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CHAPTER IV

Next morning Quintus was up long before the sun, while in the atrium the slaves were still busy cleaning the walls and the mosaic pavement, so he lingered for a while in the peristyle. His eye dreamily watched the soft swaying of the trees in melancholy relief against the blue-green sky; light fleecy clouds floated in the transparent air, and here and there above his head a star still twinkled fitfully. Quintus sat on a bench with his head thrown back, for he was tired and over-excited; an unwonted restlessness had brought him out of bed. How calm and pure was this early gloaming! In Rome, so thought Quintus, there was something uncanny and dreary in the early morning – the grey of dawn came as the closing effect of a wild night of revelry. Here, on the hills of Baiae, the stars winked like kindly eyes and the twilight soothed the spirit! And yet, no; for here too was the great capital; here too were storms and unrest. Rome, that monstrous polypus, stretched its greedy arms out to the uttermost ends of the world, and even into the calmest and most peaceful solitudes. Even here, by the sea, wantonness had spread its glittering snares; here too duty and truth were forsworn, and intrigue and inhumanity held their orgies. Quintus thought of the tortured slave… That pale and pain-stricken face had sunk deep into his soul; strangely enough! for his eye had long been accustomed to such sights of anguish and horror. The bloody contests of gladiators had never roused him to any other interest than that in a public entertainment. But this particular picture forced itself on his memory, though – from the point of view of any Roman of distinction – it had no interesting features whatever, for of what account in the Roman Empire was a slave? And especially in the sight of Quintus, rich, handsome and brilliant? It was in short most strange – but that white, bearded face, with its lofty, unflinching expression never faded from his memory, and his inward eye found it impossible not to gaze upon it. Then, suddenly another figure stood side by side with it: The white-armed Cypris Domitia, the passion-stirred Empress. Here were pain, misery, silent abnegation – there were feverish desires and passions, reckless, greedy, all-absorbing selfishness… By the gods – there they stood before him – the slave and the imperial woman – both so distinct that he could have touched them as it seemed. – The slave had broken his bonds and put out his hand with a smile of beatitude, while the woman shrank away and her white arms writhed like snakes of marble. She threw herself on the earth, and her fair gold hair fell loose over the bleeding feet of the slave…

Quintus started up, the murmur of the fountain had lulled him to sleep, and now, as he rubbed his hand across his eyes, a woman’s figure was in fact before him, not so stately and tall as the moonlighted Domitia, but as fresh and sweet as a rose.

“Lucilia! Up so early?”

“I could not sleep and stole away softly from Claudia’s side. She is still asleep, for she came to bed very late. But you, my respected friend – what has brought you out before daybreak? You, the latest sleeper of all the sons of Rome?”

“I was just like you. I think the strong liquor we drank at supper last night…”

“A vain excuse,” said Lucilia. “When ever did good wine rob you of a night’s rest? Sooner could I believe that you were thinking of Cornelia!”

“What should make you think that?”

“Well, it is a natural inference. For what else are you her betrothed? To be sure you do not play the part with much zeal.”

“How so?”

“Well, do you not go to see Lycoris just as much now as ever you did?”

“Pah!”

“‘Pah!’ What need have you to say ‘Pah!’ in that way? Is that right? Is that horrid, shameless creature, who seems to turn all the men’s heads, a fit companion for a man who is betrothed? I know you love Cornelia – but this is a spiteful world, and supposing Cornelia were to learn…”

“Well, and if she did?” said Quintus smiling. “Is it a crime to frequent gay society, to see a few leaps and turns of Gades dancers and to eat stewed muraenae?⁹⁹ Is there anything atrocious in fireworks or flute-playing?”

“How eloquent you can be! You might almost make black seem white. But I abide by my words; it is most unbecoming, and if you would but hear reason you would give this woman up.”

“But pray believe me, there never was a pretty girl for whom I cared less than for Lycoris.”

“Indeed! and that is why you are as constantly in her house as a client in that of his patron."¹⁰⁰

“The comparison is not flattering.”

“But exact. Why should you frequent her house so constantly, if you are so indifferent to her?”

“Child, you do not understand such matters. Her house is the centre of all the wit and talent in Rome. Everything that is interesting or remarkable meets there; it is in her rooms that Martial¹⁰¹ utters his most pregnant jests, and Statius reads his finest verses. Everyone who lays any claim to talent or wit, whether statesmen or courtiers, knights or senators, uses the atrium of Lycoris as a rendezvous. Last autumn I even met Asprenas¹⁰² the consul there. Where such men as these are to be seen, Quintus Claudius, at three and twenty, may certainly be allowed to go.”

“Quite the contrary,” cried Lucilia. “If you had grey hair, like Nonius Asprenas, I would not waste words on the matter. But as it is, the Gaulish Circe will end by falling in love with you, and then you will be past praying for.” Quintus looked gaily at the girl’s smiling, mocking face.

“You mean just the reverse,” he said. “For I know you regard me as far from dangerous. Well! I can bear even that blow.”

“That is your new mood! There is no touching you in any way. If you had only half as much constancy of mind as Aurelius!”

“Ah! you like him then?”

“Particularly. Do you know it would be delightful if he could remain here a little longer – I mean for six or eight days. Then he could travel with us to Rome.”

“Indeed?” said Quintus significantly.

“Now, what are you thinking of?”

“I? of nothing at all.”

“Go, there is no doing anything with you. Do not you see that I only meant, the long days of travelling all by ourselves – Claudia turns over a book, and you, you old lazy-bones, lie on a couch like an invalid – I find it desperately dull. A travelling companion seems to me to be the most desirable thing in the world – or do you dislike Caius Aurelius?”

“Oh no. If only his trireme had wheels and could travel over land.”

“His ship will take care of itself. He can come with us in the travelling chariot, and then he will be able to see part of the Appian way.¹⁰³ It is a thousand times more interesting than a sea-voyage. – Now, do it to please me and turn the conversation on the subject at dinner to-day.”

“If you like,” said Quintus.

A slave now appeared on the threshold of the passage, which led from the peristyle to the atrium.

“My lord,” he said: “Letters have arrived from Rome – and for you too, Madam…”

“Then bring them out here.”

They were three very dissimilar letters, that Blepyrus handed to the two young people. Lucilia’s was from the high-priest of Jupiter; Titus Claudius Mucianus wrote as follows to his adopted daughter:

“Health and Blessings!¹⁰⁴ I promised you lately, through Octavia, your excellent mother, that my next letter should be addressed to you, my dear daughter. I know that you value such proofs of my fatherly remembrance, and I am glad that it should be so. However, what I have to write does not concern you alone, my sweet Lucilia, but all of you. The preparations for the magnificent Centennial Festival,¹⁰⁵ which the Emperor Domitian – as you know – proposes to hold in the course of next year, have so completely taken up my time during the last few weeks, that I am sorely in need of the rest and comfort of regular family life. In addition to this, political disturbances of all kinds have occurred. Caesar has sent for me six times to Albanum,¹⁰⁶ and I assure you it has been incessant travelling to and fro. The matter is an open secret; all Rome is discussing the decrees from the Palatine¹⁰⁷ against the Nazarenes.¹⁰⁸ You may remember that superstitious sect of whom Baucis spoke to you – a revolutionary faction, who, a score or so of years since, stirred up the whole city and gave occasion for the stern enactments of the divine Nero? Now again they are stirring up revolt as if they were mad; they are shaking the very foundations of society, and threaten to overturn all that we have till now held most sacred. I must be silent as to personal affairs; enough to say that I am weary and overwrought, and that my heart longs to see you all again. I beg you therefore to make ready to start and return as soon as possible to the City of the Seven Hills. Your mother is now tolerably well again – thanks to all-merciful Jupiter – and Quintus will not be vexed to learn that Cornelia is now staying in Rome again. People are quitting their country homes somewhat early this year; it is long since I have passed the month of September so endurably. I shall expect you then, at latest, by Tuesday in next week. Allowing three days for the journey, I thus give you two days to prepare for it.

“Pray greet your mother and your sister lovingly from me. This letter will, I hope, find you all in perfect health. I, for my part, am quite well.

“Written at Rome, on the 11th September, in the year 848 after the building of the city.”

The second letter was from Cornelia, Quintus’ betrothed, and ran as follows:

“Cornelia embraces her dear Quintus a thousand times. Here I am in Rome again, my beloved! My term of banishment to that odious desert at Tibur is ended. But, woe is me! Rome is dead and deserted too since you, my treasure, my idol, linger still far from the Seven Hills! Oh! how glad I am to hear from your father, that he is recalling you from Baiae sooner than was intended. Oh! Quintus, if you felt only one thousandth part of what I feel, you would fly on the wings of the storm to the arms of your love-sick Cornelia. The days at Tibur were more dreary than ever. My uncle seemed to me so depressed and tormented by gloomy thoughts. To crown my misery, old Cocceius Nerva¹⁰⁹ must come and pay us a visit of eight mortal days. I shall never forget that week as long as I live! You know that when those two old men sit together, the house is as silent as a tomb; every one goes about on tiptoe. This Cocceius Nerva has the worst effect on my uncle. Only fancy what happened on the day when he left. My uncle had accompanied him to his chariot, and when he came back into the house he happened to pass my room, where Chloe was just putting some fresh roses into my hair. When he saw this, he fell into an indescribable fit of rage. ‘You old fool!’ he exclaimed pushing my good Chloe aside: ‘Have you women nothing to think of but finery? Do you deck yourselves out like beasts for sacrifice? Away with your rubbish! the house of Cornelius Cinna is no place for roses!’ And then he turned upon me in a tone which expressed volumes – ‘Wait a while!’ he said. ‘You will soon be able to do whatever pleases your fancy!’ You understand Quintus, he meant to refer to you. His words cut me to the heart, for I have known a long time that my uncle is not pleased at our connection. If my blessed mother had not made him swear, on her deathbed, that he would leave my choice perfectly free, who knows what might not have happened. Nevertheless, it is always a fresh pang to me when I see how he cherishes a bitter feeling against you – for, in spite of everything, I respect and love him.

“Take good care of yourself, dearest Quintus, till we meet again, soon, on the shores of the Tiber. Greet your circle from me, and particularly lively Lucilia. I remember her fresh, frank nature with special affection.”

The third letter, also addressed to Quintus, was from Lucius Norbanus,¹¹⁰ the captain of the praetorian guard.¹¹¹

“Have you taken root in your horrid country villa" – so wrote the officer in his rough fun – “or have you drowned, in Vesuvian wine, all remembrance that there is such a place as the Roman Forum? How I envy you your unbridled wild-horse-like liberty! You live like the swallows, while I – it is pitiable! Day after day at my post, and for the last few weeks leading a perfect dog’s life! Almost a third of the legion are new recruits, for again every hole and corner seems haunted. Today, I breathe again for the first time, but alas! my best friends are still absent. Above all Clodianus,¹¹² who lately has never been allowed to leave Caesar’s side. I am commissioned by our charmer Lycoris, to inform you that Martial’s recitation¹¹³ on the sixteenth of October is proceeding to admiration. A hundred epigrams, and half Rome lashed by them! The banquet, which is to close the recitation, is to be magnificent. I can take her word for it; we know our fair Gaul. Farewell!”

“That is capital!” said Quintus, folding up the letter. Lucilia retired with her adopted father’s letter to the sleeping-rooms, where Claudia and Octavia must by this time be up. Quintus went into the atrium and sat down by the fountain, to wait till Caius Aurelius should appear.

CHAPTER V

The day of their departure came. Aurelius had hailed the idea of travelling with his new friends with an eagerness, that had brought a saucy smile to the lips of the shrewd Lucilia. But he had nevertheless preferred the more comfortable sea-voyage to a journey by land, and he had urged it so pressingly and yet so modestly that Octavia, after some hesitation, had yielded.

The second hour after sunrise¹¹⁴ had been fixed for their start, and before daybreak the slaves were already busied in packing the baggage mules and preparing the litters in the forecourt. The noise and bustle aroused Quintus, and being unable to get to sleep again he rose, dressed for the journey, and went out to the pillared court, where Lucilia was overlooking the slaves at their work and urging the dilatory to haste in cheerful tones.

“Restless being!” said Quintus in Greek: “Are you pursued by the gadfly of Juno,¹¹⁵ that you set all the house in an uproar in the darkness of dawn? You must be afraid lest Aurelius’ vessel should row of without us.”

“And do you complain of my carefulness?” retorted Lucilia. “Punctuality is the first virtue of a house mistress.”

“Aha! and since Lucilia’s ambitions aim at that high dignity…”

“Laugh away! A well-ordered home is very desirable for you; and it will be a real mercy when you get married. Since you have lived alone, you have got into all sorts of mischief. But what is it that you want here, you ugly Satyr? Do you not see that you are dreadfully in the way? There, now you are treading on the travelling-cloaks! I entreat you leave the room to the household gods!”

“What! I am in your way? That is your view of the matter; but it is you who are really the spoil-peace, the eternally restless storm who have so often come sweeping down on our idyllic calm. Of all the things, which remind us here of Rome, you are the most Roman. You have nothing but your little snub-nose to redeem you a little. But, by Hercules! when I see you bustling around here, I can picture to myself all the fevered turmoil of the great city¹¹⁶ with its two million inhabitants. Well, I will taste the sea-breezes once more – once more, for a brief space, enjoy peace and quietness.”

“How?”

“I will wait for sunrise at the top of the hill, where the road turns down to Cumae. In Rome it rises through smoke and mist; while here – oh! how grandly and gloriously it mounts from behind the cone of Vesuvius…”

“And rises there through smoke and mist!” laughed Lucilia. “Well, make haste and come back again, or we shall set off without you.”

She turned once more to the slaves. Quintus wrapped himself in his ample lacerna,¹¹⁷ waved his hand to her, and went out.

The high-road was absolutely deserted; he drew a deep breath. It was a delicious morning. His wish to bid farewell, as it were, to the sun and air of Baiae was not affected; like all Romans he raved about the sea.¹¹⁸ Its shore was to him the one real Museion– as Pliny the younger¹¹⁹ had once expressed it – the true abode of the Muses, where the celestial powers seemed nearest to him; here, if anywhere, while watching the waves, he found time and opportunity for self-study and reflection. He had now been living with his family in their quiet villa ever since the end of April, and had spent many hours in serious meditation, in congenial literary pleasures and diligent study. He had once more learned the real value of retirement, which in Rome was so unattainable. A long winter of dissipation had left him satiated, and Baiae’s aromatic air, a simple existence in the bosom of his family, and the spirit of Greek poetry had combined to restore his palled senses and overexcited nerves. And now, as the moment of return approached, he was seized more and more with the old spirit of unrest. He felt that the omnipotent sway of that demon called Rome would drag him back again into the vortex of aimless tragi-comedy, and now a last glance at the smiling and slumbering sea was a positive craving of his heart.

He slowly climbed the hill. At about a hundred paces up, there was a spot whence he could see over the roofs of the tallest villas and down into the valley. His eye, though his purpose was to look far away and across the sea, was irresistibly riveted by an object that was quite close at hand. To his right a by-path led down towards the palace of the Empress, and the huge portico, with its Corinthian columns, gleamed pale and visionary in the doubtful light. But what attracted the young man’s attention was a little side-door, which slowly turned on its pivot¹²⁰ with a slight noise, letting a female figure in Greek dress pass out into the road. Quintus recognized Euterpe, the flute-player. Limp and weary she climbed the steep slope, her eyes fixed on the ground, and as she came closer, Quintus could see that she had been weeping bitterly.

“Good morning, all hail!” he cried, when the young woman was within a few steps of him. Euterpe gave a little cry.

“It is you, my lord!” she said with a faint smile. “Returning so late from Cumae?”

“No, my good Euterpe. I am up not late, but early. But what in the world have you been doing at this hour in Domitia’s palace? Has she been giving a feast? You do not look as if you had gathered a harvest of gold or flowers.”

“Indeed, my lord, no!” replied Euterpe, again melting into tears. “I have been to visit a friend, who is suffering terribly. Down in Baiae, where I was playing at night in the house of the wealthy Timotheus, Agathon the seer gave me herbs and salves – they cost me a heavy sum – and since then I have been in there… Oh! his wounds are horrible… But what am I talking about! He is only a slave, my lord; what can Quintus Claudius care…?”

“Do you think so?” said Quintus, interrupting the agitated speaker. “But I am not made of stone; I know full well, that though among slaves there is many a scamp, there are also worthy and excellent men. And if, to crown all, he is the friend¹²¹ of so charming a creature…”

“Nay, my lord, you will have your jest – but if you could only see him, poor Eurymachus! If you could know how faithful he is, and how noble!”

“Well, I call that being desperately in love!”

Euterpe colored. “No,” she said modestly. “I can accuse myself of many sins, but Eurymachus – no evil thought ever entered his mind.”

“Is love a sin then?”

“I am married.”

“Here – you were not wont to be so strict!”

“And the greater pity! If I had always known Eurymachus, as I know him now…”

“Indeed! and how do you know him now?”

“He has opened my eyes; I know now how deeply I have sinned…”

“He is a philosopher then, who converts fair sinners from their evil ways?”

“He is a hero!” exclaimed Euterpe with enthusiasm.

“You do not stint your praise. Does he belong to the Empress?”

“To her steward, Stephanus. Ah! my lord, he is a tyrant…”

“So they say.”

“How he treated the poor fellow! It beats all description. For one single word he had him flogged till he was raw, and then tied him up in the park in the noontide sun. The gnats and flies…” But at the woman’s last words Quintus had gone nearer to her.

“Listen,” he said hurriedly: “I believe I know your Eurymachus – a pale face with a dark beard – quiet, contemning pain – standing by the stake like a martyr…”

“You saw him?” cried Euterpe, smiling through her tears. “Yes, it was he indeed. No one else has that extraordinary power of defying every torment. Now he is lying half-dead on his bed; his whole back is one dreadful wound, and yet not a complaint, not a word of reproach! Fortunately the gate-keeper is my very good friend. He sent me a message; otherwise very likely Eurymachus might have died in his misery, without my knowing it. But I hope, I hope the charm may save him.”

“Listen, child,” said Quintus after a pause: “You shall see, that I know how to value courage, even in the person of a slave. Here, take this gold and spend it for the benefit of the sufferer, and by and bye, when he is well again, write to me in Rome; then we will see what can be done next.”

“Oh, my lord!” cried the flute-player vehemently, “you are like the gods for graciousness and kindness. Do I understand rightly, that we may hope from your goodness…”

“Understand all you please,” interrupted the youth kindly. “The chief point is, that you should remind me of it at the right moment. In Rome a man forgets his nearest relations.”

“I will remind you,” said Euterpe, radiant. “Sooner should I forget to eat and drink. About the middle of next month I am going to the capital with Diphilus, my husband. He is a master-carpenter, and will have work to do on the grand erections for the Centenary Festival. If you will allow me, I will myself remind you in person.”

“Do so, Euterpe.”

“Oh, my lord! I thank you from the bottom of my heart. The man who is protected by Quintus Claudius, is as safe as a child in its cradle.”

Joy lent so sweet an expression to the young creature’s face, that Quintus was irresistibly moved to stroke her cheek, and in the excess of her delight she submitted to the caress, though, as we know, she had vowed henceforth to give Diphilus no cause for complaint.

At this moment a magnificent litter, borne by eight gigantic negroes, appeared on the highest level of the road. It was escorted by four men-at-arms, and in it, leaning on the purple cushions and only half-veiled, reclined Domitia. The seething fever of her passion and anger had driven her to seek the air soon after midnight, and for hours the slaves had to carry her about the wooded ravines of the landward side of the hills, or along the deserted roads, until, wearied out at last, she was fain to turn homewards. Quintus, somewhat abashed, withdrew to one side; not so quickly, however, but that Domitia had observed his light caress of Euterpe. She turned pale and looked away. The young man, who made ready to bow to the Empress, remained unnoticed, and Euterpe stood as if turned to stone.

Quintus looked coolly after her as she was borne away, and shrugged his shoulders; then he took Euterpe by the hand.

“It is a bargain then,” he said in distinct tones. “You will find me in Rome! Now, farewell – till we meet again.”

He turned towards home; sea and sunrise were alike forgotten. Euterpe hurried down to Cumae, and disappeared behind the ridge at the same instant as the Empress within the Corinthian portico of the palace.

In a few minutes the Claudia family were sitting in the triclinium to take a slight breakfast before starting. Octavia was thoughtful; her husband’s letter had made her anxious. She knew how stern a view Titus Claudius took of his duties, and how much would devolve upon him in these agitated times. Claudia too was graver than usual. Only Aurelius and Lucilia looked bright and contented. – Lucilia, warm and rosy from her busy exertions in the court-yard and atrium – and in her excitement she would not give herself time to do more than drink a cup of milk and swallow a morsel of sesame-cake.¹²²

The respectable Herodianus too, against his custom, was silent. What could be so absorbing to that simple and garrulous nature? From time to time he frowned and stared at the ceiling, moving his lips in silent speech like a priest of the Pythian oracle. The honey, generally his favorite dainty – he left untouched; the egg he was about to empty with a spoon¹²³ broke under his fingers. Aurelius was on the point of taking the matter seriously, when the mystery found a natural solution. When, presently, Blepyrus appeared to announce that it was time to start, the ponderous ponderer rose, went to the door, and began to exclaim with terrible pathos a valedictory poem of his own composition. It was based on the model of the world-renowned Hymenaeus¹²⁴ of Catullus;¹²⁵ and its climax was the most extravagant refrain, that the Muse of occasional verse ever hatched in mortal brain.

For a few minutes the party listened in respectful silence to the cadences of this solemn effusion; but as it went on and on, apparently endless, Lucilia, who from the first had had great difficulty in keeping countenance, broke into a fit of laughter, and Aurelius good-naturedly put a stop to the freedman’s recitation.

“I mean no offence, my excellent Herodianus; but though poetry is said to be the mirror of reality, it must not interfere too much with the progress of real events. Twelve times already have you resolutely asserted: ‘Far must we wander, far from hence!’ but our feet are still rooted to the spot. You may give us the rest of your poem on board the vessel, but for the present make way and take this ring as the prize for your effusion.”

Herodianus, who had at first been half inclined to take the interruption in ill-part, felt himself fully indemnified by his master’s gift, but his gaze lingered for a while in silent protest on Lucilia. However, he presently joined the rest of the party, who were mounting their horses or settling themselves in litters, and soon they were all fairly in motion.

They went down the hill in a long file. Baiae, now in full sunshine, seemed to nestle in a golden shell; the sea was as smooth as a mirror, and the clear atmosphere promised a prosperous voyage. They soon reached the stone quay, where the motley crowd of the harbor was already at high tide of noise and bustle. There lay the proud trireme before their surprised eyes, gaily dressed out like a bride waiting for the bridegroom. Long garlands of flowers floated from the spars, tied with purple knots and blue streamers; magnificent carpets from Alexandria and Massilia hung from the poop, and the crew were all dressed in holiday garments. When they had got into the boats and were fast approaching the vessel, strains of music were heard greeting the visitors. Claudia colored deeply; she recognized her own song – that impassioned address to the Spring, which she had sung the first evening in the peristyle.

In ten minutes the Batavia had weighed anchor and was being rowed in majestic style past the quays and mole. Quintus, Claudia and Lucilia leaned silently over the side, while Aurelius sat under the awning with Octavia, talking of Rome. Beautiful Baiae sank farther and farther into the background with all its palaces and temples. Still, above the trees, a corner of the snug villa they had left was visible, and to the left Domitia’s palace. Then the vessel shifted its course, and the shining speck grew smaller and smaller till it was lost to sight.

Claudia wiped away a stealing tear, while Lucilia in a clear, ringing voice shouted across the waters:

“Farewell, lovely Baiae!”