; whom no arrow fire,
no sword-play, no stress of numbers, might stop; but who charged home
with pilum and short-sword, and defeated the most valorous enemy.

"Ha! Dogs!" taunted Mamercus, "you have seen Romans fight before, else
you were not all here, to make sport for our holiday!"

"He is Tyr,[116] the 'one-armed,' who put his left hand in the jaws of
Fenris-wolf!" cried a German, shrinking back in dread. "A god is
fighting us!"

  [116] A Germanic war-god.

"Fools!" shouted Gabinius from a distance. "At him, and cut him down!"

"Cut him down!" roared Dumnorix, who had wits enough to realize that
every instant's delay gave Drusus time to escape, or collect help.

There was another rush down the passage; but at the narrow doorway the
press stopped. Mamercus fought as ten. His shield and sword were
everywhere. The Roman was as one inspired; his eyes shone bright and
clear; his lips were parted in a grim, fierce smile; he belched forth
rude soldier oaths that had been current in the army of fifty years
before. Thrusting and parrying, he yielded no step, he sustained no
wound. And once, twice, thrice his terrible short-sword found its
sheath in the breast of a victim. In impotent rage the gladiators
recoiled a second time.

"Storm the other door!" commanded Dumnorix.

The two defenders there had undertaken to pile up furniture against
it; but a few blows beat down the entire barrier. Falto and Pausanias
stood to their posts stoutly enough; but there was no master-swordsman
to guard this entrance. The first gladiator indeed went down with a
pierced neck, but the next instant Falto was beside him, atoning for
his stupid folly, the whole side of his head cleft away by a stroke
from a Gallic long-sword.

"One rush and we have the old man surrounded," exhorted Dumnorix, when
only Pausanias barred the way.

There was a growl and a bound, and straight at the foremost attacker
flew Argos, Mamercus's great British mastiff, who had silently slipped
on to the scene. The assailant fell with the dog's fangs in his
throat. Again the gladiators recoiled, and before they could return to
the charge, back into the peristylium rushed Drusus, escaped from
Cappadox, with that worthy and Mago and Agias, just released, at his
heels.

"Here's your man!" cried Gabinius, who still kept discreetly in the
rear.

"Freedom and ten _sestertia_[117] to the one who strikes Drusus down,"
called Dumnorix, feeling that at last the game was in his hands.

  [117] About $400.

But Mamercus had made of his young patron an apt pupil. All the
fighting blood of the great Livian house, of the consulars and
triumphators, was mantling in Drusus's veins, and he threw himself
into the struggle with the deliberate courage of an experienced
warrior. His short-sword, too, found its victims; and across Falto's
body soon were piled more. And now Drusus was not alone. For in from
the barns and fields came running first the servants from the stables,
armed with mattocks and muck-forks, and then the farm-hands with their
scythes and reaping hooks.

"We shall never force these doors," exclaimed Gabinius, in despair, as
he saw the defenders augmenting.

Dumnorix turned to his men.

"Go, some of you. Enter from behind! Take this rabble from the rear.
In fair fight we can soon master it."

A part of the gladiators started to leave the atrium, Gabinius with
them. An instant later he had rushed back in blank dismay.

"Horsemen! They are dismounting before the house. There are more than
a score of them. We shall be cut to pieces."

"We have more than fifty," retorted Dumnorix, viciously. "I will
sacrifice them all, rather than have the attack fail!--" But before he
could speak further, to the din of the fighting at the doors of the
peristylium was added a second clamour without. And into the atrium,
sword in hand, burst Caius Curio, and another young, handsome,
aquiline-featured man, dressed in a low-girt tunic, with a loose,
coarse mantle above it,--a man known to history as Marcus Antonius, or
"Marc Antony "; and at their backs were twenty men in full armour.

The courage of the lanista had failed him. Already Drusus's
reinforcements in the peristylium had become so numerous and so well
armed that the young chieftain was pushing back the gladiators and
rapidly assuming the offensive. Gabinius was the first to take flight.
He plunged into one of the rooms off the atrium, and through a side
door gained the open. The demoralized and beaten gladiators followed
him, like a flock of sheep. Only Dumnorix and two or three of his best
men stood at the exit long enough to cover, in some measure, the
retreat.

Once outside, the late assailants gained a temporary respite, owing to
the fact that the defenders had been disorganized by their very
victory.

"We have lost," groaned Gabinius, as the lanista drew his men together
in a compact body, before commencing his retreat.

"We are alive," growled Dumnorix.

"We cannot go back to Rome," moaned the other. "We are all identified.
No bribe or favour can save us now."

"A robber's life is still left," retorted Dumnorix, "and we must make
of it what we can. Some of my men know these parts, where they have
been slaves, before coming to my hands. We must strike off for the
mountains, if we live to get there."

All that day the country was in a turmoil. The Praenestean senate had
met in hasty session, and the _decurions_[118] ordered the entire
community under arms to hunt down the disturbers of the peace. Not
until nightfall did Dumnorix and a mere remnant of his band find
themselves able, under the shadow of the darkness, to shake off the
pursuit. Gabinius was still with him. Curio and Antonius had chased
them down with their horsemen; many of the gladiators had been slain,
many more taken. For the survivors only the life of outlaws remained.
The fastnesses of the Apennines were their sole safety; and
thither--scarce daring to stop to pillage for victuals--they hurried
their weary steps.

  [118] Local municipal magistrates.


III

Lucius Ahenobarbus spent that day in frightful anxiety. One moment he
was fingering Drusus's money bags; the next haunted by the murdered
man's ghost. When he called on Cornelia, her slaves said she had a
headache and would receive no one. Pratinas held aloof. No news all
day--the suspense became unendurable. He lived through the following
night harassed by waking visions of every conceivable calamity; but
toward morning fell asleep, and as was his wont, awoke late. The first
friend he met on the street was Calvus, the young poet and orator.

"Have you heard the news from Praeneste?" began Calvus.

"News? What news?"

"Why, how Dumnorix's gang of gladiators attacked the villa of your
distant relative, Quintus Drusus, and were beaten off, while they
tried to murder him. A most daring attempt! But you will hear all
about it. I have a case at the courts and cannot linger."

And Calvus was gone, leaving Ahenobarbus as though he had been
cudgelled into numbness. With a great effort he collected himself.
After all, Dumnorix's gladiators were nothing to him. And when later
he found that neither Dumnorix, nor Gabinius, nor Phaon had been taken
or slain at Praeneste, he breathed the easier. No one else except
Pratinas, he was certain, knew _why_ the lanista had made his attack;
and there was no danger of being charged with complicity in the
conspiracy. And so he was able to bear the stroke of ill-fortune with
some equanimity, and at last rejoice that his dreams would no longer
be haunted by the shade of Drusus. He was in no mood to meet Pratinas,
and the smooth Greek evidently did not care to meet him. He went
around to visit Cornelia again--she was still quite indisposed. So he
spent that morning with Servius Flaccus playing draughts, a game at
which his opponent was so excessively stupid that Ahenobarbus won at
pleasure, and consequently found himself after lunch[119] in a
moderately equable humour. Then it was he was agreeably surprised to
receive the following note from Cornelia.

  [119] _Prandium_.

"Cornelia to her dearest Lucius, greeting.

I have been very miserable these past two days, but this afternoon
will be better. Come and visit me and my uncle, for there are several
things I would be glad to say before you both. Farewell."

"I think," remarked Lucius to himself, "that the girl wants to have
the wedding-day hastened. I know of nothing else to make her desire
both Lentulus and myself at once. I want to see her alone. Well, I
cannot complain. I'll have Drusus's bride, even if I can't have his
money or his life."

And so deliberating, he put on his finest saffron-tinted synthesis,
his most elegant set of rings, his newest pair of black shoes,[120]
and spent half an hour with his hairdresser; and thus habited he
repaired to the house of the Lentuli.

  [120] Black shoes were worn as a sort of badge by _equites_.

"The Lady Cornelia is in the Corinthian hall," announced the slave who
carried in the news of his coming, "and there she awaits you."

Lucius, nothing loth, followed the servant. A moment and he was in the
large room. It was empty. The great marble pillars rose cold and
magnificent in four stately rows, on all sides of the high-vaulted
apartment. On the walls Cupids and blithesome nymphs were careering in
fresco. The floor was soft with carpets. A dull scent of burning
incense from a little brazier, smoking before a bronze Minerva, in one
corner of the room, hung heavy on the air. The sun was shining warm
and bright without, but the windows of the hall were small and high
and the shutters also were drawn. Everything was cool, still, and
dark. Only through a single aperture shot a clear ray of sunlight, and
stretched in a radiant bar across the gaudy carpets.

Lucius stumbled, half groping, into a chair, and seated himself.
Cornelia had never received him thus before. What was she preparing?
Another moment and Lentulus Crus entered the darkened hall.

"_Perpol!_ Ahenobarbus," he cried, as he came across his prospective
nephew-in-law, "what can Cornelia be wanting of us both? And in this
place? I can't imagine. Ah! Those were strange doings yesterday up in
Praeneste. I would hardly have put on mourning if Drusus had been
ferried over the Styx; but it was a bold way to attack him. I don't
know that he has an enemy in the world except myself, and I can bide
my time and pay off old scores at leisure. Who could have been back of
Dumnorix when he blundered so evidently?"

Ahenobarbus felt that it was hardly possible Lentulus would condemn
his plot very severely; but he replied diplomatically:--

"One has always plenty of enemies."

"_Mehercle!_ of course," laughed the consul-elect, "what would life be
without the pleasure of revenge! But why does my niece keep us
waiting? Jupiter, what can she want of us?"

"Uncle, Lucius, I am here." And before them, standing illumined in the
panel of sunlight, stood Cornelia. Ahenobarbus had never seen her so
beautiful before. She wore a flowing violet-tinted stola, that tumbled
in soft, silky flounces down to her ankles, and from beneath it peered
the tint of her shapely feet bound to thin sandals by bright red
ribbons. Her bare rounded arms were clasped above and below the elbow
and at the wrists by circlets shaped as coiled serpents, whose eyes
were gleaming rubies. At her white throat was fastened a necklace of
interlinked jewel-set gold pendants that shimmered on her half-bare
shoulders and breast. In each ear was the lustre of a great pearl. Her
thick black hair fell unconfined down her back; across her brow was a
frontlet blazing with great diamonds, with one huge sapphire in their
midst. As she stood in the sunlight she was as a goddess, an Aphrodite
descended from Olympus, to drive men to sweet madness by the ravishing
puissance of her charms.

"Cornelia!" cried Lucius, with all the fierce impure admiration of his
nature welling up in his black heart, "you are an immortal! Let me
throw my arms about you! Let me kiss you! Kiss your neck but once!"
And he took a step forward.

"Be quiet, Lucius," said Cornelia, speaking slowly and with as little
passion as a sculptured marble endued with the powers of speech. "We
have other things to talk of now. That is why I have called you here;
you and my uncle."

"Cornelia!" exclaimed the young man, shrinking back as though a sight
of some awful mystery had stricken him with trembling reverence, "why
do you look at me so? Why do your eyes fasten on me that way? What are
you going to do?"

It was as if he had never spoken. Cornelia continued steadily, looking
straight before her.

"Uncle, is it your wish that I become the wife of Lucius Ahenobarbus?"

"You know it is," replied Lentulus, a little uneasily. He could not
see where this bit of affection on the part of his niece would end. He
had never heard her speak in such a tone before.

"I think, uncle," went on Cornelia, "that before we say anything
further it will be well to read this letter. It was sent to me, but
both you and Lucius will find it of some interest." And she held out
two or three wax tablets.

Lentulus took them, eager to have done with the by-play. But when he
saw on the binding-cords the seal--which, though broken, still showed
its impression--he gave a start and exclamation.

"_Perpol!_ The seal of Sextus Flaccus, the great capitalist."

"Certainly, why should it not be from him?"

Lentulus stepped nearer to the light, and read: Lucius standing by and
hanging on every word, Cornelia remaining at her previous station
rigid as the bronze faun on the pedestal at her elbow. Lentulus
read:--

"Sextus Fulvius Flaccus, to the most noble lady Cornelia:--

If you are well it is well with me.

Perhaps you have heard how the plots of the conspirators against my
dear friend and financial client Quintus Drusus have been frustrated,
thanks, next to the god, to the wit and dexterity of Agias, who has
been of late your slave. Drusus as soon as he had fairly beaten off
the gladiators sent at once for me, to aid him and certain other of
his friends in taking the confession of one Phaon, the freedman of
Lucius Ahenobarbus, whom Agias had contrived to entrap in Gabii, and
hold prisoner until the danger was over. Phaon's confession puts us in
complete possession of all the schemes of the plotters; and it will be
well for you to inform that worthy young gentleman, Lucius
Ahenobarbus, that I only forbear to prosecute him, and Pratinas, who
really made him his supple tool, because I am a peaceable man who
would not bring scandal upon an old and noble family. If, however,
anything should befall Drusus which should indicate that fresh plots
against his life were on foot, let Ahenobarbus be assured that I can
no more regard him so leniently. I may add that since it was through a
marriage with you that Ahenobarbus expected to profit by the murder, I
have already advised Drusus that, according to the decisions of
several of the most eminent _jurisconsulti_,[121] a property provision
such as his father inserted in his will would not be binding,
especially in view of the present facts of the case. Drusus has
accordingly prepared a new will which, if questioned, I shall defend
in the courts with all my power. Farewell."

  [121] Expounders of the Roman law.

Lentulus turned and glared with sullen amazement at his niece. That
Ahenobarbus should conspire against Drusus seemed the most natural
thing in the world. That the news that the conspiracy had failed
should come from such a quarter, and through the hands of his own
niece, at once terrified and angered him. Lucius was standing gaping,
in half horror, half fascination, at Cornelia. Had she not urged him
on? Had she not almost expressed her wish for Drusus's blood? The name
of Flaccus fell on his heart like a stone; for the great banker never
went back when he had taken a stand, and was rich enough to corrupt
the most lax and merciful jury. Ahenobarbus felt a trap snap upon him,
and yet he had no hope of revenge.

"Cornelia," cried Lentulus, regaining at last the powers of speech,
"why was this letter sent to you? What to you is that wretched youth,
Quintus Drusus, who escaped a fate he richly deserved? Why do you not
condole with your lover on his misfortune? What do you mean by your
stony stare, your--"

"I mean," retorted Cornelia, every word coming as a deep pant from her
heaving chest, while her fingers clasped and unclasped nervously, and
the blood surged to her pallid cheeks, "I mean that I need no longer
profess to love what I hate; to cherish what I despise; to fondle what
I loathe; to cast soft looks on that which I would pierce with
daggers!" And she in turn took a step, quick and menacing, toward her
wretched lover, who cowered and shrank back into the shadow of a
pillar.

"But you yourself said you hoped I would soon rid you of Drusus,"
howled Lucius.

"Fool!" hissed the woman, through her clenched teeth. "Didn't you know
that all that I said, all that I did, all that I thought, was for this
end--how might I save Quintus by learning the plans of the wretch who
thirsted for his blood? Do you feel paid, now, for all your labours to
secure the wealth of a man whose name should not be uttered beside
that of yours?"

"And you do not love me!" screamed Ahenobarbus, springing at her, as
if to force his arms around her neck.

"Dog!" and Cornelia smote him so fairly in the face that he shrank
back, and pressed his hand to a swelling cheek. "I said I hated and
despised you. What I despise, though, is beneath my hate. I would
tread on you as on a viper or a desert asp, as a noxious creature that
is not fit to live. I have played my game; and though it was not I who
won, but Agias who won for me, I am well content. Drusus lives! Lives
to see you miserably dead! Lives to grow to glory and honour, to
happiness and a noble old age, when the worms have long since finished
their work on you!"

"Girl," thundered Lentulus, fiercely, "you are raving! Ahenobarbus is
your affianced husband. Rome knows it. I will compel you to marry him.
Otherwise you may well blush to think of the stories that vulgar
report will fasten around your name."

But Cornelia faced him in turn, and threw her white arms aloft as
though calling down some mightier power than human to her aid; and her
words came fast:--

"What Rome says is not what my heart says! My heart tells me that I am
pure where others are vile; that I keep truth where others are false;
that I love honourably where others love dishonourably. I knew the
cost of what I would do for Drusus's sake; and, though the vilest
slave gibber and point at me, I would hold my head as proudly as did
ever a Cornelian or Claudian maiden; for I have done that which my own
heart tells me was right; and more than that or less than that, can no
true woman do!"

Ahenobarbus felt the room spinning round him. He saw himself ruined in
everything that he had held dear. He would be the laughing-stock of
Rome; he, the hero of a score of amorous escapades, the darling of as
many patrician maidens, jilted by the one woman to whom he had become
the abject slave. Courage came from despair.

"Be silent!" he gasped, his face black with fury. "If every word you
say were true, yet with all the more reason would I drag you in my
marriage procession, and force you to avow yourself my wife. Never
have I been balked of woman; and you, too, with all your tragic
bathos, shall learn that, if you won't have me for a slave, I'll bow
your neck to my yoke."

"I think the very noble Lucius Ahenobarbus," replied Cornelia, in that
high pitch of excitement which produces a calm more terrible than any
open fury, "will in person be the protagonist in a tragedy very sorry
for himself. For I can assure him that if he tries to make good his
threat, I shall show myself one of the Danaides, and he will need his
funeral feast full soon after the wedding banquet."

"Woman!" and Lentulus, thoroughly exasperated, broke in furiously.
"Say another word, and I with my own hands will flog you like a common
slave."

Cornelia laughed hysterically.

"Touch me!" she shouted; and in her grasp shone a small bright dagger.

Lentulus fell back. There was something about his niece that warned
him to be careful.

"Wretched girl!" he commanded, "put down that dagger."

"I will not," and Cornelia stood resolutely, confronting her two
persecutors; her head thrown back, and the light making her throat and
face shine white as driven snow.

There was very little chivalry among the ancients. Lentulus
deliberately clapped his hands, and two serving-men appeared.

"Take that dagger from the Lady Cornelia!" commanded the master. The
men exchanged sly glances, and advanced to accomplish the disarming.

But before they could catch Cornelia's slender wrists in their coarse,
rough hands, and tear the little weapon from her, there were cuts and
gashes on their own arms; for the struggle if brief was vicious.
Cornelia stood disarmed.

"You see what these mock heroics will lead to," commented Lentulus,
with sarcastic smile, as he observed his order had been obeyed.

"_You_ will see!" was her quick retort.

"_Hei! hei!_" screamed one of the slaves an instant later, sinking to
the floor. "Poison! It's running through my veins! I shall die!"

"You will die," repeated Cornelia, in ineffable scorn, spurning the
wretch with her foot. "Lie there and die! Cease breathing; sleep! And
that creature, Ahenobarbus, yonder, shall sleep his sleep too, ere he
work his will on me! Ha! ha! Look at my handiwork; the other slave is
down!"

"Girl! Murderess!" raged Lentulus. "What is this? You have slain these
men."

"I have slain your slaves," said Cornelia, resolutely folding her
arms; "the poison on the dagger was very swift. You did excellently
well, Lucius, not to come near me." And she picked up the dagger,
which the slave, writhing in agony, had dropped.

"Do you wish to attack me again? _Phy!_ I have more resources than
this. This venom works too quickly. See, Syrax is already out of his
misery; and his fellow will soon be beyond reach of woe. When I strike
_you_, Lucius Ahenobarbus, you shall die slowly, that I may enjoy your
pain. What need have I of this weapon?" And she flung the dagger
across the carpet so that it struck on the farther wall. "Pick it up,
and come and kill me if you wish! Drusus lives, and in him I live, for
him I live, and by him I live. And you--and you are but as evil dreams
in the first watch of a night which shall be forgotten either in sweet
unending slumbers, or the brightness of the morning. And now I have
spoken. Do with me as it lies in your power to do; but remember what
power is mine. _Vale!_"

And Cornelia vanished from the darkened hall. The two men heard the
click of the door, and turned and gazed blankly into one another's
faces.

"The gods defend me, but I shall be yoked to one of the Dirae!"
stammered Ahenobarbus.




Chapter XI

The Great Proconsul


I

The plot was foiled. Drusus was unquestionably safe. So long as
Flaccus had the affidavits of Phaon's confession and the depositions
of the captured gladiators stored away in his strong-box, neither
Lucius Ahenobarbus nor the ever versatile Pratinas would be likely to
risk a new conspiracy--especially as their intended victim had
carefully drawn up a will leaving the bulk of his property to Titus
Mamercus and AEmilia. Drusus had no near relatives, except Fabia and
Livia; unless the Ahenobarbi were to be counted such; and it pleased
him to think that if aught befell him the worthy children of his aged
defender would acquire opulence.

But after the excitement was over, after Phaon had been brought up
from the inn at Gabii to Praeneste, and there had the truth wormed out
of him by the merciless cross-examination of Curio and Flaccus; after
the freedman had been suffered to depart with a warning and threat to
his prompters, after the captured gladiators had been crucified along
the roadway leading toward Rome, and the wreck left in the atrium of
the villa caused by the attack had been cleared away,--after all this,
then the reaction came. Drusus, indeed, found that though the sun
shone bright, its brightness was not for him. He had friends in
plenty; but not such friends as he needed--as his heart craved. Truth
to tell, he was one of those more delicate natures to whom the average
pity and the ordinary demonstrations of sympathy come with an
offending jar, and open, not heal, long-festering wounds. Curio was
kind, but could only hold out the vaguest hopes that, for the present
at least, anything would compel the consul-elect to consent to his
niece's marriage with a mortal enemy. Flaccus took the same position.
The hard-headed man of money thought that Drusus was a visionary, to
be so distraught over the loss of a wife--as if the possession of a
fortune of thirty odd millions did not make up for every possible
calamity. Antonius was still less happy in his efforts at consolation.
This dashing young politician, who had been equally at home basking in
the eyes of the young Egyptian princess, Cleopatra, eight years
before, when he was in the East with Aulus Gabinius, or when fighting
the Gauls as he had until recently under his uncle, the great
proconsul,--had now been elected Tribune of the Plebs for the coming
year; and was looking forward to a prosperous and glorious career in
statecraft. He had had many a love intrigue, and made such matters a
sort of recreation to the real business of life. Why Drusus--who
certainly had very fair worldly prospects before him--should not
console himself for one unsuccessful passage of arms with Cupid, by
straightway engaging in another, he could not see. He plainly
intimated to his friend that there were a great many women, almost if
not quite as good looking as Cornelia, who would survey him with
friendly eyes if he made but a few advances. And Drusus, wounded and
stung, was thrown back on himself; and within himself he found very
little comfort.

Although he believed himself safe at last from the wiles of
Ahenobarbus and his Greek coadjutors, there was still a great dread
which would steal over Drusus lest at any moment a stroke might fall.
Those were days when children murdered parents, wives husbands, for
whim or passion, and very little came to punish their guilt. The
scramble for money was universal. Drusus looked forth into the world,
and saw little in it that was good. He had tried to cherish an ideal,
and found fidelity to it more than difficult. His philosophy did not
assure him that a real deity existed. Death ended all. Was it not
better to be done with the sham of life; to drink the Lethe water, and
sink into eternal, dreamless slumber? He longed unspeakably to see
Cornelia face to face; to kiss her; to press her in his arms; and the
desire grew and grew.

She was no longer in the capital. Her uncle had sent her away--guarded
by trusty freedmen--to the villa of the Lentuli at Baiae. The
fashionable circles of the great city had made of her name a three
days' scandal, of which the echo all too often came to Drusus's
outraged ears. His only comfort was that Ahenobarbus had become the
butt and laughing-stock of every one who knew of his repulse by his
last inamorata. Then at last Drusus left Praeneste for Rome.
Ahenobarbus and Pratinas were as well checked as it was possible they
could be, and there was no real ground to dread assassination while in
the city, if moderate precautions were taken. Then too the time was
coming when the young man felt that he could accomplish something
definite for the party for which he had already sacrificed so much.

The events clustering around Dumnorix's unsuccessful attack had made
Drusus a sort of hero in the eyes of the Praenesteans. They had years
before elected his father as their patron, their legal representative
at Rome, and now they pitched upon the son, proud to have this highly
honourable function continued in the same family. This election gave
Drusus some little prestige at the capital, and some standing in the
courts and politics. When he went to Rome it was not as a mere
individual who had to carve out his own career, but as a man of honour
in his own country, a representative of a considerable local interest,
and the possessor of both a noble pedigree and an ample fortune.

Curio found him plenty to do; wire-pulling, speech-making, private
bargaining,--all these were rife, for everybody knew that with the
first of January, when Lentulus became consul, the fortunes of Caesar
were to be made or marred irretrievably. There were rumours, always
rumours, now of Caesar, now of Pompeius. The proconsul was going to
march on Rome at once, and put all his enemies to the sword. Pompeius
was to be proclaimed dictator and exterminate all who adhered to the
anti-senatorial party. And into this _melee_ of factions Drusus threw
himself, and found relief and inspiration in the conflict. His innate
common-sense, a very considerable talent for oratory which had
received a moderate training, his energy, his enthusiasm, his
incorruptibility, his straightforwardness, all made him valuable to
the Caesarians, and he soon found himself deep in the counsels of his
party, although he was too young to be advanced as a candidate for any
public office.

Agias continued with him. He had never formally deeded the boy to
Cornelia, and now it was not safe for the lad to be sent to dwell at
Baiae, possibly to fall into the revengeful clutches of Phaon, or
Pratinas, or Ahenobarbus. Drusus had rewarded Agias by giving him his
freedom; but the boy had nowhere to go, and did not desire to leave
Quintus's service; so he continued as a general assistant and
understrapper, to carry important letters and verbal messages, and to
aid his patron in every case where quick wits or nimble feet were
useful. He went once to Baiae, and came back with a letter from
Cornelia, in which she said that she was kept actually as a prisoner
in her uncle's villa, and that Lentulus still threatened to force
Ahenobarbus upon her; but that she had prepared herself for that final
emergency.

The letter came at a moment when Drusus was feeling the exhilaration
of a soldier in battle, and the missive was depressing and maddening.
What did it profit if the crowd roared its plaudits, when he piled
execration on the oligarchs from the Rostra, if all his eloquence
could not save Cornelia one pang? Close on top of this letter came
another disquieting piece of information, although it was only what he
had expected. He learned that Lentulus Crus had marked him out
personally for confiscation of property and death as a dangerous
agitator, as soon as the Senate could decree martial law. To have even
a conditional sentence of death hanging over one is hard to bear with
equanimity. But it was too late for Drusus to turn back. He had chosen
his path; he had determined on the sacrifice; he would follow it to
the end. And from one source great comfort came to him. His aunt,
Fabia, had always seen in him her hero. With no children of her own,
with very little knowledge of the world, she had centred all her hopes
and ambitions on her sister's son; and he was not disappointing her.
She dreamed of him as consul, triumphator, and dictator. She told him
her hopes. She applauded his sacrifice. She told him of the worthies
of old, of Camillus, of the Scipios, of Marcellus, the "Sword of
Rome," of Lucius AEmilius Paulus, and a host of others, good men and
true, whose names were graven on the fabric of the great Republic, and
bade him emulate them, and be her perfect Fabian and Livian. And from
his aunt Drusus gained infinite courage. If she was not Cornelia, yet
it was a boon ineffable to be able to hear a pure, loving woman tell
him face to face that her heart suffered when he suffered, and that
all his hopes and fears were hers.

Finally an interlude came to Quintus's political activity. Curio was
becoming uneasy, lest his distant superior should fail to realize the
full venom of the Senate party and the determination of his enemies to
work his ruin.

"I must go to Ravenna," said the politician to his young associate.
"My tribuneship is nearly run out. Antonius and Cassius will take my
place in the office. And you, who have done so much for Caesar, must go
also, for he loves to meet and to know all who are his friends."

"To Caesar I will go," answered Drusus; and of himself he asked, "What
manner of man will this prove, whom I am serving? A selfish grasper of
power? Or will he be what I seek--a man with an ideal?"


II

Night was falling on the dark masses of the huge Praetorium, the
government-house and army barracks of the provincial capital of
Ravenna. Outside, sentinels were changing guard; Roman civil officials
and provincials were strolling in the cool of the porticos. Laughter,
the shout of loungers at play, broke the evening silence. But far in
the interior, where there was a secluded suite of rooms, nothing but
the tinkle of a water-duct emptying into a cistern broke the
stillness, save as some soft-footed attendant stole in and out across
the rich, thick carpet.

The room was small; the ceiling low; the frescos not elaborate, but of
admirable simplicity and delicacy. The furniture comprised merely a
few divans, chairs, and tripods, but all of the choicest wood or
brass, and the most excellent upholstery. One or two carved wooden
cupboards for books completed the furnishings.

There were only two persons in the room. One of them,--a handsome
young Hellene, evidently a freedman, was sitting on a low chair with
an open roll before him. His companion half sat and half lay on a
divan near by. This second person was a man of height unusual to
Italians of his day; his cheeks were pale and a little sunken; his
dark eyes were warm, penetrating; his mouth and chin mobile and even
affable, but not a line suggested weakness. The forehead was high,
massive, and was exaggerated by a semi-baldness which was only
partially concealed by combing the dark, grey-streaked hair forward.
He was reclining; if he had arisen he would have displayed a frame at
once to be called soldierly, though spare and hardly powerful. To
complete the figure it should be added that on one finger he wore a
large ring set with a very beautiful seal of an armed Venus; and over
his loose but carefully arranged tunic was thrown a short, red mantle,
caught together on the left shoulder--the paludamentum, a garment only
worn by Roman military officers of the very highest rank.

The general--for so his dress proclaimed him--was playing with a
stylus and a waxen tablet, while the young Greek read. Now and then he
would bid the latter pause while he made a few notes. The book was
Euripides's "Troades."

"Read those lines again," interrupted the general. The voice was
marvellously flexile, powerful, and melodious.

And the freedman repeated:--

  "Sow far and wide, plague, famine, and distress;
  Make women widows, children fatherless;
  Break down the altars of the gods, and tread
  On quiet graves, the temples of the dead;
  Play to life's end this wicked witless game
  And you will win what knaves and fools call Fame!"[122]

  [122] Translated in the collection "Sales Attici."

The freedman waited for his superior to ask him to continue, but the
request did not come. The general seemed lost in a reverie; his
expressive dark eyes were wandering off in a kind of quiet melancholy,
gazing at the glass water-clock at the end of the room, but evidently
not in the least seeing it.

"I have heard enough Euripides to-day," at length he remarked. "I must
attend to more important matters. You may leave me."

The Greek rolled up the volume, placed it in the cupboard, and left
the room with noiseless step. The general had arisen, and was standing
beside the open window that looked out into a quiet little court. It
was dark. The lamps of the room threw the court-yard into a sombre
relief. Overhead, in the dimming, violet arch of the sky, one or two
faint stars were beginning to twinkle.

  "Play to life's end this wicked witless game
  And you will win what knaves and fools call Fame!"

repeated the general, leaning out from the stone work of the
window-casing in order to catch the cool air of the court. "Yes, fame,
the fame of a Xerxes; perhaps the fame of a Hannibal--no, I wrong the
Carthaginian, for he at least struck for his country. And what is it
all worth, after all? Does Agamemnon feel that his glory makes the
realm of Hades more tolerable? Does not Homer set forth Achilles as a
warrior with renown imperishable? And yet, 'Mock me not,' he makes the
shade of Achilles say; 'Better to be the hireling of a stranger and
serve a man of mean estate, whose living is but small, than be the
monarch over all those dead and gone.'"

The general leaned yet farther out, and looked upward. "These were the
stars that twinkled over the Troy of Priam; these were the stars that
shone on Carthage when she sent forth her armies and her fleets, and
nigh drove the Greeks from Sicily; and these are the stars which will
shine when Rome is as Troy and Carthage. And I--I am an atom, a
creature of chance, thrown out of the infinite to flash like a
shooting star for a moment across a blackened firmament and then in
the infinite to expire. _Cui bono?_ Why should I care how I live my
life, since in a twinkling it will all be as if it had never been? And
if Cato and Domitius and Lentulus Crus have their way with me, what
matter? What matter if a stab in the dark, or open violence, or the
sham forms of justice end this poor comedy? I and all others play. All
comedy is tragedy, and at its merriest is but dolorous stuff. While
the curtain stays down[123] we are sorry actors with the whole world
for our audience, and the hoots mingle full often with the applause.
And when the curtain rises, that which is good, the painstaking
effort, the labour, is quickly forgotten; the blunders, the false
quantities in our lives, are treasured up to be flung against our
names. We play, but we do not know our parts; we are Oedipus, who has
committed unwitting sin, and yet must reap his reward; we are
Prometheus who is to be chained to the rock forever, for offending the
gods; we are Orestes whom the Eumenides pursue, chasing him down for
his guilt. And all the time we vainly imagine that we are some
victorious hero, some Perseus, especially favoured by the gods to fare
scatheless over land and sea, and bear away the Medusa's head, and
live renowned and happy forever." The reverie was becoming deeper and
deeper; the Roman was beginning no longer to whisper merely to
himself, he was half declaiming; then of a sudden, by a quick
revolution of mind, he broke short the thread of his monologue.
"_Phui!_ Caius, you are ranting as if you were still a youth at
Rhodes, and Apollonius Molo were just teaching you rhetoric! Why has
no letter come from Curio to-day? I am anxious for him. There may have
been a riot. I hadn't expected that those excellent 'Optimates' would
begin to murder tribunes quite so soon. The carrier is late!" and the
general moved away from the window, and took from a cupboard a package
of tablets, which he ran over hastily. "Here are the despatches of
yesterday. None to-day. I fear the worst." The brow of the solitary
speaker grew darker. "Poor Curio, poor Antonius; if they've dared to
murder them, let them tremble. I could forgive a mortal enemy to
myself, but not one who had slaughtered a friend."

  [123] The ancient curtain (_aulaeum_) had its roller at the bottom.

There were steps in the court below, and voices were raised. In an
instant the general's eyes were kindled, his frame on a poise. He
sprang to the window, and shouted down the dark court.

"Curio! Do I hear you speaking?"

"_Salve!_ Caesar. It is I!"

"Venus be praised!" and the proconsul, with almost undignified haste,
was running out upon the stairs to meet his friend. "Has the city
broken out? Has Antonius been murdered? Is the truce at an end? Are
you alone?"

And Curio, who did not quite possess his leader's ability to "do all
things at the same time," answered in a breath: "The city so far keeps
tolerable order. Antonius is safe. The consuls and Senate still keep
the peace; but so poorly that I thought it my duty to come to you and
say things that cannot go in a letter."

"And who is this young man with you?"

"My friend," said Curio, turning to his companion, "is Quintus Livius
Drusus, of whom I have had occasion to write no little."

The proconsul sprang forward and seized Drusus by both hands, and
looked him fairly in the eye.

"_Papae!_ I see Sextus Drusus once more, the best tribune in his
legion, and my dear friend. Your face should be cause for your
welcome, if nothing else. Ah! how much we shall have to say! But you
are travel-stained and weary. Words will keep while you bathe, and our
dinner is prepared; for I myself have not dined, waiting, as I
thought, for your despatches."

"Your excellency shows me too much courtesy," said Drusus, bowing in
what was, to tell truth, some little embarrassment; "it is not fit
that a young man like myself should dine at the same table with an
imperator before whom nations have trembled."

And then it was that Drusus caught his first glimpse of that noble and
sententious egotism which was a characteristic of the great proconsul.

"To be a friend of Caesar is to be the peer of kings."

Drusus bowed again, and then, with Curio, followed the attendants who
were leading them to comfortably, though not sumptuously, furnished
apartments.

       *       *       *       *       *

Quintus Drusus in years to come sat at the boards of many great men,
enjoyed their conversation, entered into their hopes and fears, but he
never forgot the first dinner with the proconsul of the Gauls. Caesar
kept a double table. His hospitality was always ready for the people
of note of the district where he happened to be staying, and for his
own regular army officers. But he dined personally with such high-rank
Romans and very noble Provincials as chanced to be with him from day
to day. To this last select company Drusus found himself that evening
admitted; and in fact he and Curio were the proconsul's only personal
guests. The dinner itself was more remarkable for the refinement of
the whole service, the exquisite chasteness of the decorations of the
dining room, the excellent cooking of the dishes, and the choiceness
of the wines than for any lavish display either of a great bill of
fare, or of an ostentatious amount of splendour. The company of
officers and gentlemen of the Ravenna district dined together in a
spacious hall, where Drusus imagined they had a rather more bounteous
repast than did the immediate guests of their entertainer. At one end
of this large hall was a broad alcove, raised a single step, and here
was laid the dinner for the proconsul. Caesar passed through the large
company of his humbler guests, followed by Curio and Drusus,--now
speaking a familiar word to a favourite centurion; now congratulating
a country visitor on his election to his local Senate; now introducing
the new-comers to this or that friend. And so presently Drusus found
himself resting on his elbow on the same couch with Caesar, while Curio
occupied the other end. For a time the latter held by far the larger
part of the conversation in his hands. There were a myriad tales to
tell of politics at the capital, a myriad warnings to give. Caesar
listened to them all; and only rarely interrupted, and then with words
so terse and penetrating that Drusus marvelled. The proconsul seemed
to know the innermost life history and life motives of everything and
everybody. He described a character with an epithet; he fathomed a
political problem with an expletive. Only now and then did his words
or motions betray any deep personal concern or anxiety, and once only
did Drusus see him flush with passion.

"That affair of the magistrate of Coma, to whom you gave the
franchise," said Curio, "was extremely unfortunate. You of course
heard long ago how Marcellus, the consul, had him beaten with rods and
sent home, to show[124]--as he said--to you, Caesar, the print of his
stripes."

  [124] Caesar had given the magistrates of towns of the north of Italy
  the Roman franchise: no Roman citizens could be lawfully flogged.
  By his action Marcellus denied Caesar's right to confer the franchise.

The face of the proconsul reddened, then grew black with hardly reined
fury.

"Yes, most unfortunate for Marcellus." It was all that Caesar said, but
Drusus would not have exchanged his life then, for that of Marcellus,
for a thousand talents of gold.

"And our dear friend, Cato," went on Curio, who was perhaps not
unwilling to stir the vials of his superior's wrath, "has just sworn
with an oath in public, that as soon as your army is disbanded he will
press an impeachment against you; and I've heard it reported that you
will be compelled to plead, like Milo when he was tried for the
Clodius affair, before judges overawed by armed men."

"I anticipate no such proceeding," said Caesar, dryly, in an accent of
infinite contempt. Then turning to Drusus, he entirely changed his
intonation.

"So long," he said, with a shrug of his rather slight shoulders, "we
have talked of comitias and senates! Praise to the gods, all life is
not passed in the Forum or Curia! And now, my dear Quintus, let us put
aside those tedious matters whereof we all three have talked and
thought quite enough, and tell me of yourself; for, believe me, our
friendship would be one-sided indeed, if all your trouble and exertion
went for me, and you received no solicitude in return."

And Drusus, who had at first found his words coming awkwardly enough,
presently grew fluent as he conversed with the proconsul. He told of
his student days at Athens, of his studies of rhetoric and philosophy,
of his journey back to Praeneste, and the incidents of the sea voyage,
and land travel; of his welcome at Praeneste by the old retainers and
the familia of the Drusi, and then of his recent political work at
Rome.

"These have been the chief events of my life, Caesar," he concluded,
"and since you have condescended to hear, I have ventured to tell; but
why need I ask if such a commonplace tale of a young man who has yet
his life to live, should interest you?"

Caesar smiled, and laying down the beaker from which he was sipping
very slowly, replied:--

"_Mehercle!_ And do you wish to have all your exploits crowded into a
few short years of youth, that mature age will have nothing to
surpass? Listen,--I believe that when the historians, by whom our dear
Cicero is so anxious to be remembered favourably, write their books,
they will say something of my name,--good or bad, the Genius
knows,--but fame at least will not be denied me. Twelve years ago when
I was in Spain I was reading in some book of the exploits of Alexander
the Great. Suddenly it seemed as though I could not control myself. I
began to weep; and this was the explanation I gave to my friends, 'I
have just cause to weep, when I consider that Alexander at my age had
conquered so many nations, and I have all this time done nothing that
is memorable.'"

"But even when your excellency went into Spain," remarked Drusus, "you
had done that which should have given renown. Consider, you had won
the praetorship, the office of Pontifex Maximus--"

"_St_," interrupted the proconsul, "a list of titles is not a pledge
from Fortune that she will grant fame. Besides, I was about to
add--what folly it was for me to weep! Do I imagine now, that
Alexander was happy and contented in the midst of his conquests?
Rather, unless he were, indeed, of more than mortal stuff, for every
morsel of fame, he paid a talent of care and anxiety. Rush not too
quickly after fame; only with age comes the strength to pay the price
thereof."

Drusus was half wondering at, half admiring, the unconscious
comparison the proconsul was drawing between himself and Alexander.
But Caesar went on:--

"But you, O Drusus, have not dealt honestly with me, in that you have
failed to tell that which lies nearest your heart, and which you
consider the pivot of all your present life."

Drusus flushed. "Doubtless, your excellency will pardon a young man
for speaking with diffidence on a subject, to recollect which is to
cause pain."

Caesar put off the half-careless air of the good-natured wit, which he
had been affecting.

"Quintus Livius Drusus," and as he spoke, his auditor turned as if
magnetized by his eye and voice, and hung on every word, "be not
ashamed to own to me, of all men, that you claim a good woman's love,
and for that love are ready to make sacrifice."

And as if to meet a flitting thought in the other's mind, Caesar
continued:--

"No, blush not before me, although the fashionable world of Rome will
have its stories. I care not enough for such gossip to take pains to
say it lies. But this would I have declared, when at your age, and let
all the world hear, that I, Caius Caesar, loved honourably, purely, and
worthily; and for the sake of that love would and did defy death
itself."

The proconsul's pale face flushed with something very akin to passion;
his bright eyes were more lustrous than ever.

"I was eighteen years old when I married Cornelia, the daughter of
Cinna, the great leader of the 'Populares.' Sulla, then dictator,
ordered me to put her away. Cornelia had not been the wife of my
father's choice. He had wished to force upon me Cossutia, an heiress,
but with little save riches to commend her. I gained neither riches,
political influence, nor family good-will by the marriage. Sulla was
in the fulness of his strength. I had seen nearly all my friends
proscribed, exiled, or murdered. Sulla bade me put away my wife, and
take such a one as he should appoint. He was graciously pleased to
spare my life, in order that I might become his tool. Why did I
refuse?"

Caesar was sitting upon the couch and speaking nervously, in a manner
that betokened great and unusual excitement.

"I knew the dictator meant to favour me if I would only humour him in
this matter. A word from him and all ambition of mine had probably
been at an end, I take no praise to myself for this. I refused him. I
defied his threats. He seized my property, deprived me of my
priesthood,[125] finally let loose his pack of assassins upon me. I
almost became their victim. But my uncle, Aurelius Cotta, and some
good friends of mine among the Vestal Virgins pleaded my cause. I
escaped. Sulla said he was over-persuaded in sparing me; 'In me were
many Mariuses.' But did I regret the loss, the danger, the check for
the time being to my career? Quintus Drusus, I counted them as of
little importance, not to be weighed beside the pure love that
mastered me. And as the faithful husband of my Cornelia I remained,
until cruel death closed her dear eyes forever. One can love once, and
honourably, with his whole being, but not truly and honourably love a
second time, at least not in a manner like unto the first. Therefore,
my Quintus, blush not to confess that which I know is yours,--a thing
which too many of us Romans do not know in these declining
days,--something that would almost convince me there were indeed
celestial gods, who care for us and guide our darkened destinies. For
when we reason of the gods, our reason tells us they are not. But when
pure passion possesses our hearts, then we see tangible visions, then
our dreams become no dreams but realities; we mount up on wings, we
fly, we soar to Olympus, to Atlantis, to the Elysian fields; we no
longer wish to know, we feel; we no longer wish to prove, we see; and
what our reason bids us to reject, a surer monitor bids us to receive:
the dangers and perils of this life of shades upon the earth are of no
account, for we are transformed into immortals in whose veins courses
the divine ichor, and whose food is ambrosial. Therefore while we love
we do indeed dwell in the Islands of the Blessed: and when the vision
fades away, its sweet memory remains to cheer us in our life below,
and teach us that where the cold intellect may not go, there is indeed
some way, on through the mists of the future, which leads we know not
whither; but which leads to things purer and fairer than those which
in our most ambitious moments we crave."

  [125] Marius had made young Caesar, Flamen Dialis: priest of Jupiter.

The voice of the conqueror of Gaul and German sank with a half tremor;
his eye was moist, his lips continued moving after his words had
ceased to flow. Drusus felt himself searched through and through by
glance and speech. Was the proconsul a diviner to find all that was
deepest in his soul and give it an utterance which Drusus had never
expressed even to himself? The young man was thrilled, fascinated. And
Caesar, in quite another tone, recovered himself and spoke.

"Wherefore, O Drusus! be ashamed to tell how the Lady Cornelia loves
you and you love her? What if the grim old consul-elect, like the
jealous elder in the comedy, will stand in your way! _Phui!_ What are
the complaints, threats, and prohibitions of such as he? At present,
the wind blows from his quarter, but it will not be ever so. Either
Lentulus will be in no place to hinder you before long, or we all
shall be beyond caring for his triumph or failure."

"Your excellency bids me hope!" cried Drusus.

"I bid you love," replied Caesar, smiling. "I bid you go to Baiae, for
there I have heard your dear lady waits her long-absent Odysseus, and
tell her that all will be well in time; for Caesar will make it so."

"For Caesar will make it so," repeated the young man, half-unconscious
that he was speaking aloud.

"For Caesar will make it so," reiterated the proconsul, as though Zeus
on Olympus were nodding his head in awful and irrevocable promise.

And the proconsul took both of his guest's hands in his own, and said,
with seriousness:--

"Quintus Drusus, why did you abandon your bride to support my cause?"

"Because," replied the other, with perfect frankness, "I should not be
worthy to look Cornelia in the face, if I did not sacrifice all to aid
the one Roman who can save the state."

"Young man," replied the proconsul, "many follow me for selfish gain,
many follow me to pay off a grudge, but few follow me because they
believe that because Caesar is ambitious, he is ambitious as a god
should be ambitious--to bestow the greatest benefits possible upon the
men entrusted to his charge. I know not what thread for me the Fates
have spun; but this I know, that Caesar will never prove false to those
who trust him to bring righteousness to Rome, and peace to the world."

       *       *       *       *       *

That night, as Drusus was retiring, Curio spoke to him:--

And what manner of man do you think is the proconsul?"

"I think," replied Drusus, "that I have discovered the one man in the
world whom I craved to find."

"And who is that?"

"The man with an ideal."




Chapter XII

Pratinas Meets Ill-Fortune


I

Probably of the various personages mentioned in the course of our
story none was more thoroughly enjoying life about this time than
Agias. Drusus had left him in the city when he started for Ravenna,
with general instructions to keep an eye on Lucius Ahenobarbus and
Pratinas, and also to gather all he could of the political drift among
the lower classes. Agias was free now. He let his hair grow long in
token of his newly gained liberty; paraded a many-folded toga; and
used part of the donatives which Drusus and Fabia had lavished upon
him, in buying one or two slave-boys of his own, whom, so far from
treating gently on account of his own lately servile position, he
cuffed and abused with grim satisfaction at being able to do what had
so often been done to him.

Agias had been given lodgings by Drusus in a tenement house, owned by
the latter, in the Subura.

The rooms were over a bakery, and at the sides were a doctor's and
surgeon's office and a barber's shop--a rendezvous which gave the
young Greek an admirable chance to pick up the current gossip. Every
street-pedler, every forum-idler, had his political convictions and
pet theories. The partisans who arrogated to themselves the modest
epithet of "The Company of All Good Men," clamoured noisily that
"Liberty and Ancient Freedom" were in danger, if Caesar set foot in
Rome save as an impeached traitor. And the Populares--the supporters
of the proconsul--raged equally fiercely against the greed of the
Senate party that wished to perpetuate itself forever in office. Agias
could only see that neither faction really understood the causes for
and against which they fought; and observed in silence, trusting that
his patron knew more of the issues than he.

But the newly manumitted freedman was thoroughly enjoying himself. The
windy speeches in the Senate, the crowded and excited meetings in the
Forum, the action and reaction of the tides of popular prejudice and
fancy, the eloquence of Antonius, and the threatenings and ravings of
Marcellus the consul--all these were interesting but not disturbing.
Agias was catching glimpses of a little Olympus of his own--an Olympus
in which he was at once Zeus, Poseidon, and Apollo; Sesostris--so he
declared--the lame cup-bearer Hephaestus; and in place of Hera, Athena,
and Aphrodite, were the smiles and laughter of Artemisia. Agias was
head over ears in love with this pretty little cage-bird shut up in
Pratinas's gloomy suite of rooms. Her "uncle" took her out now and
then to the theatre or to the circus; but she had had little enough
companionship save such as Sesostris could give; and to her, Agias was
a wonderful hero, the master of every art, the victor over a hundred
monsters. He had told her of his adventure with Phaon--not calling
names, lest disagreeable consequences ensue--and Artemisia dreamed of
him as the cleverest creature on the earth, able to outwit Hermes in
subtlety. Agias had found out when Pratinas was likely to be away from
home--and that worthy Hellene, be it said, never declined an
invitation to dine with a friend--and Agias timed his visits
accordingly. He taught Artemisia to play the cithera and to sing, and
she made such rapid progress under his tutoring that the unconscious
Pratinas commended her efforts to acquire the accomplishments he
wished. And Agias was never so happy as when those bright eyes were
hanging on his lips or that merry tongue was chattering a thousand
pointless remarks or jests.

Yes, Agias found himself in a condition when he could well ask to have
no change. The possibility that Pratinas would come home, and put an
end to the romance once and for all, was just great enough to give the
affair the zest of a dangerous adventure. Despite Sesostris's warnings
that Artemisia might at any time be sold away by her pseudo-uncle,
Agias could not discover that that danger was imminent enough to need
frustration. He was content to live himself and to let Artemisia live,
basking in the stolen sunshine of the hour, and to let the thought of
the approaching shadows fade out of his mind.

Another person who saw the sunshine rather brighter than before was
Pisander. That excellent philosopher had received his share of the
gratitude Drusus had bestowed on his deliverers. But he was still in
the service of Valeria, for Drusus saw that he had admirable
opportunities for catching the stray bits of political gossip that
inevitably intermixed themselves with the conversation of Valeria and
her circle. Pisander had continued to read Plato to his mistress, and
to groan silently at her frivolity; albeit, he did not groan so
hopelessly as before, because he had good money in his pouch and knew
where to procure more when he needed it.

So Agias enjoyed himself. He was a youth; a Pagan youth; and in his
short life he had seen many a scene of wickedness and shame. Yet there
was nothing unholy in the affection which he found was daily growing
stronger and stronger for Artemisia. She was a pure, innocent flower,
that by the very whiteness of her simple sweet presence drove away
anything that "defiled or made a lie." Agias did not worship her; she
was too winning; too cunning and pretty to attract the least
reverence; but in her company the young Greek was insensibly raised
pinnacles above the murky moral atmosphere in which most men and
youths of his station walked.

It was all like an Idyl of Theocritus; with the tenement of Pratinas
for a shepherd's hut; and Sesostris for a black-backed sheep to whom
the herdsmen and the nymph of his love could play on "oaten reed." At
first, Agias had never dreamed of telling a word of his affection to
Artemisia. In truth, it was very hard to tell, for she, with an
absolute innocence, took all his advances for far more than they were
worth; told him that next to her "uncle and dear Sesostris" he was
quite the best friend she had; that she loved him, and was glad to
hear him say that he loved her.

All this was delightful in the ears of her admirer, but very
disconcerting. Agias thought of the hollow civilities of Valeria's
life, as he had seen it; of the outward decorum of language, of the
delicately veiled compliments, of the interchange of words that summed
up, in a few polished commonplaces, a whole network of low intrigue
and passion. Was this the same world! Could Valeria and Artemisia both
be women! The one--a beauty, whose guilty heart was not ignorant of a
single form of fashionable sin; the other--as it were, a blossom, that
was pure sweetness, in whose opening petals the clear diamond of the
morning dew still remained! Agias did not compare Artemisia with
Cornelia; for Cornelia, in his eyes, was a goddess, and in beauty and
passions was above the hope or regard of mortal men.

But what was one to do in an emergency like the following? Agias had
been singing the "Love Song" from the "Cyclops," and trying to throw
into the lines all the depth of tender affection which voice and look
rendered possible.

  "One with eyes the fairest
    Cometh from his dwelling,
  Some one loves thee, rarest,
    Bright beyond my telling.
  In thy grace thou shinest
  Like some nymph divinest,
  In her caverns dewy;--
  All delights pursue thee,
  Soon pied flowers, sweet-breathing,
  Shall thy head be wreathing."[126]

  [126] Translated by Shelley.

And at the conclusion of the song Artemisia threw her arms around
Agias's neck and kissed him; and then with astounding impartiality
sprang into Sesostris's lap, and patted the old Ethiop's black cheeks,
and bestowed on him all manner of endearing epithets. What was poor
Agias to do in such a case? He blankly concluded that it had proved
easier to blast the plot of Pratinas and Ahenobarbus, than to win the
love--as he meant "love"--of this provokingly affectionate girl. It
was growing late. Pratinas might at any time return. And Agias
constrained himself to depart.

"By Zeus!" was the exclamation he addressed to himself as he fought
his way through the crowds toward his own quarters; "where will this
all end? How much longer are you going to lie in the toils of that
most innocent of Circes? Will she never open her eyes? If I could only
make her cry, 'I hate you!' there would be some hope; for when one
hates, as I want her to, love is but a step away. Confound that
Sesostris! For me to have to sit there, and see that baboon kissed and
fondled!"

And so reflecting, he reached his rooms. One of the luckless
slave-boys who now addressed him as "Dominus," was waiting to tell him
that a very gaunt, strange-looking man, with an enormous beard, had
called to see him while he was out, and would return--so the visitor
said--in the evening, for his business was important. "Pisander,"
remarked Agias; and he stayed in that evening to meet the philosopher,
although he had arranged to share a dinner with one or two other
freedmen, who were his friends.

The man of learning appeared at a very late hour. In fact, the
water-clock showed that it wanted little of midnight before he came.
His explanation was that Valeria had called him in to read verses to a
company of friends who were supping with her, and he could not get
away sooner. Besides, the dark streets were full of bandits, and he
had therefore taken a circuitous route to avoid attack. Agias had to
let him ramble through all the details, although he knew very well
that Pisander would never have taken so much trouble to come if he had
not had information of the first importance to impart.

"And now, my dear Pisander," ventured the young Greek, at length, "I
will ask Dromo to set something to drink before us; and I hope you
will tell me why you have come."

Pisander glanced timidly over his shoulder, pulled at his beard with
suppressed excitement, then bent down, and in a very low voice burst
out:--

"Pratinas and"--he hesitated--"Valeria!"

"_Ai"_ cried Agias, "I have suspected it for a very long time. You are
sure the fox has snapped up his goose?"

"By Hercules, very sure! They are planning to go to Egypt. Pratinas
has just had a wonderful stroke of luck. He received six hundred
thousand sesterces[127] with which to corrupt a jury for some poor
wretch who expected to enlist Pratinas's cunning to get him out of the
toils of the law. Pratinas calmly put the money in his strong-box, and
let the unhappy wight be cast. He is not at all poor--he has amassed a
large fortune while he has been in Rome. Shade of Plato! how this
knave has prospered! And now he is arranging with Valeria to strip
poor Calatinus of nearly all his valuables, before they fly the
country."

  [127] $24,000.

"Ah, luckless Calatinus!" laughed Agias. "That will be the end of his
marrying the handsomest woman in Rome. And so this is what you came
here to tell me? It really was a good secret to keep."

"_St!_" interrupted Pisander, "Pratinas has something else to attend
to. Calatinus will get consolation for losing his dear spouse. I
suppose Pratinas wishes to indemnify him, but he himself will make a
good bit at the same time."

In a twinkling a thought had flashed through Agias's mind, that made a
cold sweat break out all over him, and a hot surge of blood mount to
his head.

"Man, man!" he cried, grasping Pisander's wrists with all his
strength, "speak! Don't look at me this way! Don't say that you mean
Artemisia?"

"_Ai!_ You know the girl, then?" said the other, with the most
excruciating inquisitiveness.

"Know her?" raged Agias, "I love the sunbeam on which her eyes rest.
Speak! Tell me all, everything, all about it I Quick! I must know!"

Pisander drew himself together, and with a deliberation that was
nearly maddening to his auditor, began:--

"Well, you see, I had occasion this morning to be in Calatinus's
library. Yes, I remember, I was just putting the new copy of Theognis
back into the cupboard, when I noticed that the Mimnermus was not
neatly rolled, and so I happened to stay in the room, and--"

"By Zeus, speak faster and to the point!" cried Agias.

"Oh, there wasn't very much to it all! Why, how excited you are!
Pratinas came into the atrium, and Calatinus was already there. I
heard the latter say, 'So I am to give you forty thousand sesterces
for the little girl you had with you at the circus yesterday?' And
Pratinas replied, 'Yes, if she pleases you. I told you her name was
Artemisia, and that I always taught her to believe that she was my
niece.'"

"_Hei! Hei!_" groaned Agias, rushing up and down the room, half
frantic. "Don't tell any more, I've heard enough! Fool, fool I have
been, to sit in the sunshine, and never think of preparing to carry
out my promise to Sesostris. No, you must tell me--you must tell me if
you have learned any more. Did Calatinus fix on any time at which he
was to take possession of the poor girl?"

"No," replied the still amazed Pisander. "I did not hear the whole
conversation. There was something about 'a very few days,' and then
Pratinas began to condole with Calatinus over being beaten for the
tribunate after having spent so much money for the canvass. But why
are you so stirred up? As Plato very admirably observes in his
'Philebus'--"

"The Furies seize upon your 'Philebus'!" thundered Agias. "Keep quiet,
if you've nothing good to tell! Oh, Agias, Agias! where are your wits,
where is your cunning? What in the world can I do?"

And so he poured out his distress and anger. But, after all, there was
nothing to be done that night. Pisander, who at last began to realize
the dilemma of his friend, ventured on a sort of sympathy which was
worse than no sympathy at all, for philosophical platitudes are ever
the worst of consolations. Agias invited the good man to spend the
night with him, and not risk a second time the robbers of the streets.
The young Greek himself finally went to bed, with no definite purpose
in his mind except to rescue Artemisia, at any and every hazard, from
falling into the clutches of Calatinus, who was perhaps the one man in
the world Agias detested the most heartily.


II

Early in the morning Agias was awake. He had slept very little. The
face of Artemisia was ever before him, and he saw it bathed in tears,
and clouded with anguish and terror. But, early as he arose, it was
none too early. Dromo, one of his slaves, came to announce to his
dread lord that an aged Ethiop was waiting to see him, and Agias did
not need to be told that this was Sesostris.

That faithful servant of an unworthy master was indeed in a pitiable
condition. His ordinarily neat and clean dress was crumpled and
disarranged, as though he had not changed it during the night, but had
rather been tossing and wakeful. His eyes were swollen, and tears were
trickling down his cheeks. His voice had sunk to a husky choking, and
when he stood before Agias he was unable to get out a word, but, after
a few vain attempts which ended in prolonged sniffles, thrust into his
young friend's hand a tablet.

It was in Greek, in the childish, awkward hand of Artemisia, and ran
as follows:--

"Artemisia to her dear, dear Agias. I never wrote a letter before, and
you must excuse the blunders in this. I don't know how to begin to
tell you the dreadful thing that may happen to me. I will try and stop
crying, and write it out just as it all happened. The day before
yesterday Pratinas took me to the circus, where I enjoyed the racing
very much. While we were sitting there, a very fine gentleman--at
least he had purple stripes on his tunic and ever so many rings--came
and sat down beside us. Pratinas told me that this gentleman was
Lucius Calatinus, who was a great lord, but a friend of his. I tried
to say something polite to Calatinus, but I didn't like him. He seemed
coarse, and looked as though he might be cruel at times. He talked to
me something the way you have talked--said I was pretty and my voice
sounded very sweet. But I didn't enjoy these things from him, I can
hardly tell why--though I'm delighted to hear you say them. Well,
after quite a while he went away, and I didn't think anything more
about him for a time, and yesterday you know how happy I was when you
visited me. Only a little while after you left, Pratinas came back. I
could see that he had something on his mind, although he said nothing.
He seemed uneasy, and kept casting sidelong glances at me, which made
me feel uncomfortable. I went up to him, and put my arms around his
neck. 'Dear uncle,' I said, 'what is troubling you to-night?'
'Nothing,' he answered, and he half tried to take my arms away. Then
he said, 'I was thinking how soon I was to go back to Alexandria.' 'To
Alexandria!' I cried, and I was just going to clap my hands when I
thought that, although Alexandria was a far nicer place than Rome, you
could not go with us, and so I felt very sorry. Then Pratinas spoke
again in a hard, cold voice he has never used to me before.
'Artemisia, I must tell you now the truth about yourself. I have let
you call me uncle, and have tried to be kind to you. But you cannot
come back to Alexandria with me. The day after to-morrow Calatinus,
the gentleman you met at the circus yesterday, will come and take you
away. He is a very rich man, and if you please him will give you
everything you desire.' I couldn't understand at all what he meant,
and cried out, 'But, uncle, I don't like Calatinus, and you--you don't
really mean to leave me behind?' 'You little donkey,' said Pratinas,
laughing, oh! so heartlessly, 'I'm not your uncle. You've been my
slave, and I've sold you to Calatinus; so don't quarrel with him, but
learn to like him quickly.' I don't remember what he said or I said
next. I was so frightened and grieved that I don't know what I did. I
know Pratinas finally whipped me, something he never did before. I
went to bed feeling so sore, that I could not get really to sleep, but
dreadful visions of Calatinus kept frightening me. I don't know which
grieves me most, to know I am a slave, to know that Pratinas is not my
uncle and does not love me, or to be about to be sold to Calatinus.
Dear Sesostris has done all he can to console me, but that's very
little; and so, very early this morning, I've written to you, Agias,
just as soon as Pratinas left the house, for I am sure that you, who
are so clever and wise, can see some way to get me out of my dreadful
trouble."

It would be hardly necessary to say that, after reading this appeal,
Agias hurried away to do all that lay in his power to console
Artemisia, and deliver her from her danger. When he reached Pratinas's
tenement, Artemisia ran to meet him, and kissed him again and again,
and cuddled down in his strong, young arms, quite content to believe
that she had found a protector on whom she could cast all her burdens.
And Agias? He laughed and bade her wipe away her tears, and swore a
great oath that, so long as he breathed, Calatinus should not lay a
finger upon her.

Artemisia had practically told all her story in her letter. It was
clear that Calatinus had caught sight of her several times,--though
she had remained in blissful ignorance,--and Pratinas had deliberately
planned to waylay him as a customer who would pay a good price for the
girl, whom it would be manifestly inconvenient for him to take with
Valeria on his premeditated flight to Egypt. But this enlightenment
did not make Agias's task any the easier. He knew perfectly well that
he could never raise a tithe of the forty thousand sesterces that
Pratinas was to receive from Calatinus, and so redeem Artemisia. He
had no right to expect the gift of such a sum from Drusus. If Pratinas
really owned the poor girl as a slave, he could do anything he listed
with her, and no law could be invoked to say him nay. There was only
one recourse left to Agias, and that was fairly desperate--to carry
off Artemisia and keep her in hiding until Pratinas should give up the
quest and depart for Egypt. That there was peril in such a step he was
well aware. Not merely could Artemisia, if recaptured, receive any
form whatsoever of brutal punishment, but he, as the abettor of her
flight, would be liable to a heavy penalty. Slave property was
necessarily very precarious property, and to aid a slave to escape was
an extremely heinous crime. "So many slaves, so many enemies," ran the
harsh maxim; and it was almost treason to society for a freedman to
aid a servant to run away.

But Agias had no time to count the cost, no time to evolve a plan of
escape that admitted no form of disaster. Artemisia besought him not
to leave her for a moment, and accordingly he remained by her,
laughing, poking fun, and making reckless gibes at her fears.
Sesostris went about his simple household duties with a long face, and
now and then a tear trickled down his cheek. Whatever came of the
matter, Artemisia would have to be separated from him. He might never
see her again, and the old Ethiopian loved her more than he did life
itself.

"You will not wrong the girl when she is with you?" he whispered
dolefully to Agias.

"I swear by Zeus she shall be treated as if she were my own dear
sister," was his reply.

"It is well. I can trust you; but _mu! mu!_ it is hard, it is hard! I
love her like my own eyes! Isis preserve her dear life!"

And so at last Artemisia, having cried out all her first burst of
grief, was beginning to smile once more.

"And now, oh! makaira,"[128] said Agias, "I must go away for just a
little while. I have ever so many things to attend to; and you must be
a good, brave girl, and wait until I come back."

  [128] Blessed dear.

"_St!"_ broke in Sesostris, "there's a step on the stairs. Pratinas is
coming!"

"Hide me!" cried Agias, as the approaching feet grew nearer. There was
no time to take refuge in one of the farther rooms.

"Here;" and Sesostris threw open the same iron clamped chest in which
some time ago we saw Pratinas inspecting his treasure. "The money was
taken out yesterday."

Agias bounded into the box, and Sesostris pushed down the cover. The
luckless occupant had only a chance to push out a corner of his tunic
through the slit to admit a little air, when Pratinas entered the
room. Agias longed to spring forth and throttle him, but such an act
would have been folly.

The young Greek's prison was sufficiently cramped and stuffy; but for
a moment Agias tried to persuade himself that he had only to wait with
patience until Pratinas should be gone, and no one would be the worse.
An exclamation from the room without dispelled this comforting
illusion.

"By Zeus!" cried Pratinas, "what is this? Whence came this new toga?"

Agias writhed in his confinement. In the plentitude of the glory of
his newly acquired freedom, he had come abroad in an elegant new toga;
but he had laid it on a chair when he entered the room.

There was an awkward pause outside; then Pratinas burst out, "You
worthless Ethiopian, you, where did this toga come from? It hasn't
wings or feet! How came it here? Who's been here? Speak, speak, you
fool, or I will teach you a lesson!"

Agias gathered himself for a spring; for he expected to hear Sesostris
whimper out a confession, and see Pratinas's wickedly handsome face
peering into the chest. "He shan't cut my throat without a struggle!"
was his vow.

But, to his surprise, Sesostris answered with a tone of unlooked-for
firmness, "Master, I cannot tell you where the toga came from."

The tone of Pratinas, in reply, indicated his passion. "Sheep! Dog!
Have I had you all these years that you should need a thrashing for
impertinence! What rascal has been here to ogle at this wretched
girl?" He might have thundered his commands to Artemisia, who was
sobbing in evident distress; but his anger was concentrated on
Sesostris. "Will you not speak?"

"Master," came the same firm reply, "I will not tell you, though you
take my life for refusing."

What followed was, as Agias heard it, a volley of curses, blows,
groans, and scuffling; then a heavy fall; an extremely fierce
execration from Pratinas, and a loud shrill scream from Artemisia, "O
Sesostris; dear Sesostris! He doesn't speak! He doesn't move! You've
killed him!"

"And I will kill you too if you won't tell the truth!" thundered
Pratinas, in an ungovernable passion. Agias heard a blow as of a
clinched fist, and a low moan. It was enough. One spring, and the
ponderous cover flew back. The toga, the innocent cause of the
catastrophe, lay on the chair close at hand. Agias grasped the whole
picture in a twinkling: Sesostris lying beside a heavy wooden bench,
with blood flowing from a great wound in his head which had struck in
falling on a sharp corner; Artemisia crying in unspeakable dread on a
divan; Pratinas, his face black as night, with uplifted hand prepared
to strike a second time. Agias saw; and while he saw acted. Down over
Pratinas's head dashed the broad linen folds of the toga, and two
muscular arms drew it tight around the neck. Then began the struggle.
Pratinas was of powerful physique, and resisted like a madman. The
carpet was torn to shreds, the chairs shivered. But Agias, too,
battled for grim life. He kept the hood over his opponent's eyes and
never gave Pratinas a glimpse of the identity of his assailant. And at
last a life of debauches and late dinners and unhealthy excitement
began to tell against even so powerful a constitution as that of
Pratinas. Tighter and tighter grew the pressure around his neck. And
now Artemisia sprang up, and flew like a tiny tigress to her lover's
assistance, and caught at her tormentor's hands, tearing them with her
white little teeth, and pulling the enveloping mantle closer and
closer. The contest could only have one end. Ere long, Pratinas was
lying on the floor, bound hand and foot with strings of torn clothing,
and his head still muffled in the toga. Agias, victorious, but with
not a whole rag on his back, rose from his contest.

"Sesostris! help him!" cried Artemisia, trying in vain to get some
response from the motionless form by the bench. Agias looked at the
Ethiop. The hard wood had struck the top of his skull, and death must
have been instantaneous.

"He does not feel any pain," explained the young Greek, who realized
that this was no moment to indulge in emotions of any sort. "Now,
Artemisia, you must hurry and put on a clean dress yourself; and give
me at least a new tunic, for I cannot show this on the streets. Put
into a basket all the bread you have, and some oil, and some olives,
and some slices of salt fish."

Artemisia disappeared in the next room. Agias returned to his
prisoner. Pratinas was coughing and twisting, and trying to ejaculate
oaths.

"My good sir," said Agias, "I am not a bloodthirsty man, otherwise I
would cut your throat, and so let you forget a predicament which
doubtless embarrasses you not a little. But, since that is not to be,
do not blame me if I arrange so that it will be unlikely that two such
cold friends as you and myself will ever meet again. First of all,
that purse which is at your side, and which, by its weight, shows that
it contains a fair night's winnings, must go with me to speed me on my
way. I have never stolen very much before. But I believe you, sir, are
an Epicurean, who teach that pleasure is the highest good, and that
all things are the result of chance. Now," and here he detached the
purse, and counted over a very considerable sum, "you will observe
that Fortune has thrown this money in my way, and it is my pleasure to
take it. Therefore I am fulfilling the highest good. And you, as a
philosopher, should be quite reconciled."

Artemisia came back into the room, having completed the few simple
preparations.

"Now, my excellent sir," continued Agias, suiting his actions to his
words, "I will stand you on your feet--so. I will push you, still
bound, into this closet--so. I will pile furniture against the door,
so that, when you have worked clear of your bonds, as I imagine you
will in a few hours, even then you will not get out too quickly. And
now, as your dear Roman friends say, _Vale!_ We are off!"

Artemisia flung herself on the form of Sesostris, and covered the
black, ugly face with kisses.

"He's growing cold," she lamented. "What is the matter? I can't leave
him this way!"

But Agias did not dare to admit the least delaying.

"Dear Artemisia," he said, "we can't do anything for Sesostris. I will
explain to you by and by about him. He is not feeling cold now at all.
You must come at once with me. I will take you where Pratinas will
never touch you."


III

If Agias had been a trifle more reckless he would have cut short
Pratinas's thread of life then and there, and greatly diminished the
chance of unpleasant consequences. But he had not sunk so low as that.
Besides, he had already worked out in his versatile head a plan that
seemed practicable, albeit utterly audacious. Cornelia was at Baiae.
Cornelia owed him a great debt of gratitude for saving Drusus.
Cornelia might harbour Artemisia as a new maid, if he could contrive
to get his charge over the hundred long miles that lay between Rome
and Baiae.

In the street he made Artemisia draw her mantle over her pretty face,
and pressed through the crowds as fast as he could drag her onward.
Quickly as he might he left the noisy Subura behind, and led on toward
the Palatine. At length he turned in toward a large house, and by a
narrow alley reached a garden gate, and gained admission to the rear.
By his confident movements he showed himself familiar with the spot.
The dwelling, as a matter of fact, was that of Calatinus.

As Agias pushed open the gate, and led Artemisia into a little garden
enclosed with a high stone wall, he surprised a dapper-appearing young
slave-lad of about his age, who was lying idly on the tiny grass plot,
and indulging in a solitary game of backgammon.[129]

  [129] _Duodecim scripta_.

"_Hem!_ Iasus," was Agias's salutation, "can you do an old friend a
favour?"

Iasus sprang to his feet, with eyes, nose, and mouth wide open. He
turned red, turned white, turned red once more.

"_Phy!_" cried the other; "you aren't so silly as to take me for a
shade from Hades? I've as much strength and muscle as you."

"Agias!" blurted out Iasus, "are you alive? Really alive? They didn't
beat you to death! I am so glad! You know--"

"_St!_" interrupted Agias. "You did, indeed, serve me an awkward trick
some time since; but who can blame you for wanting to save your own
skin. Pisander and Arsinoe and Semiramis have kept the secret that I'm
alive very well, for in some ways it shouldn't come to Valeria's ears.
My story later. Where's her most noble ladyship?"

"The domina," replied Iasus, with a sniff, "has just gone out on a
visit to a friend who has a country-house near Fidenae, up the Tiber."

"Praise the gods! Far enough to be abroad for the day, and perhaps
over night! This suits my purpose wonderfully. Is Pisander at home,
and Arsinoe?"

"I will fetch them," replied Iasus; and in a minute the philosopher
and the waiting-maid were in the garden.

A very few words explained to these two sympathetic souls the whole
situation.

Artemisia shrank back at sight of Pisander.

"I am afraid of that man. He wears a great beard like Pratinas, and I
don't love Pratinas any longer."

"Oh, don't say that, my little swallow," said the worthy man of books,
looking very sheepish. "I should be sorry to think that your bright
eyes were vexed to see me."

"_Phui!_ Pisander," laughed Arsinoe, "what have Zeno and Diogenes to
do with 'bright eyes'?"

But for once Pisander's heart was wiser than his head, and he only
tossed Artemisia an enormous Persian peach, at which, when she sampled
the gift, she made peace at once, and forever after held Pisander in
her toils as a devoted servant.

But Agias was soon gone; and Artemisia spent the rest of the morning
and the whole of the afternoon in that very satisfactory Elysium of
Syrian pears and honey-apples which Semiramis and Arsinoe supplied in
full measure, with Pisander to sit by, and stare, boylike, at her
clear, fair profile, and cast jealous glances at Iasus when that young
man ventured to utilize his opportunity for a like advantage. Many of
the servants had gone with Valeria, and the others readily agreed to
preserve secrecy in a matter in which their former fellow-slave and
favourite had so much at stake. So the day passed, and no one came to
disturb her; and just as the shadows were falling Agias knocked at the
garden gate.

"_St!_" were his words, "I have hired a gig which will carry us both.
Pratinas is loose and has been raising heaven and earth to get at us.
There is a crier going the rounds of the Forum offering a thousand
sesterces for the return of Artemisia. Pratinas has gone before the
_triumviri capitales_[130] and obtained from them an order on the
_apparitores_[131] to track down the runaway and her abettor."

  [130] One of their functions made these officers practically chiefs
  of police.

  [131] A part of these public officers performed police duty.

"_Eho!_" cried Pisander, "then you'd better leave your treasure here
awhile, for us to take care of."

"Not at all," replied Agias; "I could have taken her out of the city
at once, but in the daytime we should have been certainly noticed and
subsequently tracked. No one will imagine Artemisia is here--at least
for a while. But this is a large familia; all may be my friends, but
all may not have prudent tongues in their heads. The reward is large,
and perhaps some will be tempted;" he glanced at Iasus, who, to do him
justice, had never thought of a second deed of baseness. "I cannot
risk that. No, Artemisia goes out of the city to-night, and she must
get ready without the least delay."

Artemisia, who was charmed with her present surroundings and
adulation, demurred at leaving her entertainers; but Agias was
imperative, and the others realized well enough that there was not
much time to be lost. Agias, however, waited until it had become
tolerably dark before starting. Meantime, he proceeded to make certain
changes of his own and Artemisia's costume that indicated the rather
serious character of the risk he was preparing to run. For himself he
put on a very full and flowing crimson evening dress, as if he were
proceeding to a dinner-party; he piled a dozen odd rings upon his
fingers, and laughingly asked Semiramis to arrange his hair for him in
the most fashionable style, and anoint it heavily with Valeria's most
pungent perfumes. At the same time, Arsinoe was quite transforming
Artemisia. Valeria's cosmetic vials were for once put into play for a
purpose, and when Artemisia reappeared from the dressing-room after
her treatment, Agias saw before him no longer a fair-skinned little
Greek, but a small, slender, but certainly very handsome Egyptian
serving-lad, with bronzed skin, conspicuous carmine lips, and features
that Arsinoe's paint and pencils had coarsened and exaggerated.
Fortunately, the classic costume both for men and women was so
essentially alike, that Artemisia did not have to undergo that
mortification from a change of clothes which might have befallen one
at the present day in a like predicament. Her not very long black hair
was loose, and shaken over her shoulders. Agias had brought for her a
short, variegated _lacerna_[132] which answered well enough as the
habit of a boy-valet who was on good terms with his master.

  [132] A sort of mantle held on the shoulders by a clasp.

"_Eho!_" cried Agias, when he had witnessed the transformation, "we
must hasten or Valeria will be anxious to keep you as her serving-boy!
Ah, I forgot she is going with her dear Pratinas to Egypt. Now,
Arsinoe, and you, Semiramis, I shall not forget the good turn you have
done me; don't let Valeria miss her unguents and ask questions that
might prove disagreeable. Farewell, Iasus and Pisander; we shall soon
meet again, the gods willing."

The friends took leave of Artemisia; the slave-women kissed her;
Pisander, presuming on his age, kissed her, albeit very sheepishly, as
though he feared the ghosts of all the Stoics would see him. Iasus
cast an angry jealous glance at the philosopher; he contented himself
with a mere shake of the hand.

Agias swung Artemisia into the gig and touched the lash to the swift
mules.

"Good-by, dear friends!" she cried, her merry Greek smile shining out
through her bronze disguise.

The gig rolled down the street, Agias glancing to right and left to
see that no inquisitive eye followed them.

"Oh! Agias," cried the girl, "am I at last going away with you? Going
away all alone, with only you to take care of me? I feel--I feel
queerly!"

Agias only touched the mules again, and laughed and squeezed
Artemisia's hand, then more gravely said:--

"Now, makaira, you must do everything as I say, or we shall never get
away from Pratinas. Remember, if I tell you to do anything you must do
it instantly; and, above everything else, no matter what happens,
speak not a word; don't scream or cry or utter a sound. If anybody
questions us I shall say that I am a gentleman driving out to the
suburbs to enjoy a late party at a friend's villa, and you are my
valet, who is a mute, whom it is useless to question because he cannot
answer. Do you understand?"

Artemisia nodded her little head, and bit her pretty lips very hard to
keep from speaking. The fear of Pratinas made her all obedience.

It was after sundown, and driving was permitted in the city, though
nearly all the teams that blocked Agias's way, as he drove down the
crowded streets to turn on to the Via Appia, were heavy wagons loaded
with timber and builders' stone.

So far, all was safe enough; but Agias knew perfectly well that
Pratinas was an awkward man to have for an enemy. The critical moment,
however, was close at hand, and Agias called up all his wits to meet
it. Under the damp arch of the ancient Porta Capena were pacing
several men, whose lanterns and clinking sword-scabbards proclaimed
them to be members of the city constabulary. There was no possibility
of evading their scrutiny. No doubt any other gate was equally well
watched. Agias drove straight ahead, as though he had seen nothing.

"Hold!" and one of the constables was at the heads of the mules, and
another was waving a lantern up into the face of the occupants of the
gig.

"Rascals," roared Agias, menacing with his whip, "are you highwaymen
grown so impudent!"

"We have an order from the triumviri," began one officer.

"_Eho!_" replied Agias, settling back, as though relieved not to have
to fight for his purse, "I can't see what for; I owe nothing. I have
no suit pending."

"We are to search all carriages and pedestrians," recommenced the
constable, "to find if we may a certain Artemisia, a runaway
slave-girl of the most noble Greek gentleman, Pratinas."

"My good sirs," interrupted Agias, "I am already like to be very late
at my dear friend Cimber's dinner party"--he mentioned the name of
the owner of a very large villa not far down the road; "I have with me
only Midas, my mute valet. If you detain me any longer I shall
complain--"

And here a denarius slipped into the hands of the officer with the
lantern.

"I think it's all right, Macer," was his report to his comrade. The
latter left the heads of the mules.

"_Mehercle!_ how handsome some of those Egyptians grow!" commented the
first constable.

But the rest of his remarks were lost on Agias. He was whizzing down
the "Queen of Roads," with a good team before him, Artemisia at his
side, and a happy consciousness that two excellent officials had
missed a chance to earn one thousand sesterces.

Hardly were they beyond earshot, when Artemisia burst out into an
uncontrollable fit of giggling, which lasted a long time, only to be
renewed and renewed, as often as a desperate effort seemed to have
suppressed it. Then she drew the robes of the carriage round her, laid
her head on Agias's shoulder, and with a confidence in her protector
that would have inspired him to go through fire and water for her
sake, shook out her dark locks and fell fast asleep, despite the fact
that the mules were running their fastest. Agias grasped the reins
with one hand, and with the other pressed tight the sleeping girl. He
would not have exchanged his present position for all the wealth of
Sardanapalus.

       *       *       *       *       *

Five days later Agias was back in Rome. He had succeeded in reaching
Baiae, and introducing Artemisia into the familia of the villa of the
Lentuli, as a new waiting-maid from Rome sent by Claudia to her
daughter. For the present at least there was practically no chance of
Pratinas recovering his lost property. And indeed, when Agias reached
Rome once more, all fears in that direction were completely set at
rest. The fashionable circle in which Claudia and Herennia were
enmeshed was in a flutter and a chatter over no ordinary scandal.
Valeria, wife of Calatinus, and Pratinas, the "charming" Epicurean
philosopher, had both fled Rome two days before, and rumour had it
that they had embarked together at Ostia on a ship leaving direct for
Egypt. Of course Calatinus was receiving all the sympathy, and was a
much abused man; and so the tongues ran on.

To Agias this great event brought a considerable gain in peace of
mind, and some little loss. Valeria had taken with her her two maids,
Agias's good friends, and also Iasus. Pisander ignominiously had been
left behind. Calatinus had no use for the man of learning, and Agias
was fain to take him before Drusus, who had returned from Ravenna, and
induce his patron to give Pisander sufficient capital to start afresh
a public school of philosophy, although the chances of acquiring
opulence in that profession were sufficiently meagre.




Chapter XIII

What Befell at Baiae


I

Cornelia was at Baiae, the famous watering-place, upon the classic
Neapolitan bay,--which was the Brighton or Newport of the Roman. Here
was the haunt of the sybarites, whose gay barks skimmed the shallow
waters of the Lucrine lake; and not far off slumbered in its volcanic
hollow that other lake, Avernus, renowned in legend and poetry,
through whose caverns, fable had it, lay the entrance to the world of
the dead. The whole country about was one city of stately villas, of
cool groves, of bright gardens; a huge pleasure world, where freedom
too often became license; where the dregs of the nectar cup too often
meant physical ruin and moral death.

Cornelia had lost all desire to die now. She no longer thought of
suicide. Lentulus's freedmen held her in close surveillance, but she
was very happy. Drusus lived, was safe, would do great things, would
win a name and a fame in the world of politics and arms. For herself
she had but one ambition--to hear men say, "This woman is the wife of
the great Quintus Drusus." That would have been Elysium indeed.
Cornelia, in fact, was building around her a world of sweet fantasy,
that grew so real, so tangible, that the stern realities of life,
realities that had hitherto worn out her very soul, became less
galling. The reaction following the collapse of the plot against
Drusus had thrown her into an unnatural cheerfulness. For the time the
one thought when she arose in the morning, the one thought when she
fell asleep at night, was, "One day," or "One night more is gone, of
the time that severs me from Quintus." It was a strained, an unhealthy
cheerfulness; but while it lasted it made all the world fair for
Cornelia. Indeed, she had no right--from one way of thinking--not to
enjoy herself, unless it be that she had no congenial companions. The
villa of the Lentuli was one of the newest and finest at Baiae. It
rested on a sort of breakwater built out into the sea, so that the
waves actually beat against the embankment at the foot of Cornelia's
chamber. The building rose in several stories, each smaller than the
one below it, an ornamental cupola highest of all. On the successive
terraces were formally plotted, but luxuriant, gardens. Cornelia, from
her room in the second story, could command a broad vista of the bay.
Puteoli was only two miles distant. Vesuvius was ten times as far; but
the eye swept clear down the verdant coast toward Surrentum to the
southward. At her feet was the sea,--the Italian, Neapolitan
sea,--dancing, sparkling, dimpling from the first flush of morning to
the last glint of the fading western clouds at eve. The azure above
glowed with living brightness, and by night the stars and planets
burned and twinkled down from a crystalline void, through which the
unfettered soul might soar and soar, swimming onward through the sweet
darkness of the infinite.

And there were pleasures enough for Cornelia if she would join
therein. Lentulus had ordered his freedmen not to deny her amusements;
anything, in fact, that would divert her from her morbid infatuation
for Drusus. The consul-designate had indeed reached the conclusion
that his niece was suffering some serious mental derangement, or she
would not thus continue to pursue a profitless passion, obviously
impossible of fulfilment. So Cornelia had every chance to make herself
a centre to those gay pleasure-seekers who were still at Baiae; for the
summer season was a little past, and all but confirmed or fashionable
invalids and professional vacationers were drifting back to Rome. For
a time all went merrily enough. Just sufficient of the Lucius
Ahenobarbus affair had come to the Baiaeans to make Cornelia the object
of a great amount of curiosity. When she invited a select number of
the pleasure-seekers to her dinner parties, she had the adulation and
plaudits of every guest, and plenty of return favours. Lucius
Ahenobarbus soon had a score of hot rivals; and Cornelia's pretty face
was chipped on more than one admirer's seal ring. But presently it
began to be said that the niece of the consul-designate was an
extremely stoical and peculiar woman; she did not enjoy freedom which
the very air of Baiae seemed to render inevitable. She never lacked wit
and vivacity, but there was around her an air of restraint and cold
modesty that was admirable in every way--only it would never do in
Baiae. And so Cornelia, without ceasing to be admired, became less
courted; and presently, quite tiring of the butterfly life, was thrown
back more and more on herself and on her books. This did not disturb
her. A levee or a banquet had never given her perfect pleasure; and it
was no delight to know that half the women of Baiae hated her with a
perfect jealousy. Cornelia read and studied, now Greek, now Latin; and
sometimes caught herself half wishing to be a man and able to expound
a cosmogony, or to decide the fate of empires by words flung down from
the rostrum. Then finally Agias came bringing Artemisia, who, as has
been related, was introduced--by means of some little contriving--into
the familia as a new serving-maid. Such Artemisia was in name; but
Cornelia, whose gratitude to Agias had known no bounds, took the
little thing into her heart, and determined to devote herself to
instructing an innocence that must not continue too long, despite its
charming naivete.

Thus the days had passed for Cornelia. But only a little while after
Agias left for Rome,--with a very large packet of letters for
Drusus,--the pleasant, self-created world of fantasy, that had given
Cornelia some portion of happiness, vanished. Like a clap of thunder
from a cloudless sky Lucius Ahenobarbus suddenly arrived in Baiae. He
was tired of Rome, which was still very hot and uncomfortable. He
loathed politics, they were stupid. He had lost a boon companion when
Publius Gabinius was driven into outlawry. Marcus Laeca was too deeply
in debt to give any more dinners. Pratinas was fled to Egypt. And so
he had come to Baiae, to harass Cornelia by his presence; to gibe at
her; and assure her that her uncle was more determined than ever that
she should marry him--say and do what she might.

Ahenobarbus quartered himself in the Lentulan villa as the prospective
nephew-in-law of its owner. He brought with him his customary train of
underlings, and had travelled in appropriate state, in a litter with
eight picked bearers, lolling on a cushion stuffed with rose-leaves,
and covered with Maltese gauze, one garland on his head, another round
his neck, and holding to his nose a smelling-bag of small-meshed linen
filled with roses.

With all his effeminacy, he was beyond the least doubt desperately
determined to possess himself of Cornelia. His passion was purely
animal and unrefined, but none could doubt it. Cornelia feared to have
him near her, and knew peace neither day nor night. He assumed all a
master's rights over the slaves and freedmen, sending them hither and
yon to do his bidding. He had recovered from the fear Cornelia had
struck into him, in her first defiance, and met her threats and
hauteur with open scorn.

"You are a most adorable actress!" was his constant sneer. And his
every action told that he did not intend to let Cornelia play with him
a second time. With all his profligacy and moral worthlessness, he had
a tenacity of purpose and an energy in this matter that showed that
either Cornelia must in the end bow to his will, or their contest
would end in something very like a tragedy.

And if a tragedy, so be it, was the desperate resolve of Cornelia;
whose eyes were too stern for tears when she saw that Lucius was still
the former creature of appetite; full of intrigue, sweethearts,
seashore revels, carouses, singing, and music parties and water
excursions with creatures of his choice from morning until midnight.
She could not altogether shun him, though she successfully resisted
his half blandishments, half coercion, to make her join in his wild
frivolities. One revenge she found she could take on him--a revenge
that she enjoyed because it proclaimed her own intellectual
superiority, and made Ahenobarbus writhe with impotent vexation--she
had him at her mercy when they played at checkers;[133] and at last
Lucius lost so much money and temper at this game of wit, not chance,
that he would sulkily decline a challenge. But this was poor
consolation to Cornelia. The time was drifting on. Before many days
Lentulus Crus and Caius Clodius Marcellus would be consuls, and the
anti-Caesarians would be ready to work their great opponent's undoing,
or be themselves forever undone. Where was Drusus? What was he doing?
What part would he play in the struggle, perhaps of arms, about to
begin? O for one sight of him, for one word! And the hunger in
Cornelia's breast grew and grew.

  [133] _Latrunculi_.

Many are our wishes. Some flit through our hearts like birds darting
under the foliage of trees, then out again, lost in the sunshine;
others linger awhile and we nestle them in our bosoms until we forget
that they are there, and the noble desire, the craving for something
dear, for something that bears for us as it were a divine image, is
gone--we are the poorer that we no longer wish to wish it. But some
things there are--some things too high or too deep for speech, too
secret for really conscious thought, too holy to call from the
innermost shrines of the heart; and there they linger and hover,
demanding to be satisfied, and until they are satisfied there is void
and dreariness within, be the sunshine never so bright without. And so
Cornelia was a-hungered. She could fight against herself to save
Drusus's life no longer; she could build around herself her dream
castles no more; she must see him face to face, must hold his hand in
hers, must feel his breath on her cheek.

Is it but a tale that is told, that soul can communicate to distant
soul? That through two sundered hearts without visible communication
can spring up, unforewarned, a single desire, a single purpose? Is
there no magnetism subtle beyond all thought, that bounds from spirit
to spirit, defying every bond, every space? We may not say; but if
Cornelia longed, she longed not utterly in vain. One morning, as she
was dressing, Cassandra, who was moving around the room aiding her
mistress, let fall a very tiny slip of papyrus into Cornelia's lap,
and with it a whisper, "Don't look; but keep it carefully." The
injunction was needed, for several other serving-women were in the
room, and Cornelia more than suspected that they were ready to spy on
her to prevent unauthorized correspondence with Drusus. When she was
dressed, and could walk alone on the terrace overlooking the sea, she
unrolled the papyrus and read:--

"Delectissima, I have come from Rome to Puteoli. I cannot live longer
without seeing you. Great things are stirring, and it may well be that
ere long, if your uncle and his friends have their way, I may be a
proscribed fugitive from Italy, or a dead man. But I must talk with
your dear self first. Agias was known by the familia, and had no
difficulty in seeing you quietly; but I have no such facility. I
cannot remain long. Plan how we may meet and not be interrupted. I
have taken Cassandra into my pay, and believe that she can be trusted.
_Vale_."

There was no name of the sender; but Cornelia did not need to
question. Cassandra, who evidently knew that her mistress would
require her services, came carelessly strolling out on to the terrace.

"Cassandra," said Cornelia, "the last time I saw Quintus, you betrayed
us to my uncle; will you be more faithful now?"

The woman hung down her head.

"_A!_ domina, your uncle threatened me terribly. I did not
intentionally betray you! Did I not receive my beating? And then
Master Drusus is such a handsome and generous young gentleman."

"I can rely on you alone," replied Cornelia. "You must arrange
everything. If you are untrue, be sure that it is not I who will in
the end punish, but Master Drusus, whose memory is long. You have more
schemes than I, now that Agias is not here to devise for me. You must
make up any stories that are necessary to save us from interruption,
and see that no one discovers anything or grows suspicious. My hands
are tied. I cannot see to plan. I will go to the library, and leave
everything to you."

And with this stoical resolve to bear with equanimity whatever the
Fates flung in her way for good or ill, Cornelia tried to bury herself
in her Lucretius. Vain resolution! What care for the atomic theory
when in a day, an hour, a moment, she might be straining to her heart
another heart that was reaching out toward hers, as hers did toward
it. It was useless to read; useless to try to admire the varying
shades of blue on the sea, tones of green, and tones of deep cerulean,
deepening and deepening, as her eye drifted off toward the horizon,
like the blendings of a chromatic series. And so Cornelia passed the
morning in a mood of joyful discontent. Lucius Ahenobarbus, who came
to have his usual passage of arms with her, found her so extremely
affable, yet half-preoccupied, that he was puzzled, yet on the whole
delighted. "She must be yielding," he mentally commented; and when
they played at draughts, Cornelia actually allowed herself to be
beaten. Ahenobarbus started off for Puteoli in an excellent humour.
His litter had barely swung down the road from the villa before
Cassandra was knocking at her mistress's chamber door.

"_Io!_ domina," was her joyful exclamation, "I think I have got every
eavesdropper out of the way. Ahenobarbus is off for Puteoli. I have
cooked up a story to keep the freedmen and other busybodies off. You
have a desperate headache, and cannot leave the room, nor see any one.
But remember the terrace over the water, where the colonnade shuts it
in on all sides but toward the sea. This afternoon, if a boat with two
strange-looking fishermen passes under the embankment, don't be
surprised."

And having imparted this precious bit of information, the woman was
off. Drusus's gold pieces had made her the most successful of
schemers.


II

Cornelia feigned her headache, and succeeded in making herself so
thoroughly petulant and exacting to all her maids, that when she
ordered them out of the room, and told them on no account to disturb
her in any respect for the rest of the day, they "rejoiced with
trembling," and had no anxiety to thrust their attentions upon so
unreasonable a mistress. And a little while later a visit of a
strolling juggler--whose call had perhaps been prompted by
Cassandra--made their respite from duty doubly welcome.

Cornelia was left to herself, and spent the next hour in a division of
labour before her silver wall-mirror, dressing--something which was
sufficiently troublesome for her, accustomed to the services of a bevy
of maids--and at the window, gazing toward Puteoli for the
fishing-boat that seemed never in sight. At last the toilet was
completed to her satisfaction. Cornelia surveyed herself in her best
silken purple flounced stola, thrust the last pin into her hair, and
confined it all in a net of golden thread. Roman maidens were not as a
rule taught to be modest about their charms, and Cornelia, with
perfect frankness, said aloud to herself, "You are so beautiful that
Drusus can't help loving you;" and with this candid confession, she
was again on the terrace, straining her eyes toward Puteoli. Boats
came, boats went, but there was none that approached the villa; and
Cornelia began to harbour dark thoughts against Cassandra.

"If the wretched woman had played false to her mistress again--" but
the threat was never formulated. There was a chink and click of a pair
of oars moving on their thole-pins. For an instant a skiff was visible
at the foot of the embankment; two occupants were in it. The boat
disappeared under the friendly cover of the protecting sea-wall of the
lower terrace. There was a little landing-place here, with a few steps
leading upward, where now and then a yacht was moored. The embankment
shut off this tiny wharf from view on either side. Cornelia dared not
leave the upper terrace. Her heart beat faster and faster. Below she
heard the slap, slap, of the waves on the sea-wall, and a rattle of
rings and ropes as some skiff was being made fast. An instant more and
Drusus was coming, with quick, athletic bounds, up the stairway to the
second terrace. It was he! she saw him! In her eyes he was everything
in physique and virile beauty that a maiden of the Republic could
desire! The bitterness and waiting of months were worth the
blessedness of the instant. Cornelia never knew what Drusus said to
her, or what she said to him. She only knew that he was holding her in
his strong arms and gazing into her eyes; while the hearts of both
talked to one another so fast that they had neither time nor need for
words. They were happy, happy! Long it was before their utterance
passed beyond the merest words of endearment; longer still before they
were composed enough for Cornelia to listen to Drusus while he gave
his own account of Mamercus's heroic resistance to Dumnorix's gang at
Praeneste; and told of his own visit to Ravenna, of his intense
admiration for the proconsul of the two Gauls; and of how he had come
to Puteoli and opened communications with Cassandra, through Cappadox,
the trusty body-servant who in the guise of a fisherman was waiting in
the boat below.

"And as Homer puts it, so with us," cried Cornelia, at length: "'And
so the pair had joy in happy love, and joyed in talking too, and each
relating; she, the royal lady, what she had endured at home, watching
the wasteful throng of suitors; and he, high-born Odysseus, what
miseries he brought on other men, and bore himself in anguish;--all he
told, and she was glad to hear.'"

So laughed Cornelia when all their stories were finished, likening
their reunion to that of the son of Laertes and the long-faithful
Penelope.

"How long were Penelope and Odysseus asunder?" quoth Drusus.

"Twenty years."

"_Vah!_ We have not been sundered twenty months or one-third as many.
How shall we make the time fly more rapidly?"

"I know not," said Cornelia, for the first time looking down and
sighing, "a lifetime seems very long; but lifetimes will pass. I shall
be an old woman in a few years; and my hair will be all grey, and you
won't love me."

"_Eho_," cried Drusus, "do you think I love you for your hair?"

"I don't know," replied Cornelia, shaking her head, "I am afraid so.
What is there in me more than any other woman that you should love;
except--" and here she raised her face half-seriously, half in
play--"I am very beautiful? Ah! if I were a man, I would have
something else to be loved for; I would have eloquence, or strength,
or power of command, or wisdom in philosophy. But no, I can be loved
for only two things; an ignoble or a poor man would take me if I were
hideous as Atropos, for I am noble, and, if my uncle were an honest
guardian, rich. But you need not regard these at all, so--" and she
brushed her face across Drusus's cheek, touching it with her hair.

"O Cornelia," cried the young man, out of the fulness of his heart,
"we must not waste this precious time asking why we love each other.
Love each other we do as long as we view the sun. O carissima! we
cannot trust ourselves to look too deeply into the whys and wherefores
of things. We men and women are so ignorant! We know nothing. What is
all our philosophy--words! What is all our state religion--empty form!
What is all our life--a dream, mostly evil, that comes out of the
eternal unconscious sleep and into that unconscious sleep will return!
And yet not all a dream; for when I feel your hands in mine I know
that I am not dreaming--for dreamers feel nothing so delicious as
this! Not long ago I recalled what old Artabanus said to King Xerxes
when the millions of Persia passed in review before their lord at
Abydos, 'Short as our time is, death, through the wretchedness of our
life, is the most sweet refuge of our race; and God, who gives us
tastes that we enjoy of pleasant times, is seen, in His very gift, to
be envious.' And I thought, 'How wise was the Persian!' And then I
thought, 'No, though to live were to drag one's days in torture and in
woe, if only love come once into life, an eternity of misery is
endurable; yes, to be chained forever, as Prometheus, on drearest
mountain crag, if only the fire which is stolen be that which kindles
soul by soul.'"

"Ah!" cried Cornelia, "if only these were to be real souls! But what
can we say? See my Lucretius here; read: 'I have shown the soul to be
formed fine and to be of minute bodies and made up of much smaller
first-beginnings than the liquid air, or mist, or smoke. As you see
water, when the vessels are shattered, flow away on every side, and as
mist and smoke vanish away into the air, believe that the soul, too,
is shed abroad, and perishes much more quickly and dissolves sooner
into its first bodies, when once it has been taken out of the limbs of
a man and has withdrawn.' O Quintus, is the thing within me that loves
you lighter, more fragile, than smoke? Shall I blow away, and vanish
into nothingness? It is that which affrights me!"

And Drusus tried as best he might to comfort her, telling her there
was no danger that she or he would be dissipated speedily, and that
she must not fret her dear head with things that set the sagest
greybeards a-wrangling. Then he told her about the political world,
and how in a month at most either every cloud would have cleared away,
and Lentulus be in no position to resist the legal claims which Drusus
had on the hand of his niece; or, if war came, if fortune but favoured
Caesar, Cornelia's waiting for deliverance would not be for long.
Drusus did not dwell on the alternative presented if civic strife came
to arms; he only knew that, come what might, Cornelia could never be
driven to become the bride of Lucius Ahenobarbus; and he had no need
to exact a new pledge of her faithful devotion.

So at last, like everything terrestrial that is sweet and lovely, the
slowly advancing afternoon warned Drusus that for this day, at least,
they must separate.

"I will come again to-morrow, or the next day, if Cassandra can so
arrange," said he, tearing himself away. "But part to-night we must,
nor will it make amends to imitate Carbo, who, when he was being led
to execution, was suddenly seized with a pain in the stomach, and
begged not to be beheaded until he should feel a little better."

He kissed her, strained her to his breast, and stepped toward the
landing-place. Cappadox had taken the boat out from the moorings to
minimize a chance of discovery by some one in the house. Drusus was
just turning for a last embrace, when many voices and the plash of
oars sounded below. Cornelia staggered with dread.

"It's Ahenobarbus," she gasped, in a deathly whisper; "he sometimes
comes back from Puteoli by boat. He will murder you when he finds you
here!"

"Can't I escape through the house?"

The words, however, were no sooner out of Drusus's mouth, than Lucius
Ahenobarbus, dressed in the most fashionably cut scarlet lacerna,
perfumed and coiffured to a nicety, appeared on the terrace. Some evil
genius had led him straight up without the least delay.

It was the first time that the two enemies had met face to face since
Drusus had declined the invitation to Marcus Laeca's supper. Be it said
to Lucius's credit that he sensed the situation with only the minimum
of confusion, and instantly realized all of Cornelia's worst fears.
Drusus had drawn back from the steps to the lower terrace, and stood
with stern brow and knotted fist, trapped by a blunder that could
hardly have been guarded against, no submissive victim to what fate
had in store. Cornelia, for once quite distraught with terror, cowered
on a bench, unable to scream through sheer fright.

"_Salve!_ amice," was the satirical salutation of Ahenobarbus. "How
excellently well met. _Heus!_ Phaon, bring your boatmen, quick! Not an
instant to lose!"

"Pity! mercy!" gasped Cornelia, "I will do anything for you, but spare
him;" and she made as if to fall on her knees before Ahenobarbus.

"Girl!" Drusus had never spoken in that way to her before; his tones
were cold as ice. "Go into the house! Your place is not here. If
Lucius Ahenobarbus intends to murder me--"

The boatmen and two or three other slaves that were always at
Ahenobarbus's heels were crowding up on to the terrace ready to do
their master's bidding.

"Throw me that fellow over the balcony," ordered Lucius, his sense of
triumph and opportunity mastering every fear that Flaccus would
execute his threat of prosecution. "See that he does not float!"

Cornelia found her voice. She screamed, screamed shrilly, and ran into
the house. Already the familia was alarmed. Two or three freedmen of
Lentulus were rushing toward the terrace. They were murdering Quintus!
He was resisting, resisting with all the powers of a wild animal
driven to its last lair. Outside, on the terrace, where but an instant
before she and her lover were cooing in delicious ecstasy, there were
oaths, blows, and the sharp pants and howls of mortal struggle. And
she could do nothing--nothing! And it was through his love for her
that Drusus was to go down to his untimely grave! The seconds of
struggle and anguish moved on leaden feet. Every breath was agony,
every sound maddening. And she could do nothing--nothing. Still they
were fighting. Phaon--she knew his voice--was crying out as if in
grievous pain. And now the voice of Lucius Ahenobarbus sounded again:
"One thousand denarii if you fling him into the sea!" and she could do
nothing--nothing! She tore down the purple tapestries around her bed,
and dashed from its tripod a costly bowl of opal Alexandrian
glass--all in the mere rage of impotence. And still they were
fighting. What was that ornament hanging on the wall, half hid behind
the torn tapestry? A scabbard--a sword, some relic of ancient wars!
And all the combatants were unarmed! The antique weapon was held by
stout thongs to the wall; she plucked it from its fastenings with the
strength of a Titaness. The rusty blade resisted an instant; she
dragged it forth. Then out on to the terrace. Really only a moment had
elapsed since she left it. One of the slaves was lying dead, or
stunned, prone on the turf. Phaon was writhing and howling beside him,
nursing a broken jaw. The other assailants had sunk back in temporary
repulse and were preparing for a second rush. Drusus was still
standing. He half leaned upon the stone pedestal of an heroic-sized
Athena, who seemed to be spreading her protecting aegis above him. His
garments were rent to the veriest shreds. His features were hidden
behind streaming blood, his arms and neck were bruised and bleeding;
but clearly his adversaries could not yet congratulate themselves that
the lion's strength was too sapped to be no longer dreaded.

"Come, you," was his hot challenge to Lucius Ahenobarbus, who stood,
half delighted, half afraid, shivering and laughing spasmodically, as
he surveyed the struggle from a safe distance. "Come, you, and have
your share in the villany!"

And again, for it was all the affair of the veriest moment, the slaves
rushed once more on their indocile victim. "Freedom to the man who
pulls him down!" was the incentive of Ahenobarbus.

But again Drusus, who, to tell the truth, had to contend with only the
flabby, soft-handed, unskilful underlings of Lucius, struck out so
furiously that another of his attackers fell backward with a groan and
a gasp. All this Cornelia saw while, sword in hand, she flew toward
the knot of writhing men. She pushed aside the slaves by sheer force.
She asked no civilities, received none.

"Pull her away!" shouted Lucius, and started himself to accomplish his
purpose. A rude hand smote her in the face; she staggered, fell; but
as she fell a hand snatched the sword out of her grasp. She released
her hold gladly, for did she not know that hand? When she rose to her
feet there were shrieks of fear and pain on every side. The slaves
were cringing in dread before him. Drusus was standing under the
Athena, with the keen steel in his hand--its blade dyed crimson; and
at his feet lay Ahenobarbus's favourite valet--the wretch literally
disembowelled by one deadly stroke.

"Fly, fly!" she implored; "they will bring arms! They will never let
you escape."

"I'll pay you for letting him kill Croesus," howled Lucius, facing
himself resolutely toward his enemy. "How can he fly when the house is
full of servants, and his boat is away from the landing? You give
yourself trouble for no purpose, my lady! Lentulus's people will be
here with swords in a moment!"

But as he spoke a blow of some unseen giant dashed him prostrate, and
upon the terrace from below came Cappadox, foaming with anxious rage,
his brow blacker than night, his brawny arms swinging a heavy paddle
with which he clubbed the cowering slaves right and left.

"Have they killed him! Have the gods spared him!" These two demands
came bounding in a breath from the honest servant's lips. And when he
saw Drusus, bleeding, but still standing, he rushed forward to fling
his arms about his master's neck.

"Fly! fly!" urged Cornelia, and out of the building, armed now with
swords and staves, came flocking the freedmen of the house and as many
slaves as they could muster.

"_Salve!_ carissima," and Drusus, who never at the instant gave
thought to the blood all over him, pressed her in one last kiss. He
gained the terrace steps by a single bound ahead of his armed
attackers. Cappadox smote down the foremost freedman with a buffet of
the oar. Ahenobarbus staggered to his feet as Drusus sprang over him,
and the latter tore a packet of tablets from his hand, never stopping
in his own flight.

Then down on to the little landing-place pursuers and pursued tumbled.
The large six-oared boat of Ahenobarbus was moored close beside
Cappadox's skiff.

Drusus was into the skiff and casting loose before Lucius could
descend from the upper terrace. The young Domitian was in a terrible
distress.

"The letters! The letters! Freedom to you all if you save them! Cast
off! Chase! Sink the skiff!"

But before any of the unskilful assailants could execute the order,
Cappadox had driven the butt of his paddle clean through the bottom
planking of the larger boat, and she was filling rapidly. The paddle
shivered, but it was madness to embark on the stoven craft.

The skiff shot away from the landing as though an intelligent soul,
rising equal to the needs of the crisis. The blue dancing water lapped
between her gunwale and the shore. Drusus stood erect in the boat,
brushed back the blood that was still streaming over his eyes, and
looked landward. The slaves and freedmen were still on the landing,
gazing blankly after their escaped prey. Ahenobarbus was pouring out
upon their inefficiency a torrent of wrathful malediction, that
promised employment for the "whipper" for some time to come. But
Drusus gave heed to none of these things. Standing on the upper
terrace, her hair now dishevelled and blowing in tresses upon the
wind, was Cornelia, and on her all her lover's gaze was fixed.

"Safe?" and the melodious shout drifted out over the widening stretch
of water.

"Safe! to live and to love!" And Drusus thought, with his keen lover's
eye, he could see the dimming face brighten, and the hands go up in a
gesture of thanksgiving.

It was all that was said. Another boat might be procured at any time
by Lucius Ahenobarbus; and with only one paddle Cappadox could make
but slow headway. Stiff and bruised, the young man flung himself on
the bottom of the skiff, and panted and nursed himself after his
mortal struggle. Now that the combat was over he felt weak and sore
enough, and was quite content to let Cappadox adjust such improvised
bandages as were available, and scull him toward Puteoli. Fortunately
none of the bruises was caused by any harder weapons than fists, and,
though his body was black and blue, he had sustained no serious hurt.
And so he rested his head on a wrap, and closed his eyes, and called
up before his mind the vision of Cornelia. How beautiful she had been
when he met her! How much more beautiful when she thrust her way
through the fighting slaves and put the sword in his hand, at that
moment of mortal combat, which he expected to be his last! Did he only
love her because her face was sweet, her voice was sweet, and the
touch of her hair was sweet? Happy was he, her lover;--he could say
"no," and have never a fear that his sincerity would be tested. And
Lucius Ahenobarbus? He hated him with a perfect hatred. A Roman who
was no Roman! A womanish man whom every true woman must despise! A
serpent who had not even the bright scales of a serpent! What would he
do to Cornelia? Drusus's face grew hard. Had he, Drusus, yet done any
injury worth mentioning to his enemy? Why had he not used the moment
when Lucius lay prostrate, and run the sword through his body?
Ill-timed, thoughtless mercy! But the letters, the packet he had
wrenched from Ahenobarbus's hand? Why was it so precious? Drusus had
flung it into the boat. He took up the packet. Doubtless some
_billet-doux_. Why should he degrade his mind by giving an instant's
thought to any of his enemy's foul intrigues? He could only open his
eyes with difficulty, but a curiosity that did not add to his
self-esteem overmastered him. The seal! Could he believe his
senses--the imprint of three trophies of victory? It was the seal of
Pompeius! The instinct of the partisan and politician conquered every
infirmity. He broke the wax, untied the thread, and opened. The
letters were in cipher, and at first sight illegible. But this did not
present any insuperable difficulty. Most classic ciphers were
sufficiently simple to be solved without very much trouble. Drusus
knew that in all Caesar's correspondence a cipher had been used which
consisted merely of substituting for each letter the fourth letter
beyond it, as D for A; and a little examination showed that the
present cryptogram was made on the same rude method. After a few
guesses he struck the proper substitutions, and was able to read.

"Pompeius Magnus, Imperator, to the most excellent Lucius Domitius
Ahenobarbus, Rome, tenth day before the Calends of January. If it is
well with you, it is well; I am well.[134] I write to warn you that we
are told that Quintus Drusus, your personal enemy and the friend of
our own foes, is in Campania. We need not add more, for we trust to
you to see to it that he stirs up no faction in favour of his master
in those parts. Be assured that you will not be long troubled by this
enemy. He is marked out as one of the earliest of those to pay with
their lives for their conspiracy against the Republic. If possible see
that Drusus is seized for some alleged offence, and lodged in prison
until the new consuls come into office. After that time he can work
little or no mischief. Use the uttermost endeavours in this matter;
check him and his schemes at all hazards. I trust your energy and
prudence, which your father and Lentulus Crus assure me will not fail.
_Vale!_"

  [134] _Si vales bene est ego valeo_, written commonly simply
  S. V. B. E. E. V.

Drusus lay back in the bottom of the boat, and looked up into the blue
dome. It was the same azure as ever, but a strange feeling of
disenchantment seemed to have come over him. For the first time he
realized the deadly stakes for which he and his party were playing
their game. What fate had been treasured up for him in the impending
chaos of civil war? If he perished in battle or by the executioner's
axe, what awaited Cornelia? But he had chosen his road; he would
follow it to the end. The battle spirit mounted in him.

The sky was darkening when the boat drew up to one of the busy quays
of Puteoli. Stars had begun to twinkle. Cappadox aided his bruised and
stiffened master to disembark.

"To-night rest," cried Drusus, forgetting all his wounds. "To-morrow
away to Rome. And at Rome--the war of the Gods and the Giants!"




Chapter XIV

The New Consuls


I

It had come--the great crisis that by crooked ways or straight was to
set right all the follies and crimes of many a generation. On the
Calends of January Lentulus Crus and Caius Clodius Marcellus were
inaugurated consuls. In solemn procession with Senate, priesthoods,
and people, they had gone up to the Capitol and sacrificed chosen
white steers to Jupiter, "Best and Greatest,"[135] and invoked his
blessing upon the Roman State. And so began the last consulship of the
Free Republic.

  [135] _Optimus maximus_.

Rome was in a ferment. All knew the intention of the consuls to move
the recall of Caesar from his government. All knew that Curio had
brought a letter from Ravenna, the contents whereof he carefully
guarded. That same afternoon the consuls convened the Senate in the
Temple of Capitoline Jove, and every man knew to what purpose. All
Rome swept in the direction of the Capitol. Drusus accompanied his
friend, the tribune Antonius, as the latter's viator, for there was
need of a trusty guard.

The excitement in the streets ran even higher than when Catilina's
great plot was exposed. The streets were jammed with crowds,--not of
the idle and base born, but of equites and noble ladies, and young
patricians not old enough to step into their fathers' places. They
were howling and cheering for Pompeius and Lentulus, and cursing the
absent proconsul. As Drusus passed along at the side of Antonius, he
could not fail to hear the execrations and vile epithets flung from
every side at him and his friend. He had always supposed the masses
were on Caesar's side, but now every man's hand seemed turned against
the conqueror of the Gauls. Was there to be but a repetition of the
same old tragedy of the Gracchi and of Marcus Drusus? A brave man
standing out for the people, and the people deserting him in his hour
of need?

They reached the Temple. The Senate was already nearly ready for
business; every toothless consular who had been in public service for
perquisites only, and who for years had been wasting his life enjoying
the pickings of an unfortunate province--all such were in their seats
on the front row of benches. Behind them were the _praetorii_ and the
_aedilicii,_[136] a full session of that great body which had matched
its tireless wisdom and tenacity against Pyrrhus, Hannibal, and
Antiochus the Great, and been victorious. Drusus ran his eye over the
seats. There they sat, even in the midst of the general excitement, a
body of calm, dignified elders, severe and immaculate in their long
white togas and purple-edged tunics. The multitudes without were
howling and jeering; within the temple, reigned silence--the silence
that gathered about the most august and powerful assembly the world
has ever seen.

  [136] Ex-praetors and ex-aediles.

The Temple was built of cool, grey stone; the assembly hall was quite
apart from the shrine. The Senate had convened in a spacious
semicircular vaulted chamber, cut off from the vulgar world by a row
of close, low Doric columns. From the shade of these pillars one could
command a sweeping view of the Forum, packed with a turbulent
multitude. Drusus stood on the Temple steps and looked out and in.
Without, confusion; within, order; without, a leaderless mob; within,
an assembly almost every member of which had been invested with some
high command. For a moment the young man revived courage; after all,
the Roman Senate was left as a bulwark against passion and popular
wrath; and for the time being, as he looked on those motionless,
venerable faces, his confidence in this court of final appeal was
restored. Then he began to scan the features of the consulars, and his
heart sank. There was Lucius Calpurnius Piso, with the visage of a
philosopher, but within mere moral turpitude. There was Favonius;
there were the two sanguinary Marcelli, consuls respectively for the
two preceding years; there was Domitius; there was Cato, his hard face
illumined doubtless by the near realization of unholy hopes; there was
Faustus Sulla, another bitter oligarch. Drusus saw them all, and knew
that the Caesarian cause had been doomed without a hearing. Caius
Marcellus, the new consul, sat in his separate seat, in all the
splendid dignity of his embroidered toga. Around him stood his twelve
lictors. But Lentulus, at whose behest the Senate had been convened,
and who was to act as its president, had not come. Drusus followed
Antonius over to the farther side of the house, where on a long, low
bench[137] the other tribunes of the plebs were seated. Quintus
Cassius was already there. The other tribunes darted angry glances at
their newly arrived colleague. Drusus remained standing behind
Antonius, ready to act as a body-guard, as much as to serve in mere
official capacity. Even as they entered he had noticed a buzz and
rustle pass along the tiers of seats, and whisper pass on whisper,
"There come the Caesarians!" "What treason is in that letter!" "We must
have an end of their impudence!" And Drusus ran his eye over the whole
company, and sought for one friendly look; but he met with only stony
glances or dark frowns. There was justice neither in the people nor in
the Senate. Their hearts were drunk with a sense of revenge and
self-willed passion; and Justice literally weighed out her bounty with
blinded eyes.

  [137] _Subsellium_.

There was another hum and rustle. And into the hall swept Lentulus
Crus, in robes of office, with Scipio, the father-in-law of Pompeius,
at his side. Before him strode his twelve lictors bearing their fasces
erect. Not a word was spoken while Lentulus Crus seated himself in the
ivory curule chair of office. No sign marked the extreme gravity of
the occasion.

"Let the sacred chickens be brought," said Lentulus.

Never a lip twitched or curled in all that august multitude while
several public attendants brought in a wooden cage containing three or
four rather skinny specimens of poultry. Not even Drusus saw anything
really ridiculous when Lentulus arose, took grain from an attendant,
and scattered a quantity of it before the coop. Close at his elbow
stood the augur, to interpret the omen,--a weazened, bald-headed old
senator, who wore a purple-striped tunic,[138] and carried in his hand
a long stick,[139] curved at its head into a spiral. Drusus knew
perfectly well that the fowls had been kept without food all that day;
but it would have seemed treason to all the traditions of his native
land to cry out against this pompous farce. The hungry chickens pecked
up the grain. The augur muttered formula after formula, and Lentulus
took pains to repeat the meaningless jargon after him. Presently the
augur ceased his chatter and nodded to the consul. Lentulus turned
toward the Senate.

  [138] _Trabea_.

  [139] _Lituus_.

"There is no evil sight or sound!"[140] was his announcement, meaning
that business could be transacted.

  [140] _Silentium esse videtur_.

Whereupon up from his seat sprang Marcus Antonius, flourishing in his
hand a packet. Loudly Lentulus bade him hold his peace; loudly the
tribunes who sided with the Senate party forbade him to read. But a
rustle and stir of eager curiosity ran along all the benches, and
first one voice, then many, cried out that the letter must be made
public. With very ill grace the consul declared that Antonius should
be allowed to read the communication from Caesar.

Antonius read, and all were astonished at the moderation of the
much-maligned proconsul. Caesar made it clear that he would stand on
his rights as to the second consulship; but to withdraw possibilities
of seeming to issue a threat, he would disband his entire army if
Pompeius would only do the same, or, if preferred, he would retain
simply Cisalpine Gaul and Illyria with two legions, until the consular
elections were over. In either event it would be out of his power to
menace the constitution, and the public tranquillity would remain
quite undisturbed.

But before the murmur of approbation at this unexpected docility wore
away, Lentulus burst forth into a fiery invective. All knew why the
Senate had been convened, nor would he allow a few smooth promises to
bring the state into danger. The law provided that a proconsul should
leave his province at a certain time; and if Caesar thought that a
special law exempted him from this requirement, it were well he were
disabused of the notion. The Senate had been convened because the
presiding consul felt that the continuance of Caesar in his
governorship was a menace to the safety of the Republic. Let the
Conscript Fathers express themselves boldly, and he, Lentulus, would
not desert them; let them waver and try to court the favour of Caesar
as in former times, and the consul would have to look to his own
safety--and he could make his own terms with Caesar.

Lentulus had started out with studied moderation. His harangue ended
with a stinging menace. A low mutter, difficult to interpret, ran
through the Senate. Again Antonius leaped to his feet.

"Conscript Fathers, will you not consider the mild offers of Caesar? Do
not reject them without debate."

"I ask the opinion of the Senate on my own proposition," broke in
Lentulus. "Metellus Scipio, declare what is your judgment."

"I protest at this unseemly haste," cried Antonius; "let us consider
the letter first!"

"And I protest against this boisterous and unlawful interruption,"
retorted the consul, fiercely. "Rise, Metellus Scipio!"

Antonius flushed with rage, but sank into his seat. Drusus leaned over
his friend's shoulder and whispered "Veto." Antonius shook his head.

"They must speak. We should be foolish to shoot away our best arrow
before the battle had really begun."

Scipio arose. He was not the "chief senator,"[141] usually entitled to
speak first; but everybody knew that his words were the mere
expressions of his son-in-law, the mighty Pompeius. His oratory and
physical presence were wretched, but all the Senate hung upon his
words.

  [141] _Princeps senatus_.

"Pompeius did not intend to abandon the Republic, if the Senate would
support him; but let them act with energy, for otherwise in the future
they might need his aid never so much, and yet implore it in vain."

"You want to destroy the Republic!" cried Quintus Cassius, half
leaping from his seat.

"We want to destroy _you_!" retorted Domitius, savagely.

But all men were not so blinded by fury, hate, and greed of power and
revenge. To the dismay of his party Caius Marcellus, the second
consul, counselled a certain kind of moderation. There was no love
lost by the noble "Optimates" upon Pompeius, and Marcellus hinted this
plainly when he said that all Italy must be put under arms, and with
such an army at the disposal of the Senate, it could act as it saw
fit,--to get rid of a troublesome protector, he implied, no less than
an open enemy. And close after him followed Marcus Calidius and Marcus
Rufus, two senators, who had at least the sagacity to perceive that it
would not free the Commonwealth to crush Caesar, by flinging themselves
into the arms of Pompeius. "Let Pompeius go off to his Spanish
province, to which he was accredited proconsul; it was but natural
Caesar should think himself ill treated, seeing that two legions had
been taken from him for Eastern service, and Pompeius was keeping
these very troops close to Rome."

For one moment it seemed to Drusus that wisdom and justice had not
deserted the Senate of his native state. The consuls were divided; two
influential men were counselling moderation. Surely the Senate would
not push to extremities. But he had not reckoned on the spell which
the malevolent spirit of Lentulus had cast over the assembly. In
bitter words the presiding consul refused to put Calidius's proposal
to a vote, and then, turning directly upon his colleague before the
face of the whole multitude, he poured out reproof and vituperation.
Marcellus turned red and then black in the face with rage. Drusus's
heart was beating rapidly with hope. So long as the consuls were at
enmity, little would be done! Suddenly Scipio started as if to leave
the assembly. "He's going to call in Pompeius's cohorts!" belched
Lentulus. Marcellus turned pale. Drusus saw Calidius's friends
whispering with him, evidently warning and remonstrating. Senators
cast uneasy glances toward the doorways, as if expecting to see a
century of legionaries march in to enforce the decrees of Pompeius's
spokesmen. Marcellus staggered to his feet. He was cowed, and
evidently felt himself in personal danger.

"Conscript Fathers," he stammered, "I--I withdraw my motion to delay
action for considering the recall of Caesar."

"You have done well!" shouted Lentulus, triumphing savagely. Scipio
ostentatiously settled back on his seat, while Cato called with
warning, yet exultation:--

"Take care what you do. Caesar is the only sober man among all those
engaged in the plot to overturn the government. Remember with whom you
must deal, and act!"

Then Scipio arose once more. Every one knew that his fiat was law.
"Conscript Fathers," he began, "Marcus Cato speaks well. Consider the
power of Caesar. He has trained up bands of gladiators whom his
friends, both senators and knights, are drilling for him. He is
doubling his soldiers' pay, giving them extra corn, slaves,
attendants, and land grants. A great part of the Senate,--yes, Cicero
even, they say,--owes him money, at low and favourable rates of
interest; he has actually made presents to freedmen and influential
slaves. All young prodigals in debt are in his pay. He has made
presents to win the favour of cities and princes, or been lending them
troops without vote of the Senate. In Italy, Gaul, and Spain,--yes, in
Greece, too, and Asia, he is winning the good-will of communities by
erecting splendid public buildings. So great is his present power!
What he will do in a second consulship I dare not say. I dare not
assign bounds to his ambition. Conscript Fathers, shall we vote
ourselves freemen or slaves? What more can I add to the words of the
consul? I vote to ratify the proposition of Lucius Lentulus, that
Caesar either disband his army on a fixed day, or be declared a public
enemy!"

"And what is your opinion, Lucius Domitius?" demanded Lentulus, while
never a voice was raised to oppose Scipio.

"Let the Senate remember," replied Domitius, "that Caesar will justify
the meaning of his name--the 'hard-hitter,' and let us strike the
first and telling blow."

A ripple of applause swept down the Senate. The anti-Caesarians had
completely recovered from their first discomfiture, and were carrying
all sentiment before them. Already there were cries of "A vote! a
vote! Divide the Senate! A vote!"

"Conscript Fathers," said Lentulus, "in days of great emergency like
this, when your minds seem so happily united in favour of doing that
which is for the manifest safety of the Republic, I will not ask for
the opinions of each senator in turn. Let the Senate divide; let all
who favour the recall of the proconsul of the Gauls pass to the right,
those against to the left. And so may it be well and prosperous for
the Commonwealth."

But Antonius was again on his feet; and at his side stood Quintus
Cassius.

"Lucius Lentulus," he thundered, "I forbid the division. _Veto!_"

"_Veto!_" shouted Cassius.

Domitius, too, had risen. "Conscript Fathers, let the consuls
remonstrate with the tribunes to withdraw their prohibition. And, if
they do not succeed, let them lay before the Senate that order which
is the safeguard of the Republic."

Everybody knew what Domitius meant. If Antonius would not give way,
martial law was to be declared. Hot and furious raged the debate. More
and more passionate the expressions of party hatred. More and more
menacing the gestures directed upon the two Caesarian tribunes. But
even the impetuous fierceness of Lentulus, Cato, Scipio, and Domitius
combined could not drive the browbeaten Senate to cast loose from its
last mooring that night. Domitius's measure went over. It was
late--the stars were shining outside. Lamps had been brought in, and
threw their ruddy glare over the long tiers of seats and their august
occupants. Finally the angry debate ended, because it was a physical
impossibility to continue longer. Senators went away with dark frowns
or care-knit foreheads. Out in the Forum bands of young "Optimates"
were shouting for Pompeius, and cursing Caesar and his followers.
Drusus, following Antonius, felt that he was the adherent of a lost
cause, the member of a routed army that was defending its last
stronghold, which overwhelming numbers must take, be the defence never
so valiant. And when very late he lay down on his bed that night, the
howls of the fashionable mob were still ringing in his ears.


II

That night the most old-fashioned and sober Roman went to bed at an
advanced hour. Men were gathered in little knots along the streets, in
the forums, in the porticos and basilicas, arguing, gesticulating,
wrangling. Military tribunes and centurions in armour of Pompeius's
legions were parading on the _comitium_.[142] Veterans of that leader
were jostling about in the crowd, clanking their newly furbished
armour and shouting for their old general. If a man spoke for Caesar, a
crowd of bystanders was ready to hoot him down. Staid householders
locked up their dwellings and stationed trusty slaves at the doors to
see that the crowds did not take to riot and pillage. The sailors from
the wharves had been drinking heavily in all the taverns, and now
roved up and down the crowded streets, seeking opportunity for brawls.
Thieves and cutpurses were plying their most successful work; but no
officials had time to direct the efforts of the harassed and slender
police corps. To Pompeius's palace, without the gates, every man whose
voice or vote seemed worth the winning had been summoned. All the
senators had streamed out thither; and there the Magnus had brought
them under the spell of his martial authority and made them as wax in
his hand. And all "that majesty that doth hedge about a king," or
about a victorious general, exerted its full influence. The senators
came into the palace of Pompeius as into the palace of their despot.
He stood before them in his largest hall, wearing the embroidered robe
of a triumphator, with the laurel crown of his victories upon his
head. At his right hand, as first vizir of his state, stood Lentulus
Crus; at his left Lucius Domitius. The senators came to him and bowed
low, and said their "_Aves_" and "_Salves_" as though cringing before
a Mithridates or Tigranes of the East; and Pompeius, by the cordiality
or coolness of his response, indicated which of his vassals had or had
not fallen under his disfavour.

  [142] Assembly-place in the _Forum Romanum_.

Yes, despotism had come at last for Rome. The oligarchy had by its
corrupt incapacity made a tyranny inevitable. They could make choice
of masters, but a master they must have. Many were the proud Fabii,
Claudii, and Valerii present that night--men whose lines of curule
ancestors were as long as the duration of the Republic--who ground
their teeth with shame and inward rage the very moment they cried,
"_Salve, Magne!_" Yet the recipient of all this adulation was in no
enviable frame of mind. He looked harassed and weary, despite the
splendour of his dress and crown. And many were the whispered
conversations that passed between him and his ministers, or rather
custodians, Lentulus and Domitius.

"Ah! poor Julia," sighed Pompeius, whose mind ever reverted to his
dead wife, "what misery would have been yours if you had seen this
day. Poor Julia; how I loved her; and Caesar, her father, loved her
too; and now--"

"Be yourself, Magnus," expostulated the consul at his side; "remember
that for the good of the Republic every personal affection is to be
put away. Recall Brutus, who put his own sons to death because they
committed treason. Remember what Scipio AEmilianus said when he learned
that Tiberius Gracchus, his dear brother-in-law, had been put to death
for sedition. He quoted Homer's line:--

  "'So perish all who do the like again!'"

"And must I trample down every tie, every affection?" complained
wretched Pompeius, who never ceased hoping against hope that something
would avert the catastrophe.

"There is no tie, no affection, Magnus," said Domitius, sternly, "that
binds you to Caesar. Cast his friendship from your breast as you would
a viper. Think only of being justly hailed with Romulus, Camillus, and
Marius as the fourth founder of Rome. Strike, and win immortal glory."

And so to the last hour these confederates wrought upon their supple
instrument, and bent him to their will; and their tool in turn had all
else at his mercy. Pompeius addressed the senators, and, well trained
by his guardians, spoke with brutal frankness to those who had dared
to advise moderation.

"You, Rufus," he said, pointing a menacing finger, before which that
senator cowered in dread, "have been advising the Republic to tolerate
the chief of its enemies. You bid me to disarm or withdraw from Italy,
as though the lives and property of any good men would be safe the
moment Caesar was left unopposed to pour his cohorts of barbarous Gauls
and Germans into the country. You, Calidius, have given the same
untimely advice. Beware lest you repent the hour when you counselled
that I should disarm or quit the neighbourhood of Rome." The two-edged
suggestion contained in this last warning was too marked for the
reproved men not to turn pale with dread, and slink away trembling
behind their associates.

"But," continued Pompeius, "I have praise as well as blame; Marcus
Cato has not deserted the Republic. He has advised, and advised well,
that the proconsul of the Gauls be stripped of his legions." It was
Cato's turn now to bite his lips with mortification, for in times past
he had foretold that through Pompeius great miseries would come to the
state, and in his praetorship had declared that Pompeius ought to go to
his province, and not stay at home to stir up tumults and anarchy from
which he could emerge as monarch. And such praise from the Magnus's
lips, under the present circumstances, was gall and wormwood to his
haughty soul.

"And," continued Pompeius, "I shall not forget to applaud the
energetic counsels of Domitius and Lentulus Crus. Let those who wish
to preserve life and property," he added, with a menacing
significance, "see to it that they do as these gentlemen advise."

And thereupon there was a great shout of applause from all the more
rabid senators, in which the rest thought it safer to join, with
simulated heartiness. But Pompeius did not stop here. He brought
before the senators tribunes from the two legions taken from Caesar,
and these tribunes loudly declaimed--having learned their lesson
well--that their troops were ill-affected toward their former
commander, and would follow Pompeius to the last. And the Magnus
produced veteran officers of his old campaigns, whom hope of reward
and promotion had induced to come and declare for their former
commander. Late, very late, the informal session of the Senate broke
up. The "Fathers of the Republic" went each man to his own dwelling;
but there was no longer any doubt as to what was to come of the doings
of the day.

Flaccus, the banker, had of course no access to the conference; but he
had waited outside the gate of the palace, to learn the issue from an
acquaintance in the Senate. His patience was at last rewarded.

"Tell me, friend," was his question, "what will be the outcome of
this; shall I risk any loans to-morrow?"

The friendly senator seemed doubtful.

"Caesar is a ruined man. Who imagines his legions will fight? We know
Labienus is with Pompeius."

"You are wrong," said Flaccus.

"Wrong? I?" replied the senator. "I know whereof I speak."

"_Phy!"_ cried the banker, "not Caesar, but you are ruined. The legions
will fight."

"Don't prophesy," sneered the acquaintance, "seeing that you brokers
always keep out of politics."

"You politicians are blind," retorted Flaccus.

       *       *       *       *       *

The debate raged on. But by law the Senate could not convene on the
third and fourth of the month, and the question of setting aside the
tribunician veto went over until the fifth. It was the last lull
before the outbreak of the great tempest. The little group of
Caesarians put forth their final efforts. Drusus went in person to call
on Cicero, the great orator, and plead with him to come out from his
residence in the suburbs and argue for peace. The destroyer of
Catilina had declared that he would not forfeit his rights to a
triumph for his Cilician victories by appearing prematurely in the
Senate. Besides, he could never antagonize Pompeius. Curio smiled
grimly when his colleague reported his fruitless embassy.

"I think, my friends," said the politician, "we shall soon prove the
old saying, 'Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.'"




Chapter XV

The Seventh of January


I

The rapid march of events that week had taken Drusus out of himself,
and made him forgetful of personal consequences; but it sobered him
when he heard Curio and Caelius, his associates, telling Balbus where
their wills would be found deposited if anything calamitous were to
befall them. After all, life was very sweet to the young Livian. He
could not at heart desire to drift off into nothingness--to stop
breathing, thinking, feeling. And for the last time he reviewed his
position; told himself that it was not an unworthy cause for which he
was contending; that it was not treason, but patriotism, to wish to
overthrow the great oligarchy of noble families, who by their
federated influence had pulled the wires to every electoral assembly,
so that hardly a man not of their own coterie had been elected to high
office for many a long year; while the officials themselves had grown
full and wanton on the revenues wrung from the score of unfortunate
provinces.

The feeling against the Caesarians was very bitter in the city. Caesar
had always been the friend and darling of the populace; but, now that
his star seemed setting, hardly a voice was raised, save to cry up the
patriotism and determination of the consuls and Pompeius Magnus.
Soldiers of the latter's legions were everywhere. The Senate was to
convene the afternoon of the seventh, in the Curia of Pompeius, in the
Campus Martius. Lentulus Crus was dragging forth every obscure
senator, every retired politician, whose feet almost touched the
grave, to swell his majority. All knew that the tribunes' vetoes were
to be set aside, and arbitrary power decreed to the consuls. Drusus
began to realize that the personal peril was pressing.

"Won't his head look pretty for the crows to pick at?" commented
Marcus Laeca to a friend, as the two swept past Drusus on the street.
The Livian heard the loudly muttered words and trembled. It was easy
to laud the Decii who calmly sacrificed their lives for the Republic,
and many another martyr to patriotism; it was quite another thing to
feel the mortal fear of death coursing in one's veins, to reflect that
soon perhaps the dogs might be tearing this body which guarded that
strange thing one calls self; to reflect that all which soon will be
left of one is a bleaching skull, fixed high in some public place, at
which the heartless mob would point and gibber, saying, "That is the
head of Quintus Livius Drusus, the rebel!"

Drusus wandered on--on to the only place in Rome where he could gain
the moral courage to carry him undaunted through that which was before
him--to the Atrium of Vesta. He entered the house of the Vestals and
sent for his aunt. Fabia came quickly enough, for her heart had been
with her nephew all these days that tried men's souls. The noble woman
put her arms around the youth--for he was still hardly more--and
pressed him to her breast.

"Aunt Fabia," said Drusus, growing very weak and pale, now that he
felt her warm, loving caress, "do you know that in two or three days
you will have as nephew a proscribed insurgent, perhaps with a price
on his head, who perhaps is speedily to die by the executioner, like
the most ignoble felon?"

"Yes," said Fabia, also very pale, yet smiling with a sweet, grave
smile--the smile of a goddess who grieves at the miseries of mortal
men, yet with divine omniscience glances beyond, and sees the
happiness evolved from pain. "Yes, I have heard of all that is passing
in the Senate. And I know, too, that my Quintus will prove himself a
Fabian and a Livian, to whom the right cause and the good of the
Republic are all--and the fear of shame and death is nothing." And
then she sat down with him upon a couch, and took his head in her lap,
and stroked him as if she were his mother. "Ah! my Quintus," she said,
"you are still very young, and it is easy for one like you to enlist
with all your ardour in a cause that seems righteous; yes, and in the
heat of the moment to make any sacrifice for it; but it is not so easy
for you or any other man calmly to face shame and annihilation, when
the actual shadow of danger can be seen creeping up hour by hour. I
know that neither you nor many another man wise and good believes that
there are any gods. And I--I am only a silly old woman, with little or
no wisdom and wit--"

"Not silly and not old, carissima!" interrupted Drusus, smiling at her
self-depreciation.

"We won't argue," said Fabia, in a bit lighter vein. "But--as I would
say--I believe in gods, and that they order all things well."

"Why, then," protested the young man, "do we suffer wrong or grief? If
gods there are, they are indifferent; or, far worse, malevolent, who
love to work us woe."

Again Fabia shook her head.

"If we were gods," said she, "we would all be wise, and could see the
good to come out of every seeming evil. There! I am, as I said, silly
and old, and little enough comfort can words of mine bring a bright
young man whose head is crammed with all the learned lore of the
schools of Athens. But know this, Quintus, so long as I live, you
shall live in my heart--living or dead though you be. And believe me,
the pleasure of life is but a very little thing; it is sweet, but how
quickly it passes! And the curses or praises of men--these, too, only
a few mouldy rolls of books keep for decay! What profits it to
Miltiades this hour, that a few marks on a papyrus sheet ascribe to
him renown; or how much is the joy of Sextus Tarquinius darkened
because a group of other marks cast reproach upon his name? If so be
death is a sleep, how much better to feel at the end, 'I die, but I
die self-approved, and justified by self!' And if death is not all a
sleep; if, as Socrates tells us, there are hopes that we but pass from
a base life to another with less of dross, then how do pleasures and
glories, griefs and dishonours, of this present life touch upon a man
whose happiness or woe will be found all within?"

And so the good woman talked, giving to Drusus her own pure faith and
hope and courage; and when the intellectual philosopher within him
revolted at some of her simple premises and guileless sophistries,
against his will he was persuaded by them, and was fain to own to
himself that the heart of a good woman is past finding out; that its
impulses are more genuine, its intuitions truer, its promptings surer,
than all the fine-spun intellectuality of the most subtle
metaphysician. When at last Drusus rose to leave his aunt, his face
was glowing with a healthy colour, his step was elastic, his voice
resonant with a noble courage. Fabia embraced him again and again.
"Remember, whatever befalls," were her parting words, "I shall still
love you." And when Drusus went out of the house he saw the dignified
figure of the Vestal gazing after him. A few minutes later he passed
no less a personage than the consular Lucius Domitius on his way to
some political conference. He did not know what that dignitary
muttered as he swept past in spotless toga, but the gloomy ferocity of
his brow needed no interpreter. Drusus, however, never for a moment
gave himself disquietude. He was fortified for the best and the worst,
not by any dumb resignation, not by any cant of philosophy, but by an
inward monitor which told him that some power in some way would lead
him forth out of all dangers in a manner whereof man could neither ask
nor think.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the sixth of January the debate, as already said, drew toward its
end. All measures of conciliation had been voted down; the crisis was
close at hand. On the seventh, after his interview with Fabia, Drusus
went back to his own lodgings, made a few revisions in his will, and
in the presence of two or three friends declared Cappadox
manumitted,[143] lest he, by some chance, fall into the clutches of a
brutal master. The young man next wrote a long letter to Cornelia for
Agias to forward to Baiae, and put in it such hope as he could glean
from the dark words of the philosophers; that even if destruction now
overtook him, death perhaps did not end all; that perhaps they would
meet beyond the grave. Then he took leave of his weeping freedmen and
slaves, and strolled out into the city, and wandered about the Forum
and the Sacred Way, to enjoy, perchance, a last view of the sites that
were to the Roman so dear. Then finally he turned toward the Campus
Martius, and was strolling down under the long marble-paved colonnade
of the Portico of Pompeius. Lost in a deep reverie, he was forgetful
of all present events, until he was roused by a quick twitch at the
elbow; he looked around and found Agias before him.

  [143] _Manumissio inter amicos_ was less formal than the regular
  ceremony before the praetor.

"_A!_ domine," cried the young Greek, "I have friends in the house of
Lentulus. I have just been told by them that the consul has sworn that
he will begin to play Sulla this very day. Neither you, nor Antonius,
Cassius, Curio, nor the other supporters of Caesar will be alive
to-night. Do not go into the Curia. Get away, quickly! Warn your
friends, and leave Rome, or to-night you will all be strangled in the
Tullianum!"

The Tullianum! Drusus knew no other term to conjure up a like abode of
horrors--the ancient prison of the city, a mere chamber sunk in the
ground, and beneath that a dungeon, accessible only by an opening in
the floor above--where the luckless Jugurtha had perished of cold and
starvation, and where Lentulus Sura, Cethegus, and the other
lieutenants of Catilina had been garroted, in defiance of all their
legal rights, by the arbitrary decree of a rancorous Senate! So at
last the danger had come! Drusus felt himself quiver at every fibre.
He endured a sensation the like of which he had never felt before--one
of utter moral faintness. But he steadied himself quickly. Shame at
his own recurring cowardice overmastered him. "I am an unworthy
Livian, indeed," he muttered, not perhaps realizing that it is far
more heroic consciously to confront and receive the full terrors of a
peril, and put them by, than to have them harmlessly roll off on some
self-acting mental armour.

"Escape! There is yet time!" urged Agias, pulling his toga. Drusus
shook his head.

"Not until the Senate has set aside the veto of the tribunes," he
replied quietly.

"But the danger will then be imminent!"

"A good soldier does not leave his post, my excellent Agias," said the
Roman, "until duty orders him away. Our duty is in the Senate until we
can by our presence and voice do no more. When that task is over, we
go to Caesar as fast as horse may bear us; but not until then."

"Then I have warned you all in vain!" cried Agias.

"Not at all. You may still be of the greatest service. Arrange so that
we can leave Rome the instant we quit the Curia."

"But if the lictors seize you before you get out of the building?"

"We can only take our chance. I think we shall be permitted to go out.
I had intended to ride out of the city this evening if nothing
hindered and the final vote had been passed. But now I see that cannot
be done. You have wit and cunning, Agias. Scheme, provide. We must
escape from Rome at the earliest moment consistent with our duty and
honour."

"I have it," said Agias, his face lighting up. "Come at once after
leaving the Curia, to the rear of the Temple of Mars.[144] I know one
or two of the temple servants, and they will give me the use of their
rooms. There I will have ready some slave dresses for a disguise, and
just across the AEmilian bridge I will have some fast horses
waiting--that is, if you can give me an order on your stables."

  [144] The AEdes Martis of the Campus Martius.

Drusus took off his signet ring.

"Show that to Pausanias. He will honour every request you make, be it
for a million sesterces."

Agias bowed and was off. For the last time Drusus was tempted to call
him back and say that the flight would begin at once. But the nimble
Greek was already out of sight, and heroism became a necessity. Drusus
resolutely turned his steps toward the senate-house. Not having been
able to forecast the immediate moves of the enemy, he had not arranged
for hurried flight; it was to be regretted, although he had known that
on that day the end of the crisis would come. He soon met Antonius,
and imparted to him what he had just learned from Agias, and the
precautions taken.

Antonius shook his head, and remarked:--

"You ought not to go with me. Little enough can we who are tribunes
do; you have neither voice nor vote, and Lentulus is your personal
foe. So back, before it is too late. Let us shift for ourselves."

Drusus replied never a word, but simply took the tribune's arm and
walked the faster toward the Curia.

"I am a very young soldier," he said presently; "do not be angry if I
wish to show that I am not afraid of the whizzing arrows."

"Then, my friend, whatever befalls, so long as life is in my body,
remember you have a brother in Marcus Antonius."

The two friends pressed one another's hands, and entered the Curia
Pompeii. There in one of the foremost seats sat the Magnus,[145] the
centre of a great flock of adulators, who were basking in the sunshine
of his favour. Yet Drusus, as he glanced over at the Imperator,
thought that the great man looked harassed and worried--forced to be
partner in a scheme when he would cheerfully be absent. Fluttering in
their broad togas about the senate-house were Domitius, Cato, the
Marcelli, and Scipio, busy whipping into line the few remaining
waverers. As Cato passed the tribune's bench, and saw the handful of
Caesarians gathered there, he cast a glance of indescribable malignity
upon them, a glance that made Drusus shudder, and think again of the
horrors of the Tullianum.

  [145] Pompeius was not allowed by law to attend sessions of the Senate
  (so long as he was proconsul of Spain) when held inside the old city
  limits; but the Curia which he himself built was outside the walls in
  the Campus Martius. This meeting seems to have been convened there
  especially that he might attend it.

"I know now how Cato looked," said he to Antonius, "when he denounced
the Catilinarians and urged that they should be put to death without
trial."

Antonius shrugged his shoulders, and replied:--

"Cato cannot forgive Caesar. When Caesar was consul, Cato interrupted
his speech, and Caesar had him haled off to prison. Marcus Cato never
forgives or forgets."

Curio, Caelius, and Quintus Cassius had entered the senate-house--the
only Caesarians present besides Antonius and his viator. The first two
went and took their seats in the body of the building, and Drusus
noticed how their colleagues shrank away from them, refusing to sit
near the supporters of the Gallic proconsul.

"_Eho!_" remarked Antonius, his spirits rising as the crisis drew on.
"This is much like Catilina's days, to be sure! No one would sit with
him when he went into the Senate. However, I imagine that these
excellent gentlemen will hardly find Caesar as easy to handle as
Catilina."

Again Lentulus was in his curule chair, and again the solemn farce of
taking the auspices, preparatory to commencing the session, was gone
through.

Then for the last time in that memorable series of debates Lentulus
arose and addressed the Senate, storming, browbeating, threatening,
and finally ending with these words, that brought everything to a
head:--

"Seeing then, Conscript Fathers, that Quintus Cassius and Marcus
Antonius are using their tribunician office to aid Caius Caesar to
perpetuate his tyranny, the consuls ask you to clothe the magistrates
with dictatorial power in order that the liberties of the Republic may
not be subverted!"

The liberties of the Republic! Liberty to plunder provinces! To bribe!
To rob the treasury! To defraud! To violate the law of man and God! To
rule the whole world so that a corrupt oligarchy might be aggrandized!
Far, far had the nation of the older Claudii, Fabii, and Cornelii
fallen from that proud eminence when, a hundred years before,
Polybius, contrasting the Romans with the degenerate Greeks, had
exclaimed, "A statesman of Hellas, with ten checking clerks and ten
seals, ... cannot keep faith with a single talent; Romans, in their
magistracies and embassies, handle great sums of money, and yet from
pure respect of oath keep their faith intact."

But the words of selfish virulence and cant had been uttered, and up
from the body of the house swelled a shout of approval, growing louder
and louder every instant.

Then up rose Domitius, on his face the leer of a brutal triumph.

"Conscript Fathers," he said, "I call for a vote on the question of
martial law. Have the Senate divide on the motion. 'Let the consuls,
praetors, tribunes of the plebs, and men of consular rank see to it
that the Republic suffers no harm.'"

Another shout of applause rolled along the seats, fiercer and fiercer,
and through it all a shower of curses and abusive epithets upon the
Caesarians. All around Drusus seemed to be tossing and bellowing the
breakers of some vast ocean, an ocean of human forms and faces, that
was about to dash upon him and overwhelm him, in mad fury
irresistible. The din was louder and louder. The bronze casings on the
walls rattled, the pediments and pavements seemed to vibrate; outside,
the vast mob swarming around the Curia reëchoed the shout. "Down with
Caesar!" "Down with the tribunes!" "_Io!_ Pompeius!"

It was all as some wild distorted dream passing before Drusus's eyes.
He could not bring himself to conceive the scene as otherwise. In a
sort of stupor he saw the senators swarming to the right of the
building, hastening to cast their votes in favour of Domitius's
motion. Only two men--under a storm of abuse and hootings, passed to
the left and went on record against the measure. These were Curio and
Caelius; and they stood for some moments alone on the deserted side of
the house, defiantly glaring at the raging Senate. Antonius and
Cassius contemptuously remained in their seats--for no magistrate
could vote in the Senate.

It was done; it could not be undone. Not Caesar, but the Senate, had
decreed the end of the glorious Republic. Already, with hasty
ostentation, some senators were stepping outside the Curia, and
returning clad no longer in the toga of peace, but in a military
cloak[146] which a slave had been keeping close at hand in readiness.
Already Cato was on his feet glaring at the Caesarian tribunes, and
demanding that first of all they be subjected to punishment for
persisting in their veto. The Senate was getting more boisterous each
minute. A tumult was like to break out, in which some deed of violence
would be committed, which would give the key-note to the whole
sanguinary struggle impending. Yet in the face of the raging tempest
Marcus Antonius arose and confronted the assembly. It raged, hooted,
howled, cursed. He still remained standing. Cato tried to continue his
invective. The tempest that he had done so much to raise drowned his
own voice, and he relapsed into his seat. But still Antonius stood his
ground, quietly, with no attempt to shout down the raging Senate, as
steadfastly as though a thousand threats were not buzzing around his
ears. Drusus's heart went with his friend that instant. He had never
been in a battle, yet he realized that it was vastly more heroic to
stand undaunted before this audience, than to walk into the bloodiest
melee without a tremor.

  [146] _Sagum_.

Then of a sudden, like the interval between the recession of one wave
and the advance of a second billow, came a moment of silence; and into
that silence Antonius broke, with a voice so strong, so piercing, so
resonant, that the most envenomed oligarch checked his clamour to give
ear.

"Hearken, ye senators of the Republic, ye false _patres_, ye fathers
of the people who are no fathers! So far have we waited; we wait no
more! So much have we seen; we'll see no further! So much have we
endured,--reproaches, repulses, deceits, insult, outrage, yes, for I
see it in the consul's eye, next do we suffer violence itself; but
that we will not tamely suffer. Ay! drive us from our seats, as Marcus
Cato bids you! Ay! strike our names from the Senate list, as Domitius
will propose! Ay! hound your lictors, sir consul, after us, to lay
their rods across our backs! Ay! enforce your decree proclaiming
martial law! So have you acted before to give legal fiction to your
tyranny! But tell me this, senators, praetorii, consulars, and consuls,
where will this mad violence of yours find end? Tiberius Gracchus you
have murdered. Caius Gracchus you have murdered. Marcus Drusus you
have murdered. Ten thousand good men has your creature Sulla murdered.
Without trial, without defence, were the friends of Catilina murdered.
And now will ye add one more deed of blood to those going before? Will
ye strike down an inviolate tribune, in Rome,--in the shadow of the
very Curia? Ah! days of the Decemvirs, when an evil Ten ruled over the
state--would that those days might return! Not ten tyrants but a
thousand oppress us now! Then despotism wore no cloak of patriotism or
legal right, but walked unmasked in all its blackness!

"Hearken, ye senators, and in the evil days to come, remember all I
say. Out of the seed which ye sow this hour come wars, civil wars;
Roman against Roman, kinsman against kinsman, brother against brother!
There comes impiety, violence, cruelty, bloodshed, anarchy! There
comes the destruction of the old; there comes the birth, amid pain and
anguish, of the new! Ye who grasp at money, at power, at high office;
who trample on truth and right to serve your selfish ends; false,
degenerate Romans,--one thing can wipe away your crimes--"

"What?" shouted Cato, across the senate-house; while Pompeius, who was
shifting uncomfortably in his seat, had turned very red.

"Blood!" cried back Antonius, carried away by the frenzy of his own
invective; then, shooting a lightning glance over the awe-struck
Senate, he spoke as though gifted with some terrible prophetic
omniscience. "Pompeius Magnus, the day of your prosperity is
past--prepare ingloriously to die! Lentulus Crus, you, too, shall pay
the forfeit of your crimes! Metellus Scipio, Marcus Cato, Lucius
Domitius, within five years shall you all be dead--dead and with
infamy upon your names! Your blood, your blood shall wipe away your
folly and your lust for power. Ye stay, we go. Ye stay to pass once
more unvetoed the decree declaring Caesar and his friends enemies of
the Republic; we go--go to endure our outlaw state. But we go to
appeal from the unjust scales of your false Justice to the juster
sword of an impartial Mars, and may the Furies that haunt the lives of
tyrants and shedders of innocent blood attend you--attend your persons
so long as ye are doomed to live, and your memory so long as men shall
have power to heap on your names reproach!"

Drusus hardly knew that Antonius had so much as stopped, when he found
his friend leading him out of the Curia.

Behind, all was still as they walked away toward the Temple of Mars.
Then, as they proceeded a little distance, a great roar as of a
distant storm-wind drifted out from the senate-house--so long had
Antonius held his audience spellbound.

"_Finitum est!_" said Curio, his eyes cast on the ground. "We have
seen, my friends, the last day of the Republic."


II

Behind the Temple of Mars the faithful Agias was ready with the
slaves' dresses which were to serve as a simple disguise. Antonius and
his companions tossed off their cumbrous togas and put on the dark,
coarse cloaks and slippers which were worn by slaves and people of the
lower classes. These changes were quickly made, but valuable time was
wasted while Antonius--who, as a bit of a dandy, wore his hair rather
long[147]--underwent a few touches with the shears. It was now
necessary to get across the Tiber without being recognized, and once
fairly out of Rome the chances of a successful pursuit were not many.
On leaving the friendly shelter of the Temple buildings, nothing
untoward was to be seen. The crowds rushing to and fro, from the Curia
and back, were too busy and excited to pay attention to a little group
of slaves, who carefully kept from intruding themselves into notice.
Occasionally the roar and echo of applause and shouting came from the
now distant Curia, indicating that the Senate was still at its unholy
work of voting wars and destructions. A short walk would bring them
across the Pons AEmilius, and there, in the shelter of one of the
groves of the new public gardens which Caesar had just been laying out
on Janiculum, were waiting several of the fastest mounts which the
activity of Agias and the lavish expenditures of Pausanias had been
able to procure.

  [147] Slaves were always close clipped.

The friends breathed more easily.

"I hardly think," said Quintus Cassius, "we shall be molested. The
consuls cannot carry their mad hate so far."

They were close to the bridge. The way was lined with tall warehouses
and grain storehouses,[148] the precursors of the modern "elevators."
They could see the tawny Tiber water flashing between the stone arches
of the bridge. The swarms of peasants and countrymen driving herds of
lowing kine and bleating sheep toward the adjacent Forum Boarium
seemed unsuspicious and inoffensive. A moment more and all Drusus's
tremors and anxieties would have passed as harmless fantasy.

  [148] _Horreae_.

Their feet were on the bridge. They could notice the wind sweeping
through the tall cypresses in the gardens where waited the steeds that
were to take them to safety. The friends quickened their pace. A cloud
had drifted across the sun; there was a moment's gloom. When the light
danced back, Drusus caught Curio's arm with a start.

"Look!" The new sunbeams had glanced on the polished helmet of a
soldier standing guard at the farther end of the bridge.

There was only an instant for hesitation.

"Lentulus has foreseen that we must try to escape by this way," said
Curio, seriously, but without panic. "We must go back at once, and try
to cross by the wooden bridge below or by some other means."

But a great herd of dirty silver-grey Etruscan cattle came over the
causeway, and to get ahead of them would have been impracticable
without attracting the most unusual attention. It was now evident
enough that there was a considerable guard at the head of the bridge,
and to make a rush and overpower it was impossible. The heavy-uddered
cows and snorting, bellowing bulls dragged by with a slow plodding
that almost drove Drusus frantic. They were over at last, and the
friends hastened after them, far more anxious to leave the bridge than
they had been an instant before to set foot upon it. On they pressed,
until as if by magic there stood across their path the twelve lictors
of one of the consuls, with upraised fasces. Behind the lictors was a
half-century of soldiers in full armour led by their _optio_.[149]

  [149] Adjutant, subordinate to a centurion.

"Sirs," announced the head lictor, "I am commanded by the consul,
Lucius Lentulus Crus, to put you all under arrest for treason against
the Republic. Spare yourselves the indignity of personal violence, by
offering no resistance."

To resist would indeed have been suicide. The friends had worn their
short swords under their cloaks, but counting Agias they were only
six, and the lictors were twelve, to say nothing of the soldiers, of
whom there were thirty or more.

The ground seemed swaying before Drusus's eyes; in his ears was a
buzzing; his thoughts came to him, thick, confused, yet through them
all ran the vision of Cornelia, and the conviction that he was never
to see her again. He looked back. The soldiers at the head of the
bridge had taken alarm and were marching down to complete the arrest.
He looked before. The lictors, the troops, the stupid cattle and their
stolid drivers, and the great black-sided warehouses, casting their
gloomy shadow over the rippling river. Down stream; not a skiff seemed
stirring. The water was plashing, dancing, glancing in the sunshine.
Below the wooden bridge the spars of a huge merchantman were just
covering with canvas, as she stood away from her quay. Up stream (the
views were all compressed into the veriest moment)--with the current
came working, or rather drifting, a heavy barge loaded with timber.
Only two men, handling rude paddles, stood upon her deck. The barge
was about to pass under the very arch upon which stood the handful of
entrapped Caesarians. A word, a motion, and the last hope of escape
would have been comprehended by the enemy, and all would have been
lost. But in moments of extreme peril it is easy to make a glance full
of pregnancy. Antonius saw the face of his friend--saw and understood;
and the other seemingly doomed men understood likewise. In an instant
the barge would pass under the bridge!

"Fellow," replied Antonius (the whole inspection of the situation,
formation of the plot, and visual dialogue had really been so rapid as
to make no long break after the lictor ceased speaking), "do you dare
thus to do what even the most profane and impious have never dared
before? Will you lay hands on two inviolate tribunes of the plebs, and
those under their personal protection; and by your very act become a
_sacer_--an outlaw devoted to the gods, whom it is a pious thing for
any man to slay?"

"I have my orders, sir," replied the head lictor, menacingly. "And I
would have you know that neither you nor Quintus Cassius are reckoned
tribunes longer by the Senate; so by no such plea can you escape
arrest."

"Tribunes no longer!" cried Antonius; "has tyranny progressed so far
that no magistrate can hold office after he ceases to humour the
consuls?"

"We waste time, sir," said the lictor, sternly. "Forward, men; seize
and bind them!"

But Antonius's brief parley had done its work. As the bow of the barge
shot under the bridge, Curio, with a single bound over the parapet,
sprang on to its deck; after him leaped Quintus Cassius, and after him
Caelius. Before Drusus could follow, however, the stern of the barge
had vanished under the archway. The lictors and soldiers had sprung
forward, but a second had been lost by rushing to the eastern side of
the bridge, where the barge had just disappeared from sight. Agias,
Antonius, and Drusus were already standing on the western parapet. The
lictors and soldiers were on them in an instant. The blow of one of
the fasces smote down Antonius, but he fell directly into the vessel
beneath--stunned but safe. A soldier caught Agias by the leg to drag
him down. Drusus smote the man under the ear so that he fell without a
groan; but Agias himself had been thrown from the parapet on to the
bridge; the soldiers were thronging around. Drusus saw the naked steel
of their swords flashing before his eyes; he knew that the barge was
slipping away in the current. It was a time of seconds, but of seconds
expanded for him into eternities. With one arm he dashed back a
lictor, with the other cast Agias--he never knew whence came that
strength which enabled him to do the feat--over the stonework, and
into the arms of Curio in the receding boat. Then he himself leaped. A
rude hand caught his cloak. It was torn from his back. A sword whisked
past his head--he never learned how closely. He was in the air, saw
that the barge was getting away, and next he was chilled by a sudden
dash of water and Caelius was dragging him aboard; he had landed under
the very stern of the barge. Struggling in the water, weighed down by
their armour, were several soldiers who had leaped after him and had
missed their distance completely.

The young man clambered on to the rude vessel. Its crew (two simple,
harmless peasants) were cowering among the lumber. Curio had seized
one of the paddles and was guiding the craft out into the middle of
the current; for the soldiers were already running along the wharves
and preparing to fling their darts. The other men, who had just been
plucked out of the jaws of destruction, were all engaged in collecting
their more or less scattered wits and trying to discover the next turn
of calamity in store. Antonius--who, despite his fall, had come down
upon a coil of rope and so escaped broken bones and serious
bruises--was the first to sense the great peril of even their present
situation.

"In a few moments," he remarked, casting a glance down the river, "we
shall be under the Pons Sublicius, and we shall either be easily
stopped and taken, or crushed with darts as we pass by. You see they
are already signalling from the upper bridge to their guard at the
lower. We shall drift down into their hands, and gain nothing by our
first escape."

"Anchor," suggested Cassius, who was an impulsive and rather
inconsiderate man. And he prepared to pitch overboard the heavy
mooring-stone.

"_Phui!_ You sheep," cried Curio, contemptuously, mincing no words at
that dread moment. "How long will it be before there will be ten
boatloads of soldiers alongside? Can we beat off all Pompeius's
legions?"

Antonius caught up another paddle and passed it through a rower's
thong.

"Friends," he said, with that ready command which his military life
had given him, "these soldiers are in armour and can run none too
swiftly. Once show them the back, and they must throw away their arms
or give over the chase. It is madness to drift down upon the lower
bridge. We must turn across the river, risk the darts, and try to land
on the farther bank. Take oars!"

There was but one remaining paddle. Drusus seized it and pushed
against the water with so much force that the tough wood bent and
creaked, but did not snap. The unwieldy barge sluggishly answered this
powerful pressure, and under the stroke of the three oars began to
head diagonally across the current and move slowly toward the farther
shore. The soldiers did not at once perceive the intent of this move.
By their actions they showed that they had expected the barge to try
to slip through the Pons Sublicius, and so escape down the river. They
had run some little way along the south bank of the Tiber, to
reenforce their comrades at the lower bridge, when they saw the new
course taken by their expected prey. Much valuable time had thus been
gained by the pursued, time which they needed sadly enough, for,
despite their frantic rowing, their unwieldy craft would barely crawl
across the current.

Long before the barge was within landing distance of the northern
bank, the soldiers who had been on guard at the head of the Pons
AEmilius had regained their former station, and were running along the
shore to cut off any attempt there to escape. Soon a whizzing javelin
dug into the plank at Drusus's feet, and a second rushed over Caelius's
head, and plashed into the water beyond the barge. Other soldiers on
the now receding southern bank were piling into a light skiff to
second their comrades' efforts by a direct attack on the fugitives.

A third dart grazed Antonius's hair and buried its head in the pile of
lumber. The tribune handed his oar to Caelius, and, deliberately
wresting the weapon from the timber, flung it back with so deadly an
aim that one pursuing legionary went down, pierced through the
breastplate. The others recoiled for an instant, and no more javelins
were thrown, which was some slight gain for the pursued.

It seemed, however, that the contest could have only a single ending.
The soldiers were running parallel and apace with the barge, which was
now as close to the northern bank as was safe in view of the missiles.
The Pons Sublicius was getting minute by minute nearer, and upon it
could be seen a considerable body of troops ready with darts and
grapnels to cut off the last hope of escape.

But Antonius never withdrew his eye from the line of dark
weatherbeaten warehouses that stretched down to the river's edge on
the north bank just above the Pons Sublicius.

"Row," he exhorted his companions, "row! as life is dear! Row as never
before!"

And under the combined impulse of the three desperate men, even the
heavy barge leaped forward and a little eddy of foaming waves began to
trail behind her stern. Drusus had no time to ask of himself or
Antonius the special object of this last burst of speed. He only knew
that he was flinging every pound of strength into the heavy handle of
his oar, and that his life depended on making the broad blade push
back the water as rapidly as possible. Antonius, however, had had good
cause for his command. A searching scrutiny had revealed to him that a
single very long warehouse ran clear down to the river's edge, and so
made it impossible to continue running along the bank. A pursuer must
double around the whole length of the building before continuing the
chase of the barge. And for a small quay just beyond this warehouse
Antonius headed his clumsy vessel. The soldiers continued their chase
up to the very walls of the warehouse, where they, of a sudden, found
themselves stopped by an impenetrable barrier. They lost an instant of
valuable time in trying to wade along the bank, where the channel
shelved off rapidly, and, finding the attempt useless, dashed a volley
of their missiles after the barge. But the range was very long. Few
reached the vessel; none did damage. The soldiers disappeared behind
the warehouse, still running at a headlong pace. Before they
reappeared on the other side, Antonius had brought his craft to the
quay. There was no time for mooring, and the instant the barge lost
way the hard-pressed Caesarians were on shore. Another instant, and the
clumsy vessel had been caught by the current, and swung out into the
stream.

She had done her work. The pursued men broke into a dash for the
nearest highway. The soldiers were close after them. But they had
flung away their javelins, and what with their heavy armour and the
fatigue of running were quite as exhausted as the Caesarians, three of
whom had been thoroughly winded by their desperate rowing. On the Pons
Sublicius, where a great crowd had gathered to watch the exciting
chase, there was shouting and tumult. No doubt voices few enough would
have been raised for the Caesarians if they had been captured; but now
that they bade fair to escape, the air was thick with gibes at the
soldiers, and cries of encouragement to the pursued. On the two
parties ran. Soon they were plunged in the tortuous, dirty lanes of
the "Trans-Tiber" district, rushing at frantic speed past the shops of
dirty Jews and the taverns of noisy fishermen and sailors. Already
news of the chase had gone before them, and, as Drusus followed his
friends under the half-arching shadows of the tall tenement houses,
drunken pedlers and ribald women howled out their wishes of success,
precisely as though they were in a race-course. Now the dirty streets
were left behind and the fatigued runners panted up the slopes of the
Janiculum, toward the gardens of Caesar. They passed the little grove
sacred to the Furies, and, even as for life he ran, Drusus recalled
with shame how over this very road to this very grove, had fled Caius
Gracchus, the great tribune of the people, whom Drusus's own great
grandfather, Marcus Livius Drusus, had hounded to his death; that day
when all men encouraged him as he ran, but none would raise a hand to
aid.

But now up from the bridge came the thunder of horses'
hoofs,--cavalry, tearing at a furious gallop. Pompeius had evidently
ordered out a _turma_[150] of mounted men to chase down the runaways.
More and more frantic the race--Drusus's tongue hung from his mouth
like a dog's. He flew past a running fountain, and was just desperate
enough to wonder if it was safe to stop one instant and touch--he
would not ask to drink--one drop of the cool water. Fortunately the
Caesarians were all active young men, of about equal physical powers,
and they kept well together and encouraged one another, not by
word--they had no breath for that--but by interchange of courage and
sympathy from eye to eye. The heavy legionaries had given up the
chase; it was the cavalry, now flying almost at their very heels, that
urged them to their final burst of speed.

  [150] Squadron of 30 horse.

At last! Here were the gardens of Caesar, and close by the roadway
under a spreading oak, their grooms holding them in readiness for
instant service, were six of the best specimens of horseflesh money
could command.

None of the little party had breath left to speak a word. To fling
themselves into the saddles, to snatch the reins from the attendants'
hands, to plunge the heels of their sandals, in lieu of spurs, into
the flanks of their already restless steeds,--these things were done
in an instant, but none too soon. For, almost as the six riders turned
out upon the road to give head to their horses, the cavalry were upon
them. The foremost rider sent his lance over Curio's shoulder, grazing
the skin and starting blood; a second struck with his short sword at
Caelius's steed, but the horse shied, and before the blow could be
repeated the frightened beast had taken a great bound ahead and out of
danger. This exciting phase of the pursuit, however, was of only
momentary duration. The horses of the Caesarians were so incomparably
superior to the common army hacks of the soldiers, that, as soon as
the noble blooded animals began to stretch their long limbs on the
hard Roman road, the troopers dropped back to a harmless distance in
the rear. The cavalrymen's horses, furthermore, had been thoroughly
winded by the fierce gallop over the bridge, and now it was out of the
question for them to