Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome

Whilst in the middle of the first course the last guest entered the room to make up the number of nine – three to each couch, the number of the muses. The new-comer was rather short in stature and thick-set, with squat, dark features, as though descended from negro blood. As he came into the room he glanced round with a supercilious look. Scarcely bending to his host, he bowed more markedly to Sejanus, whilst the remainder of the company he seemed to ignore utterly. The seat reserved for him was the lowest on the couch next his host – the worst at the table. He took it with a scowl, amid the ill-concealed smiles of the others. Apicius himself, after bidding him welcome, sank back on his cushions with a sigh of triumph and relief. Zoilus the millionaire, the son of a slave, the great rival of himself in the extravagance of Rome, had on a splendid silk garment, but it was only edged with gold, whereas his own was most beautifully figured and wrought with the same all over.

The enormous acquired wealth of this individual, and his ostentatious use of it, made him a very noted leader of fashion; but, while people applauded and truckled to him they scoffed aside at his innate vulgarity and arrogance. He began his dinner, at once, by asking haughtily and ill-humouredly for some unusual dish. It was at once supplied. Apicius ate calmly on, and the rest smiled and winked covertly. It was a trial of strength between the champions of luxury. The same thing happened more than once throughout the banquet; but nothing, however rare, in the range of culinary art was lacking from the plate of Zoilus that his ingenuity could suggest. The face of Apicius, though calm and stoical, covered a heart devoured by anxiety. A slight defection of his cook, a slight oversight in the study of their records, a trifling mistake or misadventure in the combination of their ingredients, might have opened the way for his rival’s adverse, if courteous criticism. But everything was perfect. The household, from its officers downwards, had surpassed itself. The result was the perfection of culinary and decorative art, combined with the utmost variety and rarity. Praises flew from lip to lip. Some were fired into ecstasies of admiration and wonder; pleasure sat on every countenance, except that of Zoilus. He had remained silent for full a quarter of an hour. His ingenuity was exhausted, and his enemy’s armour unpierced. It was the culminating point of the complete pre-eminence of Apicius. He gave a sign, and the butler, with much solemnity and ceremony, set a magnificent dish on the table with his own hands, amid a flourish of the musicians.

The guests looked on curiously.

Apicius announced the name of the delicacy which steamed on the gleaming gold. He bade them try it. Its style was entirely new and novel to Rome. A portion was cut and handed to Sejanus; after him the others were served. Its delicious and novel flavour was proved by the enraptured expressions of each feaster as he tasted the portion set before him. It had only one fault, as Pansa said, with a sigh – there was not enough of it. Zoilus was left to the last, and the only remaining piece on the dish was placed before him. Livid and trembling with passion he motioned it away, muttering something about his inability to digest it. Apicius, therefore, with mock regret, beckoned the slave to transfer it to himself.

‘Good!’ said he, when he had finished it, speaking to his steward, whose glance hung upon him. ‘Tell Silo, Hippias, and Macer, that they have surpassed themselves. Their master is well pleased with them – with you all. He will not forget.’

It is to be regretted that history has preserved only the tradition of this remarkable production of Apicius’ kitchen, the fame of which subsequently filled aristocratic circles. Further than relating that the foundation of the dish was the carcase of a small unknown animal, captured in the limits of the empire, and brought home by a recently arrived ship, all details are wanting.

Gradually, after this interesting incident, the guests, languidly, fell more at their ease on their cushions, with laden stomachs and appeased appetites. Beyond nibbling furtively at sweet dainties and fruits, there was only inclination left to sip at the precious wine, and to employ their tongues and laugh at each other’s wit. But from this stage Apicius himself relapsed once more into his former fit of silent, unconscious abstraction. The minutes gathered into hours, and chatter and jest flew uninterruptedly around. Only at times the host was roused by the jesting challenges of his guests, rallying him on the subject of his absorbed reflections. Among the numerous glorious entertainments of Apicius this, the guests admitted to each other in many an aside, was the most perfect Rome had yet known. And yet, instead of being blithe and jocund with success, the hospitable entertainer reclined with melancholy, fixed eyes – opening his lips only to sip his wine from time to time. This could not fail to have an effect eventually, for what ought to have been the inspiration of their conviviality was cold, fireless, and mute. They struggled on for some time, but, at length, their cheerfulness sank beneath the chilling influence of those fixed, sad, downcast eyes and heedless ears. A social meeting largely takes its tone from its leader, and when the conversation became slower and more fitful, Afer exchanged glances with Sejanus and Flaccus with Charinus. Meaning looks went round from each to each to the seemingly unconscious Apicius, and from Apicius back to each other. Zoilus had no love or good-feeling to detain him. More or less discomfited and snubbed, he waited no longer, kicking against the pricks, but seized the opportunity and began to rise, briefly hinting that his absence was necessary.

‘Stay!’ said Apicius, suddenly starting, as if from a dream, at hearing these words spoken in his ear. ‘Stay yet for a few moments, Zoilus. I – I implore your pardon, friends, for I see I have fallen a prey to my reflections and forgotten you. It was behaviour unworthy even of a barbarian – I pray you give me your indulgence!’

‘Nay, noble Apicius, every one is liable to be overridden by his thoughts,’ said Sejanus.

‘True, and I will forthwith give you the clue to mine,’ was the reply.

‘Ha! we will, therefore, begin again,’ quoth Pansa, in thick tones, holding up his empty goblet for his slave to refill.

They all laughed, and then bent their eyes on the face of Apicius with renewed interest.

‘Nothing, dear friends, but the most sorrowful thoughts could have led me to exhibit such conduct toward you,’ said their host. ‘It has been my greatest ambition – ever my pride and pleasure to see my friends happy around my table.’

‘Dear Apicius, you have ever succeeded, and not the least this day,’ said Martialis gently.

A murmur of approval ran round the couches.

‘You do me honour,’ resumed Apicius; ‘you have been good friends and companions hitherto, and I have done, humbly, my best to return your love. Be patient, I will not detain you long; and especially as you will never again recline round this table at my request. I am grieved to say it,’ continued he, after allowing the expressions of startled surprise to pass, ‘but I am resolved to change my condition, and Rome will know me no more.’

Ill-concealed joy lighted up the vulgar face of Zoilus, but the visages of Torquatus, Flaccus, and Pansa were blank and thunderstruck at this unlooked-for announcement.

‘Say not so, Apicius!’ quoth Martialis, turning his prematurely worn, but noble face toward his host, ‘you rend our hearts.’

Apicius, with a fond look, laid his hand gently on the speaker’s shoulder, but did not speak.

‘This is rank treason that cannot pass,’ said Sejanus jestingly. ‘Rome cannot spare thee, noble Apicius – thou shalt not even leave thy house – I shall send a guard of my Pretorians, who shall block thee in.’

A faint smile rested on the lips of Apicius at this conceit.

‘We shall see how that plan will act, Prefect,’ said he. ‘Send thy Pretorians – a whole cohort – only you must be quick.’

Torquatus sat dumb and forgot his jibes; the remainder listened for what was to follow.

‘It is true, my friends, I am about to quit the pleasures, the bustle, the virtues and vices of our beloved city of the hills. I am eager for perfect serenity, far from the struggling crowd, and I go shortly to see it.’

‘Whither? We will seek you out – I, at least,’ interrupted the voice of Martialis next to him.

‘Thou shalt learn ere very long, my Caius. Which among you does not, at certain times, if not constantly, wish for the tranquillity of the rustic, whose music is the whisper of the groves, the rippling of the stream, and the notes of the birds? Eating simply, sleeping soundly, rising cheerfully. Contented with what the gods have given him – the summer sun, the pure air, the green pastures, sweet water and the vine-clad slope; a heart unvexed by ambitions, envyings, ingratitudes. When I see him wander, wonderingly, through the streets, I envy him his brown cheek, his clear skin, his cheerful simplicity, his vigorous body which cleaves the torrent of pallid citizens. He seems to breathe the odour of the quiet groves and dewy grass. I am sick at heart and weary, friends. I loathe the sight of my once loved city of the hills – the marble, the stone, the thronging people. Peace! Peace! That song of Horace haunts me. Hear it, although you know it well – it will help you to divine my spirit in a little degree.’ He then recited the beautiful song of Horace, the sixteenth of his second book, of which we offer the following translation, inadequate as it is: —

‘Whosoever tempest-tossedUpon the wide Aegean waters,Prays the gods for peace and rest,When darkling the moon is hidAmid the murky clouds,And guiding stars shine notTo cheer the sailor’s breast.‘War-torn Thrace cries Peace!And Peace! the quivered Median bold:But, Grosphus, it is neither boughtWith purple, gems, nor gold.For neither richesNor the lictor of a consul’s nod,Can drive the troubles of a mind aloof,Nor flout the cares which flitAbout a gilded roof.‘With him who lives with littleLife goes well;Whose father’s cupShines bright upon a simple board:Whose slumbers lightAre never harmed by fear, nor sudden fright,Which tells of hidden hoard.‘Why strain ourselves to gain so muchIn this short life of ours?Why change our childhood’s homes for landsThat glow with other suns?What banished man whose fate is suchHe fain would shun himself?‘Grim, cankering care climbs up the brazened ships,And swifter than the stag,Or eastern wind which sweepsThe storms and rattling rain,It leaveth not the bands of horsemenTrooping o’er the plain.‘Be happy for the day,And hate to think on what may follow!Tempering all bitternessWith an easy laugh;For no such happiness there isAs knows no sorrow.‘Swift death bore off Achilles, and old ageHath shrunk Tithonus —Time, mayhap, will give to meThat which it denies to thee.’

This foreign rendering can give only a faint idea of the effect which Apicius produced upon his hearers, by the beauty of his elocution, in his native tongue; for it was given in a voice of singular, pathetic melancholy. The hot burning tears dropped silently from the down-turned face of Martialis. Then, for a brief moment, he raised his swimming eyes toward his friend. All that was purest and noblest in his nature struggled with those welling drops, from beneath the load of a careless, misguided life, and beautified his weary face. The voices of the others were raised in entreaties and arguments, and even Torquatus summoned a snarling joke. But Apicius was firm, and only shook his head.

‘Think not that I go heedlessly,’ said he; ‘we have passed many delightful hours together. Although I shall henceforth be absent, I would not have my memory altogether die amongst you. I have, therefore, to ask each of you to accept of a slight memorial which may, at various times, as I hope, recall something of Apicius and his days.’

‘But you tell us not where you go,’ murmured Martialis once more.

‘Patience, Caius – you shall know; it is within easy reach, on an easy road.’

Martialis made a gesture of pleasure, and Apicius gave a sign to his butler. On a sideboard stood a row of nine objects of nearly equal height, entirely draped and hidden by white gold-fringed napkins thrown over them. They were curious and unusual, and had, many times, already, excited the inward curiosity of the company.

The slave advanced to these and carefully took the first. At a nod from his master he placed it before Martialis, on the table, with the snowy white napkin still hiding whatever was beneath. The next was placed before Sejanus. The others before Charinus, Flaccus, Torquatus, Pansa, Afer, and Zoilus in rotation. One was left. Apicius pointed to his own place. The slave put it down before him, and the table was ranged round with these mysterious white-robed objects.

‘Friends,’ said Apicius calmly, ‘beneath those covers you will find the presents which I give to you in token of our fellowship. I have striven to the best of my ability to render them suitable and useful to their owners. Look at them and accept of them, I pray.’

They all, with more or less eagerness, lifted the napkins from their allotted gifts and sat gazing thereat, at Apicius, and each other with mingled expressions of ill-suppressed anger, mortification, and disappointment. The napkin before Apicius was still untouched, and he received the rancorous glances which were shot towards him, with a calm, scornful expression.

Before Sejanus was a small representation of a lictor’s fasces, a miniature axe bound up in a bundle of twigs; but in addition to the axe was the model of an iron hook, such as was used to drag the bodies of traitors and malefactors down the Gemonian steps into the Tiber.

The cheek of the conspirator flushed, and from beneath his gathering brows he flashed a look as dangerous and dark as a thundercloud.

‘Be not offended, Prefect,’ said Apicius; ‘I act as a true friend who fears not the truth, and not as a parasite, who bestows nothing but what may prove pleasant to the ear.’

His cold, mocking tone belied his words, and, ere he finished, Zoilus, with a face purple with rage and fury, had jumped from his seat and dashed the article he had uncovered to the floor. It was a small figure of a negro, carved in ebony, having its nakedness barely draped in a ludicrous fashion with a little cloak of figured silk.

‘What!’ cried Apicius jibingly; ‘displeased with the image of your grandfather?’

But Zoilus, speechless and shuddering with his boiling feelings, rushed from the room with his slaves. He was followed by a titter, which the biting satire of the proceeding even wrung from the offended natures of the others.

Torquatus sat scowling before a small stand, on which was placed a common wooden platter having a copper coin in the centre. Pansa evinced his disgust of a similar stand bearing a diminutive cup of silver. The figure of a very ancient goat on its hind legs, having a garland of roses around its horns, caused Flaccus to fume and fret immoderately. Afer smiled scornfully upon a miniature gilded weather-vane; whilst a mirror, upheld by an Apollo, with an averted face, was regarded by Charinus with ineffable disdain.

Thus had Apicius amused his invention. A small bronze casket was deemed sufficient for Martialis. It was unpretentious in its outward appearance; but a fast-locked box ever provokes curiosity.

‘Lift it, Martialis!’ snapped Torquatus derisively, ‘and see whether it be filled with iron, or chaff, or what is lighter still – emptiness.’

‘There is the key, my Caius,’ said Apicius, in answer, drawing the article from his breast and handing it to his friend. ‘Before you leave the house you shall use it – at present, sad necessity must deprive any one of the pleasure of seeing what the box contains. Dear friends,’ he added, turning his eyes upon them, ‘I grieve that my trifling tributes should not, by appearances, have pleased you. Had I been less truthful and more liberal, probably you would have overwhelmed me with gratitude. At least I have ever found it thus. There is little more to add save farewell – Caius, give me thy hand.’

The hand was extended and grasped fervently by Apicius, who then lifted the napkin before him. A richly chased gold cup, studded with jewels, was exposed, gorgeous and glowing, to the expectant gaze of all. The eyes of Torquatus, Flaccus, and Pansa kindled. Sejanus still sat motionless, with a cloud resting on his pale, immobile face. The sad brooding eyes of Martialis showed no change.

‘That is my father’s cup,’ continued Apicius; ‘Martialis, thou wilt preserve it – it is too rich for my future needs of simplicity. I will drink to the future welfare of you all. May the gods send you plentiful pastures of liberal purses and groaning tables; and may ye die the death of noble, virtuous, uncovetous men. Listen, dear friends,’ he said, with a bitterly scornful emphasis of the adjective, ‘I have lived to the age of forty years. With your help and the help of others I have spent of my patrimony sixty-four thousand sestertia.’2

A movement of sensation passed round the couches at this calm statement of such enormous extravagance.

‘In the process I have discovered how rarely the immortals make true friends, and how idle it is to try and gain them with the glitter of gold alone. I have met with but one in my career who has followed me for love – Caius, true friend, may the gods repay you, for Apicius cannot.’ He raised the goblet in his hand; it was partly filled with wine. Looking round the company, while he poised the flashing cup, he said: ‘Vultures, I have done. I have had my pleasure – I have spent my patrimony – what is left I give to thee, Caius – that casket will vouch for it. I want it not; it is not worth living on for. Vale!’

He emptied the cup at a draught, threw it from him on to the table, and then proceeded to sink back to his former position on the cushions. Ere he reached them, the smile on his lip became suddenly contorted into a horrible grimace. The pallor of his face changed to a ghastly lividness. His body and limbs gave a spasmodic twist of agony, and he fell back a breathless corpse.

The room was filled with consternation and confusion. Martialis, with a horrible suspicion, sprang up and encircled his friend. Slaves sped away for a physician, and the remainder, together with the guests, gathered round the dead Apicius with startled looks.

‘Come!’ said Sejanus to Afer in a low voice, ‘we can do nothing here but waste time. Apicius has given the signal to depart. His only true friend will attend to him – the slaves will probably see to the house – and themselves.’

‘The fool,’ muttered Afer, following the imperial minister out of the room, ‘he has lost his fortune and dies – I go to get one and live.’

The company fast melted away. Charinus, with haughty, measured step, and sublimity of indifference on his unruffled face. Pansa, stupefied with wine and fright, leaning on the necks of his slaves, who, indeed, nearly carried him. Torquatus, with a keen eye for any movables and an opportunity. So they departed to blow this strange business over the city.

A group of frightened domestics remained huddled in one corner of the room. Martialis waved them away, and he was left, amid the gold and glitter of the chamber of death, bending and sobbing alone, over the dead body of his friend.

CHAPTER IV

The entrance of one of the household domestics, bringing a physician, roused the young man from the first stupor of his shocked feelings. He rose to his feet and assumed a stoical calmness.

‘I am a physician,’ said the new-comer, breathing somewhat heavily, by reason of the pace at which the slave had hurried him thither. Martialis made a gesture toward the dead man and sank his chin on his breast. It needed no more than a moment for the practised eye of the mediciner to see that life had been suddenly and utterly snatched away.

‘I can do nothing,’ said he, letting the hand of Apicius fall. ‘Out of which cup did he drink?’

Following a slight motion of the young man’s head, he went and picked up the jewelled goblet, which remained on its side, near the edge of the table, where Apicius had thrown it. He put his nose to it and sniffed the dregs. There was no odour but that of wine, yet the man of science shrugged his shoulders significantly.

‘There still remains in the cup enough for the death of two or three, most noble sir,’ said he.

‘I might do worse than try to prove your words,’ remarked Martialis bitterly.

‘The gods forbid! Aesculapius himself could not save you if you did!’

‘To whom and to what place am I to send if I should want you again?’

‘I should be ever grateful for your notice, noble Martialis. I am Charicles, and may be found without difficulty in the Vicus Tuscus.’

Martialis nodded, and Charicles, with much humility and expression of sympathy, withdrew.

‘’Twas for himself then,’ he muttered, as he passed quickly through the deserted hall. ‘O precious drug, swift and sure as light, when did you ever fail or disgrace me!’

The eye of Martialis fell on the casket which Apicius had bequeathed him. He stood regarding it for a few moments, and then turned to a slave who remained, and said, with renewed vigour of faculties, ‘Let the kinsfolk of Apicius be brought hither at once, if not already sent for – Plautia, his sister, Sabellus, his uncle; and go you, yourself, bring with you back, in all haste, Festus the lawyer, from nigh the forum of Caesar – haste!’

The slave disappeared and left him once more alone. He stood and gazed on the face of the dead, and his grief broke beyond his control. Half-smothered sobs broke from his lips, and his eyes were blind with hot pouring tears.

‘Oh Apicius,’ he groaned, ‘if thou wert weary of the world, hadst thou so little regard for our love and companionship? This is thy retreat from men so easily found! Easy indeed – thou didst not err. All may reach it when they list, gods be praised! For in whose ear can I whisper, as I whispered in thine, all that oppressed me? Gone – gone, Apicius! Thou hast forsaken thy friend – selfish – selfish! Did you deem the void would be filled by another of your blood? Oh, miserable thought!’

He lay stretched on a couch murmuring in broken sentences, but, as the leaden minutes lagged on, he became more composed. The sound of a voice without made him leap to his feet. The next instant the heavy curtains were thrust back, and a young, richly-attired female stepped into the apartment. Despite the crushing blow the heart of Martialis had received, it gave a bound at the entrance of the new-comer. Her stature was above the feminine standard, and her figure large and voluptuous, but perfect in symmetry and grace. Whilst giving the impression of robustness and vigour, its stately carriage admirably matched the brilliant and haughty beauty of her face. The gaze of Martialis was riveted on her. Scarcely deigning to return the look, she swept up to the suicide and bent over him. Drawing herself up again she cast her glance over the room, – the disordered table with its litter of plate and luscious fruits, fallen cups and crumpled napkins, all glittering in a jumble of confusion under the light of the huge candelabra. Thence her brilliant black eyes flashed upon him who stood by, with infatuation and misery written on his face.

‘Speak, Martialis, what led him to do this?’

‘I know no more, Plautia, but what he said before us all here but now,’ answered the young man, sweeping his hand toward the table; ‘he was tired of life – he had spent his patrimony – poverty haunted him – so he drank and died, ere one could move or speak.’

‘Poverty!’ echoed she. She looked round again upon the extravagance which glowed in every part of the room, and her red lips curled in scornful incredulity.

‘Even so,’ he rejoined.

The farewell and eccentric gifts of the dead host to his guests were yet remaining on the table where they had been put. Her eyes rested on them in curiosity.

‘What are these?’ she demanded again.

Martialis explained their presence, and, being particularly interested, she was not satisfied until she had learnt to whom each article had been appropriated.

‘And that he gave to you?’ said she, pointing to the bronze casket.

‘He did,’ replied Martialis.

‘Know you what it contains?’

‘I can only guess.’