Kitabı oku: «Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome», sayfa 23
At the time appointed Plautia was borne away by the stout slaves, and joined Tiberius and his small retinue which awaited her without the villa gates. After a minute inspection of the villa, which was rapidly rising on a height beyond the village, the party returned, and Plautia was escorted to her rooms by her host himself. Refreshments were served. Tiberius, drinking wine, reclined on a couch.
‘You eat nothing, Caesar,’ said Plautia, whose healthy appetite, sharpened by the open air, was not so easily appeased.
‘Age wants for less than youth,’ replied Tiberius, with his admiring gaze fixed upon her. ‘This island wine will suffice me till supper.’
She refilled his cup and acted as his cupbearer, with such charming, smiling grace, that his pale face was suffused with a faint hue of pleasure.
‘You sent for Priscus this morning,’ murmured he, between the sips of the wine which she had tasted for him with her ripe lips.
She started and he smiled.
‘Priscus told me,’ he said, laying his thin hand quietly on her arm. ‘Why do you start? Do you think you have committed some grave offence? Can you not send for whom you please – myself included?’
‘You are too good,’ murmured Plautia, with a pretty assumption of bashful pleasure.
‘Yes,’ continued the Emperor, feasting his eyes on the lovely colour which deepened in her face. ‘You feel interested in the artisan and the work he showed us last night, and you sent for Priscus. I am displeased – you ought to have sent your pleasure to me, who can better serve you than Priscus.’
‘It was nothing – yet I confess the man’s appearance and his work interested me – I wished to know what you had determined with regard to him!’
‘I am counselled to think that his invention would not be the benefit which, at first glance, it would seem to be. It is necessary to consider it in conjunction with other things. However, if the fellow is likely to suffer by his unlucky idea, we may be able to make it up in some other particular – let us have him here and hear what he has to say.’
One of the attendants was despatched, and in a short time returned with Masthlion.
The potter came before them with his customary respectful, but self-possessed bearing; but his expression was a trifle more anxious and careworn, as if delay and want of encouragement had dispirited him. His hopes had been very sanguine.
His eyes eagerly tried to glean from the Emperor’s impassive face some trace of the bent of his thoughts, but without result.
‘This noble lady,’ said Tiberius, ‘who saw you last night, has deigned to take so much interest in you, as to wish to hear from your own lips the story of your life. With regard to the specimen you brought us, that is yet under consideration.’
‘The noble lady honours me with her regard,’ replied Masthlion, gazing at her with undisguised admiration; ‘I will tell her willingly; but there is little worthy of notice. The life of a poor workman is seldom anything but the dreary history of toil for daily bread. One day resembles another, save when food is scarcer and labour harder.’
‘Go on!’ said Plautia.
Masthlion did as he was requested, and gave a brief sketch of his life, down to the discovery already described. Plautia listened attentively, whilst Caesar beguiled the time in sipping his wine and gazing at her face.
‘Good!’ said Tiberius, as the speaker concluded; ‘and now it would be idle to mislead you with sanguine hopes. After so long a labour it must needs be disappointing to know, that the verdict upon your invention seems to be unfavourable. Build not, therefore, extravagant visions of success.’
Masthlion listened in silence. It sounded like the knell of his hopes. His eyes first sought one and then the other, as if to assure himself that no joke was being passed upon him; then he folded his arms across his breast with quiet dignity, but infinite sadness.
‘Take heart, potter!’ said Plautia, who seemed really touched, as far as it was possible for an aristocrat to be with one of Masthlion’s degree.
‘A lifelong task must needs be rooted in one’s breast – it is idle to deny it,’ said Masthlion, sick at heart. ‘Will Caesar deign to say in what respect my work has met with disapproval?’
‘Its bad effect upon a more important industry.’
‘One industry can scarce injure another, when both are useful. To my own poor thoughts they would rather tend to mutual good.’
‘Older and wiser heads than yours think differently. Your views are prejudiced and circumscribed by the narrow limits of your own particular work – it will be necessary for your secret to remain undivulged.’
‘And yet there is no one living who would not seek the benefit of my glass – is it possible, then, for such a thing to be hurtful?’ muttered Masthlion in the keen bitterness of his soul.
‘’Tis strange, to say the least of it,’ said Plautia; ‘but courage – it will be approved – some day you will become famous.’
Tiberius smiled coldly. Seeing Masthlion about to speak again, he shot him a warning glance and raised his finger.
‘It is enough,’ he said; ‘I admit the disappointment, but it is unavoidable. At the same time your honest perseverance merits praise, whatever its fate. We may be able to recompense you in some way. You are a poor man, and I am told you have a comely daughter – let her come to Capreae and attend on this noble lady, whose interest you have won. In addition to the great honour and advancement it will confer on the girl, she will be bestowed upon the protection and kindness of the best of mistresses. It is a chance such as seldom offers.’
The words fell on Masthlion like a blight. Terror froze his heart with an icy grip, and animation seemed congealed, for a few moments, so sudden and dread was the blow.
The warnings and censure of his kinsman came back upon him. Their echo no longer sounded foolish. He was in the toils – in the midst of the vast palace, with guards and sleepless eyes environing down the water’s edge. In the very clutch of the ruthless being, the savour of whose public reputation was as the scent of blood: whose simple request was tantamount to a command.
How came he to know of her existence? Those two visitors to his shop, whom Cestus had warned him of! But then Neæra was as well known in the town as himself.
His mind flew back to his lowly home, and pictured his darling so vividly, that the fire of desperation rose upon the chill horror which filled him. She, who was all purity and womanliness, to inhabit there! They might rend him in pieces ere he would consent.
He moistened his parched lips with his tongue, and could scarcely trust his voice to frame an answer. He looked up again. Caesar and the beautiful woman were watching him. The immovable eyes of the former seemed to pierce him to the marrow, and he shuddered.
‘What troubles you, fellow?’ said Tiberius, in harsh tones; ‘have you not a daughter to send hither?’
‘So please you, Caesar, and this noble lady, I have a daughter, and I am grateful for the gracious favour you propose for her; but for her to leave me would be to take from my life the only joy and consolation it has left, since the hopes of my work have been destroyed.’
‘Tush! This is the way that the maudlin childishness of old age speaks, and not the common-sense words of hale and hearty manhood. The lady has need of her – it will be to the benefit of the girl, and she will be nigh at hand for your occasional visits.’
‘The noble lady will not deal so hardly with us,’ said Masthlion; ‘she will not insist on removing from our poor home the only light it possesses?’
‘My service will be easy and pleasant, and the girl will be happy – you distress yourself without reason,’ said Plautia, with singular satisfaction at the unexpected turn things had taken.
‘Enough,’ said Tiberius, ‘it is settled. It is the bare idea which frightens you – you will grow wiser on reflection. Now go – you will receive your instructions to-morrow.’
Masthlion seized upon a last thought which struck his mind, and, instead of obeying the command, fell on his knees.
‘Pardon, Caesar, but it cannot be – this daughter, as I have called her, is not my own begotten child. Those, to whom she belongs, still live, and it is beyond my power to dispose of her, whether I would or no.’
‘It matters nothing,’ said Tiberius ironically; ‘refer them to me – who are they?’
‘I know them not, save that they are noble and wealthy and dwell in Rome,’ said Masthlion wildly.
‘The children of nobles are not put into the hovels of potters,’ returned the Emperor contemptuously.
‘She was stolen and brought to me when an infant.’
‘Then your head is in danger.’
‘I knew it not until within the last few weeks – she was delivered to me as an orphan child of poor parents – I was childless and I took her in.’
‘Dare you tell fables to me – go!’
‘It is truth, before the gods – she is a noble’s daughter and cannot come!’ cried the potter in reckless desperation.
‘Away – you destroy all lenience,’ said Tiberius, starting up with a terrible frown; ‘cannot come – insolent! Ho! Zeno! Who waits there?’
Both the steward and the soldier on guard appeared in the room, almost as soon as the words had left the Emperor’s lips. By the wrathful tone and the angry glow in their master’s eyes, they expected a summary order. The Pretorian’s heavy grasp had already fallen on the potter’s shoulder, but Tiberius merely waved his hand impatiently toward the door, and fell back on his cushions.
‘Quick, you fool!’ whispered Zeno in Masthlion’s ear, and, aided by the Pretorian on the other side, the wretched potter was hurried staggering from the room.
‘Haste!’ said the steward again, when outside, ‘before he changes his mind.’ He dragged his charge along through the mazes of the palace, without stop, until he deposited him, more like a man in a dream, in the narrow little closet which contained his sleeping pallet.
Masthlion sank thereon and buried his face in his hands with a groan.
‘Hark’ee, comrade,’ said Zeno, after regarding him for a while, ‘take my word for it, you are well out of that. I have seen better men come worse off. It is only for madmen and fools to make experiments on the temper of Caesar – do you take my advice and be careful and less ambitious in your business – take your wares to a safer market.’
CHAPTER XX
When the sun flashed upon the white walls of the palace next morning, Masthlion was still upon his pallet bed, much in the same posture as when Zeno had left him. Indeed, the cramped space of the cell gave not much opportunity for movement.
He was free to enter the servants’ hall, to eat at their table, and otherwise to amuse himself within the limits of the villa; but he had remained in his narrow retreat heedless of all.
As the morning wore on, the door opened, and the handsome steward entered. He gazed upon Masthlion with surprise. The potter was gaunt, haggard, and wasted – a single night had scored his face with the careworn furrows of twenty years.
‘Well!’ said the latter, starting up with an unsettled look, which had supplanted his usual calm gaze. ‘Well!’
‘Well!’ echoed the Greek, regarding him with undisguised curiosity.
‘What message from the hoary tyrant – what are his commands?’
‘None, as yet, Surrentine – and speak respectfully of your betters, for walls have ears.’
Masthlion sank back on his pallet, and dropped his head on his hand with an action of utter weariness, mental and physical.
‘Hark’ee, brother; no one has seen or heard anything of you since yesterday, when I took thee to the presence chamber – have you never stirred from here since I quitted you?’
‘No.’
‘Then you have neither eaten nor drunken?’
The potter shook his head.
‘Nor slept either, I daresay.’
‘I think not.’
‘In truth, you look like a man who has been sealed up in a vault for a month. What is the trouble? Is it because your business has gone amiss with Caesar, or that he scared your life half away – or both? At any rate this is not the way to mend it. I recommend meat and drink and fresh air, taking care not to breathe the latter beyond the outer gate.’
‘Thanks!’ replied Masthlion, rising; ‘you are kind. I will do as you say, and wait and hope for the freedom of these cursed walls.’
‘Hum – if you lived in them long enough you would be more guarded in your language. Your visit has not been pleasant – it is hard to have one’s expectations unduly knocked on the head – you take it to heart, and you have had an ill night of it.’
‘It has passed now.’
‘Every man to his own way. If you had tried to drown your sorrow, instead of nursing it, you would have been a better man this morning.’
‘Every man to his own way,’ said Masthlion, with a wan smile.
‘The gods be praised – mine now lies elsewhere,’ returned Zeno. ‘Mark! don’t attempt to pass the outer gate!’
So saying, he vanished, and Masthlion, after a few more minutes’ reflection, followed, to act on the recommendation of the steward, and break his long fast.
His misery of mind led him to shun, as far as possible, all intercourse with others; so, hastily swallowing a few mouthfuls of food and a hearty draught of rough wine, apart in a quiet corner, he stole out-of-doors.
The wine and the fresh morning air restored him vastly, but his condition was yet pitiable. He sought a warm sunny corner of a wall and sat down, but could not rest. Cramped by his narrow room, he had remained motionless the past night, till the acute suffering of his apprehension had produced a merciful species of drowsiness. But now, under the open heavens, and with ample space on every side, the functions of his mind resumed such activity, as to develop a painful nervous disorder which impelled him ceaselessly hither and thither. A wider field for reflection might have brought him relief, but that was denied him. He knew only, that one whom he loved better than his own life was in worse danger than that of death.
On this dread fact he brooded in passive agony. Like an orb of torment it pierced him with its searing flame amid encasing blackness, through which his mind struggled in vain to escape for relief. It scorched into his brain; and round and round, hither and thither, without rest, his feet wandered within the girdle of the infernal walls which imprisoned him. His was the soul of the true artist – keenly sensitive, deeply emotional – all the worse for him.
The hours passed on. Would Caesar’s commands never come to end his terrible suspense?
The vast palace, gleaming in the sun, seemed to mock him as he watched its silent entrances with feverish glances. He knew not but what his home had already been invaded. Knew! No, he knew nothing, save that he was helpless.
More than once, despair urged him to force his way into the presence of the tyrant himself and demand his freedom, or to boldly pass the outer gate and gain the fishermen’s boats. But the madness of such an act was evident even to his own wild thoughts. At every outlet a guard was lolling lazily on his spear, his gilded panoply shining in the sun. One shadowy hope there was, that Cestus might have persuaded Neæra to proceed to Rome. But that was hoping against hope: the unhappy potter knew in his heart she would never consent. No – there she would remain until he returned, and there she would be the prey of the spoiler.
The big drops stood on his pale forehead as the agony of his mind tore him. His overloaded brain seemed to rock with a vague, hideous burden. Suddenly the sunlight brightened, as it were, into a fierce white glare. The vast fabric of the palace, with each neighbouring object, seemed to heave up round him with a motion which filled him with a deadly sickness, and caused him to spread out his arms, as if the surging masses were about to be launched upon him.
Out of the sky gigantic shapes whirled and swooped upon him; but when, as it seemed, they were on the point of crushing him, they dwindled and fled as suddenly away. His very brain seemed to contract and distend as rapidly in the same awful proportions. It was terrific – he strove to shout aloud in his terror, but his voice died within him, and his limbs were immovable.
The colossal masses and spheres which darted down upon him shot away again into tiny twinkling specks – so far away, into such immensity of space, that his soul shuddered with a frightful sensation at the awful gulf yawning before him. Back they came – swelling as they rushed, in the brief second of their career, like Titanic globes upon his paralysed vision. One of them took the semblance of a face, distorted and ghastly. Down it swooped in stupendous bulk, so close that his brain seemed to burst with its appalling proximity. His delirious senses saw in it a livid, grinning caricature of Caesar’s ghastly visage – he thrust out his arms at it and shrieked in terror – tottered and fell senseless to the ground.
* * * * * * *
When he recovered consciousness he found himself lying on the ground where he had fallen. A circle of faces surrounded him, and Zeno was kneeling beside him with a cup in his hand.
‘Ah, now he is coming to,’ said the Greek, as the potter gave a deep sigh and slightly opened his eyes. ‘Back, back – further back!’
The idle, gazing menials gave way, and Zeno held the cup to Masthlion’s lips. A few mouthfuls restored the potter, and he looked around. His faculties cleared, and he shuddered as his memory brought back those dread visions of his overstrained brain.
‘This comes of fasting and watching, Surrentine,’ quoth Zeno, offering him the cup again; ‘Nature is spiteful when robbed of her due.’
‘I must have fainted,’ muttered Masthlion feebly.
‘Ay, with a yell which was enough to curdle the heart of a dead man!’
‘I shall soon be all right, but I must confess to a certain weakness and dizziness.’
‘Come, these fellows shall help you to your bed.’
But Masthlion, refusing the offer, walked away unassisted, though somewhat falteringly, inside the palace to his pallet, whereon he stretched himself gladly, for he was not a little shaken and confused.
Zeno flung a cloak over him, and set some drink near him. Masthlion thanked him for his kindness.
‘I was bidden to take care of thee, and I dare not disobey – that is all,’ answered the other, with a grin. ‘But listen, potter, I may tell thee this much, and it is as much as I know so far, that thou art to go away before nightfall – how and in what way I know not.’
‘The gods bless you for the words,’ cried Masthlion, whose face lighted with unspeakable joy.
Zeno shrugged his shoulders, and hastened away.
The joyful intelligence appeared to pour a calm, soothing influence on the suffering man’s spirit, and, in weariness and weakness of mind and body, he fell into a profound slumber.
He seemed to have slept only a few minutes when he was aroused by a hand touching him on the shoulder. He looked up and saw Zeno once more beside him. The daylight had failed, and the little room was nearly dark.
‘How do you feel?’ asked the steward.
‘Better – I have slept.’
‘Three good hours – you are now to depart – make ready.’ Masthlion, with trembling hands, lifted his wallet from the floor.
‘I am ready,’ said he.
They went out, and the steward never spoke until they reached the outer gate.
Conversing with the soldier on guard was an individual well wrapped up in a cloak.
‘Here is your charge,’ said Zeno, addressing him.
The other nodded and ejaculated, ‘Good,’ as he bestowed a sharp glance on the potter.
‘Farewell,’ pursued the Greek to the latter; ‘I come no further, and here our acquaintance ends, I suppose. Plautus goes to the opposite shore; he will take charge of you, and has instructions to see you safely bestowed – farewell, Surrentine!’
The man called Plautus laughed. Masthlion, in his eager excitement to be gone, uttered his farewell and thanks rather hastily.
‘Come, then, Surrentine,’ quoth Plautus, striding through the gate, ‘the boat waits, and I have far to go and much to do.’
The potter needed no encouragement to quit the abhorred precincts of the villa, and when once clear of its shadow, he breathed a prayer of thankfulness and relief. With a light step and eager heart he followed the rapid pace of his conductor, his mind being too full of hopes and fears to attempt a conversation.
The absence of any command from the Emperor with regard to Neæra, he regarded with satisfaction, as a plausible argument that no further insistance in the matter was intended. Yet he was anxious – more anxious than he cared to own. He burned for the moment to arrive when he should enter his own door again – and yet he dreaded it too.
Once he was curious enough to ask of his companion, if he was to be landed on the opposite point, in which case he would have a long journey on foot to accomplish. He received only an unintelligible growl in response; so, fearing to irritate what seemed to be a cross-grained temper, he held his peace.
Descending the steep declivity they issued on the narrow Marina, where a galley ready drawn up awaited them. Its crew of about eight men were lolling about amongst the idlers, but when the gruff voice of Plautus fell on their ears, they sprang to their places in readiness to ply their heavy oars.
‘In with you,’ said Plautus to Masthlion; and the boat, by a vigorous shove, was swept out on the bay.
‘Give way – bend your backs, and the sooner we shall be home again,’ called Plautus, as he seized the steering oar.
‘Sit you just there, and move not, Surrentine.’
He pointed to a place just astern of the stroke-oarsman. The potter sat down and became again absorbed in his reflections.
The slaves were all picked men of large frame and muscle, and they urged the boat through the water at a swift pace. The dusk was beginning to fall, and the distant shore was barely visible, though the dark masses of mountain above were sharply outlined against the clear sky. They skirted the stupendous cliffs, upon the brink of which, far above, rested the walls of the villa Jovis. The sea broke with a sullen, dismal plash against the perpendicular wall of ragged rock, and the boat was still moving in the shadow of the overhanging cliffs, when Plautus, in his deep tones, bade the men cease rowing.
They lay on their oars, and the boat, with its freight of motionless forms, glided silently along like a phantom. Masthlion looked up to account for the sudden command. The frowning, towering rocks, the portentous gloom, and the cold inky water sent a shudder through his frame.
‘Surrentine,’ said the voice of Plautus, ‘you are the potter who came to show to Caesar a curious kind of glassware?’
Masthlion answered in the affirmative. The question took him by surprise, so completely had all thoughts of his unlucky invention been displaced by those of Neæra.
‘Are you alone possessed of the secret of making that same glass?’
‘I alone – why, friend?’ replied Masthlion.
‘Why,’ said the cloaked Plautus in his grating tones, ‘because it has been decreed that you shall take your secret with you elsewhere.’
‘Elsewhere!’ cried Masthlion, with a sharp foreboding; ‘what mean you – where am I to take it?’
‘Where it can never be found again – to the bottom of the sea!’
As Plautus uttered the words he threw up his arm. Simultaneously the potter’s throat was grasped from behind by a hand of iron. As he fell helplessly back, a poniard was plunged deep into his heart – all in a brief second of time, ere he could make a sound or motion.
The assassin raised his weapon for another stroke, but it was unneeded – he had already done his terrible work too well. His victim had died on the instant, without a murmur; his gentle heart was still for ever.
The voice of Plautus broke on the terrible silence. ‘Habet!’ he said, ‘a good stroke – Caesar’s justice must be done. Now for the daughter, whom he is bound to father in this one’s place. We must get on – quick, in with him!’
A heavily-weighted cord was produced – there was a sullen plunge, and the boat again went foaming through the water to complete its mission of violence.
