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 sunrise[113] 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,[114] 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 city[115] 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,[116] 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.[117] Its shore was to him the one real _Museion_--as Pliny

the younger[118] 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

pivot[119] 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 friend[120] 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.[121]

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 spoon[122] 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 Hymenaeus[123] of

Catullus;[124] 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!”

FOOTNOTES:

[113] THE SECOND HOUR AFTER SUNRISE. The Romans divided the day,

from sunrise to sunset, into twelve hours. These were of

course shorter in winter than in summer. The events spoken of

in this chapter are supposed to have taken place about the

time of the equinox, so ‘the second hour’ would be between

seven and eight. The night, between sunset and sunrise, was

likewise divided into four vigils or watches of three hours

each.

[114] THE GADFLY OF JUNO. The jealous queen of heaven, Hera, (called

by the Romans Juno) transformed the beautiful daughter of

Inachus, Io, who was beloved by Jupiter, into a cow, and

ordered her to be persecuted by a gadfly.

[115] THE GREAT CITY. The population of Rome, under the emperors,

was a little less than two millions, but largely exceeded one

million. There are no exact statements; but calculations have

been made from different standpoints, which give about the

same result. The most important points to be considered here,

are first the extent of surface occupied by imperial Rome,

and secondly the estimates of ancient writers concerning the

consumption of grain, which in the time of Josephus amounted

to 60.000,000 bushels yearly. Here too, may be mentioned the

somewhat hyperbolical passage, Arist. _Encom. Rom._ p. 199,

where it is asserted that Rome would fill the whole width

of Italy to the Adriatic Sea, if the stories of the houses,

instead of being piled one above another, had been built on

the ground.

[116] LACERNA. A light woollen cloak, worn either in place of the

toga or tunic, or, which was more customary, as an outside

wrap over the toga. White lacernae were the most elegant.

[117] HE RAVED ABOUT THE SEA. The Romans’ love for the sea is proved

by many passages in their literature, but still more by the

ruins of their villas and palaces, which bordered its most

beautiful shores, and were praised by contemporaries for their

views, (Friedlander, _Sittengesch._, II, p. 129).

[118] PLINY THE YOUNGER. C. Plinius Caecilius Secundus, a nephew and

adopted son of the older Pliny, was born A.D. 62, at Novum

Comum, now Como, on the Lake Larius, Lake of Como, on the

banks of which he had several villas. (_Ep._ IX. 7.) He died

about the year 114. A clever writer, a skilful statesman, an

enthusiast for everything good and beautiful, he possessed

an amiable character, but cannot be wholly absolved from the

reproach of self-sufficiency. His writings, especially his

letters, are an important source of information concerning

the social conditions of that period. The passage in Pliny to

which allusion is here made, runs: “Oh, sea! Oh, strand! Thou

beloved Museion! How much ye compose and create for me!”

[119] ON ITS PIVOT. Doors were not usually hung on hinges, as with

us, but had on their upper and lower edges wedge-shaped pivots

(_cardines_) which fitted into corresponding depressions in

the threshold and upper part of the frame.

[120] FRIEND. Quintus would speak of Eurymachus as the ‘friend’

of Euterpe with intentional double meaning, half in the

usual honest sense, but partly too in the sense which the

feminine form, _amica_, had acquired in the course of time; a

signification so ambiguous, that the bluntest frankness was

better.

[121] SESAME CAKE. _Sesamum_ σήσαμον was a plant with pods, from whose

fruit was obtained a savory meal or oil.

[122] THE USE OF SPOONS was not so general in Rome as with us, but

was certainly customary for eating eggs in good society.

[123] HYMENAEUS. A well-known poem by Catullus; the burden is: “_O

Hymen, Hymenae!_” (Carmen 61, _Collis o Heliconis_.)

[124] CAIUS (OR QUINTUS) VALERIUS CATULLUS was a native of Verona

(B.C. 77) and died at the age of thirty. His works were

most popular at the period of our story. Martial frequently

compares himself with Catullus as a recognized classic, and in

one passage hopes that he may one day be esteemed as second

only to Catullus. Herodianus takes one of Catullus’s poems as

a model, just as a worthy citizen of Germany, who wished to

essay lyric poetry, might copy Schiller.