Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome

CHAPTER XXIII

Martialis, who, as the reader may have perceived, was returning from Rome, made his last change of horses in the town, an operation which his feverish haste contracted to the limits of a very few minutes. Leaping on the back of the fresh steed he clattered through the narrow streets, and, on gaining the open, moonlit road, flew along at a frightful speed.

With all his energies concentrated on his headlong race, there was left no opportunity for the consideration of any special plan or method, by which to attain his object. One supreme hope panted in his breast, that they, who had carried off his beloved, might have loitered on the way, and that thus he might have time to close with them ere they reached their journey’s end. Oh, that he might have that satisfaction!

He chuckled savagely at the thought – his brain was on fire! The fatigue of a long day’s incessant galloping, league after league, was unfelt and forgotten. Excitement strung his nerves to an intense pitch, and he scarcely knew the pitiless use he made of whip and spur on his flying horse’s sides.

He raced along, with his eyes fixed and strained ahead to catch the welcome sight of the group he burned to see, but he was fated to bitter disappointment. The building which terminated his ride rose before him, and nothing more to gladden his eyes. An involuntary groan broke from his lips. Confidence and hope died away, and blind desperation and doggedness took root. Half a score – half a hundred menials of Caesar, beyond the immediate beck of the tyrant’s finger, he heeded not; but in the vast palace yonder, with its thronging guards and slaves, what then? There was still a faint hope left. There yet remained a league of sea to cover before gaining those accursed rocks, which lay far out in dim outline.

He leaped to the ground, and the grooms glanced in astonishment at the foam-covered animal he quitted to their care, with its drooping head and trembling limbs, its flanks dropping blood.

‘The Centurion must have serious business to have ridden so fast. Yes; some of Caesar’s slaves had taken boat for the island, but they must have landed ere this.’

A meaning laugh accompanied the information. With distraction in his brain Martialis hastened forward to the landing-place, where a boat for courier service was ever kept at hand for immediate use.

It happened, however, that the crew, probably tempted by the brilliant night, were not all on the spot, as they ought to have been, but had rambled off here and there in the moonlight. A very few minutes would, doubtless, have sufficed to bring them all together, but to the Pretorian’s fevered mind the delay was unbearable. Sweeping his glance around, he perceived a light skiff drawn up on the shore at a little distance. There were oars in it; and without a second thought he sprang to it, and putting forth his strength pushed it down into the water. The next moment he was pulling the frail vessel over the calm sea at a rate it had surely never travelled before.

The tough oars bent with the mighty strokes. Each time they gripped the water the light bark seemed to leap forward, and the perspiration rolled in heavy drops from the stern brow of the rower. The exertion was terrible; but yet the powerful arms never relaxed an ounce of their strength, nor the stroke a second of its time, nor an inch of its sweep, till the bow of the boat flew round into the narrow little bay of the Marina of Capreae, and ran hard upon the pebbly beach.

Dropping the oars, Martialis leaped ashore and ran up the steep path which climbed the terrace-like ascent to the village above, leaving the astonished guardians of the landing-place to wonder and speculate at the unusual method and haste of his arrival.

To the labour of his arms now succeeded the trial of his legs, and he possessed the swiftest foot in the legion.

On his left arose the conical hill, topped by the villa, in which the Prefect was established. Here he should have stopped; but neither his commander, nor the despatches he carried for him, now claimed the least thought. He doubled the base of the hill, and threaded the narrow lanes leading to the villa Jovis above, with a stride which brought him in a very few minutes close to the outer gate. Here he thought best to moderate his pace to a rapid walk, and in this gait reached the Pretorian on guard. From this man he learned that half a dozen slaves, with a female, had entered about half an hour previously. He passed on and entered the palace.

Where within its fatal recesses was she hidden away? He came to a stand within the gloom of a passage, whilst fiery thoughts flashed through his mind. Beyond he could hear the sound of hurrying menials. It was Caesar’s hour for supping – what should he do?

The Prefect was his friend, and his influence was great. Oh, that he had met with the wretches ere this, so that his own arm had been all to trust to! Where was the Prefect, and would he stir in his cause? It might be too late. After the supper most like would come the sacrifice. The drops burst forth on his brow in his agony of mind.

If he could only discover where she was placed, it would go hard, but that cunning, or force, or both combined, would bring him to her. But which way to turn? The superstructure of the palace was itself intricate; underneath, he knew, was another subterranean labyrinth of which few had much knowledge. To follow to the bowels of the rocks was of no more consequence than to find the object of his search where he stood, since escape from either spot was hopeless without the tyrant’s will. To gain her side was now his utmost hope. Could he but clasp her in his arm, he had the means to save her unsullied and to put himself beyond the reach of vengeance.

These few moments of reflection passed, during which the image of Neæra rose on his mind, in painful distinctness, with the sweet breath of her calm beauty and purity.

He felt that his short sword and poniard were loose in their scabbards, then entered the peristyle before him.

Silver lamps shed a brilliant light on the polished marble of pillar and floor, on the gilded fretwork of ceiling and cornice, the panelled pictures, the dancing, diamond-flashing waters of the fountain in the midst. Among the doorways which opened on the court was one heavily curtained. Domestics passed in and out ever and anon, and the presence of the soldier stationed before it was evidence that Caesar was within.

Martialis perceived with satisfaction that this man was one of his own troop, and went up to him immediately. The Pretorian drew himself up and saluted, but not without a curious glance at the unusual aspect his officer presented.

‘Welcome back, Centurion! – the Prefect is not within,’ said he, concluding that the object of the aide-de-camp was the commander himself.

‘Where then?’

‘At his house for anything that I can tell, Centurion.’

‘Maybe he awaits me there, for this night I was due.’

‘I can see with my own eyes you have travelled hard, Centurion.’

‘Who is within?’

‘Caesar supping with his friends.’

‘Know you which friends?’

‘Flaccus, Marinus, Priscus, the philosophers, and the Roman lady,’ replied the legionary.

The three first named were companions of Tiberius, the third of whom we have already known. The Roman lady Martialis knew to be Plautia. He passed his hand across his forehead. The question was as useless as the answer. The slaves, who idled here and there in twos and threes about the court, were the natural repositories of household secrets and tattle. He eyed them and gnawed his nether lip.

‘Have you been in the palace long?’ he asked again.

‘I have wellnigh worn out my spell of duty, I should say, Centurion – at least I brought Caesar hither from his dressing-room.’

‘Tell me, Asca,’ said Martialis, dropping his voice, ‘since you have been here within-doors, have you seen or heard anything of the arrival of some of Caesar’s slaves bearing with them a woman – a young girl?’

‘Only a few minutes ago, Zeno, the worshipful steward, marshalled a couple such into Caesar’s presence – they had a woman with them, and they are there now.’

‘Ah, and she?’ demanded the young man, with an energy which caused the soldier to recoil a step. ‘What was she like – her appearance? Quick, Asca, speak!’

‘Truly, Centurion, I scarce gave her any heed, except that she was taller than common – her face was well shrouded moreover,’ quoth the surprised Asca.

‘Was that all? Was there nothing said? Did you not hear whence they came? Can you tell me nothing of her looks, her voice, dress, or anything to guide me?’

‘Well, she seemed very unwilling; and when they first came and demanded entrance, Plautus – that is one of the slaves who came along with her, sent in Caesar’s signet ring, along with the word Surrentum, upon which Zeno came out and – Stop, Centurion, stop – !’

But Martialis had disappeared through the curtains of the doorway. The word Surrentum was electrical, and, with a bound, he was gone, ere his amazed subordinate could move a muscle.

Double curtains closed the entrance to the supper-room, the few feet of intervening space forming a kind of ante-chamber. Martialis dashed aside the innermost drapery and halted for a brief second, whilst he cast a flashing glance around the brilliant chamber. Yes, there was Neæra standing in the midst, on exactly the same spot where her ill-fated fosterfather had stood before, a target for each rude, pitiless gaze of master and slave alike. She was drawn to the full height of her tall, supple figure, and her noble face, as pale as death, was bent undauntedly on the opposing visage of Tiberius. The expression of the latter was seemingly cold and impassive. Plautia, reclining at his right hand, gazed with an exultant glance and flushed cheeks; the others were critical and amused. On either hand of the captive girl was Plautus and a comrade, with their fierce eyes riveted on Tiberius, oblivious of all save his slightest motion. Behind the Imperial couch stood the handsome steward, intently watchful of everything. The supper-table, in the midst, was loaded with its gorgeous service of gold and silver plate, whilst the attendants around the apartment had stayed their stealthy steps, fearful of interrupting the scene with the slightest sound.

‘They said my father had need of me – was dying,’ Neæra was saying in a clear, firm voice, when her glance, in common with the rest, was drawn by a stir at the doorway. The gleam of a corslet filled her eyes, breaking violently through the cluster of slaves round the entrance, as the prow of a ship dashes aside the billows of the sea. With a tremulous cry she held forth her arms.

‘Lucius!’

‘Neæra – I am here!’

He reached her side at a stride, and, thrusting Plautus rudely back, cast his left arm around her and lifted her away to a clearer space.

Close on his heels rushed the terror-stricken Pretorian on guard, and Plautus, on his part, made a savage gesture of retaliation. Both, however, had the discretion to hesitate before the fiery glance of the Centurion and a still more significant motion of his right hand to his belt.

‘Courage, my Neæra,’ murmured her lover; ‘I know all, and have followed to save thee from these pitiless wretches, whose foul touch is worse than death. Only one escape from dishonour is left to thee now, dear love.’

He drew his poniard from his belt and placed it in her hand.

She took it, and held up her face to his with an ineffable smile.

‘They shall not part us now.’

He kissed her lips, and looked calmly on the excitement which followed his extraordinary interruption into the inviolable presence of the Emperor. Confused exclamations and cries broke forth. A convulsive movement ran through the throng like the tossing of forest boughs in a sudden gust of wind. Each one stared with astonishment on the Pretorian garb, the splendid form, the dark, stern, handsome face, flushed and damp with extreme exertion and emotion. The name of Martialis flew from lip to lip.

Under the wing and eye of their Imperial patron himself, the indignant expressions of his shocked creatures were many and loud, but, beyond these safe demonstrations of just resentment of the unparalleled audacity of the intruder, there seemed to be no disposition to proceed to a more forcible proof of their zeal. An armed, desperate man, who had more than held his own with the first gladiators and athletes of the capital, was not to be rashly interfered with.

Thus the clatter of tongues and perturbation of gesture eddied and tossed within its own agitated circle for a few moments, without overflowing toward the tall person of the offender, who stood confronting them, motionless, yet watchful and resolute, with his left arm thrown round the waist of the young girl.

‘Yes, they are in no hurry to begin – they know it will cost them dear,’ muttered Martialis grimly, with vigilant eyes on those nearest him, and a meaning hitch of his belt which brought his sword hilt nigher to his hand.

From him to Caesar all glances roved. Tiberius had recovered his attitude and composure from his first start of astonishment and alarm. On his countenance rested a dark, lowering look, which no one, who knew him, saw without vague uneasiness.

Asca, whose instructions were without privilege to any one, was the most to be pitied. He shook with dread, and his visage, full of consternation, hovered between his Centurion and his Emperor. On the former he bent reproachful glances, whilst the aspect of the latter filled him with terror.

‘So please you, Caesar, it was no fault of mine,’ he broke out, after the first few moments of confusion were dying away. ‘The Centurion will bear me witness, that he broke past my guard ere it was possible to prevent him.’

‘The man is right,’ said Martialis calmly; ‘he is in no way to blame. This maiden is my betrothed bride – I come to claim her. She has been dragged from her home by ruffians. I pray you, Caesar, of your clemency, to let me give her safe conduct back again.’

Zeno leant over his master and whispered in his ear. The frown did not quit the face of Tiberius, but he appeared to reflect. Martialis perceived the hesitation and took heart.

‘You have a strange method of making your request,’ said the Emperor, with sardonic slowness, in the deep silence which immediately reigned at the sound of his voice. ‘Until this moment I thought the privacy of my room my own. When Pretorian officers set the example of breaking orders and over-riding regulations, it is time I saw to their discipline myself. I will begin with you. Deliver up your arms, and place yourself in the custody of the guard, awaiting my pleasure.’

The Emperor signed to the soldier Asca to enforce these commands, but, ere he moved, Martialis retired farther back with Neæra, until he reached the corner of the room. By this strategic movement into the empty angle he brought all his expected assailants more in front, and, thereby, vastly strengthened his position.

‘I crave your pardon, Caesar, for what must appear an unseemly intrusion into the privacy of your apartment, and nothing but the bitter circumstances of my case would ever have driven me to be guilty of such disregard of your presence,’ said the Centurion, with respectful but resolute mien. ‘I pray you, consider my position. I bear to the Prefect despatches from the camp at Rome, and have galloped since early dawn with barely a stop. Flinging myself from my horse at Surrentum, for a few brief minutes, at the house of my betrothed, I found it had been the spoil of ruffians. I have hastened hither without stop – what are every-day rules and customs to a man whose brain is distraught with grief? Nothing could have touched me nearer, Caesar, and I entreat your indulgence – your pardon. Let her go, I beseech you – I doubt not the slaves have made some grave error. She cannot have given offence – it would not be possible for her sweet nature. It is not much thy Centurion asks, and he has served thee well.’

‘Did you not stay, then, to deliver your despatches to the Prefect?’ said Tiberius.

‘They are here in my belt.’

‘Another duty disregarded – the first care of a courier is the errand he is upon.’

‘The Prefect will bear willing witness of my diligence in his service – I have ever the favour of his choice for the same errand,’ said Martialis.

‘Deliver up your weapons,’ said Tiberius harshly. ‘Guard, take him and lead him away.’

‘He comes to certain death,’ said Martialis with energy. ‘You may overpower me, but it will cost you dear – you shall never take us alive.’

Excitement and commotion again shook the room like a turbulent sea, yet still it never gathered sufficient cohesion and weight to propel itself into the corner against the resolute form there. All eyes were bent on the luckless Pretorian Asca, whose glance, in turn, hung on Caesar’s with a piteous expression. With the selfish satisfaction which human beings view the misfortune of another, the soldier was assailed with cries of encouragement and censure, which came all the more freely from the lips of those for whom he acted as a kind of sacrifice.

‘Centurion, you hear!’ he said to Martialis in beseeching tones, ‘give up your sword as Caesar wills.’

‘I will not, Asca, and do you forgive me if I hurt you in self-defence.’

The legionary looked again to Caesar. ‘He refuses!’

‘Then compel him,’ thundered the Emperor; ‘strike, man, strike!’

Thrilled by the terrible voice, and somewhat excited by the cries of the others, the Pretorian set his teeth in blind desperation, and levelled his heavy spear. With consummate ease Martialis evaded the thrust, and grasped the weapon with his hands. Continuing the same movement, he thrust the lance back athwart the body of the soldier, and threw him sprawling on his back. It was done in a second of time, and with astonishing power and celerity, but it gave what the attentive slave Plautus thought an excellent opportunity for interference. He had been lingering nighest of all, with the eye of a lynx on the movements of the Centurion. As the latter closed with Asca, he therefore sprang forward. He was a large and powerfully-built man, and, had he been able to carry out his intention of grappling with the young officer off his guard, the latter would probably have been entangled and finally smothered by numbers. But quick as the slave’s movement was, it was late by a brief second, for he had been closely watched and suspected. As the soldier Asca went sprawling back, Martialis swerved, as swift as light, and met his new assailant with an unexpected blow of his clenched fist. No friendly affection for a comrade-in-arms tempered the stroke, as in the case of Asca, but, on the contrary, his long sinewy arm shot out like a battering-ram, and struck the on-coming slave off his feet.

The dash and prowess of the young officer seemed to arouse something like a revolution of feeling in his favour, to judge by the tone of the exclamations which broke forth at his feat. Even a half-stifled excited ‘Euge!’ of approval might have been heard. His reputation was general, but Asca, alone of all present, had seen him discomfit a boxer of the amphitheatres by a similar blow, dealt for the honour of the Legion in the camp at Rome, amid the delighted yells of packed thousands of his comrades.

The senseless Plautus was lifted and carried out with a face crushed and disfigured for life. Martialis, with his weapon still undrawn, fell back to his former position. The slender fingers of Neæra glided into his, and he clasped them tight.

‘Hark!’ he said to her, as the raised tones of Tiberius bade them haste for a file of Pretorians, ‘’twill be no more child’s play – would it had been with others than my own comrades. But courage, my Neæra! Shelter yourself behind me, and when I fall, you know how to use your weapon; better the tomb for such as you than the pollution of these walls.’

‘Alas, my father and mother!’ she murmured, as she nestled closer to his side.

He glanced quickly into her face, and saw that it was composed, though pale. No trace of fear trembled on the tender curving lips, or dwelt in the calm clear eyes which rested devotedly upon him. New-born qualities of heroism transfigured her, and clothed her with a new beauty. The routine of her humble life had never lighted her fair face with such an unexpected spirit of dauntlessness. That brief glance filled his heart with pride and rapture such as he never felt before, and nerved him with the strength of a Titan. Her unruffled mien flooded his mind with the parting words of Cestus, and he thrilled with joy. Surely, none but noble blood could so nobly withstand such a terrible test. It was a melancholy joy, however, despairing and fierce as it was fleet.

He reared his head, and bent his eyes upon the throng before him with infinite pride and contempt. The dark deep orbs of the Emperor shone upon him from beneath the shadow of their knitted brows, but he returned their gaze disdainfully. He felt himself beyond their vengeance.

From the ghastly visage of Caesar his gaze rested on the warm loveliness of Plautia, whose flushed countenance and sparkling eyes betrayed the excited conflict of her mind. Her yet unconquered love of the young soldier’s manly beauty, blown into fresh flame by the exhibition of his power – the sting of remorse at the unlooked-for effect of her plot, mingled with savage envy at the sight of her rival, and the bitter spectacle of their mutual devotion, were rioting in her breast. His glance was cold and contemptuous, as it was passing and brief, and stung her soul to madness.

The messenger despatched for the Pretorians had sped away only a few moments, when the anxious brows of Zeno contracted suddenly. An eager light came into his eyes, and he stooped to whisper in the Emperor’s ear. Tiberius nodded, and muttered a few words in reply. The Greek touched the elbow of the huge Nubian servant, and they both hurried swiftly out of the apartment.