Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome

CHAPTER XI

When the Centurion Martialis came to the rescue of the endangered palanquin of Plautia, he was leisurely pursuing his way toward the Janiculum, to redeem his promise given to Fabricius. The little incident which befell him, as described, soon ceased to occupy his mind. He reached the villa of Fabricius, and admired the far-reaching prospect which it commanded – from the city, at its foot, to the distant, circling Apennines. At the bare mention of his name, Natta, the ancient porter, ushered him direct to the presence of his master, with unmistakable signs of pleasure. The visitor’s fame had evidently preceded him.

Fabricius was in his winter room, whose windows overlooked a pleasant garden, sheltered and shaded from the cold winds. The old man scanned his visitor’s manly face and form with a swift eager look; then he stepped forward and opened his arms.

‘Welcome to my house!’ said he, embracing the Centurion. ‘It augurs well that you should have remembered an old man and redeemed your promise. I have longed for your coming.’

‘’Tis my first leisure morning, Fabricius – you may see,’ answered Martialis, touching his toga.

‘Tell me, Centurion,’ said Fabricius earnestly, ‘for your name, on that unlucky night, seemed to awake old memories. I am a Latian born, and my patrimony lies near to Casinum. There, in the old days, when I was a lad, dwelt neighbours and old family friends of thy name – tell me, then – ’

‘I was born in Etruria, at Veii,’ said Martialis, with a smile.

‘Ah!’ said the old man disappointedly, ‘what led me to make up my mind?’

‘But my father, Caius Julius Martialis,’ continued the young man, ‘first saw the light near to Casinum, as his forefathers did before him for generations.’

‘Caius Martialis thy father!’ cried Fabricius, seizing the young man’s hand with intense joy, ‘Caius thy father – he was my playfellow, boy, in those happy, sunny days long ago! Together we made the summer-day trips and climbed the hills; and then, while yet a lad, I was sent to Rome and I saw him no more. And thou art his son – thou, that didst save his old playfellow’s life – how my heart warms to thee! I warrant thou art the living image of him, though I never saw him in his manhood. But his boyish frame shaped like thine – tall, spare, sinewy, and as strong as a young lion: and what of him, Centurion; is he alive yet – tell me?’

‘Dead these ten years,’ replied Martialis.

‘Then I was not fated to see him again on this earth. We loved each other as playfellows; but I shall not be long after him. I am a lonely old man, who has outlived his time; thou wilt not forget me for the little time that is left me to breathe and live? Ah, if the gods had preserved me a son like thee!’

The young man’s heart softened to see the mingled emotions which swelled the stately Senator’s breast, and he heartily returned the vigorous clasp of his hands.

‘You are yet hale and strong, and such a friend as I can be, I hope to be, for many a year to come,’ he answered.

‘The end cannot be far away now,’ said Fabricius, shaking his head. ‘I stand in no fear of it, for in truth I have nothing left to live for. The gods preserve thee from a solitary old age such as mine. This gloomy house was once bright and happy enough; death has reaped a rich harvest in its walls. One boy, Titus, came home to die from wounds received from the barbarian in Pannonia; an ill-fated galley, bearing another, foundered on its way to Hispania; a third was yet a child when he left us. One girl reached the most winsome years, when a malignant disease carried her suddenly off and left us heartbroken; the last daughter lived and was married, and died in giving birth to her first babe – my only grandchild. That little maid, Centurion, was beauty and sweetness itself; it was all that was left me – wife and children all gone. She frisked about these halls, lightening them like a sunbeam; she had begun to lisp our names and prattle like the sweetest woodland music – ah me!’

‘Died she too, Fabricius?’ asked Martialis, after a short pause.

‘I know not whether she lives or is dead,’ muttered the old man; ‘to me she is dead – fourteen years ago she vanished on one accursed day, and no tidings of her have ever reached us since.’

‘Alas, that was too cruel!’ murmured the other.

‘Crueller perhaps than all, for I am harassed by the thought that if she lives she may be groaning under cruel slavery or bondage, which is worse than death. Time has dulled somewhat the smart of this grievous thrust, but tongue cannot speak the anguish I have known in my heart. As for the wretch who dealt me this last fell, heartless stroke, let the gods deal with him and his. Treasure and time I have lavished in vain search; and, doubtless, I have been robbed through it all. Cunning people, knowing the old man’s ever-green hopes, have worked upon his credulity. The other night on the Aventine was an instance which would have probably cost me my life but for your timely appearance. One of those very villains, whom you scattered, came to me in this very room, with a request from a supposed dying man, purporting to be the fiend who had stolen away my little Aurelia. It was nothing but a cunning tale to lead me into a trap – silly fools, they might have taken my life, but little besides!’

‘Had not my foot tripped, one of those same rascals would now have been safe under lock and key awaiting his deserts,’ observed Martialis.

‘I warrant it if your fingers had once closed upon him,’ replied Fabricius, with an approving smile; ‘but it matters not much. It is only another and more flagrant case of my infatuation, as my nephew calls it. I shall fall under the lash of his tongue bravely for it. But what, Centurion, if I give up hope, what need is there of living?’

‘None.’

‘And you, a young man, live vigorously, having copious hope. Ah, I see!’ continued Fabricius, smiling, as he noted the ready colour tinging the sunburnt cheek of the Pretorian, ‘as well as if your shaven cheek had been the delicate red and white of a young girl. First and foremost, at your age, is the hope which is rooted in love – well, I shall know more when our friendship enlarges.’

‘How old was your granddaughter when you lost her?’ inquired Martialis hastily, coming back to the former subject of conversation.

‘How old! About three years,’ answered Fabricius, the smile fading from his face.

‘You would hardly recognise her, then, if fate brought you face to face with her?’

‘Not know her! She is as fairly pictured in my mind, with her bright silky locks and fawnlike eyes, as if I had only kissed her last night ere she went to her little bed.’

‘But then fourteen years make a vast change. The woman of seventeen obliterates the child of three – by what token could you assure yourself beyond doubt?’

‘Token – woman of seventeen!’ repeated Fabricius wonderingly, as though a new light had struck upon his brain; ‘my little Aurelia a woman of seventeen!’

‘Ay, truly, she must be, if alive,’ responded Martialis, regarding him curiously.

The old man rose from his seat and walked across the room and back. Here was a problem as startling as it was simple, since, strange to say, it had never by any chance been suggested to his thoughts. His mind, up to this moment, had been thoroughly filled, and absorbed to the exclusion of every other reflection, by the picture of the ill-fated child as he had last seen her, say, dancing about his room, or sporting with her ball in the garden, as he passed out on a visit or a walk.

‘My little maid a woman of seventeen!’ he repeated again in a bewildered manner.

‘Not so strange as that you should expect to find her as she was,’ observed Martialis; ‘stature increases, and form changes and develops; eyes alter, and hair changes in hue with years.’

‘That is true,’ said Fabricius absently.

‘Well then, how would you prove her identity?’

‘My heart would tell me!’ replied the other fervently.

Martialis shook his head gently.

‘You cannot believe it – is not instinct unerring?’ cried Fabricius. ‘It can lead a mother to choose her child after a woful gap of years.’

‘A mother maybe,’ said Martialis, doubtingly.

‘And, if I brought not the girl into the world, I tended her; I was father and mother in one to her – she was my sole care and I lived in her – yes, I should know her.’

‘Heaven grant you may have the opportunity.’

The subject then dropped, and Martialis was not sorry, for he saw how painful it was to his host. To entertain his visitor Fabricius then proceeded to show his house and his treasures of art, his gardens and the noble prospect therefrom. His interest in his young acquaintance and preserver seemed to quicken his vivacity and cheerfulness in a wonderful degree, and he drew upon his stores of knowledge and anecdote in a manner which delighted his listener. The young soldier was easily led on, in this way, toward the old man’s dinner-hour, and found himself duly partaking of a meal more varied and splendidly served than was usual with his host’s simple and solitary habits.

They had reclined at table but a few minutes when Afer was ushered in, bearing on his face the signs of extreme solicitude.

‘Praise be to the gods, uncle!’ said he, stooping over the couch and taking the old man in his arms; ‘praise be to the gods, – I find you eating and cheerful, and so I know you have suffered little. The murderous thieves! I have but just returned, and have come straight from my house, when I was told of the treachery which had befallen you. A fine thing, in truth, to happen to a citizen. Nay, I will neither bite nor sup until you assure me you are no worse.’

‘No worse, nephew; thanks to the Centurion there. I was only stunned, and find I am tougher than I thought. Nephew, this is the Centurion Martialis who befriended me – I have discovered also that he is of Latian stock, and son of an old playfellow of Casinum. Martialis, this is my nephew, Titus Afer.’

‘We are not totally unacquainted,’ said Afer, bowing coldly, whilst the other returned the salutation in silence; ‘I have the honour of knowing his brother more intimately.’

‘Brother! I never asked thee, Lucius, of any brothers or sisters – tell me, then!’ interposed Fabricius.

‘I have one brother only.’

‘The nearest friend and heir of Apicius, whom you have heard of, uncle,’ said Afer; ‘he who spent his patrimony, and after dinner, t’other day, poisoned himself because his treasure-chest was empty.’

‘I heard something of a tale – Natta told me, I think. If I mistake not, nephew, it was there you dined only a few days ago?’

‘I witnessed the whole affair; the Centurion’s brother was left as chief mourner, and, I understand, what remains of the wealth of Apicius goes entirely to compensate him for his long devotion. But the Centurion knows better than I how the matter lies – perhaps brotherly affection has divided the generosity of Apicius.’

‘For that information I must refer you to the same source whence you derived the other,’ replied Martialis coldly.

‘It is what neither belongs to me nor to thee, nephew,’ said Fabricius. ‘You will make me know your brother at the first opportunity, Centurion.’

‘Ask him to dine with you, uncle; but you will have to provide him with a more artistic banquet, in order to give him an opportunity of proving his critical powers. Caius Martialis, the Centurion’s brother, is well known for his perfect knowledge of the elegant arts and pleasures of life. No one disputes his dictum as to the beauty of a woman, or the flavour of a dish, or the fold of a garment – especially feminine, – or the business of the bath, the action of a player, the knowledge of the midnight city – the whole delicate art, in fact, of sustaining a continuous and uniform course of pleasure, without rushing into undue excess, or relapsing into ennui. His acquaintance is a privilege, uncle, and you will find it so.’

‘I prefer that my host should judge for himself of the character of my brother, rather than accept it from your lips,’ said Martialis, with the hot blood tingling in his veins at the sneering tones and curling lip of the speaker.

‘That has ever been my custom, Centurion, and there is no reason why I should alter it in this case,’ interposed Fabricius. ‘Take your place, nephew – eat and drink, and tell me how the time has gone with you since you went away.’

‘No, uncle, your turn before mine – I am burning to hear an account of this adventure. How came you, in Heaven’s name, to be on the Aventine at that time of night?’

The knight, as he spoke, took his place on the couch opposite Martialis. The sinister glance of his eyes met the gaze of the latter, and declared inevitable war. The slaves hastened to serve him, and, whilst he proceeded to eat, Fabricius related the circumstances of his night’s adventure, not forgetting, most particularly, to allude to the services of his deliverer, who, straightway, began to wish that all recollection of the affair might be buried in the sea.

‘It is very well, good uncle, you got out of the trap as you did,’ observed Afer at the conclusion; ‘this, I trust, is the last phase of your credulity and infatuation – this, I humbly think, will act as a salutary corrective, and effect what no reason or words of mine could do. As for the Centurion, had he been a school-lad appearing on the scene, he would have been sufficient, at that critical point, to have startled and routed the ruffians from their task, like so many rabbits. I trust, Centurion, you received no hurt in your encounter with the vagabonds, when, like a Patroclus, you bestrode the prostrate body of my uncle?’

‘I neither bestrode my host, nor drew a sword, nor even clenched my fist,’ answered Martialis calmly, though inwardly fuming with anger. ‘I did nothing whereby I can claim the credit or praise which my host persists in awarding to me against my will.’

‘Nor even with your troopers to lay hands on one or more of the vagabonds?’

‘Nor even with my troopers lay hands on a single one of them.’

‘I crave pardon, Centurion, for the thoughtless question,’ said Afer mockingly; ‘I ought to have known better than to suppose that Imperial Pretorians would stoop to act as common city police.’

‘You labour under a wrong impression of the cohorts to which I have the honour to belong,’ returned Martialis, with less command over the tone of his voice. ‘If I know anything about them, I should say they are as ready as any to frustrate rascality and bring it to account, whenever it lies in their power.’

‘Hark ye! nephew,’ interposed Fabricius sternly, ‘whether you rose this morning in an ill-humour or not, I cannot tell, but I must have no snapping tongue to break good-fellowship here – let us finish our meal as it was begun, in peace and pleasantness, I pray. There is little I would not part with, rather than Martialis should associate anything disagreeable with his first visit here. He has done me a service, which it may please him to disparage and you to decry – enough! My old playmate has suddenly and unexpectedly returned in the person of his son; for that, if for nothing else, I seek his good opinion of all about me.’

‘I apologise for having been so foolish as to offend you, uncle,’ said Afer, with a barely perceptible shrug of his shoulders; ‘I was, in truth, only jesting. Centurion, I have the honour of drinking to your health!’ he added, with an accompanying look which mocked the courteousness of his voice. The Pretorian coldly returned the compliment, scarcely trusting his tongue to speak, for fear of the scorn and dislike which filled him. Fabricius nodded approvingly, and Afer continued, ‘And now, uncle, to the news of our great Prefect – or, perhaps, your friend, the Centurion, has already told, you? No – I am glad, then, to be the first to inform you. Sejanus is the accepted son-in-law of Caesar, and goes forthwith to Capreae to claim his bride.’

‘Ah!’ quoth Fabricius quietly, ‘he creeps up the ladder apace; but these matters interest me not. Time was when I would have paid it more heed, but now I live apart, and allow consuls and pretors and the like to pass on, almost unheeded – with all respect to your commander, Lucius.’

‘I understand you accompany him on his pleasant expedition, Centurion?’ said Afer.

‘As a most intimate friend of the Prefect, you have, no doubt, been already acquainted with most, or all, of his arrangements,’ answered the other.

‘What – you going?’ observed Fabricius, with a disappointed air; ‘when then will you return?’

‘I cannot tell you, Fabricius. Your nephew will, most probably, know more than myself.’

‘Indeed, uncle, my knowledge is overrated,’ responded Afer; ‘but, if you will take the opportunity, you will commission your preserver to bring you, when he does return, some pottery ware from the adjacent Surrentum – it is a town famed for its excellence in this manufacture, is it not, Centurion?’

The glance and the sneer of the speaker were malicious enough, whilst the cheeks of the young soldier flushed deeply at the allusion. The swift eyes of his host drank all in; he had already gathered sufficient to see that his guests were not altogether so ignorant of each other and each other’s affairs as he had at first supposed. The mounting colour on the Pretorian’s face, as well as the flash of his dark eyes, denoted that his nephew’s last words, from some reason, had proved as disagreeable as his former remarks. It became evident, also, that they were designedly so; and, therefore, without waiting for any reply, he proceeded quietly to discourse upon the artistic merits of pottery in general, with the fluency of a critic familiar with his subject. Afer, as a man of elegant taste in matters of art, was led into the discussion, which lasted for some time, during which the Centurion sat silent, lending only fitful attention to the conversation.

The subject had no charm for him, and his mind rankled with the irritating bearing of the man opposite. His last allusion astonished him not a little, inasmuch as the pointed manner of its delivery revealed to him the knight’s knowledge of his connection with Surrentum; but, after the potter’s communication to the Prefect, the matter would easily and naturally filter to the ear of the confidant, Domitius Afer. Nevertheless, the blood burned in his veins and flamed in his cheeks when his mind, so sensitive on this question, tortured itself by imagining how the loose and irreverent tongues of his commander and the sneering individual across the table, had, doubtless, amused themselves with the purest and most delicate feeling his heart could know. This thought added to the disgust and fierce hostility which bubbled in his breast, on account of the nephew of Fabricius, for whose disagreeable manner he was able to ascribe no reason, except a paltry feeling of spite and envy. But even these distempered reflections gave way to the soothing and delightful contemplation of his speedy removal to the immediate neighbourhood of his beloved; and, in an interval of these self-communings, he became aware that the dialogue upon the merits of artistic ware was flagging and moribund. The pleasure of his visit had long departed, and he seized the opportunity of taking his leave. Rising, therefore, he pleaded the exigency of some camp regulation, and Fabricius left his seat also, to escort his guest to the porch.

‘My nephew has not made himself altogether agreeable to you,’ said the latter, as they stood hand in hand ere they parted; ‘something has probably tried his humour ere he came; but you will not allow that to militate between us twain. You can afford to pass over his whims, for they are not worth your serious thought.’

‘Easily!’

‘You are going to Capreae – I have one thing to say to you. Formerly I busied myself in matters of state, though I have long retired therefrom. But I still live here above the city; and I have yet a few friends of high influence and large information in that busy hive of toil, ambition, and passion down there; therefore, it is impossible that I can exist without knowing something of what is passing. I have watched the course of your Prefect Sejanus. He goes to become the Emperor’s son-in-law; such honour and elevation would satisfy an ordinary man’s ambition, but not his. I know him not personally, though the general whisper of public opinion seldom errs; but Tiberius Caesar I have known thoroughly of old. Strange and noisome tales of his island dwelling are, even now, wandering through Rome like fitful, noxious night-airs. You may possibly be better acquainted with this than I, and I trust they may never infect you. But apart from this, I would bid a man beware of Tiberius Caesar. His intellect is strong and clear, and his energy unfailing. A tiger is not more ruthless – the deep ocean is not more dark, mysterious, and subtle than his nature; and his suspicions are clothed with the eyes of an Argus and the tentacles of a polypus. I pity a man, from a Prefect to a slave, who jars upon them. Take the advice of an old man, not inexperienced, and have the greatest care to let your action be bounded scrupulously by the duties of your military office. Do not be tempted beyond them by any one. Remember that while you obey the Prefect there is yet one above all to whom you owe allegiance – Caesar himself. If there be those who choose to underrate his power, leave them alone to their folly. If events follow the course I anticipate for them, you will, perhaps, at some time, be thankful, that you allowed nothing to tempt you beyond the limits of your Centurionship. Obey your legitimate orders and seek to know nothing more. You are a soldier; remain one, and beware of adding the trade of politician – at the present time. A volcano may burst beneath our feet before long. You will ponder on my advice, boy?’

‘Fear not,’ replied Martialis; ‘I am in no hurry to change my occupation. I prefer a sword to a pen. I have plenty to do without loading myself with politics.’

‘Yes; Mars was in the habit of relieving his gory business with softer pursuits,’ said the old man, smiling gently. ‘Success in both. Farewell. I shall await your return with impatience, for I yearn to make a son of you.’

When the Centurion arrived at his quarters in the camp he found two strange slaves awaiting him with weary looks. One of them bore something in his hands covered with a cloth of gold; the other presented him with dainty small tablets, which he opened and read as follows: —

‘Plautia sends the Centurion Martialis a very trifling acknowledgment of the ready service which his strong arm rendered her in the Subura this morning, and begs him to accept it. She also prays him to honour her by supping in her poor house on the morrow. Let not the unhappy slaves bring back an unfavourable answer.’

The great and ready service had almost passed from the young soldier’s mind and his lip curled. As he hesitated, the slave who bore the gift held it forward and lifted the covering. A small, carved, myrrhine drinking-cup was disclosed; it was a gem of exquisite workmanship, as even he was able to see, though he had but small critical knowledge of such matters. Had the offering been ostentatious, he would have refused it at once. As it was the affair was sufficiently ridiculous in his eyes, and he doubted for a few moments. Then he bade the slave go and set it down somewhere, whilst he sat to write a reply.

His literary style was plain, blunt, and unstudied, and took the following laconic form: —

‘Centurion Martialis keeps Plautia’s gift, lest he should offend her by sending it back. She overrates the affair in the Subura; but if she can remember the house of her brother and the gold cup, she may consider that the writer has discharged a part of his debt.’

As to the invitation to supper, he did not trouble to mention it, but despatched a negative message by the slaves.