Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome

‘Once again – do you refuse to answer me?’

‘Surely not, in reply to a direct question,’ he answered, as if taking a malicious pleasure in forcing her to mention names.

‘I will give you a cue then,’ said she; ‘you mentioned rumours concerning me – tell me all you know.’

‘There is only one worth repeating.’

‘And that refers to Martialis.’

She was pale, with the exception of a bright, red spot on either cheek, and, perceiving by her look and tone, that it would be imprudent to try her further, he nodded affirmatively.

‘And could you not say so before?’ she asked, with an indescribable sneer which stung him to the quick.

‘Not until you yourself had uttered the name, should I have dared to mention what might prove disagreeable,’ he replied derisively.

‘Proceed, then, and without fear.’

‘It will require but few words. You arrived in a mysterious manner; and, it is said, you came hither of your own accord, because you could no longer endure the absence of the handsome Centurion Martialis from Rome!’

‘Psa! You are too ridiculous.’

She laughed outright, but the knight, though he could not but admire her self-possession, could hardly fail to detect the false ring on her tones.

‘And this is the portentous secret you drag forth so mysteriously,’ she cried; ‘this is what you have heard in the wine-shops and on the Marina! Worthy, idle Capreans! And you, Titus Afer – subtle Titus Afer – to what an empty, pitiful condition of mind, has the sleepy stagnation of this pile of rocks amid the sea brought you, that such an idle fable should so occupy your thoughts as to relate it seriously and solemnly to me.’

‘I admit that one’s faculties are apt to rust amid the sluggish tranquillity of this place,’ replied Afer, with a sigh of charming softness. ‘The whole thing is absurd, but for the extraordinary fact, that the wonderful story is not the production of the gossips themselves. Instead of being born in the village below, it has flowed from the villa above – from headquarters itself.’

As a matter of fact, the details of Plautia’s romantic adventure had spread no further than the reader is already aware of, but the unscrupulous knight knew the power of such a statement, false as it was, and, therefore, made it without hesitation. To have given the rumour on the authority of the simple islanders themselves, was to have rendered it of no weight with her; but to boldly state that it proceeded from the villa, was at once to load her with the maddening suspicion that she had been betrayed. Thus to include the man he hated, by one master-stroke, was a worthy revenge, and he perpetrated the falsehood with an utter recklessness of discovery. He was prepared to exult over an explosion of wrath, or, better still, to gloat over an exhibition of shame and abasement, which would have left him master of the field, in a triumph to last as long as life. But to have reckoned on any mood of weakness, he perceived, at once, was vain. His quiet words fell on her ears with an unexpectedness that struck her dumb for a few moments.

Martialis must have betrayed her – had probably told all to his comrades, as an excellent joke and boast; and for all she knew, she had, perhaps, been the sport and object of secret laughter to every one around. Her pride boiled – her head whirled. Her eyes dilated and her robust frame trembled as if seized with ague.

‘Infamous!’ she cried, at length, in a choking voice. ‘But say you are trifling with me, Afer, and this is the crown of your jest.’

‘I am not so mad,’ he replied, dwelling with complete satisfaction on the effect of his communication.

‘From whom, then, in the villa, has such a slander sprung?’

‘That I cannot say.’

‘I must know.’

‘Drowning were too good for him.’

‘Him!’

‘Him,’ repeated the knight, with a nod. ‘There are no women in the villa who could possibly be the author of such a story. It is certain to be a man. Have you no suspicion?’

He could hear the grate of her teeth as she breathed heavily and rapidly through her nostrils.

‘Suspicion!’ she cried, after some inarticulate sounds. ‘How am I to know? A lie – it is for any one – what is easier? A scullion – Caesar – any one can make a lie! It is another matter to discover it – the coward!’

‘Who?’ demanded Afer, starting at the fierce intensity of the epithet.

‘The coward – the liar, whoever he may be.’

‘Humph, that is true; if we could only find him out.’

He looked at her with a sidelong glance. Her face had taken a cadaverous hue, and her forehead seemed to shine as if bedewed with moisture. Her eyes, under their knitted eyebrows, were directed for the moment in fierce abstraction among the thickets of the gardens, so that he had ample opportunity for observing her.

‘Such a fabrication, mischievous as it is, is too idle to cause you concern, Plautia,’ he said, breaking silence. ‘I see it has troubled you as I dreaded; but, in my humble opinion, you consider it too much.’

‘Can I help, and I a woman?’ she retorted fiercely; ‘but I will be even with the coward.’

‘He must first be found; and I think the best plan would be to commence with the individual with whom your name has been linked in such a shameless fashion.’

‘Do you think it is he?’

‘Nay, I cannot say. But as a beginning must be made somewhere in the inquiry, that is the point I should select. I don’t see but what it is as likely as any. He is tall, well-favoured, conceited, like all Pretorians, and more so, probably, since the Prefect makes much of him. He has probably told his comrades some such story, as a boast of his own superior attractions. It is a weakness of the military nature, and of the gorgeous Pretorian nature in particular, to be vain of a supposed fascination over females.’

Plautia smiled disdainfully.

‘I had the opportunity of coming in contact with one of his conquests the other day,’ continued Afer, ‘a young girl with whom he is infatuated, they say. One of the lower people only. The daughter of a potter in Surrentum, who has some sort of reputation for his work. Wishing for some specimens of his handicraft, as a memento of Surrentum, I went thither to purchase, and the girl herself attended on me in the shop. A tall, lithe, handsome girl, undoubtedly, and with a manner altogether superior to that of her class, however she came by it.’

‘And do you think it likely, with such a paragon as this under his sway, he would ever trouble himself to invent a lie concerning another?’ said Plautia.

‘Oh, in the most natural manner possible,’ laughed Afer. ‘You know not these men. Victory does not appease them. They are insatiable after fresh conquests, like Alexander.’

‘Indeed – is it possible?’

She proceeded calmly to gather together the skirts of her garments; and beyond the pallor of her face, the result of her great mental excitement, there was nothing unusual in her manner.

‘If I can help you in the matter, command me, Plautia,’ said Afer.

‘I ask nothing save your profound silence – I will take the affair into my own hands.’

‘It will be well dealt with.’

She bowed her head.

‘I suppose the Centurion is to be found somewhere in the vicinity of the villa?’

‘He left yesterday for Rome on an errand for the Prefect.’

‘You appear to be very intimate with him and his movements,’ remarked Plautia drily.

‘The place is so small, and its events so few, that every one seems to know everything that passes. As for his departure, I happened to be idling on the Marina at the moment he took boat, so that there is no mystery in my knowledge.’

‘No matter; he will return, I presume.’

‘Ah yes, for his sweetheart’s sake as well as his commander’s. It is a matter of jest how he invariably posts to Rome, when often he might save himself and the Imperial horses the labour. For instance, what a fine breeze has been blowing these three days past – a fair wind which would have taken a swift-sailing galley straight from the Marina to Ostia or Puteoli without the touch of an oar.’

‘Winds are apt to fail and change when least desired. He probably prefers the surer method of travelling.’

‘Yes, but why?’ said Afer, with a cunning smile, ‘because his sweetheart’s home is but a few paces from the road to Rome, and thereby he gains the opportunity of seeing her for a few moments, going and coming – that is the real reason.’

‘And an excellent one too, Afer. He shows his devotion as well as his sense. The woman ought to be proud of him,’ she replied, with a perceptible sneer which filled the listener’s heart with transport. ‘Lest it be of use to me, you may as well tell me this girl’s name.’

‘I do not know, I grieve to say, but it may be obtained. Her father is well known, and lives on the further side of the town, close by the main road; he is a potter, as I have said.’

‘Surrentum, I understand, contains many of them. Have you not his name?’

Afer considered for a few moments.

‘Ah, I know – it had almost slipped my memory. His name is Masthlion.’

‘Masthlion – good!’ said Plautia; ‘it may help or it may not. It is as well to know it.’

She turned and walked quickly toward the villa, and Afer attended her in silence up to the door of her apartments.

‘I have been the unwitting cause of bringing you great unpleasantness,’ he said as he took leave; ‘but you will admit that I was unwilling to relate what I did.’

‘I admit it. It was necessary for me to hear eventually – the sooner the better. I now perceive I gave way to my anger more than the occasion warranted, but on a woman slander falls heavier than on a man. Vale!’

She entered the room swiftly and shut the door, and the knight burst into a laugh and strode off.

‘If I have not opened a Pandora’s box in my own small way, I am mistaken. I am not to be treated as she treats that spiritless dog of a Martialis in Rome – no, by Hercules!’

CHAPTER XIX

Afer had gauged with tolerable accuracy the depth to which he had stirred the heart of Plautia, in spite of her efforts to counterfeit indifference. Indeed, with the actual knowledge he possessed of her feelings towards the Centurion Martialis, he could scarcely be misled.

‘She will go straightway and lock herself up alone, to give it all vent,’ he thought to himself, with a grin, ‘and quite right that she should know the flavour of what she deals so liberally to others.’

What the knight thus shrewdly conjectured was actually the course which Plautia followed. No sooner had she quitted him, than, impatiently refusing all the attentions of her women, she closed the door upon them, and gave a full rein to the feelings which choked her.

Furious resentment against the betrayer of her confidence was uppermost; and reflection on the consequences of publicity was maddening to one whose intense pride had never been thwarted in any particular. She would now be haunted by the covert smile, the half-hidden sneer and giggle, though masked by the obsequious court and service which hung upon her nod. She shook her clenched fists in dull fury.

It was the nervous dread of this which formed the obstacle to her burning desire of making personal inquiries into the extent of the evil. To watch the smile on a menial’s face in answer to her questions, would be truly insupportable; but, more than all, would her pride disdain to betray the least token that the matter gave her concern, even to the extent of a simple question. The thoughts, therefore, which remained to comfort her in some degree, may easily be perceived. Her fevered mind was filled with the form of the imagined author of her trouble. ‘Coward, coward!’ she muttered from time to time, in the accents of the deepest rage and contempt, though once or twice it fell whispered from her lips, like an echo of reproach and despair, rounded by a half-hysterical sob.

But all such passing weaknesses were swallowed up in the overpowering resentment which thirsted for revenge. What mischief had already been done it was impossible to remedy. Nothing was left to her but a counter scheme, which might eventually enable her to cry quits. With this intention in full possession of her mind she paced the room, yet was without a sufficiently plausible idea to work upon, when the customary invitation to the supper-table of Caesar arrived. Her first impulse was to remain in seclusion, but, on second thoughts, she reproached herself with want of courage, and determined to boldly accept her position at once. The hour for the meal being near at hand, she summoned her attendants for the business of her toilet.

There was seldom much change in the party at the Imperial supper-table. Plautia, therefore, met the familiar faces, amongst whom were Afer and the Prefect. The task of appearing utterly indifferent and unobservant when, at the same time, the breast is unusually susceptible and sick with nervous dread, is so difficult as to be seldom or never acted with success. The result with Plautia was, that her bearing became haughty and stiff to an unusual degree. Her distempered mind appropriated every smile and jest as in some way connected with herself. Her disordered fancy even reached to the slaves behind her back, furnishing them with imagined nods and winks, and sotto-voce jokes. The exclusive demands on her vigilance by this morbid sensitiveness naturally engendered an abstraction from the conversation of the company, which was particularly noticeable, in contrast to her customary mood. As she was moreover, somewhat pale, Tiberius expressed a fear that she was unwell. Assuring him to the contrary, she made a spasmodic attempt to recover her sprightliness, but, unable to sustain it, she gradually relapsed into her former mood. No further notice, however, was taken.

When the business of eating was over, and the conversation began to lag somewhat, Zeno, whose watchfulness had a care for everything, leaned over the Imperial couch and whispered in his master’s ear. Tiberius nodded.

‘’Tis an artisan from Surrentum, friends, who desires to show me something – some extraordinary discovery. It may amuse us to see what it is,’ said the Emperor.

In a few moments the Greek returned, followed by Masthlion, who seemed to be dazzled for a moment by the lights and glitter of the luxuriously-appointed apartment. The Surrentine’s eyes had never been suffered to fall upon such magnificence crowded within the limits of four walls. When to this was added the scrutiny of the richly-attired guests at table, whom he concluded to be people of the highest rank, including Caesar himself, his temporary embarrassment was only natural. As he stepped inside the room, he made a deep obeisance towards a confused gleam, mingled with forms and faces. But speedily recovering himself, his keen eye roved swiftly round, and noted every particular and face, even of the slaves who stood clustered aside. Thence his gaze returned and rested on the pale, blotched face and brilliant eyes, which, by repute, he knew belonged to his ruler.

‘Approach!’ said Tiberius.

The potter stepped forward into the middle of the floor opposite to the table, and on his flanks, at the same time, moved the Pretorian of the guard, who had attended him into the room. He was dressed in his best dark woollen tunic, and carried in his hand a wallet. His striking face, with its pale massive brow and deep-set bright eyes, caught the attention of all and he stood calmly sustaining the scrutiny of every eye.

‘We are ready to see what you have to show, artisan, and to hear what you have to say,’ said Caesar. ‘Who and what are you?’

‘I am a potter of Surrentum, and well known to the townsfolk. My name is Masthlion, so please you, Caesar.’

Plautia started in surprise as the name fell on her ears, and she roused with eager attention to what should follow. She found the glance of Afer also resting on her, and he slightly raised his eyebrows and smiled.

‘Proceed, then, Masthlion the potter,’ said Tiberius.

‘May it please you, Caesar,’ responded Masthlion, ‘although a potter by trade, I have devoted much time to the art of making glass, – as much in the way of inclination as of making profit. Twenty-five years ago, whilst working under my old master, I chanced to fall upon a piece of glass of very strange quality, amongst a pile of fragments and rubbish of the workshop. It had been fused and formed by some strange accident, and ever since that time I have never ceased in trying to discover the secret of its formation. Within the last two or three days I have, by the favour of the gods, succeeded in my endeavours, and to you, Caesar, first after my own family, I considered it my foremost duty to show it.’

Tiberius nodded.

‘Twenty-five years! At any rate such wonderful perseverance should command respect,’ remarked Sejanus drily.

‘It was the belief that my labour, if successful, would prove a benefit to the world, that has upheld me under much disappointment and poverty.’

‘Very disinterested and laudable,’ said Afer, in a tone which brought a laugh to the lips of the Prefect.

‘You would seem to doubt my sincerity, noble sir,’ said the potter, bestowing a keen glance on the knight, and at the same time opening his wallet, ‘and without being selfish, I think that my long labour and sacrifices should meet with a just return, if the fruit of it prove of real service to others.’

‘Doubtless,’ quoth Afer.

‘Doubtless,’ murmured Caesar, and the knight became silent.

‘This is the specimen I have made to test my words,’ proceeded Masthlion, as he drew out a plain bowl of dull-coloured glass. He handed it to Zeno, who stood by, and the Greek took it to his master who briefly examined it. With a shrug of his shoulders it was handed back to the steward. A smile rested on the lips of the potter.

‘It is true that its appearance has nothing to commend it,’ said the latter, ‘but I will explain that, by saying, that it was made in haste during the past night, that I might hasten hither to-day. It is not the appearance of the glass I wish your highness to judge of – that can be made to suit every taste, with better appliances than my humble workshop possesses. The same principle which constructs this poor bowl can be applied to produce such costly and priceless articles as those I see there,’ – he pointed to some magnificent vases on the table. ‘It is the nature of the material which forms my secret. You know of what worth those vases would be if flung on the floor; they would be shivered to a million atoms. Will Caesar bid the strongest slave take this poor bowl of mine and dash it on the floor with all his might, that he may see the result?’

Tiberius turned his head slightly toward his gigantic Nubian servant who stood behind him. The black went round and took the cup from Zeno. Raising it to the full height of his arm, he dashed it down on the marble floor with terrific force. The derisive smile on his thick lips changed to complete surprise, for, instead of the expected crash was a dull thud. He stooped quickly and lifted on high the bowl with one side completely flattened in.

Exclamations and murmurs of wonder arose, and the bowl was given over once more to the inspection of Caesar, from whom it was passed to the others.

‘Good,’ said Tiberius. ‘What next?’

‘I will proceed to restore it to its original shape, if Caesar will permit.’

Receiving the customary nod, the potter took from his wallet a small block, slightly concave on one surface, together with a mallet and a piece of wood, which had one end fashioned like a wedge, and the other broad and round like a pestle. Placing the bowl on the hollow side of the block, he proceeded to distend the crushed glass with the thin end of the wedge, and, when sufficient space had been made, he inserted the blunt end, and so hammered the malleable glass to its original shape.

Springing up Masthlion once more passed the bowl for examination.

‘This virtue is my discovery, Caesar,’ said he with pride. ‘That frail glass is made well-nigh indestructible. That is my feat accomplished at last. To others who follow it will be easier to further develop the principle.’

The potter and his novel exhibition had now aroused very considerable curiosity in the spectators. Plautia’s interest was in the man rather than in his work, not only by reason of the relation he bore to the affair which absorbed her mind, but also by the natural inclination of her sex. The Prefect was genuinely interested, whilst Afer assumed an amused indifference. Tiberius himself betrayed evident attention to Masthlion’s work, and asked many questions in reference to its qualifications and fitness for further development, not omitting to draw from the inventor brief details concerning himself.

At length the potter received the signal to retire, and Zeno was instructed to retain him in the villa until further notice. One old man at table had kept his peace, watching all and hearing all, with knitted brows and pursed mouth. He was one of the philosophers whose company was so much affected by the Emperor, and his profession was the abstruse science of astrology, a pursuit whose attributes of mystery and superstition especially recommended it to his master’s favour.

‘Look how rapt in meditation is our worthy Thrasullus,’ remarked Sejanus, with ill-concealed raillery; ‘his mind is amid the stars. Say, learned sage of Chaldean mysteries, if this new birth of plastic glass pots has been recorded in the heavens?’

‘In the eternal stars are written all things, but few only of their inscrutable secrets fall within the narrow scope of the human understanding,’ responded the philosopher, in a low tone. ‘My own poor powers have been engaged in tracing weightier destinies than that of a wretched potter.’

‘Oh, for a lesson therein from your learned lips, Chaldean!’

‘Nothing is sacred to the ears of a scoffer,’ said the old man. ‘Thou wilt know well enough some day all that I could tell thee now, Prefect.’

‘And much more too – it requires no planets to tell us that,’ said Sejanus derisively.

Thrasullus smiled scornfully and, without deigning to reply, turned to the Emperor and said, ‘What does Caesar think of this new species of glassware, which would seem to be practically indestructible?’

‘Indestructible material must ever have the preference over the perishable.’

‘Yes, when there is tolerable equality in other respects. For the kitchen and tables of the poor, the ware that is proof against time and usage is priceless. But how, if, as this potter says, the principle can be applied to works of the highest beauty and art, such as deck the boards and mansions of the noble and wealthy, the chosen of mankind?’

‘It does not alter the circumstances. I should prefer to have this precious vase before me safe from all possible fracture.’

‘And so would the rest of mankind owning such a treasure. Thus then, this union of beauty and economy becoming universal, to what esteem and value will the precious metals sink? Look to it, Caesar, and great ones of the earth, possessors of the priceless wealth of gold and silver! This poor potter with his bowl is a leveller and cheapener of ye all.’

‘Thank heaven ’tis a danger I am quit of,’ quoth Afer, in a tone which raised a laugh; and, after Plautia retired a few minutes later, the discussion upon the very plausible theory put forward by Thrasullus was continued with animation some time longer.

The appearance of Masthlion in the character of an inventor struck Plautia as a very extraordinary coincidence, and added fresh fuel to her excited thoughts. She lay sleepless for hours, turning restlessly from side to side with the sharply graven image of the potter rooted in her brain. The mystery of the man’s daughter tormented her. A mental portrait of her she had formed long ago, but now a fierce desire to see with her own eyes took possession of her. She must visit Surrentum – she would request it of Caesar – nay, she would demand it. The old man was infatuated and would grant her any wish – any whim. A thought struck her, and she started up with the blood tingling through her veins. Would not this man’s lovely daughter be a more acceptable and interesting object in the villa than his glassware! Fool she was not to think of it before!

To find the cherished flower – the paragon of loveliness within the fatal walls of the villa when he returned! Ha, then would Martialis have his due. She sank back with a sinister laugh.