Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome

‘Well?’

‘With his last breath he bequeathed to me all that remains of his effects. The box, doubtless, contains the documents relating thereto,’ said the young man, in a voice trembling with emotion.

‘Doubtless – you were his nearest friend and companion,’ remarked the lady; ‘of me, his sister, doubtless, he said nothing. What little there was in common between us was not much tempered with love and good-humour.’

‘Alas, Plautia, take what there is! I want it not – I would give it a hundred times over to gain one kind look from your eyes. He was your brother – born of the same mother – to me he was more than a brother. There he lies before us. Cannot his dead body, bereft of likes and dislikes, soften your heart to me who loved him most?’

‘Martialis, you knew his intention before this night,’ said she, disregarding his pleading tone as she would the whining of a dog.

‘No, before Heaven – or maybe we had never seen this bitter night.’

‘’Tis strange, and you two secretless friends, as I have heard you say.’

‘This, at least, was dark to me, as to every one else, until he drank from yon fatal cup and fell back where he lies.’

Plautia took up the cup from the table where Charicles had placed it, and, with a natural curiosity, smelled at it, as he had done.

‘Take care!’ ejaculated Martialis, as the golden rim seemed to graze her ripe lips. ‘There is yet sufficient left to harm more than one – so the physician has said – beware lest a drop smear thy lip.’

‘Tush, Martialis! – I am not so tired of life,’ she replied contemptuously, setting down the goblet; ‘who comes?’

‘Festus, the lawyer, or thy uncle, Sabellus.’

‘Festus?’

He pointed to the box, and, at the same time, an old man entered, wrinkled, grave, and thin. He made a profound obeisance, and then looked inquiringly from one to the other.

‘Martialis summoned thee, he hath need of thee, Festus,’ exclaimed Plautia haughtily; and, passing to the door, she summoned the domestics.

‘It is true I sent for thee,’ said Martialis briefly.

‘This is a woeful sight,’ said the lawyer, as the slaves crowded in, and, under the directions of the lady, lifted their dead master and bore him away to his own room. ‘It was only this very morn that I saw him and spoke with him in the forum of Caesar, as well and content as ever he was, to all seeming.’

Martialis took the key of the casket and placed it in the lawyer’s hand.

‘Open the box – it was the gift of Apicius to me, his friend.’

Plautia took up her position on one of the couches, stretching her magnificent form on the place and cushions which had before been occupied by Sejanus the Prefect. The long, loose, flowing drapery of the Roman female clung and moulded itself to the voluptuous curves of her figure. Gems and trinkets of gold glittered amid the wreathed and plaited masses of her bluish-black hair, and numberless jewels flashed upon the fingers of her dainty white hands. Her features were slightly aquiline, but perfect and delicate in outline, and her ivory-like skin was warm and glowing with the tints of a ripe peach. With her bold, imperious, black orbs she looked like a queen as she reclined, the most apt and brilliant centrepiece of that apartment of gorgeous splendour.

The grave, elderly Festus, as he opened the casket, cast at her a glance filled with admiration. Martialis buried his face in his hands, as if fearful of allowing his hungry eyes to rest upon her, except at intervals, when the matter in hand called for some remark.

When the lawyer opened the casket he found therein several papers. After glancing at each in turn, he took one up and said, ‘This is the will of M. Gabius Apicius, bequeathing his property solely to Caius Julius Martialis, knight, his friend.’

‘Read!’ said that unhappy personage in a hollow tone.

Festus obeyed. The task was brief and did not occupy many minutes. The remaining papers were found to be informal inventories of effects. Martialis bade him read them also. They were long; including, as they did, everything of value in the house. Plautia signified her impatience long before it was ended, and, during its progress, a slave entered to announce that Sabellus of the Aventine was not to be found.

When the wearisome monotone of the lawyer at length ceased, Martialis raised his pale face from his hands.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed the lawyer suddenly; ‘here I find the value of the whole computed. Deducting the debts due, and a few minor bequests, the balance amounts to an estimate of ten thousand sestertia.’3

Plautia started on her cushions at the statement.

‘What!’ she demanded, contracting her fine black brows; ‘ten thousand sestertia, free?’

‘Absolutely, as the will expressly states,’ replied Festus. ‘The whole total reaches a huger sum, but there are debts, as before mentioned. No money is spoken of – these inventories must be realised.’

‘Was this the poverty he fled from? Why, it is a fortune – a heaven to the greater part of mankind!’ she exclaimed.

‘Ay, but not to the mind of Apicius,’ interrupted the voice of Martialis; ‘for remember – scarce a coined piece within his coffers. Everything gone but what the walls of the house compass. Had Apicius lived it was necessary to live as hitherto. To do that he must needs have despoiled his home – the noblest in Rome – of its treasures. Rather than strike, to all, the note of disgrace and ruin, he did as he did. It was pride, not fear – it is too plain. But small or great as the remnant may seem to thee, Plautia, thou art his nearest of kin – to thee, therefore, it belongs. I have no claim but what the love of a friend has given me. I render it up – take it therefore.’

‘A noble deed!’ quoth Festus.

The glance of Plautia softened a little, and she held out her jewelled, white hand to the young man. With eyes aflame he seized it, and covered it with kisses.

‘It is truly high-minded and generous of thee, Martialis,’ she said.

‘Take it – I need it not!’ he answered eagerly.

‘Foolish!’ she rejoined, drawing her hand away and accompanying her words with a mocking smile. ‘Bid Festus teach thee to be wiser than rob thyself.’

‘It is a question for his own heart to decide,’ remarked the lawyer, replacing the papers in the box.

‘Festus has done his part and I will keep him no longer – say no more!’ said Martialis.

The lawyer rose at this hint, and at the same moment a voice came from the doorway. Looking thither they beheld a tall cloaked figure standing in the doorway, regarding them and their surroundings with keen eyes.

Martialis started. ‘Lucius!’ he exclaimed.

‘Even so, brother,’ returned the new-comer.

It was indeed the Centurion, bearing the stains of hard travel on his garments and a jaded air on his face.

Plautia rose to her feet. Her cheeks were suffused with a sudden flood of crimson, and her bosom stirred her tunic with deeper and more rapid pulsations. A delicious tremor seemed to melt her natural stateliness of carriage. Her eyes, so full of haughtiness and will, encountering the calm gaze of the Pretorian, sank like a timid child’s, shaded beneath a deep sweeping fringe of eyelashes.

A deadly sickness crept about the heart of Caius Martialis, for his senses, preternaturally sharpened, saw all.

‘Do you seek me?’ he demanded, scarcely able, or caring, to conceal the bitterness of his tones.

The Centurion dropped his cloak from his shoulder and stepped forward, whilst, at the same time, Festus, the lawyer, glided from the room.

The resemblance between the brothers was traceable in the mould of their features. But, whilst those of the soldier were scarcely so finely carved as were his elder brother’s, they were considerably more manly and decided. The expression of spirit and determination which was characteristic of his bronzed face and fearless glance, were less perceptible on the countenance of the civilian. The vigour and robustness of the younger eminently fitted him to press forward in the battle and strife of the world; whilst the characteristics of the elder were of a more delicate organisation, which seeks the calmer atmosphere and placid occupations of retirement and study. The personal appearance of the Centurion, which has already been alluded to, spoke for his habits. His commanding stature, rude health and strength and perfection of physical training were all at the service of the readiness and resource of mind which seemed to lie charactered in the glances of his eyes. On the other hand, the person of Caius was medium-sized, and the signs of habitual ease, indulgence, luxury and pleasure, were only too plainly stamped on his face, to the deep injury of its native nobleness and delicacy.

‘Do you seek me?’ said the latter.

‘No – I seek the Prefect. Not at the camp, I was directed to follow him here. No porter in the lodge to tell me – no slave visible. I found a light here – if I have intruded I am grieved, but you paid no attention to my knock.’

‘Sejanus has left some time ago – a long time.’

‘Whither, then, Caius, do you know?’

‘No – nor care – faith not I!’ was the careless and somewhat uncourteous answer.

‘You have travelled far?’ broke in Plautia’s voice; deeper, softer, and more melodious than hitherto.

‘I have, Plautia, and I trust the Prefect will not lead me much farther.’

‘Whence have you come? You are fatigued – I see it in your face. You must, then, have ridden a prodigious distance; for your fame, as a horseman, has reached even me. You are a very centaur, so rumour tells me.’

‘Rumour tells many idle and foolish things, but, as I have posted fifty leagues without stopping, save to change horses, since my last brief resting-place, I may claim to feel somewhat weary. I am thirsty too – with your leave, I will drink a cup of wine with infinite relish.’

He turned toward the sideboard where the wine-flagons stood; but, ere he could take a second step, she glided past him, and selecting one of the vessels, raised it with her own hands. Caius looked on and gnawed his lip.

‘I will be my own cupbearer,’ cried the Centurion; ‘you do me too much honour, lady.’

As he relieved her of the pitcher, he would have been scarcely human not to have dwelt with admiration on her brilliant beauty, which was unusually flushed and animated. She parted with the jar, and, at the same time, flashed a glowing glance upon him with her lustrous eyes.

He turned round from those dangerous orbs to fill with the wine the nearest cup which stood on the table. The eyes of his brother Caius suddenly gleamed with a hard, steel-like glint, and his face turned, simultaneously, deathly white. Lucius half turned as he raised to drink from the cup he had filled. The bumper had barely reached his lips when a scream burst from the throat of Plautia. With the cry she sprang forward and dashed the vessel from his hand on to the polished floor. The wine splashed them both and the goblet fell with such violence as to be dented. It was that one which had already played such a fatal part that night.

Transfixed with astonishment the Centurion gazed upon the beautiful girl, whose face crimsoned and paled, and whose bosom heaved and fell tumultuously.

‘It was the cup – the poisoned cup!’ ejaculated she.

‘The poisoned cup!’ cried he, looking with increased surprise from one to the other.

A terrible revulsion of feeling swept through, and shook, the frame of the elder Martialis. At the look of his brother he gave a hysterical gasp and dropped his head into his hands.

Plautia pointed to the fallen goblet with an impressive gesture, and said, ‘It has already taken the life of one man this night. Had you drunk therefrom you would have shared his fate. That cup yet reeks of the fatal drug. Though I saw you not fill it, fortune be praised that my poor eyes perceived it ere your lips touched its horrid brim.’

‘How, the death of a man?’ repeated the bewildered Centurion.

‘Even so! From that very cup at the close of this night’s feast,’ said she, waving her hand over the glittering disorder of the table, ‘Apicius, of his own will, drank a poisoned draught.’

The young soldier was horror-struck. He looked around and shuddered.

‘Apicius – poisoned himself!’ he muttered. ‘This is a dreadful tale – and for what reason, in the name of the gods?’

‘Your brother can tell you better than I – he was his bosom friend, and, moreover, was present,’ answered Plautia, turning away, as if to hide a sudden burst of feeling.

‘Nay!’ said Lucius hastily, and with deep sympathy, ‘I will trouble you no more with my presence. I will learn, in sad time enough, the terrible tale – I would spare you the pain of a fresh recital. Alas, I dreamt not what had happened, and yet I remarked it strange that Apicius was not here. You will pardon me, Plautia. ’Tis a sudden and bitter blow – farewell!’

He gathered up his cloak, and, as he turned to the door, he spurned the goblet with his foot, muttering some expressions of abhorrence and disgust.

‘Stay, Centurion,’ said Plautia, ‘go not without quenching your thirst. If I was lucky enough to rob you of your first draught, here is wine enough, and of the purest.’

While she spoke, she quickly filled another drinking vessel with wine and water.

‘See,’ she said, coming forward with it, ‘I will be answerable for it. Drink without fear – I will be your taster.’

She accordingly drank two or three mouthfuls and offered him the ample remainder. He drank as briefly as herself and merely out of courtesy.

‘You said you were thirsty.’

‘I was. It seems to have left me.’

‘Had you drunk before, you would have been, now, far beyond all thirst on earth.’

‘I am indebted to your keen eye and prompt arm for my life, therefore. I trust chance may enable me, some day, to repay the debt.’

‘Tush, Centurion, you are jesting. You, the Pretorian Achilles, acknowledging to the hand of a weak girl!’

The young man bowed coldly, for the style of the speech was not very agreeable to his mind.

‘Farewell, Plautia. I trust you may speedily find comfort in your affliction. Do you come, brother? My way lies with yours for a space.’

Caius shook his head.

‘Nay!’ said Plautia, ‘he must remain, where my brother hath left him, in charge. But I will beg your escort, Centurion, as far as you will give it, through the streets; for I came hither in haste, with scarce a follower.’

‘That shall be my task, Plautia. It belongs to me rather than to him,’ interposed Caius, starting up fiercely.

‘To whomsoever I choose to give it,’ said the lady, with an accent of supreme haughtiness.

‘It must be as Caius says, nevertheless,’ observed the Centurion quickly. ‘I have that about me which must be delivered without further delay, and I have dallied too long already. Forgive me the discourtesy, lady, for my duty must take me back to the camp, in such direction and haste as would prove inconvenient to you. It is unavoidable, and I must risk your displeasure in deference to my business. Farewell!’

Bowing toward her, the Pretorian abruptly left the apartment and the house. Plautia bit her lip and clenched her hand; and, when the voice of Caius uttered some remark, she turned suddenly and fiercely upon him. She shot a basilisk glance upon him and pointed, without a word, to the jewelled cup on the floor. His cheek paled and his eyes wavered, and finally fell before the incisive eloquence of her look and gesture.

He essayed to speak and move toward her, but an imperious wave of her hand rooted him to his place in confusion. The next instant she was gone, and he was left, once more alone, to wrestle with the tortures of remorse, jealousy, and despair, which writhed together on the cold background of his grief.

His brother, on quitting the gloomy house of Apicius, turned his tireless steps toward the permanent fortified camp, or barracks, which had been formed by the present emperor to accommodate the household troops, on the north-east edge of the city, beyond the slope of the Viminal and Esquiline and the wall of Servius. His road lay tolerably straight across the city, under the Carinae, partly through the Subura, and finally along the Vicus Patricius, which followed the valley between the Esquiline and Viminal hills. Then, directly in front of him, rose the ramparts and walls which harboured about ten thousand horse and foot.

The origin of these celebrated troops is said to rest with Scipio Africanus, who, in the first instance, formed a company of picked men to guard his person. This cohort was exempted from all other duty and was granted larger pay. Their number was increased from time to time, until the Emperor Augustus established them in cohorts of a thousand men each, horse and foot, to protect his power and person. They were chosen only from Italy and the old colonies, and we have already hinted at their superior privileges, pay, and equipment. Careful to avoid any appearance of despotism, Augustus retained only a small portion of them in Rome, and scattered the rest among the neighbouring towns. It remained for the fears or craft of the Emperor, his successor, from whom our young Centurion now bore a despatch in his breast, to assemble them all into one body within their strong, fortified camp in Rome, thus fairly starting them on their future path, in which they rivalled the janissaries of the eastern emperors in making and unmaking the rulers of the empire.

Of these troops Sejanus was the commander, and entering the camp, the Centurion proceeded to his quarters to find, to his satisfaction, that his search was at an end.

Sejanus was sitting thoughtfully in a chair, with his brows contracted and deep lines furrowing his forehead.

‘Ah, Martialis!’ he cried eagerly, as his eyes rested on the form of his officer; ‘I heard you had returned.’

‘I followed you, Prefect, to the Palatine,’ replied Lucius.

‘To the Palatine! Ah, then you must know what has happened there. It will be all over Rome to-morrow. You have a despatch?’

He held out his hand, and the Centurion placed a sealed letter therein.

Turning his back on the messenger, the Prefect tore open the cover and read the contents by the soft light of a silver lamp, which barely illuminated the luxurious apartment. Pleasure and delight straightway broke over his face like the first light of dawn shooting athwart the dark earth. He perused the epistle twice, and smoothed his countenance ere he turned to the waiting Centurion.

‘You have been an expeditious courier, as usual, my Lucius,’ he said, in a brisk, elated tone. ‘When did you leave Capreae?’

Martialis related the time and particulars of his journey.

‘Thou art made of iron, I verily believe,’ returned the Prefect smilingly; ‘after such fatigue I am loth to use thee again. I work thee too hard; but there is another service imminent, and I would have none perform it but whom I could trust.’

‘I am ready. What fatigue I feel will pass with a night’s rest,’ answered his officer.

‘What should I do without thee? It is the willing horse gets ever the most work; but this matter is particular.’

Then before he told his officer the nature of the service required, he proceeded to put to him a number of questions in relation to his experiences during his mission. When he had exhausted his ingenuity concerning everything he could think of, pertaining to matters in the imperial household, he relapsed into silent reflection for a few minutes, during which he paced up and down the room.

‘Centurion!’ he said, at length, ‘Drusus leaves Capreae and comes to Rome shortly. To-morrow, after nightfall, take a troop of twenty men and ride to Ostia. Drusus will arrive there in a galley. You must stop it and arrest him. Bring him to Rome, under guard, at night, and place him in charge of the keeper of the palace on the Palatine. All will be in readiness to receive him. Be careful and secret. Leave and enter the city by night; and, when you have completed your mission, hasten to report the same to me without delay. Now to bed!’

Martialis was not loth to obey, and, seeking his room, was in a few minutes sleeping the profound slumber of tired limbs, an easy conscience, and bright hopes.

CHAPTER V

From the house of Apicius and the spectacle of his sudden and awful end Sejanus had first gone to the modest abode of Domitius Afer. There they remained closeted by themselves, engaged in earnest conversation, until shortly before the meeting of the Prefect and his officer, as described.

Previous to this Afer had quietly sent off a message to Cestus by the Greek Erotion. That astute youth threaded the inmost haunts and foul intricacies of the Subura with sure confidence, and succeeded in discovering the object of his search, deluged with wine, and revelling in the heat of a brutal orgy, amid ruffians and women of the lowest type. Assailed by the obscene chorus of this satanic crew, the Greek, with the readiness and aptness of his race, exchanged witticisms with a fluency and smartness which equalled, if not exceeded, their own. Seizing an opportunity, he whispered into the ear of the intoxicated Cestus the instruction to meet his master in the gardens of Maecenas, on the following morning, at a particular spot, at a particular hour. The fellow, with a leer, nodded and agreed, and the young slave departed to report the result of his errand.

The gardens of Maecenas were on the north-eastern side of the Esquiline, nor must the term gardens be accepted in the modern sense; for, to suppose that they were ornamental grounds, and duly kept in order by a staff of servants, would be misleading. They seemed to be, and there were many such in Rome, open places for the common recreation and airings of the populace. These, to which Afer repaired to keep his appointment with Cestus, had been formed by the celebrated patron of literature and art, upon ground which, hitherto, had held bad repute, as the burial-place of the lowest orders of the people. It seems, even, to have been no uncommon matter for the bodies to be thrown down and left without any covering of earth whatever. To clear this charnel ground, and change it from a horrid repository of mouldering bones and putrefying flesh into a pleasant lounge for the people, was one of the generous works of Maecenas. It lay outside, and adjoining, the ring wall of Servius, and we may conclude the place was not altogether denuded of its sepulchral memories, since it was here that Canidia, the witch of Horace, came to perform her incantations, and invoke the shades of the dead amongst the tombs.

Though this particular part without the wall had the most need of purifying measures, and bore the most infamous memories, it did not form the whole extent of the gardens. They extended within the wall, for a certain distance along the hill, toward the city. Near this extremity was situated the noble mansion of Maecenas himself, commanding a fine prospect of the city from its windows.

Past this dwelling, and at every step treading on ground so often pressed by the famous Roman poet and his patron, Afer took his way to await the arrival of Cestus. He passed through the Esquiline Gate of the huge rampart of Servius, and entered the outer portion of the gardens. It was the busy time of labour, and the morning itself was somewhat raw and chilly, so that very few individuals were to be seen scattered here and there over the open park. The few who did loiter about were of the class that honest labour could well spare.

In the portion of this large tract which had been devoted to the burial of the dead, were still many tombs scattered up and down. They were grass-grown, neglected, weather-beaten, and still more defaced by the climbings, scramblings, and mischievous peltings of children and youths. Among them was one of larger size and more pretentious appearance than any other. It was circular in shape, and constructed of massive masonry, which defied all attempts at destruction. It bore no inscription, and was conspicuous for nothing but its superior bulk. There was a tradition among the people of the neighbourhood, that it marked the spot where an erring scion of a noble house had sunk so low as to meet death and burial as a common malefactor, in days past when the place was reserved for the wretched fate of the dregs of pauperism and crime. Though disowned by his outraged family during his depraved life, the death of the reprobate aroused the inextinguishable feelings of kinship. Family pride could not leave even this dishonoured member without some mark of attention due to his birth, if to nothing else; but no chisel was suffered to raise a letter or figure on the tomb which arose. Darkness and oblivion were the fittest shrouds of disgrace, and the muteness of the masonry lent a mysterious affirmation of the legend to the minds of posterity.