Domitia

Now also the haunting horror of those waking dreams that she had seen in the Temple of Isis passed from the heart of the young girl, like the vapors that roll away and disclose the blue heavens and the glorious sun. She had been drifting purposeless; now she saw that she was about to enter on a condition of life in which she would have an object, and would find complete happiness in the pursuit of that object, – in the fulfilment of her duties as housewife to a loved husband, in whom she would find strength, sympathy and love.

And now also, for the first time since the death of Corbulo, she sang as she went about the house, or worked at her bridal dress.

Lamia, on his return from Sicily was surprised to note the change in her appearance. She had been as a beautiful flower bowed by rain and pinched with cold, and now, as in renewed sunshine, she bloomed with expanded petals. Light danced in her blue eyes, and a delicate rose suffused her smooth cheeks. She had stepped back into the childhood out of which she had passed on that terrible day at Cenchræa.

And as he looked at her, her eyes sparkling with love and tears of joy, he thought he had never seen one sweeter and to whom he could so wholly devote himself as to his dear Domitia.

Then arrived the eve of the marriage.

The young girl was in the garden, stooping, picking the flowers of which her virginal crown was to be woven, and singing as she plucked.

Then she came with her lap full of herbs and blossoms to her mother, who said: —

“That is right. None may gather the flowers but the bride. By the way, have you heard? Domitian is back from Gaul. I was rejoiced at the news, and have despatched an invitation to him to attend the wedding.”

“Oh, mother! it is a bad omen.”

At the mention of the name, the vision of the red face, seen at Gabii between her own and that of Lamia, started up before her, and she let drop the lap of flowers, and they fell at her feet.

“By the Gods! what a silly thing thou art! Quick, gather up the herbs and then go fetch thy dolls and toys of childhood, they must all this evening be offered on the altar of the household gods.”

“I have them not, mother.”

“Not your dolls!”

“Not one.”

“But what have you done with them? I know they were all brought from Antioch.”

“Mother, they have been given away.”

“Given away! to whom?”

“To Glyceria, the sister of Euphrosyne.”

“But what can have induced you to do this?”

“She is paralyzed, and served by little children in the story of the Insula where she lives. I considered that it would amuse her to dress the dolls afresh, and perhaps mend broken limbs, and after that she will distribute them among the little willing children that help her in her infirmity.”

“As the Gods love me!” exclaimed Duilia, “Whoever heard before of such madness. Hellebore would not cure it. Verily the more you labor at a hole the greater the hollow. You are a fool, and your folly grows daily greater. You must present your toys of childhood to the Lares, they expect it – it is the custom, it is right.”

“But I have none left.”

“Mother Ops! what is to be done? Run, Eboracus, – run and buy me half a dozen dolls – dressed if possible. Domitia, you are determined to bring ill-luck on yourself. There is nothing else to be done but for you to spend an hour in playing with the dolls, and then you can present them at the altar, and the Gods will be none the wiser. Between me and you and the pillars of the peristyle, they are bigger fools than us mortals, and easier gulled.”

Domitia stooped to collect the fallen flowers.

“What is that?” asked her mother – “Oh! right enough, natrix,5 that drives away ghosts and nightmare. And that of course is in the virginal wreath, myosotis (Forget-me-not) it dries tears. An Egyptian slave I had – he fell ill, so I exposed him on the isle between the two Bridges – he told me that if one ate the root in the month of Thoth – that is August, one escaped sore eyes for a twelvemonth. That is right also, the scarlet anemone, it betokens the flame of love – and that evergreen its continuance. The centaury – that is the herb of union, it will close a wound so as not to show even a scar – and in marriage, no better symbol than that. What have you here? The lysimachia, that gives harmony and agreement of mind. They say that a plant of it fastened to the pole of a chariot will make the wildest and most impatient horses pull together. And the herb of the Twelve Gods! quite right, always remember the gods, they come in useful. The vervain – of course, it will give you all you will. But, ye Gods of Olympus! What have you done to pluck cypress! My dear Domitia, are you mad? Thyme, mint, if you will – but cypress! the tree of the infernal gods, and – as the Gods love me! let me look at your hands! They are red – what have you plucked – plucked till your hands are dyed – the androsœmum! Oh! Domitia! ill-fated child – look, look at your hands, the juice has stained them, they are dipped in blood.”

CHAPTER XXII.

QUONIAM TU CAIUS, EGO CAIA!

At the earliest rays of dawn the auguries were taken, not as of old by the flight of birds, but by inspection of the liver and heart of a sheep, that was slaughtered for the purpose by the Aruspices, and this done they came to the palace of Duilia, bearing the skin of the sheep, to announce that the portents were favorable, in fact, were of extraordinarily good promise.

“That is as I hoped,” said Longa Duilia, “and that will counteract and bring to naught the disastrous tokens of the wreath. Why, by Venus’s girdle, the girl has not been able to get her hands white yet. The stain of that nefast herb is on them still. But – ah! here she comes in her flame-colored veil. By the Body of Bacchus! after all it means no ill, for do not her hands agree in hue with her head-gear?”6

Domitia had laid aside her maidenly dress, the toga prætextata woven with horizontal stripes, for the dress of a married woman, the toga recta, with vertical stripes. About her waist was a woollen girdle fastened in a peculiar manner, with the so-called knot of Hercules, that was regarded as a charm against the evil eye, and was also employed in binding up wounds and fractured bones. The girl’s dress, as well as a net of red silk threads in which her hair had been tied up on the previous day, had been offered on the altars of the ancestral deities worshipped in the house.

Her hair had been divided that morning, not by a comb, but by the head of a lance, into six tresses that were plaited with colored ribbons. And about her head, beneath the veil, was the virgin’s wreath woven out of the flowers she had herself picked – but the ill-omened cypress and the blood distilling androsœmum had been omitted.

And now with pipes and cymbals came the bridegroom attended by all his friends, to fetch the bride home. The house door was decorated with laurels, and incense smoked on the domestic altars, in the vestibule, and in the atrium. The boxes that contained the ancestral wax masks were open, and each face was wreathed about with flowers. Green lines connecting the boxes united all to one trunk forming a family tree. The household gods were not ignored, lamps burned before them, flowers adorned their heads, and cakes and wine were placed on shelves below them.

Slaves ran to and fro, and ran against each other. Ten witnesses, kinsmen of the bride and bridegroom, assembled to take cognizance of the marriage contract. Two seats were introduced into the hall, and the legs bound together, and over both was spread the skin of the sheep slaughtered that morning for the auspices.

Then bride and bridegroom were seated on these stools, the marriage contract was read aloud, and they received the salutations of their friends. The pronuba, a married female relative united their hands, and that accomplished, the bridegroom rose, and attended by the friends and kinsfolk of both parties, departed for the Temple of Jupiter, where the flamen Dialis offered sacrifice to the gods of marriage, to Jupiter, Juno, Tellus, and the old Latin half-forgotten deities of Picumnus and Pilumnus.

Whilst the sacred sacrifice was being performed, in the house of the bride all was being made ready for the wedding or meal after midday.

The bride was now esteemed to have passed out of the family of her father into that of her husband, his gods would be her gods, his house her house, his name hers. In signification of this the formula was used by her, “Since thou art Caius, I am Caia.” At a remote period it would have been “Since thou art Lucius I am Lucia,” and she would have lost her name of Domitia. But this was no longer customary, only the liturgical form of surrender was employed.

It was past noon when the procession returned, swelled by more friends and by all well-wishers, and as it entered the house, with a shiver Domitia observed the glowing face and water-blue eyes of the young prince, attended by his lictors. She caught his glance, but he dropped his eyes the moment they encountered hers, and she saw his cheeks pucker, as though with laughter. But she had no time to give thought to him; she was required to acknowledge the felicitations of the visitors, and to entreat them to partake of the hospitality of the hour, and to offer a pinch of incense and a libation to her happiness.

The supper was lengthy – many partook and came in relays, so that the entire afternoon was consumed by it. To the relief of Domitia, the prince Domitian had withdrawn. As each left the table he saluted the bride with the exclamation, Feliciter.

For this long and tedious ceremonial feast, she was allowed to rest on a couch, next to her husband, at the table, in the place of honor.

The meal lasted till evening, and then there ensued a movement.

The household goods of the bride, her spindle and distaff, her chest containing robes, were brought forth, and placed on biers to be conveyed to the new house.

Then Domitia rose, with tears in her eyes, and went to the several chambers she had occupied, to say farewell to the kitchen, to salute the hearth, to the shelf that served as chapel, to bid farewell to the ancestral gods, to the wax forefathers in the hall, then to kiss her mother, finally to turn, kneel and embrace the doorposts of the paternal dwelling, and kiss the threshold from which she parted.

Without, the procession waited. She was gently disengaged from her mother’s arms, and to the cries of Talasse! amidst a shower of walnuts thrown among the boys by the bridegroom, the procession started.

Domitia was attended by three lads, one went before carrying a torch, the other two walked, one on each side, carrying spindle and distaff. The torch, according to rule, was of whitethorn wood, and on arrival at the house of the bridegroom would be scrambled for and ripped to pieces by the guests, as every shred was esteemed to carry good luck.

Now rose a burst of song, the so-called Fescennian lays, some old and some new, accompanied by the flutes of musicians and the clash of castanets and cymbals of dancing girls.

The procession descended the hill to the Forum, crowds lining the way and shouting Feliciter!

At a corner there was a little clearing, for there lay a pallet, and on it a sick woman, who had been brought from her dwelling to see the sight. She extended and waved her hand, holding something as Domitia approached, and the bride through her tears noticed her, halted, went towards her, and said: —

“Glyceria! you here to wish me happiness!”

“And to give thee, dear lady, a little present.”

She extended to her a small amulet, that Domitia accepted gratefully, and stooping kissed the paralyzed woman on the brow.

An unheard-of thing! unparalleled! A thing she would not have done, had she been in full control over herself – a thing she would not have done, had not her heart brimmed with love for all, at that moment. She, a noble lady, belonging to one of the greatest houses in Rome, kissed a poor actor’s wife, an enfranchised slave – and that before all eyes.

About Glyceria was a dense throng of men and women and children, the occupants of the “Island” in which she lived. It was they, who, pitying her sufferings, desirous that she should see the procession, had opened a space before her, and held it open, that none might impede a full view of the marriage train.

And this throng of rude artisans, shoemakers, cordwainers, leather-sellers, hawkers and their wives and children saw this act of Domitia. For a moment they were silent, and then they broke into a roar of “Feliciter! feliciter! the Gods be with thee, dear lady! The Gods protect thee! The Gods shower blessings on thee!”

But Domitia might not tarry; confused, half ashamed of what she had done, half carried off her feet by the thrill of joy that went from the crowd to her, she advanced.

The train descended by the lake of Nero, now occupied by the Colosseum, then ascended the Celian Hill to the house of Lamia.

On reaching his door, the procession spread out, and gave space for the bride to advance.

Modestly, trembling with love, timidity, hope in her heart, she anointed the doorposts with oil and then passed woollen strings round them.

This accomplished, two young men started forward, caught her up, made a seat for her of their hands, and bore her over the threshold, which she might not touch with her feet, lest by accident or nervousness she should stumble, and so her entry into the new house be ill-omened. On being admitted into the habitation of her husband, it was her duty to go to the hearth and make up the fire, then to the fountain and draw water; next to worship the household gods.

The house was pretty. It had been fresh painted, and was bright with color, and sweet with flowers, for every pillar was wreathed and each door garlanded. Numerous lamps illumined the chambers, and in the atrium were reflected in the water tank. The air was vibrating with music, as choirs sang Fescennian songs, and timbrels tinkled and pipes twittered.

Domitia was received by the wife of L. Ælius Lamia, who had adopted Domitia’s husband. He was a quiet man, who had no ambition, had taken no offices, and had passed his time in taming birds. He was the son of a better known man, who had been a friend of Horace.

The old woman, gentle in manner, took Domitia by the hand and led her into the tablinum, where was old Lamia, a cripple through gout, and he kissed the girl, patted her hands and spoke an affectionate welcome.

“Claudia and I,” said he, “were childless and so we adopted Lucius. He has been a good son to us, and this is a happy day to all three, – to him who has secured the sweetest flower of Rome, and to Claudia and me who obtain so good a daughter. But, ah! we are old and have our humors, I, with my gout, am liable to be peevish. You must bear with our infirmities. You will have a worthy husband, one cut out of the old rock of which were the ancient Romans, and not of the Tiberine mud of which the present generation are moulded.”

“Come now,” said the old woman, “the guests are about to depart, bid them farewell.”

Then she led the young girl back into the atrium.

There stood the Chaldæan, dark, stern, ominous.

Domitia in exuberant joy smiled at him, and said:

“Elymas! You see my happiness. Isis has for once been in error – we, my Lamia and I, are united, and there have been no hands thrust forth to part us.”

“My lady,” said the astrologer, “the day is not yet over.”

“And the auguries were all propitious.”

“The promise of the augurs may not jump with thy desire,” he replied.

She had no time for more words, as her hand was caught by L. Ælius Lamia, who drew her aside into the lararium or chapel.

“My dearest,” he said, “this is a day of trial to thee – but we shall be left undisturbed shortly. The guests depart and the riot will cease.”

She looked at him, with eyes that brimmed with tears, and a sob relieved her heart, as she cast herself on his breast and said: —

“Quoniam tu Caius, ego Caia.”

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE END OF THE DAY

A rumor, none knew from whom it arose, spread rapidly in whispers, sending a quiver of alarm, distress, pity, through the entire wedding party, reaching last of all him most concerned.

None dared breathe in his ear what all feared; but none would separate till it was surely ascertained whether what was surmised was a fact or not.

The slaves knew it and looked wistfully at Lamia.

He was engaged in making trifling presents to the many guests and well-wishers, moving from one to another, attended by slaves with trays piled up with gifts.

Eboracus burst on him, through the throng, forgetting, in his agitation and fear, the diffidence that belonged to his position.

“Sir! Where is the mistress?”

Lamia, without looking at him, or desisting from what he was about, answered:

“Within, being freed from her veil and bridal ornaments.”

“Sir! Lucius! she has been stolen from you! she has been carried away.”

Lamia stood as one petrified.

“How dare you utter such a jest?”

“It is no jest – she has been conveyed hence. She is not in your house.”

Without another word, Lamia flew into the portion of the house to which Domitia had retired.

There all was in confusion. The female slaves were either struck down with terror, or crying out that they were not to blame.

“Where is she?” asked Lamia, hardly realizing that there was actual loss, thinking this was some frolic of his young companions, who on such occasions allowed themselves great licence.

To add to the confusion, a tame magpie with clipped wing, belonging to the gouty old Lamia, got in the way of every one, and screamed when run over; and the elder man roared out reproach and brandished his crutch when the life of his pet was endangered.

Claudia, like a pious woman, had rushed to the lararium to supplicate the assistance of the Gods, especially of Lamius, son of Hercules and Omphale, the reputed half-divine ancestor of the family.

Domitia had disappeared. – How? – none could say. She had been spirited away, one said in this manner, another said in that. One held it as his opinion that she had been carried off by some disbanded Vitellian soldiers who were said to lurk about the suburbs of Rome and commit depredations. Some thought that in maiden shyness she had fled home; some whispered that the Gods had translated her; others that a former lover had suborned the servants to admit him, and that he had conveyed her from her husband’s house to his own.

But in what direction had she been taken? There again opinions differed, and tongues gave conflicting accounts. One had seen a litter hurried down the Clivus Scauri. One declared that he had seen a girl running in the direction of Nero’s lake, and suggested that this was Domitia who had gone thither to destroy herself. One had noticed suspicious-looking men wrapped in military cloaks lounging about, and these had disappeared – he had even seen the backs of some near the Porta Metrovia. Then one cried out: —

“What else can be expected when such an ill-omened bird is kept in the house, as a magpie?”

Not until all guests, visitors, had been excluded from the house, could anything be learned with certainty, and that was little. During the afternoon, shortly before the arrival of the procession, several male and female slaves had arrived under the direction of a Chaldæan soothsayer, who announced that he had been sent along with them to the house of the bridegroom by the bride’s mother, the Lady Duilia, and that they formed a portion of Domitia’s attendance, who had been associated with her in her former home, and would be about her person in her new quarters. No suspicion had been roused, and as the Magian spoke with authority, and gave directions, which it was presumed he was commissioned to do, and as old Lamia was crippled with gout and moreover indisposed to attend to such matters, and the old lady was simple to childishness, these strangers were suffered to do much what they pleased; and on the bride retiring to be divested of the flame colored veil, her wreath and other ornaments, had been allowed to take possession of her.

What happened further they did not know. In the excitement of the arrival of visitors nothing had been observed till some of the household servants remarked that the servants of the family of Duilia had left, – that there had been a bustle in the garden court, and that a litter had departed, borne by men who ran under their load. But even then no notion that the bride had been carried off was entertained. For some time no suspicion of mischief arose. When the slaves became aware that their new mistress was no longer in the house, there was first some surprise entertained that she was not seen, then a notion that she might be unwell or over-tired – but the first word that suggested that she had been conveyed away came from without the house, from a guest who inquired casually what lady had left the house, in a litter, borne by trotting porters. Lamia, in violent agitation, at once hurried to the house whence Domitia had come, to ask for an explanation. There he learned nothing satisfactory. No servants had been sent beforehand. Domitia had taken with her two female slaves, but they had attended her in the procession. The sorcerer, it was true, had disappeared and had not returned.

Lamia was obliged to return home, without his anxiety being in any way removed.

On reaching his palace on the Cœlian, he learned something further. In the room in which Domitia had been divested of her bridal ornaments, which lay scattered in disorder, was a crystal cup that contained the dregs of wine, and this wine was drugged with a powerful narcotic. Of this the slave who acted as house-surgeon and physician was certain. He had tasted it and detected the presence of an opiate. Nothing further could be learned, neither whence came the strange slaves nor whither they had gone.

In the mean time a party surrounding a closed litter had passed through the Porta Capena, and was hurrying along the Appian Way.

Directly the city was left, a tall man who directed the convoy called a halt; – then approaching the litter, he drew back the curtains, and said: —

“Asleep! Two of you take her up, lift her, set her on her feet and rouse her.”

He was obeyed and a helpless body was removed, sustained between two stout slaves, and made to stand on the causeway.

“Shake her,” said the director, who was none other than the Chaldæan. “If she sleep on, she will never wake. Roused and made to walk she must be. We need fear no pursuit. I have left those behind who will spread a false rumor, and send such as think she has been carried away along the wrong road. Make her walk.”

The helpless girl – it was Domitia – staggered with drowsiness and stumbled.

“Let me sleep,” she murmured.

“It must not be, lady. To let you sleep is to consign you to death. You must be constrained to walk.”

“Let me sleep!” she fretfully said.

“If you sleep you die.”

“I want to die – only to sleep. I am dead weary.”

“Make her move along,” said the sorcerer in a low tone, and the slaves who held her up drew her forward. She scarce moved her feet.

“Oh, you are cruel. I want to sleep. An hour! half an hour. For one moment longer!” she pleaded.

Still the bearers drew her forward, they did not lift her so that she need not move her feet. She was constrained to step forward.

“I pray you! I will give you gold. You shall have all my jewels. Lay me down. Let go your hold, and I will lie where I am, and sleep.”

“Draw her further. – Hark! here come horses. Aside! behind that tomb!”

The party stole from off the road and secreted itself behind one of the mausoleums that line the sides of the Appian Way.

“Shake her – lest she doze off in your arms,” said Elymas, and the slaves obeyed.

Then Domitia began to sob. “Have pity! only for a little while, I am so tired. The day has been so long and so wearying.”

“They are passed – mere travellers,” said the sorcerer. “Into the road again. Force her to walk.”

Then she called, “Lamia – my Lucius! come to me, drive these men away. They will not let me sleep,” and she struggled to free herself, and unable to do so by a spasmodic effort, began to sob, and sobbed herself into a half doze.