CHAPTER XIV.

On a purple couch, her right hand supporting her handsome head, while

her left played mechanically with the folds of her robe, lay the

Empress Domitia; Polycharma, her favorite slave, sat in silence on

the floor, holding in her lap a red and blue bird, which now and then

flapped its wings and gave a loud, strange cry. All else was silent,

oppressed by sultry gloom and the steamy stillness of the air. In

spite of its nearness, the noise of the Forum was dulled to a murmur

like that of wind-rocked trees. The marble statue of Venus[281] by the

door-way looked sleepily down under her drooping lids; even the little

Eros with his lightly-tilted jar, seemed touched with melancholy.

Outside, in the corridors and antechambers, there was scarcely a sound.

The slaves glided cautiously about on tiptoe, and spoke in whispers or

expressed themselves by signs. Their imperial mistress’s melancholy

mood seemed to fill the very atmosphere with a subtle _malaise_ and

anxious forebodings.

A few hours since, the first meeting had taken place between the

reconciled couple. They had met with dignity and a calm semblance

of friendly regard on both sides; but between them lay the unspoken

but bitter certainty that, after all that had passed, no real

reconciliation could ever be possible. Caesar’s suspicious nature

recoiled from Domitia’s superiority of intellect and vehement

temper--which flashed ominously in her eyes in spite of conventional

smiles and smoothness--and from the scathing irony of her proud

and revengeful spirit. She, on the other hand, knew the Emperor’s

hatred and implacable malice; she knew that, once aggrieved, Domitian

had the tenacity of a tiger in ambush, never weary of watching for

an opportunity for the fatal spring. Added to this there was the

remembrance of her own humiliations--her banishment from the palace,

the execution of Paris, and the emperor’s passion for his niece Julia.

And now, to be forgiven by him whom she so thoroughly despised--to

accept the clemency of Domitian--this was the worst and deepest

humiliation of all....

So, listless and silent, she lay on her pillows, reviewing in

imagination the events of the last few hours in pictures that seemed

to mock her as they passed. The Apollo-like figure of the young

patrician, who had fired her fancy at Baiae, seemed to smile at her

contemptuously; she sighed and closed her eyes, as though to escape the

vision. Till a few hours ago, she had believed that she had conquered

that madness. Her spirit had found strength in resolving on revenge,

and she had felt like a goddess bent on punishing the presumption of

a mortal. But now--in this new mood--she was conscious of a subtle

change, the desire for revenge remained, but now there was nothing

lofty, no sense of superiority in the feeling--the goddess had given

place to a vain, lovesick woman, full of annoyance and petty spite.

This change was a result of her altered circumstances; the sight of

her husband had reminded her of the fact which she had striven to the

utmost to ignore; that one word from that adored youth would have

sufficed to make this reconciliation an impossibility. Shame and

hatred, rage and passion, seethed in her soul, and her self-tormenting

fancy painted alternately the most enchanting and the most horrible

pictures. As in some hideous dream, the form and features of Quintus

were mixed up with those of her former lover, the executed actor. She

saw herself in tears, kneeling wildly at his feet--he raised her,

kissed her, her senses reeled. Then he scornfully flung her from

him--she shuddered from head to foot, and stabbed him desperately with

her poniard....

Then again she recalled the occasion, when Polycharma had returned to

her with the little tablet that Quintus had given to the slave-girl in

the park, the answer to her last passionate letter--that tablet had

been her death-warrant--but no, not hers--his! “He must die!”--she

seemed to see the words traced between those fatal lines.

Then everything faded from her vision like a landscape shrouded in

mist. Instead of the slave-girl, it was the flute-player, who stood

before her with a triumphant sparkle in her eyes, as her cheek flushed

under the traitor’s touch--as she had seen her stand, the bold hussy,

on the hill at Cumae--happy, no doubt, in the love that she, the

Empress, pined for.

The thought was intolerable; the miserable woman writhed under the

clutch of the demon of jealousy. She groaned and struggled for breath.

Polycharma started to her feet.

“Lady, mistress--what is the matter?” she asked, gazing helplessly at

Domitia’s distorted features. But the sound of a voice broke the spell;

Domitia controlled herself. Not a soul on earth, not even this trusted

slave, should ever know how low she could be brought. She would hold

herself proudly and defiantly--aye, though she should suffocate in the

effort. Polycharma should suppose that the adventure in the gardens of

Lycoris was a mere whim, a comedy; never would she betray the anguish

of her unrequited passion and deep humiliation.

She raised herself on the pillows and sighed deeply again, as if to

prove that the groan which had escaped her had not been involuntary.

“I am afraid,” she said in a low voice, “that I am too much accustomed

to liberty, ever to make myself happy again within the bars of this

golden cage. I have too long been a free and unfettered woman, to

have retained any talent for being Empress. The marble walls of a

palace weigh upon me like lead. Ah! Polycharma! I am longing already

for my quiet retreat on the Quirinal, or for Baiae and its delicious

wilderness.”

“Oh! I understand that,” exclaimed the girl. “Particularly for

Baiae--is there a more heavenly spot on earth? The bench under the

hedge of bay, with that lovely view over the blue sea! And when the

full moon rises over the hill--it is beyond words. And do you remember

the young knight from Mediolanum,[282] who recited to us the woes of

Queen Dido,[283] and whom you permitted to kiss this white hand as

his reward? He trembled like an aspen in the evening breeze. Ah! and

Xanthios, the beautiful young Greek from Cumae! How desperately the boy

was in love with me!”

Domitia tried to smile.

“Poor child,” she said sadly. “And you too will find out what it is to

live at Caesar’s court.”

“Ah well!” said Polycharma airily, “by the grace of the gods, we will

be able to retain some fragment of our lost freedom. Your steward is a

very shrewd and clever man, and he will see what can be managed. And

for your sake, Sovereign Mistress, he would be ready to burn down Rome.”

“Indeed? What makes you think so?”

“Well--of course we all have our own ideas.--Stephanus lives and toils

for nothing but your Highness, and for the glory of your name. It was

he, who conquered Caesar’s obstinacy and made your return possible.

And confess, gracious mistress--Baiae may be lovely, and the evening

hours in the park there were indeed delightful, but to share the

throne of Caesar, the ruler of the world--that is yet more lovely and

delightful!”

“Who can tell....” said Domitia.

“Stephanus, at any rate, thought so.”

“I do not understand you.”

“Well, I mean that he has always done his best....”

“But it seems to me, that it is no more than his duty.”

“Certainly. Still, there is a way of doing one’s duty--a

devotedness....”

“What are you aiming at?” asked the Empress. “First you speak as if

you wanted to keep silence, and then you break off as if you wished to

speak....”

“I only thought....”

“Speak out boldly, Polycharma, and have done with this mysterious

behavior, which is like the incoherence of a sibyl.”[284]

“By the gods! but I dare not. Besides I only guess at it; he could

never be so bold....”

“You are talking in riddles. Speak out; I command you!”

“Oh!” cried the girl contritely. “How am I to say it? Stephanus is

consumed by a hopeless passion. He is dying of silent love for the

charms of his imperial mistress.”

Domitia’s features did not show a shade of feeling, and Polycharma

glanced in terror at the expressionless face, for not the twinkle of

an eyelash, not a twitch of the lips, betrayed what emotion might have

been roused by this explanation.

“You are mistaken,” replied the Empress after a long pause. “My

steward is a faithful servant, and his zeal and devotion are seen by

your youthful fancy in a too poetical light.--Go, have done with your

foolish imaginings; take your lute, and sing me one of your gayest

songs.”

The girl retired a little distance, and an arch smile lighted up her

shrewd little face. She fetched the cithara out of its carved case and

returned, lightly tuning the strings.

“Some one is knocking,” she said pausing, and she went to the door.

“What is it? You know, Strato, that our mistress does not choose to be

disturbed.”

A short whispered colloquy was carried on outside the curtain, that

hung before the entrance; then Polycharma came to announce that

Stephanus begged an audience on a matter of great importance.

Domitia did not at once reply. Then she suddenly looked up, as if

struck by some new idea.

“Desire him to come in,” she said eagerly. “Polycharma, leave us

together.”

The same meaning smile again parted the girl’s lips. She quietly leaned

the lute against the wall and hastened to the door, where she lifted

the curtain with mock exaggeration of respect and let the steward pass

in front of her. Then she slipped out, shut and fastened the door and

joined two other slave-girls, who were sitting in the anteroom on

red leather cushions, and carrying on a laughing flirtation with a

flaxen-haired Sicambrian belonging to the praetorian guard.

Stephanus stood just within the door and bowed low. It was difficult

to recognize in him the cool and unblenching man, never at a loss in

his perfect knowledge of court manners and gossip, and accomplished in

the arts of intrigue. In Domitia’s presence the freedman was a slave

again; all his presence of mind, all the easy demeanor he had acquired

in the school of life, he had left outside that door. The man, who went

forward in obedience to a nod from the Empress, was a servile, creeping

slave, a pitiable wretch, who tried in vain to find utterance.

“What ails you?” asked the Empress with a fascinating smile. “You look

as pale as if you had lain awake all night. I fear your zeal prompts

you to work too hard.”

“Gracious mistress,” replied Stephanus, “I am distressed indeed if I

intrude....”

“I am always ready to listen to the faithful servant, who toils for me

so devotedly. What brings you here, Stephanus?”

The freedman was startled; if he had read aright Polycharma’s cunning

glance, this reception promised him such happiness, that the mere

thought of it turned him giddy.

“You hesitate,” the Empress went on. “I understand--you fear lest

there should be listeners in the anteroom. Your errand is serious and

important.”

She rose and led the way to a side chamber. Stephanus followed. The

fairy-like fittings of the beautiful room had exercised an intoxicating

charm over the senses even of a spoilt courtier like Stephanus. The

whole boudoir was like a luxurious bouquet--walls, floor, ceiling were

all hung and covered with diaphanous rose-colored stuff, on which

sparkling stones were sprinkled like dew-drops. A tender twilight and

the heady scent of roses completed the irresistible witchery of the

scene.

The beautiful creature, who stood in the midst of all this dazzling

splendor, with her white arms faintly tinged with the rosy reflection,

and her flowing drapery clinging closely to the grand forms of her

limbs, might, without any great effort of fancy, have been taken for

Aphrodite, the goddess of love, incarnate in this adorable person.

Stephanus breathed hard; the empress sank on to a rose-colored couch,

and beckoned him to approach.

“Now,” she said graciously, “we are alone, proceed.”

“Sovereign lady,” said Stephanus, hardly possessed of all his senses,

“my duty.... An hour ago your humble servant was with Lycoris. She ...

I know not how ... but lately we have met with some obstacle ... it was

only with the greatest difficulty that I succeeded.... The chamberlain

is this evening to be her guest.... She promised me ... but she made

conditions....”

“It matters not,” said Domitia. “You will strain every nerve to engage

Parthenius on our side, I know, and that is enough for me. The details

I trust to your acumen. If you do not succeed the first time, you will

try again. A failure, even a blunder, needs no excuses. You have my

unlimited confidence.”

“I am overwhelmed by the greatness of your favors.”

He bowed to the ground and humbly kissed the hem of her robe, which

fell in ample folds, leaving a small part of her sandal and snowy foot

bare. A strange mixture of pain and triumph lurked in her eyes, as the

thought flashed through her mind: Ah, why, hapless, adoring wretch, are

you not Quintus? But then a terrible satisfaction gained the upperhand;

her lips moved as she swore to herself an unspoken vow--she clenched

her fist as though she held a dagger--a dagger for hatred and revenge.

Stephanus could not know, that at that moment she had formed a sinister

resolve.

“Nay--not that!” she whispered insinuatingly, as Stephanus rose

again. “That is service to the gods. Among friends a frank and honest

hand-shake....”

As she spoke she offered the astonished steward the tips of her

fingers. He looked into her eyes like one dazed. What a change! This

unapproachable woman, this divinity--till this hour so cold and

repellent, was now all melting softness, dreamy and tender graciousness.

“Adored lady!” he groaned, pressing her hand to his pale lips. “Kill

me, but I can no longer conceal it! Death would be bliss as compared

with the torment of silence. Glorious Domitia--more beautiful than

Cypria herself--I love you!”

He fell at the feet of the haughty sovereign, as though stunned by his

own audacity, and leaned his forehead on her footstool. His brow by

chance touched her foot, which she hastily withdrew with an involuntary

gesture of aversion. But again a gleam of triumphant delight passed

over her features.

“Stand up,” she said, dissimulating her excitement. “Your confession

has taken away my breath. I hardly know whether I should be angry, or

whether this heart--too tender, alas!--should forgive your boldness.

You love me! It sounds sweetly simple, like the greeting of a

friend--but think out the whole meaning of that short and simple word,

and tell me then, if you do not tremble like a pine tree before the

gale. Love craves for a return--answer me, Stephanus, do you esteem

yourself so favored by the gods, as to dare to hope for Domitia’s

favors?”

The freedman had slowly risen to his feet. His thin hair, artificially

darkened, hung loosely over his throbbing temples; his eyes were fixed

and glazed.

“I know,” he said in hollow tones, “that I am unworthy of your grace.

But the gods themselves choose blindly, without any regard for merit

and worth. Their mercies are dispensed blindfold--not only Ares the

slayer, but the humble Anchises[285]....”

“Enough!” said Domitia, who fancied she could still feel the hot,

bald forehead against her foot. “If the gods have chosen, you need

entreat no more. Listen to me, Stephanus. I too will be gracious--Call

it a whim or sympathetic tenderness, as you please;--it is all

the same.--You shall clasp the Empress in your arms and be happy,

Stephanus--on one single condition you shall realize your dream. But it

will require the utmost exertion of your talents....”

Stephanus heard no more; overpowered by this dazzling vision of

happiness, he had fallen back on one of the rose-colored seats. His

head thrown back, his eyes closed, he lay a pitiable image of human

passion and weakness. The haze of unconsciousness veiled the strange

and erratic brain, that was so unceasingly tossed and torn by cruelty,

ambition, avarice, and sensual greed. The corpse-like figure, in

its long Tarentine _toga_, was an object of unutterable horror in

the beauty-loving eyes of Domitia--the sharp chin, the eagle nose,

the hard, fleshless brow, now no longer vivified by the sparkle of

the fiery eyes, all filled her excited senses with the horror, that

blooming and joyous youth feels for the bony hand of a skeleton. She

almost repented of her decision. Still, the recollection of Quintus,

gave her strength to deny herself the craving of her inmost nature,

and to persist in the road she had set out on. Perhaps, too, she had

a lurking hope that she might cheat the tool of her vengeance, of the

promised reward.

The steward did not remain unconscious more than a minute; when he

opened his eyes, Domitia was mistress of herself and the situation.

With her right hand she commanded silence.

“You need rest,” she said kindly. “And what I have to say can be said

in a very few words. Quintus Claudius, the son of the Flamen, has

insulted me mortally. How, where, and when, must remain my secret. Help

me to triumph over this hated and unpardonable foe, and Domitia shall

be yours. Throw your toils round him, watch him wherever he goes, miss

no opportunity of ruining him.--How you will be able to accomplish this

I cannot even guess, but you, I know, can do anything. Will you fulfil

this commission?”

“I will, sovereign mistress!” cried Stephanus in a choking voice.

“Your hatred is one with mine, for I too loathe this man as if he were

plague-stricken. He shall die under the dagger of my meanest slave, and

when he lies gasping in the dust, I will cry to him: Remember Domitia!”

The Empress started to her feet, and put out her hands with a gesture

of horror.

“No, oh no!” she cried vehemently. “Death by the hand of an assassin,

the mean fate of a merchant waylaid and flung from his cart by robbers

near the Three Taverns--that would be a satisfaction too mean for

this aching heart! I must feast my soul on his misery, set my feet

upon his neck. A dagger-thrust--what is that to him? Do you know the

man and his proud contempt of life? Look but once in his face, and ask

yourself whether I am to be avenged by a stab. He would die, as another

man would get up and take his leave at a banquet; he would die, and

then it would be no worse for him, than if he had never breathed. No,

Stephanus; go and devise some better plan than that! wound him, crush

him in that which he loves best; overwhelm him with disgrace; break his

towering pride--then you will have done all I can ask of your skill and

devotion!”

“I will try. As yet I have not the faintest idea of the way to do it,

but I have no doubt I can find it And when I have fulfilled the task

you have set me....”

“In conquering my enemy, you will conquer my heart,” said Domitia

smiling graciously.

“I will conquer or perish.”

He flung his toga over his shoulder with an air, and went to the door.

The Empress watched him with a fixed, almost a vacant stare. No sooner

had the curtain fallen and the door closed upon him, than she dropped

into the nearest seat, sobbing convulsively, and set her teeth deep

into the cushion in which she hid her face, while a torrent of scalding

tears rushed from her half-closed eyelids.

FOOTNOTES:

[281] STATUE OF VENUS. A statue of the Venus Genitrix (Generator,

mother, so called as the ancestress of the race of Julius

Caesar, who erected a temple to her under this name) has been

found among the ruins of the imperial palace on the Palatine,

also an Eros, swinging a jar.

[282] MEDIOLANUM, now Milan.

[283] THE WOES OF QUEEN DIDO, even at that time a famous episode

in Virgil’s Aeneid. That the sorrows of Dido were specially

popular is shown in Juv. _Sat._ VI, 434, which runs:

“_Illa tamen gravior, quae, quum discumbere coepit,

Laudat Virgilium, periturae ignoscit Elissae_....”

The question whether Dido did right in choosing death, seems

to have been discussed by would-be beaux esprits, as in our

own day, people argue about the comparative merits of Goethe

and Schiller.

[284] SIBYL. (Σίβυλλα, from Σιὸς βουλή literally “counsellor of God”)

the name given to the prophesying priestesses of Apollo. Their

predictions were vague and mysterious.

[285] NOT ONLY ARES THE SLAYER, BUT THE HUMBLE ANCHISES. Stephanus

alludes to the love affair of Aphrodite, who according to the

Hellenic myth, bestowed her favors not only on the gods, as

the homicidal Ares, but also upon mortals. She showed her love

for the young Trojan prince Anchises, as is well known, among

the groves of Ida.