Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome
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Martialis saw them, but gave them no heed. He had no further hopes, fears, nor suspicions. His sole object, in what he considered to be the few remaining minutes of his career, was to sell his life as dearly as possible. In expectation of the coming struggle, the slaves had imperceptibly edged away from his vicinity, and were waiting with uneasy suspense. The guests at table, with askant glances at the disturber of their peace, fidgeted as though he might, at any time, burst upon them with a furious onslaught, whilst the stern glitter of the Emperor’s eyes, on the other hand, discouraged any attempt at interference. Asca, the guard, remained at the doorway. He held his lance at the advance, and his face was dejected and chopfallen in the extreme.
Rapid thoughts sped through the mind of Martialis as he surveyed the scene. What if he were to assume the offensive before the arrival of his comrades? Would he thereby better his position? Had he been alone, his fleet foot by a quick dash would have easily carried him free from the palace to the boats. But such an act was impossible with Neæra. It was true he might fall upon the craven, naked flock before him, and turn the room into a shambles. But such a butchery would avail him nothing; and to leave the side of Neæra for an instant would be to endanger her. No, he would meet his fate honestly, and not like a reckless murderous desperado.
Once more he appealed to Tiberius.
‘Will you not send for the Prefect?’ he said; ‘his presence might intercede with you, and gain your gracious clemency for his unfortunate Centurion and this blameless maiden. Force will avail nothing, but the sacrifice of some brave men – as for us, we shall never be parted alive, be assured.’
But Caesar answered nothing; neither did any motion or expression betoken that he paid the least attention to the words. His glance was fixed intently, as it seemed, on the wall, or rather the long curtains which draped the wall behind the Centurion for some distance on either hand.
Martialis forebore to say more, and ere long the critical moment arrived. The rapid tread of many feet was heard through the half-drawn curtains of the door, and some ten or fifteen Pretorians, fully armed, and flashing with their polished harness, filed into the room, headed by the bulky Centurion Macro.
The legionaries came to a halt, with blank wonder on their faces, and their officer, with no less astonishment, turned his eyes on Caesar for his orders.
Martialis silently stooped and kissed Neæra on the lips. Then he slowly drew his sword from his sheath, and gravely saluted his comrades.
‘He refuses to surrender himself,’ said Tiberius to Macro, without removing his eyes from Martialis; ‘I have sent for you to secure him – alive, if possible; if not, dead.’
The task was repugnant from every point of view, and the legionaries showed it by the want of alacrity and spirit in the preparations they made to carry out the mandate. But to hear was to obey, and Macro, who, perhaps, felt less scruple than the rank and file, in consequence of a jealousy of Martialis, desired the latter to deliver up his weapon.
‘Come and take it,’ said Martialis; ‘these are my only terms. Our fellowship is fated to end in a way we never dreamt of; blame me not, but those who have dragged my betrothed hither from her home – I will not give her up.’
The faces of the men darkened, and dissatisfied mutterings broke from their lips. The order to draw up in line and prepare for their work was obeyed sullenly and slowly. Martialis was popular, and his words and position inspired them with additional sympathy.
‘Do as ye are bid,’ cried Martialis, as he noted the signs of dissatisfaction; ‘nought else will avail.’
But, as their fingers tightened on their weapons, an unlooked-for occurrence changed the position of affairs.
Caesar’s eyes were still riveted on the curtain which hung at the back of the Centurion’s beleaguered corner. As the last words were spoken, a tremulous motion stirred the heavy folds. Then they were suddenly and silently parted immediately behind the lovers, and through the opening the gigantic form of the Nubian body-servant was launched upon the Centurion in rear. The steward followed him like a shadow, and simultaneously gripped Neæra from behind. The surprised and helpless girl was speedily dragged apart and disarmed, but to force her lover to succumb was a more difficult task. His weapon, poised readily but lightly in his hand, was whirled away by a sudden blow, and the horror-stricken Centurion, at the same instant, felt himself strained in an embrace which well-nigh stopped his respiration. By a marvellous contraction and eel-like movement of his body, however, he succeeded in releasing his arms and twisting himself into a position more face to face with his assailant. He was thus enabled to grapple on fairer terms, and a terrible struggle began.
The Nubian, as we have already said, was a giant in stature. He topped his tall antagonist by a head, and enfolded him with an overwhelming bulk. His huge, thick limbs and muscles, his vast breadth of chest, denoted enormous power; but it was a slow, ponderous, elephantine strength, overloaded with the superfluous flesh of ease and good feeding. On the other hand, his opponent was lithe, supple, and active as a tiger – a consummate athlete, with thews and sinews of steel. In addition, he was inspired with a fury it is impossible to describe, – rage at the manner in which he had been tricked – agony of desperation as he heard the faint cry of Neæra.
With every muscle strained to its utmost tension they swayed round and round. Macro, seeing the favourable opportunity, called on his men to join in the struggle and secure the entrapped Centurion; but the voice of Tiberius broke in with the brief word ‘Hold.’ They glanced at him in surprise, and saw his uplifted hand and his eyes bent on the wrestlers with eager interest. Nothing loth, therefore, they stood still to watch the issue of the struggle.
The knotted veins, the corded muscles, the mighty strength of the combatants, as they rocked to and fro and panted with terrible efforts, impressed the onlookers with awe, and thrilled them with excitement. The immense Nubian was a mountain of bone and flesh. To move him was like moving a column of the palace. He followed no plan but that of trying to bore down his lighter antagonist by sheer weight and brute force. Martialis felt that these tactics, rude as they were, must finally prevail, if the contest were suffered to go on much longer. Mad with passion, he gathered every atom of his strength and art into a last frenzied effort. Finding it impossible to lift the ponderous, inanimate mass in his arms by main force, he swerved, as quick and sudden as light, and thrust forward his left hip, using it as a fulcrum, over which the astonished slave felt himself whirled from his feet with irresistible force. With his legs flying round in the air, like the spokes of a wheel, he was dashed on the floor with a tremendous concussion, which stunned him and shook the room.
A yell of delirious excitement and triumph rang from the lips of Martialis, and he glanced round, like a tiger at bay, as if for the next victim. But nature has its limits, and the last supreme effort, added to the extraordinary exertion and excitement of the day, had begun to tell even on his frame of iron. As he drew himself back and clenched his hands for a desperate dash, his eyes seem to fill with blood – lights, faces, forms mingled in one confused gleam before him. The exultant shouts of the soldiers, unrepressed by the presence of Caesar, filled his ears like a muffled roar. He swayed dizzily for a brief second or two, and, as he passed his hand across his brow as if to clear his faculties from the mist which confused them, he was buried amid the forms of the soldiers. Their grasp restored him, and he struggled with renewed vigour. Once or twice, as he hurled the men right and left, he seemed on the point of breaking through the heaving mass, but numbers and exhaustion rendered the issue no longer doubtful. The Pretorians, whose feelings rather prompted them to shoulder their officer in triumph, clung tenaciously to him with firm hands. Only too pleased at the bloodless conclusion of the matter, they received their rough handling with good-humoured jokes and entreaties, and used their united strength with a merciful purpose.
At the first chance a belt was passed around their prisoner, and his arms securely buckled to his sides. Then the unfortunate Centurion perceived, at last, that all hope was gone.
‘Caesar! tyrant!’ he foamed, as he struggled frantically with his bonds, ‘why did I not bury my blade in your foul heart and relieve the world? Do your worst with me – I care nothing! But dare not to harm her; she is nobly born and of gentle blood; beware, therefore!’
The Emperor waved his hand. There was only time for one agonising look between the lovers, and the Pretorians hurried their prisoner from the room.
CHAPTER XXIV
It would have greatly relieved the distracted mind of Martialis, had he known that he occupied the Emperor’s thoughts to a far greater degree than his beloved Neæra. The brilliant beauty and wit of Plautia was too far in the ascendant, at present, in the Imperial heart to admit of a rival, especially one of such a different type.
To Neæra, when she had been dismissed to safe keeping, Tiberius gave, for the time, no further heed. Weightier matters engaged him, and very shortly after the conclusion of the scene described in the last chapter, he rose from the supper-table and returned to his own apartment, from which he dismissed every one.
Suspicion and dissimulation equipoised the Imperial mind. The former fed the latter, and both were unutterably profound. Only the day before he had yielded to the importunities of the Prefect, and had consented to give him his daughter-in-law in marriage. Sejanus retired in joy, with everything arranged for his early reception into the Imperial family. His plans, long and carefully followed up, were now well-nigh matured, and he laughed in his sleeve at the earnest, trustful affection which the Emperor had displayed very liberally toward him. He was not aware of the fact that he daily and hourly filled the buried thoughts of the old man – thoughts which trusted nobody; that his own eager ambition was blinding him, and actually supplying a fatal web for a subtler mind than his own to weave around him.
The close attention which the Emperor devoted to the Prefect, by a natural sequence, could not fail to follow the person of the Prefect’s favourite officer. If not so familiar with Martialis personally, he was well-informed by report in all concerning him. Up to the moment when the Centurion hurriedly accounted for his movements, the mind of Tiberius was smouldering with passion, on the point of breaking into a fierce flame of summary vengeance for the unparalleled temerity of a reckless invasion of his privacy. At that particular moment his craft seized like lightning upon an idea; his wrath sank subordinate, and became a mere simulation. We shall presently see how his subtle conjectures were realised. For the time, however, Martialis was spared, providing his own stubbornness presented no further obstacle to lenience. His personal attributes, his fearless, soldierly defiance, reached a vein of sympathy which yet lived dormant, far down in the depths of the tyrant’s heart. In his youth Tiberius himself had been comely, tall of stature, strong of limb, and skilled in hardy exercises; therefore the handsome face and athletic form, the extraordinary strength, skill, and address of the young officer, had not failed to arouse his secret admiration. The downfall of his gigantic Nubian struck him with wonder, and relit a ray of the joys of the palæstra of his own youthful days. But more grateful than this to his suspicious nature, was the conclusion he drew from the frank, fearless countenance and the simple faith of the Pretorian. Such a man might be invaluable, and he determined that he should not be uselessly butchered, if it could be profitably avoided. When Zeno stooped, and whisperingly reminded him of the fact of the existence of a door, but seldom used, and hidden by the curtain, immediately behind the position of Martialis, he assented eagerly to the suggestion, which, we have seen, was carried out successfully.
So far all had gone fortunately. The Emperor withdrew; and, from the dark expression of his face, it was readily inferred that the culprit would have short shrift.
When alone, however, in his apartment, and safe from every eye, his mien altered. Fits of abstraction and restless pacings of the room passed the silent time, and as the hour of midnight approached, his impatience and nervousness grew more marked. Several times his hand rested on a small silver bell as if to ring, and, as often, after a few moments of indecision, with his ears strained to catch the least sound in the deep stillness, he turned away. Occasionally he went to one corner of the room, and, drawing back a curtain, placed his ear close against the wall for a few moments. Thence he would return to his seat and his book, for a space, to leave them by and by for another excursion. Many varied positions he occupied, now sitting, now reclining, now ambling hither and thither, impelled by the pains of impatience and anxiety. Trifling with this object, touching that, lifting and examining another, half unconsciously, his state of nervous unrest, finding full vent within the deaf and sightless walls of his retreat, was a wonderful relaxation from the inscrutable impassiveness of his public demeanour.
Midnight had barely passed, when two or three taps proceeded from that corner of the room where he had often paid a visit, and bent a listening ear. His face cleared instantly, and he stepped at once toward the sound. Stooping down he pressed a particular spot in the angle of the wall, and a narrow, secret panel, wholly indistinguishable before, shot silently and swiftly upward. Through the opening stepped Zeno.
‘Well?’ said Tiberius sharply; ‘at last! I have waited almost beyond my patience.’
‘I have not lingered one second longer than I could possibly help,’ replied the Greek; ‘to have come sooner would have been rash.’
‘Is all safe now?’
‘Quite – he is off as sound as can be.’
‘And you are sure that no soul has passed from the palace outwards since supper?’
‘Especial orders were given to all the guards.’
‘Come, then!’
They stepped through the secret opening and drew down the shutter after them. It closed with a subdued, but clear ‘click,’ which denoted the hidden instrumentality of a highly-perfected spring. Zeno went on first with the lamp. They descended two narrow winding flights of steps cut in the rock; and at their foot, another door, as cunningly contrived and hidden away, gave way to their potent touch in the same mysterious manner. They were now in a wider gallery, all rock-hewn and faced with brick. On either side were ranged doors; and, at a little distance away, a lamp hung from the ceiling, like a yellow beacon light struggling with the subterranean gloom. Immediately beneath this lamp Zeno halted before a door.
‘Are there none but ourselves below?’ muttered Tiberius.
‘No one,’ returned Zeno; ‘I despatched every one on one pretence and another, and having seen all clear, locked up the main outlet myself.’
The steward pushed with his finger one of the many iron studs or bolt-heads which strengthened the door. It slid back a couple of inches and disclosed a small peep-hole, through which he peered. Satisfied with his scrutiny he unlocked the door and they went in. The chamber was about twelve feet square, and furnished with a small tripod stand, a stool, and a pallet bed. From the ceiling hung a lamp which threw down a dismal light on the cheerless place.
On the bed was stretched the form of Martialis in careless grace, with one sinewy arm hanging down at length over the pallet-side, toward the floor. His appearance was corpse-like. His closed eyes, his bold, handsome features, his dark hair curling crisply over his brow, seemed all fixed in the tranquil marble beauty of the early moments of death. Not a breath seemed to part his moulded lips, and the steel cuirass which encased his body hid effectually all sign of movement beneath. Tiberius started and turned a frowning, inquiring glance on his companion. Zeno pointed to some victuals and an empty pitcher which stood on the small stand.
‘He has eaten nothing and drunk every drop – he will give no trouble.’
‘How – have you killed him?’ demanded the Emperor sternly.
‘Ah no, Caesar – the drug was harmless for that, but potent enough to make him no better than a clod for some hours; and a mercy for him, as you would say, had you seen his state of mind. We may do what we please with him.’
The steward spoke the truth, for, in the handling to which the inanimate Pretorian was subjected, he exhibited no symptom of consciousness. Underneath his cuirass they found a stout leather belt buckled round his waist. Attached to the belt was a pouch securely fastened, and from this the Emperor drew several scrolls of papyri – the paper of the ancients, made from the Egyptian plant of that name. Taking these to the lamp on the tripod, Tiberius turned his back on his trusty steward, and proceeded to unroll them with eager trembling fingers. He glanced through the written contents of each with a rapid practised eye, but found nothing therein, save dry official reports from the deputy in command of the Pretorian camp at Rome. His countenance fell gradually as he proceeded, and when he arrived at the end, he gave vent to a muttered ejaculation of disappointment. One other scroll remained, which was not of an official nature, but evidently a late production of a bookseller’s shop.
It may be as well to explain that the book of the Romans in no point resembled that of modern days, inasmuch as binding and pages formed no component parts. The work of a Roman author was written on one continuous strip of papyrus or parchment, of more or less length. This was rolled round a stick of appropriate size in the same manner as a modern map or chart, the exterior being neatly finished and lettered with the title of the book. It is probable enough that the latter was also exhibited on a ticket attached to the end of the roll, as affording a readier means of ascertaining any particular book, when laid together on the shelves of the library, or dropped endwise into the circular boxes used for their transport.
The remaining roll or book, which the Emperor now took up, was sheathed in a purple parchment covering. Sliding off the latter, he found the volume to be of a nature he had already guessed with the accuracy of experience. It was a satire, a vers-de-societé, by one of the poetasters of the day, and very showily got up. As the outer sheath was removed a small slip of paper fell out. It was an epistle, which ran as follows: —
‘Knowing you must at times feel dull with an out-of-the-world feeling, I have sent the accompanying volume in the hope it may prove acceptable; it is only small, and will not add much to the bulk and weight of your despatches. It is the last new thing by Varius, and quite the rage. I have a very poor opinion of the composition myself; but, as an elegant and artistic specimen of the publisher’s workmanship, I think it is as admirable as any I have yet seen – even to the mute wood itself, whose ornamentation you will find well worthy of examination. It is mournful to think that the bookmaker’s art should be so needed nowadays to eke out an author’s want of wit.’
Now it happened that Tiberius, who was very devoted to literature, had already perused the satire he now held. Every new publication of the city was punctually forwarded to him, as might be expected. He, therefore, unrolled the paper, which was about a yard and a half in length, and six or eight inches wide, and glanced his eye down the beautifully charactered effusion. There was also a portrait of the author included on the scroll; but as it was all identical with what he had already seen, he passed it over and bestowed more attention upon the wooden roller, to observe if there was anything about it worthy of more particular notice than he had before given to the one in his own possession. The little roller was plain and coloured black, but each end was ornamented with a boss, rather of conical shape, carved and picked out with brilliant colours. Tiberius gazed at it and strove to compare it mentally with his own specimen. He read the accompanying letter again, and tried hard to discover the peculiar beauties of the wooden cylinder, so particularly recommended. He failed to perceive anything extraordinary, but there seemed to be something in the bulk thereof which struck him as unusual. Turning to Zeno, he despatched him to his library to bring him his own copy. The Greek soon returned, and Tiberius compared the two volumes. They were exactly similar, being copies of the same edition; but, when he placed the wooden cylinders together, he saw at once there was a difference in their circumferences. That which belonged to the Prefect was very perceptibly thicker; but, as the bosses affixed to the ends remained the same size, it followed, that the margin of the projection was less in the Prefect’s than his own. The Emperor knitted his brows, and riveted his gaze on the two cylinders in profound meditation. Then he once more studied the nameless epistle to refresh his memory; after which he bestowed another examination on the books. Something in the relative weights of the cylinders seemed to strike him, so, arranging the rolls of paper to which they were attached as to interfere as little as possible, he balanced the rollers on the tips of his fingers of both hands. Then, as if dubious, he called in the aid of Zeno, briefly pointing out the facts of the case. The Greek took the cylinders into his own hands, and after minutely examining them, he weighed them as his master had done. For a further test he tapped the thicker roller with a little metal key, and listened attentively to the sound. Then he balanced them again, and finally gave it as his opinion, that the thicker roller was lighter than the smaller one, and, moreover, sounded as though it were hollow. The eyes of Emperor and steward exchanged a significant flash.
‘Such a condition is neither usual nor necessary,’ said Tiberius. ‘Let us try and discover the reason.’
The Greek took the suspected cylinder into his long supple fingers, and made a very minute scrutiny of the junction of the bosses at either end. Then, by patient and delicate, but firm manipulation, he proceeded to try if they were detachable. After a considerable amount of persuasive force of handling, one of the bosses yielded a hair’s-breadth. He renewed his efforts, and the Emperor’s eyes glistened. The boss became looser and looser, and in a minute’s time came off altogether. They were now enabled to perceive that the original bosses had been fitted to a new cylinder. That one which had been removed, instead of being affixed in the usual way to a flat surface, had been hollowed a little to receive the end of the roller, and then tightened with a thin application of glue. The roller, as Zeno had suspected, was hollow. He turned it upside down and a little scroll of very thin paper dropped out. The fingers of the Emperor closed on it like lightning. His eyes flamed with a ferocious delight as he carefully unrolled a few inches of the fragile document and read therein.
‘Haste – bring tablets, paper, anything – like the wind!’ he whispered excitedly. Zeno hastened away, and Tiberius, huddling against the lamp, devoured the contents of the secret missive with eyes starting from his head, and mouth agape in astonishment. Rage, hate, and delirious joy thrilled him as he read. His hands, his body, and his limbs trembled with the force of his excitement. Swiftly reading to the close, he dropped the little quivering paper, and laughed with triumph. Startled by his own voice he looked fearfully round at Martialis; but the Centurion lay deathlike in the profound stupor of his drugged slumbers. With uneasy, hasty steps the Emperor paced the narrow dungeon, muttering inaudibly until Zeno entered with writing materials. Then he sat down to make a copy of the secret, and evidently fateful, missive intended for the eyes of the Prefect alone.
The task occupied longer than it would otherwise have done, owing to the agitated mind and trembling fingers of the writer; but at length it came to an end. The original letter was restored to its hiding-place in the roller, and the boss skilfully replaced by Zeno, who carefully heated the incrusted glue over the flame of the lamp to cause it to hold firmly.