Chapter VII
“WHAT mellow wine is sold here, O Sulpicius!” said a young Roman named Sabinus.
“Ay, near the Grape God’s Temple good wine only must be sold, O Sabinus,” replied Sulpicius.
The speakers were free and careless young Romans. Under no restraint, they spent their lives in pleasure. They were seated at a table opposite each other, in a vine-covered bower which occupied a corner of a summer garden not far from the Via Appia. At the right the garden extended to a Temple of Bacchus. Farther to the right, at the foot of a small hill, was a Grotto of Egeria.[1]Back of the garden was the Sacred Forest,[1]where the old Roman king Numa held interviews with the nymph Egeria.
Seated beside Sabinus was a dancing-girl named Merope; beside Sulpicius was another, named Elea. Merope was fair; her face was pretty, with ravishing lips, soft, rosy cheeks, and pure blue eyes like miraculous flowers. Elea was equally beautiful, but her beauty was of a differenttype. She was dark, with a soft olive complexion, voluptuous lips, and eyes that appeared to have gathered into their depths the light of a summer evening. Their necks and arms were bare except where shoulder-straps held loosely the fronts and backs of their tunicae. They were happy maidens. Their smiles seemed perpetual. Every word they spoke carried with it a ring of pleasure.
A boy, with large, black, inquisitive eyes, a handsome young face, short hair, with bare arms and legs, stood before the group, awaiting an order. A thin man, poorly dressed, with musical reeds in his hand, sat on the ground, and reclined against a stone building where wine was stored in large amphorae.
“Ho, boy! Our lips are still thirsty. Bring us more wine,” ordered Sabinus, drawing Merope’s hand into his.
The boy quickly obeyed, playfully kicking the feet of the poor musician as he went into the stone building.
Elea caressed the cheek of Sulpicius with her delicate hand, and, bending gracefully over and looking into his eyes, said, “How happy is life!”
“Ay, my Elea, life is happy in the sunny days of youth and plenty. Yonder is a poor son of Pan. Ho, pipe-blower, come hither! Knowest thou a joyful air?”
“Expect not sweet music from a sour face, O Sulpicius,” said Sabinus.
“Homely flowers give the sweetest honey,” said the reed-player, who had risen and presented himself before the happy group.
“Ah, a poet! What dost thou call thyself, O son of Pan?” asked Sulpicius.
“I am sometimes called Narcissus.”
“Ha, ha! and why, forsooth?”
“My words bloom and die like flowers.”
“Ay, but that is true of all words.”
“Nay, O Sunny Life. Beautiful and fragile are the words of Narcissus.”
“And yellow?”
“The sun is golden,” he replied, lightly playing upon the word.
“Then, thou flowery poet, give us a song. Well shalt thou be paid if thou dost please us.”
“Hold, I pray thee, O Sulpicius!” interrupted Sabinus, as he turned to a little flower-girl who just then entered the garden. “Come hither, little maid, and give us thy flowers. How fresh they are!”
“They were gathered and watered in the early morn. Not until the sun began to descend were they placed in my basket,” replied the little girl.
“We will buy them all, frail little flower. What is thy name?”
“Rosilla,” replied the child, bashfully.
“Take thy basket. Here is a coin. Art thou content, O Rosilla?” asked Sabinus.
The child, surprised and contented, bashfully withdrew without making any reply.
“What pretty things flowers are!” added Sabinus. “Here are blue iris and violets for thee, O Merope. And for thee, O Elea, are gorgeous roses. Here is one like a kissing mouth. Ah, Merope, with these violets in thy fair hair thou art a Flora.”
“If thy Merope is a Flora, my Elea is the Greek Chloris,” added Sulpicius.
“Dost thou mean the Greek goddess of flowers or the daughter of Niobe, O Sulpicius?” asked Elea.
“Whichever is the prettier, my fragrant flower. But why?” he asked.
“Verily, I am Chloris, Niobe’s daughter, in the dance to be given at Pompey’s Theatre.”
“Who is the Niobe in the dance?”
“The Greek, Psyche. Hast thou seen her?”
“Ay, a beautiful girl.”
“A wonderful dancer,” added Merope.
“She dances not, O Merope. So light is she that she seems to float in the air,” said Elea.
“Is she not young for a Niobe?” asked Sabinus.
“Ay, her face is like that of a celestial Hora; but she carries years in the dignity of her pose.”
“’Tis her last dance.”
“Meanest thou that she leaves Rome?”
“Nay, she becomes the bride of Gyges.”
“The young charioteer?” asked Sulpicius.
“Ay, and a handsome man,” replied Elea.
“Dost thou dance also with her, O Merope?” asked Sulpicius.
“Ay, I am Lydia. I die soon in the dance.”
“Dost thou die also, O Elea?” asked Sabinus, laughing.
“Nay, Chloris was the only daughter of Niobe that was saved,” replied Elea.
“But look ye, Narcissus droops under the weight of his poetic mind,” said Sulpicius. “Come! A cup of wine, Narcissus. Words flow more freely from lips wet by the juice of the grape.”
Narcissus eagerly swallowed his wine. He then blew on his reeds plaintive notes like those with which shepherds collect their flocks. The garden was wrapped in silence. The clear air was motionless. The sun was near the western hills, and the light that fell on the happy revellers was such as filters through soft olive-trees. The piping of the reeds seemed to produce a pastoral environment. Narcissus sang: “On the side of Ida’s classic mount a shepherd tends his flock. With graceful form, quick in motion, eyes bright as stars, face like Apollo’s! O happy shepherd!”
Again Narcissus played the shepherds’ call. Suddenly he altered the theme, giving more melody to his song and making it a softer and gentler phrase than the shepherds’ air. He sang: “By the bank of a crystal brook near by, a maiden sang a song. With eyes of blue like bits of sky, with face as fresh as lovely dawn, O happy maid!”
With clever art Narcissus now played a new tune, ingeniously combining the themes of both the preceding airs. He sang: “No words float on the crystal air, but words are heard by both. The shepherd gazes towards the brook, the maiden towards the pure white flock. O happy flying thoughts!”
Now the reed-player softly breathed upon the pipes, which whispered a motive of joy. Then he sang these words: “The shepherd leaves his peaceful flock, the maiden the transparent brook. On their pure lips no words come forth, the time is used for kisses only. O happy shepherd! O happy maid!”
With a flourish of notes Narcissus finished the picture.
Elea, who was seated near Sulpicius, with her face partially buried in the roses, listened to this modest song of love. Sulpicius threw his arm around her and drew her near him. Slightly pressing the flowers so that they partially hidher pretty face, he kissed her lips between the roses. Neither could Sabinus resist the tempting lips of Merope.
Narcissus, feeling solitary, inquired, “Will my fingers be kissed with money, O happy youths?”
“Ay,” said Sulpicius, smiling. “Dost thou prefer a copper kiss or one of silver?”
“One of silver would be more gentle. ’Tis many a day since I have known that touch.”
“So be it. Here is thy reward.”
Narcissus played a new air and then sang: “Drink life, O happy souls! as the flowers drink of dew. Drink of the waters that carry odors of deep woods. Be as cheerful as the daisy, whose glorious centre is bordered by pure white foliage. Be as gentle as the little myosotis, in whose blossoms hides the color of heaven. Be like the pure lily, perfumed snow, O happy souls! Let thy thoughts be like the brook flowing among lotus and iris, ferns and waterlilies, kissing the shadowy bank of forgetfulness, O happy youths! Be—”
“Hold!” cried Sulpicius. “We have been well entertained for our money. Now leave us. Look ye! Psyche and Gyges enter.”
At the sight of friends Psyche and Gyges, who had been depressed when they entered the garden, grew more cheerful.
“Hail, Sulpicius and Sabinus! Hail to thee,Merope, and thee, Elea!” said Gyges. “Whence these fair flowers?”
“The violets are the eyes of Merope,” said Sabinus.
“The roses are the lips of Elea,” added Sulpicius.
“Our minds have been fed on the words of a poet, O Psyche,” said Merope, laughing.
“’Tis sweet food for the mind, O Merope. What a beautiful evening draws near!” said Psyche.
“Ay; the sky is cloudless,” replied Merope.
“How clear are yonder Alban Mountains!” said Gyges.
“Ay; like a crown, with the villas sparkling among the trees like jewels,” said Sulpicius.
“Sit ye down and drink a cup of wine,” invited Sabinus.
“We dare not tarry long, O friends,” said Gyges, as he and Psyche seated themselves. “But,” he added, “a cup of wine will refresh us.”
Laughing and talking with their happy friends, the depression of Psyche and Gyges soon vanished. After they had drunk the wine they rose to depart.
“What a handsome chain, O Psyche!” said Elea.
“’Tis a gift of Gyges,” said Psyche.
“Truly, ’tis a perfect gift!” exclaimed Merope.
“Can ye not stay and eat with us?” asked Sulpicius.
“Nay, we must away. Fare ye well, O happy friends! May smiles be always on thy lips!” said Gyges, as he and Psyche went on their way.
“Are they not lovely maidens, O Gyges?” asked Psyche, when they were out upon the Via Appia, walking towards home.
“Ay, my Psyche,” he assented.
“They dance well too,” she added.
“Elea dances the better,” said Gyges. “She makes a good Chloris to thy Niobe.”
“Are we not late? See, the sun has set long since! Wilt thou not dine with us this night, O Gyges?” she asked.
“Ay; ’tis Gannon’s night at home,” he replied.
“What new story will he have to tell us, I wonder?” she asked. “He always brings cheer when he comes home. Last week he told us of Livilla.”
“Ay, he is truly a happy youth.”
“His large eyes will open wider when he sees his sister’s new home,” said Psyche.
Their conversation was still running on Gannon when they turned down the street that led to Alcmaeon’s home. Noticing the soldiers stationedbefore the house, the lovers quickened their steps. When they arrived at the door, Gyges asked one of the soldiers, “What dost thou wish?”
“Alcmaeon and his family are under arrest,” replied the soldier. “He and his wife have gone to the camp. We await the daughter.”
At this announcement Psyche excitedly inquired: “What have they done? I am their daughter.”
“I know not. Long enough have we waited for thee,” said the soldier, angrily. “Come, thou must go at once!”
“But give me leave to go to my room,” said Psyche, trembling, as she opened the door.
While she was gone, Gyges asked for more information. He learned that Gannon had fallen and was dead, and that the lad’s body had been sent to be cremated. With a heavy heart he entered the house and called Psyche. She ran to him; and reading in his face that something horrible had occurred, she cried, “O Gyges, what has happened?”
“O my love, the little dead fish was a true omen.”
“But no one is dead?” asked Psyche, excitedly.
He drew her towards him as he said: “Be brave, O love! A great calamity has befallen thee and thy parents.”
“Tell me the truth, O Gyges.”
“Gannon is dead,” he quietly whispered.
Psyche, overwhelmed with grief, buried her face on her lover’s shoulder. Through her sobs she asked, “How did he die?”
“He fell from the roof of the camp.”
“May I not see him?” she asked.
“’Tis best thou shouldst not,” replied her lover.
“But what means the arrest, O Gyges?”
“I know not, O love,—but we must go. Soldiers have no hearts. Be brave, my Psyche! Pray to the gods for strength.”
“But there,” he suddenly exclaimed, “is a tunic!”
Hastily taking up the garment from which Hera had begun to remove the cloth that held Gannon’s message, Gyges gave the tunic to Psyche, saying, “’Tis Gannon’s.”
“Ah, ’tis poor comfort to see only his tunic,” she said, as she kissed it. “But look!” she quickly added, “here is some writing! Come to the light and read the words.” When they reached the small courtyard, she read: “Have done wrong. Read a letter from L to S about Lygdus.”
“Come, you must go!” roughly commanded the soldier, opening the door.
Gyges received permission to accompanyPsyche, and the sorrowful lovers left the house. The walk to the camp was a painfully sad one. They both recalled their happy afternoon in their future home. Fresh tears gushed from Psyche’s eyes when they passed the street on which the house stood. As they went along, Gyges, who had been trying to unravel the mystery of Gannon’s message, suddenly whispered to Psyche, “Oh that we had not seen that writing!”
“Why, what harm can those words do? They were the last we shall ever hear from him,” whispered Psyche through her sobs.
“Nay, my love; I fear they are dangerous.” Then he added apprehensively, “I know Lygdus.”
“But I do not understand thee.”
“Speak not so loud, O Psyche, the soldiers may hear us. Thy dear brother wrote, ‘Have done wrong.’ I fear he had learned some terrible secret, and that we, in reading these words, have gained a clue to that secret. Oh that we had not seen that writing!” he repeated.
“There can be no harm in knowing about Lygdus.”
“Ay, my love, there is harm,” he insisted. “Never acknowledge having read that message. If thou art asked about it in the camp, deny all knowledge concerning it. Promise me this, O my love.”
“I promise thee, O my Gyges.”
At the Praetorian Camp Gyges repeated this warning, and then the lovers parted. Feeling assured that she would see Gyges the next day, Psyche said farewell with no great misgivings. Oppressed with anguish at the terrible death of Gannon, but as yet unconscious of the approach of new misfortune, she was led into the office of Sejanus. The minister had just returned from his visit to the palace on the Palatine Hill. A dim light revealed him seated on a curule chair surrounded by a few soldiers, to whom he was issuing orders. When Psyche was announced, he dismissed his attendants. When they were left alone, he said, “Truly, art thou the dancing-girl?”
“Ay, my lord Sejanus,” said Psyche, in a plaintive tone.
“Art thou Gannon’s sister?”
“Ay; and—”
“Thou wast not at home when thy parents were brought here?” Sejanus roughly interrupted her.
“Nay, my lord Sejanus.”
“Where wert thou?”
“With Gyges, walking upon the Via Appia.”
“Who is Gyges?”
“A charioteer—”
“Ah! I remember. He wears the green color. I know him. Is he a relative?”
“He is my lover,” she shyly responded.
“True. All dancing-girls have their lovers,” he sneered. “But didst thou return home?”
“Ay,” answered Psyche, drawing herself up with dignity.
“Whom didst thou see at home?”
“No one.”
“There was a tunic there. Didst thou see it?”
“Ay, my lord Sejanus.”
“Thou didst have it in thy hands?”
“Ay.”
“Thou didst read a message from Gannon sewed upon it?”
“Nay, O Sejanus,” calmly replied the unfortunate maid.
“I say thou didst read it.”
“I repeat I did not read it.”
“Was Gyges with thee when thou didst have the tunic?”
“Ay, my lord.”
Sejanus called a soldier, who promptly appeared.
“Search immediately for Gyges the charioteer! Arrest him!”
“What have I said that makes thee arrest him?” asked Psyche, in a tone of fear.
“Nothing.”
“What have I done, O Sejanus, that I should be here? Where are my parents?” she plaintively pleaded.
“Thy brother read a letter,” replied Sejanus. “He sewed into his tunic a message about that letter. Thy parents read the message. Thou didst hold the tunic in thy hands, thou sayest, and therefore thou also must have read the message.”
“Nay, ’tis not true, O Sejanus. I saw no message.”
“I do not believe thee. Thy brother lied to me. Thy parents lied to me. Now the sister lies to me.”
“I lie not, O Sejanus.”
“We sometimes press the thumbs until they are flat, in order to learn the truth. ’Twould be a pity to press thy pretty thumbs—”
“Oh! Sejanus,” she cried in terror, “thou wilt not torture me?”
“Ay. A soldier will do anything to learn the truth,” he cruelly replied.
“But I tell thee the truth.”
“And I believe thee not.”
“Thou wilt not torture me!” she cried, now thoroughly alarmed. “Nay, nay, nay, O Sejanus! Where are my parents?”
“Thou wilt never see them again.”
“Never see them again!” screamed Psyche. “Are they dead too?”
“Nay; calm thyself. They are in prison. Now tell me, didst thou read the message?”
“I have already answered thee.”
“Then prepare for torture.”
“O Gyges, Gyges!” cried Psyche. “Would that thou wert here to help me!”
“No one can help thee,” said the implacable tyrant.
“But have I not suffered enough?” she said, breathing quickly and stamping nervously with her foot on the marble floor. “Do not press my thumbs! I have told thee the truth! I know nothing! Ah!” she screamed suddenly, as a new thought surged in her mind. “I understand. Gannon did not fall. He was killed, ay, killed!”
“Come, O pretty maid; not so loud. Pray be calm.”
“Ay, killed, for knowing what? My parents are in prison for the same cause—what? And I am to be tortured to confess—what?”
“Time will show,” said Sejanus, grimly, as he noticed the hysterical condition of Psyche. He called a soldier and said: “Place this prisoner in a private cell. Go!”
“May I not see my parents?” cried Psyche, beseechingly.
“No,” he abruptly replied. As she left the office, moaning and crying, he said to himself, “A very fair maiden, and perchance—” A smile passed over his evil face as he thought of Psyche alone and in his power.
Shortly after, the soldier who had been despatchedfor Gannon’s tunic returned and handed it to his master. After reading Gannon’s writing, Sejanus craftily said, “Art thou content with thy position?”
“Ay, O noble lord,” replied the soldier.
“Thou canst be advanced. Write me a sentence in Greek.”
“I know not Greek, my lord.”
“Surely thou knowest the letters. Write a few of them.”
“Neither do I know the letters, O Sejanus.”
“For knowing how to write one sentence I would promote thee.”
“Truly, O master, I know nothing of the language.”
“Where wert thou born?”
“At the Etruscan town of Nepete.”
“When didst thou leave thy native town?”
“Two years since.”
“How long hast thou been a soldier in the camp?”
“Two years, my lord.”
“Thou art dismissed,” commanded Sejanus, satisfied with the soldier’s answers.
Tearing the message from Gannon’s tunic, Sejanus exultantly burned in a lamp all traces of the lad’s knowledge concerning Lygdus.