Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome

‘He thinks I am dead,’ he muttered to himself, with a smile of satisfaction. ‘Good! his awakening will be all the more sudden and startling.’

When once safely delivered out of the jaws of death, the march of Cestus toward complete recovery was wonderfully rapid. Day by day he made a huge stride, and, day by day, his appetite grew more and more surprising. When at length the physician ceased from paying his visits, the patient hinted at his own speedy departure.

‘Had it been safe for me to have been removed to my own home I would not have troubled you so far,’ he said to his generous host; ‘but I am strong enough now to bear a journey, and I will betake myself from the city altogether.’

But his friend in need bade him beware of a relapse, and advised him not to mar a wonderful restoration of strength by premature exertion, for the sake of a few days’ earlier liberty. Cestus listened and took the advice, which protracted his sojourn for a week.

His plan of action had already been resolved on from the first, and he now made the few arrangements to carry it out. To gather strength and harden his frame by gentle exercise he made short excursions out of doors. The first time he did so his entertainer tried to dissuade him, on account of the danger he ran of being seen by his supposed enemies.

‘Why, master,’ returned Cestus, ‘there is less danger than you think; for, in the first place, it is the time of day when those fine fellows, who left me for dead, with a curse on them, are all at their daily labour. Then again, I would remind you, that my looks are altered for the time. I am as thin and shrunken in body as an eel-skin; my beard is two inches long; and I further purpose to alter myself with a certain juice of a berry which I can buy for a sesterce; so have no fear, my kind benefactor.’

Now, in safe keeping in the Subura, Cestus had an amount of money which remained of the last instalment he had demanded of his patron, as we have related previously. A tolerable portion had been already squandered, but the residue was enough to enable any Roman artisan, such as he represented himself to be, to live comfortably for a year without labouring. But, not knowing to what exigencies the execution of his plans might bring him, he resolved to incur no suspicion by its immediate use. He, therefore, applied to his host, to provide him with a small loan to cover the cost of a few clothes and the expenses of his journey.

‘Your honour,’ he said, ‘has been so good already that I shame to ask more from you. To take in a poor wretch – to snatch him from death’s door – to nurse him, feed him like a brother, and with small hope of return, is a thing that the gods will bless you for and prosper you.’

‘Say no more,’ replied the other; ‘here is what will help you.’

He placed in the Suburan’s hand a sum equal to about five pounds sterling.

‘Heaven reward your worship!’ said Cestus, kissing the robe of his generous friend. ‘If I have health and strength I will repay you this loan, as well as the cost you have been put to on my account; but, if I could discharge the debt of gratitude as easily as the money, I would be thankful indeed.’

‘Think no more of it,’ rejoined the other.

It is not too much to say that Cestus was really touched and grateful for his treatment. He even swore to himself that he would prove it practically, at some future time, if possible.

The first thing that he did, on getting out of doors, was to obtain a supply of a certain kind of berry, yielding a juice which he diluted to bring to a requisite tinge. This he applied to his skin, and it, at once, gave him the appearance of a man bronzed by exposure to the weather, whilst his thinned drawn features easily suggested, at the same time, the effects of fatigues and privations. Presenting himself suddenly before his host, he was gratified to learn that the change was so great as to mystify that worthy man for a moment.

This excursion proved to Cestus how very far his limbs were from their pristine state of sturdiness. His next expedition, with his embrowned face, was a ramble into the Subura. He took the most unfrequented streets, and, when he arrived at his destination, he avoided all chance of contact with acquaintances. Sending for the individual whom he had constituted his banker, he remained closeted with that worthy in a retreat secure from intrusion. This man was a tavern-keeper in the lowest part of the Subura. His business was large, and Cestus one of his prodigal customers. Not a coin of the money he amassed in the practice of his trade but had been obtained by its spenders in the vocations of crime and vice. Learned as Cestus was in the secret history of his native locality, his knowledge was superficial compared with this man’s. Without actually engaging in any unlawful pursuit himself he was the confidant of all others who did. He was receptive and silent as the grave. Without incriminating himself he aided his hideous customers, and they, in return, bestowed on him their patronage. His trustworthiness was his power, and Cestus had perfect confidence in applying to him for the little help he required. The publican was truly surprised to see his friend, for all clue to his whereabouts had been completely lost. Cestus speedily made him acquainted with the history of his disappearance, and wound up with a tremendous oath for revenge. The other tried to get at the relations of his friend with his patron, the knight, but the Suburan only smiled and put his finger along his nose.

‘Some day, brother,’ he said, ‘but not now.’

‘Well, well, as you please – I care little.’

‘All I want you to do now is to send and get to know, while I wait here, if my patron is in Rome and likely to be,’ proceeded Cestus. ‘I like to know where I have him, for I am going to take a holiday with a kinsman in Puteoli until I get strong again. The sea air will bring me round, and then I will return to pay attention to my worthy patron on the Esquiline.’

‘Do you intend to knife him straight off?’ inquired the publican.

‘Humph! you are not very flattering,’ returned Cestus; ‘but haste, and let me have what I want to know, and along with it all the cash I left with you. I shall want all I can scrape together.’

The publican departed, and, in an hour, was back with what Cestus wanted. The latter stowed away his treasure safely in the breast of his tunic, and learned that his patron was in the island of Capreae, in the train of the Prefect.

‘And when returns?’ he demanded.

‘That is more than any one can tell,’ answered his banker.

‘Capreae is where Caesar dwells?’

‘It is, brave Cestus – hast ever been there?’

‘No; but it can be seen at times, like a speck, from Puteoli. He can’t stay there for ever.’

‘Who – Caesar?’

‘No, you fool – Afer.’

‘Ah!’

‘Well, I can bide my time,’ said Cestus, rising to go. ‘No one was ever worth much that could not. He may rest where he will until I am strong – and then!’

The Suburan shook his fist, and, bidding farewell to his friend, took his slow way homeward.

With this daily increase of exercise his body began to gather something of its wonted firmness. His last excursion was down to the river bank, where he took passage in a regular trader to Puteoli. The vessel was to sail the following day, and Cestus took his farewell of his host with many expressions of gratitude.

The voyage to Puteoli is not long, and in that most important centre of commerce Cestus remained two days. He stayed at a public inn, and, on the evening of the second day, he left the town after dark, and took his way toward Neapolis.

‘Good!’ he muttered to himself, as he quitted the gates; ‘if any curious eyes have been watching me now they will be mystified. They may search Puteoli from end to end, and they will as soon find my kinspeople as myself;’ the said kinsfolk being, in fact, a mere fabrication as far as Puteoli was concerned.

He did not think it prudent to strain his budding strength by traversing the whole distance to Neapolis on that night, so he put up at the first tavern he met with, at a convenient distance from Puteoli. The next morning he was astir early and entered Neapolis. Here he loitered for a day, and then proceeded on a leisurely walking tour of the bay. He ambled along through the towns and past the villas which lined that matchless shore, drinking in the pure air, and enjoying the scenery as far as he was capable of doing. He had a well-filled purse, and he took his ease at his inn, where he fed and drank of the best. He did not overtask his strength, and every day increased it, for, indeed, he could not have hit upon a better plan for that end.

In this way he proceeded through Herculaneum, Pompeii, Stabiae, the most considerable towns on his route, till at length, on one afternoon, he sat to rest himself upon the worn basin of the self-same ancient fountain, of which we have already spoken, on the verge of the town of Surrentum.

‘Houf!’ he sighed, as he seated himself; ‘and here is the place at last! And now to find my potter!’ He sank into a reverie, and then lifted his head and looked around him. ‘The place looks the same as far as I can remember – it must be fourteen years since I was here. Fourteen years! How in the name of the furies do I know what has happened since then! Tibia, my sister, may be dead and dust by this time – her husband too, and – and the whole lot, and then what better shall I be? It is strange I never seemed to think seriously of this till now, at the very gates of the place – what if they are gone, flitted to no one knows where – Greece, Egypt, Africa, Gaul, – why, then I shall have only the small satisfaction of treating my patron to a taste of his own play – humph! No matter, I shall soon know.’

He arose from his seat and walked a few paces onward, when he called to a lad who was nigh.

‘Boy, do you know a potter hereabouts, by name Masthlion – if he be dead or alive? or – ’

The boy simply turned and pointed to the end of a narrow lane which debouched close to. Cestus, thereupon, looked more inquiringly about him, as if striving to recall some remembrance of the spot.

‘I seem to have a sort of recollection of this place – up there is it?’ The lad nodded.

‘Alive?’

The taciturn youth nodded once more, and Cestus walked on with his mind considerably relieved. Once in the little street his memory served him better. ‘Just the same,’ he said, striding into the shop. No one being there he proceeded into the house, where he was equally unsuccessful in discovering any sign of life. He then tried the workshop, and, at last, stood in the presence of those within, as we have described.

CHAPTER VIII

The short sea-trip from Rome, and the few days’ subsequent sauntering excursion, from the opposite side of the bay, had served to restore the face and frame of Cestus to a nearer approach to their native fulness of outline. Nevertheless, his broad physiognomy was yet pinched and shrunken, and his garments of rough woollen material hung sharply and loosely about his diminished bulk. The artificial colouring of his skin was yet continued, for the nature of the Suburan was cunning and suspicious, and did not deem the distance from Rome a sufficient reason to discard even this disguise.

On perceiving the occupants of the workshop he stopped short on the threshold for a moment, and surveyed them with as much surprise as they regarded him. Masthlion raised his face from his hands, and, taking one step forward, gazed at the new-comer intently. Cestus fixed his small keen eyes on the lovely face and form of Neæra, who, instinctively, inclined toward her lover. Then he withdrew his glance, and, marching up to Masthlion, clapped the potter on the shoulder with all his old swagger and assurance. ‘How now, kinsman? How fare you after all these years? Do you not remember me?’ cried he.

Masthlion’s heavy brows were knitted: his eyes gazed, nay, almost glared intensely into his visitor’s face. It would be almost impossible to describe the mixture of feelings which agitated his whole frame. Wonder and relief were dominant, and anguish lay numb beneath. Suddenly his visage cleared, and he clutched the arm of Cestus convulsively, with such a grasp of iron that the Suburan winced.

‘Marvel of marvels!’ he gasped; ‘what, Cestus, is it thou? From where? Thou art not dead, then – the gods be praised.’

‘I’m glad on’t, kinsman, if it hath pleased thee,’ said Cestus.

‘I have had you in my mind every day for months past – nay, as you entered, you were present in my mind.’

‘That was love indeed, and means a warm welcome – thanks, brother!’

‘Welcome – ay, welcome!’ exclaimed the potter, seizing both hands of the Suburan and shaking them fervently, ‘the very man of all I wished to see, and the least expected. It is the doing of the gods – praised be the gods!’

‘Humph!’ ejaculated Cestus, just a little doubtful whether his kinsman’s joy was altogether attributable to personal regard; ‘and, if you will let me have my say, I am just as light-hearted as you to find you on earth, and not departed to the land of spirits. Luck is with you, Cestus! But how of Tibia, my sister?’

‘Did you not see her in the house?’

‘She is breathing like yourself, then! No, I saw her not, nor any live being, though I looked in every room. More fortune, Cestus; for they are all just as you would wish them, even to – and this bonny wench, kinsman. This is the little lass I saw last, as a bit of a chit, with her doll of rags?’

‘The same, Cestus – Neæra; she has grown,’ said Masthlion.

‘Grown! You say true. Neæra – I had forgotten your name – come, kiss your uncle, after how many years away, he dare not say, lest it make him feel so old.’

But the fair girl shrank back from the proffered salute, and offered her hand instead, saying she was glad to see her uncle.

‘Well – well!’ cried Cestus, with his loud rough laugh, ‘I will dispense with the kiss – I will not press it. I would not rob that young gentleman of even one; and, truth to tell, I have not a kissing look about my figurehead. You are, at the same time, the finest lass I have seen for many a day – I give thee joy, Masthlion, of thy lovely daughter. And this noble gentleman, kinsman, has no doubt come to the same conclusion long ago – you do not make us known – he is no apprentice to thy pottery trade I can see.’

‘A friend, kinsman – and – and Neæra’s betrothed,’ explained the potter, with an askant look at the countenance of Cestus.

‘Ho! ho!’ cried that worthy, ‘then ’tis all settled. Give thee joy – you have won a fair jewel, sir – but you give me no name, kinsman.’

Martialis had drawn himself to his full height, and his face was fixed in its haughtiest aspect, on the voluble, unretiring Suburan.

‘My name is Martialis; and if you are indeed the uncle of Neæra I will take your hand,’ he said, stretching out his fingers accordingly.

‘I am proud to do so with such a free-minded noble,’ answered Cestus, suiting the action to the word, ‘for you are of knightly rank, I see, and as much above me as the eagle above a barn-door fowl. Nevertheless I can wish you happiness; fortune, without doubt, you already possess, so there is no need to wish you that.’

‘I thank you!’ said Martialis coldly.

‘And you! I remember you being stouter in body and whiter in face. Whence have you come?’ inquired Masthlion.

‘It is a long story, kinsman, and I will tell you at leisure,’ replied Cestus; ‘enough for the present to tell you I have been at death’s door, and have come to gain back my strength in the pure air of Surrentum. I have come to tarry a season in your house, Masthlion, if you are willing – it shall cost you nothing, save the infliction of my company.’

‘Stop, and welcome, till you are hale and strong; but, for the rest, I can yet afford to house my kinsman, as a guest, without turning tavern keeper – no man who tastes my bread and salt under my roof must pay for the same.’

‘Well, as you like. I am delighted to see you, by Jupiter.’

‘And I thee – I have needed thee, and have much to say.’

‘And I also; most especially to have my eyes gladdened with Neæra, my fair niece – but come, there yet remains sister Tibia.’

‘Ay, true,’ said Masthlion, going to the door. ‘Into the house! Haste thee, girl – take thy uncle’s wallet! Prepare his room! Get water! The Centurion will excuse thee for a little time. I will go and get rid of my clay coating and be with you soon – come!’

They all, therefore, left the workshop, and proceeded into the house. The potter’s wife, in the meantime, had re-entered, and met them. She looked curiously at the strange figure of Cestus for a moment, and then rushed forward and embraced him, giving vent to as many signs and expressions of astonishment and delight as her quiet mild nature was capable of. There was, indeed, a faint similarity between the character of their faces, but very little between their dispositions.

‘Hark’ee, brother-in-law!’ said Cestus to Masthlion, as the latter was withdrawing out of the little guest chamber, whither Neæra had conveyed the appliances wherewith the traveller was to refresh himself after his journey, ‘tell me something more of that tall young fellow downstairs. ’Tis a gay young cock to be haunting a potter’s house.’

‘’Tis a matter which has already given much trouble – nor am I yet satisfied,’ returned Masthlion, knitting his heavy brows.

‘Just so; the girl is handsome, and people tattle. One of his breed is a dangerous visitor to your pigeon-cote,’ said Cestus.

‘He has acted fairly and honestly, and is in haste to wed her.’

‘Bid him wait, and be patient for a while.’

‘What was I to do? I bade her tell him to come no more – to give her up as unfitting. He refused, and I went to Rome to find thee.’

‘Aha! Hast been to the great city, Masthlion, a-seeking me – well?’

‘I could not find you, nor yet Balbus, with whom you dwelt.’

Cestus grinned.

‘No, it is not likely, for Balbus is not there.’

‘I did my best; I was in despair, and could not but let things go as they were fated. You never came nigh all these years – it was reasonable to suppose that you were dead.’

‘And nearly dead I have been.’

‘Even as you were entering, he was pressing me for her marriage.’

‘I came just pat, did I not?’

‘Thank the kind gods you have thereby relieved me of a heavy load, and I fear have – but that is for me alone.’

‘But know you nothing more than the young fellow’s name?’ demanded Cestus.

‘I inquired in Rome. He bears a high character.’

‘He is a citizen then. What brought him here?’

‘He is a Pretorian Centurion with the Prefect at present in Capreae.’

‘Ho! ho!’ murmured Cestus, ‘this may be useful. I am sorry you had your journey to Rome for nothing, kinsman; but I am not too late, as it happens, to ease your mind. I can, as you know, help you in this matter, and I really came with much the same business in my head. It is a long story, and had best be entered upon when we have a flagon of wine between us, and the women asleep in bed upstairs.’

‘Good; that will be to-night, if you are not too tired,’ replied Masthlion, with a sigh of deep satisfaction.

‘Meanwhile, fob the Pretorian off; it may, perhaps, be worth his while – who knows?’

Masthlion retired to make himself presentable, and when both men appeared below, they found a simple meal ready awaiting them.

They did not recline on couches to their food, after the luxurious manner of the higher classes, but sat round the table in the simple old-fashioned way. Cestus ate and drank vigorously. Nor did his tongue remain idle. Among many things, he informed them that he had met with a severe accident, in which he had broken some ribs, and in consequence of which his master had granted him leave of absence to visit his kinsfolk, as soon as he was able to move.

He had nearly all the conversation to himself. His sister was naturally silent, and her husband was too busy with his thoughts to speak much. As far as the lovers were concerned, Neæra’s mind was divided between disgust at having her blissful day spoiled by the unexpected visitor, and the disagreeable feeling of knowing that his stay was to be more or less prolonged. Her nature shrank from this unknown relative – his appearance, his loud, over-confident, self-sufficient style of talk, not unmixed with coarse wit or impertinence. He was an unwelcome addition to her family circle, especially in the presence of her lover. Many a time did the warm blood flame in her cheeks, and the fire flash in her eyes, as the Suburan’s tongue wagged on with its accustomed fluency; and, not the least, on account of the free and easy bearing of the talker towards her Centurion. Thus, when at length the Pretorian grew wearied of the pertinacity and familiarity of these attentions, and seized the earliest opportunity of taking his leave, the fair, indignant girl was relieved, even though the movement was to cost her the company of her lover. Angry, vexed, and ashamed, she laid her head on his shoulder as they stood alone before parting. He noted the red cheeks and the clouded brow, and he smiled.

‘What think you of your new-found uncle?’ he said.

‘Would he had never been better known to me than hitherto,’ she answered.

‘You do not like him?’

‘How could I?’

‘And you never before heard of him?’

‘Never; would it were the same now!’

‘It is strange,’ he muttered. These last words were not audible to Neæra, and after a moment’s consideration he bade her bring her father for a few words.

‘You are angered – you are vexed at this man?’ she said anxiously.

‘He can be of no consequence to me, nor need I ever see him again.’

‘You will never come while he is here, and he may stay – oh, so long.’

‘We will see,’ he replied, smiling, as he took her in his arms again. ‘But go,’ he said, rousing himself; ‘time begins to press upon me; it will be sunset ere I reach the island. Go, bring your father.’

‘Lucius, what meant he when he said, “Not father!” in the workshop?’ asked Neæra earnestly, looking up into the soldier’s face ere she loosed herself from his embrace.

They gazed into each other’s eyes. The black piercing orbs met the lustrous gray ones, shining with their lovelight, as if to read each other’s souls, and then he shook his head.

‘I know not,’ he said; ‘it may be nothing – it may be something; you will discover in time, my beloved. Think no more of it.’

Neæra departed, and brought Masthlion. Martialis proceeded to impress upon him the desirability of fixing a time for his marriage with Neæra. He used all his arguments, but to no purpose, for the potter refused all negotiation.

‘In a reasonable time you shall know, but not thus soon.’

‘Good. The next time I come I will demand it,’ answered the lover, in some heat. ‘Farewell!’

Masthlion left the room, and the Centurion, as he embraced his betrothed, said, ‘Your father is unreasonable, – of what use is it to delay?’

She murmured something to appease him, and he finally tore himself away.

In order that she might come into contact as little as possible with Cestus, she began to engage herself in household work elsewhere than where he was. This she managed to protract until near the time for retiring, which she made earlier than usual; and, thus, was almost altogether quit of the object of her dislike. By and by the dame Tibia thought fit to follow her example, so the potter and his brother-in-law were left together.

CHAPTER IX

The fitful movements on the floor of the room overhead ceased in the course of a few minutes, and Masthlion knew that his wife was in bed. During the last hour his nervous agitation had increased, and had been hard to hide; he now, therefore, hastened to put an end to this painful state of suspense.

‘Are you too weary to talk now, Cestus; or will you that we should wait?’ he said to his companion.

‘I’d as lieve have a chat with thee now; in fact, I feel in the humour. I am in rare spirits at finding everybody well and happy,’ replied Cestus gaily. ‘Bring out the drink, kinsman, and shut the door; what better could one wish when we are alone together?’

Masthlion quickly made the required dispositions and sat opposite his brother-in-law before the bright fire alluded to. He stretched his arm out at length upon the table, with his fingers nervously moving and tapping thereon, whilst he watched the Suburan pour out some wine into two cups. Cestus’s keen perceptions had already observed the signs of his kinsman’s inquietude of mind, and he, therefore, became just as deliberate and phlegmatic in his movements, following a natural bent in his humour, which, with equal satisfaction, would have watched the torture of a Sisyphus, or the wriggling of a maimed and terrified insect. The blaze of the logs threw their countenances into relief – the newly-grown shaggy beard of the Roman, and his swarthy stained skin, together with his blunt features, contrasted with the high, domelike, intellectual forehead, overhanging the deep-set, bright eyes of the potter, so anxiously, thirstily bent on the calm, lazy motions of his companion. No other light being present, their distorted shadows flickered and moved athwart the opposite wall in varied and grotesque forms.