CHAPTER III.

The second serious meal of the day, the coena[82] or supper had begun;

the party had betaken themselves to the cavaedium,[83] where it was

now beginning to grow dusk. This airy colonnade--the handsomest portion

perhaps, of an old Roman house--was here very pleasingly decorated

with flowers and plants of ornamental foliage. The arcades, which

surrounded the open space in the middle, were green with ivy, while

an emerald grass-plot, with cypresses and laurels, magnolias in full

bloom, pomegranates and roses, filled up half the quadrangle. Twelve

statues of bronze gilt served to hold lamps, and a fountain tossed its

sparkling jet as high as the tallest trees.

For some time the party sat chatting in the dusk; then two slaves came

in with torches and lighted the lamps of the twelve statues; two others

lighted up the arcades so that the painted walls and their purplish

backgrounds were visible far across the court-yard. A flute-player from

Cumae now played to them in a tender mode; she stood in the entrance,

dressed in the Greek fashion, with her abundant hair gathered into

a knot and her slender fingers gliding up and down the stops of the

instrument. Her features were sweet and pleasing, her manner soft and

harmonious; only from time to time a strange expression of weariness

and absence of mind passed over her face. When she had done playing,

she was conducted by Baucis to the back gate. She took the piece of

silver which she received in payment with an air of indifference, and

then bent her way down the hill towards Cumae, which already lay in

darkness.

“Allow me to ask,” said Herodianus to Quintus, “what is the name of

this tunefully-gifted damsel?”

“She is called Euterpe, after the muse who presides over her art.”

“Her name is Arachne,” added Lucilia, “but Euterpe sounds more

poetical.”

“Euterpe!” breathed the worthy Herodianus. “Heavenly consonance! Is she

a Greek?”

“She is from Etruria, and was formerly the slave of Marcus Cocceius

Nerva, who freed her. She married in Cumae not long since.”

“As strictly historical as the annals of Tacitus,” laughed Claudia.

“I heard it all from Baucis.”

“Wretched old magpie!” exclaimed Quintus, intentionally raising his

voice. “If she could not gossip, she would lose the breath of life.”

“By all the gods, my lord!” exclaimed Baucis, laying her hands on her

heart, “you are calumniating me greatly--do you grudge me a little

harmless chat? All-merciful Isis! am I to close my lips with wax? No,

by Typhon[84] the cruel! Besides, I must instruct the daughters of the

house; it is for that that I eat the bitter crust of dependence in my

old age. Oh! Baucis knows her duties; have I not taught Claudia to

sing and play the cithara? Have I not taught Lucilia more than a dozen

Egyptian formulas and charms? and now I add to this a little sprinkling

of knowledge of the world and of men--and you call it gossip! You young

men of the present day are polite, I must say!”

“Then you sing to the cithara?”[85] said Aurelius, turning to Claudia.

“Oh, let me, I beg of you, hear one of your songs!”

“With pleasure,” said the girl coloring slightly. “With your

permission, dear mother...?”

“You know my weakness,” replied Octavia. “I am always only too

glad to hear you sing. If our noble guest’s request is not merely

politeness....”

“It is a most heartfelt wish,” cried Aurelius. “Your daughter’s voice

is music when she only speaks--in singing it must be enchanting.”

“I think so too, indeed,” added Herodianus. “Oh, we Northmen are

connoisseurs in music. The Camenae visit other spots than Helicon

and the seven hills of Rome; they have taken Trajectum too under

their protection. Had I but been born in Hellas, where Zeus so

lavishly decked the cornucopia of the arts with such pure and ideal

perfection....”

“Herodianus, you are talking nonsense!” interrupted the young Batavian.

“I am afraid that the old Falernian we drank at dinner, was too strong

for your brain.”

“I beg your pardon! that would be very unlike me. Since Apollo

first laid me in my cradle, temperance has been my most conspicuous

virtue....”

A slave girl had meanwhile brought in the nine-stringed cithara and the

ivory plectrum; Claudia took them from her with some eagerness, put the

ribbon of the lute round her neck and sat upright on her easy-chair.

She turned the pegs here and there to put the instrument in tune,

struck a few chords and runs as a prelude, and began a Greek song--the

delightful Spring-greeting of Ibycus the Sicilian:[86]

“Spring returns, and the gnarled quince[87]

Fed by purling and playful brooks

Decks its boughs with its rosy flowers

Where, beneath in the twilight gloom,

Nymph-like circles of maidens dance;

While the sprays of the budding grape

Hide ’mid shadowy vine leaves.

Ruthless Eros doth disregard

Spring’s sweet tokens and hints of peace.

Down he rushes like winter blasts--

Thracian storms with their searing flash--

Aphrodite’s resistless son

Falls on me in his fury and fire--

Racks my heart with his torments.”

Claudia ceased; the accompaniment on the cithara died away in soft

full chords. Caius Aurelius sat spellbound. Never had he dreamed of

the daughters of the fever-tossed metropolis as so simple, so natural,

so genuine and genial. The strain almost resembled, in coy tenderness,

those northern love-songs which he had been wont to hear from the lips

of Gothic and Ampsivaric maidens. In those, to be sure, a vein of

rebellion and melancholy ran through the melody and pierced through the

charm, while in this all was perfect harmony, exquisite contentment--an

intoxicating concord of joy, youth and love. In this he heard the

echo of the smiling waves below, of the glistening leaves, and of

heart-stirring spring airs.

“A second Sappho!” exclaimed Herodianus, as his master sat speechless.

“I can but compare the sweetness of that voice with the luscious

Falernian we drank at dinner. That was a nectar worthy of the gods!

Besides, indeed--the Hispanian wine--out there, what do you call the

place--you know, my lord--what is the name of it--that was delicious

too--and seen against the light.... What was I saying? I had an aunt,

she sang too to the cithara--yes she did, why not?--She was free to do

that, of course, quite free to do it--and a very good woman too was old

Pris--Pris--Priscilla. Only she could not endure, that any one should

talk when she blew the cithara....”

Octavia was frowning; Aurelius had turned crimson and nodded to his

Gothic slave, who was standing aside under the arcade. Magus quietly

came up to Herodianus and whispered a few words in his ear.

“That shows a profound, a remarkably profound power of observation!”

cried the freedman excitedly. “In fact, what does music prove after

all? I play the water-organ,[88] and--hold me up, Magus. This floor is

remarkably slippery for a respectable cavaedium. It might be paved with

eels or polished mirrors!”

“You are a very good fellow,” muttered the Goth as he led him slowly

away, “but you carry it a little too far....”

“What? Ah! you have no sense of the sublime? You are not a

philosopher, but only a--a--a--a man. But, by Pluto! you need not break

my arm. I--take care of that, that.... Will you let go, you misbegotten

villain!”

But the Goth was not to be got rid of; he held the drunken man like an

iron vice and so guided him in a tolerably straight course. When they

disappeared in the corridor leading to the atrium, Aurelius was anxious

to apologize for him, but Octavia laughed it off.

“We are at Baiae,”[89] she said, “and Baiae is famous for its worship

of Bacchus.”

“It is impossible to be vexed with him,” added Lucilia; “he is so

exceedingly funny, and has such a confiding twinkle in his eyes.”

“I am only annoyed,” said Aurelius, “that he should have disturbed us

at so delicious a moment. Indeed madam, your voice is enchantment; and

what a heavenly melody! who is the musician who composed it?”

“You make me blush,” said Claudia: “I myself put the words to music,

and I am delighted that you should like it. Quintus thought it

detestable.”

“Nay, nay--” murmured Quintus.

“Yes indeed!” said the saucy Lucilia. “It was too soft and womanly for

your taste.”

“You are misrepresenting me; I only said, that the air did not suit the

words. It is a man who is here complaining of the torments of love,

while what Claudia sings does not sound like a Thracian winter storm,

but like the lamentations of a love-lorn maiden.”

“Nonsense!” laughed Lucilia. “Love is love, just as air is air!

whether you breathe it or I, it is all the same.”

“But with this difference, that rather more of it is needed to fill my

lungs than yours. However, for aught I care the song is perfect.”

“You are most kind, to be sure! And you may thank the gods that you

have nothing to do but to listen to it. I have no doubt, that at the

drinking-bouts of some of your boon companions the songs have a more

Titanic ring and roar.”

“You little hypocrite! Do you want to play the part now of a female

Cato? Why, how often have you confessed to me, that you would give your

eyes to be one of such a party if only it were permissible!”

“Mother,” said Lucilia, “do not allow him to make a laughing stock of

me in this heartless way. ‘If only I were a man,’ you mean, not ‘if it

were permissible.’”

“Very good!” replied Quintus.

Caius Aurelius now expressed a wish to hear Claudia sing a Latin song,

and she selected one of which the words were by the much-admired poet

Statius,[90] who at that time was, with Martial,[91] the reigning

favorite in the taste of the highest circles. With this the stranger

seemed equally delighted.

When Claudia had ended, he himself seized the instrument and plectrum,

and with eager enthusiasm in a full, strong voice sang a battle-song.

The powerful tones rang through the evening silence like the rush of

a mountain torrent. His hearers saw in fancy the swaying struggle--the

captain of the legion is in the thick of the fray--“Comrades,” cries

one of the combatants, “our chief is in danger! Help! help for our

chief!--One last furious onslaught, and the battle is won!”

The two girls shrank closer to each other.

As the notes slowly died away, a figure appeared high above them in the

moonlight, leaning over the parapet of the upper story.

“By the gods! my lord!” cried Herodianus, “I am coming!--If only I knew

where Magus has hidden my sword! Hold your own, stand steady, and we

will beat them yet!”

The party burst out laughing.

“Go to bed, Herodianus!” shouted his master. “You are talking in your

dreams!”

“Apollo be praised then!” stuttered the other, “but I heard you with

my own ears, shouting desperately for help.” And with these words

he withdrew from the parapet, still muttering and fighting the air

with his arms; and Lucilia declared that she should positively die of

laughing if this extraordinary sleep-walker went through any farther

adventures. The moon was already high in the sky, when the party

separated. Quintus led his visitor to the strangers’ rooms, wished him

goodnight, and went to his own cubiculum[92] where his slaves stood

yawning as they waited for him. For a time, however, he paced his room

in meditation; then pausing in his walk, he looked undecidedly through

the open doorway and asked: “What is the hour?”

“It wants half an hour of midnight,” replied Blepyrus, his body-servant.

“Very good--I do not want to sleep yet. Open the window; the air here

is suffocating. Blepyrus, give me my dagger.”

“The Syrian dagger?”

“A useless question--when do I ever use any other?”

“Here, my lord,” said Blepyrus, taking the dagger out of a closet in

the wall.

“It is only as a precaution. Lately all sorts of wild rabble have

haunted Baiae and the neighborhood. I am going to take a walk for an

hour or so,” and he went to the door. “But mind,” he added, “this late

expedition is a secret.”

The slaves bowed.

“You know us, my lord!” they said with one accord.

Quintus went out again into the arcades. The colonnaded court lay

white and dream-like in the moonshine, the shadows of the statues fell

blackly sharp on the dewy grass-plot and the chequered outlines of the

mosaic pavement. Quintus hastened noiselessly to the postern-gate,

which led from the peristyle into the park; he pushed back the bolt and

was out on the terrace. Complete silence reigned around; only the very

tops of the trees bent to the soft night-breeze. Quintus looked down

upon Baiae. Here and there a light twinkled in the harbor; otherwise

it was like a city of the dead. Then he looked down the black darkness

of the shrubbery paths into the wilderness and seemed to waver, but

he drew a little letter out of the belt of his tunic and studied it,

meditating.

“In fact,” said he to himself, “the whole affair wears the aspect of a

mad adventure; it would not be the first time that malice had assumed

such a disguise! But no! Such a scheme would be too clumsy; what

warranty would the traitor have, that I should come alone? Besides, if

I have any knowledge of love-intrigue, these lines were undoubtedly

written by a woman’s hand.”

He opened the note,[93] which was written on pale yellow Alexandrian

paper with the finest ink. The red silk that tied it was sealed with

yellow wax, and bore the impression of a finely-cut intaglio. The

handwriting betrayed practice, and the whole thing looked as if it

had come from the hands of a cultivated and distinguished fine lady.

The contents answered to this supposition; the style was marked by

aristocratic affectations and rhetorical grace, while it revealed that

vein of eager, jealous passion, which stamps the Roman woman to this

day.

“There is no doubt about it,” muttered Quintus, when he had once more

carefully examined every detail. “This is in hot earnest, and she

commands me to meet her with the assurance of a goddess. And with

all her domineering confidence, what sweet coaxing--what inviting

tenderness! It would be treason to the divine influences of Venus to

hesitate. Nay, fair unknown!--for you must surely be fair--beautiful as

the goddess whose inspiration fires your blood! Nothing but beauty can

give a woman courage to write such words as these!”

He replaced the note in his bosom and took the same path that he had

trodden a few hours since with Aurelius; listening sharply on each side

as he got farther into the thicket, and keeping his hand on his dagger,

he slowly mounted the hill. All nature seemed to be sleeping, and the

distant cry of a night-bird sounded as if in a dream. Before long he

had reached the spot where the path turned off to the pavilion. The

little temple stood out in the moonlight as sharply as by day against

the dark-blue sky, like an erection of gleaming silver and snow; the

light seemed to ripple on the marble like living, translucent dew--and,

in the middle, the goddess sat enthroned!--a tall form robed in white,

her face veiled, motionless as though indeed a statue. Quintus paused

for an instant; then he mounted to the top and said bowing low:

“Unknown one, I greet thee!”

“And I thee, Quintus Claudius!” answered a voice that was tremulous

with agitation.

“You, madam, have commanded, and I, Quintus Claudius, have obeyed. Now,

will you not reveal the secret I am burning to discover?”

The veiled lady took the young man gently by the hand and drew him

tenderly to a seat.

“My secret!” she repeated with a sigh. “Can you not guess it? Quintus,

divinest, most adorable Quintus--I love you!”

“Your favors confound me!” said Quintus in the tone of a man to whom

such phrases were familiar. His unknown companion threw her arms round

him, leaned her head on his shoulder, and burst into tears.

“Oh, happy, intoxicating hour!” she breathed in a rapturous undertone.

“You, the noblest of men, my idol, whom I have thought of so long,

watched with such eager eyes--_you_, Quintus, mine--mine at last! It is

too much happiness!”

Quintus, under the stormy fervor of this declaration, felt an uneasy

mistrust which he tried in vain to repress. This despotic “mine--mine”

gave him a sensation as of the grip of a siren. He involuntarily rose.

“My good fortune takes my breath away!” he said in flattering accents;

doubly flattering to atone for the hasty impulse by which he had stood

up. “But now grant my bold desire, and let me see your face. Let me

know who it is, that vouchsafes me such unparalleled favors.”

“You cannot guess?” she whispered reproachfully. “And yet it is said,

that the eyes of love are keen. Quintus, my beloved, Fate denies us all

open and unchecked happiness; it is in secret only that your lips may

ever meet mine. But you know that true love mocks at obstacles--nay

more, the flowers that blossom in the very valley of death are those

that smell sweetest.”

Quintus drew back a step.

“Once more,” he insisted, “tell me who you are?”

The tall figure raised a beautiful arm, that shone like Parian marble

in the moonlight, and slowly lifted her veil.

“The Empress!”[94] cried Quintus dismayed.

“Not ‘the Empress’ to you, my Quintus--to you Domitia, hapless, devoted

Domitia, who could die of love at your feet.”

Quintus stood immovable.

“Fear nothing,” she said smiling. “No listener is near to desecrate the

perfect bliss of this moonlit night.”

“Fear?” retorted Quintus. “I am not a girl, to go into fits in a

thunder-storm. What I resolve on I carry out to the end, though the end

be death! Besides, I know full well, that your favors bloom in secret

places--as silent and as harmless as the roses in a private garden.”

Domitia turned pale.

“And what do you mean by that?” she asked shuddering.

“You live far away from Caesar, your husband; you are served by spies;

your palace is a labyrinth with a hundred impenetrable chambers....”

“Indeed!” said Domitia, controlling her excitement. “But still, I saw

you start. What dismayed you so much, if it was not the suspicion of

danger?”

“You know,” answered the young man hesitating, “that I am one of those

who are ranked as Caesar’s friends.[95] A friend--though merely an

official friend--cannot betray the man he is bound to defend.”

Domitia laughed loudly.

“Fine speeches, on my word!” she exclaimed scornfully. “Friendship,

for the executioner who cuts your head off! Fidelity to a bloodthirsty

ruffian! No, Quintus--I know better. You are staunch, but not from

fidelity--from prudence!”

Quintus struck his breast proudly with his hand.

“You force me,” he said, “to speak the truth, in spite of my desire to

spare you. You must know then, that Quintus Claudius thinks better of

himself than to stoop to be the successor of an actor!”

“Mad fool! what are you saying....”

“What I was bound to say. You thought I was afraid; I am only proud.

No, and if you were Cypris[96] in person I should disdain you no less,

in spite of every charm. Never will I touch the lips, that have been

kissed by a buffoon--a slave.”[97]

Domitia did not stir; she seemed paralyzed by the fury of this

attack.--At last, however, she rose.

“You are very right, Quintus,” she said. “It was too much to expect.

Go and sleep, and dream of your wedding. But the gods, you know, are

envious. They often grant us joys in our dreams and deny the reality.

But now, before you go, kneel to the Empress!” and as she spoke a

stiletto flashed ominously in her hand. Quintus, however, had with

equal swiftness drawn his dagger.

“Fair and gently!” he said drawing back. “The honor of being stabbed by

the fair hand of Domitia is a temptation no doubt....” She colored and

dropped the weapon.

“Leave me!” she said, going to lean against the balustrade. “I do not

know what I am doing; my brain is reeling. Forgive me--forgive me!”

Quintus made no reply, and casting a glance of furious hatred at him

she hurried down the steps, glided through the gap in the brushwood

into the deserted park, and vanished among the shrubs.

Quintus stood looking after her.

“One foe the more!” said he to himself. “Well, what does it matter?

Either to be made an end of by the knife of an assassin--or to live on,

my very soul sickened with it all.... Pah!”

And he made his way homewards, singing a Greek drinking-song as he went.

FOOTNOTES:

[82] COENA. The second and last principal meal after the day’s work

was over. Under the emperors the coena began about half-past

two o’clock in the afternoon, in winter probably somewhat

later. It corresponded in its relation to the other hours of

the day, to the “dîner” of the French, for the Romans were

early risers, and even among the aristocratic classes day

began at sunrise.

[83] CAVAEDIUM or peristyle was the name given to the second

court-yard of the Roman house, which was connected with the

first or atrium by one or two corridors. The dining-room, as

well as the study of the master of the house, were in the

cavaedium. The space between the latter and the atrium, called

the tablinum, contained the family papers; it was the business

office.

[84] TYPHON. The evil genius who killed Osiris. (See note 32, vol.

1.) The Greeks regarded him as a monster of original evil, the

personification of the Simoom and other destructive hot winds,

or of the primeval force of volcanoes.

[85] CITHARA (κιθάρα). A favorite musical instrument. The strings,

usually of gut, were sounded by means of a _plectrum_ (πλῆκτρον)

of wood, ivory, or metal. Music was as common an accomplishment

among ladies of rank then as now, and they often composed both

the words and airs of their songs. Statius tells us that his

step-daughter did so, and Pliny the younger says the same of his

third wife.

[86] IBYCUS OF RHEGION in Lower Italy (B.C. 528). A distinguished

lyric poet, who is the hero of a well-known poem by Schiller.

Few of his numerous lyric compositions remain to us. We here

give a translation of Emanuel Geibel’s admirable German

version of his Spring-greeting. (_Classisches Liederbuch_, p.

44.)

[87] QUINCE. Cydonia is the modern botanical name of the quince,

called by the Greeks and Romans the Cydonian apple, after

Cydonia, in the island of Crete.

[88] WATER-ORGAN (_Hydraulus_, ὕδραυλος). A musical instrument

mentioned by Cicero, Seneca and others. Ammianus observes:

“Water-organs and lyres are made so large, that they might be

mistaken for coaches.”

[89] BAIAE was considered from ancient times friendly to Bacchus.

(Sen. _Ep._ 51).

[90] STATIUS.--P. Papinius Statius, born in Naples, A.D. 45, and

died A.D. 96, was a lyric and epic poet, often artificial in

style, but possessed of a brilliant imagination. His principal

works are the epic poem “Thebais,” in which he treats of the

battle of the sons of Oedipus before Thebes, and the Silvae

(woods), a collection of short poems. He also commenced an

epic poem “Achilleis.”

[91] MARTIAL. (See note 100, vol. 1.)

[92] CUBICULUM. A sleeping-room. The _cubicula_ were located in the

atrium, peristyle, and upper stories.

[93] NOTE. The Romans wrote their letters either on wax-tablets,

(See note 10, vol. 1.) or on paper (_papyrus_, _carta_), using

in the former case the stylus, in the latter a reed-pen and

Indian ink. When the letter was finished, the wax-tablets

were laid one above the other, and the papyrus folded several

times. A string was then wound around the whole and the ends

sealed.

[94] THE EMPRESS DOMITIA. The emperor’s wife was Domitia Longina,

the daughter of Corbulo, and formerly the wife of Aelius

Lamia, (Suet. _Dom._ 1).

[95] CAESAR’S FRIENDS. Among the “friends (_amici_) of the

emperor,” were included those persons, who not only regularly

shared the social pleasures of the sovereign, but were

invited to consult with him on all important government

business. Within this group of friends there were of course

inner, outer, and outermost circles. Quintus, who had little

intercourse with the court, can only be included in the

outermost circle of all, and even there more on account of his

father, who was one of the emperor’s most intimate “friends,”

than by virtue of his own relations with the palace. He of

course had a right to appear at court, like all persons of

his rank, even without a special “relation of friendship” to

the emperor. When inner and outer _circles_ of friends are

mentioned, this must not be confounded with the different

_classes_ of friends. Belonging to the first or second class

implied a distinction of _rank_. Of course, in this sense,

Quintus could only be numbered among the first class (_primi

amici_).

[96] CYPRIS. A name given to Aphrodite, the goddess of love, from

the island of Cyprus, the principal seat of her worship.

[97] A SLAVE. Domitia had been the mistress of Paris, a slave and

actor. When Domitian discovered it, he wished to sentence the

empress to death, but at the intercession of Ursus, changed

the decree to exile. Paris was massacred in the open street.

(See Dio Cass. LXVII 3; Suet. _Dom._ 3.) Quintus calls Paris

a buffoon out of contempt, for the profession of “player” was

regarded by the ancient Romans as degrading.