Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome

‘Is he a great man?’

‘In his own estimation, doubtless – he is of knightly rank, I believe.’

‘His behaviour did not keep pace with his rank then – I hope he may not pay us another visit.’

‘’Tis very likely he may if he has come to sojourn here for a time. If he does don’t fail to tell me of it, and of all he says. He is one of your well-dressed scamps, and thinks that every good-looking poor girl is fair prey – the city swarms with such. But let me know, and don’t be afraid. I am city-bred like himself, and know a thing or two, and will soon put an end to his little game if he means anything.’

Cestus squared his shoulders as he uttered this brave speech, and went, with something of a swagger in his gait, to reach down his cloak.

‘Oh, I’m not afraid,’ replied Neæra calmly, ‘and I have my father at hand.’

‘Ay, that’s true!’ said Cestus slily, ‘and another still better, who could tear the cur limb from limb – nevertheless, don’t fail to let me know. I have some previous knowledge of the fellow, which makes me curious, and I may easily be useful.’

Thus delivering himself he went forth into the bright sunlight and the crisp keen air. Instinctively his feet turned in the direction of the road which led to the southern promontory of Minerva. It was a customary route of his, but it was also on a main line of communication with the island, and the desperate chance of meeting with somebody, or something, which might afford a glimmer even of news, burned stronger than ever in his breast. This something was, however, painfully vague, and the somebody really limited itself to only one person. The sight of Martialis would have been as joyful to him as rain to the thirsty in the desert, taking even into consideration, that what the Centurion could impart, even if he should prove to have the inclination, would hardly be likely to throw any light upon his peculiar needs. Added to this was the fact of the young soldier’s aversion. But Cestus was not easily abashed or discouraged, and had no fear of being able finally to command attention.

He reached his observatory and sat down to rest and deliberate. Capreae lay before him amid the blue sea, with the white gleam of its palaces tipping its rugged peaks and peeping amid its terraced groves. With this lovely picture filling his vision, he sat for full an hour absorbed in thought, and then noting the position of the sun, he rose and walked away homeward. He had reconciled himself to his position, and had come to the conclusion that his only policy was to wait and be watchful. He also determined, on the least suspicion of danger, to carry off the potter and his family to Rome – Neæra at least; if, however, he could persuade them to go at once so much the better. He could do nothing at Surrentum; he was tired of it, and he would feel safer in the city, whither he would eventually be obliged to go to carry out his scheme. Why not, therefore, go at once and wait there? The thought also tormented him, that something might occur which might rob him of his revenge. He burned and itched to set the wheels of his machinery in motion, however slightly, and he resolved that day to take the first step for that end. If it was no more than a mysterious hint to certain people, that something was in the wind, it would be sufficient for a commencement. His spirits rose and his steps quickened as this determination was arrived at, and, re-entering Surrentum, he proceeded to the dwelling of a professional scribe near the Marina. He entered and found that individual busy at his table, inditing an epistle to the dictation of a young and good-looking woman, who instantly became silent and turned away her head at the Suburan’s entrance. The writer, who was a bald, shrivelled, and short-sighted old man, did not immediately perceive the cause of the sudden stoppage of his customer’s eloquence, and casting a longing look at a large open book at his elbow, cried out testily, ‘Well, well, what next? – oh it’s you, is it? you’ll have to wait outside till I’ve finished!’

‘A love letter, eh! All right, I’m sorry to interrupt,’ replied Cestus, giving a leer at the young female who tossed her head.

He went outside and waited till she came forth, and then returned to take her place at the scribe’s table.

‘Well!’ snapped the old man, tearing his eyes from his book with a vicious wrench, as if the patronage which brought him his livelihood were a nuisance instead of a thing to be thankful for.

‘Tablets, wax and thread of your best, old man; bring them out and let me see them,’ answered Cestus. ‘I and a comrade have a good joke in hand, and I want you to write a line or two of mystery. You must put your best finger foremost, and shape your letters so as to make them look as if they came from some aristocrat.’

He drew a piece of silver from his pouch and threw it across the table to the scribe, whose watery, old eyes glinted as his grimy fingers caused the coin to vanish with an astounding celerity. Cestus laughed, and the same grimy talons selected the articles required, which the Suburan took into his hands. He examined them carefully, not with a view of satisfying himself of their quality, about which he knew nothing whatever, but for the purpose of assuring himself that they bore no mark or impress which might afford a clue to their origin. This proving to his satisfaction, he told the old man to go on with his reading, whilst he considered upon the style the document was to take. After a few minutes’ deliberation he bade the scribe take his pen and write the following with every care: —

‘You may praise the gods and rejoice, Fabricius. When thieves fall out then may honest men look to get their own. The treasure you lost shall return to you. Prepare to receive it and deal vengeance. These tablets ere you receive them shall touch her very hand. You have often been deceived, but now wait the truth. Do you recognise this ribbon? Keep it carefully till the remainder is forthcoming. Patience and, above all, silence! I am beset; and to breathe a word would be destruction to me and to her. Beware, therefore!’

‘That’s all – now read it out!’ said Cestus; and the old scribe did so accordingly.

The Suburan laughed in his most boisterous style, and rubbed the palms of his thick, strong hands together vigorously with every appearance of satisfied delight at his composition.

‘Bravo!’ he exclaimed; ‘that’s just it, to the very letter – tolerably plain and tolerably mystified. If this don’t turn out the best frolic of my life call me a chuckle-headed fool. Get you the thread and wax ready, father!’

He stepped aside meanwhile, and took from his bosom a small package. Out of this he drew a faded piece of ribbon and cut off a small portion, putting it between his teeth, whilst he tied up and replaced the package again.

He laid the piece he had severed on the table, and said, ‘Put that inside and seal up carefully.’

‘There – that’s all right!’ said Cestus, thrusting the tablets into his breast. ‘Farewell, father!’

The scribe, who was already poring over his book, with his long peaked nose nearly touching the leaves, gave merely a rusty grunt as his customer stepped out into the passage.

‘Stay!’ cried Cestus, coming back, ‘Hark’ee, father! – would you not like to hear this pretty joke of mine?’

‘Pish!’ snapped the scholar, with savage contempt; and with an indescribable series of shrugs of his lean body, he huddled himself irritably over his book. The Suburan’s guffaw shook the small dwelling as he turned away and proceeded to the nearest wine-shop. Small as was the commencement, he had, nevertheless, entered on his campaign. So he drank his wine and water with unusual satisfaction and elation.

CHAPTER XIV

The Suburan had the letter written and completed to his mind, and the next step was, of course, to have it delivered. For safety’s sake this was an arrangement to be carried out with due circumspection; and, as he already had an idea in his mind, he determined to put the missive away safely for a time, to see if the opportunity he hoped for would present itself. He came out of the wine-shop, took a turn on the Marina, the favourite lounge of the townsfolk, and then turned homeward. The direct thoroughfare suited him no longer. Avoiding the street he made his way to the rear of the potter’s premises. He resolved there should be no awkward meeting of unwelcome faces if he could help it. As he drew near, passing through the irregular patches of garden and pasture, he heard the sound of horses’ feet. He looked toward the main road, already described as running nigh to Masthlion’s house, and saw a horseman garbed in military dress galloping at a swift pace northward. He was already at some distance, and a few yards further on his course the road dipped out of sight. At this point the rider suddenly reined up, waved something white, and then was gone. Cestus, with something like an oath of disappointment between his lips, hastened on a few steps, till the little workshop of Masthlion, with its smoking chimney, came into view. Then the struggling anathema rolled forth in full and hearty distinctness, for there, on the little low wall surrounding the garden-patch of the potter, was Neæra, standing motionless, with her white answering signal in her down-dropped hand, and her eyes yet fixed on the distant road. He had arrived just in time to witness the disappearance of Martialis, the Centurion. He whom he had expected and watched for with such restless anxiety, and to whom he had mentally arranged to consign his letter for the safest delivery to its destination. His extreme disgust and disappointment found its customary relief in a furious spasm of frightful language, all the fiercer in that he was obliged to suppress it, because of neighbours sprinkled here and there nigh at hand in their little plots of garden ground. When he looked again for Neæra she had disappeared. He followed into the house with a visage dark and sullen as a thundercloud. The first to meet him was Neæra herself; a strange contrast, inasmuch as joy sparkled in her eyes and bloomed on her cheeks. It was testimony enough to the glance of Cestus.

‘Hath not the Centurion been here but now?’ he asked, gloomily enough.

‘Yes!’ replied Neæra, with yet more colour in her cheeks. ‘What is the matter?’

‘Matter enough,’ was the sulky answer; ‘I have been dying to see him and to have speech with him. I was even on the road this morning, thinking that he might pass by chance, and if I had not gone into the town I should have caught him. He must have followed me almost on my heels. Curse my luck, why did I not come straight home?’

‘You were unlucky indeed, uncle; but he will not be away more than a few days.’

‘Even that may prove too long,’ growled Cestus. ‘Said he anything about affairs in the island that you can remember, Neæra? That the Prefect was intending to return to the city before long?’

‘No, nothing. But had it been so, Lucius would scarce have been returning to Capreae again.’

‘Humph!’ grunted Cestus, as Neæra glided away about her business, well satisfied with the existing arrangements of the Centurion’s commander.

Cestus sought the little upstairs chamber, where he slept, and, having hidden the letter to Fabricius in a safe place till required, he cast himself on his pallet, wearied in body and intensely irritated in mind. Here he fell asleep and found the day far gone when he awoke. His precious missive occupied his first thoughts, and he went down into the town to try and discover some chance of sending the same – a public post system being unknown. In this he was lucky. A trading vessel had touched on her voyage to the Tiber, and he found the master thereof perfectly willing to do as he required. Cestus went and brought the letter and delivered it into the seaman’s hands, with full instructions and a liberal subsidy. A visit to a wine-shop, where the liquor flowed plentifully, completed the transaction, and then Cestus took leave of his new friend with many parting injunctions. A couple of days passed, during which Cestus never left the immediate vicinity of the house for any great length of time. He felt constrained to the exercise of vigilance, but the restraint upon his accustomed habits of liberty and self-indulgence soon began to prove very irksome. Nor did anything happen during that time to hinge the least interest upon.

‘If I had chanced to leave the place for two or three hours, something would have been sure to have turned up,’ he grumbled.

But what little had occurred had permanently unsettled the equilibrium of his mind. He was beset with a certain kind of vague uneasiness, dull, intangible, but sleepless; of the disagreeable nature of an ill presentiment, which set the profoundest intellectual subtlety at defiance. His restlessness increased, and the current of his thoughts set, with increasing constancy and eagerness, toward his native Rome, till the longing resembled that of a sick man or exile. The feeling rose so strongly, that the early removal of himself to the great city took its place as the first and most absorbing care of his mind. The family of the potter, of course, he, of necessity, included with himself.

On the third day after the departure of Martialis, he was sitting alone over the fire in the house, with his elbow on his knee and his hairy chin on his hand, deeply occupied in arranging his method of procedure, or rather in deciding on the manner of approaching Masthlion on the subject, since the potter’s assent was the only real difficulty to be met. His meditations were interrupted by the touch of a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Neæra standing beside him. He made as if to rise, with the deference he had acquired in her presence, but, without removing her hand from his bulky shoulder, she pressed him gently down in his place.

‘You were very deep in your thoughts, uncle; you never heard me come.’

‘That’s true enough,’ he replied, with a smile; ‘but your footstep lacks weight to rouse a sleeper or day-dreamer.’

‘You were not asleep, unless you sleep with your eyes open,’ said Neæra. ‘You were deep enough in a day-dream, therefore. I can guess – was it not of Rome?’

‘Well, that among other things, I am bound to say,’ replied Cestus.

‘I have come to ask you about my father. Have you ever thought of him since we last spoke?’

‘I – I have not had a convenient opportunity,’ said Cestus, with hesitation.

‘What, not in all this time? Ah, that is a poor excuse!’

‘To speak truth, I was thinking of him when you came in,’ said Cestus, guiltily dropping his eyes to the fire; ‘I was making up my mind to talk to him before night.’

‘It is dusk already,’ said Neæra, shaking her head gently as if scarce believing him.

‘That is so,’ replied Cestus, sweeping his glance round the little room, where the shadows were gathering thick, and the flickering flames of the fire in the brazier were beginning to define themselves on the walls; ‘but there yet remains plenty of time. I am going to open a weighty subject with him, so I am taking time to consider.’

‘And what may that be?’ asked Neæra, seating herself on a stool beside him and looking into his face.

Cestus kept his glance on the fire as he replied:

‘It is not indeed so grave a matter after all, but he is sure to make it so. I want him to cut loose from this tomb of a town and take up his abode in Rome. It is the only place for a man of skill. Here he is buried.’

‘Here we have been very happy and content, until lately,’ responded the fair girl, with a sigh. ‘I don’t think you will succeed.’

‘Yes, if you would help me,’ observed Cestus.

‘My father is the best judge, and I will abide by what he says.’

‘He must go eventually,’ said the Suburan, emphasising the word must, ‘so that you might as well persuade him to move with me at once.’

‘Must go! And what is there then to compel him?’ said Neæra quickly, in surprise.

The Suburan’s eyes twinkled as he shot a sidelong glance at her beautiful face.

‘Nothing but yourself,’ he said quietly; ‘that is why I asked you to persuade him now rather than leave it later.’

Neæra wrinkled her pretty brows and perused her companion’s dark-hued shaggy face with an anxious, inquiring look. Then she shook her head.

‘I cannot understand,’ she said; ‘to say that of me seems to be nonsense.’

‘Don’t you see?’ exclaimed Cestus, reaching out his arm, and laying his thick forefinger on her hand, as it rested on her knee, ‘don’t you see? When you become the wife of Martialis he will take you to Rome, and by and by your – Masthlion will be unable to live without the sight of you, so he will assuredly follow. It is as plain and sure as the sun in heaven.’

The faintest shadow of a smile rested on her lips, and she dropped her gaze from his face to the burning logs. The delicate lids drooped over the lustre of her eyes, and a warmer tint suffused her skin.

‘It will be time when I go to Rome,’ she murmured; ‘wait till that comes to pass.’

‘Therefore you will not help to persuade him to go now, as I recommend?’

‘I will not say a word.’

‘Think of the blessed change – the sights and shows, such as you never dream of. When you are there you will say, “How did I live in such a dog’s hole as that?” – meaning Surrentum.’

‘I think I have passed too many pleasant days here to think that ever,’ replied Neæra; ‘but my own inclinations have nothing to do with it, nor shall they.’

‘Then again,’ continued Cestus, more artfully, ‘the Prefect has been a long time in Capreae, and cannot be expected to remain there much longer. He will return to Rome, and with him Martialis.’

This was a subtle stroke, but he got no reply, save only a low rippling laugh and a shake of her head, which was turned persistently towards the fire. Whereupon he shrugged his shoulders, and silence fell between them for a considerable space, which he employed in fixedly watching her as she sat with her hands clasped across her knee, apparently lost in a reverie.

The bright glow of the fire bathed her face and figure, and threw them into striking relief in the now dark room. The Suburan, with his elbow on his knee and his head dropped sideways on his hand, feasted his eyes with the lovely picture she made, which drew no small portion of its charm from the grace of her unconsciousness. It awoke his mind to a strange activity. Out of the dim past he conjured up scenes which remained engrained in his mind as sharp and distinct as events of yesterday. Amongst these was a bright and vivid morning on the Janiculum Hill in Rome; the glorious city spread beneath glittering in the morning beams… A beautiful child dancing and skipping in pure delight; a hasty dash under a high garden wall, and down a narrow obscure lane… Then again the depth of a dark, rainy, hot, summer night, when he entered that self-same room, weary with travel and prolonged toil of search for his destination… The deposit of his tiny sleeping burden, and the astonished faces of the two inmates of the room.

Fortune had favoured him; it was the reward of his humanity. As he looked on the heedless maiden, his heart warmed with satisfaction; and for some brief moments, he felt at peace with all and everything. How exquisite she would look clothed as a white-handed patrician and set in the marble halls of a palace. Her beauty had utterly conquered him. It was a new and novel experience to have lived in daily contact and companionship with a being so delicate. Her sprightliness and spirit charmed him, whilst her purity and gentleness softened and quelled him. It was no ordinary degree of pride which tingled in his breast at the fact, that she was more indebted to and more dependent upon him than any one, although she knew it not. Should she learn now from his lips? The heart of this rough, vice-sodden, crime-laden man beat like a girl’s as he contemplated the action, and gazed on the exquisite profile before him. How those deep-fringed orbs would glow and flash in wonder, and the delicious curves of her lips tremble with emotion! His cool reason was fast departing, and his tremor increasing, as the fascination before his eyes hurried him on to the consummation of his sudden desire. In two or three minutes more he could not have resisted the temptation to hold the heart and soul of the fair girl breathless at his disposal. All question of policy had fled, and he was preparing for his task, when the grate and thud of a bolt being drawn, sounded on their ears through the open door.

‘That is father!’ exclaimed Neæra, rousing herself suddenly and turning round in expectation.

A deep sigh, either of relief or disappointment, escaped the lips of Cestus, and he straightened up his body.

The creak of the potter’s workshop door was followed by his step, and the next moment he entered the room and advanced toward them. They looked at him in astonishment, for a wonderful change was in his aspect. He was clearly in a state of great mental excitement, not to speak of evident delight. The soot of the furnace on this occasion rather overspread and subdued the reddish incrustation of clay on his person, and in his hand he carried a globular vessel of dull, coarse-looking glass. He held it up before him as he entered, in such an eager manner, as to draw their attention to it at once, without a word from his lips. His deep-set eyes sparkled in the firelight with infinite vivacity, as they flung their flashing glances first from one to the other, and then to the cup in his hand, and back again. His eager hurried step brought him up to the Suburan and the maiden almost at a run, and then he stopped short, with the vessel uplifted in one hand, and the forefinger of the other pointing to it. A strange laugh, or chuckle of supreme joy or exultation, escaped him, and he moved the article, with its accompanying index finger, first before the face of Neæra and then of Cestus. They arose silently from their seats and stared at the potter with strange wonder, and something of alarm, at this unusual proceeding on the part of a man of habitual reserve and serenity. It was a spectacle almost as little to be expected, as for a statue of the grave goddess and her owl to step down from its plinth and cut a caper on a temple floor. They saw that his features and his frame were trembling with extreme agitation; and failing to comprehend its cause in a glass cup of not the slightest pretensions to use or ornament, they remained, with anxious gaze, to await some further development of such unwonted symptoms.

‘Look – it is done – it is found – I have found it – I, Masthlion!’ gasped the potter, with another laugh. ‘At last – at last!’ he cried, rolling and smoothing the vessel in his grimy hands, with the ecstasy of a miser fondling his treasure heaps.

Grave doubts arose in the mind of Cestus as to the actual state of his kinsman’s mind; and giving him a glance of suspicion, and another of contempt on the paltry object of his delight, he growled as follows – ‘As far as I can see, potter, it is a thing that ought to be well lost beyond redemption, and a thing of regret, if found again in any dusthole.’

Masthlion vented another chuckling laugh, and turned his eyes on the face of Neæra, who rested her hand on his shoulder, and touched the glass with the slender fingers of her other hand. Timidity and doubt were in her actions and on her countenance. She returned his gaze with affectionate concern and said soothingly, ‘You seemed pleased to have found it, father. Had you lost it long? Why do you prize it? Tell me!’

‘It has never been lost; nevertheless I have but now found it. Ha, ha! Child, do you think I have taken leave of my wits? And, indeed, I think I have, for joy,’ laughed Masthlion, straining the girl to his breast and giving her a fervent kiss. ‘Go, bring your mother!’

Neæra glided away into the upper regions of the house on her mission; and, at the request of Masthlion, Cestus took a brand from the fire and lighted an iron lamp which hung from the ceiling. By the time the feeble flame threw its cheerless light upon the scene, Neæra returned with Tibia. The latter, with probably a hint of her husband’s unusual humour, came forward in a peculiar roundabout fashion, as though she were describing the segment of a circle with the potter as a centre. Her face, wreathed in wonder and some fear, was riveted on his, throughout her course, as if her head were magnetised. When she arrived finally on the opposite side of him, she stopped. Masthlion regarded her with an amused smile, and Cestus grinned, almost audibly. Neæra, standing at one side, glanced from one to the other, with a slight wrinkling of her brows, and drew a step nearer Tibia; but the dame remained absorbed in her husband, and indifferent to the amusement her odd manner had caused.