Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome

‘I have no wish to go elsewhere, if I may have some supper and a bed, for I am tired out.’

Fabricius called Natta and handed over the Suburan to his care, but not before the articles on the table were once more made up and locked away. Later on the steward appeared to make his report, and was instructed to be careful not to allow the visitor to slip away from the house. When, however, he was further ordered to have everything in readiness for a long and rapid journey southward, Natta, with the license of an old servant, began to expostulate. Not daring to give him any reasons, his master cut him short very peremptorily and dismissed him. The offended official had scarcely been gone a minute before he returned, and handed a letter to his master, with an air of injured dignity. Fabricius broke the sealed thread which bound it, and read inside the following: —

‘From L. Martialis. – I have just arrived. Come to me at once, if possible, for your sake and mine and another’s. The bearer will conduct you. Erase this at once.’

‘My litter immediately – I go with the bearer of this,’ cried Fabricius with sudden energy.

The steward prepared to open his mouth once more, but an angry stamp of his master’s foot, and a flash of his eye stopped him – he hurried away.

Fabricius flung the tablets into the fire and sank trembling on to his knees.

CHAPTER II

Fabricius got into his curtained litter, and the youth, who was the bearer of the summons, led the way across the Tiber to a tavern under Mount Aventine, in the heart of the wharves and warehouses, of the teeming haunts of sailors, and the thousands whose livelihood depended on the ships and commerce which crowded the quays of the busy river.

Here, in an upper room, the old man was brought into the presence of one whom he did not recognise; but when the stranger removed a peruke, and reared himself upright, as Martialis, he hastened to embrace him with a glad cry.

It will be needless to recount what passed between them during the two hours they remained together; or to portray the emotion of Fabricius, already much tried. He perceived that the narrative of the Centurion was substantially the same as that he had heard from Cestus, so far as regarded Neæra; and when he had exhausted his fond ingenuity of inquiry, he put his hand into his bosom and solemnly drew out an article, which he placed in the hand of his companion. It was an intaglio on cornelian, the likeness of a woman’s face, graved with an exquisite art unapproached in modern times. When Martialis saw it he started in surprise.

‘Is there a resemblance? – you start!’ cried Fabricius breathlessly.

‘So great, that I seem to trace Neæra herself in the face,’ replied the young man; ‘and yet it cannot be herself – who, then?’

Fabricius was so overcome with extreme joy that he could not reply for some moments. At last, in tremulous tones, he said, ‘It is her mother’s picture – done before her marriage – not long before. If she be like this, then I shall know the child, and so get my own again. O boy, what a strange working of the gods is here! That I should lose my little maid, and, after long years, you, the son of my old friend, should love her all unknowingly.’

‘Nay, Fabricius, there is nothing strange in my loving her,’ returned Martialis; ‘it was only wonderful that I should have met her, of all women – having seen her and spoken to her, the rest followed infallibly.’

The old man smiled, and rose to go.

‘It grows late – to-morrow I will start for Surrentum. I cannot travel as rapidly as yourself, my Lucius, and, by the time you reach Capreae, I shall have done no more than to have arrived at my journey’s end, though with two days’ start.’

‘Farewell! Let not Cestus nor any one know of my presence,’ said the Centurion.

Fabricius went away home, and on the morrow, though later than he had given orders for, he set out on the southern road, with Cestus, Natta, and a retinue of slaves.

Martialis, at the end of the second tedious day, went to receive the answer to Caesar’s epistle, and, after securing it carefully, set out also on his return.

On the second morning following this, about dawn, Zeno entered his cell in the villa Neptune, and found him lying fast asleep on his bed. He went away at once and reported the same to the Emperor, who himself proceeded with little delay to visit the returned prisoner.

When he entered, the latter was still asleep, and received a shake on the shoulder from the Imperial hand.

‘So, you have returned,’ said Tiberius, as Martialis leapt to his feet and saluted; ‘the letter.’

Martialis ripped the cloth of his inner garment and took out the despatch. Caesar stepped aside and broke the seal, and ran his eye briefly over the contents.

‘Good!’ he said, with a brightened eye, as he rolled up the paper; ‘have you succeeded in keeping yourself unrecognised?’

‘Perfectly well, Caesar, for anything I know to the contrary,’ replied Martialis. ‘I entered and came away from the city at nightfall, and lodged near the Porta Navalis, where there was small chance of recognition – especially in my disguise.’

‘A savoury part to be lodged in, and, as you say, not often liable to the visits of your comrades from the opposite side of the city. You have carried out my commission perfectly well – what of your own business?’

‘So please you, Caesar, there is little doubt as to the identity of my betrothed. It can be satisfactorily proved that she is the grandchild of Fabricius, stolen from him when she was but a child.’

‘So much the better for you in every way – how do you propose to prove it?’

‘As soon as you wish. Fabricius has left Rome, and should be in Surrentum ere now, with those who can give testimony.’

‘And does that testimony still incriminate the worthy nephew?’

‘It does.’

‘Ah!’ said Tiberius, with grim irony, ‘I am more and more interested. I will send for the aged Fabricius and his friends, and administer this matter myself. Where in the town is the old man to be found?’

‘He is to be found, or to be heard of, at the villa of his friend Asinius, whom he proposed to visit.’

‘I foresee an interesting scene – no time must be lost,’ said Tiberius, turning to the door.

‘And my betrothed, Caesar – is she well?’ said the lover.

‘For aught I know – they had my orders to tend her well. They would scarcely disobey.’

CHAPTER III

The following day had been fixed by Tiberius for the formal betrothal of his daughter-in-law Livia to the Prefect; and with the intention of dining and passing the night at the villa Neptune, so as to be in readiness for the ceremony, the Imperial lady set out thitherwards, from her own palace, attended by a numerous retinue. A special command had been received to include the unhappy Neæra among the latter.

The past few days had wrought a change in her appearance. Her form had wasted, and her face was thin and wan with excess of mental affliction. Much as Martialis had suffered, she was even more overwhelmed at the agonising sight of her lover and protector torn away by the soldiers, to what, she concluded, would be an ignominious punishment, or perhaps death. After a sleepless night of horror, she was transferred to the dwelling of Livia, where she was well cared for. This important lady was verging toward middle age; was of somewhat masculine appearance, and as haughty and full of ambition as her intended husband. But, being duly acquainted with Neæra’s story, even her proud nature could not help unbending with pity. The girl’s beauty also impressed her, and she placed her in attendance on herself, and caused her to lay aside her poor homely garments for more suitable apparel.

The Prefect, when he came, was curious to see her and bent admiring eyes on her. ‘It is no wonder Martialis should dare so much,’ he said gallantly, not to say grandiloquently, after his fashion before women. ‘He is the best of my Centurions – but have courage; I will put this matter straight. He is something to me as well as to you. They have penned him up, but I will have him at liberty ere long. He knows you are safe, so take heart.’

With a mind dazed and only half-conscious through suffering, Neæra was thankful for the encouraging words of this personage, whom she surmised to be some one of high position. When she fell back to where the group of attendants were standing, one of them whispered to her that it was the Prefect who had spoken to her. A great load fell from her thankful heart at the words. She gazed back with something like awe at the most feared and powerful man at that moment in the empire. From Martialis she had learned much, from time to time, concerning him; and the assurance, coming from the mighty personage’s own lips, changed at once her agony into hope.

Another sorrow haunted her with an intensity of suspense. Her father – where was he? Was he sick or dying as she had been told? A mysterious dread of ill weighed upon her. The details of her own rough and forcible abduction could not fail but impress her mind with a sense of some evil-doing, so, at the first opportunity, she began her efforts to obtain information respecting the potter. Those whom she asked either denied all knowledge of him or gave evasive answers. In one or two cases, her strong suspicions were aroused that actual knowledge was not wanting, by the hesitating manner in which a negative answer was made. More than ever alarmed by the confused and embarrassed manner of those who seemed to falter before her earnest gaze, her acute anxiety at length emboldened her to speak to Livia herself. The lady received the application condescendingly, and promised that inquiries should be made at the palace. Later on the same day she summoned Neæra and made known to her the fact of the potter’s death. He had been taken ill with a sudden and strange sickness, and had only lived a few hours afterward. Such were the fatal words which fell on the stricken girl’s ears, and, after the first gust of wild grief had passed away, a brooding melancholy possessed her. Her lover was a close prisoner, whose fate hung on the whim of Caesar. The gentle, simple-minded, sweet-natured potter, whom she had filially loved and revered with all the strength of her nature, being also reft from her, no wonder the burden of her sorrow sapped the beauty swiftly from her face, leaving hollow eyes and thin cheeks. She knew that Martialis had been removed to the villa Neptune, and, by the last report, was still there, so, when she received intimation to accompany Livia thither, her heart bounded and her eyes brightened. The journey itself, and the melancholy satisfaction that at each step she was nigher to her lover, did something to restore more colour to her cheek and vivacity to her manner. But what was her unutterable delight, when no other than Zeno, the steward, appeared before her, not long after her arrival, and led her away into a room where she saw Tibia waiting alone to receive her. With an indescribable cry of thankfulness and relief she sprang forward, and the two women were locked in each other’s fast embrace. Neæra was shocked to see the ravages which affliction had wrought in her mother’s appearance, and the heartbroken widow, on her part, scanned the pale face of her fosterchild with tenderness and pity. When Neæra had related her experiences, since she had been taken away from her home, she led Tibia on gently, in her turn, to speak of herself, and of him they had so looked up to, and reverenced. But as the dame came at length to mention her husband, her voice broke down at the word, and she got no further. They said no more – all that was in their hearts was merged in silent weeping. The wonder of Neæra was no less than her joy at the presence of the dame in the island, but the latter seemed loth to give any explanation thereof, and tried to turn from the subject as often as it was put.

Neæra, at last, pressed the matter in an unavoidable manner. ‘Mother,’ she said, ‘you have not yet told me how you contrived to get here. Did they bring you away as they brought me? Or did you come of your own accord to seek me? It was strange if you were able to enter here alone.’

‘No – I came with others,’ said Tibia. ‘You shall know everything.’ She stopped and turned her eyes to the floor, and her breast began to heave with emotion.

A dull, chill horror sank into Neæra’s heart. Her mind was prone to fear, being overcharged and susceptible through long and dark brooding.

‘Speak!’ she whispered. ‘What new trouble is this? Tell me – I can bear it.’

The old woman glanced up into the girl’s face, and, divining the signs of terror which dwelt there, took her hand caressingly.

‘It is no new trouble, thank the gods,’ she faltered. ‘We have had plenty of that. Nay, I must call it rather happiness – ’

‘Ah, I thought you were about to tell me something terrible of Lucius,’ murmured Neæra, drawing a deep breath, as a great load, like the shadow of death, slid from her mind.

‘No! It is of yourself. It is time you must know all,’ said Tibia. ‘Child, you must never call me mother any more.’

It hardly needs to tell the start of surprise which Neæra gave at these words. Through her amazement, the strange wistfulness of the dame’s glance and her broken, pathetic tones struck to her heart. She threw her arms around her aged neck.

‘What is it you are saying?’ she cried. ‘Why do you look like that? What is it I am to know? Am I to lose mother as well? Mother you are, and always must be.’

For some moments Tibia remained in silence within the arms of the young girl, as if unable to force herself from the warmth of what might be the last heartfelt, daughterlike caress. Then at length she slowly uplifted the shapely arms, and, as she did so, pressed one hand of the girl to her lips, whilst the tears trickled down from her eyes.

‘Neæra,’ she said, ‘I have lost my husband, and now the gods will that you shall be taken from me. I have tended you, watched you, and loved you like a mother; but – but, Neæra, we never thought the time would come, nor yet the need to tell you that – that you are not our child. For I have been a barren stock – I never bore a child into the world.’

They sat looking at each other. Tibia, with a pleading, timid expression in her meek eyes, which the tender-hearted girl could not withstand, despite her speechless incredulity and wonder. She thought for the moment that the dame’s sufferings had, perhaps, deranged her faculties, and then, as with a sudden and swift ray of light, her mind recalled one or two circumstances which had puzzled her strangely hitherto. She remembered on that day just as Cestus first appeared in the workshop at home, when addressing the potter as father, he replied in the negative with all the evidences of powerful emotion. Nothing had been ever added in explanation, and the hasty disavowal of relationship had presently sunk out of active speculation beneath other matters, and had been thought of no more. Again, the frantic words of Martialis, as he was hurried away from the presence of Caesar, had been wild and inexplicable to her ears at the moment of their utterance, but, in the agony of her thoughts, they had also fallen unheeded. What did it all mean?

‘I – not your child, mother,’ she said slowly. ‘Do you know what you are saying? You are forgetting – alas, this cruel trouble – it has been too much for you to bear!’

‘I know what you mean, child, but it is not so,’ returned Tibia, in a low voice; ‘it is true, indeed, I never was a mother. You were brought to us a little thing – a very little thing – by Cestus, my brother, for safe-keeping. We never saw or heard of him again till this present visit. We thought he must be dead, and that you, therefore, would never be claimed; so we looked upon you as our own, and never allowed you to know otherwise. What else could we have done? He told us you were an orphan – a poor man’s child – without kith or kin. Now he has come to claim you. Your grandfather is here now in this great house. He is neither poor nor mean. He is a great and wealthy nobleman, and you a great lady. Alas, we did not know – Cestus has done a wicked thing; but idle and evil he ever was from a boy in our father’s cottage.’

Neæra sat silent and motionless, listening as in a dream. The blood surged like a fiery flood through her veins, and then fled back as suddenly, leaving her cold and pale as death. Her mind was in a whirl, and her ideas were helplessly tossing in a hurly-burly of confusion. It was pardonable, in the first moments of strange wonder, that her wild but vivid thoughts flew to the future. Reared amid humble associations, what a new world of hopes, ideas, and curiosity flooded her dizzying brain with sensations here indescribable. Masthlion not her father – nor Tibia her mother! Her grandfather a stranger, awaiting her even now – a noble! She was afraid already. What did it all mean? and why had she been thus treated? Now she thought she saw the reason of the unhappy restraint and mysterious trouble which had clouded their home during the sojourn of Cestus. She had been right in ascribing it in some way to his influence. She turned her eyes on Tibia, who was watching her in deep suspense. There, at least, was her mother in heart and deed, and she opened her arms to her.

‘Mother, I am bewildered! How came I to be with you my life long, if I am, as you say, the child of another – the child of great and wealthy people? Ah, but that you have told me this strange thing I could scarce believe it.’

Tibia received her with a grateful heart, and held her close while she told her the whole story.

‘It was a wicked deed that Cestus did, but he was tempted by one worse than himself,’ said she, concluding; ‘evil he was without doubt, but, to my mind, your kinsman was more to blame, for it was he who planned it. You were nothing to my poor brother till he was tempted with gold. Ah, child, do not be too hard upon him. If he did you and yours bitter wrong, remember that he preserved you when he was paid to take your life.’

‘And this kinsman – who is he, and is he alive?’ asked Neæra, in a hushed voice.

‘I do not know – he may, or may not be. We are here for your grandsire to claim you, and you will soon know everything. When you go to Rome to live among the great people there, will you remember the poor cottage that was your home so long?’

‘Go where I may you must still be with me,’ replied Neæra; ‘how could I forget? I was happy – oh, my poor father, if he had only lived!’

The tears of both began to flow again, and, for a long time, they remained silent and occupied with their own thoughts.

They were roused by the entrance of Zeno, who summoned them to follow him. Neæra drew a sharp breath, and trembled with nervous expectation as she stood up to obey.

‘Keep near me, mother,’ she whispered, as she clutched the dame’s hand tightly; ‘and yet, for the sake of Lucius, ought I not to be glad?’

The apartment into which they were brought was tolerably well filled with company. Tiberius sat on a slightly raised seat, and, in a lower chair, at one side, was seated his daughter-in-law Livia. Sejanus was at her side, whilst conversing in knots, at a respectful distance, were others of the court. Flaccus, Priscus, Marinus, Atticus, the devoted friends of the Emperor, were there, as well as Afer and two or three other followers of the Prefect. Caesar himself was speaking in a low tone with Thrasullus, the astrologer, who stood at his elbow; next to whom was Seleucus, another philosopher, buried in deep reflection. Behind the Imperial chair was, as usual, the gigantic Nubian, and still further in rear, other slaves in waiting, including the females in attendance on Livia. Neæra and the dame, marshalled by Zeno, entered the presence with hesitating steps, and halted near the door – Tibia, with the abashed feelings of her humble timid nature, and the maiden, with an agitation which the circumstances of her position rendered positively painful. She clung tenaciously to the hand of the dame as she ran her eyes hastily over the company. She was even comforted to observe Livia present, and her heart throbbed violently as she cast fugitive glances upon each gray head, in vain wonder as to the identity of her aged relative.

At Caesar’s sign the steward brought them forward in front of his chair. In the hollow of his left hand, Tiberius held the same intaglio which Fabricius had shown to Martialis, in the tavern under the Aventine. He studied it, in conjunction with the face of the maiden before him, with close attention, and then, without a word, handed it to Thrasullus. The philosopher, after a rapid comparison, returned it to the Imperial hand, giving a significant nod. Tiberius raised his voice and called to Afer, who immediately broke off his conversation and approached.

‘Hither – I want your opinion,’ said the Emperor, holding out the intaglio; ‘cast your eyes on this graven stone, and thence on the face of this maiden before us, and tell me if you perceive any resemblance.’

The rest of the company edged nearer with curiosity.

Afer took the likeness, and, as he did so, bent his gaze on Neæra’s beautiful face, with the same supercilious smile, which had proved so offensive to her in Masthlion’s shop. She recognised him readily, and coloured with displeasure, as she haughtily reared her head, and averted her eyes.

‘Have you met before?’ asked Tiberius, closely watching them.

‘Yes, Caesar, to the best of my memory,’ returned the knight, removing his eyes from her face and turning them to the miniature for the first time. He gave an almost imperceptible movement of surprise, and his brows knitted closely over his hooked nose, as he gazed at the portrait in his hand.

‘Where then was the meeting?’ asked Caesar.

‘In Surrentum – if I mistake not, in a potter’s shop. But she is better known, I believe, to the Centurion Martialis,’ replied Afer, with the unfailing curl of his lip, half smile and half sneer.

There was a gentle titter; the face of the young girl became crimson, and she dropped her head. Tibia, despite her timidity, cast an indignant glance at the speaker and those smiling around, as she drew the maiden nearer to her.

‘It may be so, but I wait your opinion with regard to the resemblance which seemed to strike me,’ said Tiberius; ‘you also appear to be very strongly impressed with the likeness, Afer.’

‘In truth, I confess I am,’ returned the knight, as his eyes returned again to the cornelian with a puzzled air; ‘I admit there is a strong likeness, especially in the eyes and mouth, though this is taken from a woman somewhat older. I seem to know the face, and yet – ’

‘Doubtless you do, for it belongs to a relative of your own,’ said Tiberius. ‘He has honoured us with a visit, and here he is.’

All eyes followed the glance of Caesar, and saw Fabricius, followed by Natta and an elderly fellow-servant, appear through the curtains which covered the entrance of an inner room.

The old senator came forward with an erect body and firm step. His face was very pale and stern, and, as he advanced with a measured step, he kept his eyes persistently fixed upon the persons of Tiberius and his granddaughter, to the determined exclusion of every one else.

Afer was transfixed with amazement, and barely saved himself from uttering an exclamation. Had his house on the Esquiline suddenly planted itself before him, his face could scarcely have shown more unrestrained surprise.

‘Welcome, noble Fabricius,’ said Tiberius, as the old man made a deep obeisance before him and Livia; ‘welcome to Capreae – we are busy in this affair of yours. Your worthy nephew looks dumfounded at seeing you.’

‘Uncle!’ cried the wondering voice of Afer, now released by the words of Caesar; ‘you here! This is strange!’

The knight took a step or two forward, and then hesitated. The old man gave him not the least sign of acknowledgment, but, raising his glance for the first time, met the lustrous eyes of Neæra fixed upon him, with a world of anxiety in their depths. The occasional deep heaves of her bosom showed that she was holding her breath in her agitation, and the burning gaze of Fabricius seemed to pierce her with its intensity. He placed one hand over his heart, and a flush covered his wan face. Another moment he looked, and then stretched forth his arms toward her with a strange cry —

‘Aurelia – my Aurelia! My child!’

The poignant accents and the unaccustomed name thrilled through her with indescribable sensations. With no less power, but in a different way, the old man’s words startled his nephew as with an electrical shock. Reaching his uncle’s side at a stride, he grasped his arm, and said sternly, and almost fiercely, ‘What is this, uncle? Is this folly still so strong within you? How came you here in the name of the gods? and in what does this wench concern you? Do you thus accost every girl you see? She is nothing but a potter’s girl of Surrentum.’