Eight days had gone by since the events related in the last chapter. A chill cloud hung over the house of Claudia, the sources of life seemed ice-bound. All intercourse with the outer world was restricted to what was absolutely necessary; the inhabitants crept and glided about like speechless ghosts. Titus Claudius fulfilled the duties of his office with stern regularity, but without unction, dully and mechanically. His son’s name never passed his lips, and yet every one felt that one hideous thought was ever present to his mind. It was the same with the two girls. All brightness, all youthfulness had deserted them, particularly Claudia, who had borne her own hard fate with such steadfast hopefulness. Octavia alone clung unshaken to her conviction, that her husband, whose irresistible strength of will had proved victorious in so many contests, would, even in this bitter strait, find a solution and an issue.
It was still early, but two hours after sunrise, and Octavia was sitting in silent abstraction with her two daughters, in the snug little room where—so short a time since—Caius Aurelius had read to them the Thebais of Statius. Cornelia, too, was with them; she was sitting pale and listless near the door, and listening for a step in the hall. She was waiting till the high-priest should come in from attending Caesar’slevéeand presenting a petition to him. Since the day when Quintus had been taken back to the Tullianum, Cornelia had never ceased to implore to be admitted to the dungeon, where she thought she could bend her lover’s obduracy; for she was convinced that nothing but a proud spirit of defiance had prompted his retractation at the last moment.
“You do not know how to coax and entreat him,†she had said to the high-priest. “Your very requests sound like commands, and leave a sting in his wounded pride. But I am a woman, his betrothed; I love him, and I will implore him! His heart will soften, as soon as he hears my voice.â€
She had thus persuaded Titus Claudius, who, though he felt that Cornelia did not fully understand his son’s character, thought he ought not to neglect this last possibility. But unluckily he met with unexpected hindrances. The governor of the prison, supported by higher authority, positively refused her admission, andthe priest’s declaration that he would take all the responsibility on his own shoulders, produced no effect whatever.
Titus Claudius applied to the city-prefect, but a long discussion only led to the same result. Some one, it was evident, must have an interest in the complete isolation of the illustrious prisoner, and that some one must be of exalted rank. A visit to Clodianus was equally unsuccessful. Indeed, the adjutant displayed a rough and uncompromising severity, which was startling in a man who was not wont to deal thus with persons of position and influence, and the Flamen quitted him in high wrath. The meeting seemed to have resulted in a lasting coolness, not to say hostility, between the two officials. But this step, too, on the adjutant’s part was the result of calculation. If Caesar should hear of the matter—and he was certain to hear of it, for there were witnesses present—he could no longer doubt the devotion of his faithful Clodianus. He, at least, was a true and trustworthy servant, who would rather make an enemy of the powerful high-priest, than abridge by one iota the laws and interests of the State, which in the present instance were so surprisingly identical with the private interests of Caesar himself.
On leaving Clodianus, Titus Claudius betook himself to the chamberlain Parthenius. Still the same refusal, though wrapped here in the utmost politeness and reverence—but it could not be, it was simply impossible. If in anything else Parthenius could oblige his illustrious friend, he would devote himself to the cause with all the indefatigable zeal he had before now displayed in the service of a man so highly venerated, world-renowned and distinguished.
After two or three more attempts to interest influential personages in the matter, the high-priest resolved on laying his request before Caesar himself, though it went hard with him to appear as a petitioner in his own behalf. And now, for the past half-hour he had been waiting at the palace.
The family, and particularly Cornelia, awaited his return with eager anxiety, and at every step on the pavement the excited girl started and shivered. Her hands clutched the arms of her seat; her breath came quickly, and her face was as white as marble. If this last chance failed! Alas, and Cornelia had only too much reason to regard failure as certain! Domitian, that incarnation of hatred and revenge—it was too much to hope for! Domitian, whom she had scorned and humiliated, as a queen might treat a slave—was it likely that he would allow her to save the man she loved? And yet, if anyone could wring this permission from the tyrant by the mere weight of personal influence, it was the Flamen.
The minutes went by—a quarter of an hour—half an hour. Hardly a word was spoken. Claudia held a book and tried to read, but could not get beyond the first three lines. Lucilia sat gazing at the floor and gave herself up to sad fancies; that delightful day at Ostia now and then rose before her memory—what a difference the little time that since elapsed had wrought in three happy young creatures! Cornelia’s lover in a dungeon, Claudia’s under sentence as a traitor, self-banished and far away, never to return perhaps—while she, Lucilia—she, to be sure, had no lover, no friend, no one to care for her—but she felt for all that concerned Cornelia and Claudia, and she herself had been happy too in that peaceful country home, oh so happy! Thatgood old Fabulla, how kind she had been, how anxious to please her guests, how full of sympathy were her clear honest eyes. And those eyes were now perhaps not less tearful than Claudia’s—who so often wept at night when she thought Lucilia was asleep—for her only son Cneius Afranius was one of the fugitives too. How sad for her to miss the accustomed greeting and kiss, never to hear that honest manly voice. Yes, sad indeed—everything was sad—poor unfortunate mother!
Lucilia was wiping away a tear, that had fallen unbidden down her own cheek when, with a loud cry, she started from her seat.
There in the door-way stood, in the flesh, the very subject of her compassion. Fabulla, announced by Baucis, had come in, and, with a thousand assurances of her dutiful respect, begged to be forgiven her venturing to intrude her presence on the illustrious family of the high-priest. But for ten days she had had no news of her son, her letters had remained unanswered; a messenger she had sent to his residence had found the house locked up. So, in her despair, she had come herself to Rome, and as she did not know another living soul in the city, she had thought of the noble young men and ladies, who had done her the honor of visiting her at Ostia.
While she was thus explaining herself in spasmodic haste, Lucilia had rushed to meet her, had affectionately taken her hand and made her welcome; and Octavia bowed politely and begged her to be seated, for she must be tired. Claudia, however, and Cornelia particularly, seemed too much absorbed in their own thoughts to take much notice of the new arrival. This Lucilia remarked, and as Titus Claudius might now be expected atany moment, she thought she would be doing both her family and her friend a kindness, by taking Fabulla into another room, to give her the information she wished. She easily found some simple excuse and took Fabulla upstairs, just as she heard the measured tread of the master of the house in the atrium.
Titus Claudius came into the room with the most perfect calmness; a faint tinge of color alone betrayed, that he had gone through some severe trial to nerves and temper.
“There is nothing now to prevent your visit to the prison,†he said gently; but then he sat down, and, in a hoarse voice, asked for a draught of water.
“Is it possible?†said Cornelia, rushing up to him. “I may see him? You have settled it?â€
Titus Claudius signed to her to have patience; a slave brought him the water, and he drank it in a long, deep gulp.
“It was a hard matter,†he said, seeing they all were eagerly awaiting his words; “Caesar was not at all like himself. He received me coolly, almost repellently.â€
“You,†cried Octavia, starting up, “his most faithful adherent?â€
“He fancied I was about to ask some favor for the imprisoned Nazarene.—And, in that case, Octavia, he would have had a right to be angry with me, for my petition would have imperilled the State. Laws are not made, to be evaded at the first case that occurs. That Caesar should have so misunderstood me.—It makes my face burn with shame and indignation only to think of it! I explained to him, perhaps in too strong terms, that he was mistaken. What Titus Claudius could ask was forbidden by no law, only by the over-carefulness of his officials. I then told him all I had done, in the hope of disarming their precautions, and how I had at every turn met with the same refusal; that I had at last come to the determination to come before him, the fount of all justice and clemency, and so gain my end beyond a doubt, though at the cost of troubling his sovereign majesty. He, no doubt, would allow me a privilege, which had never before been refused to any one. I was ready to pledge my life for it, that the course of justice would be in no way interfered with. Caesar was gloomy, almost wrathful, and he looked at me with an expression I never saw in him before. However, he granted my request. He sent to Parthenius at once....â€
“Your firmness and dignity were too much for him,†said Octavia, with a sigh of relief.
“And when—when?†asked Cornelia.
“As soon as you like. Two of my slaves will accompany you. This snake-ring, with my signet, will be your token.â€
He drew off a ring, broken in its continuity as the law prescribed, and gave it to the girl, who was trembling with joy.
“Not an instant will I lose,†she cried excitedly. “You will see, his pride will melt like the snow on Soracte when spring returns.â€
She hurried out into the atrium in front of the slaves, and got into her litter.
The governor of the prison had been duly warned; he came himself to the gate, and received the visitor with the politeness which seemed due to her misfortunes, her dignified demeanor, and her beauty, evenmore than to her rank and position. When she showed him the ring, which Titus Claudius had lent her, the governor bowed, as though to say that no such guarantee was needed. He begged her, however, to leave the slaves with the litter-bearers, and to follow him unescorted to the cell, where she was to be allowed a strictly private interview with Quintus. In an hour he would return and conduct her back.
The door turned heavily on its hinges, and with a half-suppressed cry of rapture and sorrow, Quintus and Cornelia were in each other’s arms. Pain and love, despair and hope, broke in that cry from their trembling hearts.
After the first storm of feeling had subsided, Cornelia took her lover’s hand, and looked up to him like a child beseeching a favor.
“Quintus,†she began tenderly, “how cruel you have grown. Do men then understand the meaning of no other word than Pride? Must everything be sacrificed to that idol—even all that is sweetest and most sacred? Your father—but why should I speak of others, when no one can suffer so much as I do! Woe, woe, and three times woe on the pride of your house! Accident threw you in the way of these Nazarenes, and so you have pledged yourself to defend their cause, even unto death, as if it were your own!â€
“It is mine,†said Quintus, sadly looking at the ground.
“Oh yes! you will say so. A Claudius is not to be frightened into yielding! That is grand, magnanimous!—But what threats cannot do, love may. Quintus, only reflect, only think; try to comprehend all that your refusal involves. You are the son of a family whose happiness is centred in you, and the very idol of a devoted girl, who must die.—Do you hear me, Quintus? I shall die, if this hideous law hurts even a hair of your head. But I know, I know: in the eyes of a Roman and a Claudius, the only virtue is to persist in a thing you have once undertaken. Your poets praise tenacity as the crown of glory.[98]You would rather run headlong into error, than turn round and seek the right path. But in this case, Quintus—you must own it yourself—there is a tenacity, a wilfulness, which is a crime. You cannot possibly regard the wild stories of these Nazarenes as true?â€
“As the only truth, that is known to man.â€
“What? Is it you, my own Quintus—proud, wise, high-spirited—who say this? Have you waited for me to tell you, that all belief in the gods, be their names what they may, is as hollow as a gilded nut which a child or a fool takes for gold...?â€
“Belief in the gods—yes, Cornelia; but not belief in God. One word may have many and various meanings. The gods—is the name the people give to those idols of the imagination, to which they attribute human passions and weaknesses. Dionysus is a god—and Silenus![99]But what we call God, dear Cornelia, has nothing in common with those empty mockeries. OurGod dwells not in a temple made with hands. Our God is a Spirit, and the very essence of all that lives in us, round us and above us, and that stirs our souls to joy and sorrow. He is in the light that shines from heaven; the blossom that unfolds in Spring; the passions that bind your heart to mine, and the courage that will support me to face death without blenching, for the faith’s sake.â€
“Death!†cried Cornelia in despair. “Quintus—my darling; Death! But the light of heaven and the flowers of Spring, and all that is lovely in us and around us bid us live. If you, my dearest, believe what I can never, never again believe: that higher powers rule our existence, well and good; indulge and cherish the consoling thought; nurse it as a gardener nurses his flowers; but what can compel you to confess the secret to all the world? What can drag you so irresistibly to cast in your lot with that abominable sect, of whom the very best is not worthy to kiss the dust from off your feet?â€
“The Master’s will. Those who have known salvation, find their highest and sublimest duty in laboring together in the great work of redemption. Without knowing it themselves, suffering hearts are striving and groaning towards that light, which they now think so dim and contemptible. You have lost your faith in a divinity, because the form of your belief was false and hollow. Until you have got past this condition of negative and comfortless mistrust, you will never be able to understand me. I shall not even attempt to make it clear to you, and will say only one thing: In spite of all my love for you and my family—a love beyond words—in spite of the youthful blood that dances inmy pulses—I cannot do otherwise! I am, and shall die a Christian.â€
“Quintus a Christian! Turning from Cornelia, to bleed in an arena with slaves and workmen out of the Subura! And we had so fondly, so confidently dreamed of a happy future! An empty, worthless formula is dearer to him, than my spoilt and ruined life!â€
“A formula! Ah! if it were only that. There is no humiliation I would not submit to for your sake.â€
Cornelia sat closer to him and threw her arms round him.
“Quintus!†she cried, bursting into tears. “Do not refuse my entreaties. See with what bitter tears I implore you for mercy. I will be your slave, I will worship you all my life. Only have pity on my wretchedness! Speak the word, oh Quintus, say I may hope!â€
“Cornelia, you break my heart—but I cannot; God help me, but I cannot!â€
Cornelia stood up.
“Very well,†she said coldly, “where you stay, I stay. We are pledged to each other, and I will keep my oath.â€
“What are you going to do?â€
“You will see—Oh! the chains of my love are not so easily shaken off.â€
She went to the door and knocked at it; the governor and the gaoler appeared at the summons.
“You can keep me here,†she said; “I too am a Nazarene.â€
“She is raving!†said Quintus horrified. “She came to persuade me to renounce Christianity.â€
“Your eloquence has converted me,†she retorted scornfully. “Governor, do your duty. I confess myselfguilty. The God of the Nazarenes is the only true God. Your Jupiter is a foolish, ridiculous image.â€
The governor shook his head in bewilderment.
“Follow me then,†he said doubtfully; “I will inform the city-prefect.â€
“Quintus—farewell!†cried Cornelia, with a triumphant glance at her lover. “Think better of it, Quintus! or else we meet again face to face with the beasts in the arena!â€
Quintus stood petrified. The door was shut, the bolts rattled—their steps died away—he was alone.
On the following day Titus Claudius presented himself a second time as a petitioner at the palace. Thus, under stress of circumstances, within a few hours the haughty man had twice been forced into a position which he had carefully avoided his whole life long.
There was to-day no public reception. Caesar had risen late, and now, when the sun was already high over the Caelian hill, he was sitting with Clodianus and Parthenius in a room looking to the south-east. He knew full well why Titus Claudius craved an audience, for the city-prefect had informed him the day before of the strange occurrence in the Tullianum.
When the high-priest perceived on entering, that the emperor was not alone, he involuntarily paused for an instant. Hitherto, when serious matters were under discussion, he had always enjoyed the privilege of a tête-à -tête interview with Caesar, and the letter in which hehad asked admission to-day had expressly stated, that the occasion was strictly personal and private.
Domitian rose, went a few steps to meet him and kissed him. Never before had this traditional formality seemed so meaningless and hypocritical to the high-priest, and there was an expression of such diabolical satisfaction on Caesar’s face, that Titus Claudius for the first time felt an echo in his own mind of that public opinion, which he had hitherto so persistently rejected as prejudiced and unfair. What a smirk, what a suspicious play of features! Some new intrigue must have come in his way, some underhand transaction, and the high-priest’s request might interfere with it! Titus Claudius had already had an inkling of this when, the day before, he had gained permission for Cornelia to visit the prison. It almost looked as though Caesar had kept the adjutant and the chamberlain about him, that their presence might be a preservative against any possible fit of amiability and weakness.
“And what have you to say, my worthy Claudius?†asked Caesar, with cool formality.
The high-priest looked him steadily and respectfully in the face.
“My lord,†he replied with much dignity, “I have again come to crave a favor. I do not know whether you have heard—my son’s betrothed, stricken it would seem with sudden frenzy ...â€
“I am informed of her crime,†Domitian interrupted. “I pity you sincerely, but I cannot and ought not to weaken the arm of the law.â€
Titus Claudius turned pale.
“My lord,†he began, drawing a painful breath, “I have come only to prevent the law from degeneratinginto blind cruelty. The law condemns the Nazarenes, but not a crazed girl who, in her desperate grief, feigns belief in their errors. Inform yourself my lord ...â€
“The law judges of facts,†Caesar threw in, “and not of feelings. None but the gods can read the soul. Besides, how can you prove what you assert?â€
“I will attest it by the most solemn oaths. I know, for certain, that Cornelia loathes the superstitions of the Nazarenes. My lord, Titus Claudius sues only for her, not for—the other. That may guarantee the honesty of my purpose. If I could only stoop to lie—it would be for him, and not for the niece of Cornelius Cinna.â€
His lips quivered as he spoke, and Clodianus looked with sympathy at the man, lately so erect and haughty, now bent, his head drooping, his spirit crushed. Even Parthenius, cold as he was, felt that momentary qualm, of which a father’s heart is conscious in seeing another parent suffer. Domitian alone was unmoved.
“I have no doubt, Claudius, that you speak the truth,†he said with affected benevolence, “but my personal convictions have no right to speak, when the safety of the State is involved. And that safety would be endangered, if I were to yield to my feelings and to your wish, which so far, it is true, I can only guess. Is the city-prefect to set the prisoner free, that she may proclaim in every street: I am a Christian, but Titus Claudius has procured my pardon!...? You see, circumstances are too strong for me.â€
The high-priest looked at the ground in silence. Certainly, if Cornelia persisted in her madness, Caesar was right.
“Well, my lord,†he began in a low, hoarse voice, “I confess that I had overlooked that contingency.She must, then, remain in confinement till her excited brain has recovered its balance. But one thing yet I would crave of your grace: remove her at least from the dungeon, and let her be kept in ward elsewhere. She is but a tender creature—deal with her as with a sick child, not as with a criminal.â€
Domitian glanced meaningly at Parthenius, and he spoke with a sugared smile.
“Our clemency,†he said, “is never weary of obliging our friends. When so meritorious an official expresses a wish or a request, his sovereign must grant it—if it can possibly be reconciled with his duties and the prosperity of the State. It is well! I will run the risk of being accused of undue partiality, and have the girl held in custody here, in the Palatium, with all the respect due to her. She will hardly feel her imprisonment even as a check upon her freedom; only she must on no consideration quit the apartments I shall assign to her. You see, my worthy friend, how truly Domitian inclines to leniency.[100]Nay more, I will endeavor to mitigate the severity of Quintus’ incarceration. Only, do not ask more than I ought to grant.â€
“I thank you,†said Claudius, drawing himself up. “I am glad you consent to be lenient with Cornelia. But, as regards my son—no, my lord; the horrors of imprisonment are my last hope. Solitude, misery, hunger—by these, if at all, his proud spirit may be broken. If this should be the result, if he repents of his errors and does due penance—then indeed I will advance a claim on the mercy of the Ruler of the world.â€
Caesar dismissed him, and the high-priest, utterlyexhausted by the tension of this brief interview, hurried home, and shut himself up in his own study. There was a bitter distrust lurking in his mind, like the after-taste of some nauseous draught. Caesar had, at last, been gracious. And yet—that first impression was ineffaceable. Here, in the privacy of home, he felt all that was wounding in that reception more keenly than at the moment. A strange spasm in his throat seemed to choke him, a dull headache weighed upon his brow, and the blood throbbed in his temples. He had been pacing the room, but suddenly his knees gave way, he dropped into a chair, and all grew dark before his eyes. But presently he staggered to his feet.
“I shall be ill,†he said to himself. “Hold up, miserable body! your task is not yet ended! You must not and shall not give way, till the last resources have been tried, and the last hope is dead.â€
And the mere will of this man of iron was strong enough at this appeal to seem to work a miracle. Titus Claudius was firmer, calmer, and stronger at once, and a draught of icy-cold water completely restored his powers.
He went to join Octavia, to inform her as to the issue of his efforts. He found her alone; but in the adjoining room, with the door half open, Baucis was sitting and chattering, it would seem to herself. The priest closed the door and told his story, and his manner and way of speaking were reassuring. As he spoke the name of Quintus, Octavia sighed deeply, but her looks showed that she had not yet given up her hope of a happy ending to their trouble. When her husband had done speaking, she went up to him with the gentle and almost childlike reverence with which she always treated him, and took his hand.
“My dearest,†she said, looking at him through her tears, “what have you not had to suffer in these dreadful times of sorrow and terror! If only I could relieve you of the whole burden of anxiety! We women succumb and bend, and the weight is less intolerable. But you—proud, unyielding, you hold up your head and stiffen your neck and suffer doubly.â€
Titus Claudius embraced her in silence, and she leaned her head on his shoulder and wept. He gently smoothed her still abundant hair and said, half-unconsciously: “Save your tears, Octavia! save your tears....â€
“You will need them in a worse hour than this,†he would have added, but he realized what he was saying in time to check himself. He clasped her more closely and only saying: “Farewell for the present,†he turned to leave the room.
“You are going?†she said disappointed.
“I have business to attend to.â€
“What, again to-day? I thought the most pressing work was now all over.â€
The priest sadly shook his head.
“So long as our Quintus lies pining in a dungeon, I cannot have an hour’s rest. What I must do, how and where to set to work—I have no idea. But I must try everything—everything. And alas! Rome is a wide world, and the roads are endless, dear Octavia—if only one of them might lead to the goal. Yes, one does—that I know full well—but it is a bloody and thorny path....â€
“I do not understand you.â€
“No?†said the priest with a strange smile. “Well, if the law demands a victim, it might be possible to effect an exchange. The few years I have to live—whatcan they matter? If the father’s grey head were given for the son’s young life—Justice would lose nothing.â€
“What are you saying?†cried Octavia horrified. “By Jupiter the all-merciful, cast off these hideous thoughts! You will save him—but not at such a cost! Go, there is none like you! My heart at every throb is always with you.â€
At this instant Lucilia came into the room, flushed with eagerness; she had on a long full cloak, as though prepared to go out.
“Where are you going?†asked Octavia, and the priest paused in the door-way.
“I have just returned from the house of Cneius Afranius, and I am now going out with Claudia. I only wanted to hear what news my father had brought of Cornelia.â€
Octavia told her.
“Oh, that is good indeed!†said Lucilia delighted. “For my part I have always hoped for the best; for I cannot believe that Quintus ever really joined those meek imposters—or even mixed with slaves and vagabonds. The whole thing must soon be cleared up; I wish it were equally so hopeful for some other folks.—Poor old Fabulla! only think, mother, her son’s name is really on the list of the proscribed, and it seems he is more hated at the Palatium than all the rest. His house has been broken into by the city-prefect and every corner of it searched; they say they mean to raze it to the ground. The poor woman is half-crazed, and I had to promise her that, as soon as matters were settled for Quintus and Cornelia, I would go and spend a few days with her at Ostia. She is afraid she shall go out of her mind in her utter solitude. But I must go now; Claudia is waitingfor me in the litter. Ye gods! what a time of bustle and scurry; I never have a minute to myself—well—good-bye for the present!â€
Titus Claudius looked sadly after her.
“And she does not see either, what is hanging over our heads!†he said half to himself. Then he went through the atrium and out of the house, followed by a few of his clients.
Domitian meanwhile had made arrangements for fulfilling his pledge as soon as possible, for the turn affairs had taken was precisely what he could have wished. Without arousing any kind of suspicion, he could thus have the girl in his power. Neither craft nor mystery was needed; in a simple, honorable and perfectly legal manner, he was attaining the end which, since the tragicomic scene in the temple of Isis, had become a fixed idea with him. Barbillus, indeed, seemed to have set about the task assigned to him in a very questionable manner, and now his wily agency could be altogether set aside.
Almost at the very moment when Lucilia got into her litter, after her short interview with her parents, another litter, closely curtained and escorted by a small party of the imperial body-guard, was being carried by a circuitous route, past the Circus Maximus[101]to the Palatine Hill. Arrived at the Palatium, out stepped Cornelia, confused and agitated, a pathetic image of anguish and despair. The events now befalling her, and a well-founded suspicion of what awaited her, filled her soul with apprehension; she had lost all her self-command, and trembled like a reed.
Parthenius received her with marked politeness, and begged her pardon in flowery language for his inability, under the law, to set her at liberty at once. That, he admitted, was unhappily out of the question; but her durance should be made so easy and agreeable, that the fair Cornelia could not but forgive him. Titus Claudius, who—as she no doubt knew—had the greatest influence over Caesar, had made interest with their imperial sovereign to spare her the horrors of the Mamertine prison; she was therefore to spend the interval till the decision of her case in the Palace itself.
He led the way through the pillared halls, and Cornelia mechanically followed. But she kept her right hand tightly clasped over a spot in her breast-belt.[102]There, ever since that night of the Osiris performance, she had kept a small phial of poison. She was determined to be prepared for the worst. She had not a doubt that Caesar would, ere long, recommence his persecution; for such a failure was, to a man of his temper, reason enough in itself for a fresh attempt. Formerly Cornelia would have trusted to her maiden pride, her uncle’s high rank, and to the aid of Isis the all-merciful. But now her pride had been deeply wounded, her uncle had deserted her, and Isis the all-merciful was dead. She must have some means of protection, which in the last extremity might save her from unthinkable shame, so she betook herself, as secretly as a criminal, to Bryonia,[103]a freed-woman of evil repute living by the wall of Servius Tullius, who kept a tavern much resorted to by the low population of the quarter, but who also prepared strong potions of hemlock, wolf’s bane, and venomous sea-creatures, which she sold to the wealthy and noble for good gold coin. Cornelia’s desire to possess herself of a dose of this poison, was strong enough to conquer all her loathing and to enable her to endure with cool composure the hag’s mumbled enquiries as to whether it was a hated husband, a tyrannical guardian, or a successful rival she wished to get rid of. She paid the price and hid the tiny phial in her wide belt. There it was still—almost forgotten for a time under the stress of the events that had followed, but suddenly remembered again now, in the very den of the imperial tiger. Cornelia felt the hard edge of the crystal with a sort of sinister delight, the contact seemed to revive her strength and resolution.
The room, to which she was led, was indeed an effective contrast to the vaults of the Mamertine prison. Everything, that the most extravagant luxury of a luxurious age could contrive, was combined in this little room, which was lighted by a skylight of costly glass panes. Carpets of the rarest kinds, magnificent flowers and plants in jars, soft pillows and couches of gorgeous colored stuffs, columns of onyx and ornaments of beaten gold—it was a perfect casket—of the most enchanting aspect, and well adapted to impress a girl whose keen sense of beauty had been cultivated by wealthy surroundings. And in point of fact, notwithstanding her miserable plight, she could not help feeling the charm as pleasant and restful. She drew a deep breath, the atmosphere was full of aromatic perfume, and yet as pureand fresh as the mountain air that fanned the heights of Tibur.
“Here I will leave you,†said the chamberlain. “Two slave-girls await your commands in the next room.†He pointed to a heavy gold-fringed curtain. “Here you are absolute mistress; there is nothing to remind you that you are a captive, but the step of the guard at your door, if you should happen to hear it. And—I may add—it rests with yourself to cast off even these light fetters, as soon as you will. Farewell—fair Cornelia. I shall often allow myself the honor of enquiring as to your needs or wishes.â€
He bowed low and went out; Cornelia could hear him speaking a few words to the guard outside, and then his steps died away in the labyrinth of passages.
Cornelia, fairly exhausted, sank upon a seat and rested her head on her hand. Her eyes slowly filled with scalding tears, that gathered and rolled down her cheeks. To what straits had she been brought! Her lover in a prison and devoted to certain death—she herself offered the choice of the last conceivable disgrace, or of sharing his fate. Of what use was it to hope? If Quintus could resist the attack of her besieging, imploring love, it was only too certain that his delusions had overthrown his mind.
She abandoned herself unresistingly to her crushing grief—but suddenly she started up. She remembered where she was; she realized all the hideous significance of this transfer, which the unsuspecting Flamen had accepted as an unqualified favor. She looked round her, and the sneering face of the tyrant seemed to leer at her through the elegance of the room. A sense of unutterable desertion came over her, and with her head thrownback and her arms flung up as if in desperate supplication, she gazed at the blue autumn sky which looked down upon her, pale and remote, through the round skylight.
“Ah, miserable fate!†she cried, clenching her fists. “Why are you so empty and cold, ye skyey spaces? Why does no heart dwell beyond you, that can feel for us below—no merciful spirit, that can understand what crushes our souls? Oh Isis! Isis! With what fervor have I not besought Thy favor!—and if Thou Art—if, anything resembling Thee exists beyond the stars!—but no; if Thou wert Isis, who should fear Thee more than Thy priest? And he—he despises and desecrates Thee. It is an invention of the brain, an illusion, a fable; and in my quaking heart all is wretched and hopeless enough without that fable.â€
She ceased to look upwards, her gaze fell, and she fixed her eyes on the floor.
“There is none,†she said, with dull conviction. “No help—but in Bryonia’s potion.â€
She paced the room, and her steps fell silently on the thick, soft rugs.
“A gilded cage indeed!†she muttered, looking round her. Then she went to the door-way, and raised the curtain. Two handsome slave-girls were lying on fine panther skins; they seemed to be sleeping, but at the rustle of the curtain they started up.
“Lie still,†said Cornelia, with a melancholy smile, and they needed no second telling. They had perhaps spent the night as dancing-girls, or in waiting late on their master’s orders; their pale, olive faces were weary and worn.
Cornelia studied the details of this second room. Itwas completely fitted as a bedroom, with everything that a Roman lady of rank could need for her elaborate toilet. A deeply-cushioned couch filled up all one wall to the left, and opposite to her was a door. Cornelia went past the sleeping handmaids and opened it. It led into a third room, small, dark and square, intended apparently as an eating-room. When the chandelier which hung from the ceiling should be lighted, this room also might look rich and comfortable, but it had no entrance excepting through the cubiculum. All the rooms were lighted above; this third room through a kind of shaft, that pierced the ceiling obliquely. Thus the outer world was completely excluded.
Cornelia now returned to the first room, and tried whether the door, through which she and the chamberlain had entered, was bolted on the outside. At a slight touch the two ebony wings turned easily on their hinges, and the young girl, with her swift impulses, was on the point of acting on her hope of liberty, when a glance at each end of the corridor showed her that she had been too hasty; three of the praetorian guard, in full armor, were posted at each exit.
One of them came up to her, and asked, half-respectfully but half-ironically, if she had any orders. He was a gigantic Gaul, stalwart and broad-shouldered, with a good-humored look in his face.
“Do you take orders from a prisoner?†said Cornelia, haughtily.
“Why yes, mistress,†said the soldier. “And, by Hercules! they will be fulfilled with zeal. Sooner or later....â€
But he broke off; Cornelia’s lofty gravity confused him.
“What were you about to say?†she asked with a frown.
“I only meant.... If you and Caesar—if you were reconciled—Caesar is very good-natured to the ladies—he loves. You might pay us off, if....â€
“Man!†interrupted Cornelia, quivering with rage. “What do you take me for?â€
“For all that is sweet and lovely,†said the man much disconcerted. But Cornelia heard him not; she had gone back into the room, and flung herself in despair upon a divan. Convulsive sobs choked her, but presently the tears came, and at last, after crying silently for a long time, she fell asleep. But even in her slumbers her hand still clutched the little phial of poison.
It was late in the afternoon, when Cornelia woke from her swoon-like sleep. She felt crushed and racked in every limb, and her head ached madly. She rose and went into the next room. The slave-girls were gone, and in the inner room she heard a clatter as of laying the table. She opened the door, and saw the two girls busy, with two Nubians dressed in yellow, in arranging a supper with costly Murrhina vessels, cups, wine-jugs, and flower-vases. The five-branched lamp that hung from the ceiling was lighted, and she could see that the walls were colored bright-red, while beautiful figures of the gods, each a masterpiece, stood out from this strong background. All the furniture was of puresilver, richly and tastefully wrought; particularly the couches, which were of fine incised work, and covered with sky-blue cushions.
As she stood there a trap-door opened in the marble floor—the head and shoulders of a slave came up through it, and a fresh load of flowers, just gathered, were taken from him by the two slave-girls.
“What does all this mean?†asked Cornelia.
“It means, my pretty one,†said a voice in Greek, close at her elbow, “that it is nearly supper-time, and that Caesar will do you the great honor of permitting you to eat at the same table with himself.â€
She turned round, and before her, in full dress, stood Parthenius.
“Such a favor is quite unmerited,†said Cornelia, summoning up all her courage. “I am wearied, worn out, almost too ill....â€
“Oh! the presence of the sovereign works wonders. Be fresh and gay, Cornelia. True wisdom is at home everywhere. Only children and old men pout to get their own way.â€
“But do you consider of what crime I am accused? Caesar derogates from his majesty, by sitting at table with a criminal.â€
“Oh! but clemency is the prerogative of the crown. One word from the sovereign wipes out any crime.â€
He nodded significantly, and went back into the outer room. Cornelia stood at if rooted to the spot; but presently, recovering her presence of mind, she rushed after Parthenius. She threw herself on the ground before him, and clasped his knees.
“Let me go, take me away again—back to prison—straight to execution—wherever you will; only awayfrom that hated presence, that hideous fate! Have pity, have mercy, Parthenius.â€
The courtier shrugged his shoulders.
“You take the matter too hardly,†he said, raising her politely. “Be brave, and divest yourself of all prejudice. The situation is a simple one. Your lover has fallen under the law; what then can you lose, by raising the veil of maidenly coyness a little? Moreover, a thoughtless speech has placed you in a position to fear unpleasant consequences. These of course will be spared, if you show yourself amenable to—reason. Nay, if for old attachment’s sake, you feel any strong desire to save that perverse Quintus Claudius from the last extremity, even in this—I am well assured—Caesar’s clemency may be easily obtained if—of course.... You understand.â€
At every word, that Parthenius spoke, Cornelia turned colder and paler. The choice, then, that lay before her was between the last disgrace, that could befall a woman and a Roman—and the death of the man she loved, ah! so passionately. Both were alike unbearable—and now, as this was borne in upon her consciousness, she felt clearly that a third alternative must at any risk be attempted—even if it were the maddest ever dreamed of by mortal creature. And for that she must gain time; she must detain Caesar, put him off, seem to fall into his horrible trap, deceive him, entangle him.—Some good genius would suggest to her how, where, and when the chance for safety offered. Despair is so ingenious, and makes us so cool, so steady, so keen-sighted.
Parthenius supposed that Cornelia’s calm reflections were the result of his worldly-wise harangue.
“Yes, my child,†he went on, “that is how matters stand, and you will do well to reckon with the factors as they are given you. Do you think you know Rome, my good Cornelia? Nay—you only know the narrow, cross-grained, little world, that your uncle chose you should see. If you had eyes for all that goes on round you, you would make no difficulties. Did not Julia enjoy the most splendid position, although her connection with Caesar was a breach of morals, as it is called? Is there anywhere in good society a single married woman, who has not a dozen of lovers? And do the clients and slaves bow less low before her? Men must live their lives.â€
Cornelia’s heart sickened in loathing of the man, but she looked him steadily in the face.
“What?†she asked with affected innocence; “would it, do you think, be no sin before the gods...?â€
“The gods! What are the gods? Are you afraid of the image you stitch into linen with colored yarn? And what you call the gods are just such images, in the web of human culture. Children are frightened at them, when you show them the bogie for the first time....â€
These were the very thoughts, that had passed through Cornelia’s mind a score of times during the last few days. How was it then, that this confirmation from the chamberlain’s lips sounded so revolting? How was it, that the courtier’s utterance of them almost roused her to denial, and that her heart refused to ratify the conclusions, which her reason had so lately approved?
But she had no time for these reflections. She must play a part—the part of a yielding, over-persuaded victim. She shuddered with hatred and disgust as she thought of it, but there was no choice.
“Ah!†she sighed. “Caesar’s commands would not have terrified me half so much, if it had not been for the recollection—I do not know whether you heard—Barbillus, that mean trickster....â€
Of course she knew that Parthenius had long since been fully informed of all that had taken place in the sanctuary of Isis; otherwise how should Caesar have employed him to prepare the way for his own coming? But she affected innocence so skilfully, that the courtier was deceived.
“Yes, yes,†he said; “I know all about it.â€
“Then you can understand, that I must have been frightened. If Caesar had not been so violent, if Barbillus had not so cruelly betrayed my confidence. I am sure—things might have been different.â€
Parthenius smirked affably. “Well, well; all is well that ends well. This may be set right yet. I am truly delighted to find, that the account Caesar gave me of your obstinacy was exaggerated.â€
“I, obstinate?†sighed Cornelia with the expression of a baby of ten. “Far from it. I love nothing so much as peace and quietness. But, you see—I am afraid of Caesar.â€
As she said it, it sounded too helplessly foolish; but Parthenius, enchanted at his success, did not notice that she overacted the part.
“You little simpleton,†he said kindly. “Do not be uneasy. I will give him a hint. It is plain to any man, that a lily must be plucked with greater care than a cabbage. Though he likes cabbage now and then, does our gracious sovereign,†he added with a laugh.
Parthenius carried on this strange conversation some little time longer. Then, hearing steps outside, he signed to Cornelia to withdraw into the middle room, while he himself went to the entrance. He threw the door wide open, for it was the Emperor, followed by his favorite slave, little Phaeton who, by reason of his tender years, was reckoned as nobody in such circumstances. Domitian wore a long and ample lacerna, and had drawn the hood over his face. When the door was closed behind him, he threw off the wrap, and stood in a short-sleeved tunic of colored flowered stuff, with a gold fillet round his thin hairs, smiling mysteriously at the chamberlain.
“Well?†he said, glancing round the room.
“All promises for the best, my lord! The fair one is by no means the monster you imagine. It was only the sudden fright, that turned her brain that evening. I have found her quite reasonable, most reasonable; and if the sight of your majesty does not prove too much for her again, I venture to predict....†A smile ended the sentence.
“You are a finished master in all affairs of gallantry,†said Caesar. “Ovid himself might take a lesson from you. But where is she, the lovely, aggravating Fury, who handled the lord of the universe with such rough defiance? Tell me now, Parthenius: Am I not infinitely kind? Is not my condescension far beyond everything you ever heard of? I might have snatched the fruit of the Hesperides by force, and I resign myself to wait till it drops into my lap, beguiled by all the arts of love. It is a stroke of genius, a refinement...! If it comes to the worst—of course—but you say you are sure.â€
“I am sure you have only to be yourself, to be certain of victory.â€
Cornelia overheard this dialogue, and she involuntarily made a gesture as if to throttle the hateful man, and she only resumed her indifferent air just in time, for at this moment the chamberlain raised the curtain, and in the next instant Domitian and Cornelia stood face to face.
For some minutes the Emperor found no words. The presence of the noble girl, whom he now had so completely in his power, seemed to have deprived him of his presence of mind. He was deeply conscious, that this queenly Cornelia was no every-day quarry, and that few women in all Rome could compare with her for beauty.
“To-day you will be my guest, fair Cornelia,†he said at last, taking a step towards her. “Your crime is wiped out—for our clemency is boundless. In return I ask but one thing: a happy smile and a few kindly glances from those divine eyes. Will you grant me these, Cornelia? It is your sovereign, who sues to you?â€
“My lord,†said Cornelia, “I will try.â€
“You are as gracious as Amathusia![104]Well, to-day Parthenius will share our meal—but to-morrow—to-morrow, say, beloved one—you will receive me alone?â€
“I will try,†repeated Cornelia, looking down.
Parthenius threw a triumphant glance at Domitian, a glance that seemed to expect some acknowledgmentof the superior skill, which had so quickly converted the coy maiden into a docile child. And Caesar vouchsafed him a hasty nod. Then he took Cornelia by the hand, and, with an air of repulsive gallantry, led her into the little triclinium, where the slaves had by this time made everything ready. Caesar took his place on the middle couch, with Parthenius on his left hand, and Cornelia on his right. As each couch was intended to accommodate three persons, this arrangement placed them at some distance apart; a respectful distance, which Domitian intended as a sort of atonement for his vehemence on the former occasion. They had no one to serve them but the two slave-girls, helped by Phaeton.
Cornelia had eaten nothing the whole day, and the dishes before her were the choicest productions of that great artist, Euphemus. Nevertheless she could hardly force herself to swallow a mouthful. Her throat seemed to close; her terrors increased every instant, and to give herself some courage, she emptied the gold cup of strong Falernian twice or three times.
Perhaps it was from a kindred feeling, that Caesar carried the goblet to his lips oftener than usual.—Gentle and humble as the beautiful girl seemed, who reclined there on the pillows, now and again he saw, in fancy, the haughty and indignant heroine.—It was not till he had drunk deeply, and the Falernian began to warm his blood, that he found some of the flattering phrases of a wooer. By degrees his eloquence grew freer and readier. He enlarged on the all-conquering might of beauty, before which even the gods themselves must bow; he dilated in rhetorical flights on the charms of a country life—asked for no greater happiness than tomarry the vine with the elm,[105]to wield the harrow, the plough, and the pruning hook, and to live on fresh figs with honey and goat’s milk. A few cups more, and his ecstatic mood had sunk to amorous melancholy. He spoke of the solitude of a throne, the aching void of a heart that beats unsatisfied even when nearing the grave; of “black care,†which incessantly hovers round a crowned head.
All this mawkish sentimentality, so ill-becoming the furrowed face stamped with the traces of the lowest vices, put the finishing touch to Cornelia’s utter loathing. She almost repented not having frankly betrayed her aversion, in spite of every danger, and boldly faced death rather than submit to the approaches of this revolting reprobate. But the thought of Quintus kept her resolution up.
A newer and heavier wine now sparkled in the cups. Caesar drank it unmixed with water, and the color took a deeper dye in his bald and polished forehead—the golden circlet had slipped backwards, his eyes were half shut, and he spoke thickly. He raised himself slowly and unsteadily from his couch.
“Your health, sweet Cor ... Cornelia,†he stammered, supporting himself with his left hand against the table, while his right hand held the goblet. “I am happy to think that Aphrodite has touched your heart to kindness.â€
He went towards her, and laid his hand on her round, white arm. She shuddered, but she kept still. Her mind was made up to endure to the very last limitsof endurance, and then to cast off the mask of submission, and defend herself with all the strength of desperation. She hastily glanced at the side-table, where the slaves had set down the dishes; she hoped to see a carving-knife, but in vain. All the meat had come up ready carved[106]through the trap-door. There was no weapon available but the gold cup with its heavy foot—or, in the last extremity, Bryonia’s terrible little vial.
“Cornelia,†he continued, still grasping her arm, “we anger the gods, if we scorn their gifts—and to-day—now—I feel so bright, so well, so happy—the present smiles on me.—Cornelia, speak....â€
Cornelia made a hasty movement, and freed her arm from his clutch; he tottered.
“It is suffocatingly hot!†he said, looking up at the lamp. “Air—give me air! Only for an instant. Parthenius, give me your arm as far as the balcony![107]the wine has bewildered me—or happiness—joy.... Come, Parthenius. Only for five minutes, and then, sweet Cornelia, one last cup to consecrate our meeting.â€
The chamberlain led him slowly away. Cornelia gazed after them like one dazed. Her face was bloodless. All the misery that this man had heaped upon her head, seemed to rise before her mind in that fearful moment: the relentless law to which Quintus was a victim, the exile of her venerated uncle, and the crushing, maddening disgrace which threatened her even now.
She looked round her; the two slaves were standing with their backs to the table, and Phaeton had quitted the room.
The next instant something bright sparkled in her trembling fingers; it was the phial she had received from the old woman. Just in front of her, full almost to the brim, stood the Emperor’s goblet. She bent forward and poured the contents of the phial, all but a few drops, into the purple wine. But at the same instant she started back with a loud scream; before her, in the door-way, she saw Phaeton’s pale face: he had seen all.
The lad did not utter a word. He stared at the wine-cup as if paralyzed at the sight. A minute or two later Domitian and Parthenius returned. The Emperor went to his couch, without observing that Cornelia was lying half-senseless on hers. He was on the point of taking up the cup once more, and still the terrified boy found no utterance—but suddenly a shrill cry of anguish broke from him, and he threw himself at Caesar’s feet.
“Do not drink, my lord!†he cried, wringing his hands. “The wine is poisoned. She, there—look! She still has the phial in her hand!â€
Domitian had turned ashy-pale; it was only too evident that the boy spoke the truth.
“The guard! call the guard!†he shrieked in the voice of an old hag; his teeth chattered, and his jaw dropped.
“Is it true,†Parthenius said, as Cornelia slowly pulled herself up, “what this boy says...?â€
“Yes,†she said with quivering lips. “I did whatevery woman, who deserves to be a Roman, would have done in my place. My honor is a thousand times more precious than that wretch’s life!â€
Phaeton had flown into the corridor to fetch the guard. That instant of respite gave Cornelia time to lift the poisoned goblet to her lips. But before she had tasted it, Parthenius sprang upon her, and, with an adroit twist, spilt the contents of the cup.
“Serpent!†snarled Caesar, “you will not get off so cheaply, do not fancy it.â€
“Oh! she will soon find out, that Caesar’s wrath postpones death till life has paid its utmost penalty!†said Parthenius. “From Caesar’s arms to the rack and scaffold—that is your fate, audacious murderess.â€
“Here come the praetorians! Away with her! Throw her into chains. The governor of the prisons shall answer for it with his head, if she lays hand upon herself.â€
Cornelia was more dead than alive. The soldiers bound her hands behind her back, and carried her half-fainting, out of the room.
“You did well, Phaeton,†said the Emperor, who was completely sobered by the shock. “Here, take this cup, which was so near being my death—I will give it to you in perpetual memory of the event. Henceforth you shall never quit my side, for eyes like yours do good service in these treasonable times.â€
The lad humbly kissed his hand.
“You put me to shame, my lord,†he said steadfastly. “I only did my duty, and deserve no praises.â€
“Only your duty!†echoed Domitian. “Then you are superior to all the millions, who own my sway. The world is rotten, rotten at the core—it must crumble intodust.—Come now, you two who are faithful. Take me away from this scene of murder.—Abandoned, mad wretch!â€
“Do not let it weigh too heavily on your mind,†said Parthenius. “Women often have such crazes. If once a girl has taken it into her head, that she must guard her honor.... The greatest triumph you could now achieve, and the best punishment for the crime she dared to attempt, would be cold-blooded mockery and compulsion....â€
“The gods forbid!†cried Domitian in horror. “The woman is a demon. She would be quite capable of strangling me in her arms, or setting her teeth in my throat under pretence of a kiss. No, Parthenius, I renounce all pretensions to such flowers as these. Henceforth I acknowledge no claim but that of justice. Punishment, the extremest punishment, torment for body and soul, and a cruel death—these must be the retribution for such a crime. And that Quintus Claudius—it was for his sake she aimed the blow at my sacred head—he too shall feel what it is to have the sovereign of the world for his enemy.â€
The little town of Rodumna[108]lay half-hidden in olive-woods and vineyards, on the right bank of the Liger, in Gallia Lugdunensis. It had formerly beenstrongly fortified, but since the fall of the Republic it had lost its strategical and military importance. The foreign wars of the Empire were carried on far, far away on the northern and eastern frontiers, while internal convulsions had been constantly more and more centralized in Rome, since the rule of the Caesars had been fairly established, and a civil war in its original sense had almost ceased to be a possibility. Men lived faster in these days, and political changes were rougher and more summary. Thus, Rodumna had gradually dwindled in importance as a citadel; the walls had begun to fall into ruin, and were being overgrown with ferns and maiden hair. In Rome, and even in Lugdunum, men had something else to do than to pay any attention to this out-of-the-way little town, whose inhabitants, for their part, troubled themselves little enough about the affairs of the great world, and repaid contempt with indifference. Here reigned that idyllic peace “far from the madding crowd,†which Horatius Flaccus had sung in his famous odes. The inhabitants, for the most part small land-owners or farmers, won from the surrounding lands all that they needed for actual existence, and even something more; produce which was sent either down the river in vessels to Decetia[109]and Noviodunum,[110]or in carts, over the ridge of mountains to the east, to thechief town of the province. The poorer inhabitants fished in the river, labored in humble toil, and kept a few taverns in which the thick and muddy wine of the country was sold.
In the course of the last ten years several houses and villas had been built outside the town walls, often separated by wide tracts and surrounded by gardens, fields and groves, each a little world of itself.
It was one of these isolated country-houses, the home of his old and paternal friend Rufinus, that Cneius Afranius had designated as the place of meeting for the conspirators. They were to concentrate on this point by the ides of February,[111]and meanwhile each was at work independently in different parts of the province. They were to assemble as quietly as possible, to report the success and prospects of their efforts, and to form their plans for future action.
The eventful thirteenth of February had dawned. The evening before, Cneius Afranius and the Batavian, accompanied by his freedman Herodianus and Magus the Goth, had already met, and early in the morning, before sunrise, the others had arrived, most of them in extraordinary disguise. Ulpius Trajanus appeared dressed as a merchant from Palestine, Nerva, who was with him, played the part of his accountant—his former tutor. The snowy beard, which he had allowed to grow during the last few months, entirely concealed his identity. Even the one-armed centurion had been so cautious as to assume a disguise, though his name was noton the list of the proscribed. He was travelling as a Lusitanian dealer in amulets. Cinna, on the other hand, like Afranius and Aurelius, though with less reason, had regarded these precautions as unnecessary. He wore an ordinary travelling-cloak, gave himself out to be a Roman knight of Lilybaeum,[112]who had come on business connected with an inheritance to Lugdunum, Vesontio[113]and Argentoratum,[114]and he trusted to his good fortune, which certainly had, so far, preserved him from any meeting with a too keen observer. Caius Aurelius had thought it wise to separate from Herodianus. The freedman’s conspicuous appearance and unmistakable physiognomy made him a dangerous travelling-companion, and it was not till they were close to Rodumna, that the great worshipper of the Opimian wine-jar[115]had rejoined him—to his unspeakable delight—for, away from his beloved patron, to him the finest Caecubum tasted no better than the verjuice of Veii.
Up to their present meeting, not one of the conspirators had been in a position of any real danger. Cinna attributed this to a certain amount of negligence and, perhaps, timidity in the administration. Of course he could not know, that the conspiracy had a noble and influential supporter in the Palatium itself, in the person of Clodianus, who, with all the zeal he seemed to devote to Caesar’s interests—and especially to the work ofpersecution—nevertheless contrived, by the subtlest expedients of intrigue, to cripple every active effort, particularly if it originated with Parthenius, and who managed to combine an appearance of the greatest energy with absolute inaction. His master-stroke consisted in collecting a considerable mass of evidence, which convinced Domitian, and even the chamberlain, that the conspirators were to converge upon Rhaetia,[116]and take that district as the basis of their operations. Thus, while Caesar’s agents were searching and watching that province with eager haste and, misled by false reports, advanced farther and farther to the north, the conspirators in Gallia Lugdunensis were congratulating themselves on their unhoped-for liberty. One old and devoted client of the adjutant’s was indeed cautiously endeavoring to track them—not to circumvent them as a foe, but because Clodianus wanted to open negotiations with them, and to further their plots against Domitian. This ambiguous conduct on his part was unexpectedly successful, mainly because for some days Parthenius had also betrayed a strange revulsion, and had ceased to urge on the persecutions with his original virulence. What could have caused this change in the man—whether it was his more intimate connection with the intriguing Massilian, Lycoris, or some secret understanding with the Empress—Clodianus could only guess. But, diligently as Parthenius strove to conceal the fact, he soon became aware of it, and with all his wonted elasticity he stretched out his feelers, so to speak, in order with all caution to investigate this new phenomenon.
The friends at Rodumna had no suspicion of all this. Even the fact, that some unknown friend had warned them of the danger, could not put them on the track of such a wild and incredible idea. When, on board the Batavia, Nerva had referred to these warning letters, Cinna had attributed them to a mercenary betrayal on the part of some subordinate about the court, who thus perhaps gave vent to his own spite and disaffection, and counted on a reward at some favorable opportunity.
Now, on the thirteenth of February, the villa near Rodumna was the scene of an agitated discussion. The owner of the house had taken the precaution of sending off all his slaves the day before, down the river to an outlying part of his property. Only two trustworthy men had been kept back, and these, as the sun rose over the hills, prepared a country breakfast for the assembled party, and then went with Magus into the garden, where they mounted watch over the high-road and carefully-barred gate. At the back of the house, where a small door-way opened to the south-east, Herodianus posted himself, in accordance with his particular wish. The songs of Pindar,[117]and a jar of the best wine that Rufinus could produce—this was all he should need to keep his spirits up, even if the sitting should last until sundown.
The centurion first made his report. His efforts had been chiefly directed to sounding the feeling of the common soldiers, and he had traversed the country in every direction. Everywhere he had been met with cautious reserve, or even with frank distrust. He had severaltimes been taken for one of those imperial spies,[118]whose business it was to betray an incautious speaker into some rash utterance of opinion. These agents, who had hitherto been employed only in Rome, had, since Caesar’s suspicions had grown to such a head, made their appearance among the troops stationed in the provinces, and had fomented much ill-feeling. It happened that Lugdunum had just lately been the scene of the cruel execution of an officer, who was universally beloved but who, under the influence of wine, had spoken some inconsiderate words and who had been denounced by one of these treacherous informers. The centurion had taken good care not to weaken this prejudice against himself, indeed he had occasionally risked his own safety in playing the part thus forced upon him. In other places, where he had not been suspected, but had been able to talk frankly and freely with the men, he found that two facts especially, as reported from the metropolis, had made a deep impression; one was the unhappy end of the miserable Julia, and the other Caesar’s action against Cornelius Cinna. Cinna, he said, had already a strong and enthusiastic following among the common soldiers. It had never been forgotten in the army, that he had so often spoken in the Senate on their behalf and, more particularly, had taken their part against the unjust partiality shown to the praetorian guard, but he believed it would be harder to win overthe military tribunes and the rest of the superior officers. Among them Domitian’s ascendancy was on the whole undisputed.
These were the most important results of the old centurion’s experience; the assembly expressed their thanks and their admiration for his indefatigable energy, and the worthy man, whom Cinna and even Nerva had greatly undervalued—perhaps because they mistook his modesty for incapacity—rose at once to a high place in their estimation. Indeed, it presently proved that the enquiries of Trajan, Nerva and Cornelius Cinna had yielded relatively smaller results than those of this unpretending soldier.
Ulpius Trajanus, who spoke next, frankly admitted that, in spite of all his efforts, he had only occasionally spoken to a few officers and centurions, and had convinced himself that, so far as he was concerned, he could not hope for any success excepting by declaring himself, particularly to the divisions of the troops he had formerly commanded.