Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome

‘I – most bounteous lady?’ he exclaimed, starting. ‘Not a word – not a whisper, or may the gods strike me dead at your feet!’

His wavering glance wandered from her stern, penetrating eyes to the form of Zeno, who stood apart with folded arms and frowning gaze fixed upon him.

‘No – no! May the gods strike me dead at your feet!’ he repeated.

‘Enough – I shall know – and beware!’

She turned away from him feebly iterating, and without more delay entered the litter and reclined therein. The slaves lifted her up and proceeded on their way, at a pace, which was somewhat retarded by the company of her faithful attendant, who walked by her side, and without whom she refused to move one yard, in spite of all Zeno’s efforts to the contrary.

The bleak morning wore on, but was as yet young when Afer, cloaked and hooded against the raw, blustering weather, knocked at the door of Tucca’s dwelling, and demanded to see Plautia. When the grimy, greasy wine-grower explained her departure to him, with much obsequious cringing, the knight was so incredulous that he stalked into the hovel to examine for himself. Finding the state of the case to be as related, he desired to be informed whither the lady had gone.

‘I did not inquire – not I,’ said Tucca cautiously.

‘Went she alone?’

‘Well – no!’

‘With whom, then?’

‘Her slave was with her.’

‘And no one besides?’

‘Well – ’ drawled Tucca.

‘Come, be speedy!’ cried the knight impatiently.

‘There were others, most illustrious, for certain, but – ’

‘Do you dare to play at words with me? What others?’

‘Slaves!’

‘What slaves, and whose? Must I beat it out of you, wretch?’ angrily quoth Afer, taking a step toward the reluctant husbandman.

‘Caesar’s, most worshipful!’ cried Tucca, hastily retreating a corresponding step; and then he continued, in a whining tone, to bemoan the hard fate which delivered him and his house over to the anxieties and responsibilities attached to the visits of nobilities and highnesses.

As he whimpered and hoped he had not said as much as might bring him harm, Afer swept past him, with a contemptuous exclamation, and left the house. He pursued his way through the town, toward the villa of Mercury, which crowned the hill overlooking the north Marina. Climbing the ascent, he entered the gates of the palace, and sought the Prefect in an inner apartment, with the freedom of a favoured confidant and friend. Sejanus was alone and busily engaged in writing. He nodded to a couch, and bent his attention again to his writing. His stylus continued to move busily along for about a quarter of an hour, during which period Afer’s attention was divided between his own thoughts and schemes and the absorbed countenance of the minister bent over his work. Then the latter laid down his stylus, and, reading over his epistle, closed it up and sealed it. Then he put it in the bosom of his dress, and left his seat.

‘Well,’ said he, stretching himself and yawning, ‘now I am at liberty; so let me hear of your business. You are late, so I presume you have already followed up last night’s folly. In what sort of a humour did you find the fair Plautia this morning after her repulse, and in what sort of humour did your tact and eloquence leave her?’

‘I have not seen her,’ replied Afer.

‘Wherefore! You are remiss, Afer,’ rejoined Sejanus, with a slight wrinkle of his brows; ‘it was somewhat important, as I hinted. You ought to have gone at your earliest.’

‘I have been. I have come straight away.’

‘How then – is she sick and bedfast?’

‘No; the matter has been taken out of our hands, and all trouble spared to us – she has already taken flight.’

‘Ah!’ said the Prefect, with great gusto, ‘that’s well – nothing could be better! Sensible woman!’

‘But she has not gone alone, I find.’

‘How then – has my Centurion changed his mind?’ demanded the commander, with a tone of disgust.

‘No; but some of Caesar’s household visited her and escorted her hence before my arrival.’

‘Phew?’ whistled the Prefect softly. He rubbed his chin slowly, and they gazed at each other for a few moments in silence.

‘Ha!’ ejaculated Sejanus, regarding the bare wall opposite and still smoothing the lower part of his face, ‘this is taking the load off our backs most effectually.’

‘’Tis as good a way as any for you, Prefect, though not perhaps for the sweet lady herself. She is in excellent keeping.’

‘Well, let us hope so – it must stand as our Imperial master has arranged it, at all events. She has only her headstrong folly to thank for her fate. She cannot say but that she had ample warning.’

‘The fact, nevertheless, remains, that with her subtlety and good looks, she may worm her way into the Imperial favour, and be pleased to make mischief if she be so inclined.’

‘Hm!’ said Sejanus, ‘we will see. Come! Tiberius has arrived at the villa above and I go to him at once. If he should open his lips to tell us anything of this it would be as well to be truly astonished to hear it.’

‘You would not be very prudent to play a part, Prefect,’ said Afer drily. ‘If Tiberius has had such prompt information of the lady’s presence, depend upon it there will be not much more that you or I could impart to him. The best course will be a candid one, without any disguise.’

‘Disguise, Afer!’ ejaculated the Prefect scornfully; ‘am I a truant schoolboy fearing the rod of the pedagogue? What atom of concern is it to me? Had she been mine, and of interest to me, I would have demanded restitution from Caesar himself, and he would not dare to retain her. I will tell him all, or little, or nothing at all, just as I am inclined. Go, bid the people prepare and we will start.’

CHAPTER XII

Things were changed in the small household of Masthlion. The same daily routine proceeded, but it was carried on under the depressing shadow of a cloud which darkened the brow of the potter. He was no more than human, and transient shadows had been there before; but, in the memory of the two females who shared his home, never such an unwelcome symptom of abiding care as that which now haunted their eyes.

He was their self-imposed autocrat, and it was natural that the gloom of his mind should be reflected on their own, just as the landscape takes its hue from the skies. Their sleepless solicitude, rooted in tender love, outweighed even the fear-quickened service of the trembling slaves of Caesar; and never was man less exacting in his demands upon such a boundless store of devotion to his needs, or yet more innocent of direct effort or intention to deserve it. It was the simple tribute to his nature, which bore not a ripple of vanity or self-sufficiency to break the unruffled flow of his cheerful serenity.

Living in the full gratification and contentment of mutual affection, he yet never suspected the depth of reverence which lay rooted in the minds of the two women and sanctified their love. He was incapable, by nature, of arriving at such a pitch of self-consciousness. His was the disposition which would have been the touchstone of a termagant’s foul humours, and a standing invitation to her persecutions. Fate had blessed him in averting such misery by giving him the companionship of two gentle natures the reflex of his own. The current of existence in his own nest had, therefore, been uniformly calm and quietly happy, even through his early struggles. Bitter reproach, the frequent adjunct of poverty and privation, had no existence in his poor house, for Tibia, his wife, was too devoted and worshipping to harbour an adverse thought. Nor was there any ground, had she been so minded, for he had toiled like a Titan, and ever maintained his native cheerfulness. The trial of those days had long passed, and, with a surer footing and a better competence, the child Neæra had come to fill the void in their childless home. She needed little of the example and training of her supposed mother to follow in the same path of devotion to the potter. His nature asserted its sway over her mind and heart, and they were inseparable companions from the first. Indeed she cared for no other when he was by, and even in her childish ailments would suffer no other nurse than the rough-handed, toil-worn man. Often he had been brought out of his workshop to the side of the child’s pallet, after his wife had exhausted all arts and contrivances to soothe her fretfulness; and it was strange to see the sudden composure steal over her as, begrimed with clay and the furnace, he took up his place beside her and clasped her tiny hand in his. And yet, perhaps, not so much to wonder at, when one perceived the tenderness which welled in his dark, deep-set eyes, and crooned in the soft, soothing tones of his voice, as it poured into her eager ears some tale of wonderland. Of such superlative divinity is the gentleness of strength.

The trouble of Masthlion’s mind was borne, in obedience to his nature, silently and patiently, but was none the less evident to the keen anxious eyes of the women. Always devoted to his workshop, he now passed more time than ever in its smoky walls, rarely appearing save for meals. He spoke little and his look was absorbed; but, many times, Neæra caught his glance resting upon her with a haggard expression which smote her with poignant pain.

All this upon the simplest reasoning was ascribed to the influence of Cestus – because the change was simultaneous with his appearance in their midst. It was hardly possible to make a mistake in the matter. Tibia, at least, was certain. We have seen her stealing downstairs, to find her husband sitting, steeped in grief, before the cold ashes in the brazier, after his first interview with his brother-in-law. She had subsequently endeavoured to obtain an explanation from him, but, though his heart ached as well as feared to tell her, he was obliged to preserve his promise to Cestus, and undergo the additional pain of bearing his trouble in secret. Nor was she any more successful when she applied to Cestus himself, who, with his usual readiness, disclaimed all knowledge, and in fact looked rather surprised. Thus she was constrained to remain with a disagreeable shadow of a mystery hanging between her and her husband – the first experience of the kind since their companionship; and, perforce, in such a position as rendered her painfully helpless to give him any sympathy and help whatever. Neæra’s concern for her father, on the other hand, was mixed with a guilty feeling which pricked her sorely and would not be argued away. Those glances, which she caught at times fixed upon her, seemed full of reproach, and were well-nigh insupportable. To her exaggerated fancy they seemed to say, ‘Look what you have done! Thus have you repaid my love and care by your wilfulness.’ In this way she connected his trouble with her relation to Martialis, and no more bitter conclusion could be arrived at, since it placed in direct antagonism the two beings she most loved on earth. She reflected how gradually and reluctantly the potter had given way to her betrothal. How, at first, he had almost absolutely refused to listen at all; his journey to Rome, and final, tardy assent – given, as she felt sure, not because he approved, but because he had not been able to discover any tangible ground or excuse for objection. But, she further reflected, even then, at the worst, his anxiety took no such dark shape as at present. He never avoided her, as he appeared to do now, to her unspeakable sorrow. Then he conversed freely and without restraint on the matter, and, if more anxious and earnest at times, he never entirely lost his customary cheerfulness. It was with the arrival of her uncle from Rome the change had at once become manifest, and one day, when alone with the Suburan, she taxed him with it, and desired him to explain the coincidence, if possible.

Now it happened that Cestus, in the course of his sojourn in the house, had yielded to a feeling of admiration for the beautiful girl, which was really sincere; and the feeling of respect which accompanied it was not only derived from consideration for the future, but actually due to her qualities themselves. He had very early changed his customary, bold, impudent manner of address in her presence, and relieved it of as much vulgarity as possible, with the effect of gradually lessening the aversion with which she at first had regarded him. He took pains to still improve the position, and with success. His fluency of tongue and natural ability for description stood him in good stead; and Neæra began to incline very readily to hear him talk to her about the great city and its people – a subject of which he was a profound master. One day he made her a gift, and, as he had the tact to make it unostentatious as well as seasonable, it was very well received. Thus, artfully, and by degrees, her early repugnance to the Roman was conquered, to the latter’s genuine satisfaction. He secretly took a profound interest in her, and was never tired of observing her ways. It gave him pride to reflect what an important factor he was in her career, and to think that, save for him, such a beautiful creature had been entirely lost to the world. These feelings were inspired and lifted beyond mere mercenary and selfish considerations by the same native superiority, which seemed to command his deference, and assign her to a higher sphere. Nor did the effect of his intercourse with her end here. Her beauty and purity were unconsciously leavening the dark depths of his mind, and quickening unaccustomed thoughts with a new spirit of nobility and refinement.

With these influences silently at work, the time which the Suburan was spending, in his sojourn under the roof of his relatives, was productive of more good, even morally than physically; whilst Neæra’s presence easily reconciled him to the lapse of time which, as day after day passed on, seemed to bring him no nearer to the proper accomplishment of his great end. Whatever kindly metamorphosis was taking place in his thoughts and disposition, that one resolution which had brought him hither suffered no change or modification. It rose superior to the rest – the gloomy, immovable mountain of his mind, to the dark bosom of which all meditations tended and circled, and beyond which speculation never ventured a step, as if existence had there an end. One of his favourite excursions was to the nearest headland on the western coast, whence the island of Capreae could be seen afar resting in the waters. There he would sit and gaze upon its rugged outline; amusing himself by imagining the movements of his patron, hugging himself with delight, and chuckling audibly, as he conjured before his mind’s eye the fancy picture, oft-repeated, of the confusion, the rage and despair of the knight, on that joyous day of revenge, which was hurrying on. At such moments, which were very frequent, the Suburan’s blood would tingle in his veins, and his spirit chafe in vehement impatience at the tardy approach of his wished-for opportunity. He would stretch forth his fist and shake it, in helpless wrath, at the rocky isle which afforded his enemy an asylum, and where he himself was unable to enter, – nor dared, had he the opportunity. So often as he felt impelled, though against his reason, to the same fruitless survey, so often the island seemed to mock him with its changeless form, its very sloth amid the waters, its silence, its impenetrable rocks and impervious mystery. It emitted nothing from which he might glean a reliable idea of the disposition of affairs within its jealous bosom. He could do nothing but gaze at the irritating sight with a kind of fascination, and anathematise it, with all it contained, from Caesar downward. His cunning and vigilance were helpless, and he was compelled to realise that nothing was left to him but patience and watchfulness. As long as Afer remained in Capreae he could not work out his plan. He was, therefore, eager and anxious for every appearance of Martialis from the island, in the hope of learning of the early departure of the Prefect and his friends for Rome.

He was revolving the possibilities of such an appearance one afternoon, whilst lending Neæra some assistance in carrying a basket of new earthenware into the front shop, and arranging them on the shelves. When he had finished, he leisurely swung his cloak around him before he set forth on his usual stroll to the Marina, and admiringly watched the graceful movements of the maiden’s tall figure, as she put the finishing touches of arrangement to the wares on the shelf above her head. With a final, critical glance, she turned round and met his gaze.

‘Well,’ she said smilingly, ‘are you not gone?’

‘I was doubtful which way to take,’ he replied; ‘but if you have anything more for me to help you with I would as lieve stay.’

‘No, nothing at all; but wait one moment, uncle,’ she added quickly and softly, whilst her face at the same time assumed an earnest look as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘Tell me what ails my father?’

As she stood upright, with her head poised a little backward, her stature equalled his, and her calm, gray eyes looked full into his own. With another questioner, those small orbs of his would have twinkled keenly, as his tongue rapped out a ready evasion or bantering retort. But now they wandered to the pots on the shelves, during a moment of unwonted embarrassment and silent indecision. It was only for a brief moment, however, and his glance met hers again.

‘What ails your father, Neæra?’ he said quietly; ‘I don’t see that he ails anything. He seems as sound in health as ever, to my eyes. Why, what is the matter with him?’

‘That I am asking you – not as regards his bodily health; that is sound enough, as you say, thank the gods. But there is some trouble – something preying on his mind: have you not noticed it?’

‘I am sorry to hear you say it,’ replied Cestus, slowly shaking his head; ‘but I am not so well acquainted with his ways and humours as you are.’

‘He has no ways and humours,’ she retorted swiftly, with a slight but significant rearing of her form – ‘at least no strange ways or humours. He is ever open, cheerful, and light-hearted, without a shadow of ill-humour. Now he is silent and gloomy, and hides away from us – what is it?’

There was a tremor in her voice, and in the eyes, which still were steadfastly fixed on his face, he saw the trembling gleam of tears.

‘Nay, how should I know better than his daughter?’ he said, looking uncomfortably at the pots once more.

‘His daughter knows nothing save this, that this trouble, whatever it may be, which weighs upon him, began at the time you came here from Rome.’

‘Ah, then,’ said Cestus, shrugging his shoulders and drawing a deep breath as if relieved, ‘if that is but the measure of the evil, it is easily mended by my shouldering my wallet and tramping back to Rome. You should have told me this before. I wouldn’t be a burden to the house, and be the cause of bringing a shadow on your pretty brow for all Surrentum.’

‘Ah! I meant not that,’ she said hastily, with a delicate colour flushing her cheeks.

He shook his head, and his broad face expanded still more with a grin.

‘I’ve noticed that you usually say what you mean, Neæra; so tell me now plainly to go, nor shall I be offended at your plain speaking.’

‘If you put that meaning on my words you are wrong, and I ought not to have spoken them. What I thought was, that you might have brought him ill news, or something which weighs on his mind.’

‘I! why I have not seen or heard from him for fourteen long years! We might as well have been dead all that time. What could I have brought with me to trouble him? Like enough, it is as you say. He’s bothered to have a ne’er-do-well about him and his. I’ll try and find out; and, if ’tis so, I’ll march straight away.’

‘I remember that he was strangely overjoyed to see you,’ replied Neæra, gazing steadily at him.

‘And without doubt he was, for he is too good-hearted to be sorry to see even a vagabond like myself turn up again. But I will do my best to try and find out the trouble and move it, and, failing that, move myself.’

‘If you are so determined to find yourself in fault I cannot help it, since you will not believe what I say.’

‘The best of guests can outstay his welcome; what then must it be with me?’

‘As you will,’ ejaculated Neæra curtly, and she turned again to the pots on the shelves with great dignity.

Cestus grinned and his eyes twinkled.

‘At least you couldn’t deny that if I went to-day you would feel as if a load was off your shoulders, and you would sit down to your supper with a better appetite.’

‘You know that is not a fair way of speaking, and I shall not answer,’ she said, turning round with reproof in her eyes.

‘Well! well! I am not so foolish as to expect that I can be like one of yourselves in the house,’ he replied, not caring to push the matter any further. ‘It is your good treatment which has made me selfish. However, I may be able to do you all a good turn some day, and show you that I can remember a kindness.’

‘There is no need, and you have no right to persist in talking like this; we have given you no cause – our house was never so shamed as to turn a guest from its doors.’

‘Nay, that I will swear,’ said Cestus humbly; ‘I am a good deal in jest, but my conscience is not altogether easy. The fresh air of this place has pulled me round, and I am as strong as ever. I will go back to Rome like a giant – why should I cumber you any longer? It would be bad manners. Moreover I am city bred, and the peace and quiet of this place, beautiful as it is, begins to make me fret after crowded streets. Such is nature. The roar and bustle of Rome would weary you just as soon, and you would be thankful to return to your fresh air and sleepy town. Would you like to go to Rome, Neæra?’

‘Ah!’ she said.

Cunning Cestus to put such a question to a young provincial girl. It was for nothing but the mischievous curiosity of watching the sparkle in her eye, and the deep heave of her bosom at the very mention of such a thing.

‘Will you go back with me for a time?’ said the voice of the tempter. ‘No one would take better care of you than I: no one knows the city and its ways better than I – every day for weeks could I show you new sights.’

But Neæra could only say no, and shake her head in a despairing way.

‘I would not be happy to leave my father.’

‘Let him come too.’

‘It would be useless to ask him.’

‘For your sake he would come.’

‘For the sake of a pleasure trip? – No! Besides he has been there, and not long since returned.’

‘And was not that on your account? What he has done once can he not do again? You know right well that he is never so happy as when you are pleased. His own enjoyment would be as great as yours.’

‘It is out of the question,’ said Neæra firmly, though her cheeks flushed; and Cestus, who had seated himself on a stool, regarded her with evident, though restrained enjoyment.

‘Yes, it is quite true he has been to Rome on your account and no other,’ he continued, ‘and it is just as true, in my mind, that he will go there again on your account.’

Neæra raised her eyes to his and the wondering expression was sufficient demand for explanation without speech.

‘There is no need for me to take you. You will go there by and by in better company, and your father and mother, mark my words, will follow to be near you.’

Her cheek gathered a faint colour again, but an expression of deep sadness stole over her face, and she turned her head aside. The Suburan pored keenly upon the perfect loveliness of her profile, which showed in singular relief under the white light streaming upon it from the open-fronted shop. He studied it intently, and, to judge from the expression of his countenance, with great satisfaction. Not altogether with the ordinary gratification which naturally arises from the contemplation of beauty, but, in this case, a particular satisfaction proceeding from the powerful recollections which her face inspired. A similar sweetness, a similar pure symmetry and nobility, was recalled to his mind, and he admired, therefore, with a double pleasure.

‘Have no fear, your father will follow,’ said Cestus assuringly. ‘One need not be an augur to foretell that.’

‘Alas, I think it is only I myself that give him this trouble,’ replied Neæra, with a heavy sigh.

‘Not at all!’ responded Cestus, never telling a lie with more pleasure. ‘I don’t know what’s the matter, but it isn’t that. It will all come right – it isn’t sunshine every day. Wait till I’m gone – I only want to see one person before I go, and perhaps you will tell me how long I shall have to wait.’