CHAPTER XIII.THE HOUR OF TWELVE.For some moments Domitia remained without stirring. But then, roused by a glare of lightning, succeeded by a crash so loud as to shake the palace, she saw in the white blaze the tablets of the Emperor lying on the table.At once, aware of the importance of what she had secured, she seized them, and went to the lamp to open them.They consisted of thin citron-wood boards, framed and hinged on one side, the surfaces within covered with a film of wax, on which notes were inscribed with astileor iron pen. There were stray leaves that served for correspondence, orders and so forth, but what Domitia now held was a diptych, that is to say, two leaves hinged, like a book-cover, which had included loose sheets and were bound together by strings.She at once opened the diptych, and saw on the first page:—“To be executed immediately:—In the Tullianum, by strangulation,Lucius Ælius Lamia Plautius Ælianus.To be torn by dogs:—The Chaldæan Elymas, otherwise called Ascletarion.”On the second leaf:“To be executed on the morrow:—By decapitation:Petronius Secundus, Præfect of the Prætorium.Norbanus, likewise Præfect of the Prætorium.By strangling, in the Tullianum:Parthenius and Sigerius, Chamberlains of the Palace.To be bled to death:Stephanus: steward to my niece Domitilla.Entellus: Secretaryalibellis.”The words applying to Lamia acted on her as a blow against her heart. She staggered to a stool, sank on it and struggled for breath.But the urgency of the danger allowed no delay—she rallied her strength immediately, flew from the room and summoned Eboracus.To him, breathless, she said:“Fly—summon me at once Stephanus the steward, Petronius and Norbanus, præfects, and the chamberlains Parthenius and Sigerius. Bid them come to me at once—not make a moment’s delay.”She sank again on the stool and put her hands to her temples and pressed them.The lightning continued to flare and the thunder to roll. There ensued a turmoil, and a sound of voices crying; then a rush of feet. Euphrosyne entered with startled mien—“My mistress! The bolt of heaven has fallen on the Palatine, and the chamber of theAugustus has been struck. The Temple of the Flavians is on fire, and is burning in despite of the rain.”The chamberlain, Parthenius, entered.“Augusta!”said he,“the lightning has struck that part of the palace occupied by Cæsar. He must have his apartment for the night on this side.”“That is well,”answered Domitia.“Parthenius, have you received my message from Eboracus?”“No, lady.”“Then read this,”she extended to him the wax tablets.The chamberlain turned ash gray and trembled.“Parthenius,”said Domitia,“it is no vain augury that lightning has struck the Temple of the Flavians, and driven Cæsar from his apartments. Let his place of rest be to-night in the room adjoining this—and—if he wakes—”she looked at the clepsydra, as at that moment with a click the wheel turned and Saturn moved his scythe—“there is but an hour in which the fate of more than yourself, of Lamia—of Entellus must be decided. Take the tablets.”Scarce had she spoken, before quick steps were heard, and in a moment Domitian entered.Parthenius hastily concealed the tablets by throwing a fold of his garment over the hand that held them.“Sire,”said he,“I have come to announce that thy chamber must be on this side.”“Go thy way,”said Domitian roughly,“see to it that I have a bed brought at once. Hast heard, Domitia, the fire has fallen!”“Sire,”said Parthenius,“I haste to obey and pray the Gods that in spite of thunder and lightning you may sleep sound and not wake.”The Emperor walked to the clepsydra, and laughed scornfully.“The bolt of Jove has missed me,”said he.“The red-handed One made a mistake. I am wont to be in bed at this hour—by good luck, this night I was not. He has levelled his bolt at my pillow and burnt that—I am escaped scot-free. Now I have no further fear.”“The temple of your divine family is in flames.”“What care I? I will rebuild it—the majesty, the divinity of the Flavians resides not in stones and marble—it is incorporate in Me. I may have been in danger for a moment. Now I snap my fingers in the face of that blunderer Jove, who burnt a hole in my pillow instead of transfixing my head. And yon old Chronos—”he made a sign of contempt towards scythed Time,“I defy thee and thy bucket of blood. Twelve o’clock! In spite of Jove’s bolt, and the summons of Cornelia—I shall be asleep by that hour.”“I pray the Gods it may be so.”Then Domitian went out precipitately. His defiant attitude, his daring talk did not serve to disguise the alarm which he felt. Suddenly, after having left the room he turned, came back and said,“Domitia! What sword is that? What need has a woman with a sword?”He pointed to that of Corbulo, suspended against the wall.He went to it and took it down.“Leave it,”said she harshly.“It is that on which my father fell. It is stained likewise with the blood of Nero.”He held it by the scabbard. She caught the handle and, as he turned, drew forth the blade.At the same moment he heard steps in the passageapproaching the door, and without noticing that he held but the sheath, or else purposing to demand the weapon itself later, when the interruption was over, he walked towards the entrance uttering an expression of impatience, holding the empty scabbard in his right hand.In the doorway stood Stephanus, a freedman, the steward of Flavia Domitilla, wife, or rather widow of Clemens, whom Domitian had recently put to death. Domitilla had been exiled, and the Emperor had appropriated to his own use the estates of his kinsman.“Why camest thou hither?”asked the prince roughly.“I shall have enough to say to thee on the morrow because of thy embezzlements.”“Augustus! I am innocent.”“A thief, a vile purloiner, a blood-sucking leech, that has fattened as do all thy kind on thy masters. Go thy way—I want thee not here.”And striding towards him, with Corbulo’s scabbard he struck the freedman across the face.Stephanus uttered a cry of rage and pain, and instantly smote at the Emperor with a dagger he had held concealed in his sleeve.“What, hound! You dare! You shall be flayed alive! Ho! to my aid!”Stephanus threw himself on the Emperor.Then Domitia stepped between the struggling men and the doorway, and with one hand drew together the curtains so as to muffle the cries.“To my aid! to my aid!”called Domitian, as the powerful steward grappled him, and struck his dagger into the thigh of the prince.“To my aid! Ho, a sword!”shouted the Emperor, and he grasped the weapon of the steward butso that, holding the blade with his hand, the weapon cut it across and the blood streamed forth.He now made an effort to reach the doorway; and the steward, holding him, strove to wrench away the dagger and inflict a mortal wound. But Domitian, aware of his object, with his bleeding hand retained his grasp of the blade.All at once, the Emperor let go his hold, and seizing the steward by the head drove his thumbs into his eyes.Stephanus instantly dropped the dagger in his attempt to save himself from being blinded.The two men twisted and writhed in grapple with each other. The freedman was a powerful man—it was for this reason he had been sent to despatch the prince. But Domitian was battling for his life. Though his legs were thin and out of proportion to his body, he was a strong man—he had ever maintained his vigor by exercise of the muscles and had never weakened himself by excess in eating and drinking.By a happy turn he flung Stephanus, but clasped by him fell with him on the floor.And now the two men rolled and tossed in a tangled mass together. Their snorts and gasps and the bestial growl of rage filled the room.“Quick! Domitia—the sword! At once—the sword—the sword!”said the Emperor. He spoke in gulps and gasps.He had Stephanus under him; his knee was on his chest and his hand, the gashed left hand flowing with blood, contracted the prostrate man’s throat.“Domitia! the sword!”DOMITIA! THE SWORD!“DOMITIA! THE SWORD!”Page 316.But she stood, stern, cold, without stirring a step,and she folded the sword of her father to her breast, with her arms crossed over it.“Because of Paris—No!”“The sword! be speedy. I will finish him!”“Because of Cornelia—No!”“Domitia—help!”“Because of Lucius Lamia—No!”She went to the curtains, drew them apart, and called down the passage to Norbanus.The two Prætorian præfects were there with the chamberlains—but they were ill able to restrain the guard who suspected that their prince and Emperor was in danger and scented treachery.Instantly a rush was made. Some of the soldiers, with the præfect Norbanus, came on running, whilst the other, Petronius Secundus, endeavored by his authority to restrain the rest.But from the other end of the passage came gladiators running, hastily brought together by Parthenius.For a moment there was a jam in the doorway, a burly gladiator and a soldier of the guard were wedged together, each endeavoring to hold the other back and force himself in.Meanwhile Petronius continued to exhort his soldiers to stand back, and Parthenius to promise rewards to the gladiators who pressed on. The tumult became terrible. Men came to blows without, there was a running together of slaves and freedmen—of frightened women and pages from all sides. Some had leaped from their beds, roused from sleep, and were not clothed. Some bore lamps—but again certain others attempted to extinguish the lights. Some cried“Treason!”Others“Away with the monster!”Some called out“Nerva is theEmperor!”others“Domitian is the Augustus!”Then the gladiator at the door, by dint of elbowing, forced his way within, but he was unarmed.Next moment the Prætorian guardsman held back by the gladiator entered and struck at Stephanus, dealing a frightful blow.Relieved by this assistance, Domitian staggered to his feet and glared about him. He was too much out of breath to speak, and in at the door came others pressing, some crying one thing, some another.Then Domitia unfolded her arms, and taking the sword of Corbulo in her right hand, extended it to the gladiator and said—“Make an end.”The man snatched at the haft; and with a blow drove the blade into the breast of the Emperor.Still the prince remained standing, and stretched forth his hands gropingly for a weapon.Parmenas leaped at him, and with a knife struck him in the throat.Then he reeled; in another moment he was surrounded, blows from all sides were rained on him. Again the sword of Corbulo was lifted and again smote, and he fell as a heap on the body of Stephanus.For a moment there was stillness.Then in that hush sounded a click and a gush. The bucket of the clepsydra had discharged, and with a jerk Saturn raised his scythe and pointed to the hour of midnight.“He has answered his summons before the seat of Divine Justice!”said Domitia.She stooped and plucked the signet ring from the finger of the murdered prince.CHAPTER XIV.IN THE TULLIANUM.No sooner had Domitia got the signet from the finger of the dead Emperor, than she hastened from the room, trembling, almost blind as to her course, but armed with more than her natural strength to force her way through those who filled the passage.Parmenas was now there, and he cleared a way for her, and in a loud voice forbade any of the slaves to leave the palace; Petronius at the same time gave orders to the soldiers of the guard to remain where they were, keeping watch that none left to spread the tidings, until Cocceius Nerva had been communicated with, and the Senate had been summoned.Domitia, however, made her way from among the excited and alarmed throng, and finding some of her own slaves, bade them bring Eboracus to her.“I am here, lady,”answered the Briton.“Then quick—with me. Not a moment is to be lost. Light a torch and lead the way.”“Whither, mistress?”“To the Tullianum.”He stared at her in amazement.“Quick—a life, a precious life is at stake. Not a minute must we delay or it will be too late.”“I am ready, lady.”He snatched a torch from an attendant, and advanced towards a postern gate that communicated with a flight of steps leading to the Forum. It was employed almostwholly by the servants and was used for communication between the kitchen and the markets.“Shall we take any one else with us?”asked Eboracus. He answered himself—“Yes—here is Euphrosyne. She shall attend, and a boy shall carry the link. At night—and on such a night, I must have both arms at my disposal.”Domitia said nothing. She was eager to be on her way, was impatient of the smallest delay. Euphrosyne came up, and obeyed a sign from the Briton. He caught a scullion who was rubbing his sleepy eyes, and wondering what had caused the commotion, and had roused him from his bed. Eboracus thrust the torch into his hand and opened the door for the Empress.Domitia stepped out to the head of the stairs. The rain had ceased, but the steps were running with water. The eaves dripped. The shrubs were laden with rain, they stooped their boughs and shed a load of moisture on the soil, then raised their leaves again, once more to accumulate the wet, and again to stoop and shower it down. Runnels conveying water from the roof were flowing as streams, noisily: the ground covered with pools, reflected the torch; as also every gleam from the retiring storm. Still in the distance thunder muttered, but it was a grumble of discontent at having failed to achieve all it had been sent to execute.On such a night few would be abroad, except the patrols of theVigilesand them there would be no difficulty in passing as the watchword was known to Eboracus, the word which allowed those only who could say it to traverse the streets at night in the respectable portions of the city. But there were no lamps, not even the feeble glimmer of a lantern slung in the midst of the street. Notwithstanding all the civilization of ancient Rome the art of lighting the thoroughfares at night was unknown. Such as were constrained to walk abroad after dark were attended by slaves bearing torches.The streets of Rome had for long been of bad repute for the brawls and murders committed in them at night. Tipsy youths and rufflers had assaulted honest men, and should a woman be out after dark, she was certain of insult. Nero himself had distinguished himself in such vulgar performances. But under the Flavian princes much had been done to establish order and to ensure protection to life and purse of such as were out after dark, so that now, except in the slums, a citizen could visit his friends, a doctor his patients, by night, without fear of molestation.And of all portions of Rome, the Forum with its splendid monuments, its rich temples, especially that of Saturn, that contained the city treasures, was most patrolled and therefore the safest. Eboracus had little expectation that his mistress would meet with rudeness or encounter danger, the rain must have swept the street of all idlers.The long flight of steps was descended with caution, as they were slippery with rain, indeed with more caution than Domitia approved, so impatient was she to reach the object of her journey. The distance was not great. She had but to traverse the upper end of the Forum.That at which she aimed was the prison of Rome. It lay at the foot of the Capitoline Hill, and consisted of an ancient well or subterranean chamber in which flowed a small spring. Above this was the prison, consisting of a series of cells that rose in stages to a considerable height, against the rock, the chambers being in part scooped out of the travestine. From the topof the hill ran a set of steps called the Gemonian stair, and it was customary for State prisoners who had been condemned to death, after execution to be cast from the upper chamber of the Tullianum down the stairs; whence with hooks the corpses were dragged across the Forum and then flung into the Tiber.To the house of the jailer, Domitia with her attendants made her way. She had been stopped once in crossing the Forum, but the watch recognized her, and saluted with respect, though with an expression of astonishment on his countenance at seeing Cæsar’s wife abroad at such a time of the night, in such weather and with such scant attendance.On reaching the jailer’s door, Eboracus knocked. No answer was given. He knocked again and louder, and continued knocking, till at length a gruff voice from within called to know who was without, and what was wanted.“Open—in the name of the Augustus,”said the British slave; and at once the keeper of the prison let down the bars and withdrew the bolts and chains, then carrying a lamp, peered out at those who demanded admittance.Then Domitia stood forward.“You have a prisoner here—Lucius Ælius Lamia?”“Yes.”“You must lead me to him.”Thejailer appeared disconcerted, he held his lamp aloft and eyed the woman who spake. He did not know her, his light was feeble, and as it happened, he had seen little of the Empress.“You do not know me,”said Domitia.“Know you this ring?”The prison-keeper held the flame of his lamp to thesignet, and made the usual sign of respect and recognition.“You are required to lead me within,”said Domitia.The jailer at once stood aside, and suffered the Empress and her attendants to enter. Then he barred and bolted the door again.“And now,”said Domitia, impatient at the leisurely proceeding of the man,“lead me to him.”Without another word he went forward, holding his lamp down that those who followed might see the steps and not stumble at them.“This way,”said he,“and bow your heads, the entrance is low; but most of them that pass this way have to hold their heads still lower when they are taken out. Look at these stones—great blocks built by the Kings—by Servius Tullus, they say. By Hercules! this is not a tavern where men tarry long, nor do they relish our fare. One thing I must say in our favor, we make no charge for our hospitality.”Thus the jailer muttered as he went along.“Look there—on your right—there is the cell where Simon Bar Gioras, the Jew, was strangled—he who was the last to maintain the struggle against the God Titus, in defence of Jerusalem; and see—”he threw open a door.“Here is the Bath of Mamertius in which Jugurtha was starved, all in blackness of darkness and soaking in ice-cold water. What! Impatient—do you not care to see the sights and hear my gossip? Well, well—but I have pretty things to show. I have a shankbone of Appius Claudius, who committed suicide in yon cell, and a garment of Sejanus, and the very bowstring wherewith—I am going on as fast as may be. See! we have had Christians here also. There was another Jew, Simon Petrus by name, he was in thiscell, and I have the chain whereby he was bound, and I sell the links to the followers of the Nazarene,”he began to cackle.“By Hercules! the chain is long enough. They come for more links than there would be, were the chain to reach across the Tiber. But any bit of old iron will serve, and they are not particular—take any scrap and pay in silver. I am going as fast as may be. I am not young. Fast enough I warrant. He is in no hurry—not Lamia. He can wait. All the same to him whether we reach him now or an hour hence.”Then Domitia, whose brow was beaded with cold sweat, like the stones of the vault that ran with moisture, laid hold of the prison-keeper’s arm and said:—“Tell me—is he—”she could not say the word, her heart beat so furiously, and everything swam before her eyes.“Aye, aye, you shall see for yourself. Come from the Augustus to satisfy him that we do our work properly, I trow. I have not much strength in these old-hands, but my two sons are lusty—and say the word—they will bend your back and snap the spine, smite and shear off your head like a pumpkin under a scythe, twist, and the life is throttled out of you. Here—here we are. Go in and see for yourself that we are good workmen.”He threw open a door and raised his lamp.A low vaulted chamber was faintly illumined by the flame, the torch held by Eboracus was behind Domitia and the jailer; he had taken it from the link boy at the prison door. He and Euphrosyne attended their mistress, the boy was left without.The old prison-keeper stood on one side.“The order came yesterday,”said he,“and we are not slack in the execution.”Domitia saw the figure of a man lying on the stone floor. She started forward—“He sleeps!”“I warrant you—right soundly.”She uttered a smothered cry.“Put down the lamp!”She turned and faced the jailer.“Leave me alone with him. I will wake him. I know he but sleeps.”The man hesitated.Then Eboracus pressed forward and laid hold of the jailer and whispered—“Go without, it is the Augusta!”The keeper of the prison started, raised his hand to his lips, bowed, set the lamp on the moist floor and drew back.“Without! Without all!”ordered Domitia.Then Eboracus pulled the jailer out of the cell. Euphrosyne stood doubtful whether to remain with her mistress or obey—but an impatient sign from the Empress drove her forth, and the British slave closed the door.“He is dead,”said the jailer.“Did the Augustus desire to withdraw the order? His signet has arrived too late. The prisoner has been throttled by my sons.”The old man and the two slaves remained for some quarter of an hour in the passage almost smothered by the smoke emitted by the torch.From within they heard a voice—at intervals, now raised in weeping, then uttering low soothing tones, then raised in a cry as theconclamatioof hired wailers for the dead, calling on Lamia by name to return, to return, to leave the Shadowland and come back into light.And then—a laugh.A laugh so weird, so horrible, so unexpected, that with a thrust, without scruple, Eboracus threw open the door.On the stone pavement sat Domitia, her hair dishevelled, and on her lap the head of the dead man. She was wiping his brow with her veil, stooping, kissing his lips, weeping, then laughing again—then pointing to purple letters, crossed L’s woven into his tunic.Eboracus saw it all—her reason was gone.CHAPTER XV.DRAWING TO THE LIGHT.In the old home of Gabii, under the tender care of Euphrosyne and in the soothing company of Glyceria, little by little, stage by stage, Domitia recovered.There was a horrible past to which no reference might be made. The true British slave, Eboracus, was ever at hand to help—when needed. Never a day, never half a day, but his honest face appeared at the door to inquire after his dear lady, and as her senses came flickering back, it was he to whom she clung to take her in his arms into the trellised walk, or when stronger to lead her where she could pick violets for Glyceria, and to pile about the feet of the little statue of the Good Shepherd. He took her a row on the lake and let her fish—he found nests of young birds and brought them to her; and all at once disclosed great powers of story-telling; he told marvellous British tales as to a little child, of the ploughing of Hu Cadarn, of Ceridwen and her cauldron. And he would sing—he fashioned himself a harp, of British shape, and sang as he accompanied himself, but his ballads were all in the Celtic tongue that Domitia could not understand—nevertheless it soothed and pleased her to listen to his music.Longa Duilia did not visit her often. She made formal duty calls at long intervals, and as Domitia became better, these visits grew proportionately fewer.Duilia, as she herself said, was not created to be a nurse. She knew that some were fitted by nature to attend to the sick, and all that sort of thing—but it was not her gift. Society was her sphere in which she floated and which she adorned, but she was distraught and drooping in a sick-room. She wished she had the faculty—and all that sort of thing—but all women were not cast in the same mould, run out of the same metal—and, my dear, parenthetically—some are of lead, others of Corinthian brass—and which are which it is not for me to say—she thanked the Gods it was so.Nor did the visits and efforts to amuse, of Duilia, avail anything towards Domitia’s cure. On the contrary, she was always worse after her mother had been with her. The old lady ripped up ill-healed sores, harped on old associations, could not check her tongue from scolding.“My poor dear child—I never made a greater blunder in my life—I, too, who have the pedigree at my finger’s ends—as to fancy that there was any connection with those Flavians. My dear! yellow hair is quite out of fashion now, quite out. Look at mine, a raven’s wing is not darker. It was through Vespasia Polla—I thought we were related—stupid that I was—it was the Vipsanians we were allied to, not those low and beggarly Vespasians. As the Gods love me, I believe Polla’s father was an army contractor. But I have made it all right. I have smudged out the line I hadadded to the family tree, and as for the wax heads of those Flavians, I have had them melted up. Will you believe it—I had the mask of Domitian run into a pot and that stupid Lucilla did not put a cover on it, and the rats have eaten it—eaten all the wax. I hope it has clogged their stomachs and given them indigestion. They doubtless thought it was dripping. But I really have made a most surprising discovery. I find there was an alliance with the Cocceii—most respectable family, very ancient, admirable men all—and so there is a sort of cousinship with the present admirable prince. His brother Aulus—rather old perhaps—but an estimable man—is—well—may be—in a word, I intend to give a little supper—a dainty affair—all in the best style—so sorry you can’t be there, my dear Domitia—but of course absolutely impossible. Your state of health and all that sort of thing. Don’t be surprised if you hear—but there, there—he is rather old though, for one who is only just turning off the very bloom of life and beauty.”After such a visit and such talk the mind of Domitia was troubled for several days. She became timid, alarmed at the least noise, and distraught. But then the poor crippled woman succeeded in comforting and laying her troubles, and the painful expression faded from her face. It became placid, but always with a sadness that was inseparable from the eyes, and a tremulousness of the lips, as though a very little—a rough word or two—would dissolve her into tears.With the spring, the growing light, the increasing warmth, the bursting life in plant and insect, she began to amend more steadily, and relapses became fewer.One sweet spring day, when Glyceria had been carried forth into the garden, and Domitia sat on the turf near her with purple anemones in her lap, that she was binding into a garland, the paralyzed woman was startled by hearing Domitia suddenly speak of the past.She spoke, and continued weaving the flowers,“My Glyceria, I intend this for the little temple of my father. It is all I can do for him—to give flowers where his ashes lie—but it does not content me. There were two whom I loved and looked up to as the best of men, and both are gone—gone to dust: my own dearest father, and my lover, my husband, Lamia. I cannot bear to think of them as heaps of ashes or as wandering ghosts. When that thought comes over me, I seem to be as one drowning, and then darkness is before my eyes. I cannot cry—I smother.”“Why should you think of them as wandering ghosts or as heaps of dust?”“I know that they are dust—I suppose they are shadows. But of anything else, all is guess-work, we know nothing—and that is so horrible. I love two only—have loved two only—and they are no more than shadows. No, no! I mean not that.”She flung her arms about Glyceria, and laid her cheek against that of the sick woman.“No, I do love you, and I love Euphrosyne and I love Eboracus. But I mean—I mean in a different manner. One was my father, and the other my husband. It is so terribly sad to think they are lost to me like yesterday or last summer.”“They are not lost. You will see them again.”“See my father! See my Lamia!”“Yes—I know it will be so.”“O, Glyceria, do not say such things. You make my heart jump. How can it be? They have been.”“They are and will be. Death is swallowed up in Life.”“That is impossible. Death is death and nothing more.”Then Glyceria took the hand of Domitia, and looking into her eyes, said solemnly:“Dost thou remember having asked me about the Fish?”“Yes—this amulet,”answered the noble lady, and she detached the cornelian from her throat, and held it in the hand not engaged by Glyceria.“Yes—I recollect—there was some mystery, but what was it?”“The Fish is a symbol, as I said once before, and it is no amulet.”“Of what is it the symbol?”“Of One who died—who tasted of the bitterness of the parting of soul and body, and who went into the region of Shadows and returned—the soul to the body, and rose from the dead, and by the virtue of His resurrection gives power to all who believe in Him to rise in like manner.”“And he could tell about what the ghosts do—how they wander?”“I cannot say that. There would be no comfort in that. He rose to give us joy and to rob death of its terrors.”“But what has this to do with the Fish?”“You know what the word Fish is in Greek.”“Very well.”“Take each letter of that word, and each letter is the first of words that contain the very substance of the Christian belief—Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the Saviour.”Domitia looked at the little cornelian fish; she could not understand.“I believe that one could die and wake again. I have fainted and come round. And he might say what was in the spirit world into which he had been—but the region of ghosts is very dreary, very sad.”“Nay, He can do more. As He rose, He can raise us to new life, and He will do it, for He is God. He made us, and He will recall us from death.”“What—my father! Lucius! I shall see them again—not as shadows, but as they were—?”“Not so—not as they were, mortal; but raised to an immortal life.”“I shall kiss my darling father—put my arms around my Lucius from whom I have been parted so long, and so cruelly, and who has been so—so true to me.”Then Domitia burst into tears.Glyceria stroked her hand.“There—you see how joyous is our hope. Death is nothing—it is only a good-bye for a bit to meet again.”“O, Glyceria! O, if I could see them—O Glyceria! O, you should not have said this if it be not true. My heart will break. O, if it might be so! if I could! but once only—for a moment——”“Nay, that would not suffice; forever, never to be separated; no more tears, no more death.”“O, Glyceria—not another word—I cannot bear it. My heart is over full. Another time. My head, my head! O, if it might—it could be!”Next day Glyceria saw by the red eyes of Domitia that she had slept little and had wept much. She did not turn the conversation to the same topic; she wisely waited for the noble lady to begin on it herself, and she judged that she would take some time to consider what had been spoken about and to digest it.And in fact Domitia made no further allusion to the matter for some days. But after about a week, when alone with the paralyzed woman, she said to her abruptly:“You have never been in Syria?”“No, dear lady.”“I have—and I have been on the confines of the desert and looked away, as far as the eye could reach, and have seen nothing but sand and barren rock. Behind me a rose-garden, syringas, myrtle and citron trees, and murmuring streams, before me—no green leaf, only death. It is to me, as I stand now and look back on my life as if it were that barren desert; and the fearful thing is—I dare not turn and look the other way, for it is into impenetrable night. But no, my life is not all desolation, there are just two green spots in it where the date palms stand and there are wells—my childhood, when I sat on my father’s knee and cuddled into his arms; and once again, when I was recovering from the loss of him and was basking in the joy of my love for Lucius Lamia. All the rest—”she made a gesture of despair—“Death.”“Dearest lady! I would like to turn you about and show you that where you think only blackness reigns, lies a beautiful garden, a paradise, and One at the gate who beckons and says, Come unto Me, all you that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”“Ah! but that may be all fancy and dream work like the promises of the Magi, and the mysteries of Isis.”Glyceria got no further than this. Domitia was disposed to talk with her on her hope, and on the Christian belief, but always with reserve and some mistrust.There were old prejudices to be overcome, there was the consciousness that the promises so largely madeby the votaries of the many cults from East and South who came to Rome were unfulfilled, and this made her unable to place confidence in the new religion held by slaves and ignorant people, however alluring it might seem.Among the very few who came to Gabii during her illness and convalescence, was Flavia Domitilla, the widow of Flavius Clemens, who had been put to death by Domitian. Domitilla had been banished, but returned immediately on the death of the tyrant. She had suffered as had Domitia. In her manner and address there was something so gentle and assuring, that the poor ex-empress, in the troubled condition of her brain, was drawn to her, and after her visits felt better. She knew, or rather supposed, that Domitilla was a Christian. Her husband had been one, and had suffered for his faith.It was with real pleasure that she ran to welcome her one morning, when the steward entered and announced:“The Lady Flavia Domitilla.”
CHAPTER XIII.THE HOUR OF TWELVE.For some moments Domitia remained without stirring. But then, roused by a glare of lightning, succeeded by a crash so loud as to shake the palace, she saw in the white blaze the tablets of the Emperor lying on the table.At once, aware of the importance of what she had secured, she seized them, and went to the lamp to open them.They consisted of thin citron-wood boards, framed and hinged on one side, the surfaces within covered with a film of wax, on which notes were inscribed with astileor iron pen. There were stray leaves that served for correspondence, orders and so forth, but what Domitia now held was a diptych, that is to say, two leaves hinged, like a book-cover, which had included loose sheets and were bound together by strings.She at once opened the diptych, and saw on the first page:—“To be executed immediately:—In the Tullianum, by strangulation,Lucius Ælius Lamia Plautius Ælianus.To be torn by dogs:—The Chaldæan Elymas, otherwise called Ascletarion.”On the second leaf:“To be executed on the morrow:—By decapitation:Petronius Secundus, Præfect of the Prætorium.Norbanus, likewise Præfect of the Prætorium.By strangling, in the Tullianum:Parthenius and Sigerius, Chamberlains of the Palace.To be bled to death:Stephanus: steward to my niece Domitilla.Entellus: Secretaryalibellis.”The words applying to Lamia acted on her as a blow against her heart. She staggered to a stool, sank on it and struggled for breath.But the urgency of the danger allowed no delay—she rallied her strength immediately, flew from the room and summoned Eboracus.To him, breathless, she said:“Fly—summon me at once Stephanus the steward, Petronius and Norbanus, præfects, and the chamberlains Parthenius and Sigerius. Bid them come to me at once—not make a moment’s delay.”She sank again on the stool and put her hands to her temples and pressed them.The lightning continued to flare and the thunder to roll. There ensued a turmoil, and a sound of voices crying; then a rush of feet. Euphrosyne entered with startled mien—“My mistress! The bolt of heaven has fallen on the Palatine, and the chamber of theAugustus has been struck. The Temple of the Flavians is on fire, and is burning in despite of the rain.”The chamberlain, Parthenius, entered.“Augusta!”said he,“the lightning has struck that part of the palace occupied by Cæsar. He must have his apartment for the night on this side.”“That is well,”answered Domitia.“Parthenius, have you received my message from Eboracus?”“No, lady.”“Then read this,”she extended to him the wax tablets.The chamberlain turned ash gray and trembled.“Parthenius,”said Domitia,“it is no vain augury that lightning has struck the Temple of the Flavians, and driven Cæsar from his apartments. Let his place of rest be to-night in the room adjoining this—and—if he wakes—”she looked at the clepsydra, as at that moment with a click the wheel turned and Saturn moved his scythe—“there is but an hour in which the fate of more than yourself, of Lamia—of Entellus must be decided. Take the tablets.”Scarce had she spoken, before quick steps were heard, and in a moment Domitian entered.Parthenius hastily concealed the tablets by throwing a fold of his garment over the hand that held them.“Sire,”said he,“I have come to announce that thy chamber must be on this side.”“Go thy way,”said Domitian roughly,“see to it that I have a bed brought at once. Hast heard, Domitia, the fire has fallen!”“Sire,”said Parthenius,“I haste to obey and pray the Gods that in spite of thunder and lightning you may sleep sound and not wake.”The Emperor walked to the clepsydra, and laughed scornfully.“The bolt of Jove has missed me,”said he.“The red-handed One made a mistake. I am wont to be in bed at this hour—by good luck, this night I was not. He has levelled his bolt at my pillow and burnt that—I am escaped scot-free. Now I have no further fear.”“The temple of your divine family is in flames.”“What care I? I will rebuild it—the majesty, the divinity of the Flavians resides not in stones and marble—it is incorporate in Me. I may have been in danger for a moment. Now I snap my fingers in the face of that blunderer Jove, who burnt a hole in my pillow instead of transfixing my head. And yon old Chronos—”he made a sign of contempt towards scythed Time,“I defy thee and thy bucket of blood. Twelve o’clock! In spite of Jove’s bolt, and the summons of Cornelia—I shall be asleep by that hour.”“I pray the Gods it may be so.”Then Domitian went out precipitately. His defiant attitude, his daring talk did not serve to disguise the alarm which he felt. Suddenly, after having left the room he turned, came back and said,“Domitia! What sword is that? What need has a woman with a sword?”He pointed to that of Corbulo, suspended against the wall.He went to it and took it down.“Leave it,”said she harshly.“It is that on which my father fell. It is stained likewise with the blood of Nero.”He held it by the scabbard. She caught the handle and, as he turned, drew forth the blade.At the same moment he heard steps in the passageapproaching the door, and without noticing that he held but the sheath, or else purposing to demand the weapon itself later, when the interruption was over, he walked towards the entrance uttering an expression of impatience, holding the empty scabbard in his right hand.In the doorway stood Stephanus, a freedman, the steward of Flavia Domitilla, wife, or rather widow of Clemens, whom Domitian had recently put to death. Domitilla had been exiled, and the Emperor had appropriated to his own use the estates of his kinsman.“Why camest thou hither?”asked the prince roughly.“I shall have enough to say to thee on the morrow because of thy embezzlements.”“Augustus! I am innocent.”“A thief, a vile purloiner, a blood-sucking leech, that has fattened as do all thy kind on thy masters. Go thy way—I want thee not here.”And striding towards him, with Corbulo’s scabbard he struck the freedman across the face.Stephanus uttered a cry of rage and pain, and instantly smote at the Emperor with a dagger he had held concealed in his sleeve.“What, hound! You dare! You shall be flayed alive! Ho! to my aid!”Stephanus threw himself on the Emperor.Then Domitia stepped between the struggling men and the doorway, and with one hand drew together the curtains so as to muffle the cries.“To my aid! to my aid!”called Domitian, as the powerful steward grappled him, and struck his dagger into the thigh of the prince.“To my aid! Ho, a sword!”shouted the Emperor, and he grasped the weapon of the steward butso that, holding the blade with his hand, the weapon cut it across and the blood streamed forth.He now made an effort to reach the doorway; and the steward, holding him, strove to wrench away the dagger and inflict a mortal wound. But Domitian, aware of his object, with his bleeding hand retained his grasp of the blade.All at once, the Emperor let go his hold, and seizing the steward by the head drove his thumbs into his eyes.Stephanus instantly dropped the dagger in his attempt to save himself from being blinded.The two men twisted and writhed in grapple with each other. The freedman was a powerful man—it was for this reason he had been sent to despatch the prince. But Domitian was battling for his life. Though his legs were thin and out of proportion to his body, he was a strong man—he had ever maintained his vigor by exercise of the muscles and had never weakened himself by excess in eating and drinking.By a happy turn he flung Stephanus, but clasped by him fell with him on the floor.And now the two men rolled and tossed in a tangled mass together. Their snorts and gasps and the bestial growl of rage filled the room.“Quick! Domitia—the sword! At once—the sword—the sword!”said the Emperor. He spoke in gulps and gasps.He had Stephanus under him; his knee was on his chest and his hand, the gashed left hand flowing with blood, contracted the prostrate man’s throat.“Domitia! the sword!”DOMITIA! THE SWORD!“DOMITIA! THE SWORD!”Page 316.But she stood, stern, cold, without stirring a step,and she folded the sword of her father to her breast, with her arms crossed over it.“Because of Paris—No!”“The sword! be speedy. I will finish him!”“Because of Cornelia—No!”“Domitia—help!”“Because of Lucius Lamia—No!”She went to the curtains, drew them apart, and called down the passage to Norbanus.The two Prætorian præfects were there with the chamberlains—but they were ill able to restrain the guard who suspected that their prince and Emperor was in danger and scented treachery.Instantly a rush was made. Some of the soldiers, with the præfect Norbanus, came on running, whilst the other, Petronius Secundus, endeavored by his authority to restrain the rest.But from the other end of the passage came gladiators running, hastily brought together by Parthenius.For a moment there was a jam in the doorway, a burly gladiator and a soldier of the guard were wedged together, each endeavoring to hold the other back and force himself in.Meanwhile Petronius continued to exhort his soldiers to stand back, and Parthenius to promise rewards to the gladiators who pressed on. The tumult became terrible. Men came to blows without, there was a running together of slaves and freedmen—of frightened women and pages from all sides. Some had leaped from their beds, roused from sleep, and were not clothed. Some bore lamps—but again certain others attempted to extinguish the lights. Some cried“Treason!”Others“Away with the monster!”Some called out“Nerva is theEmperor!”others“Domitian is the Augustus!”Then the gladiator at the door, by dint of elbowing, forced his way within, but he was unarmed.Next moment the Prætorian guardsman held back by the gladiator entered and struck at Stephanus, dealing a frightful blow.Relieved by this assistance, Domitian staggered to his feet and glared about him. He was too much out of breath to speak, and in at the door came others pressing, some crying one thing, some another.Then Domitia unfolded her arms, and taking the sword of Corbulo in her right hand, extended it to the gladiator and said—“Make an end.”The man snatched at the haft; and with a blow drove the blade into the breast of the Emperor.Still the prince remained standing, and stretched forth his hands gropingly for a weapon.Parmenas leaped at him, and with a knife struck him in the throat.Then he reeled; in another moment he was surrounded, blows from all sides were rained on him. Again the sword of Corbulo was lifted and again smote, and he fell as a heap on the body of Stephanus.For a moment there was stillness.Then in that hush sounded a click and a gush. The bucket of the clepsydra had discharged, and with a jerk Saturn raised his scythe and pointed to the hour of midnight.“He has answered his summons before the seat of Divine Justice!”said Domitia.She stooped and plucked the signet ring from the finger of the murdered prince.CHAPTER XIV.IN THE TULLIANUM.No sooner had Domitia got the signet from the finger of the dead Emperor, than she hastened from the room, trembling, almost blind as to her course, but armed with more than her natural strength to force her way through those who filled the passage.Parmenas was now there, and he cleared a way for her, and in a loud voice forbade any of the slaves to leave the palace; Petronius at the same time gave orders to the soldiers of the guard to remain where they were, keeping watch that none left to spread the tidings, until Cocceius Nerva had been communicated with, and the Senate had been summoned.Domitia, however, made her way from among the excited and alarmed throng, and finding some of her own slaves, bade them bring Eboracus to her.“I am here, lady,”answered the Briton.“Then quick—with me. Not a moment is to be lost. Light a torch and lead the way.”“Whither, mistress?”“To the Tullianum.”He stared at her in amazement.“Quick—a life, a precious life is at stake. Not a minute must we delay or it will be too late.”“I am ready, lady.”He snatched a torch from an attendant, and advanced towards a postern gate that communicated with a flight of steps leading to the Forum. It was employed almostwholly by the servants and was used for communication between the kitchen and the markets.“Shall we take any one else with us?”asked Eboracus. He answered himself—“Yes—here is Euphrosyne. She shall attend, and a boy shall carry the link. At night—and on such a night, I must have both arms at my disposal.”Domitia said nothing. She was eager to be on her way, was impatient of the smallest delay. Euphrosyne came up, and obeyed a sign from the Briton. He caught a scullion who was rubbing his sleepy eyes, and wondering what had caused the commotion, and had roused him from his bed. Eboracus thrust the torch into his hand and opened the door for the Empress.Domitia stepped out to the head of the stairs. The rain had ceased, but the steps were running with water. The eaves dripped. The shrubs were laden with rain, they stooped their boughs and shed a load of moisture on the soil, then raised their leaves again, once more to accumulate the wet, and again to stoop and shower it down. Runnels conveying water from the roof were flowing as streams, noisily: the ground covered with pools, reflected the torch; as also every gleam from the retiring storm. Still in the distance thunder muttered, but it was a grumble of discontent at having failed to achieve all it had been sent to execute.On such a night few would be abroad, except the patrols of theVigilesand them there would be no difficulty in passing as the watchword was known to Eboracus, the word which allowed those only who could say it to traverse the streets at night in the respectable portions of the city. But there were no lamps, not even the feeble glimmer of a lantern slung in the midst of the street. Notwithstanding all the civilization of ancient Rome the art of lighting the thoroughfares at night was unknown. Such as were constrained to walk abroad after dark were attended by slaves bearing torches.The streets of Rome had for long been of bad repute for the brawls and murders committed in them at night. Tipsy youths and rufflers had assaulted honest men, and should a woman be out after dark, she was certain of insult. Nero himself had distinguished himself in such vulgar performances. But under the Flavian princes much had been done to establish order and to ensure protection to life and purse of such as were out after dark, so that now, except in the slums, a citizen could visit his friends, a doctor his patients, by night, without fear of molestation.And of all portions of Rome, the Forum with its splendid monuments, its rich temples, especially that of Saturn, that contained the city treasures, was most patrolled and therefore the safest. Eboracus had little expectation that his mistress would meet with rudeness or encounter danger, the rain must have swept the street of all idlers.The long flight of steps was descended with caution, as they were slippery with rain, indeed with more caution than Domitia approved, so impatient was she to reach the object of her journey. The distance was not great. She had but to traverse the upper end of the Forum.That at which she aimed was the prison of Rome. It lay at the foot of the Capitoline Hill, and consisted of an ancient well or subterranean chamber in which flowed a small spring. Above this was the prison, consisting of a series of cells that rose in stages to a considerable height, against the rock, the chambers being in part scooped out of the travestine. From the topof the hill ran a set of steps called the Gemonian stair, and it was customary for State prisoners who had been condemned to death, after execution to be cast from the upper chamber of the Tullianum down the stairs; whence with hooks the corpses were dragged across the Forum and then flung into the Tiber.To the house of the jailer, Domitia with her attendants made her way. She had been stopped once in crossing the Forum, but the watch recognized her, and saluted with respect, though with an expression of astonishment on his countenance at seeing Cæsar’s wife abroad at such a time of the night, in such weather and with such scant attendance.On reaching the jailer’s door, Eboracus knocked. No answer was given. He knocked again and louder, and continued knocking, till at length a gruff voice from within called to know who was without, and what was wanted.“Open—in the name of the Augustus,”said the British slave; and at once the keeper of the prison let down the bars and withdrew the bolts and chains, then carrying a lamp, peered out at those who demanded admittance.Then Domitia stood forward.“You have a prisoner here—Lucius Ælius Lamia?”“Yes.”“You must lead me to him.”Thejailer appeared disconcerted, he held his lamp aloft and eyed the woman who spake. He did not know her, his light was feeble, and as it happened, he had seen little of the Empress.“You do not know me,”said Domitia.“Know you this ring?”The prison-keeper held the flame of his lamp to thesignet, and made the usual sign of respect and recognition.“You are required to lead me within,”said Domitia.The jailer at once stood aside, and suffered the Empress and her attendants to enter. Then he barred and bolted the door again.“And now,”said Domitia, impatient at the leisurely proceeding of the man,“lead me to him.”Without another word he went forward, holding his lamp down that those who followed might see the steps and not stumble at them.“This way,”said he,“and bow your heads, the entrance is low; but most of them that pass this way have to hold their heads still lower when they are taken out. Look at these stones—great blocks built by the Kings—by Servius Tullus, they say. By Hercules! this is not a tavern where men tarry long, nor do they relish our fare. One thing I must say in our favor, we make no charge for our hospitality.”Thus the jailer muttered as he went along.“Look there—on your right—there is the cell where Simon Bar Gioras, the Jew, was strangled—he who was the last to maintain the struggle against the God Titus, in defence of Jerusalem; and see—”he threw open a door.“Here is the Bath of Mamertius in which Jugurtha was starved, all in blackness of darkness and soaking in ice-cold water. What! Impatient—do you not care to see the sights and hear my gossip? Well, well—but I have pretty things to show. I have a shankbone of Appius Claudius, who committed suicide in yon cell, and a garment of Sejanus, and the very bowstring wherewith—I am going on as fast as may be. See! we have had Christians here also. There was another Jew, Simon Petrus by name, he was in thiscell, and I have the chain whereby he was bound, and I sell the links to the followers of the Nazarene,”he began to cackle.“By Hercules! the chain is long enough. They come for more links than there would be, were the chain to reach across the Tiber. But any bit of old iron will serve, and they are not particular—take any scrap and pay in silver. I am going as fast as may be. I am not young. Fast enough I warrant. He is in no hurry—not Lamia. He can wait. All the same to him whether we reach him now or an hour hence.”Then Domitia, whose brow was beaded with cold sweat, like the stones of the vault that ran with moisture, laid hold of the prison-keeper’s arm and said:—“Tell me—is he—”she could not say the word, her heart beat so furiously, and everything swam before her eyes.“Aye, aye, you shall see for yourself. Come from the Augustus to satisfy him that we do our work properly, I trow. I have not much strength in these old-hands, but my two sons are lusty—and say the word—they will bend your back and snap the spine, smite and shear off your head like a pumpkin under a scythe, twist, and the life is throttled out of you. Here—here we are. Go in and see for yourself that we are good workmen.”He threw open a door and raised his lamp.A low vaulted chamber was faintly illumined by the flame, the torch held by Eboracus was behind Domitia and the jailer; he had taken it from the link boy at the prison door. He and Euphrosyne attended their mistress, the boy was left without.The old prison-keeper stood on one side.“The order came yesterday,”said he,“and we are not slack in the execution.”Domitia saw the figure of a man lying on the stone floor. She started forward—“He sleeps!”“I warrant you—right soundly.”She uttered a smothered cry.“Put down the lamp!”She turned and faced the jailer.“Leave me alone with him. I will wake him. I know he but sleeps.”The man hesitated.Then Eboracus pressed forward and laid hold of the jailer and whispered—“Go without, it is the Augusta!”The keeper of the prison started, raised his hand to his lips, bowed, set the lamp on the moist floor and drew back.“Without! Without all!”ordered Domitia.Then Eboracus pulled the jailer out of the cell. Euphrosyne stood doubtful whether to remain with her mistress or obey—but an impatient sign from the Empress drove her forth, and the British slave closed the door.“He is dead,”said the jailer.“Did the Augustus desire to withdraw the order? His signet has arrived too late. The prisoner has been throttled by my sons.”The old man and the two slaves remained for some quarter of an hour in the passage almost smothered by the smoke emitted by the torch.From within they heard a voice—at intervals, now raised in weeping, then uttering low soothing tones, then raised in a cry as theconclamatioof hired wailers for the dead, calling on Lamia by name to return, to return, to leave the Shadowland and come back into light.And then—a laugh.A laugh so weird, so horrible, so unexpected, that with a thrust, without scruple, Eboracus threw open the door.On the stone pavement sat Domitia, her hair dishevelled, and on her lap the head of the dead man. She was wiping his brow with her veil, stooping, kissing his lips, weeping, then laughing again—then pointing to purple letters, crossed L’s woven into his tunic.Eboracus saw it all—her reason was gone.CHAPTER XV.DRAWING TO THE LIGHT.In the old home of Gabii, under the tender care of Euphrosyne and in the soothing company of Glyceria, little by little, stage by stage, Domitia recovered.There was a horrible past to which no reference might be made. The true British slave, Eboracus, was ever at hand to help—when needed. Never a day, never half a day, but his honest face appeared at the door to inquire after his dear lady, and as her senses came flickering back, it was he to whom she clung to take her in his arms into the trellised walk, or when stronger to lead her where she could pick violets for Glyceria, and to pile about the feet of the little statue of the Good Shepherd. He took her a row on the lake and let her fish—he found nests of young birds and brought them to her; and all at once disclosed great powers of story-telling; he told marvellous British tales as to a little child, of the ploughing of Hu Cadarn, of Ceridwen and her cauldron. And he would sing—he fashioned himself a harp, of British shape, and sang as he accompanied himself, but his ballads were all in the Celtic tongue that Domitia could not understand—nevertheless it soothed and pleased her to listen to his music.Longa Duilia did not visit her often. She made formal duty calls at long intervals, and as Domitia became better, these visits grew proportionately fewer.Duilia, as she herself said, was not created to be a nurse. She knew that some were fitted by nature to attend to the sick, and all that sort of thing—but it was not her gift. Society was her sphere in which she floated and which she adorned, but she was distraught and drooping in a sick-room. She wished she had the faculty—and all that sort of thing—but all women were not cast in the same mould, run out of the same metal—and, my dear, parenthetically—some are of lead, others of Corinthian brass—and which are which it is not for me to say—she thanked the Gods it was so.Nor did the visits and efforts to amuse, of Duilia, avail anything towards Domitia’s cure. On the contrary, she was always worse after her mother had been with her. The old lady ripped up ill-healed sores, harped on old associations, could not check her tongue from scolding.“My poor dear child—I never made a greater blunder in my life—I, too, who have the pedigree at my finger’s ends—as to fancy that there was any connection with those Flavians. My dear! yellow hair is quite out of fashion now, quite out. Look at mine, a raven’s wing is not darker. It was through Vespasia Polla—I thought we were related—stupid that I was—it was the Vipsanians we were allied to, not those low and beggarly Vespasians. As the Gods love me, I believe Polla’s father was an army contractor. But I have made it all right. I have smudged out the line I hadadded to the family tree, and as for the wax heads of those Flavians, I have had them melted up. Will you believe it—I had the mask of Domitian run into a pot and that stupid Lucilla did not put a cover on it, and the rats have eaten it—eaten all the wax. I hope it has clogged their stomachs and given them indigestion. They doubtless thought it was dripping. But I really have made a most surprising discovery. I find there was an alliance with the Cocceii—most respectable family, very ancient, admirable men all—and so there is a sort of cousinship with the present admirable prince. His brother Aulus—rather old perhaps—but an estimable man—is—well—may be—in a word, I intend to give a little supper—a dainty affair—all in the best style—so sorry you can’t be there, my dear Domitia—but of course absolutely impossible. Your state of health and all that sort of thing. Don’t be surprised if you hear—but there, there—he is rather old though, for one who is only just turning off the very bloom of life and beauty.”After such a visit and such talk the mind of Domitia was troubled for several days. She became timid, alarmed at the least noise, and distraught. But then the poor crippled woman succeeded in comforting and laying her troubles, and the painful expression faded from her face. It became placid, but always with a sadness that was inseparable from the eyes, and a tremulousness of the lips, as though a very little—a rough word or two—would dissolve her into tears.With the spring, the growing light, the increasing warmth, the bursting life in plant and insect, she began to amend more steadily, and relapses became fewer.One sweet spring day, when Glyceria had been carried forth into the garden, and Domitia sat on the turf near her with purple anemones in her lap, that she was binding into a garland, the paralyzed woman was startled by hearing Domitia suddenly speak of the past.She spoke, and continued weaving the flowers,“My Glyceria, I intend this for the little temple of my father. It is all I can do for him—to give flowers where his ashes lie—but it does not content me. There were two whom I loved and looked up to as the best of men, and both are gone—gone to dust: my own dearest father, and my lover, my husband, Lamia. I cannot bear to think of them as heaps of ashes or as wandering ghosts. When that thought comes over me, I seem to be as one drowning, and then darkness is before my eyes. I cannot cry—I smother.”“Why should you think of them as wandering ghosts or as heaps of dust?”“I know that they are dust—I suppose they are shadows. But of anything else, all is guess-work, we know nothing—and that is so horrible. I love two only—have loved two only—and they are no more than shadows. No, no! I mean not that.”She flung her arms about Glyceria, and laid her cheek against that of the sick woman.“No, I do love you, and I love Euphrosyne and I love Eboracus. But I mean—I mean in a different manner. One was my father, and the other my husband. It is so terribly sad to think they are lost to me like yesterday or last summer.”“They are not lost. You will see them again.”“See my father! See my Lamia!”“Yes—I know it will be so.”“O, Glyceria, do not say such things. You make my heart jump. How can it be? They have been.”“They are and will be. Death is swallowed up in Life.”“That is impossible. Death is death and nothing more.”Then Glyceria took the hand of Domitia, and looking into her eyes, said solemnly:“Dost thou remember having asked me about the Fish?”“Yes—this amulet,”answered the noble lady, and she detached the cornelian from her throat, and held it in the hand not engaged by Glyceria.“Yes—I recollect—there was some mystery, but what was it?”“The Fish is a symbol, as I said once before, and it is no amulet.”“Of what is it the symbol?”“Of One who died—who tasted of the bitterness of the parting of soul and body, and who went into the region of Shadows and returned—the soul to the body, and rose from the dead, and by the virtue of His resurrection gives power to all who believe in Him to rise in like manner.”“And he could tell about what the ghosts do—how they wander?”“I cannot say that. There would be no comfort in that. He rose to give us joy and to rob death of its terrors.”“But what has this to do with the Fish?”“You know what the word Fish is in Greek.”“Very well.”“Take each letter of that word, and each letter is the first of words that contain the very substance of the Christian belief—Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the Saviour.”Domitia looked at the little cornelian fish; she could not understand.“I believe that one could die and wake again. I have fainted and come round. And he might say what was in the spirit world into which he had been—but the region of ghosts is very dreary, very sad.”“Nay, He can do more. As He rose, He can raise us to new life, and He will do it, for He is God. He made us, and He will recall us from death.”“What—my father! Lucius! I shall see them again—not as shadows, but as they were—?”“Not so—not as they were, mortal; but raised to an immortal life.”“I shall kiss my darling father—put my arms around my Lucius from whom I have been parted so long, and so cruelly, and who has been so—so true to me.”Then Domitia burst into tears.Glyceria stroked her hand.“There—you see how joyous is our hope. Death is nothing—it is only a good-bye for a bit to meet again.”“O, Glyceria! O, if I could see them—O Glyceria! O, you should not have said this if it be not true. My heart will break. O, if it might be so! if I could! but once only—for a moment——”“Nay, that would not suffice; forever, never to be separated; no more tears, no more death.”“O, Glyceria—not another word—I cannot bear it. My heart is over full. Another time. My head, my head! O, if it might—it could be!”Next day Glyceria saw by the red eyes of Domitia that she had slept little and had wept much. She did not turn the conversation to the same topic; she wisely waited for the noble lady to begin on it herself, and she judged that she would take some time to consider what had been spoken about and to digest it.And in fact Domitia made no further allusion to the matter for some days. But after about a week, when alone with the paralyzed woman, she said to her abruptly:“You have never been in Syria?”“No, dear lady.”“I have—and I have been on the confines of the desert and looked away, as far as the eye could reach, and have seen nothing but sand and barren rock. Behind me a rose-garden, syringas, myrtle and citron trees, and murmuring streams, before me—no green leaf, only death. It is to me, as I stand now and look back on my life as if it were that barren desert; and the fearful thing is—I dare not turn and look the other way, for it is into impenetrable night. But no, my life is not all desolation, there are just two green spots in it where the date palms stand and there are wells—my childhood, when I sat on my father’s knee and cuddled into his arms; and once again, when I was recovering from the loss of him and was basking in the joy of my love for Lucius Lamia. All the rest—”she made a gesture of despair—“Death.”“Dearest lady! I would like to turn you about and show you that where you think only blackness reigns, lies a beautiful garden, a paradise, and One at the gate who beckons and says, Come unto Me, all you that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”“Ah! but that may be all fancy and dream work like the promises of the Magi, and the mysteries of Isis.”Glyceria got no further than this. Domitia was disposed to talk with her on her hope, and on the Christian belief, but always with reserve and some mistrust.There were old prejudices to be overcome, there was the consciousness that the promises so largely madeby the votaries of the many cults from East and South who came to Rome were unfulfilled, and this made her unable to place confidence in the new religion held by slaves and ignorant people, however alluring it might seem.Among the very few who came to Gabii during her illness and convalescence, was Flavia Domitilla, the widow of Flavius Clemens, who had been put to death by Domitian. Domitilla had been banished, but returned immediately on the death of the tyrant. She had suffered as had Domitia. In her manner and address there was something so gentle and assuring, that the poor ex-empress, in the troubled condition of her brain, was drawn to her, and after her visits felt better. She knew, or rather supposed, that Domitilla was a Christian. Her husband had been one, and had suffered for his faith.It was with real pleasure that she ran to welcome her one morning, when the steward entered and announced:“The Lady Flavia Domitilla.”
CHAPTER XIII.THE HOUR OF TWELVE.For some moments Domitia remained without stirring. But then, roused by a glare of lightning, succeeded by a crash so loud as to shake the palace, she saw in the white blaze the tablets of the Emperor lying on the table.At once, aware of the importance of what she had secured, she seized them, and went to the lamp to open them.They consisted of thin citron-wood boards, framed and hinged on one side, the surfaces within covered with a film of wax, on which notes were inscribed with astileor iron pen. There were stray leaves that served for correspondence, orders and so forth, but what Domitia now held was a diptych, that is to say, two leaves hinged, like a book-cover, which had included loose sheets and were bound together by strings.She at once opened the diptych, and saw on the first page:—“To be executed immediately:—In the Tullianum, by strangulation,Lucius Ælius Lamia Plautius Ælianus.To be torn by dogs:—The Chaldæan Elymas, otherwise called Ascletarion.”On the second leaf:“To be executed on the morrow:—By decapitation:Petronius Secundus, Præfect of the Prætorium.Norbanus, likewise Præfect of the Prætorium.By strangling, in the Tullianum:Parthenius and Sigerius, Chamberlains of the Palace.To be bled to death:Stephanus: steward to my niece Domitilla.Entellus: Secretaryalibellis.”The words applying to Lamia acted on her as a blow against her heart. She staggered to a stool, sank on it and struggled for breath.But the urgency of the danger allowed no delay—she rallied her strength immediately, flew from the room and summoned Eboracus.To him, breathless, she said:“Fly—summon me at once Stephanus the steward, Petronius and Norbanus, præfects, and the chamberlains Parthenius and Sigerius. Bid them come to me at once—not make a moment’s delay.”She sank again on the stool and put her hands to her temples and pressed them.The lightning continued to flare and the thunder to roll. There ensued a turmoil, and a sound of voices crying; then a rush of feet. Euphrosyne entered with startled mien—“My mistress! The bolt of heaven has fallen on the Palatine, and the chamber of theAugustus has been struck. The Temple of the Flavians is on fire, and is burning in despite of the rain.”The chamberlain, Parthenius, entered.“Augusta!”said he,“the lightning has struck that part of the palace occupied by Cæsar. He must have his apartment for the night on this side.”“That is well,”answered Domitia.“Parthenius, have you received my message from Eboracus?”“No, lady.”“Then read this,”she extended to him the wax tablets.The chamberlain turned ash gray and trembled.“Parthenius,”said Domitia,“it is no vain augury that lightning has struck the Temple of the Flavians, and driven Cæsar from his apartments. Let his place of rest be to-night in the room adjoining this—and—if he wakes—”she looked at the clepsydra, as at that moment with a click the wheel turned and Saturn moved his scythe—“there is but an hour in which the fate of more than yourself, of Lamia—of Entellus must be decided. Take the tablets.”Scarce had she spoken, before quick steps were heard, and in a moment Domitian entered.Parthenius hastily concealed the tablets by throwing a fold of his garment over the hand that held them.“Sire,”said he,“I have come to announce that thy chamber must be on this side.”“Go thy way,”said Domitian roughly,“see to it that I have a bed brought at once. Hast heard, Domitia, the fire has fallen!”“Sire,”said Parthenius,“I haste to obey and pray the Gods that in spite of thunder and lightning you may sleep sound and not wake.”The Emperor walked to the clepsydra, and laughed scornfully.“The bolt of Jove has missed me,”said he.“The red-handed One made a mistake. I am wont to be in bed at this hour—by good luck, this night I was not. He has levelled his bolt at my pillow and burnt that—I am escaped scot-free. Now I have no further fear.”“The temple of your divine family is in flames.”“What care I? I will rebuild it—the majesty, the divinity of the Flavians resides not in stones and marble—it is incorporate in Me. I may have been in danger for a moment. Now I snap my fingers in the face of that blunderer Jove, who burnt a hole in my pillow instead of transfixing my head. And yon old Chronos—”he made a sign of contempt towards scythed Time,“I defy thee and thy bucket of blood. Twelve o’clock! In spite of Jove’s bolt, and the summons of Cornelia—I shall be asleep by that hour.”“I pray the Gods it may be so.”Then Domitian went out precipitately. His defiant attitude, his daring talk did not serve to disguise the alarm which he felt. Suddenly, after having left the room he turned, came back and said,“Domitia! What sword is that? What need has a woman with a sword?”He pointed to that of Corbulo, suspended against the wall.He went to it and took it down.“Leave it,”said she harshly.“It is that on which my father fell. It is stained likewise with the blood of Nero.”He held it by the scabbard. She caught the handle and, as he turned, drew forth the blade.At the same moment he heard steps in the passageapproaching the door, and without noticing that he held but the sheath, or else purposing to demand the weapon itself later, when the interruption was over, he walked towards the entrance uttering an expression of impatience, holding the empty scabbard in his right hand.In the doorway stood Stephanus, a freedman, the steward of Flavia Domitilla, wife, or rather widow of Clemens, whom Domitian had recently put to death. Domitilla had been exiled, and the Emperor had appropriated to his own use the estates of his kinsman.“Why camest thou hither?”asked the prince roughly.“I shall have enough to say to thee on the morrow because of thy embezzlements.”“Augustus! I am innocent.”“A thief, a vile purloiner, a blood-sucking leech, that has fattened as do all thy kind on thy masters. Go thy way—I want thee not here.”And striding towards him, with Corbulo’s scabbard he struck the freedman across the face.Stephanus uttered a cry of rage and pain, and instantly smote at the Emperor with a dagger he had held concealed in his sleeve.“What, hound! You dare! You shall be flayed alive! Ho! to my aid!”Stephanus threw himself on the Emperor.Then Domitia stepped between the struggling men and the doorway, and with one hand drew together the curtains so as to muffle the cries.“To my aid! to my aid!”called Domitian, as the powerful steward grappled him, and struck his dagger into the thigh of the prince.“To my aid! Ho, a sword!”shouted the Emperor, and he grasped the weapon of the steward butso that, holding the blade with his hand, the weapon cut it across and the blood streamed forth.He now made an effort to reach the doorway; and the steward, holding him, strove to wrench away the dagger and inflict a mortal wound. But Domitian, aware of his object, with his bleeding hand retained his grasp of the blade.All at once, the Emperor let go his hold, and seizing the steward by the head drove his thumbs into his eyes.Stephanus instantly dropped the dagger in his attempt to save himself from being blinded.The two men twisted and writhed in grapple with each other. The freedman was a powerful man—it was for this reason he had been sent to despatch the prince. But Domitian was battling for his life. Though his legs were thin and out of proportion to his body, he was a strong man—he had ever maintained his vigor by exercise of the muscles and had never weakened himself by excess in eating and drinking.By a happy turn he flung Stephanus, but clasped by him fell with him on the floor.And now the two men rolled and tossed in a tangled mass together. Their snorts and gasps and the bestial growl of rage filled the room.“Quick! Domitia—the sword! At once—the sword—the sword!”said the Emperor. He spoke in gulps and gasps.He had Stephanus under him; his knee was on his chest and his hand, the gashed left hand flowing with blood, contracted the prostrate man’s throat.“Domitia! the sword!”DOMITIA! THE SWORD!“DOMITIA! THE SWORD!”Page 316.But she stood, stern, cold, without stirring a step,and she folded the sword of her father to her breast, with her arms crossed over it.“Because of Paris—No!”“The sword! be speedy. I will finish him!”“Because of Cornelia—No!”“Domitia—help!”“Because of Lucius Lamia—No!”She went to the curtains, drew them apart, and called down the passage to Norbanus.The two Prætorian præfects were there with the chamberlains—but they were ill able to restrain the guard who suspected that their prince and Emperor was in danger and scented treachery.Instantly a rush was made. Some of the soldiers, with the præfect Norbanus, came on running, whilst the other, Petronius Secundus, endeavored by his authority to restrain the rest.But from the other end of the passage came gladiators running, hastily brought together by Parthenius.For a moment there was a jam in the doorway, a burly gladiator and a soldier of the guard were wedged together, each endeavoring to hold the other back and force himself in.Meanwhile Petronius continued to exhort his soldiers to stand back, and Parthenius to promise rewards to the gladiators who pressed on. The tumult became terrible. Men came to blows without, there was a running together of slaves and freedmen—of frightened women and pages from all sides. Some had leaped from their beds, roused from sleep, and were not clothed. Some bore lamps—but again certain others attempted to extinguish the lights. Some cried“Treason!”Others“Away with the monster!”Some called out“Nerva is theEmperor!”others“Domitian is the Augustus!”Then the gladiator at the door, by dint of elbowing, forced his way within, but he was unarmed.Next moment the Prætorian guardsman held back by the gladiator entered and struck at Stephanus, dealing a frightful blow.Relieved by this assistance, Domitian staggered to his feet and glared about him. He was too much out of breath to speak, and in at the door came others pressing, some crying one thing, some another.Then Domitia unfolded her arms, and taking the sword of Corbulo in her right hand, extended it to the gladiator and said—“Make an end.”The man snatched at the haft; and with a blow drove the blade into the breast of the Emperor.Still the prince remained standing, and stretched forth his hands gropingly for a weapon.Parmenas leaped at him, and with a knife struck him in the throat.Then he reeled; in another moment he was surrounded, blows from all sides were rained on him. Again the sword of Corbulo was lifted and again smote, and he fell as a heap on the body of Stephanus.For a moment there was stillness.Then in that hush sounded a click and a gush. The bucket of the clepsydra had discharged, and with a jerk Saturn raised his scythe and pointed to the hour of midnight.“He has answered his summons before the seat of Divine Justice!”said Domitia.She stooped and plucked the signet ring from the finger of the murdered prince.
For some moments Domitia remained without stirring. But then, roused by a glare of lightning, succeeded by a crash so loud as to shake the palace, she saw in the white blaze the tablets of the Emperor lying on the table.
At once, aware of the importance of what she had secured, she seized them, and went to the lamp to open them.
They consisted of thin citron-wood boards, framed and hinged on one side, the surfaces within covered with a film of wax, on which notes were inscribed with astileor iron pen. There were stray leaves that served for correspondence, orders and so forth, but what Domitia now held was a diptych, that is to say, two leaves hinged, like a book-cover, which had included loose sheets and were bound together by strings.
She at once opened the diptych, and saw on the first page:—
“To be executed immediately:—In the Tullianum, by strangulation,Lucius Ælius Lamia Plautius Ælianus.To be torn by dogs:—The Chaldæan Elymas, otherwise called Ascletarion.”
On the second leaf:
“To be executed on the morrow:—By decapitation:Petronius Secundus, Præfect of the Prætorium.Norbanus, likewise Præfect of the Prætorium.By strangling, in the Tullianum:Parthenius and Sigerius, Chamberlains of the Palace.To be bled to death:Stephanus: steward to my niece Domitilla.Entellus: Secretaryalibellis.”
The words applying to Lamia acted on her as a blow against her heart. She staggered to a stool, sank on it and struggled for breath.
But the urgency of the danger allowed no delay—she rallied her strength immediately, flew from the room and summoned Eboracus.
To him, breathless, she said:“Fly—summon me at once Stephanus the steward, Petronius and Norbanus, præfects, and the chamberlains Parthenius and Sigerius. Bid them come to me at once—not make a moment’s delay.”
She sank again on the stool and put her hands to her temples and pressed them.
The lightning continued to flare and the thunder to roll. There ensued a turmoil, and a sound of voices crying; then a rush of feet. Euphrosyne entered with startled mien—“My mistress! The bolt of heaven has fallen on the Palatine, and the chamber of theAugustus has been struck. The Temple of the Flavians is on fire, and is burning in despite of the rain.”
The chamberlain, Parthenius, entered.
“Augusta!”said he,“the lightning has struck that part of the palace occupied by Cæsar. He must have his apartment for the night on this side.”
“That is well,”answered Domitia.“Parthenius, have you received my message from Eboracus?”
“No, lady.”
“Then read this,”she extended to him the wax tablets.
The chamberlain turned ash gray and trembled.
“Parthenius,”said Domitia,“it is no vain augury that lightning has struck the Temple of the Flavians, and driven Cæsar from his apartments. Let his place of rest be to-night in the room adjoining this—and—if he wakes—”she looked at the clepsydra, as at that moment with a click the wheel turned and Saturn moved his scythe—“there is but an hour in which the fate of more than yourself, of Lamia—of Entellus must be decided. Take the tablets.”
Scarce had she spoken, before quick steps were heard, and in a moment Domitian entered.
Parthenius hastily concealed the tablets by throwing a fold of his garment over the hand that held them.“Sire,”said he,“I have come to announce that thy chamber must be on this side.”
“Go thy way,”said Domitian roughly,“see to it that I have a bed brought at once. Hast heard, Domitia, the fire has fallen!”
“Sire,”said Parthenius,“I haste to obey and pray the Gods that in spite of thunder and lightning you may sleep sound and not wake.”
The Emperor walked to the clepsydra, and laughed scornfully.“The bolt of Jove has missed me,”said he.“The red-handed One made a mistake. I am wont to be in bed at this hour—by good luck, this night I was not. He has levelled his bolt at my pillow and burnt that—I am escaped scot-free. Now I have no further fear.”
“The temple of your divine family is in flames.”
“What care I? I will rebuild it—the majesty, the divinity of the Flavians resides not in stones and marble—it is incorporate in Me. I may have been in danger for a moment. Now I snap my fingers in the face of that blunderer Jove, who burnt a hole in my pillow instead of transfixing my head. And yon old Chronos—”he made a sign of contempt towards scythed Time,“I defy thee and thy bucket of blood. Twelve o’clock! In spite of Jove’s bolt, and the summons of Cornelia—I shall be asleep by that hour.”
“I pray the Gods it may be so.”
Then Domitian went out precipitately. His defiant attitude, his daring talk did not serve to disguise the alarm which he felt. Suddenly, after having left the room he turned, came back and said,“Domitia! What sword is that? What need has a woman with a sword?”
He pointed to that of Corbulo, suspended against the wall.
He went to it and took it down.
“Leave it,”said she harshly.“It is that on which my father fell. It is stained likewise with the blood of Nero.”
He held it by the scabbard. She caught the handle and, as he turned, drew forth the blade.
At the same moment he heard steps in the passageapproaching the door, and without noticing that he held but the sheath, or else purposing to demand the weapon itself later, when the interruption was over, he walked towards the entrance uttering an expression of impatience, holding the empty scabbard in his right hand.
In the doorway stood Stephanus, a freedman, the steward of Flavia Domitilla, wife, or rather widow of Clemens, whom Domitian had recently put to death. Domitilla had been exiled, and the Emperor had appropriated to his own use the estates of his kinsman.
“Why camest thou hither?”asked the prince roughly.“I shall have enough to say to thee on the morrow because of thy embezzlements.”
“Augustus! I am innocent.”
“A thief, a vile purloiner, a blood-sucking leech, that has fattened as do all thy kind on thy masters. Go thy way—I want thee not here.”
And striding towards him, with Corbulo’s scabbard he struck the freedman across the face.
Stephanus uttered a cry of rage and pain, and instantly smote at the Emperor with a dagger he had held concealed in his sleeve.
“What, hound! You dare! You shall be flayed alive! Ho! to my aid!”
Stephanus threw himself on the Emperor.
Then Domitia stepped between the struggling men and the doorway, and with one hand drew together the curtains so as to muffle the cries.
“To my aid! to my aid!”called Domitian, as the powerful steward grappled him, and struck his dagger into the thigh of the prince.
“To my aid! Ho, a sword!”shouted the Emperor, and he grasped the weapon of the steward butso that, holding the blade with his hand, the weapon cut it across and the blood streamed forth.
He now made an effort to reach the doorway; and the steward, holding him, strove to wrench away the dagger and inflict a mortal wound. But Domitian, aware of his object, with his bleeding hand retained his grasp of the blade.
All at once, the Emperor let go his hold, and seizing the steward by the head drove his thumbs into his eyes.
Stephanus instantly dropped the dagger in his attempt to save himself from being blinded.
The two men twisted and writhed in grapple with each other. The freedman was a powerful man—it was for this reason he had been sent to despatch the prince. But Domitian was battling for his life. Though his legs were thin and out of proportion to his body, he was a strong man—he had ever maintained his vigor by exercise of the muscles and had never weakened himself by excess in eating and drinking.
By a happy turn he flung Stephanus, but clasped by him fell with him on the floor.
And now the two men rolled and tossed in a tangled mass together. Their snorts and gasps and the bestial growl of rage filled the room.
“Quick! Domitia—the sword! At once—the sword—the sword!”said the Emperor. He spoke in gulps and gasps.
He had Stephanus under him; his knee was on his chest and his hand, the gashed left hand flowing with blood, contracted the prostrate man’s throat.
“Domitia! the sword!”
DOMITIA! THE SWORD!“DOMITIA! THE SWORD!”Page 316.
“DOMITIA! THE SWORD!”Page 316.
But she stood, stern, cold, without stirring a step,and she folded the sword of her father to her breast, with her arms crossed over it.
“Because of Paris—No!”
“The sword! be speedy. I will finish him!”
“Because of Cornelia—No!”
“Domitia—help!”
“Because of Lucius Lamia—No!”
She went to the curtains, drew them apart, and called down the passage to Norbanus.
The two Prætorian præfects were there with the chamberlains—but they were ill able to restrain the guard who suspected that their prince and Emperor was in danger and scented treachery.
Instantly a rush was made. Some of the soldiers, with the præfect Norbanus, came on running, whilst the other, Petronius Secundus, endeavored by his authority to restrain the rest.
But from the other end of the passage came gladiators running, hastily brought together by Parthenius.
For a moment there was a jam in the doorway, a burly gladiator and a soldier of the guard were wedged together, each endeavoring to hold the other back and force himself in.
Meanwhile Petronius continued to exhort his soldiers to stand back, and Parthenius to promise rewards to the gladiators who pressed on. The tumult became terrible. Men came to blows without, there was a running together of slaves and freedmen—of frightened women and pages from all sides. Some had leaped from their beds, roused from sleep, and were not clothed. Some bore lamps—but again certain others attempted to extinguish the lights. Some cried“Treason!”Others“Away with the monster!”Some called out“Nerva is theEmperor!”others“Domitian is the Augustus!”
Then the gladiator at the door, by dint of elbowing, forced his way within, but he was unarmed.
Next moment the Prætorian guardsman held back by the gladiator entered and struck at Stephanus, dealing a frightful blow.
Relieved by this assistance, Domitian staggered to his feet and glared about him. He was too much out of breath to speak, and in at the door came others pressing, some crying one thing, some another.
Then Domitia unfolded her arms, and taking the sword of Corbulo in her right hand, extended it to the gladiator and said—“Make an end.”
The man snatched at the haft; and with a blow drove the blade into the breast of the Emperor.
Still the prince remained standing, and stretched forth his hands gropingly for a weapon.
Parmenas leaped at him, and with a knife struck him in the throat.
Then he reeled; in another moment he was surrounded, blows from all sides were rained on him. Again the sword of Corbulo was lifted and again smote, and he fell as a heap on the body of Stephanus.
For a moment there was stillness.
Then in that hush sounded a click and a gush. The bucket of the clepsydra had discharged, and with a jerk Saturn raised his scythe and pointed to the hour of midnight.
“He has answered his summons before the seat of Divine Justice!”said Domitia.
She stooped and plucked the signet ring from the finger of the murdered prince.
CHAPTER XIV.IN THE TULLIANUM.No sooner had Domitia got the signet from the finger of the dead Emperor, than she hastened from the room, trembling, almost blind as to her course, but armed with more than her natural strength to force her way through those who filled the passage.Parmenas was now there, and he cleared a way for her, and in a loud voice forbade any of the slaves to leave the palace; Petronius at the same time gave orders to the soldiers of the guard to remain where they were, keeping watch that none left to spread the tidings, until Cocceius Nerva had been communicated with, and the Senate had been summoned.Domitia, however, made her way from among the excited and alarmed throng, and finding some of her own slaves, bade them bring Eboracus to her.“I am here, lady,”answered the Briton.“Then quick—with me. Not a moment is to be lost. Light a torch and lead the way.”“Whither, mistress?”“To the Tullianum.”He stared at her in amazement.“Quick—a life, a precious life is at stake. Not a minute must we delay or it will be too late.”“I am ready, lady.”He snatched a torch from an attendant, and advanced towards a postern gate that communicated with a flight of steps leading to the Forum. It was employed almostwholly by the servants and was used for communication between the kitchen and the markets.“Shall we take any one else with us?”asked Eboracus. He answered himself—“Yes—here is Euphrosyne. She shall attend, and a boy shall carry the link. At night—and on such a night, I must have both arms at my disposal.”Domitia said nothing. She was eager to be on her way, was impatient of the smallest delay. Euphrosyne came up, and obeyed a sign from the Briton. He caught a scullion who was rubbing his sleepy eyes, and wondering what had caused the commotion, and had roused him from his bed. Eboracus thrust the torch into his hand and opened the door for the Empress.Domitia stepped out to the head of the stairs. The rain had ceased, but the steps were running with water. The eaves dripped. The shrubs were laden with rain, they stooped their boughs and shed a load of moisture on the soil, then raised their leaves again, once more to accumulate the wet, and again to stoop and shower it down. Runnels conveying water from the roof were flowing as streams, noisily: the ground covered with pools, reflected the torch; as also every gleam from the retiring storm. Still in the distance thunder muttered, but it was a grumble of discontent at having failed to achieve all it had been sent to execute.On such a night few would be abroad, except the patrols of theVigilesand them there would be no difficulty in passing as the watchword was known to Eboracus, the word which allowed those only who could say it to traverse the streets at night in the respectable portions of the city. But there were no lamps, not even the feeble glimmer of a lantern slung in the midst of the street. Notwithstanding all the civilization of ancient Rome the art of lighting the thoroughfares at night was unknown. Such as were constrained to walk abroad after dark were attended by slaves bearing torches.The streets of Rome had for long been of bad repute for the brawls and murders committed in them at night. Tipsy youths and rufflers had assaulted honest men, and should a woman be out after dark, she was certain of insult. Nero himself had distinguished himself in such vulgar performances. But under the Flavian princes much had been done to establish order and to ensure protection to life and purse of such as were out after dark, so that now, except in the slums, a citizen could visit his friends, a doctor his patients, by night, without fear of molestation.And of all portions of Rome, the Forum with its splendid monuments, its rich temples, especially that of Saturn, that contained the city treasures, was most patrolled and therefore the safest. Eboracus had little expectation that his mistress would meet with rudeness or encounter danger, the rain must have swept the street of all idlers.The long flight of steps was descended with caution, as they were slippery with rain, indeed with more caution than Domitia approved, so impatient was she to reach the object of her journey. The distance was not great. She had but to traverse the upper end of the Forum.That at which she aimed was the prison of Rome. It lay at the foot of the Capitoline Hill, and consisted of an ancient well or subterranean chamber in which flowed a small spring. Above this was the prison, consisting of a series of cells that rose in stages to a considerable height, against the rock, the chambers being in part scooped out of the travestine. From the topof the hill ran a set of steps called the Gemonian stair, and it was customary for State prisoners who had been condemned to death, after execution to be cast from the upper chamber of the Tullianum down the stairs; whence with hooks the corpses were dragged across the Forum and then flung into the Tiber.To the house of the jailer, Domitia with her attendants made her way. She had been stopped once in crossing the Forum, but the watch recognized her, and saluted with respect, though with an expression of astonishment on his countenance at seeing Cæsar’s wife abroad at such a time of the night, in such weather and with such scant attendance.On reaching the jailer’s door, Eboracus knocked. No answer was given. He knocked again and louder, and continued knocking, till at length a gruff voice from within called to know who was without, and what was wanted.“Open—in the name of the Augustus,”said the British slave; and at once the keeper of the prison let down the bars and withdrew the bolts and chains, then carrying a lamp, peered out at those who demanded admittance.Then Domitia stood forward.“You have a prisoner here—Lucius Ælius Lamia?”“Yes.”“You must lead me to him.”Thejailer appeared disconcerted, he held his lamp aloft and eyed the woman who spake. He did not know her, his light was feeble, and as it happened, he had seen little of the Empress.“You do not know me,”said Domitia.“Know you this ring?”The prison-keeper held the flame of his lamp to thesignet, and made the usual sign of respect and recognition.“You are required to lead me within,”said Domitia.The jailer at once stood aside, and suffered the Empress and her attendants to enter. Then he barred and bolted the door again.“And now,”said Domitia, impatient at the leisurely proceeding of the man,“lead me to him.”Without another word he went forward, holding his lamp down that those who followed might see the steps and not stumble at them.“This way,”said he,“and bow your heads, the entrance is low; but most of them that pass this way have to hold their heads still lower when they are taken out. Look at these stones—great blocks built by the Kings—by Servius Tullus, they say. By Hercules! this is not a tavern where men tarry long, nor do they relish our fare. One thing I must say in our favor, we make no charge for our hospitality.”Thus the jailer muttered as he went along.“Look there—on your right—there is the cell where Simon Bar Gioras, the Jew, was strangled—he who was the last to maintain the struggle against the God Titus, in defence of Jerusalem; and see—”he threw open a door.“Here is the Bath of Mamertius in which Jugurtha was starved, all in blackness of darkness and soaking in ice-cold water. What! Impatient—do you not care to see the sights and hear my gossip? Well, well—but I have pretty things to show. I have a shankbone of Appius Claudius, who committed suicide in yon cell, and a garment of Sejanus, and the very bowstring wherewith—I am going on as fast as may be. See! we have had Christians here also. There was another Jew, Simon Petrus by name, he was in thiscell, and I have the chain whereby he was bound, and I sell the links to the followers of the Nazarene,”he began to cackle.“By Hercules! the chain is long enough. They come for more links than there would be, were the chain to reach across the Tiber. But any bit of old iron will serve, and they are not particular—take any scrap and pay in silver. I am going as fast as may be. I am not young. Fast enough I warrant. He is in no hurry—not Lamia. He can wait. All the same to him whether we reach him now or an hour hence.”Then Domitia, whose brow was beaded with cold sweat, like the stones of the vault that ran with moisture, laid hold of the prison-keeper’s arm and said:—“Tell me—is he—”she could not say the word, her heart beat so furiously, and everything swam before her eyes.“Aye, aye, you shall see for yourself. Come from the Augustus to satisfy him that we do our work properly, I trow. I have not much strength in these old-hands, but my two sons are lusty—and say the word—they will bend your back and snap the spine, smite and shear off your head like a pumpkin under a scythe, twist, and the life is throttled out of you. Here—here we are. Go in and see for yourself that we are good workmen.”He threw open a door and raised his lamp.A low vaulted chamber was faintly illumined by the flame, the torch held by Eboracus was behind Domitia and the jailer; he had taken it from the link boy at the prison door. He and Euphrosyne attended their mistress, the boy was left without.The old prison-keeper stood on one side.“The order came yesterday,”said he,“and we are not slack in the execution.”Domitia saw the figure of a man lying on the stone floor. She started forward—“He sleeps!”“I warrant you—right soundly.”She uttered a smothered cry.“Put down the lamp!”She turned and faced the jailer.“Leave me alone with him. I will wake him. I know he but sleeps.”The man hesitated.Then Eboracus pressed forward and laid hold of the jailer and whispered—“Go without, it is the Augusta!”The keeper of the prison started, raised his hand to his lips, bowed, set the lamp on the moist floor and drew back.“Without! Without all!”ordered Domitia.Then Eboracus pulled the jailer out of the cell. Euphrosyne stood doubtful whether to remain with her mistress or obey—but an impatient sign from the Empress drove her forth, and the British slave closed the door.“He is dead,”said the jailer.“Did the Augustus desire to withdraw the order? His signet has arrived too late. The prisoner has been throttled by my sons.”The old man and the two slaves remained for some quarter of an hour in the passage almost smothered by the smoke emitted by the torch.From within they heard a voice—at intervals, now raised in weeping, then uttering low soothing tones, then raised in a cry as theconclamatioof hired wailers for the dead, calling on Lamia by name to return, to return, to leave the Shadowland and come back into light.And then—a laugh.A laugh so weird, so horrible, so unexpected, that with a thrust, without scruple, Eboracus threw open the door.On the stone pavement sat Domitia, her hair dishevelled, and on her lap the head of the dead man. She was wiping his brow with her veil, stooping, kissing his lips, weeping, then laughing again—then pointing to purple letters, crossed L’s woven into his tunic.Eboracus saw it all—her reason was gone.
No sooner had Domitia got the signet from the finger of the dead Emperor, than she hastened from the room, trembling, almost blind as to her course, but armed with more than her natural strength to force her way through those who filled the passage.
Parmenas was now there, and he cleared a way for her, and in a loud voice forbade any of the slaves to leave the palace; Petronius at the same time gave orders to the soldiers of the guard to remain where they were, keeping watch that none left to spread the tidings, until Cocceius Nerva had been communicated with, and the Senate had been summoned.
Domitia, however, made her way from among the excited and alarmed throng, and finding some of her own slaves, bade them bring Eboracus to her.
“I am here, lady,”answered the Briton.
“Then quick—with me. Not a moment is to be lost. Light a torch and lead the way.”
“Whither, mistress?”
“To the Tullianum.”
He stared at her in amazement.
“Quick—a life, a precious life is at stake. Not a minute must we delay or it will be too late.”
“I am ready, lady.”
He snatched a torch from an attendant, and advanced towards a postern gate that communicated with a flight of steps leading to the Forum. It was employed almostwholly by the servants and was used for communication between the kitchen and the markets.
“Shall we take any one else with us?”asked Eboracus. He answered himself—“Yes—here is Euphrosyne. She shall attend, and a boy shall carry the link. At night—and on such a night, I must have both arms at my disposal.”
Domitia said nothing. She was eager to be on her way, was impatient of the smallest delay. Euphrosyne came up, and obeyed a sign from the Briton. He caught a scullion who was rubbing his sleepy eyes, and wondering what had caused the commotion, and had roused him from his bed. Eboracus thrust the torch into his hand and opened the door for the Empress.
Domitia stepped out to the head of the stairs. The rain had ceased, but the steps were running with water. The eaves dripped. The shrubs were laden with rain, they stooped their boughs and shed a load of moisture on the soil, then raised their leaves again, once more to accumulate the wet, and again to stoop and shower it down. Runnels conveying water from the roof were flowing as streams, noisily: the ground covered with pools, reflected the torch; as also every gleam from the retiring storm. Still in the distance thunder muttered, but it was a grumble of discontent at having failed to achieve all it had been sent to execute.
On such a night few would be abroad, except the patrols of theVigilesand them there would be no difficulty in passing as the watchword was known to Eboracus, the word which allowed those only who could say it to traverse the streets at night in the respectable portions of the city. But there were no lamps, not even the feeble glimmer of a lantern slung in the midst of the street. Notwithstanding all the civilization of ancient Rome the art of lighting the thoroughfares at night was unknown. Such as were constrained to walk abroad after dark were attended by slaves bearing torches.
The streets of Rome had for long been of bad repute for the brawls and murders committed in them at night. Tipsy youths and rufflers had assaulted honest men, and should a woman be out after dark, she was certain of insult. Nero himself had distinguished himself in such vulgar performances. But under the Flavian princes much had been done to establish order and to ensure protection to life and purse of such as were out after dark, so that now, except in the slums, a citizen could visit his friends, a doctor his patients, by night, without fear of molestation.
And of all portions of Rome, the Forum with its splendid monuments, its rich temples, especially that of Saturn, that contained the city treasures, was most patrolled and therefore the safest. Eboracus had little expectation that his mistress would meet with rudeness or encounter danger, the rain must have swept the street of all idlers.
The long flight of steps was descended with caution, as they were slippery with rain, indeed with more caution than Domitia approved, so impatient was she to reach the object of her journey. The distance was not great. She had but to traverse the upper end of the Forum.
That at which she aimed was the prison of Rome. It lay at the foot of the Capitoline Hill, and consisted of an ancient well or subterranean chamber in which flowed a small spring. Above this was the prison, consisting of a series of cells that rose in stages to a considerable height, against the rock, the chambers being in part scooped out of the travestine. From the topof the hill ran a set of steps called the Gemonian stair, and it was customary for State prisoners who had been condemned to death, after execution to be cast from the upper chamber of the Tullianum down the stairs; whence with hooks the corpses were dragged across the Forum and then flung into the Tiber.
To the house of the jailer, Domitia with her attendants made her way. She had been stopped once in crossing the Forum, but the watch recognized her, and saluted with respect, though with an expression of astonishment on his countenance at seeing Cæsar’s wife abroad at such a time of the night, in such weather and with such scant attendance.
On reaching the jailer’s door, Eboracus knocked. No answer was given. He knocked again and louder, and continued knocking, till at length a gruff voice from within called to know who was without, and what was wanted.
“Open—in the name of the Augustus,”said the British slave; and at once the keeper of the prison let down the bars and withdrew the bolts and chains, then carrying a lamp, peered out at those who demanded admittance.
Then Domitia stood forward.
“You have a prisoner here—Lucius Ælius Lamia?”
“Yes.”
“You must lead me to him.”
Thejailer appeared disconcerted, he held his lamp aloft and eyed the woman who spake. He did not know her, his light was feeble, and as it happened, he had seen little of the Empress.
“You do not know me,”said Domitia.“Know you this ring?”
The prison-keeper held the flame of his lamp to thesignet, and made the usual sign of respect and recognition.
“You are required to lead me within,”said Domitia.
The jailer at once stood aside, and suffered the Empress and her attendants to enter. Then he barred and bolted the door again.
“And now,”said Domitia, impatient at the leisurely proceeding of the man,“lead me to him.”
Without another word he went forward, holding his lamp down that those who followed might see the steps and not stumble at them.
“This way,”said he,“and bow your heads, the entrance is low; but most of them that pass this way have to hold their heads still lower when they are taken out. Look at these stones—great blocks built by the Kings—by Servius Tullus, they say. By Hercules! this is not a tavern where men tarry long, nor do they relish our fare. One thing I must say in our favor, we make no charge for our hospitality.”Thus the jailer muttered as he went along.
“Look there—on your right—there is the cell where Simon Bar Gioras, the Jew, was strangled—he who was the last to maintain the struggle against the God Titus, in defence of Jerusalem; and see—”he threw open a door.“Here is the Bath of Mamertius in which Jugurtha was starved, all in blackness of darkness and soaking in ice-cold water. What! Impatient—do you not care to see the sights and hear my gossip? Well, well—but I have pretty things to show. I have a shankbone of Appius Claudius, who committed suicide in yon cell, and a garment of Sejanus, and the very bowstring wherewith—I am going on as fast as may be. See! we have had Christians here also. There was another Jew, Simon Petrus by name, he was in thiscell, and I have the chain whereby he was bound, and I sell the links to the followers of the Nazarene,”he began to cackle.“By Hercules! the chain is long enough. They come for more links than there would be, were the chain to reach across the Tiber. But any bit of old iron will serve, and they are not particular—take any scrap and pay in silver. I am going as fast as may be. I am not young. Fast enough I warrant. He is in no hurry—not Lamia. He can wait. All the same to him whether we reach him now or an hour hence.”
Then Domitia, whose brow was beaded with cold sweat, like the stones of the vault that ran with moisture, laid hold of the prison-keeper’s arm and said:—“Tell me—is he—”she could not say the word, her heart beat so furiously, and everything swam before her eyes.
“Aye, aye, you shall see for yourself. Come from the Augustus to satisfy him that we do our work properly, I trow. I have not much strength in these old-hands, but my two sons are lusty—and say the word—they will bend your back and snap the spine, smite and shear off your head like a pumpkin under a scythe, twist, and the life is throttled out of you. Here—here we are. Go in and see for yourself that we are good workmen.”
He threw open a door and raised his lamp.
A low vaulted chamber was faintly illumined by the flame, the torch held by Eboracus was behind Domitia and the jailer; he had taken it from the link boy at the prison door. He and Euphrosyne attended their mistress, the boy was left without.
The old prison-keeper stood on one side.
“The order came yesterday,”said he,“and we are not slack in the execution.”
Domitia saw the figure of a man lying on the stone floor. She started forward—
“He sleeps!”
“I warrant you—right soundly.”
She uttered a smothered cry.
“Put down the lamp!”
She turned and faced the jailer.“Leave me alone with him. I will wake him. I know he but sleeps.”
The man hesitated.
Then Eboracus pressed forward and laid hold of the jailer and whispered—“Go without, it is the Augusta!”
The keeper of the prison started, raised his hand to his lips, bowed, set the lamp on the moist floor and drew back.
“Without! Without all!”ordered Domitia.
Then Eboracus pulled the jailer out of the cell. Euphrosyne stood doubtful whether to remain with her mistress or obey—but an impatient sign from the Empress drove her forth, and the British slave closed the door.
“He is dead,”said the jailer.“Did the Augustus desire to withdraw the order? His signet has arrived too late. The prisoner has been throttled by my sons.”
The old man and the two slaves remained for some quarter of an hour in the passage almost smothered by the smoke emitted by the torch.
From within they heard a voice—at intervals, now raised in weeping, then uttering low soothing tones, then raised in a cry as theconclamatioof hired wailers for the dead, calling on Lamia by name to return, to return, to leave the Shadowland and come back into light.
And then—a laugh.
A laugh so weird, so horrible, so unexpected, that with a thrust, without scruple, Eboracus threw open the door.
On the stone pavement sat Domitia, her hair dishevelled, and on her lap the head of the dead man. She was wiping his brow with her veil, stooping, kissing his lips, weeping, then laughing again—then pointing to purple letters, crossed L’s woven into his tunic.
Eboracus saw it all—her reason was gone.
CHAPTER XV.DRAWING TO THE LIGHT.In the old home of Gabii, under the tender care of Euphrosyne and in the soothing company of Glyceria, little by little, stage by stage, Domitia recovered.There was a horrible past to which no reference might be made. The true British slave, Eboracus, was ever at hand to help—when needed. Never a day, never half a day, but his honest face appeared at the door to inquire after his dear lady, and as her senses came flickering back, it was he to whom she clung to take her in his arms into the trellised walk, or when stronger to lead her where she could pick violets for Glyceria, and to pile about the feet of the little statue of the Good Shepherd. He took her a row on the lake and let her fish—he found nests of young birds and brought them to her; and all at once disclosed great powers of story-telling; he told marvellous British tales as to a little child, of the ploughing of Hu Cadarn, of Ceridwen and her cauldron. And he would sing—he fashioned himself a harp, of British shape, and sang as he accompanied himself, but his ballads were all in the Celtic tongue that Domitia could not understand—nevertheless it soothed and pleased her to listen to his music.Longa Duilia did not visit her often. She made formal duty calls at long intervals, and as Domitia became better, these visits grew proportionately fewer.Duilia, as she herself said, was not created to be a nurse. She knew that some were fitted by nature to attend to the sick, and all that sort of thing—but it was not her gift. Society was her sphere in which she floated and which she adorned, but she was distraught and drooping in a sick-room. She wished she had the faculty—and all that sort of thing—but all women were not cast in the same mould, run out of the same metal—and, my dear, parenthetically—some are of lead, others of Corinthian brass—and which are which it is not for me to say—she thanked the Gods it was so.Nor did the visits and efforts to amuse, of Duilia, avail anything towards Domitia’s cure. On the contrary, she was always worse after her mother had been with her. The old lady ripped up ill-healed sores, harped on old associations, could not check her tongue from scolding.“My poor dear child—I never made a greater blunder in my life—I, too, who have the pedigree at my finger’s ends—as to fancy that there was any connection with those Flavians. My dear! yellow hair is quite out of fashion now, quite out. Look at mine, a raven’s wing is not darker. It was through Vespasia Polla—I thought we were related—stupid that I was—it was the Vipsanians we were allied to, not those low and beggarly Vespasians. As the Gods love me, I believe Polla’s father was an army contractor. But I have made it all right. I have smudged out the line I hadadded to the family tree, and as for the wax heads of those Flavians, I have had them melted up. Will you believe it—I had the mask of Domitian run into a pot and that stupid Lucilla did not put a cover on it, and the rats have eaten it—eaten all the wax. I hope it has clogged their stomachs and given them indigestion. They doubtless thought it was dripping. But I really have made a most surprising discovery. I find there was an alliance with the Cocceii—most respectable family, very ancient, admirable men all—and so there is a sort of cousinship with the present admirable prince. His brother Aulus—rather old perhaps—but an estimable man—is—well—may be—in a word, I intend to give a little supper—a dainty affair—all in the best style—so sorry you can’t be there, my dear Domitia—but of course absolutely impossible. Your state of health and all that sort of thing. Don’t be surprised if you hear—but there, there—he is rather old though, for one who is only just turning off the very bloom of life and beauty.”After such a visit and such talk the mind of Domitia was troubled for several days. She became timid, alarmed at the least noise, and distraught. But then the poor crippled woman succeeded in comforting and laying her troubles, and the painful expression faded from her face. It became placid, but always with a sadness that was inseparable from the eyes, and a tremulousness of the lips, as though a very little—a rough word or two—would dissolve her into tears.With the spring, the growing light, the increasing warmth, the bursting life in plant and insect, she began to amend more steadily, and relapses became fewer.One sweet spring day, when Glyceria had been carried forth into the garden, and Domitia sat on the turf near her with purple anemones in her lap, that she was binding into a garland, the paralyzed woman was startled by hearing Domitia suddenly speak of the past.She spoke, and continued weaving the flowers,“My Glyceria, I intend this for the little temple of my father. It is all I can do for him—to give flowers where his ashes lie—but it does not content me. There were two whom I loved and looked up to as the best of men, and both are gone—gone to dust: my own dearest father, and my lover, my husband, Lamia. I cannot bear to think of them as heaps of ashes or as wandering ghosts. When that thought comes over me, I seem to be as one drowning, and then darkness is before my eyes. I cannot cry—I smother.”“Why should you think of them as wandering ghosts or as heaps of dust?”“I know that they are dust—I suppose they are shadows. But of anything else, all is guess-work, we know nothing—and that is so horrible. I love two only—have loved two only—and they are no more than shadows. No, no! I mean not that.”She flung her arms about Glyceria, and laid her cheek against that of the sick woman.“No, I do love you, and I love Euphrosyne and I love Eboracus. But I mean—I mean in a different manner. One was my father, and the other my husband. It is so terribly sad to think they are lost to me like yesterday or last summer.”“They are not lost. You will see them again.”“See my father! See my Lamia!”“Yes—I know it will be so.”“O, Glyceria, do not say such things. You make my heart jump. How can it be? They have been.”“They are and will be. Death is swallowed up in Life.”“That is impossible. Death is death and nothing more.”Then Glyceria took the hand of Domitia, and looking into her eyes, said solemnly:“Dost thou remember having asked me about the Fish?”“Yes—this amulet,”answered the noble lady, and she detached the cornelian from her throat, and held it in the hand not engaged by Glyceria.“Yes—I recollect—there was some mystery, but what was it?”“The Fish is a symbol, as I said once before, and it is no amulet.”“Of what is it the symbol?”“Of One who died—who tasted of the bitterness of the parting of soul and body, and who went into the region of Shadows and returned—the soul to the body, and rose from the dead, and by the virtue of His resurrection gives power to all who believe in Him to rise in like manner.”“And he could tell about what the ghosts do—how they wander?”“I cannot say that. There would be no comfort in that. He rose to give us joy and to rob death of its terrors.”“But what has this to do with the Fish?”“You know what the word Fish is in Greek.”“Very well.”“Take each letter of that word, and each letter is the first of words that contain the very substance of the Christian belief—Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the Saviour.”Domitia looked at the little cornelian fish; she could not understand.“I believe that one could die and wake again. I have fainted and come round. And he might say what was in the spirit world into which he had been—but the region of ghosts is very dreary, very sad.”“Nay, He can do more. As He rose, He can raise us to new life, and He will do it, for He is God. He made us, and He will recall us from death.”“What—my father! Lucius! I shall see them again—not as shadows, but as they were—?”“Not so—not as they were, mortal; but raised to an immortal life.”“I shall kiss my darling father—put my arms around my Lucius from whom I have been parted so long, and so cruelly, and who has been so—so true to me.”Then Domitia burst into tears.Glyceria stroked her hand.“There—you see how joyous is our hope. Death is nothing—it is only a good-bye for a bit to meet again.”“O, Glyceria! O, if I could see them—O Glyceria! O, you should not have said this if it be not true. My heart will break. O, if it might be so! if I could! but once only—for a moment——”“Nay, that would not suffice; forever, never to be separated; no more tears, no more death.”“O, Glyceria—not another word—I cannot bear it. My heart is over full. Another time. My head, my head! O, if it might—it could be!”Next day Glyceria saw by the red eyes of Domitia that she had slept little and had wept much. She did not turn the conversation to the same topic; she wisely waited for the noble lady to begin on it herself, and she judged that she would take some time to consider what had been spoken about and to digest it.And in fact Domitia made no further allusion to the matter for some days. But after about a week, when alone with the paralyzed woman, she said to her abruptly:“You have never been in Syria?”“No, dear lady.”“I have—and I have been on the confines of the desert and looked away, as far as the eye could reach, and have seen nothing but sand and barren rock. Behind me a rose-garden, syringas, myrtle and citron trees, and murmuring streams, before me—no green leaf, only death. It is to me, as I stand now and look back on my life as if it were that barren desert; and the fearful thing is—I dare not turn and look the other way, for it is into impenetrable night. But no, my life is not all desolation, there are just two green spots in it where the date palms stand and there are wells—my childhood, when I sat on my father’s knee and cuddled into his arms; and once again, when I was recovering from the loss of him and was basking in the joy of my love for Lucius Lamia. All the rest—”she made a gesture of despair—“Death.”“Dearest lady! I would like to turn you about and show you that where you think only blackness reigns, lies a beautiful garden, a paradise, and One at the gate who beckons and says, Come unto Me, all you that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”“Ah! but that may be all fancy and dream work like the promises of the Magi, and the mysteries of Isis.”Glyceria got no further than this. Domitia was disposed to talk with her on her hope, and on the Christian belief, but always with reserve and some mistrust.There were old prejudices to be overcome, there was the consciousness that the promises so largely madeby the votaries of the many cults from East and South who came to Rome were unfulfilled, and this made her unable to place confidence in the new religion held by slaves and ignorant people, however alluring it might seem.Among the very few who came to Gabii during her illness and convalescence, was Flavia Domitilla, the widow of Flavius Clemens, who had been put to death by Domitian. Domitilla had been banished, but returned immediately on the death of the tyrant. She had suffered as had Domitia. In her manner and address there was something so gentle and assuring, that the poor ex-empress, in the troubled condition of her brain, was drawn to her, and after her visits felt better. She knew, or rather supposed, that Domitilla was a Christian. Her husband had been one, and had suffered for his faith.It was with real pleasure that she ran to welcome her one morning, when the steward entered and announced:“The Lady Flavia Domitilla.”
In the old home of Gabii, under the tender care of Euphrosyne and in the soothing company of Glyceria, little by little, stage by stage, Domitia recovered.
There was a horrible past to which no reference might be made. The true British slave, Eboracus, was ever at hand to help—when needed. Never a day, never half a day, but his honest face appeared at the door to inquire after his dear lady, and as her senses came flickering back, it was he to whom she clung to take her in his arms into the trellised walk, or when stronger to lead her where she could pick violets for Glyceria, and to pile about the feet of the little statue of the Good Shepherd. He took her a row on the lake and let her fish—he found nests of young birds and brought them to her; and all at once disclosed great powers of story-telling; he told marvellous British tales as to a little child, of the ploughing of Hu Cadarn, of Ceridwen and her cauldron. And he would sing—he fashioned himself a harp, of British shape, and sang as he accompanied himself, but his ballads were all in the Celtic tongue that Domitia could not understand—nevertheless it soothed and pleased her to listen to his music.
Longa Duilia did not visit her often. She made formal duty calls at long intervals, and as Domitia became better, these visits grew proportionately fewer.
Duilia, as she herself said, was not created to be a nurse. She knew that some were fitted by nature to attend to the sick, and all that sort of thing—but it was not her gift. Society was her sphere in which she floated and which she adorned, but she was distraught and drooping in a sick-room. She wished she had the faculty—and all that sort of thing—but all women were not cast in the same mould, run out of the same metal—and, my dear, parenthetically—some are of lead, others of Corinthian brass—and which are which it is not for me to say—she thanked the Gods it was so.
Nor did the visits and efforts to amuse, of Duilia, avail anything towards Domitia’s cure. On the contrary, she was always worse after her mother had been with her. The old lady ripped up ill-healed sores, harped on old associations, could not check her tongue from scolding.
“My poor dear child—I never made a greater blunder in my life—I, too, who have the pedigree at my finger’s ends—as to fancy that there was any connection with those Flavians. My dear! yellow hair is quite out of fashion now, quite out. Look at mine, a raven’s wing is not darker. It was through Vespasia Polla—I thought we were related—stupid that I was—it was the Vipsanians we were allied to, not those low and beggarly Vespasians. As the Gods love me, I believe Polla’s father was an army contractor. But I have made it all right. I have smudged out the line I hadadded to the family tree, and as for the wax heads of those Flavians, I have had them melted up. Will you believe it—I had the mask of Domitian run into a pot and that stupid Lucilla did not put a cover on it, and the rats have eaten it—eaten all the wax. I hope it has clogged their stomachs and given them indigestion. They doubtless thought it was dripping. But I really have made a most surprising discovery. I find there was an alliance with the Cocceii—most respectable family, very ancient, admirable men all—and so there is a sort of cousinship with the present admirable prince. His brother Aulus—rather old perhaps—but an estimable man—is—well—may be—in a word, I intend to give a little supper—a dainty affair—all in the best style—so sorry you can’t be there, my dear Domitia—but of course absolutely impossible. Your state of health and all that sort of thing. Don’t be surprised if you hear—but there, there—he is rather old though, for one who is only just turning off the very bloom of life and beauty.”
After such a visit and such talk the mind of Domitia was troubled for several days. She became timid, alarmed at the least noise, and distraught. But then the poor crippled woman succeeded in comforting and laying her troubles, and the painful expression faded from her face. It became placid, but always with a sadness that was inseparable from the eyes, and a tremulousness of the lips, as though a very little—a rough word or two—would dissolve her into tears.
With the spring, the growing light, the increasing warmth, the bursting life in plant and insect, she began to amend more steadily, and relapses became fewer.
One sweet spring day, when Glyceria had been carried forth into the garden, and Domitia sat on the turf near her with purple anemones in her lap, that she was binding into a garland, the paralyzed woman was startled by hearing Domitia suddenly speak of the past.
She spoke, and continued weaving the flowers,“My Glyceria, I intend this for the little temple of my father. It is all I can do for him—to give flowers where his ashes lie—but it does not content me. There were two whom I loved and looked up to as the best of men, and both are gone—gone to dust: my own dearest father, and my lover, my husband, Lamia. I cannot bear to think of them as heaps of ashes or as wandering ghosts. When that thought comes over me, I seem to be as one drowning, and then darkness is before my eyes. I cannot cry—I smother.”
“Why should you think of them as wandering ghosts or as heaps of dust?”
“I know that they are dust—I suppose they are shadows. But of anything else, all is guess-work, we know nothing—and that is so horrible. I love two only—have loved two only—and they are no more than shadows. No, no! I mean not that.”She flung her arms about Glyceria, and laid her cheek against that of the sick woman.“No, I do love you, and I love Euphrosyne and I love Eboracus. But I mean—I mean in a different manner. One was my father, and the other my husband. It is so terribly sad to think they are lost to me like yesterday or last summer.”
“They are not lost. You will see them again.”
“See my father! See my Lamia!”
“Yes—I know it will be so.”
“O, Glyceria, do not say such things. You make my heart jump. How can it be? They have been.”
“They are and will be. Death is swallowed up in Life.”
“That is impossible. Death is death and nothing more.”
Then Glyceria took the hand of Domitia, and looking into her eyes, said solemnly:“Dost thou remember having asked me about the Fish?”
“Yes—this amulet,”answered the noble lady, and she detached the cornelian from her throat, and held it in the hand not engaged by Glyceria.“Yes—I recollect—there was some mystery, but what was it?”
“The Fish is a symbol, as I said once before, and it is no amulet.”
“Of what is it the symbol?”
“Of One who died—who tasted of the bitterness of the parting of soul and body, and who went into the region of Shadows and returned—the soul to the body, and rose from the dead, and by the virtue of His resurrection gives power to all who believe in Him to rise in like manner.”
“And he could tell about what the ghosts do—how they wander?”
“I cannot say that. There would be no comfort in that. He rose to give us joy and to rob death of its terrors.”
“But what has this to do with the Fish?”
“You know what the word Fish is in Greek.”
“Very well.”
“Take each letter of that word, and each letter is the first of words that contain the very substance of the Christian belief—Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the Saviour.”
Domitia looked at the little cornelian fish; she could not understand.
“I believe that one could die and wake again. I have fainted and come round. And he might say what was in the spirit world into which he had been—but the region of ghosts is very dreary, very sad.”
“Nay, He can do more. As He rose, He can raise us to new life, and He will do it, for He is God. He made us, and He will recall us from death.”
“What—my father! Lucius! I shall see them again—not as shadows, but as they were—?”
“Not so—not as they were, mortal; but raised to an immortal life.”
“I shall kiss my darling father—put my arms around my Lucius from whom I have been parted so long, and so cruelly, and who has been so—so true to me.”
Then Domitia burst into tears.
Glyceria stroked her hand.
“There—you see how joyous is our hope. Death is nothing—it is only a good-bye for a bit to meet again.”
“O, Glyceria! O, if I could see them—O Glyceria! O, you should not have said this if it be not true. My heart will break. O, if it might be so! if I could! but once only—for a moment——”
“Nay, that would not suffice; forever, never to be separated; no more tears, no more death.”
“O, Glyceria—not another word—I cannot bear it. My heart is over full. Another time. My head, my head! O, if it might—it could be!”
Next day Glyceria saw by the red eyes of Domitia that she had slept little and had wept much. She did not turn the conversation to the same topic; she wisely waited for the noble lady to begin on it herself, and she judged that she would take some time to consider what had been spoken about and to digest it.
And in fact Domitia made no further allusion to the matter for some days. But after about a week, when alone with the paralyzed woman, she said to her abruptly:“You have never been in Syria?”
“No, dear lady.”
“I have—and I have been on the confines of the desert and looked away, as far as the eye could reach, and have seen nothing but sand and barren rock. Behind me a rose-garden, syringas, myrtle and citron trees, and murmuring streams, before me—no green leaf, only death. It is to me, as I stand now and look back on my life as if it were that barren desert; and the fearful thing is—I dare not turn and look the other way, for it is into impenetrable night. But no, my life is not all desolation, there are just two green spots in it where the date palms stand and there are wells—my childhood, when I sat on my father’s knee and cuddled into his arms; and once again, when I was recovering from the loss of him and was basking in the joy of my love for Lucius Lamia. All the rest—”she made a gesture of despair—“Death.”
“Dearest lady! I would like to turn you about and show you that where you think only blackness reigns, lies a beautiful garden, a paradise, and One at the gate who beckons and says, Come unto Me, all you that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
“Ah! but that may be all fancy and dream work like the promises of the Magi, and the mysteries of Isis.”
Glyceria got no further than this. Domitia was disposed to talk with her on her hope, and on the Christian belief, but always with reserve and some mistrust.
There were old prejudices to be overcome, there was the consciousness that the promises so largely madeby the votaries of the many cults from East and South who came to Rome were unfulfilled, and this made her unable to place confidence in the new religion held by slaves and ignorant people, however alluring it might seem.
Among the very few who came to Gabii during her illness and convalescence, was Flavia Domitilla, the widow of Flavius Clemens, who had been put to death by Domitian. Domitilla had been banished, but returned immediately on the death of the tyrant. She had suffered as had Domitia. In her manner and address there was something so gentle and assuring, that the poor ex-empress, in the troubled condition of her brain, was drawn to her, and after her visits felt better. She knew, or rather supposed, that Domitilla was a Christian. Her husband had been one, and had suffered for his faith.
It was with real pleasure that she ran to welcome her one morning, when the steward entered and announced:“The Lady Flavia Domitilla.”