Domitia

As for her – she wondered at herself, having the courage to defy the Lord of the World. She could not keep down the disgust, the hatred she felt for the man who had wrecked her life, it must out, and she valued not her life sufficiently to deny herself the gratification of throwing off her mind the taunts that rose in it, and lodged on her tongue.

Domitian signed to table – Julia, with a flutter of clumsy timidity, shrank from the place of honor, and looked hesitatingly at her sister-in-law, who without a word seated herself on the stool indicated by the Emperor. There was no vulgar pride, no ambition in the daughter of Titus.

The guests looked at each other, as Julia was forced by the command of her uncle to recline on the couch properly belonging to his wife, and whispered to each other.

“What, what? Who is where?” asked the ferret-faced Messalinus. “What has been done? Here, Lycus,” to a slave, who always attended him, “Tell me, what has been done. In my ear, quick, I burn to know.”

Something was communicated in an undertone, and Messalinus broke into a cackle, that he quickly smothered —

“That is admirable, great and god-like is our prince! As a Jew physician said to me, he sets down one and setteth up another, at his pleasure. That is divine caprice. The Gods alone can act without having to account for what they do. I like it – vastly.”

And now at once the sycophant herd began to pay their addresses to Julia, and to neglect Domitia. The former was overloaded with flattery, her every word was repeated, passed on from one to another, as though oracular. Domitian, conspicuously and purposely ignored his wife made to sit at his feet; and raising himself on the left elbow upon his pulvinar, or cushion of gold brocade, talked with his niece, who also reclined instead of sitting.

Domitia remained silent with lowered eyes, carnations flowered in her cheeks. She made no attempt to speak; eat she could not. She felt the slight. Her pride was cut to the quick. The humiliation, before such as Messalinus was numbing. She would have endured being ordered to execution, she would have arranged her hair with alacrity, for the bowstring that would have finished her troubles, but this outrage before members of the court, before the imperial slaves, – and the knowledge that it would be the talk on the morrow of Roman society, covered her with confusion, and filled her soul with wrath, for she had pride – not a little.

Ursus, a kinsman of the Emperor, an elderly man, of good character and upright walk, was near her. He alone seemed to feel the indignity put upon the Empress. His eyes, full of pity, rested on her, and he waited an opportunity to speak to her unheard by others. Then he said, turning his head towards Domitia, —

“Lady, recall the fable of the oak and the bulrush. Humor the prince and you can do with him what you will. Believe me, and I speak sincerely, – he loves you still, loves you madly – but you repel him and that offends his pride. All things are his, in earth, – I may almost say in heaven – and he cannot endure that one frail woman’s heart should alone be denied him.”

“There are certain waters,” answered Domitia, “that turn to stone whatever is exposed to them – even a bird’s feather. It is as though I had been subjected to this treatment. My heart is petrified.”

“Not so, dear lady, it beats at the present moment with anger. It can also beat with love.”

“Never towards him who has maltreated me.”

“By the Gods! forbear. I am endangered by listening to such words.”

“What – what – what is Ursus saying?” asked Messalinus, who caught a word or two. “He is beside the Augusta – what did he say – and in a low tone also. No treason hatching at the table of our Divine Lord, I trust.”12

“Here come the jesters and the mimes,” said Ursus, “and may the god of Laughter provide such matter for mirth as will satisfy Catullus Messalinus.”

“Then it must be a tragedy,” said another guest, “for to our blind friend here, naught is jocose unless to some other it be painful.”

“We have all our gifts,” said Messalinus, smirking.

Then entered some acrobats who went through evolutions, casting knives and catching them, forming human pyramids, ladders, wheels, balancing poles on their chins whilst a boy went through contortions at the top.

But there was no novelty in the exhibition. The Emperor wearied of it, and ordered the performers to withdraw.

Next appeared mimes, who performed low buffoonery in gesture and dialogue, interspersed with snatches of song, that were so offensive to decency that Domitia, who had never seen and heard anything of the kind at her mother’s house, sprang to her feet with flaming cheeks, brow and bosom, and made a motion to leave. She knew it – this disgusting performance had been commanded by the prince, for the purpose of humiliating her. She would go. But Domitian, whose malignant glance was on her, saw her purpose and called out, —

“It is my will, Domitia, that you remain in your seat. The cream of the entertainment has yet to come.”

Ursus put his hand to her garment and gently drew her down on her seat.

“Endure it,” he whispered, “it will soon be over.”

“It is the worst outrage of all,” said she with heaving breast, and the blood so surged into her eyes and ears that she could see and hear no more.

Indeed, she was hardly conscious when the buffoons withdrew, her eyes rested on the marble floor, strewn with the remains of the feast.13 But suddenly she started from the dream, or the stupefaction into which she had fallen, by hearing the voice of Paris, the tragic actor.

She looked up sharply, and saw him, a tall, handsome man, of Greek profile, and with curly dark hair. He was clad in a long mantle, and wore the buskins. Behind him were minor performers, to take a part in dialogue, or to chant a chorus.

“Lord and Augustus, what is it your pleasure that we represent in your presence?” asked the actor.

“Repeat the speech of Œdipus Coloneus to Theseus towards the close of the drama. That, I mean, which begins, ‘O son of Ægeus, I will teach the things that are in store.’ ”

Paris bowed, and drawing himself up, closing his eyes to represent the blindness of the old king he personated, and with hands extended began:

“O son of Ægeus, I will teach the things that are in store.Myself unguided, straightway go, ye follow, I before.The spot where I am doomed to die – That spot will I reveal.But on your lips, I pray you set, to that a holy seal.”

“Do you mark, Domitia?” called the Emperor with bantering tone.

“I have looked under the table, sire, to see whether, like your kinsman Calvisius, you keep there a prompter who has read Eurypides.”14

Some of the guests hardly controlled their laughter. The deficiency in the education of Domitian was well known.

“Go on, fellow,” ordered he surlily. “Skip some lines – it is tedious, draw to the end.”

Paris resumed: —

“Now let me to that place repair; an impulse from on high,A sacred impulse carries me to where I’m doomed to die.O daughter! I must show the way – aye, I, myself, the guide,To you who hitherto did lead, or clave unto my side.Nay! touch me not, but suffer me, myself to find the roadThat leadeth to the silent tomb, and to the dark abode.O Hermes! guardian of the soul that fleeteth from this breast!O Goddess of the darkest night – Give to thy weary rest!O light! beloved, glorious light! that once did fill these eyes.Now I embrace thy sacred beams, then turn where shadow lies.O dearest friends, when well with you, and with this land, recallMe, as about my bowed head Death’s purple shadows fall.”

Then the chorus, in rhythmic dance sang: —

“If it be meet – O Goddess thou, unseen whom all men dread,If it be meet – O awful King who rulest o’er the dead,Be pitiful unto this man, a stranger in the land,And gently, without pain acute, conduct him by the handFrom out the world of light into the Stygian deeps below,Remember how that ever here, he suffered want and woe!Ye polished iron gates unclose, and as ye backward roll,Let not the rav’nous monster leap and lacerate the soul.And then on son of Tartarus advance with pity sweet,The fluttering, frightened, parted soul, approaching gently greet!”

“Enough,” said Domitian, and waved his hand. “How likest thou that, Domitia?”

“Methinks, sire, the words are ominous. Suffer me I pray thee to retire – for I am not well.”

As she rose, she looked at Paris. Their eyes met, and at once a horror – a premonition of evil fell on her, and turned her blood to ice.

He raised his hand to his lips and said in a low tone as she passed him: —

“Morituri te salutant.”

“I’ faith it is an excellent jest!” said Messalinus – “I relish it vastly.”

CHAPTER IX.

GLYCERIA

Domitia returned to her apartments, quivering like an aspen in a light air; but no sooner was she there, than she summoned Eboracus, and said to him: —

“Be speedy. Follow Paris, and protect him. There is evil planned against him. Fly – lest you be too late.”

The slave departed at once.

Domitia paced the room, in an agony of mind, now shivering with cold, then with face burning. But it was not the humiliations to which she had been subjected that so affected her, – it was fear of what she suspected was meditated against the actor, and through him against Glyceria.

A cold sweat broke out on her brow, and icy tears formed on her long eyelashes. It seemed to her that for her to show favor to any one, was to bring destruction on that person. And hatred towards the Emperor became in her heart more intense and bitter.

She could think of nothing else but the danger that menaced Paris. She went out on the terrace, and the wind blowing over her moist brow chilled her; she drew her mantle more closely around her, and re-entered the palace. Already night was falling, for the days were becoming short.

Her heart cried out for something to which to cling, for some one to whom to appeal against the overwhelming evil and tyranny that prevailed.

Was there no power in earth above the Cæsar? There was none. No power in heaven? She could not tell; all there was dark and doubtful. There was a Nemesis – but slow of step, and only overtaking the evil-doer when too late to prevent the misery he wrought, sometimes so lagging as not to catch him at all, and so blind as often to strike the innocent in place of the guilty. No cry of the sufferer could reach this torpid Nemesis and rouse her to quicker action. She was a deity bungling, deaf and blind.

Again she tramped up and down the room. She could endure to have no one with her. She sent all her servants away.

But the air within was stifling. She could not breathe, the ceiling came down on her head, and again she went forth.

Now she could hear voices below in the Sacred Way. She could see lights, coming from several quarters, and drawing together to one point where they formed a cluster, and from this point rose a wail – the wail of the dead.

She wiped her brow. She was sick at heart, and again went within, and found Eboracus there, cast down and silent.

“Speak,” she said hoarsely.

“It was too late. He had been stabbed in the back, whilst leaving the palace, and a pupil was assassinated at the same time, because somewhat resembling him.”

Domitia stood cold as marble. She covered her mouth for a moment with her right hand, and then in a hard voice said: —

“Inform Euphrosyne. I cannot.”

Then she turned away, went to her bed-chamber, and was seen of none again that night. Several of her female slaves sought admission to undress her, but were somewhat roughly dismissed.

In that long night, Domitia felt as one drowning in a dark sea. She stretched out her hands to lay hold of something – to stay her up, and found nothing. She had nothing to look forward to, no shore to which she might attain by swimming, nothing to care for, nothing to cling to. There was no light above, only the unsympathetic stars that looked down on the evil there was, the wrong that was done, and cared not. The pulsation of their light was not quickened by sense of injustice, they did not veil their rays so as to hide from them the horrors committed on earth. There was no light below, save the reflection of the same passionless eyes of heaven.

She felt as though she were still capable of the sense of pain, but not of being sensible to pleasure.

The faculty of being happy was gone from her forever, and life presented to her a prospect of nothing better than gray tracts of monotonous existence, seamed with earthquake chasms of suffering.

Next day she rose white and self-restrained, she summoned to her Euphrosyne, but did not look at her tear-reddened eyes.

“Euphrosyne,” said she, “I bid you go, and take with you Eboracus, I place you both wholly at the disposal of your sister – and bid her spare no cost, but give to him who has been, a splendid funeral at my expense. Here is money. And – ” she paused a moment to obtain mastery over herself, as her emotion threatened to get the upper hand – “and, Euphrosyne, tell Glyceria that I shall go to see her later. Not for a few days, not till the first agony of her grief is over; but go I will – for go I must – and I pray the Gods I may not be a cause of fresh evil. O, Euphrosyne, does she curse me?”

“Glyceria curses none, dear mistress, least of all you. Do not doubt, she will welcome you when you do her the honor of a visit.”

“If she were to curse me, I feel as if I should be glad – glad, too, if the curse fell heavy on my head – but you know – she knows – I meant to do well, to be kind – to – but go your way – I can speak no more. Tell Glyceria not to curse me – no – I could not bear that – not a curse from her.”

Euphrosyne saw by her mistress’s manner, by her contradictory words, how deeply she was moved, how great was her suffering. She stooped, took up the hem of her garment, and kissed the purple fringe. Then sobbing, withdrew.

That day tidings came to Domitia to render her pain more acute.

The kindly, sympathetic people in the insula of Castor and Pollux, in poetic, picturesque fashion had come with baskets of violets and late roses, and had strewn with the flowers the spot stained with the blood of Paris.

This was reported to the Emperor, and he sent his guards down the street to disperse the people, and in doing this, they employed their swords, wounding several and killing two or three, of whom one was a child.

Three days later, Domitia ordered her litter and attendants that she might go to the Insula in the Suburra.

She had said nothing of her intentions, or probably Domitian would have heard of them – she was surrounded by spies who reported in his ear whatever she did – and he would have forbidden the visit.

Only when the Forum had been crossed, did she instruct the bearers as to the object of her excursion.

On entering the block of lodgings and ascending the stairs Domitia was received with respect but with some restraint. The people did not press about her with enthusiasm as before; they knew that it was through her that evil had overtaken them, and they dreaded her visit as inauspicious.

Yet there was no look of resentment in any face, only timorous glances, and reverential bows, and salutations with the hand to the lips. The poor folk knew full well that it was through no ill-will on her part that Paris and his pupil, and some of their own party had fallen.

It was already bruited about that Julia daughter of Titus was honored in the palace, and advanced above Domitia, the Empress. Some said that Domitian would repudiate his wife, that he might marry his niece, and that he waited only till the months of mourning for her husband were passed, so as not to produce a scandal. Others said that he would not repudiate Domitia, but treat her as Nero had treated Octavia, trump up false charges against her and then put her to death.

Already Domitia was regarded as unlucky, and on the matter of luck attaching to or deserting certain persons, the Roman populace were vastly superstitious.

And now, although these poor creatures loved the beautiful woman of imperial rank who deigned to come among them, and care for one of their most broken and bruised members, yet they feared for themselves, lest her presence should again draw disaster upon them.

Domitia was conscious rather than observant of this as she passed along the gallery to the apartment of Glyceria.

At the door to the poor woman’s lodgings she knocked, and in response to a call, opened and entered. She waved her attendants to remain without and suffer none to enter.

Then she approached the bed of the sick woman, hastily, and threw herself on her knees beside it.

“Glyceria,” she said, “can you forgive me?”

The crippled woman took the hands of Domitia and covered them with kisses, whilst her tears flowed over them.

This was more than the Empress could bear. She disengaged her hands, threw her arms about the widow, and burst into convulsive weeping.

“Nay, nay!” said Glyceria, “do not give way. It was not thy doing.”

“But you fear me,” sobbed Domitia, “they do so – they without. Not one touched, not one kissed me. They think me of evil omen.”

“There is nothing unlucky. Everything falls out as God wills; and whatever comes, if we bow under His hand, He will give sweetness and grace.”

“You say this! You who have lost everything!”

“Oh, no! lady,” then the cripple touched the cornelian fish. “This remains.”

“It is a charm that has brought no luck.”

“It is no charm. It is a symbol – and to you dark. To me full of light and joy in believing.”

“I cannot understand.”

“No – that I know full well. But to one who does, there is comfort in every sorrow, a rainbow in every cloud, roses to every thorn.”

“Glyceria,” said Domitia, and she reared herself upon her knees, and took hold of both the poor woman’s hands; so that the two, with tear-stained cheeks, looked each other full in the face. “My Glyceria! wilt thou grant me one favor?”

“I will give thee, lady, anything that thou canst ask. I should be ungrateful to deny thee ought.”

“It is a great matter, a sharp wrench I ask of thee,” said the daughter of Corbulo.

“I will do all that I can,” replied the widow.

“Then come with me to the palace. Here you have none to care for you, none to earn a livelihood for you, – I want you there.”

Glyceria hesitated.

“Do you fear?”

“I fear nothing for myself.”

“Nor I,” said Domitia. “Oh, Glyceria, I am the most miserable woman on earth. I thought I could not be more unhappy than I was – then come – I will not speak of it, – thy loss – caused unwillingly by me, because I came here – and that has broken my heart. I have done the cruellest hurt to the one I loved best. I am most miserable – most miserable.” She covered her face, sank on the bed and wept.

The widow of the player endeavored to soothe her with soft words and caresses.

Then again Domitia spoke. “I have no one, I have nothing to look to, I am as one dead, and the only life in me is hate, that bites and writhes as a serpent.”

“And that thou must lay hold of and strangle as did Hercules.”

“I cannot, and I will not.”

“That will bring thee only greater suffering.”

“I cannot suffer more.”

“It is against the will of God.”

“But how know we His will?”

“It has been revealed.”

Again Domitia threw her arms about the sick woman, she pressed her wet cheek to her tear-moistened face, and said: —

“Come with me, and tell me all thou knowest – and about the Fish. Come with me, and give me a little happiness, that I may think of thee, comfort thee, read to thee, talk with thee – I care for no other woman. And Euphrosyne, thy sister, she is with me, and I will keep thee as the apple of mine eye.”

“Oh, lady! this is too great!”

“What? anon thou wouldst deny me naught, and now refusest me this.”

“In God’s name so be it,” said Glyceria. “But when?”

“Now. I will have no delay, see – ” she went to the door and spoke with her slaves. “They shall bear thee in my litter, at once. Euphrosyne shall tarry here and collect thy little trifles, and the good Eboracus, he shall bear them to thy new home. O Glyceria! For once I see a sunbeam.”

Never could the dwellers in the Insula have dreamt of beholding that which this day they saw. The actor’s crippled widow lifted by imperial slaves and placed in the litter of the Empress, the Augusta, to whom divine honors had been accorded. And, further, they saw the cripple borne away, down the lane of the Suburra in which was their block of lodgings, and the Empress walked by the side, holding the hand of the patient who lay within.

They did not shout, they uttered no sound indicative of approval, no applause. They held their breaths, they laid their hands on their mouths, they looked each other in the eyes – and wondered what this marvel might portend. A waft of a new life had entered into the evil world, whence it came, they knew not, what it would effect, that also they could not conceive – whom it would touch, how transform, all was hid from their eyes.

CHAPTER X.

THE ACCURSED FIELD

No notice was taken by Domitian of the presence in the palace of the murdered actor’s widow. It concerned him in no way, and he allowed the unfortunate woman to remain there, under the care of his wife, and without making any protest.

Domitia found an interest and a delight in the society of the paralyzed woman, so simple in mind, gentle in thought, always cheerful, ever serene, who lived in an atmosphere of love and harbored no resentments.

She marvelled at what she saw, but it was to her an unattainable condition. Her own affections were seared, and a gnawing hate against the man who had blighted her life, and to whom she was tied, ever consumed her.

She was like a dead plant in the midst of spring vegetation. It looks down on the beautiful life about its feet, but itself puts forth no buds, shows no signs of mounting sap.

Every now and then Glyceria approached the topic of the Fish, and the mysteries involved in the symbol, but would not disclose them, for she saw that Domitia, however miserable she felt, however hopeless, was not in a frame of mind to receive and welcome the interpretation. For in her, the one dominating passion was hate – a desire to have her wrongs revenged, and a chafing at her powerlessness to do anything to revenge them.

Her treatment by Domitian was capricious. At one time he neglected her; then he went sometimes out of his way to offer her a slight; at others he made real efforts to heal the breach between them, and to show her that he loved her still.

But he met with not merely a frosty but a contemptuous reception, that sent him away, his vanity hurt, and his blood in a ferment.

In her indifference to life, she was able to brave him without fear, and he knew that if he ordered her to execution she would hail death as a welcome means of escape from association with himself.

His blundering and brutal tyranny was no match for her keen wit cutting into him, and maddening him. He revenged himself by a coarse insult or by a side blow at her friends. She was without ambition. Many a woman would have endured his treatment without repining, for the sake of the splendor with which she could surround herself, and the towering position which she occupied. But neither had any attraction for Domitia. The one thing she did desire, to be left alone in retirement, in the country, that he could not, he would not accord her.

Usually, when he was in his splendid villa at Albanum, she elected to remain in Rome, and when he came to the palace on the Palatine, if permitted, she escaped to Albanum; but he would not always suffer this.

Thus a wretched life was dragged on, and the heart of Domitia became harder every day. It would have become as adamant but for the presence of Glyceria, whom the Empress sincerely loved, and who exercised a subtle, softening and purifying influence on the princess.

Glyceria saw how the Empress suffered, and she pitied her, saw how hopeless the conditions were for improvement; she saw also what was hidden to other eyes, that circumstances were closing round and drawing towards a crisis.

Beyond a certain point Glyceria could effect nothing, once only did she dare to suggest that the Augusta should assume a gentler demeanor towards the sovereign of the world, but she was at once cut back with the words: —