“I have no notion how.—But Domitia commands, and I obey. Such a passion as mine dares even the impossible.”
He left the room.
“I am but a weak creature,” said Domitia to herself, “but I am under a spell. The idea came suddenly into my mind like an inspiration from heaven, and I was goaded by it into action. No, no, I cannot bear it; Quintus Claudius a victim to some ravening brute! That noble form, mangled and torn! Sooner would I strangle him with my own hands.”
Stephanus went to his own rooms, and there he demeaned himself like a madman. What curse was this, that had fallen upon him, in this absurd demand from three quarters at once? Had he triumphed so signally over Quintus Claudius, only to lose his vantage-ground; had he so painfully raised an edifice only to strike it into ruins with his own hand? Besides, how was he to do the odious task in so short a time? It was enough to drive him mad.
For the first time in many years the most unheard-of thing occurred: Stephanus, the courtly man of the world, entirely forgot his company. He had left them at table and did not even return to apologize. He paced his study incessantly like a tiger in his cage, and when at last Lycoris came in search of him, his face was furious, his eyes bloodshot, his lips livid.
“What has happened?” asked Lycoris horrified.
“Has the boy made fools of you all?” shrieked the steward, hoarse with rage. “Away with you—go! You see I am incapable of attending to you!”
“Oh! I am going. But do not forget—every minute is precious.”
On the following morning, at the earliest gloaming, Quintus Claudius was conducted from the dungeons of the Tullianum to the underground cells of the Amphitheatre;[155]and with him were Cornelia and some of the other Nazarenes. About fifty were reserved for the last days of the festival.
The procession of the condemned moved silently along the Via Sacra; as they passed through the arch of Titus and the yellow grey of the eastern sky fell upon their faces, they looked like a file of corpses. Cornelia was as pale as death, and her eyes looked larger than ever. Only Quintus seemed to have lost little of his handsome and elastic youthfulness during these months of imprisonment.
The prisoners were all, without exception, calm and composed. Even those few who, when they first set out, had wept and lamented, soon recovered their firmness when they saw that of their fellow-sufferers.
Cornelia herself was perfectly unmoved. Though she had no ground for that happy assurance and sustaining comfort, which her companions found in their confident faith, she was invincible through her stolid contempt for life which, now that all hope was over, seemed to petrify her spirit and her senses. To live withoutQuintus was simply impossible. If Fate would not relinquish this victim, if the dark sisters were inexorable to her overwhelming grief, she could have but one wish: to die with the man she loved. To be free from this torment, to vanish into nothingness; this was the one idea that possessed her soul. Even the horror of the last scene of all—the dishonor of standing as a spectacle to the gaping crowd, the agonizing pain under the fangs of the beasts—of all this she took no account. And so it came to pass that she, disbelieving and hopeless, she who so lately tore her hair like one demented—now, on the road to death, bore herself as bravely as the staunchest confessors of the Redeemer; nay, more bravely than some. And the passing glance, a look from soul to soul, that she had exchanged with Quintus as they came out of the prison—the first for so many weeks—had only fanned this passionate desire for annihilation and eternal rest to a fiercer flame.
That look had had a very different effect on her lover. After struggling in the loneliness of a dark cell, and triumphing at length over all that could chain him to life; after a hundred victories over every torture of mind and body, won in the glorious name of duty; the fervent Christian, who hoped confidently that the Son of God would support those who endured such dreadful torment through faith in his sufferings, and that he would, through these torments, work their salvation—this unwavering hero quailed as at a new grief, when he saw the wasted form of the beautiful young girl. For the first time, since Caesar’s message of impossible respite had been brought to him, the thought flashed through his brain: Three beasts! could it be hoped for? But the flash vanished before it could dazzle him.—Agladiator’s short blade and a Gaetulian lion! Verily it was only adding mockery to brutality, if Caesar called this mercy!
Nevertheless the idea had found place in his mind, and though his reason rejected it at once and absolutely, it haunted the background of his thoughts.
How greatly must Cornelia love him, if merely out of defiance, merely to force him to recant, she could declare her adherence to the doomed sect, whom in her heart she scorned. What self-immolation, worthy of the highest crown. Or had a ray of that saving light fallen on her heart? Quintus felt it a duty to be sure on this point. Now, in the face of death, she could not deny the divine truth of the doctrine of Salvation; if she still should do so, well, she must and should, at that supreme moment, speak the truth—deny the faith, save her life and learn to believe afterwards perhaps. He did not know, that Cornelia was guilty also of attempting Caesar’s life; that corrupt witnesses had represented this deed, not as a desperate stroke for self-defence, but as an act of revenge for her uncle’s exile, and that the verdict had pronounced it a crime in the first degree.
When they reached the vaulted cells of the Amphitheatre, the victims were relieved of their fetters and well supplied with food and drink, that they might not appear too miserable in face of the final catastrophe; some, indeed, who refused to eat, were compelled to do so by force. After this they were left to themselves. The two exits from the vaults were barred and guarded on the outside.
Then many a heart-rending scene took place in those damp and dimly-lighted caverns; in every corner there was a group, whispering, praying, weeping.
On a stone bench near the chief entrance sat our worthy Diphilus, his eyes fixed on his young wife, Euterpe, who was kneeling before him, her face hidden in his lap.
“And you forgive me?” she sobbed; “you forgive me for everything? Oh I have been very wicked; I have been a miserable sinner, and do not deserve that you should call me your wife.”
Her husband gently stroked her hair, but he did not speak; he seemed lost in thought. She, however, sobbed incessantly: “Forgive me, oh forgive me!” Then clasping her hands, she prayed: “O God! All-merciful Father, do not desert us! Have pity on Thy children for Jesus Christ’s sake! Almighty God, comfort us and have mercy on us!”
Presently she got up and sat down by the side of her speechless husband; she threw her arms round him and kissed him.
“Tell me,” she whispered, and she shuddered, “what prayer shall I say in the last awful moment, when they are tearing my limbs? But oh! it is impossible; God can never leave us to die like this. No, He cannot, He cannot. No earthly father would, why then should our Father in Heaven? Say, Diphilus, he will send us an angel to bear us away to the land of joy and peace? It is only to try us—say, Diphilus.”
“My poor child,” said Diphilus, and he broke into tears.
And then she began again, chattering in her sweet, silly way, till at last, almost while she was speaking, her eyelids closed, and her head sank gently on his breast; she was asleep—and in a few hours her round young limbs were to be mangled by beasts of prey.
There was another couple of senatorial rank there besides Quintus and Cornelia: the consul, Flavius Clemens,[156]a man of blameless character and the highest merit, and with him his noble wife. Both in calm and silent resignation had joined a group, that had gathered round a girl of eight, who had sunk into a decline in consequence of her long imprisonment. Her father, an artisan from the Subura, had carried the poor child in his arms from one prison to the other. She was now half sitting and leaning against the wall, looking round her with large, ghastly-bright eyes, while her father held her hands and listened to her words as though they were a revelation from Heaven.
“Do not cry, father dear,” she said coaxingly. “That good angel, that has so often come to me, will not have your Cynthia torn by lions. He is coming to fetch me away. There—there—where the wall is open and you see the blue sky through—he is there in the sunshine.”
A faint smile fleeted across the wasted face, transient and melancholy as the last rosy hue of an autumn sunset. She closed her eyes, but opened them again at once in rapt ecstasy.
“Good-night, father,” she said with a sigh. “I amgoing first, up into that bright and glorious heaven. When the time comes, and your heart is breaking with terror and pain, remember me, father, and do not forget that I shall be praying to God to give you strength and courage to the last. Oh father, I thank you too for having loved me so much, and for having taught me to know the Saviour, and taken care of me in all your trouble. And I thank you too, dear good friends, and I will pray to God for you all as well. What a glorious sight! I can see far, far away into the gates of light. Yes, Angel of Hope, I am ready to follow you. Kiss me, father, once more, for He has got my hand—He is flying, dragging me up—up....” her arms fell into her lap, and she sighed deeply. Then she lay still, as if she had gone to sleep.
“Cynthia, my child!” cried the father, and with a loud sob he pressed the cold, slender hands to his furrowed face.
“She is dead!” he said. “God’s mercy has spared her the worst.”
The by-standers, who had so victoriously lived down their own sufferings, stood deeply moved at the sight of the gentle, innocent creature, that had been held captive like a criminal, and almost literally tortured to death.
“It is well with her!” said Flavius Clemens, clasping his weeping wife in his arms.
Calmer than all else, as it appeared, was the half-whispered dialogue between Quintus and Cornelia. Each was endeavoring to utter what was bursting their hearts, but in as indifferent a tone and with as little gesture as possible, so as not to attract the attention of their fellow-prisoners.
“Listen, Cornelia,” whispered Quintus, hardly daring to open his lips. “You are here solely in the hope of urging me to recant. It is not true, that you are really condemned to death?”
Cornelia looked him in the lace with a bitter smile.
“Of urging you to recant?” she repeated slowly. “Alas! if any sufferings of mine could have softened your heart, we should never have come to this! Why, you would see me torn to pieces ten times over by wild beasts, before you would yield a jot of what you call the truth. No, Quintus, it is quite true. You did not care to live with your devoted Cornelia—very good; then if you must suffer death, Cornelia dies too. It is as simple as a nursery rhyme.”
Quintus shuddered.
“But could any one condemn you?” he said. “You are not one of the sect.”
“I pronounced myself guilty—and they believed me.”
“Then you deceived your judges. Or has what was untrue become the truth by the force of conviction?”
Cornelia haughtily shook her head.
“My dearest,” said Quintus, hardly able to control his grief, “you are destroying my last hope of comfort. Ah Cornelia! if we could but have died united in a common faith! But as it is, woe to us both, Cornelia; your death is in itself a sin.”
“You alone are guilty of it.”
“I!” cried Quintus, in utter despair; his voice spoke grief too great for words, and Cornelia’s eyes humbly implored forgiveness.
“But how can I force my heart to submit?” she said as gently as an ill-used child. “Can I wish to live,if you die? Or again, can I believe what my reason condemns as a fable? Oh! I am not laughing at it, as I did when I first went to see you in prison! I feel now that faith is an invincible force, and gives bliss and strength even in the hour of death. And yet it seems to me a madness, a delirium of raving fancy. No, I cannot believe, however much I may desire it. My faith in Isis made me strong too—and it was all a lie, foul and base treachery. Ah! Quintus, Quintus, you are sacrificing your young and promising life for a mere dream, a delusion, a shadow—throwing everything away for an empty bubble!”
“My poor Cornelia!” said Quintus deeply moved. “The greatest idea, that ever dawned in the mind of man, you call a delusion and a dream. It is true, perhaps, that many of the aspects under which we shadow forth this great conception are petty and childish, for we are but weak and helpless mortals. But the essential part, the living principle which lies hidden behind these symbols, is true and perfect to all eternity. Poor, hapless Cornelia; how will you find courage to look death in the face; you, forsaken, alone, without a Saviour—hopeless—speechless—when the Nazarene can joyfully murmur the name of Jesus Christ? What prayer, what word of comfort can you find to whisper in that awful moment?”
“Can you ask?” said Cornelia, looking into his eyes. “The last words, that my lips will utter, will be your name, my first, last, only love. My god, my saviour, is called Quintus Claudius.”
Quintus could control himself no longer; the tears started to his eyes. He clasped her in his arms and covered her lips, cheeks and brow with passionate kisses.
Thus they stood for a time in an oblivious embrace. Suddenly they heard the roll of drums; a sudden terror fell upon the party of prisoners. This drumming was the signal for the fights in the arena to begin. The scattered groups drew closer together; the flute-player had sprung up with a scream. Some of the men began to bewail themselves and lament loudly, but the consul presently succeeded in controlling this outburst of terror. In a firm, loud voice, he admonished his fellow-victims to emulate the example of the Redeemer, and to remain steadfast through all their torments, so that the sight of their unshaken courage might win Him new disciples among the people. Then he told them how nobly the servants of the Lord had died under Nero; how even when burnt by slow fires, lighted by the hand of Caesar himself, with their latest breath they proclaimed the truth in Christ Jesus. The prisoners listened with growing devotion to his enthusiastic appeal, and the vault was as still as the catacomb used to be, when the little congregation met there for their Feast of Love.
When Flavius Clemens ceased, a strange sound fell on the ear; it was the clapping and applause of the spectators, which was heard only as lulled by distance, like the tramp of a horse’s hoofs over a wooden bridge. The first scene of the bloody performance was over—a fight probably, like that of yesterday, between two gladiators. The fatal moment was drawing nearer and nearer.
Twice or thrice was this fearfully suggestive sound repeated, mixed with confused shouts and wild laughter; heavy steps were heard in the corridor and the principal entrance was unbarred.
The bravest quailed, paralyzed by terror, and staredwith glassy eyes at the door, which opened slowly, creaking on its hinges. An armed soldier stood on the threshold, and two others were visible on the steps that led up to the arena.
“Diphilus, the carpenter, and Euterpe, his wife!” cried the warden in a harsh voice. Diphilus had started up the instant he heard his name called. With his head bent forward, he fixed his gaze on the apparition in the door-way as though he thought he might be dreaming. Euterpe had crept behind him; like a child threatened with punishment, she hid herself behind her husband’s stalwart form.
“Come on!” said the man. “Make haste! The people are waiting.”
“We are ready,” said the carpenter.
“No, no, no!” shrieked Euterpe wildly. “I will be hewn in pieces, before I go up to that horrible blood-stained place. I cannot, Diphilus—no, not if the Lord himself were to appear and command me.”
“Woman,” said the man-at-arms, “give over whimpering and do not keep me waiting. There is no help for you now; and besides,” he added with a jeer, “the beasts will only be all the hungrier.”
“Control yourself and pray to God,” whispered Diphilus.
“I cannot, I cannot,” sobbed Euterpe falling on her knees. “Why must I die—and I am so young, and this world is a very pleasant one! Mercy, for Christ’s sake have mercy! No, no, I am not a Christian. I am innocent, indeed I am. I was misled—go and tell Caesar, tell the cruel judges. I cannot die, I will repent before the altar of Jupiter—only let me live, and my good honest Diphilus.”
“Miserable, weak creature!” said Flavius Clemens, going up to the distracted woman and stroking her hair with a pitiful smile. “God will forgive you for what you have said in your terror of death. It does not come from your heart, and God is love.”
Then turning to the man he said: “Is it not possible to give her a little longer time? If we came first—I and my wife?”
“Impossible,” said the man.
Meanwhile Diphilus had infused some little courage into the trembling Euterpe. She got up, but her knees gave way. He took her up, more dead than alive, and bursting into tears, clasped her in his arms.
The warden signed to his comrades; without saying a word they snatched her from him. One of them, a red-haired Sicambrian, lifted up the slender form of the weeping woman, as if she were a mere plaything, and carried her up the steps. The other two followed with Diphilus, who held himself bravely, and waved a farewell to those who remained behind.
The door fell to with a crash, and no sooner had the footsteps died away, than they heard the signal drum. Most of the prisoners fell on their knees at the horrible sound and raised their hands in passionate supplication. Flavius Clemens, Quintus and Cornelia remained standing.
There was a breathless silence; lips moved but spoke not, only a suppressed sob now and then broke the deathly stillness. Suddenly a convulsive shudder thrilled the worshippers, the dull roar of a lion was heard; involuntarily every eye was more fervently raised and hands were clasped more tightly. Then there was a fearful shriek, shrill, despairing, piercing—andthen again the wild applause, the clapping, shouting and laughter.
“That was Euterpe,” whispered Quintus, pressing his face against the wall.
Nearly two hours went by, before the vault was opened again. The interval was occupied by a series of combats on horseback in grand classical style; and when the man next appeared he hailed twelve of the Christians at once.
It was strange, but the victims were now all calm and composed. The men and women, who at the first appearance of the messenger of death had flinched and quailed, now only betrayed by their shortened breathing, that the door that stood open before them led to death, and not to liberty.
“The Lord give you strength!” cried Flavius Clemens as the door closed upon them, and the remaining handful looked at each other with a sad and wistful smile. Their number was greatly diminished; at every moment the end drew nearer—nearer and more certain.
At noon the noble Flavius was led out to die, and a few minutes later his wife followed him. Then the rest, till at last only Quintus and Cornelia were left in the subterranean vault.
“They have reserved us for the last,” the girl began after a long and painful silence. “The most effective piece to conclude, as the connoisseurs say. Oh! Quintus, the disgrace is worse than the dread of death. Tell me, my dear love, you will not give the mob the triumph they long for, to see you fight like a gladiator? You will obey the voice of pride, which bids us rather turn the sword with calm dignity against our own breast?”
“I shall fight, Cornelia.”
“Miserable man!” she groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “No worthy Claudius would say so! Or do you hope to be victorious over the lions?”
“I hope nothing, for I know that the short dagger is little better than a toy. But so long as my arm can wield it, I have no right to drop it out of self-conceit. If Providence has so willed, even that puny weapon will avail to fell the foe....”
“You are mad—or rather, I see now your creed is indeed the creed for slaves. It treads the pride of man into the dust.”
“True pride is that, which raises a man above all prejudice—which teaches him to despise scorn and look down on contempt. I know but one law—that of duty. But you, Cornelia, once more I implore you....”
The rattle of the bolts interrupted him; the dreadful moment had come.
For one second, breathless and with his eyes closed, he leaned against the wall. Then he stood calm and defiant Cornelia flung her arms round his neck.
“Say not another word, my own dearest love,” she said, with passionate devotion. “I too know the duty of a true and loving heart. I follow you joyfully, and my last breath is yours. Now be yourself, all yourself, and never think again about me. If I were to be left alone in the world—then indeed I might claim your tears; but, as it is, death cures every ill.”
Quintus felt that Cornelia was equally right from her own point of view, as he, as a Christian, was from his. He kissed her once more on the white and trembling lips, which in happier days had spoken so many afond and tender word, blessed her for her heroic faithfulness, swearing that in that other unknown land, where they would presently meet again in glory, he would yet save the soul that was one with his own.
Then he took her hand, and led her up the steps.
The little gate-way was thrown open, and they slowly stepped out on to the arena. Whether it was the intense daylight after the dismal twilight of the dungeon, or their own tension of nerve and sense—they saw nothing; neither the endless ranks of seats, the thousands of heads that filled the Amphitheatre to the top-most course, nor Caesar in his gold-embroidered pulvinar. Everything swam before their eyes in a grey mist, a blank chaos. They were alone, together, in the midst of this vast multitude. At their feet spread the arena with its yellow sands, like an island in an ocean.
Cornelia tottered; she would probably have lost consciousness if the hard rattle of the drum, and immediately after the loud voice of the master of the ceremonies proclaiming the names of the victims, had not startled her into life again.
A servant came up to Quintus, and handed him the short dagger-like sword.
“Be sure to throw it,” he whispered stealthily in his ear.
Quintus, who recovered an unhoped sense of self-protection as soon as he felt himself armed, looked enquiringly in the fellow’s face.
“If you value your life,” the slave repeated, “throw at him, throw the knife.” And he withdrew to his place behind the parapet.
What could he mean? No doubt, if Quintus were close to the lion, even in the event of his striking afatal blow, it might be considered certain that in his very death-struggle the beast would mangle him. Still, a stab must be surer to hit than a throw; besides which he might be able to stab twice, he could not repeat the throw. The suggestion then must be the malicious trap of some enemy, or at best the brutal joke of a ruffian.
The doors at the farther end of the arena were now flung open, and an enormous lion, all tawny gold, his wide head loaded with a thick and flowing mane, came calmly and majestically out on to the arena. A large black lock of hair hung over his eyes.
Quintus at once recognized that very beast, which had flung itself so furiously against the bars of its cage as it stood on the quay at Ostia. He clutched the handle of his weapon with a convulsive grip; it suddenly felt so small, so ineffectual, that he thought the spectators that sat watching must laugh at the absurdity.
Cornelia was standing a few paces to one side of Quintus, as pale and motionless as a marble goddess.
The lion came deliberately towards them, and Quintus fixed his eye steadily on the glaring eye of the foe. Suddenly the brute seemed to hesitate. Could he have recognized the face, which had before so roused his ferocity? He lashed his flanks with his sweeping tail, and foaming slaver dripped from his jaws. The muscles of his huge paws twitched to strike—and now he crouched to spring. Every sinew was strained, and the next instant he flung himself straight at Quintus. At the same moment Cornelia had thrown herself in the line of the brute’s attack, while Quintus started aside. The girl’s unexpected movement may have startled the beast; he sprang short, and fell on the ground verynear to Quintus, and as he fell the sword pierced his shoulder with such force, that it went up to the hilt.
What was this? What an unheard-of stroke of skill! The knife had hardly hit the lion, when he sank limp and helpless; he shuddered with a tremendous convulsion, and then rolled over stark and stiff in the sand.—He was dead.
Quintus could not believe his eyes—some demon, he thought, must have tricked his excited senses. How was it possible? One of these monstrous beasts, in whose side half a dozen of lances would sometimes be broken, before their tenacious vitality was spent—and this sudden death had resulted from a single stroke, though, it is true, a shrewd one?
But the uproarious applause of the crowd gave him no time to meditate upon the miracle.
“Mercy for Quintus Claudius!” was shouted in a thousand voices, and from every side.
“Caesar, release him! Pardon for Quintus Claudius!”
Pale as death, his lips set, his brows knit, Caesar sat impassible in the midst of the storm. Clodianus went up to him and, with a meaning smile, whispered something in his ear. Caesar angrily shook his head.[157]
“Pardon for Quintus Claudius! Pardon for his betrothed!” rang out incessantly, and louder than before, from every part of the Amphitheatre.
“My lord and husband,” said Domitia, bowing with dignified and well-feigned indifference to her frowning sovereign, “your clemency will save him?”
“Never!” cried Domitian, rising from his seat.
He signed to the herald, and the tumult was hushed.
“Romans!” said Caesar in a voice like distant thunder. “You are demanding mercy for a man, who pronounced his own sentence of death. He had his life in his own hands. One word, one single word of recantation, and he was free. His obstinacy refused to speak the word. Romans, Caesar pardons none but those who repent.”
“None but cowards!” shouted a voice from the top-seats.
“Pardon for Quintus Claudius!” the shouting began again—the building seemed to tremble at the terrific uproar.
“Quintus,” murmured Cornelia, closing her eyes, “speak the word, that will set you free! You will not escape your fate a second time. Quintus, if ever you loved me....”
A melancholy smile and a look of utter devotion were the only response.
Again Clodianus made some remark, in an undertone, to the wrathful sovereign, and once more the herald commanded silence.
“I am merciful and kind,” said Caesar. “I am always glad to fulfil the desires of my beloved Romans, so far as it is possible. But here I am bound by duty. Theutmost I can grant is a reprieve. For this day the criminal is respited from carrying on the struggle. He may have time to recover himself and collect his strength; then victory may crown his efforts a second and a third time. Then, my faithful Romans, your heart’s desire will be fulfilled, and the object of your sympathy will be free!”
A murmur of discontent rose from the disappointed people; however, they felt that any farther insistence would be useless, if not rash. They had not failed to observe that, at the very beginning of the tumult, Domitian had beckoned the commander of the body-guard to his side, and when he was in this frame of mind some violent measures on the Emperor’s part were only too probable.[158]“Good counsel prevails over revenge,” said the voice from the upper circle.
The master of the ceremonies hastened to lead Quintus and Cornelia away. The dead lion, which lay with its long blue-black tongue hanging out of its foaming jaws, was dragged off through one of the gates, and the arena hastily strewn with fresh sand. A fight between a little girl of thirteen and a dwarf[159]soon put the incidents of Quintus’ struggle out of the heads of the spectators, and by the end of the day, when the whole arenawas flooded with water and a magnificent naval fight was performed,[160]few indeed remembered the brave youth and his pale, beautiful companion.
Few—but still some did.
First of these was Caesar, who swore that he never would consent to save the life of a man, whom Cornelia would follow to death rather than enjoy the favors of Caesar. All the emptiness and nothingness of his existence had come home to his conscience, as he looked on at that life and death fight. He, who was only hated and feared, felt at that moment a wild hunger for love and constancy; but this impulse, in itself so purely human, at once assumed, in his degraded soul, the form of aggravated vindictiveness.
Then, there was Domitia. Her hatred, which had long been dying out, broke down altogether under the impression of what she had just witnessed—even her hatred for Cornelia, her happy and envied rival, over whose death in lingering torment the rancorous Empress had so long gloated in fancy.
Shortly after the beginning of the naumachia Domitia quitted the amphitheatre and returned to the palace, where her steward met her.
“Is my Lady and Mistress content?” he inquired in abject tones.
“Content?” repeated Domitia. “And is it any merit of yours if he won the victory in an unequal fight?”
“Madam,” said Stephanus, “the time was short, and every effort to move Caesar failed. I used the onlymeans, that lay within my power. Or did you really suppose, that a Gaetulian lion could be killed like a hare with a nip of the hunter’s fingers? The dagger was poisoned.”
“Ah! I understand....” She would have said more, but Polycharma rushed breathless into the room.
“I want Stephanus—a messenger from the amphitheatre....”
“Bid him come in,” said the Empress.
A young man handed a note to the steward. Stephanus turned pale as he read it, and he closed his eyes as if blinded by a flash.
“Go, it is well,” he stammered, and he crushed the letter in his hand.
“What has happened?” asked Domitia.
“Madam—the worst that can happen. The master of the ceremonies suspects—the trick is discovered.”
The Empress flushed crimson.
“Then you no longer have Quintus alone to save, but yourself too, Stephanus. Your life is at stake as well as his. Remember, consider the reward that awaits you! Let Rome perish if need be, but prevent that last, worst....”
“You command, and I obey.”
Day was dying; the sun sank, blood-red, into the Tyrrhenian sea. The Capitol and the arches of the Amphitheatre still glowed in fiery purple, when the streets already lay in cool twilight. Then the last glory died away from their topmost crests, and the blue darknessstole up the walls; night enveloped the pleasure-loving crowd and their martyred victims—at last the people seemed to have had their fill. They poured out of the Amphitheatre like an overflowing stream, over the Forum, through the Vicus Cyprius and the neighboring streets.
While Rome was resting and refreshing itself after the exciting pleasures of the day, and giving itself up to the sweet influences of the warm spring evening, six noble ships were flying before the wind from the island of Igilium.[161]At about three hours before midnight the vessels came to anchor close by Alsium[162]and landed their passengers—three cohorts of picked men—without let or hindrance. The son of the Propraetor of Lugdunensis, was at their head, and with him were Caius Aurelius Menapius and the one-armed centurion. The Propraetor himself was advancing with the rest of the forces by the main north road, the Via Cassia,[163]and had already reached Clusium,[164]while the rest of the conspirators were coming round south-eastwards with a smaller following from Luna,[165]and Pisae[166]to Rusellae,[167]to join the Propraetor’s troops at the Forum Cassii.[168]
Domitian knew only of the advance of the Propraetor, and still supposed that it was in fulfilment of his own orders. Completely hoodwinked as he was by Clodianus, he had himself insisted on reinforcements within the city itself. The adjutant had indeed here taken advantage of the circumstance, that Caesar had received repeated and mysterious warnings that a great conspiracy was on foot. The disembarkation at Alsium was the first step towards open revolt, and though Clodianus, in collusion with Parthenius, did his utmost to prevent this news from reaching the Palatium and the Praetorian guard, whom they could not yet regard as secured—nay, though he was prepared in case of need to account for it by some plausible lie, still they could not but expect every instant that the mask would be torn aside. Clodianus and Parthenius spent the evening outside the walls of Rome in the adjutant’s villa, and after midnight they adjourned to the house of a freedman of Parthenius’s, where they held a momentous conference with Norbanus, the prefect of the body-guard. After much parleying and persuasion he was won over to the side of the conspirators. Caesar’s latest outrages, more particularly his monstrous injustice towards the senators and knights who had lingered, untried, in prison since the day when they were arrested, struck the balance in the upright and honorable soldier’s mind. But even then, to the great regret of the conspirators, Norbanus could only answer for the adhesion of three of the cohorts under his command; the others had been freshly recruited at the New Year, and the growing distrust of the Emperor had filled every post, particularly those of the officers in command, with his own special favorites and creatures. Whatever the result might be, it wastoo late to avail themselves of every resource; the road straight forward was the only one now open to them. Still, an attempt was worth making at any cost. At the worst the Praetorian guard could certainly be kept in check for two days, and by that time the Propraetor and his forces might have reached Rome. Possibly too there might be another solution of the difficulty.—Clodianus was thinking of Stephanus.
By the time the sickle of the waning moon rose ruddy above the horizon, the Propraetor’s son and his eager troops had already left half the road between Alsium and the capital behind them. Aurelius, accompanied by the faithful Herodianus and the Goth, rode by the young leader’s side, marking with happy anticipation the growing distinctness of a black cloud on the southern horizon—that dark silhouette was Rome. Now, as the moon rose, Aurelius fancied he could recognize the buildings on the Janiculum, and distinguish to the left the temple on the loftier Quirinal. Between these points—which he saw more in fancy than in fact—dwelt his Claudia—adored and beautiful, “the only She.” What must she not have suffered during these last months! Ah, and even now be suffering! This very day probably the brother, that she so devotedly loved, had fallen a victim to Caesar’s hideous mania for persecution. Clodianus had indeed promised to do everything, even the impossible, only to postpone the frightful climax; but who could tell!
Aurelius set spurs into his horse, as if he could not bear a moment’s delay till he dashed through the streets of Rome, tore open the prison doors, and clasped his rescued friend in his arms. How could he face Claudia, if he came too late to save her brother? Why had theexecution of the conspiracy been so long postponed? The reasons, it is true, had been irresistible—even Cinna had confessed that; but an aching, longing heart ignores every motive of strategy and of state-craft, and the days, which had been allowed to slip by in inactivity, had seemed a dreary eternity. Well, the immediate future would put an end at any rate to suspense, and surely the gods could not so cruelly betray his fervid hopes. If he should succeed, if fate had such mercy in store—what joy for him of all men to break the chains, what a triumph over the stern and inexorable father, who to uphold the law could not spare his own son!
Aurelius was half-ashamed to find himself thinking so exclusively of his own future, when the next few hours must decide the fate of millions—nay, of the Empire. But of what avail were strength of resolve and effort of will? His thoughts would revert to the scene he so fondly pictured in his dream, when he should clasp his Claudia in his arms, and stand proudly before the high-priest with the words: “Irestore you your son.”
The road was lonely, the step of the marching men sounded loud in the silence. The few passengers and vehicles that they met were allowed to pass on; but all who were going towards Rome were, willy-nilly, detained, and only allowed to proceed in the midst of the cohorts.
In spite of these precautions they kept on the alert. At about half a mile outside Rome, Clodianus and Parthenius joined the force, as had been agreed, and the soldiers halted for a moment. The conspirators greeted each other warmly. Still, it was only with a determined effort, that Aurelius could find a civil word for the chamberlain, for whom he had always felt a deep aversion, and who, even now, impressed him as odious and repulsive. The loud bluntness of Clodianus, on the contrary, who harangued at some length about freedom and patriotism, he felt had the ring of genuine coin.
“I received your father’s last message,” said Parthenius to the young captain. “Well, I must submit. A woman on the throne of the Caesars seems to you dangerous, and still more so Cornelius Cinna’s scheme of re-establishing the Republic. Your father’s arguments have, on the whole, convinced me, so we will agree.—Your candidate is also mine.”
“You have our thanks,” replied the Propraetor’s son. “Our troops are already informed as to the work in hand. Nerva’s name has been mentioned in the ranks, more than once. You will see, my noble friend, that only a spark is needed to fire their faithful hearts.”
He turned his horse, and faced the troops.
“Men,” he cried in a voice of thunder: “Your Caesar is Marcus Cocceius Nerva!”
“Nerva!” was shouted by a thousand voices. “Down with Domitian! Long live NervaImperator!”
The scattered natives, that dwelt near the high-road, might start from their sleep in astonishment at this rolling peal of shouts, and ask themselves what such a roar of voices could mean. But seeing presently that these were armed cohorts, marching in close order on Rome, they no doubt crept back under their coverlets with a shake of the head, and the time-honored comment that the soldiery were allowed to do just what they pleased,[169]even to rouse the peaceful peasant from his dreams.
The cohorts themselves set out again with a will, and soon reached the western slope of the Janiculum, where, thanks to Clodianus’ cautious foresight, no obstacle stood in their way.
Quintus and Cornelia, meanwhile, were enduring a terrible night. After the unhoped-for issue of that first combat, they had been led back into the underground vault, and there they were left—either for convenience sake, or for fear lest the populace should give too emphatic expression to its sympathy, if the prisoners should be seen on the way back to the Mamertine prisons. A few rugs were flung on the stone pavement, and a man at arms was posted in the cell, while two more guarded the door outside. No one thought of giving the exhausted wretches food or drink, for their being yet alive was no part of the programme, and the master of the festival had too important business on hand, to trouble himself as to die fate of two “postponed” victims.
Cornelia, utterly crushed by all she had gone through, sat in a corner sunk in a heap, and silently wringing her hands. It was certain, quite certain, that the tyrant was pitiless; the whole thing was merely a prolongation of their misery, a postponement of the inevitable, a slow sipping of the cup of agony, which others had been allowed to swallow at a gulp! It was more than she could bear.
Even Quintus, who had at first been elated by the sense of victory, became every moment more restless and wretched. Cornelia’s cry of despair, when the lion made its spring—a cry of horror and yet ecstatic—had pierced his heart. In that supreme utterance, wrung from her very soul, she had expressed all that could never have been said in words: a deep and tender reproach, a defiance of all their enemy’s worst efforts, and a whole world of love, which could only live for him she loved. It was not till they were locked within the dungeon again, that Quintus observed that Cornelia was wounded; blood was flowing from her left arm—the brute’s claws must have touched her there. His feelings as he perceived this were beyond words; and then—when she refused, almost angrily, to let him stanch the blood, and at last tore a strip off the hem of her dress, and tied it up just “anyhow!” Her whole manner asked with gloomy scorn: “What is the good?” They knew, both of them, full well, what the next day must bring forth.
The minutes dragged along with leaden slowness. The young man’s excited brain had lost all power to banish the most hideous thoughts; he could scarcely pray. He saw himself standing once more in the arena with Cornelia at his side, repeating the scene they had just rehearsed—till the end. This time he struck with less skill and success; the roaring beast crouched, sprang, he felt its claws in his flesh. He was lying on the earth, bleeding, mangled—yes, it was all true, only he felt no pain, only utter exhaustion. And the lion had clutched her too, Cornelia—beautiful, stately.—Then the monster was scared off from his bleeding prey, back into his cage. The servant was coming towards himwith the harpoon—he could hear it crunching in the sand.
He started up, shuddering violently. It was a hideous dream; he had fallen asleep after so long being restless. But the crunching and grinding did not cease, and now he heard his name called in an eager, loving human voice. The grey gloom was bright with the glare of torches. Before him stood Caius Aurelius, with eight soldiers of the northern army.
“Quintus!” he cried, with open arms. “The gods be praised! Rise, noble Cornelia. Why do you gaze at me, as if you saw a ghost? I am Aurelius. I have brought you freedom.”
“Caius?” stammered Quintus, almost speechless with surprise and new-born hopes. “You here—tell me, what has happened?”
“Rome is ours. More than half the Praetorian guard have sworn fidelity to Cocceius Nerva. The Palatium was invested an hour ago. You shall hear it all, but oh! my senses are reeling...! Forward, men, make way.—Oh, Quintus I who could have foreseen all this, only last autumn...?”
Quintus, tottering like a drunken man, went up the steps into the sweet night air, and Cornelia followed, half carried by their preserver; but when she presently drew herself up and walked on in the torch-light, her black hair all loose and gently stirred by the wind, her dress torn and stained, and so stately in spite of it all, her presence touched the heart even of her rough guards.
In the Forum they found a tremendous uproar. A strong division of the troops guarded every entrance to the Palatium; others, and among them many of thePraetorian guard, were being sent to various parts of the city, to defend the most important strategic points against any plans of their opponents; at the same time the mob came streaming in from every quarter, shouting, shrieking and wasting its breath in questions.
Close by the Arch of Titus, Clodianus sat on horseback in the midst of a madly-excited crowd.
“Yes, citizens,” he shouted in stentorian tones, “the tyrant reigns no more. Too long indeed have we endured the humiliating yoke, but now we have shaken it off. Those, who have acted for you, are grateful to you for your unanimous and noble enthusiasm, and Nerva,Imperatorwill show his thankfulness by doubling the gifts of corn for the next year.”
“Long live Nerva, the father of his country!” they shouted in chorus. But it was not only the capricious proletariat, who joined in; more eager and joyful still were the better classes of the citizens, even up to the knights and the few senators who, in their uncertainty as to the issue, found courage enough to express their opinion.
“Romans!” Clodianus went on. “Never fear, that the handful of mercenaries, who defend the Palatium, can imperil our work this day. The legions of the Propraetor of Lugdunensis are already on their way hither, by forced marches from Clusium. Before the sun has twice set, they will be before the walls of Rome. Go and tell all your friends, who still hesitate, that he himself will march in with the Propraetor; Nerva, the choice of the people, the divine Emperor.”
“Long live Nerva! long live Clodianus!” shouted a hundred voices at once.
It was with great difficulty, that Aurelius could makea way for the released couple through the dense throng.
“Where are we going?” asked Quintus, who had scarcely been able to speak a word.
“To your father’s house.”
“Miserable man!” groaned Quintus, bending his face on to his friend’s shoulder. “What must he not have suffered?”
And thus they made their way slowly, like a funeral procession, to the house of Titus Claudius.
In the Palatium too there was stir and turmoil—torches, the clatter of arms and confused shouts. At the receipt of the news of the blockade, Domitian had almost lost his wits. He sobbed like a woman; he started from his bed shrieking and lamenting, and rushed wildly up and down his room, his teeth chattering with terror. When he learnt, that the cohorts which were on guard in the palace had remained faithful, and would resist every encroachment to the death, he recovered himself a little, and called his palace officials together for a sort of council of war. For an hour at least he listened to their opinions, but rejected almost everything that was proposed, as impracticable or useless, and at last, in great wrath, dissolved the sitting. Then he himself went the rounds of all the posts, and condescended so far as to overwhelm, not the centurions only, but even the private soldiers with flattering appeals, and to implore their steadfast adherence; besides this, he distributed gifts of money.
But, in spite of all this, he fancied that the demeanor of the guards was less respectful than of yore, and this suspicion filled his mind with bitterness and alarm; he swore to himself, that when once the rebellion wasquelled some, who had especially roused his ire, should be made an example of. He was still ignorant, that the larger half of the Praetorian guard had gone over to the enemy. Besides, he was expecting the Propraetor of Gallia Lugdunensis who, alone, would be strong enough to turn the balance, and who would no doubt hurry on to Rome with double speed, when the news of the events in the capital should meet him. In his utter bewilderment it did not occur to Caesar, that it was Clodianus who had been in treaty with the Propraetor, and that Clodianus was at the head of the revolution.
When noon had come and passed, and still the Praetorians had not raised the siege by expelling the forces under Clodianus, Domitian once more lost all self-control. He rushed from room to room in utter despair, now breaking out into abuse of Clodianus and Parthenius, both of whom he had raised to rank and power; now tearing his hair, now trying to extract some comfort from those about him—particularly from his favorite Jewish slave Phaeton, whom he commanded to sing and talk to him and scare away anxious fears.
Stephanus, who, with Caesar, was blockaded into the Palatium, was not less agitated than his sovereign; all night through he had sat in his study, devising and rejecting schemes for obeying his mistress’ behests. Clodianus had indeed made him a party to the conspiracy, and had even intended—as he declared—that he should play an important part in it. Nevertheless, the freedman could not but confess to himself, that the action of the piece had begun while he was still behind the scenes; that he had had no idea of the extent of the preparations already made, and that events were fast getting beyond his ken.
Nothing had surprised him more than the fact, that Clodianus’ intrigues in the capital were in connection with the efforts of Cinna and Nerva, and this discovery almost overwhelmed him. If the rebellion were to succeed—as seemed most likely—Cneius Afranius was one of the heroes of the situation, and a full disclosure of all the crimes which Stephanus had, until now, so successfully concealed, was a mere question of time. After all that the Gaulish lawyer had attempted up to the present date, it seemed more than doubtful whether he would pay any heed to the appeal of a moon-struck enthusiast like Eurymachus, even supposing that Stephanus could carry into effect any scheme in favor of Quintus Claudius. Come what might, one thing was certain: in the new order of things, the steward of the deposed Empress must fall from his high estate, unless he could prove his connection with the conspiracy by some conspicuous service, and so secure beforehand the gratitude of the future sovereign.
By degrees a resolution took form in his terror-stricken mind, which had already suggested itself to him several times, though on other grounds—the resolution to murder Domitian.
The Empress’ lust of power and then his fears of the prosecution under a law, which Caesar might be planning—a fable invented by Clodianus—had some time since prompted the idea, which he had always set aside because Caesar’s excessive suspiciousness had made it seem impracticable. Now, however, opportunity was more favorable. The extraordinary events of the day made an extraordinary step less startling. Besides, he had, as he thought, no choice.
Soon after sunrise a vague report spread through thePalatium that, late the night before, Stephanus had detected a suspicious-looking personage wandering about in a strange way, at no great distance from the Caesar’s residence, that he had collared the man and snatched from him an important document, relating to the conspiracy; in the struggle the stranger had given him a somewhat deep wound in the left arm.
In point of fact Stephanus, when he came out of his office in the morning, had his arm in a sling,[170]and to judge from the blood which had stained through the linen, though the bandages were thick, the wound must have been a serious one. Anyone, however, who could have watched the steward an hour before in the solitude of his chamber, would have seen him scratch his skin with his sharp dagger, carefully spot the bandages with blood, and then bind the poniard itself close to his arm like a splint, with strips and folds of linen. At the third hour Stephanus craved the favor of an audience of Caesar, as he desired to show him a highly-important letter, which was intended to meet no eyes but those of the sovereign. Domitian had already heard of the steward’s misadventure, and he had been on the point of commanding his presence, when his petition was laid before him.
Stephanus came in, pale and excited; any one might suppose he was exhausted by loss of blood.
“My lord,” he began, “a discovery of the greatest consequence....” Domitian, terrified beyond measure, sent all the slaves, with the exception of Phaeton, out of the room and bid Stephanus come closer to him. With profound respect the freedman handed him a document, which he himself had concocted a few hours previously.Caesar turned pale, and hastily glanced through the craftily-composed letter.
This was the instant of which Stephanus took advantage.[171]He drew out the dagger like a flash of lightning, and struck it to the hilt into Caesar’s stomach. Domitian gave a fearful scream, and threw himself on the assassin like a wild beast.
“My sword!” he shouted. “Phaeton, my sword!”
The boy flew into the next room to fetch it, while Domitian and Stephanus struggled desperately. The Emperor tried to wrench the dagger from his foe, but only succeeded in clutching the blade and cutting his fingers to the bone. With a roar of pain, he tried to force out his adversary’s eyes, or to set his teeth in his throat. The slaves rushed in, but dared not interfere. They thought that Stephanus might be acting under the orders of Clodianus; Phaeton alone, who had found the sword, rushed boldly at the victorious assassin, and dealt him a deadly blow, at the very instant when Stephanus stabbed the Emperor to the heart.
“Phaeton!... too late[172]...!” cried Domitian as he fell. “You alone have been faithful....” A dark stream of blood gushed from his mouth, and Caesar, who for so many years had trampled the world underfoot, was dead.
Stephanus did not survive him many minutes. Phaeton’s stroke had split his skull.
Domitian’s death left the Praetorian guard no reason for resisting the revolution; as soon as the news was known, Clodianus sent an envoy to the Palatium, who came to an understanding with the tribunes and centurions, and they surrendered at once. The rest of the guard, outside the Palatium, then made no farther demur. Thus the victory of Marcus Cocceius Nerva was an accomplished fact, and, excepting for the two victims of the struggle within the palace, it had been a bloodless one.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, Clodianus at once summoned the Senate to a sitting. The very men, who had hitherto grovelled in the dust before the despot, now vied with each other in their expressions of hatred and contempt for the dead.[173]After the election of Marcus Cocceius Nerva had been officially ratified, and proclaimed in high-sounding phrases to be the happiest event of the century, the assembly passed a resolution declaring Domitian to have been a foe and traitor to his country, and requiring the Roman people to deface and obliterate every memorial of a man accursed. The numerous statues of himself, that Domitian had erected, were to be thrown down from their pedestals, and his triumphal arches laid level with the ground.[174]Certain petty and undignified suggestions, which had for their object extended powers of denunciation[175]such as theyhad existed under Domitian, but with increased severity, and the impeachment of some men of the highest character—as for instance of Titus Claudius—as adherents of the late emperor, were promptly negatived at an unmistakable sign from Clodianus, who had been expressly informed by Caius Aurelius, that the new ruler would set his face most positively against all the base expedients of the old government. On the other hand, the Senate were given full powers to provide for the liberation of all prisoners of state, inclusive even of the Nazarenes,[176]since the decree relating to that Jewish sect was to be reconsidered immediately after the Emperor’s arrival. In this also Clodianus was acting under the direct guidance of Caius Aurelius, who, after returning from the house of Titus Claudius, never quitted his side.
So little were social peace and order disturbed by this revolution in the history of the world, that after midday the games and combats in the Flavian amphitheatre were proceeded with, though it is true they were attended by scarcely any but the lowest class, to whom it was a matter of indifference whether a god or a demon sat on the throne, so long as they had their largess of corn and their circus games. A few of them complained even that, by releasing the Nazarenes, the new Emperor had abridged the programme. But when at the close Clodianus indemnified each by a present in money, the last dissentient voices were silenced and “Long liveNerva!” rang loudly through the Amphitheatre, where two days since Domitian had been no less loudly greeted with shouts of “Ave Caesar!”
“Titus Claudius is dying!” the slaves whispered to each other in the silent and deserted rooms, where notwithstanding the dignity and gravity of the master, so much gay laughter had once been heard, so much young life had once been busy and gay.
“He is dying!” Octavia sighed, as she gazed in despair on the pale, altered face lying on the pillow, bathed in cold sweat, and with eyes half closed.
Behind that high, pale forehead dreadful havoc had been made during the last few days. All the tortures of martyrdom, to which the barbarous law condemned the son, the father had suffered a thousand-fold. In the delirium of fever, again and again he was dragged out to the hideous scene, where his boy was to be butchered and mangled; the merciful cloud which, at first, had darkened his consciousness by degrees had lifted, only to add to his sufferings, and his fancy ran riot in sights and images which threatened his life. Octavia and Claudia had watched by his bed with infinite patience, forced to control their own grief and look on, stricken and inconsolable, while the unhappy man wrestled day and night with the demons that possessed his mind, and poured out furious curses on himself and his fate.
Now, after the storm, he had sunk into the calm oflethargy. His strength was visibly sinking, and the leeches turned away in helpless silence.
“He is dying!” was sorrowfully repeated in the remotest rooms of the house; for not the lowest of his slaves was so dull or so base, as not to mourn for so revered a master from the bottom of his heart. But he is sitting up, he is speaking—listen.
“No, no—you will forgive me,” he murmurs hardly audibly. “You will, Quintus? You will not curse me? I have always loved you—oh! loved you more than my life! That dreadful decree! Woe, woe is me! he turns away! A murderer, he calls me a murderer!” And he sank back on his pillows, gasping for breath; his hands clutched convulsively at the quilt.
“Quintus,” he began again, softly, coaxingly—like a child. “Say one kind word to me. Oh! Quintus, can you for a moment imagine, that I am your enemy! This hand has so often stroked your cheek, smoothed your hair, your beautiful, long, waving hair! Ah! the beasts—the horrible wild beasts! Caesar, this is a hideous crime; mercy, pardon! Let me go down to them, let me die, but spare his youth! in vain, in vain—they have rushed upon him, they have seized him—ye gods! ye gods! have pity on me!”
A hoarse, dull scream, and then total silence.
“Father, Father, do you not know me?” said a trembling voice. “It is I, your son—I myself; not a delusion, not a dream.—And here is Cornelia—and here is Caius Aurelius, who has snatched us from the jaws of death.”
Titus Claudius started up at the sound of this voice. He fixed his glassy gaze on the figure of the young man, who was kneeling by his side and covering his wastedhands with tears and kisses. Then, suddenly a light passed into his face, a shiver thrilled through his enfeebled frame, and with a joyful cry of “Quintus! my son!” he fell back senseless. There he lay, motionless as the dead. His face grew paler and paler, and his arms hung helplessly by the side of the couch. The by-standers were paralyzed with dismay; only Claudia had enough presence of mind to fly out of the room and call for assistance. In two minutes she brought back old Palaemon,[177]a freedman of the household, who was versed in all the mysteries of Greek and Roman medicine. He came up to the couch with a look of the deepest grief, and laid his hand on the unconscious man’s forehead, feeling at the same time his scarcely fluttering pulse. Claudia, always brave and calm, told him of what had happened.
“Give him quiet,” said Palaemon, waving them all back with his hand. ”This moment is decisive.”
The family left the room; Octavia herself in an almost fainting state. Leaning on Aurelius, she went to her own apartments. Claudia only, with Baucis, remained with the leech to watch the sick man.
Palaemon forced a few drops of Samian wine,[178]between the sufferer’s livid lips, and then seating himself on a chair at the foot of the bed, he kept his eyes fixed on the senseless form.
"Courage, my child!"[179]said, as he caught sight ofClaudia’s tearful face. “He knew him, and that is everything. That will be better medicine, than all the herbs and decoctions known to our art. See, he is already breathing more quietly and regularly—that is not a swoon, it is sleep. If he does not sink from mere weakness, this sleep will check the violence of the fever and save his life. Open the door, daughter; quite wide, that the fresh spring air may come in. Baucis, do you go and fill a bowl with snow-water and wet a handkerchief—I will lay it on his forehead, and that will cool him. But make no noise, not a sound—lest you should wake him.”
A delightful breath of roses was wafted into the room, as Claudia softly opened the door, and in a few minutes Baucis had brought the cold water. The cooling application evidently had a soothing effect on the sleeping man. He sighed deeply and turned on his side; his features relaxed, and he slept soundly and easily.
Presently, outside in the colonnade, appeared Caius Aurelius; he glanced into the sick-room, asking for a report. Claudia rose and went to meet him, smiling through her tears; regardless of Palaemon’s presence, she threw her arms round her lover and laid her head on his shoulder with a deep sigh of relief. “He will live,” she whispered, looking up in his face; “only look how quietly and peacefully he is sleeping.”
“Jupiter be praised! Oh! my darling, what have we not gone through those last few months!”
“More than we could have borne, if it had not been for our love.”
He kissed her, looked once more at the sick man, and left her.
The sun sank behind Mons Janiculus, and the worn-out Flamen still lay in his death-like sleep. About two hours before midnight he moved and asked for Quintus. Claudia, who had not quitted him, bent over him and said gently:
“He is safe, Father, you know,” and her father looked up at her with a beatific smile. Then he asked for something to drink, greedily emptied a cup of water with fruit syrup, and at once fell asleep again. When day began to break, Palaemon, who had taken some hours’ rest in the adjoining room, sent Claudia to lie down. In all human probability the danger was now over, and Claudia obeyed, for she could scarcely hold up her head.
The sun rose in a cloudless sky—the first day of freedom in redeemed and regenerate Rome. The people set to work on all hands, to prepare a worthy welcome for the new Emperor, the gentle and high-souled Nerva, who was expected to arrive the following morning. Every arch of triumph, every colonnade, every temple was decked with garlands. Rome was like one vast festal hall. The Praetorian guard and the soldiers of the city-garrison marched in noisy troops through the streets, to overturn the statues of Domitian and to set up hastily-modelled images of Nerva in their stead.
But all the tumult and noise failed to wake Titus Claudius Mucianus, who lay sleeping and gaining strength every hour on the couch in his airy cubiculum. It was not till late in the afternoon, that he began to grow restless and to toss from side to side. Palaemon called the family, and they assembled in the room: Octavia, Claudia, Lucilia, Cornelia, Quintus and Caius Aurelius, who, now that the great political revolutionwas accomplished, felt himself quite free and had flown at an early hour to see his Claudia. But with them there also came, to the great surprise of the worthy Baucis, a stranger, a knight from Rodumna, who to this day had never before crossed the Flamen’s threshold; our esteemed friend Cneius Afranius, the advocate. Lucilia’s eyes, which in the midst of her anxiety sparkled with an anticipation of imminent happiness, whenever they met those of the man she loved, might have explained to the old nurse, that the unexpected guest had not come altogether unbidden—nay, that something must have passed between the two young people, which was of the deepest interest to Afranius himself, as well as to the girl who—once so saucy—now looked up at him with an air of maidenly reserve. Cneius Afranius remained modestly in the background, as if he was quite satisfied for the present to leave the old slave-woman’s doubts unsettled.
Palaemon met them with the smile, that gives new life to the relations of a sick man.
“Only go very gently,” he said, as Lucilia and Quintus began to question him.
Presently they heard a deep sigh from Titus Claudius, who was sitting up in bed, and gazing at the assembled family with wide and eager eyes.
“It is you!” he said, trembling with excitement “You, Quintus, my son, my adored son.”
“Father!” was all Quintus could say, and he fell sobbing aloud into those trembling, wasted arms.
“Was it delirium?” asked the high-priest, “or is it true? Was it you, Caius Aurelius, who saved my son?”