Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome
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For what dread purpose was the steady lengthening of the list on the table? What dark scheme was developing behind that white forehead? The voice of the sentinel in the outer room broke upon his meditations, and he hastily slipped to the table and thrust the paper into a drawer. He had scarcely done so, when a voice in the ante-chamber called the name ‘Titus Afer!’
‘Enter, Afer!’ replied Sejanus. ‘I thought of you as breathing the pure air of Tibur.’
The knight accordingly entered the room. A large travelling-cloak enveloped his form, and a Phrygian cap covered his head. ‘I am now on my way,’ he answered; ‘yesterday I was lazy, and remained at home. In the Baths of Faustus yesterday was Sabinus.’
‘Ah!’ said the Prefect.
‘He grows no wiser, but indeed more rash and calumnious respecting you. I think it would be prudent to watch such a reckless fool; for even his spite and virulence might do mischief amongst some people. He loudly condemns you as being the bloodhound of the Germanici, and indeed is equally bold and noisy in accusing you of usurping the place of Caesar, and of misapplying your authority to your own ends. Such speeches have been heard before, but there are those whose ears are only too ready and willing to suck in such ravings.’
‘You are quite right, Afer; Sabinus has about reached the end of his tether: he must be looked after,’ said Sejanus, taking out his tablets and making a memorandum. ‘I am right glad he has, at last, given vent to his ideas, so plainly in the presence of such an one as yourself, my friend. So you stayed your journey to tell me this? – it was kind.’
‘Also to learn whether I can congratulate you on favourable news from Capreae.’
‘Hush! not so loud, Afer!’ replied the Prefect, raising his finger warningly; ‘it will be time enough to speak freely of a matter when success is assured; then there is the better chance of possible failure being buried in silence. I expect a courier any moment.’
‘Indeed!’
‘I have waited within doors until now for his arrival – what he will bring I cannot tell.’
‘I could guess,’ remarked Afer, with a courtly smile.
‘Humph!’ quoth the Prefect, shrugging his shoulders and smiling also.
At the same moment the sound of voices caught his ears, and he stepped to the curtain and looked into the ante-chamber. The courier he was so anxiously awaiting had just arrived, and the sentinel was advancing to announce the same.
‘Ha!’ exclaimed the Prefect, stepping into the ante-chamber, ‘I expected you before this – your despatches!’
The courier unbuckled a stout leathern girdle which he wore underneath his tunic, and took out of a pouch, attached thereto, a packet, which he delivered into the eager hand of Sejanus.
‘Wait!’ said the latter briefly; and without returning to his chamber, he turned aside and broke the seals of the packet. With fingers trembling, and a heart eaten with excitement, he ran his eyes over the imperial missive. The next second his eyes flashed. With exultation written on every line of his handsome face he went back into the presence of Afer.
‘Ah, – I knew it, – I was right!’ remarked the latter, at the first glimpse of the Prefect’s glowing visage. ‘I give thee joy of thy noble Livia; and I congratulate myself that I am the first to do so.’
Sejanus grasped his client’s hand, and fairly laughed out in the exuberance of his feelings.
‘Enough, my Titus! This letter hath proved thee a good prophet. The daughter of Caesar is mine indeed, for Caesar himself declares it. Nay, more – I go to Capreae in a few days to claim her. So prepare, my friend, for thou must go along with me thither.’
‘Willingly, and gladly, if you will tell me when.’
‘Return within the week,’ said the Prefect. He clapped his hands loudly, and a slave appeared.
‘Bid the courier be ready to return to-morrow! Give him wine – and this!’ he said, taking a small purse of money from the table and throwing it at the domestic’s feet.
The slave picked it up, and said, ‘There is a man without demands to see you, Prefect – a workman, by appearance.’
‘What is his business?’
‘He will not say – only that he has come from Surrentum to see you.’
‘Admit him then, and the sentinel as well.’
The slave retired, and, in a few moments, the armed Pretorian made his appearance, ushering in our potter, whom we left on his way to the camp.
Sejanus gave him a hasty, but keen glance; and the potter, in his turn, surveyed the famous and dreaded Prefect with a fearless but respectful gaze. Bowing his square, sturdy frame, he waited to be addressed.
‘Who and what are you, and what do you want with me?’ asked Sejanus, skimming his glance furtively over the welcome letter which he had just received.
‘My name is Masthlion, and I am a potter of Surrentum,’ replied the other; ‘and, as I venture to trouble you, noble sir, on a personal matter, concerning one of your officers, perhaps it would be prudent if this soldier did not hear it.’
Sejanus looked up in surprise, and regarded his visitor more curiously. With an amused look on his face, he nevertheless nodded to the sentinel, who silently retired from the room. The deep-set, expressive eyes of Masthlion then rested on Afer, who had picked up a book from the table, and was idly unrolling it.
‘As your business is not of the State, perhaps my friend can remain?’ said the Prefect sarcastically.
‘No, Prefect, my business is not of the State,’ replied the potter, ‘but I have come seeking information respecting one of your Centurions, and you must judge whether it be right the noble knight hear it or not.’
‘Know then, potter of Surrentum, that I do not enter into nor suffer the inquiries of any idle person with regard to my officers,’ said Sejanus sternly.
‘I will leave it to your generosity, when I tell you the circumstances which have brought me to make the request.’
‘Let me hear!’
‘I am only a poor man, earning my bread with the labour of my hands, yet the peace of my home, and the welfare of those belonging to me, are as dear to me as to the noblest,’ said Masthlion. ‘I have a daughter, Prefect; all the more precious to me because she has no sister or brother – ’
‘Ah, I perceive,’ uttered Sejanus, with the shadow of a smile curling his lips. ‘Go on!’
‘Ay – it is easily guessed!’ replied Masthlion, ‘and it needs few words. This Centurion of whom I speak, in passing through the town, saw my daughter. Since that time he has come more than once to visit her at my house. She has been called beautiful, Prefect, but she is not his equal. I bade her tell him so, and forbid him. On that he demanded her in marriage; but though she loves him, yet I will be satisfied that he is not one to deal lightly or carelessly by her, or I will not consent.’
‘You have forgotten the name of the Centurion, which is indispensable,’ said the Prefect; ‘and yet I can only guess one.’
‘His name is Martialis.’
‘Even so! The Centurion may well not object to as many journeys as I can give him, and also prefer the land route to the sea – here is the explanation.’
Sejanus burst into a laugh, whilst Afer, who was seemingly immersed in his book, stroked his chin.
‘Potter, you are right,’ continued the Prefect. ‘Men and women, to be prudent, should not marry out of their station. Your daughter must be a paragon of loveliness, or cleverness, or goodness, to have ensnared my Centurion.’
‘She is such as she is, Prefect, and ensnares no one,’ returned Masthlion, with a frown of his shaggy eyebrows.
‘Whichever way it be, if they have fallen in love with each other you may as well leave them to it, for you will be hard put to rule them,’ laughed the commander. ‘When a woman is truly in love she parts with what little forethought she had, and leaves her senses to find themselves in cooler days. As for Martialis, I can only tell thee, potter, he is not the man to change his mind lightly, or take away his hand when he has once set his grip.’
‘I am sore beset,’ said Masthlion sadly; ‘in Surrentum I could know nothing; here in Rome I thought I might learn something.’
‘The performance of the Centurion’s duties is what concerns me; beyond that lies not within my province,’ replied Sejanus.
‘And yet it would be hard not to know something more,’ sighed the potter.
‘To conclude, you may go back to Surrentum with an easy mind as far as I know to the contrary,’ said the Prefect, with signs of impatience. ‘This seems to be a piece of lovers’ folly on the part of the Centurion. If he is fool enough to marry your daughter, she may think herself lucky in her elevation. Many a man in his position, of gentle blood, would have proceeded differently. ’Tis pity none of his family remains to dissuade him from grafting such a poor scion on to their ancient stem.’
‘I care nothing for that – I seek my daughter’s happiness, not her position,’ replied the potter proudly.
‘Good! Then I know nothing more. Is the Centurion an acquaintance of yours, Titus?’ cried Sejanus, turning to the knight.
‘No, I have not the honour,’ answered Afer.
‘Then, potter, you may take that as a strong assurance in his favour,’ added the Prefect satirically.
‘You are in the best of spirits,’ remarked Afer, showing his white teeth.
‘Now, potter, you can go,’ said Sejanus; ‘you have all I can give you – stay, how is your daughter named?’
‘Neæra!’ replied Masthlion.
‘Then your girl Neæra will probably have her own way in the end in despite of you. But deprive me not of my Centurion between ye, or you shall lose my favour, I promise you. He is worth more to me than all the maids, wives, widows, and hags in Campania, honest or not – wait!’
He clapped his hands, and the same slave attended as before – a dark-skinned Nubian.
‘Lygdus, is there not an old family friend of the Centurion Martialis, whom he visits on the Aventine?’
‘Mamercus – near the temple of Diana,’ replied the slave laconically.
‘Go thither, potter, – Mamercus will serve your turn better than I,’ said the Prefect, waving his hand and turning his back.
Masthlion followed the Nubian out of the apartment with a brighter countenance, and was quickly on his way to the Aventine.
‘Your Centurion has caught your own complaint,’ said Afer to his patron jestingly.
‘The gods confound it!’ replied the Prefect, ‘a wife will not improve his Centurionship. The fool! to saddle himself with a wife now – a red-faced, brawny-armed brat of a clay-moulder, most likely. As if there were no other arrangement; I’ll try my persuasion. And so for Capreae, my Titus!’
‘Whenever you are ready, Prefect.’
‘Be back within four days.’
‘No longer; and till then farewell – I leave you happy.’
‘Farewell! Remember our friends at Tibur!’
‘I will.’
Afer bowed, and left the Pretorian commander to ruminate with delight on his good fortune, and to indulge his mind with dreams, more intoxicating and glowing than ever, on the strength of the success of his last, and, perhaps, most important move.
At the gate of the camp, a light two-wheeled vehicle for rapid travelling, and drawn by a couple of handsome, speedy mules, was waiting for the knight. The two slaves, who formed on this occasion the modest retinue of the traveller, had been despatched on before.
After proceeding about nine miles from Rome, the hired vehicle was dismissed back to the city. A couple of hours before dusk Afer arrived, in a second carriage, at the outskirts of the ancient town of Fidenae, which stood on the steep banks of the Tiber, on the Salarian road, which led nearly due north from Rome. He had thus completed two sides of a triangle, and, as the first shades of evening began to gather, he began to traverse the third side in a third conveyance. The road entered the Colline Gate in the Agger of Servius; when he reached that point the dusk was thick enough to prevent recognition. Here the knight descended and paid the driver his fee; then he drew the hood of his cloak over his head, and bent his steps towards the Sublician Bridge beneath the Aventine. In less than half an hour’s rapid walking he arrived at his destination. The bridge was the oldest in Rome, and had been built by Ancus Martius, to connect the fortifications on the Janiculum with the city. It bore a sacred character, and was under especial care. Being constructed of wood, however, the increased traffic and burthens of the growing city began to overweight it. A stone bridge was then built close by, and the old one preserved as a venerable and sacred relic. In the proximity of these Afer loitered. It was now dark, and the feeble glimmering of two oil lamps, suspended in the gloom, denoted to passengers the foot of the modern bridge; its ancient fellow being buried in darkness. Across the river the lights of the Transtibertine portion of the city glimmered, extending up towards the slopes of the Janiculum Hill. Behind the knight the Aventine Mount arose with its answering gleams. The day’s toil was over, but the night was yet young, and there was sufficient stir in the city to pervade the air with a dim hum of life, broken by the tread and voices of passers-by, and the rumble of some belated waggon. Stealing silently along the pitchy stream glided the light of an occasional vessel, its hull shrouded and invisible. No one but the importunate beggars, sturdy, halt, and blind, who haunted the bridge and pestered the passengers, as yet kept the impatient knight company. Suddenly the figure of a man strode under the feeble glimmer of the lamps and bestowed a few hearty curses on the tribe of mendicants. Afer went up to him and laid his hand on his shoulder.
‘Oh, oh!’ said the new-comer in the voice of Cestus; ‘it is you, patron!’
‘It is yet too early,’ replied Afer.
‘There are yet a few arrangements to complete, which will take up a little time,’ replied the Suburan.
‘Come, then, let us about it at once; the old man retires early,’ said the knight, and they disappeared in the darkness toward the Aventine.
CHAPTER VIII
Pleasantly situated on the commanding height of the Janiculum was the villa of Fabricius. More delightful in the enjoyment of its cool breezes during the summer heats, yet in winter or summer, the old ex-senator was seldom away from it for a whole day together. At times, however, he would yield to a desire to make the journey to visit his estates; but this was not often. His suburban villa, and not his birthplace, was the scene of his happiest days of prosperous domesticity. But that was all changed. A few select friends of old times he yet preserved and cherished. With these, and the serene consolations of a well-stocked library, he passed his uneventful days, in calm resignation, under the haunting sense of his loneliness. As he sat and brooded in the seclusion of his silent house, he conjured up the ghosts of former days; he listened to the well-remembered voices – he stirred, and all was gone again. And then, what painful sighs arose from his breast. Alas! how many such had those walls listened to!
On this evening Fabricius sat in his winter room, before a fire which burned brightly in a brazier on the ample hearth, for the October nights were chilly. His elbow rested on a small table, whereon were lying books and writing materials. But the old man’s eyes were bent on the blazing logs, and his mind was far away in the past. The soft light of the silver lamp beside him flooded over his face, and revealed every line and wrinkle, as sharply as the level rays of the setting sun display the seams and furrows on a mountain’s breast. The native expression of courage and determination displayed by the high, bold curves of his features, was relaxed and overborne by an air of melancholy, so deep, that it seemed almost on the point of merging into actual tears had not the entrance of an old grizzled slave roused him from his reverie.
‘What do you say, Natta?’ he asked, not catching the domestic’s announcement.
‘There is a man awaiting in the porch, who wishes to see you.’
‘What kind of a man?’
‘A craftsman, I should say. He has something important to tell – so he says,’ replied the old porter, with apparent sarcasm.
‘Ay, ay, I know!’ sighed Fabricius. ‘No matter, bring him in.’
The slave retired, and reappeared with Cestus, washed, clean-shaved, and wearing coarse but clean garments, such as an artisan would reserve as his holiday attire. It was full two hours since Afer had tapped him on the shoulder at the bridge below. He entered with a deep obeisance and a well-feigned nervousness and awkwardness. Natta, the slave, thought proper to remain within the door, and keep a keen eye on the visitor.
The ex-senator’s scrutiny did not, perhaps, beget the utmost confidence, to judge by the slight and almost imperceptible contraction of his eyebrows. There was that, evidently, in the broad Teutonic cast of face and small eyes of the burly Cestus which soap and water and a razor could not remove.
The habitual current of a man’s mind cannot, it is true, alter his features, but it charges them with an essence as readable as a printed page.
It was, therefore, the misfortune of the physiognomy of Cestus to leave no favourable impression, for he had not as yet opened his lips.
‘You wish to see me,’ said Fabricius.
‘The noble Fabricius!’ answered Cestus, with deep humility – perhaps too deep.
‘I am he; your business?’
‘So please you, noble sir, I am nothing but a poor labourer down at the river below there, and I would never have the boldness to trouble your worship, or to set my foot across the threshold of your palace, but that I come not of my own accord, but to befriend a mate of mine who is dying.’ Cestus paused, and nervously fingered his belt.
‘Well!’ said Fabricius, ‘go on! You have not come on your own account, but on that of a sick friend – what next?’
‘It concerns you also, and I was told to tell it to you alone,’ replied Cestus, with a glance at Natta. The shadow of a smile rested on the face of Fabricius as he signed to the slave to retire. Natta, however, feigned not to observe the motion, and did not move.
‘You may go, Natta,’ said his master, and the old porter had no alternative but to obey, which he did, with reluctant steps and sour suspicious looks at the visitor.
‘Now speak,’ said Fabricius; ‘I think I could guess at the nature of your message. Has it aught to do with a domestic matter of mine?’
‘So please,’ replied Cestus, ‘I will tell you exactly what I was told to tell, for I know nothing more. Lupus – that is my friend – has been hurt to death by a block of marble which slipped upon him whilst it was being slung from the ship on to the quay. He sent for me to-night, and I did but clean myself and come straight to your palace. He said, “I did a deed some years ago which has lain heavy on my mind ever since – heavier even than that cursed block from Luna which fell upon me yesterday. I am going fast; there is no hope, and I must ease my mind. On the top of Janiculum there dwells a nobleman named Fabricius. Seek him, and bring him hither back with thee, that I may tell him what I did, for my mind torments me more than my crushed body. He had a granddaughter, a little child – a little goddess; I can tell him of that child – bid him come with haste! Fourteen years ago I stole her from his door and sold her. She yet lives – a slave!”’
In spite of himself; in spite of the numberless plausible tales and previous disappointments, Fabricius felt his heart beat violently, and a tremor seize his limbs. Cestus’s small keen eyes noted the change of colour on his cheek.
‘Fourteen years!’ murmured Fabricius to himself; ‘right almost to the very month; how could he know that if – alas, my little darling – my little Aurelia! shall I be fooled again?’
‘I pray you, Fabricius, be speedy, out of pity for my poor comrade,’ urged Cestus; ‘he will soon be beyond reach. It was a sore sin against you, but your nobleness will pardon a dying man. And besides, you will forgive me, noble sir, for offering a suggestion of my own; if Lupus departs without seeing you, you may thus lose all chance of ever getting your lost grandchild again. Ah me, that one could do such a deed as rob a house of its sunshine for the sake of a few paltry sestertia!’
This was uttered in a sighing kind of sotto voce, and the old Senator, racked with doubt and eagerness, with hope and the fear of oft-repeated disappointment and disgust, passed his hand over his brow in poignant doubtfulness.
‘Go to the Esquiline to my nephew – but no! I forgot; his Greek boy came hither t’other day to say he was going to Tibur for a space. Phœbus aid me! Where does this comrade of thine dwell?’
‘Not far away, so please you,’ answered Cestus; ‘on the other side of the Aventine, nigh to the Ostian road.’
‘It is late,’ muttered Fabricius.
‘It is,’ observed the friend of Lupus, ‘but Death is not particular as to time. In fact he seems to prefer the night-time. If Lupus live past midnight I shall wonder. Imagine, noble sir, a block of marble crushing poor flesh and bone – ugh, ’tis terrible!’
‘You saw it?’
‘I did – worse luck.’
‘You are a labourer like him?’
‘I am – see!’
The worthy labourer showed his hands. They had been specially rubbed and engrained with dirt before washing. So cleverly were they prepared, that they might have belonged to any hard-handed son of toil.
‘Did your comrade never tell you of this theft before?’
‘Never.’
‘And what does he deserve, think you, if he have done as he says?’ said Fabricius, speaking with agitation; ‘taking away what to me was more precious than life itself. What harm had I ever done him? To sell the sweet child for a slave – oh!’
‘’Twas a crime indeed, and no fate too hard for him,’ observed Cestus. ‘But haste, I beseech you! The poor devil is dying; have pity on him, and serve yourself as well; for, as like as not, you may get your maid again. ’Tis all plain to me now. When I first knew Lupus, some twenty years ago, he was as blithe a fellow as ever stepped; and then he began to change. Ay, ay! It is plain enough to see now what weighed upon him.’
‘Humph; do you say so?’
‘That is easily vouched for by others than myself. Will you not come? or must I go back and tell him – ’
‘Faith, I am distraught. I know not – ’
‘’Tis scarcely likely he would die with a lie on his lips, noble sir.’
‘I will go with you,’ said Fabricius, with a sudden determination. ‘Go to the porch and wait! Natta, haste! Bid Pannicus, Cyrrha, and Crotus take their staves and go forth with me to the Aventine. Fetch me my cloak and cap!’
‘What, now – to-night?’ demanded the astonished slave, who ran in at his master’s call.
‘Yes, now, this minute – haste!’
Now that his mind was made up the old man was burning with eagerness, and, ere long, he and his slaves were ready to depart.
In the meantime Cestus went to the porch and stood on the outer step. The moon was rising behind some heavy cloud-banks, and her effulgence shone dimly through the rifts. The great city lay stretched below, with its gleams peeping through the hazy gloom. In the uncertain light a form crept noiselessly up to the pillars of the porch, and whispered to the Suburan standing there.
‘Well, is he coming?’
‘Yes – take care; he is here!’ replied Cestus, and the figure glided back into obscurity.
Fabricius, followed by the three slaves bearing lanterns, came forth.
‘It is moonlight, Fabricius – the lanterns will be rather a hindrance than otherwise,’ observed Cestus.
‘It is moonlight truly, but not much as yet,’ answered Fabricius; ‘so until it mends we will carry our own light with us. Lead on, good fellow, with Pannicus, and we three will follow.’
Cestus did as he was told, cursing the lanterns in his heart. Pannicus walked by his side. Far enough behind to escape observation, the cloaked form, which had spoken to Cestus, dogged their steps like a stealthy tiger. They passed down the hill and through the Transtibertine district to the river. After crossing the Sublician Bridge they proceeded to the gate of the Servian rampart called Trigemina, and then ascended the Aventine Mount by the Publician Road.
In the earlier times of the city this hill had been regarded as ill-omened. It had been occupied chiefly by plebeian families, but now was becoming more fashionable, following, as already said, the inevitable rule of the wealthy classes seizing upon the most elevated and pleasant situations, as the city waxed great. At the head of the upward road Fabricius and his party passed the temple of Juno Regina, which Camillus had built after his conquest of Veii. The three lanterns of the slaves were undesirable accompaniments, in the estimation of Cestus, so he rapidly hit upon a plan which might lead to their extinguishment. Fortune favoured him as they passed the temple of the famous conqueror. The moon glanced out with her silver-bright disc from behind the sharp edge of a black cloud, and bathed the columns of the temple, as well as every object around, in a flood of splendour. The obnoxious lanterns, with their smoky, yellow glare, were useless, and a contrast to the pure brightness around. The moment was opportune. Pannicus the slave, walking on the left of Cestus, carried his lantern hanging down at the full length of his right arm. As the moonbeams fell to the earth, Cestus purposely slipped with his left foot, and falling across his companion’s path, dashed the lantern out of his hand to the ground, where it instantly became dark.