CHAPTER VIII

THE SHRINE OF HEKATÉ

Athwart the gleaming balconies of the east the morning sun shone

golden and the shadows of the white marble cornices and capitals and

jutting friezes were blue with the reflection of the cloudless sky.

Far below Mount Aventine the soft mists of dawn still hovered over the

seven-hilled city, whence the distant cries of the water carriers and

fruit venders came echoing up from the waking streets.

A fugitive sunbeam stole through a carelessly closed lattice of a

chamber in the palace of Theodora, and danced now on the walls, bright

with many a painted scene, now on the marble inlaid mosaic of the

floor. Now and then a bright blade or the jewelled rim of a wine cup of

eastern design would flash back the wayward ray, until its shaft rested

on a curtained recess wherein lay a faintly outlined form. Tenderly

the sunbeams stole over the white limbs that veiled their chiselled

roundness under the blue shot webs of their wrappings, which, at the

capricious tossing of the sleeper, bared two arms, white as ivory and

wonderful in their statuesque moulding.

The face of the sleeper showed creamy white under a cloud of dark,

silken hair, held back in a net of gold from the broad smooth forehead.

Dark, exquisitely pencilled eyebrows arched over the closed,

transparent lids, fringed with lashes that now and then seemed to

flicker on the marble pallor of the cheeks, and the proudly poised head

lay back, half buried in the cushions, supported by the gleaming white

arms that were clasped beneath it.

Then, as if fearful of intruding on the charms that his ray had

revealed, the sunbeam turned and, kissing the bosom that swelled and

sank with the sleeper's gentle breathing, descended till it rested on

an overhanging foot, from which a carelessly fastened sandal hung by

one vermilion strap.

Of a sudden a light footfall was audible without and in an instant the

sleeper had heard and awakened, her dark eyes heavy with drowsiness,

the red lips parted, revealing two rows of small, pearly teeth, with

the first deep breath of returning consciousness.

At the sound one white hand drew the silken wrappings over the limbs,

that a troubled slumber and the warmth of the Roman summer night had

bared, while the other was endeavoring to adjust the disordered folds

of the saffron gossamer web that clung like a veil to her matchless

form.

"Ah! It is but you! Persephoné," she said with a little sigh, as a

curtain was drawn aside, revealing the form of a girl about twenty-two

years old, whose office as first attendant to Theodora had been firmly

established by her deep cunning, a thorough understanding of her

mistress' most hidden moods and desires, her utter fearlessness and a

native fierceness, that recoiled from no consideration of danger.

Persephoné was tall, straight as an arrow, lithe and sinuous as a

snake. Her face was beautiful, but there was something in the gleam

of those slightly slanting eyes that gave pause to him who chanced to

cross her path.

She claimed descent from some mythical eastern potentate and was a

native of Circassia, the land of beautiful women. No one knew how she

had found her way to Rome. The fame of Marozia's evil beauty and her

sinister repute had in time attracted Persephoné, and she had been

immediately received in Marozia's service, where she remained till the

revolt of Alberic swept her mistress into the dungeons of Castel San

Angelo. Thereupon she had attached herself to Theodora who loved the

wild and beautiful creature and confided in her utterly.

"Evil and troubled have been my dreams," Theodora continued, as the

morning light fell in through the parted curtains. "At the sound of

your footfall I started up--fearing--I knew not what--"

"For a long time have I held out against his pleadings and commands,"

Persephoné replied in a subdued voice, "knowing that my lady slept. But

he will not be denied,--and his insistence had begun to frighten me. So

at last I dared brave my lady's anger and disturb her--"

"Frighten you, Persephoné?" Theodora's musical laughter resounded

through the chamber. "You--who braved death at these white hands of

mine without flinching?"

She extended her hands as if to impress Persephoné with their beauty

and strength.

Whatever the circumstance referred to, Persephoné made no reply. Only

her face turned a shade more pale.

The draped figure had meanwhile arisen to her full height, as she

stretched the sleep from her limbs, then, her question remaining

unanswered, she continued:

"But--of whom do you speak? A new defiance from Roxana? A new insult

from the Senator of Rome? I would have it understood," this with a

slight lift of the voice, "that even were the end of the world at hand,

of which they prate so much of late, and heaven and earth to crumble

into chaos, I would not be disturbed to listen to shallow plaints and

mock heroics."

"It is neither the one nor the other," replied Persephoné with an

apprehensive glance of her slanting eyes over her shoulder, "but my

Lord Basil, the Grand Chamberlain. He waits without where the eunuchs

guard your slumber, and his eyes are aflame with something more than

impatience--"

At the mention of the name a subtle change passed over the listener's

face, and a sombre look crept into her eyes as she muttered:

"What can he be bringing now?"

Then, with a sudden flash, she added, tossing back her beautiful head:

"Let the Lord Basil wait! And now, Persephoné, remove from me the

traces of sleep and set the couches in better order."

Silently and quickly the Circassian sprang forward and rolled back the

curtains from the lattices, letting a stronger but still subdued light

enter the chamber, revealing, as it did, many a chased casket, and

mirrors of polished steel and bronze, and lighting up exquisite rainbow

hued fabrics, thrown carelessly over lion-armed chairs, with here and

there an onyx table wonderfully carved.

The chamber itself looked out upon a terrace and garden, a garden

filled with such a marvellous profusion of foliage and flowers, that,

looking at it from between the glistening marble columns surrounding

the palace, it seemed as though the very sky above rested edgewise on

towering pyramids of red and white bloom. Awnings of softest pale blue

stretched across the entire width of the spacious outer colonnade,

where a superb peacock strutted majestically to and fro, with

boastfully spreading tail and glittering crest, as brilliant as the

gleam of the hot sun on the silver fringe of the azure canopies, amidst

the gorgeousness of waving blossoms that seemed to surge up like a sea

to the very windows of the chamber.

Filling an embossed bowl with perfumed water, Persephoné bathed the

hands of her mistress, who had sunk down upon a low, tapestried

couch. Then, combing out her luxuriant hair, she bound it in a

jewelled netting that looked like a constellation of stars against the

dusky masses it confined. Taking a long, sleeveless robe of amber,

Persephoné flung it about her subtle form and bound it over breast and

shoulders with a jewelled band. But Theodora's glance informed her that

something was still wanting and, following the direction of her gaze,

Persephoné's eye rested on a life-size statue of Hekaté that stood with

deadly calm on its inexorable face and slightly raised hands, from one

of which hung something that glittered strangely in the subdued light

of the recess.

Obeying Theodora's silent gesture, Persephoné advanced to the image and

took from its raised arm a circlet fashioned of two golden snakes with

brightly enamelled scales, bearing in their mouths a single diamond,

brilliant as summer lightning. This she gently placed on her mistress'

head, so that the jewel flamed in the centre of the coronet, then,

kneeling down, she drew together the unlatched sandals.

Persephoné's touch roused her mistress from a day dream that had set

her features as rigid as ivory, as she surveyed herself for a moment

intently in a great bronze disk whose burnished surface gave back her

flawless beauty line for line.

In Persephoné's gaze she read her unstinted admiration, for, beautiful

as the Circassian was, she loved beauty in her own sex, wherever she

found it.

Theodora seemed to have utterly forgotten the presence of the Grand

Chamberlain in the anteroom, yet, in an impersonal way, her thoughts

occupied themselves with the impending tete-a-tete.

Her life had been one constant round of pleasure and amusement, yet she

was not happy, nor even contented.

Day by day she felt the want of some fresh interest, some fresh

excitement, and it was this craving probably, more than innate

depravity, which plunged her into those disgraceful and licentious

excesses that were nightly enacted in the sunken gardens behind her

palace. Lovers she had had by the scores. Yet each new face possessed

for her but the attraction of novelty. The favorite of the hour had

small cause to plume himself on his position. No sooner did he believe

himself to be secure in the possession of Theodora's love, than he

found himself hurled into the night of oblivion.

A strange pagan wave held Rome enthralled. Italy was in the throes of

a dark revulsion. A woman, beautiful as she was evil, had exercised

within the past decade her baleful influence from Castel San Angelo.

Theodora had taken up Marozia's tainted inheritance. Members of a

family of courtesans, they looked upon their trade as a hereditary

privilege and, like the ancient Aspasias, these Roman women of the

tenth century triumphed primarily by means of their feminine beauty

and charms over masculine barbarism and grossness. It was an age

of feudalism, when brutal force and murderous fury were the only

divinities whom the barbarian conqueror was compelled to respect.

Lombards and Huns, Franks and Ostrogoths, Greeks and Africans, the

savage giants issuing from the deep Teutonic forests, invading the

classic soil of Rome, became so many Herculeses sitting at the feet of

Omphalé, and the atmosphere of the city by the Tiber--the atmosphere

that had nourished the Messalinas of Imperial Rome--poured the flame of

ambition into the soul of a woman whose beauty released the strongest

passions in the hearts of those with whom she surrounded herself, in

order to attain her soul's desire. To rule Rome from the fortress

tomb of the Flavian emperor was the dream of Theodora's life. It had

happened once. It would happen again, as long as men were ready to

sacrifice at the shrines of Hekaté.

Unbridled in her passions as she was strong in her physical

organization, an unbending pride and an intensity of will came to

her aid when she had determined to win the object of her desire. In

Theodora's bosom beat a heart that could dare, endure and defy the

worst. She was a woman whom none but a very bold or ignorant suitor

would have taken to his heart. Perchance the right man, had he appeared

on the stage in time, might have made her gentle and quelled the

wild passions that tossed her resistlessly about, like a barque in a

hurricane.

Suddenly something seemed to tell her that she had found such a one.

Tristan's manly beauty had made a strong appeal upon her senses. The

anomaly of his position had captivated her imagination. There was

something strangely fascinating in the mystery that surrounded him,

there was even a wild thrill of pleasure in the seeming shame of loving

one whose garb stamped him as one claimed by the Church. He had braved

her anger in refusing to accompany Persephoné. He had closed his eyes

to Theodora's beauty, had sealed his ears to the song of the siren.

"A man at last!" she said half aloud, and Persephoné, looking up from

her occupation, gave her an inquisitive glance.

The splash of hidden fountains diffused a pleasant coolness in the

chamber. Spiral wreaths of incense curled from a bronze tripod into the

flower-scented ether. The throbbing of muted strings from harps and

lutes, mingling with the sombre chants of distant processions, vibrated

through the sun-kissed haze, producing a weird and almost startling

effect.

After a pause of some duration, apparently oblivious of the fact

that the announced caller was waiting without, Theodora turned to

Persephoné, brushing with one white hand a stray raven lock from the

alabaster forehead.

"Can it be the heat or the poison miasma that presages our Roman fever?

Never has my spirit been so oppressed as it is to-day, as if the gloomy

messengers from Lethé's shore were enfolding me in their shadowy

pinions. I saw his face in the dream of the night"--she spoke as if

soliloquizing--"it was as the face of one long dead--"

She paused with a shudder.

"Of whom does my lady speak?" Persephoné interposed with a swift glance

at her mistress.

"The pilgrim who crossed my path to his own or my undoing. Has he been

heard from again?"

A negative gesture came in response.

"His garb is responsible for much," replied the Circassian. "The city

fairly swarms with his kind--"

The intentional contemptuous sting met its immediate rebuke.

"Not his kind," Theodora flashed back. "He has nothing in common with

those others save the garb--and there is more beneath it than we wot

of--"

"The Lady Theodora's judgment is not to be gainsaid," the Circassian

replied, without meeting her mistress' gaze. "Do they not throng to her

bowers by the legion--"

"A pilgrimage of the animals to Circé's sty--each eager to be

transformed into his own native state," Theodora interposed

contemptuously.

"Perchance this holy man is in reality a prince from some mythical,

fabled land--come to Rome to resist temptation and be forthwith

canonized--"

Persephoné's mirth suffered a check by Theodora's reply.

"Stranger things have happened. All the world comes to Rome on one

business or another. This one, however, has not his mind set on the

Beatitudes--"

"Nevertheless he dared not enter the forbidden gates," the Circassian

ventured to object.

"It was not fear. On that I vouch. Perchance he has a vow. Whatever it

be--he shall tell me--face to face--and here!"

"But if the holy man refuse to come?"

Theodora's trained ear did not miss the note of irony in the

Circassian's question.

"He will come!" she replied laconically.

"A task worthy the Lady Theodora's renown."

"You deem it wonderful?"

"If I have read the pilgrim's eyes aright--"

"Perchance your own sweet eyes, my beautiful Persephoné, discoursed to

him something on that night that caused misgivings in his holy heart,

and made him doubt your errand?" Theodora purred, extending her white

arms and regarding the Circassian intently.

Persephoné flushed and paled in quick succession.

"On that matter I left no doubt in his mind," she said enigmatically.

There was a brief pause, during which an inscrutable gaze passed

between Theodora and the Circassian.

"Were you not as beautiful as you are evil, my Persephoné, I should

strangle you," Theodora at last said very quietly.

The Circassian's face turned very pale and there was a strange light

in her eyes. Her memory went back to an hour when, during one of the

periodical feuds between Marozia and her younger sister, the former

had imprisoned Theodora in one of the chambers of Castel San Angelo,

setting over her as companion and gaoler in one Persephoné, then in

Marozia's service.

The terrible encounter between Theodora and the Circassian in the

locked chamber, when only the timely appearance of the guard saved each

from destruction at the hands of the other, as Theodora tried to take

the keys of her prison from Persephoné, had never left the latter's

mind. Brave as she was, she had nevertheless, after Marozia's fall,

entered Theodora's service, and the latter, admiring the spirit of

fearlessness in the girl, had welcomed her in her household.

"I am ever at the Lady Theodora's service," Persephoné replied, with

drooping lids, but Theodora caught a gleam of tigerish ferocity

beneath those silken lashes that fired her own blood.

"Beware--lest in some evil hour I may be tempted to finish what I left

undone in the Emperor's Tomb!" she flashed with a sudden access of

passion.

"The Lady Theodora is very brave," Persephoné replied, as, stirred by

the memory, her eyes sank into those of her mistress.

For a moment they held each other's gaze, then, with a generosity

that was part of her complex nature, Theodora extended her hand to

Persephoné.

"Forgive the mood--I am strangely wrought up," she said. "Cannot you

help me in this dilemma, where I can trust in none?"

"There dwells in Rome one who can help my lady," Persephoné replied

with hesitation; "one deeply versed in the lore and mysteries of the

East."

"Who is this man?" Theodora queried eagerly.

"His name is Hormazd. By his spells he can change the natural event of

things, and make Fate subservient to his decrees."

"Why have you never told me of him before?"

"Because the Lady Theodora's will seemed to do as much for her as

could, to my belief, the sorcerer's art!"

The implied compliment pleased Theodora.

"Where does he abide?"

"In the Trastevere."

"What does he for those who seek him?"

"He reads the stars--foretells the future--and, with the aid of strange

spells of which he is master, can bring about that which otherwise

would be unattainable--"

"You rouse my curiosity! Tell me more of him."

An inscrutable expression passed over Persephoné's face.

"He was Marozia's trusted friend."

A frozen silence reigned apace.

"Did he foretell that which was to happen?" Theodora spoke at last.

"To the hour!"

"And yet--forewarned--"

"Marozia, grown desperate in the hatred of her lord, derided his

warnings."

"It was her Fate. Tell me more!"

"He has visited every land under the sun. From Thulé to Cathay his

fame is known. Strange tales are told of him. No one knows his age. He

seems to have lived always. As he appears now he hath ever been. They

say he has been seen in places thousand leagues apart at the same time.

Sometimes he disappears and is not heard of for months. But--whoever

he may be--whatever he may be engaged in--at the stroke of midnight

that he must suspend. Then his body turns rigid as a corpse, bereft of

animation, and his spirit is withdrawn into realms we dare not even

dream of. At the first hour of the morning life will slowly return. But

no one has yet dared to question him, where he has spent those dread

hours."

Theodora had listened to Persephoné's tale with a strange new interest.

"How long has this Hormazd--or whatever his name--resided in Rome?" she

turned to the Circassian.

"I met him first on the night on which the lady Marozia summoned him to

the summit of the Emperor's Tomb. There he abode with her for hours,

engaged in some unholy incantation and at last conjured up such a

tempest over the Seven Hills, as the city of Rome had not experienced

since it was founded by the man from Troy--"

Persephoné's historical deficiency went hand in hand with a

superstition characteristic of the age, and evoked no comment from one

perchance hardly better informed with regard to the past.

"I well remember the night," Theodora interposed.

"We crept down into the crypts, where the dog-headed Egyptian god keeps

watch over the dead Emperor," Persephoné continued. "The lady Marozia

alone remained on the summit with the wizard--amidst such lightnings

and crashing peals of thunder and a hurricane the like of which the

oldest inhabitants do not remember--"

"I shall test his skill," Theodora spoke after a pause. "Perchance he

may give me that which I have never known--"

"My lady would consult the wizard?" Persephoné interposed eagerly.

"Such is my intent."

"Shall I summon him to your presence?"

"I shall go to him!"

In Persephoné's countenance surprise and fear struggled for mastery.

"Then I shall accompany my lady--"

"I shall go alone and unattended--"

"It is an ill-favored region, where the sorcerer dwells--"

An inscrutable look passed into Theodora's eyes.

"Can he but give me that which I desire I shall brave the hazard, be it

ever so great."

The last words were uttered in an undertone. Then she added imperiously:

"Go and summon the lord Basil and bid two eunuchs attend him hither!

And do you wait with them within call behind those curtains."

Then, as Persephoné silently piled cushions behind her in the

lion-armed chair and withdrew bowing, Theodora murmured to herself:

"Hardly can I trust even him in an hour so fraught with darkness and

peril. Yet strive as he will, he may not break the chains his passion

has woven around his senses."