Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome

‘My ankle seemed to turn on some cursed stone,’ said Cestus, as he gathered himself up, rubbing his elbows and knees.

Fabricius inquired if he was hurt.

‘No, not much – nothing that I can feel yet, save a bit of a shake.’

Pannicus took his lantern to his fellow-slaves to have it relit.

‘Never mind the lantern, man! Who wants candles with such a light as this Diana gives us?’ cried Cestus, with a parting rub at his dusty clothes, – ‘come, we can see better without.’

‘I think so,’ remarked Fabricius quietly, and the remaining two lanterns were extinguished.

The road began to descend again toward the valley. In some places it was cut through the rock, more or less deeply, and at one particular spot it passed through a grove of trees. The chiselled rock, which walled the upper side of the road, was scarcely breast-high, and fringed to the very edge with ancient trees, as though the process of cutting the path had been limited by veneration for the spot and the bare requirements of the work. This was a barrier on one hand which required considerable agility to surmount. On the opposite side the face of the hill continued to slope downward from the edge of the path into the dark depths of the grove, which the moonlight was unable to penetrate. It was one of those silent, secluded, mysterious spots, rich in tradition, which were fast disappearing before the relentless march of the spreading city.

A few paces within it stood a large square altar, dedicated to the deity of the grove. Its sculptured figures were indistinct, and worn by centuries of elementary strife. The hoary trees surrounded and spread their branching arms far above it. The silvery rays of Diana slipped through upon it, and it stood, barred with light and shadow, in its sylvan loneliness – ghostly, mysterious, and, as one might fancy, meditating on the memories of generations.

It was to this spot the party led by Cestus now approached. The hour was growing late according to the habits of people then. The road, never very busy at any time, was deserted, and the dwellings had ceased before they reached the sacred grove.

They walked on until they arrived within eighty or ninety yards of the ancient altar. Fabricius was busy balancing his hopes against the logic of his experiences, and his slaves were, no doubt, cursing the whim of their master, in bringing them out on such a nocturnal expedition. Suddenly Cestus, who had beguiled the way by an intermittent conversation with his companion Pannicus, picked up a stone, and flung it vigorously, as far as he could, among the branches of the trees, in the direction of the altar, which they were approaching. The pebble rattled among the twigs, and fell, with a thud, on the turfy sod beneath.

‘What now, good fellow?’ cried Fabricius from behind, ‘has your day’s labour not given you sufficient exercise?’

‘Dost not see it?’ said Cestus, pointing to the tops of the trees, – ‘an owl! shu!’ And he made a loud noise and flung another stone.

‘Hush, man – you will stir the goddess of the grove – leave the owls in peace!’ said Fabricius.

Cestus accordingly desisted, having done as much as he required. In a few strides they were opposite the altar. The Suburan stopped, and wheeled round so suddenly, that the old Senator and his two slaves well-nigh ran against him.

‘What now, man – what possesses you?’ said Fabricius sharply.

‘One minute, so please you, to pray to the goddess for my poor comrade?’ asked Cestus.

‘Go, then!’ replied Fabricius in a gentle tone, and the pretended workman stepped aside to the altar, where he appeared to engage himself in devotion. He prayed, as follows, in whispered tones:

‘Are you all there, and ready?’

A murmur and a voice rose from the thick shadow of the stones, ‘Ready, ay, and sick of waiting – are they yonder?’

‘Three dogs of slaves who will run at a shout, and the old man himself. I have come, on leave, for a minute to pray for a sick comrade to get better who died five years ago. When we move on I shall whistle, and then come you on our backs like four thunderbolts.’

Having said this Cestus turned to go back, when a sibilant ‘sh!’ detained him.

‘Wait, Cestus, I think I hear horses’ feet, and the game will be spoiled – hark!’

But Cestus was either not so keen of hearing, or else was too impatient to make a speedy end of the business, so that, after listening for a brief second or two, he snarled in reply, ‘What horses, you fool; there are no horses out this time of the night, on this road – just as likely the goddess herself – be ready for the whistle!’

With that he rejoined the party, who were resting unconscious of such a dangerous trap. They had scarcely taken half a dozen steps onward, when Cestus gave his signal, shrill and sudden. Four forms leaped like tigers from the shadow of the altar and fell on the affrighted slaves. Cestus himself bounded on Fabricius. At the same time the figure, which had dogged their steps from the Janiculum, leaped down from the rock-wall of the road and stood apart to watch. Two of the slaves had fallen in the sudden onslaught, but the third had managed to escape at the top of his speed. Fabricius, who, in despite of his age, retained yet a large use of his keen senses and bodily activity, had taken sufficient warning to raise his staff, and meet the charge of Cestus with a vigorous blow. The ruffian staggered, and the moonbeams flashed upon the polished blade of a weapon, which was dashed from his hand by the lucky stroke.

‘Wretch!’ the old man shouted, when a blow from behind felled him senseless. Cestus, furious with rage and pain, belched forth a frightful imprecation. His right arm was benumbed or broken, and he stooped for his knife with his other hand.

Not far away was a sharp turn in the road. The tramp of horses and the jingle of accoutrements smote on their ears.

‘Bungling fool!’ hissed the mysterious figure, springing forward to complete the work in which, so far, the Suburan had been foiled. But he was met, and rudely thrust back by the powerful arm of the confederate who had knocked the Senator down from behind.

‘Take your time, my lad,’ bellowed that individual hoarsely, ‘he’s more mine than yours.’

The slash of a poniard was the answer, and they closed in a struggle, when the others suddenly raised a cry of ‘Cave!’ and fled in all directions into the recesses of the wood. A body of horsemen had rounded the bend in the road and was almost upon them. They were in military attire, and the moon glittered on their polished helmets and the trappings of the horses. The foremost trooper immediately sprang to the ground and rushed forward, followed by two or three more. The struggling men parted and darted into the grove after their companions, whilst the foremost of the new-comers, singling out Cestus, followed him at the top of his speed. He was in a few moments hard upon the heels of the Suburan, who strained every nerve in fear of his pursuer, who possessed a far fleeter foot than himself. Fortune favoured him just at the critical moment, when, in terror, he seemed to feel a hand upon his collar. The outgrowing, straggling roots of a tree tripped the foot of the trooper, and he flew, with a dire crash, to the ground. The fall was so violent that he lay for a few seconds stunned. When he picked himself up, the whole of the flying vagabonds had disappeared among the gloomy boles, like water through a sieve, leaving neither trace nor sound behind. He shook himself with a laugh, and gathering up his brazen helmet, walked back to the road. Some others of the troop were here dismounted, using their best efforts to revive the unconscious Fabricius. Flasks were produced; wine and water were poured into his mouth and rubbed on his temples. The two inanimate slaves were laid side by side until a helmet full of water could be brought from a neighbouring fountain to be dashed upon them.

The soldier we have particularised knelt down beside the prostrate Fabricius. ‘Is he badly hurt?’ he asked.

‘It is hard to say, Centurion; but, dead or not, it is a man of the Senate,’ replied the comrade, who was bathing the old man’s forehead.

‘Humph!’ said the Centurion, ‘is, or was, rather – he wears only the narrow band. However, he is worth the trouble of a few minutes. Do your best. Do you object to wait for a brief time, Drusus?’

This question was addressed to one who sat motionless on his horse close by. Leading reins were attached to his charger’s bridle and held by a mounted soldier on each side.

‘No!’ replied this person, ‘I hold this delay as kind and fortunate, for the pleasant moonlight and the sweet air of heaven will soon know me no more.’

Fabricius soon showed symptoms of life, and then his recovery was rapid. He sat up and glanced around. ‘Where am I? What is all this? Ah, I know,’ he ejaculated. ‘I remember! – but you?’

‘Why, simply in this way,’ responded the officer; ‘we saw you on the ground, and a couple of night-hawks squabbling over you. A few moments later, and probably you would never have spoken again on earth.’

‘Most surely – robbed of what little money I have about me, and deprived of my life as well. I have been decoyed into a trap,’ said Fabricius, rising to his feet, with the help of the Centurion’s arm. ‘Thanks! My name is Quintus Fabricius, and I dwell on the Janiculum. I owe my life to you this night, and I will prove my gratitude, if my means and exertions are able to do so.’

‘There needs no thought, but thankfulness, that we chanced to arrive so opportunely. The rest was easy – they ran off when they caught sight of us – we came, saw, and conquered!’ said the officer, laughing.

‘Be that for me to determine,’ rejoined Fabricius; ‘I will ask but two things of you.’

‘Name them.’

‘The first is the name of one I have cause to remember.’

‘We are a good score of fellows – would you wish for them all?’

‘Thine only. Through you I shall know the rest.’

‘For their sakes, then, we are Pretorians.’

‘So I see,’ observed Fabricius, with gentle impatience.

‘Well, then, I am Centurion thereof, and my name Martialis. But what of that? We all have done, one as much as another, and the whole amounts to nothing, – come, sir, and I will send two or three to guard you home.’

The old man, still somewhat confused and trembling, murmured once or twice the name he had heard, as if it bore some familiar sound.

‘Your name seems to ring in my ears as if I had heard it of old,’ he said; ‘but that in good time. Having given me your name, you will not, therefore, refuse me the honour of your friendship. Give me your word, you will visit me, and speedily. In the Transtibertine I am to be found by the simple asking.’

‘Willingly! I accept your kindness with pleasure,’ answered Martialis, with growing impatience to go onward.

‘Come with me now! Your men could return without you,’ urged the old man.

‘What – entice me from my duty! Nay, you would not,’ cried Martialis, shaking his head and laughing.

‘He would be bold, indeed, who would try to seduce an officer of our Prefect,’ interposed the quietly bitter voice of him who sat on the led horse, ‘especially when that zealous and frank-minded Prefect sends his officer to lead a son of Germanicus, like a felon, to Rome.’

‘What! – of Germanicus!’ exclaimed Fabricius, in astonishment, and ere he could be stopped he pushed up to the speaker and seized his hand.

‘Drusus – of that same unhappy family. Evil fate spares us not.’

‘Your pardon, Prince, but this is against my orders,’ interposed Martialis, quickly and firmly; ‘you will not compel me to enforce them?’

‘Enough! Lead on!’ responded the ill-fated prince, in a mournful voice. ‘Farewell, friend, whoever thou art.’

‘March!’ commanded the Centurion, and the band proceeded. He himself walked on foot at its head, in order to lend the old Senator the support of his arm. The slaves Pannicus and Cyrrha, with no worse effects of their adventures than a confused singing in their heads, brought up the rear. In this wise they continued, until they had crossed the mount and descended to the level ground near the Trigeminan Gate. Here Fabricius took leave of his preserver, with a few warm heartfelt words of thanks, and Martialis detached two of his men to escort him home. Continuing on his way the Centurion led his troop in double file. The clang of the horses’ hoofs, with the jingle of accoutrements, awoke the echoes of the silent, empty streets. Ascending the Palatine they halted before the Imperial palace, and were received by an official and a few slaves. The prisoner was desired to dismount, and he was led into the palace. The lights of the interior showed him to be a young man of not more than one or two-and-twenty, and he maintained the sullen expression of one who has suddenly been made the victim of deceit.

‘Is this my journey’s end?’ he asked of Martialis.

‘Here I must quit you, noble Drusus; I have no further instructions than to leave you in charge of the keeper of the palace.’

‘Take me to my room then,’ said the prince, haughtily, to the keeper, ‘where I may eat, and drink, and sleep, and forget what I am.’

The keeper obeyed and led the way through the halls of Caesar, until they arrived at a narrow passage, which terminated in a descending flight of stone steps.

‘Whither are you taking me?’ demanded the prisoner sternly, as he came to a sudden halt.

‘To the vaults of the palace,’ answered the official laconically.

‘Know you who I am?’

‘Perfectly well. But I am ordered to place you in the vaults, and I have no alternative but to obey.’

The young prince looked fiercely around, but seeing how useless any resistance would be, he dropped his chin on his breast with a silent stoical resignation which touched Martialis to the heart. Torches were lit and the party descended the steps, and went along an underground passage. The keeper of the palace halted before a narrow, heavily-barred door, and unlocked it. It needed a strong pressure to cause it to move on its hinges, and, as it did so, a heavy, damp, noisome atmosphere puffed forth, which caused the torches to flicker and splutter. They went in. The interior was hewn out of the rock; spacious enough, but humid, chill, and horrible – a perfect tomb. The trickling moisture, which bedewed the walls, glistened icily through the gloom in the light of the torches, and the floor was damp and sticky, and traced with the slimy tracks of creeping things. There was a pallet and a stool, and the slaves placed some eatables thereon. Martialis felt sick at heart and shuddered.

‘You are sure you are right in bringing him to this fearful place – a place unfit for a beast to rest in?’ he whispered to the gaoler.

‘It is the best of all the vaults,’ was the brief reply.

The unhappy prince looked round, in a stupefied way, and shivered. The change was frightful, from the sunny skies and balmy air of the lovely sea-girt Capreae. Martialis stepped up to him. ‘I must leave you, Drusus,’ he said; ‘I am sorely grieved to quit you in such a lodging – it must be by error, and if so, I will not fail to do my best to have it rectified at once.’

‘Thanks, friend,’ said the unfortunate, looking with fixed eyes; ‘bid them send their murderers speedily!’

Without another word he went to the pallet and sat down, and buried his face in his hands in mute despair.

One of the torches was fixed into an iron socket on the wall, and the order was given to withdraw. Full of distress, Martialis took a second light from the hand of its bearer, and extinguishing it, he laid it on the little stool, so that it might succeed the other when needed. Then taking his large military cloak from his shoulders, he gently dropped it over the unhappy prisoner’s form and turned away. The dungeon was then vacated and locked, and the Centurion rushed, as hastily as he was able, with a heart full of painful feelings, up into the fresh pure air and sweet moonlight outside.

When he reached the camp with his troop, he was summoned to the Prefect to deliver his report, which was received by the commander with every sign of satisfaction. Proceeding, on his own impulse, to describe the dreadful circumstances of the prisoner, he was coldly interrupted and dismissed. He turned to go, inwardly burning with disgust and indignation.

‘Stay, Centurion!’ cried Sejanus; ‘you have been inquired for here to-day – it is right I should inform you.’

‘Indeed! In what manner, and by whom, may I ask?’ said Martialis coldly.

‘By a workman – a potter from Surrentum! Ha! You change colour!’

‘’Tis not from shame at least,’ returned the other haughtily.

‘No, no – from conscious folly rather. You would wed a potter’s girl. You are blind to your own interests. Amuse yourself with her, if you wish, but think twice ere you bind a clog about your neck.’

‘And even such clogs are as easily got rid off as assumed at the present time,’ retorted the Centurion cuttingly.

Sejanus bit his lip, and his brows met darkly. The retort cut home, for he had put away his wife Apicata, to further more freely his guilty intrigue with Livia, the Emperor’s daughter-in-law.

However, he replied sarcastically, ‘That is true; but not in the case of such eminently virtuous men as yourself, Martialis. But just as you think proper – it is your own matter. As long as it affects not your Centurionship I care not – not I.’

‘Rather than suffer that to happen, Prefect, I would relinquish my duties entirely – you need have no fear,’ answered Martialis coldly, and, saluting, he left the room.

CHAPTER IX

Cestus, straining every nerve as he fled from the scene of his failure, expected each moment to feel the fingers of his rapidly gaining pursuer hooked into his collar. Doubling this way and that through the gloom, in imminent peril of smashing his skull, and experiencing all the terrors of a hunted hare, he gave a gasp of joy when he heard the crash of the trooper’s fall at his heels. A few more leaps took him out of sight and hearing; and then he doubled on his track. When he gained the edge of the grove, he dropped down at full length in a convenient shelter, with his heart throbbing well-nigh to bursting, and his eyes swimming. His slothful, indulgent habits rendered him totally unequal to such a terrible trial of exertion, and his horrible gasping for breath was so severe as to render him incapable of perceiving whether there were any signs of further pursuit. Burying his face in the grass, he smothered, as well as he could, his grievous pantings, until he recovered breath sufficiently to sit up and listen with more attention. All was as still as death, however, and, in another quarter of an hour, he felt emboldened to make the best of his way to the safe haunts of his native Subura. Going cautiously he quitted the Aventine and gained the Ostian road which ran to the heart of the city. As he progressed along the deserted streets he began to curse his ill-luck and speculate on the consequences. The promised reward, though further from his grasp than before, yet shed its glamour over his mind, and whetted it to ponder over renewed plans, on a less delicate and ingenious style, more peculiarly his own.

The vast exterior of the Circus Maximus towered on his left. Walking swiftly along its moonlit, porticoed base, full of caves of ill-repute, another figure appeared, so as to converge on to the track of Cestus.

Traversing that mighty circuit of masonry, the Suburan overlooked the approaching object, as one might have overlooked a small animal specked on the side of a mountain, until he found himself in close proximity, and then he quickened his pace. The result of this was that the stranger did the same, and the mind of Cestus began to wax uneasy. He finally started off at a smart trot, whereupon he was hailed by an angry voice.

‘Stop, you fool!’

Cestus recognised the tones of his patron and waited in as much dread as surprise.

‘I did not recognise you, patron,’ he said, as the knight came up.

‘So you have got away clear,’ said Afer sharply.

‘More by good luck than anything else – there was a swifter foot than mine behind me had it not slipped,’ replied Cestus, humbled and abashed by his failure. ‘You were too bold to be nigh – had you been caught, it had been fifty times worse.’

‘Rest yourself easy on that score – I am not such a bungler as yourself.’

‘Well, patron, the plan failed, but you can hardly blame me,’ began Cestus.

‘Whom then? if not you. It is the climax of your bragging worthlessness – idiot!’ said the knight wrathfully.

‘Well, but, patron – the soldiers! Who could be at both ends of the road at once? Another minute and I had done my work to perfection – I had finished it even now, but for that meddling fool, who chose to put in his word. Be reasonable, patron; I carried out your plans to the very letter and minute, but you made no provision for a troop of legionaries to interfere.’

‘Silence, blockhead! could I not see?’ fumed Afer. ‘Why, the old dotard, if they had left you to it, would have cracked your skull, thick as it is.’

‘No, never – if he outlived Saturn!’ retorted the Suburan, with rising voice, as well as choler, ‘nor fifty dotards from fifty Janiculums. Let me do the job in my own way, without the useless tomfoolery of a whining tale and a moonlight walk, and a cohort of asses lurking on one’s steps – leave it to me alone and you shall see.’

‘Yes, I should see you with thy neck in a noose and myself proclaimed,’ sneered Afer. ‘Leave it to you, indeed! If you cannot do better than this, with four stout fellows to back you, what would you do alone? Fool!’

‘I am no fool!’ returned Cestus fiercely; for the cutting contempt and epithets of his patron were more than he could bear.

‘A double fool – a swaggering, bragging, drunken fool, thick of sense and slow of hand – faugh!’

‘I tell thee, Afer, I am no fool!’ bawled Cestus; ‘it is thyself!’

‘I was, to trust your workmanship. Fabricius eats his postponed supper, and you are off to your foxholes, like a cur, with its tail between its legs. Begone and trouble me no more!’ thundered Afer, in uncontrollable passion.

‘You shall know that – clever as you think yourself, you are under my thumb. One word from me – ’

‘Silence, you dog, when I bid you!’ hissed the knight, striding up to him and clutching his collar.

‘Not I, by Hercules!’ cried Cestus, thoroughly roused and reckless as he shook off the grasp. ‘You, a chicken-hearted, double-faced pauper, to be my master – ’

‘Accipe – ! Let that silence thee for ever!’

The knight threw up his arm as he spoke, and the Suburan, giving a sharp cry, fell heavily, stabbed in the breast.

Afer hastily wiped his poniard and replaced it in the folds of his cloak.

‘There is no bungling in this,’ he muttered; ‘dead men tell no tales.’

Only delaying to drag the fallen man by the heels more into the shadow of a wall, he hurried swiftly on; and, before morning dawned, he entered the yet sleeping town of Tibur, disappointed in mind, and yet not altogether without a feeling of satisfaction and relief at the course circumstances had taken.

CHAPTER X

Not far from the shadow of the Capitoline, and nigh the Forum of Caesar, Plautia dwelt in a small, but handsome mansion. Her wealth, although not as great as that squandered by her spendthrift brother, was yet ample, and in her hands better controlled. Her entertainments were not very frequent, but, nevertheless, were famous amongst a certain set for their enjoyableness, which was due, not alone to the exquisite fare provided, but more to the tact of the hostess in selecting her guests. We have already attempted to describe the attractions of her brilliant, though voluptuous, style of beauty. Of lovers she had no lack. Her manners with all of them were perfectly free and familiar. So misleading, that more than one, ere now, encouraged and inflamed thereby to presumption, became sorrowfully aware of the claws which lay sheathed in velvet.

She was a mystery, therefore, and a tantalising one. Whispers and rumours were perennial; but yet absolute proof was wanting to substantiate the fame which people awarded her. She, herself, was indifferent, and could return as haughty and unembarrassed a stare as any which the proudest patrician matron bent upon her. Even those individuals, proverbial for the possession of the most secret information – namely, her handmaids and domestics – were at fault; so secret, variable, and contrary were her actions and humours.