Chapter XIV
ABOUT a year after the death of the emperor’s son Drusus, the youth Sabinus and the dancing-maid Merope were reposing on the deck of a bireme bound for Piraeus. Other passengers were grouped in the different parts of the vessel. It was midday, and the sun shone from a cloudless sky. The water moved by a gentle breeze that blew from the glorious shores of the island of Salamis. The bireme was three hours’ distant from its destined port.
“What are thy thoughts, my Sabinus?” asked Merope, looking at him with her pure blue eyes.
“The gloom that enshrouded me when we left Rome and Brundusium still hovers over me,” replied Sabinus, gazing at the beautiful purple mountains that form the shore line of the historic island.
“But the day is bright and we are near Athens. Throw off thy dreary oppression.”
“Ay, I fear that thy trip with me will be one that thou wilt never wish to repeat.”
“Thou dost not fear that thy father’s persecutors will follow thee?”
“Nay; but no Roman of a distinguished family can be safe in these days of terror.”
“Thy father is not yet dead. Perhaps there may be hope,” she said in a tone of sympathy.
“Ah! there is no hope,” he gloomily responded.
“But hast thou not many friends?” she asked.
“One by one they have left me,” was his sad reply.
“Even Sulpicius?”
“Ay, even he.”
“But why, O my Sabinus?”
“Since Sosius, my father’s confidant and friend, voluntarily killed himself so as to escape the horrible insult of an unjust sentence, and since Sosia has been exiled, my friends have become suspicious of me. I, who have done nothing but revel in pleasures, am looked upon as one who would try to conspire.”
“Thou didst conspire and won me,” said Merope, forcing an air of gaiety.
“Ay,” said Sabinus, laying his hand upon hers. “But since the death of Sosius, my honored father has been incessantly followed by soldiers in disguise. He dared not leave Rome. Didst thou ever see,” he suddenly asked her, “Claudia Pulchra?”
“Ay, my Sabinus; she is one of the most beautiful women in the city.”
“She has been strangled.”
“For what crime?”
“Friendship for Agrippina. They were cousins. A purer woman never lived in Rome. But she was accused of adultery with an obscure poet, and both are now dead. Even Calpurnius Piso destroyed himself because of the attacks made upon him by the emperor.”
“Truly, the life of a dancing-girl is safer than that of people in higher station.”
“Ay, thou art right, my Merope.”
“Tell me again why thou art leaving Rome,” said Merope, as she watched a sea-gull floating in the air above the bireme.
“When the blow struck the family of Sosius, my father was charged with treason. But sufficient proofs against him were wanting. Mark thou, Merope, what plans Sejanus then formed. Latiaris, who was always considered a stanch friend of our family, was chosen as the instrument to deal the final blow. He sent to my father an invitation to a dinner, which was gladly accepted. At the dinner were only Latiaris and my father; but friends of Sejanus were hidden in a room adjoining. The door that led to that room was carefully covered by a curtain.”
“Ah! ’twas a trap,” said Merope.
“Wait thou a moment. When the meal washalf over, Latiaris addressed my father, praising him for his constancy in his loyalty to the oppressed family of Agrippina. He spoke at the same time commending words about Germanicus and bemoaned the fate of Agrippina. My father, who worshipped Germanicus and who loved the children of that wonderful man, was so affected by the words of Latiaris that he burst into tears. Carried away by his emotion, he spoke against Sejanus; nor did Tiberius escape his invectives.”
“Is it, then, forbidden the Romans to praise their friends and criticise the conduct of the rulers?”
“Ay, my Merope. Such fear now hovers over all the great houses in Rome that no one trusts another. But hearken to what follows. While my father uttered the words against the emperor, he heard muffled voices in the adjoining room. He feigned sickness, quickly left his couch, drew aside the curtain, and entered the room from which the sound had come. He beheld there his worst enemies.”
“Oh, what a cruel plot!” exclaimed Merope.
“The sight of those men was my father’s death-warrant. I know not what happened after that horrible disclosure in the house of Latiaris. When he returned home, he called me and ordered me to leave the city at once. He gave me an orderto sell at Athens his estates in Greece. With money thus obtained, he hopes to save his family from poverty; for at his death everything will be confiscated. With tears in his eyes, he bade me farewell. ‘I shall never see thee again, O my son, my son!’ were his last words. Ah, Merope, those who are able are leaving the city. Informers are everywhere. Mayhap even our conversation may be reported.”
Merope cautiously looked around them, but no one was near. “Truly, such stories frighten me,” she said.
“And, Merope, people are ofttimes charged with saying words that were never uttered by them.”
“When will this terror cease?”
“I know not, O Merope—but look at the beautiful mountains. Oh, would that the spirit which dwells in those lofty heights and that which has seen history blossom and die, would speak to doubting and tormented hearts!”
“Rather, would that life would always be as gentle as this sea,” she slowly said. “But how long shall we be at Athens?”
“When the estates are sold, we shall go to Crete. In a few days my family sail for that historic island. But come, let us try to throw off our sadness. Those laughing eyes must be as bright as the sky and not dimmed with tears.At Athens we will drink of new wine and be happy in forgetting the world. Wilt thou not be glad to see Athens?”
“Ay; we shall see pure Greeks there.”
“Ay; we shall see some Greek dancers.”
“Dost thou remember Psyche, O Sabinus?”
“The little Greek dancer at Pompey’s Theatre? Ay, that do I.”
“I have often wondered what she did to be arrested?”
“Is she not yet free?”
“Nay; Elea and I walked to her home some time since. We found the door broken open and the house bare of everything.”
“Dost thou recall the day we met her with Gyges in the summer garden near the Temple of Bacchus?”
“Ay; ’twas on that day she was arrested. She appeared sad; dost thou remember?”
“I have forgotten.”
“She was the prettiest dancer in the Theatre.”
“Except thee.”
“She was all grace and refinement.”
“Too pure, Merope.”
“She was betrothed to Gyges.”
“Ay; he disappeared at the same time. Was he arrested?”
“I know not. He drives no more at the Circus.”
“Psyche was to have danced her last time at the spectacles given by Nero.”
“Ay; but Elea danced well at the games given by Drusus,” said Sabinus.
“Elea cannot dance the rôles that Psyche used to portray. But does not Drusus marry shortly?”
“He marries this very day, Merope.”
“Who will his bride be?” she asked.
“Aemelia Lepida.”
“Ah! Wealth always marries wealth.”
“Ay, Merope; but wealth creates envy; envy leads to death and confiscations.”
“The Acropolis! The Acropolis!” shouted a sailor, pointing to a white speck that glistened like pure snow on one of the hills directly ahead. Springing to their feet, the passengers looked at that inspiring sight with the same eagerness with which a sibyl would gaze upon a sacred revelation.