“And will you answer for the perfect innocence of Eurymachus, on your solemn oath and pledge?”
“My lord,” said Barbatus, “he is as innocent and pure as the sun in the sky. I will swear it by the soul of my dead son! Ah, you do not know his persecutor, the ruthless Stephanus – if you did, you would have no doubts in the matter. The crimes that man has committed during the last ten years, cry to God for vengeance like the blood of the massacred lamb of Bethlehem! I, as you see me, have been the victim of that wretch!”
“You too? How did that happen?”
“In the way which might be called ‘the way of Stephanus.’276 I had inherited a little fortune from my father, and had laid it out at interest; I intended to save it and add a little to it for Glauce, for I could earn my living as a smith. You know, my lord, how badly free labor is paid in Rome; however, no pressure of want had ever made me touch that little dowry. I only spent the interest even during five or six years, to make a comfortable home for Glauce and give her some education. Well, one day Stephanus produced a forged will, by which the money was left to him under some trivial pretext. He was a beginner in those days and tried his hand on small game, but since then he has grown greedy and gorges the fortunes of men of higher rank. However, everything turned out as was to be feared – false witnesses, cunning lawyers and bribed judges – I lost everything I possessed.”
“Atrocious!” exclaimed the young noble. “And did no one come forward to stand up for you? Did no young advocate defend the truth for truth’s sake?”
“No one. Oh! Stephanus went to work more craftily than you fancy. He bribed those, who might have opposed him, with imaginary legacies from the testator – some he frightened with mysterious threats – but in short, he has grown rich, a perfect Croesus, and all by forged wills. Hundreds of his victims have perished in despair and misery. He shuns neither violence nor treachery; and he sins unpunished, for he has powerful supporters. It is said that Parthenius, the chamberlain…”
“Enough!” interrupted Quintus. “His hour too will come; it would be well for your safety, no doubt, that it should strike soon.”
“We are not idle,” said Glauce. “My father has now found what he long hoped for in vain; a just and learned patron, whose liberality shrinks from no sacrifice. You must have heard of Cneius Afranius?”
“Cneius Afranius? I know him very well, and have met him repeatedly in the house of Cornelius Cinna. He is making himself talked about…”
“He has spoken in the Forum five or six times,” interrupted Thrax with eager warmth. “His success was splendid. – Ah! and what a feeling soul! What a heart overflowing with noble unselfishness. Merely for the sake of right and enthusiasm for the truth, he is indefatigable in his attacks on Stephanus, often as that cunning fox has succeeded in parrying the stroke. Twice, when Afranius was on the very point of opening his case in due form, some inscrutable power has intervened to stop him. – However, if it is true, that dropping water wears away a stone, even Stephanus must some day come to grief.”
Quintus sat silent for some time; he seemed to wish to reflect at leisure on all he had heard, and no one disturbed him.
“My friend,” he said at last: “I too am ready to help you in my way, as honestly as Cneius Afranius – but first tell me one thing. Is Eurymachus still in Rome?”
“In the neighborhood.”
“And you will not send him farther off as speedily as possible?”
“It is impossible, my lord,” said the old man sadly. “Stephanus has set every means to work. Hundreds of watchmen and slave-catchers are on the alert; notices on the walls offer large sums for the apprehension of the fugitive; even appeals have been made to the Vestal virgins277 to pronounce their ban, so that he may be spellbound within Rome. In short, discovery would be certain…”
“It is so indeed, my lord,” added Diphilus. “And do you know why Stephanus is making this mighty stir? Eurymachus knows some secret of his life, some hideous crime, worse than all the rest he has ever committed. And it was for that reason, that even on the scene of his execution Eurymachus was gagged.”
“And moreover,” added the old man, “in his flight that night he wounded his foot badly. He could not leave his hiding-place at present, even if he wished it.”
“And what can I possibly do for you in these circumstances?”
“Procure his pardon, my lord!” cried Glauce, lifting her hands imploringly.
“Or a mild punishment,” added Diphilus.
“Perhaps,” Thrax went on, “you might even be able to help Afranius, by removing some of the obstacles which hinder the course of justice. Your illustrious father – cannot he do anything he chooses in such matters? And will not his generosity pardon Eurymachus for escaping, if you are his advocate? I know, of course, that Titus Claudius is the foe of the common herd; often, indeed, he has exercised the sternest severity towards guilty slaves; still, he is wise and far-seeing – at fitting times he can be merciful too…”
“I will see what can be done.”
“God’s blessing rest on your head!”
Quintus looked keenly at the speaker.
“Listen,” he said after a short pause; “am I mistaken, or do you belong – as appearances would indicate – to the sect of Nazarenes?”
“My lord,” said Barbatus, “in speaking to the generous preserver of our Eurymachus, I may surely forget that prudence compels us to keep our religion a secret. Yes – I will freely confess it, I am one of those highly-favored ones, whom the people designate as Nazarenes. We are Christians – I and mine – for so we call ourselves after the founder of our sacred religion, who suffered death under Pontius Pilate. Diphilus and Euterpe too have received baptism, the act of dedication which seals our reception under the covenant of faith. We are Christians, my lord, and no power on earth will ever lead us back to the altars of your idolatrous worship. Caesar may revive the times of Nero, he may stigmatize as criminals humble and innocent beings, whose only ambition is righteousness; he can never stay the spread of the Kingdom of Heaven. Nay, indeed, most noble youth, but I tell you that every drop of blood that is spilt, raises up new witnesses to the eternal and divine truth of our belief.”
The old man ceased. His withered cheek was flushed.
“Well,” said Quintus, looking down. “But tell me one thing; does not your creed contain the dangerous doctrine of equality? Does it not remove the ancient landmarks between the high-born and the lowly, between the freeman and the slave? Does it not aim at the subversion of society and the destruction of the existing state of things?”
“Yes, my lord; we do aim at the destruction of all that must inevitably fall, if the Kingdom of the Lord is to come. We teach the equality, freedom and brotherhood of all men born of woman. But what is this but a return to primitive truth, to undisguised nature? Nothing can oppose us, but the power of custom or of self-interest; God himself, and all that is best in man, is for us. Where and when did a higher power ever give you chosen ones a right to cast your brethren into fetters? Where is it written: ‘You are the master, and this other man, who feels joy and pain as you yourself do, is your slave and shall bow down to you?’ It sounds bold, I know, O Quintus; but I ask you: What essential difference is there between the son of the Claudia family and the hapless Eurymachus? That which sets you above him is purely fortuitous; that which constitutes your equality, is the divine will and act of God. Or do you really believe, that a slave can never be wiser, cleverer, more virtuous, courageous, and generous than the offspring of a senatorial house? Supposing you had been changed in the cradle, do you imagine that all the world would have read the slave’s humble birth stamped on his brow? Nay, noble youth! The distance between you, that looks like a gulf, is merely an artificial division, an illusory effect of fancy, which must vanish before the light of the new revelation. We, even we, the sons of the people – even those who are bondsmen and slaves, who toil and suffer in your factories and prisons278– all, all are alike called to be the sons of God. ‘Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden,’ saith the Saviour, ‘and I will give you rest.’ Yea, and his call shall not be in vain. Thousands and thousands answer to it279– In remotest Asia, in Egypt, in Greece, nay, even in Hispania and Lusitania, whole armies of martyrs are suffering for the cross – our symbol and token, to you Romans an ignominious instrument of death, but to us the emblem of hope and promise!
“And you too – the rich, the noble, the sovereigns of the world – do you need no comfort, no healing, no saving light? Are you indeed so happy in your splendor? Have you no secret craving for something, that shall be eternal? The time will come, when you too shall bow the head before the tree of disgrace and martyrdom, when you too shall know how gloriously the carpenter’s son of Nazareth has solved, for us, the dark riddle of human existence. You will soar above the dim confusion of the fleeting present, to the realms of hope and faith and divine grace.”
It was with a strange feeling of spellbound astonishment, that Quintus gazed into the speaker’s face, which was radiant with solemn but triumphant peace. Glauce had gently leaned her head on her father’s shoulder, as though it was in him that she sought and found her mainstay in the struggle with life; and in spite of the mournful feeling which still left its traces round her lips, silent contentment lay on the pure young brow. She sat with downcast eyes, her hands folded in gentle exhaustion. Euterpe and Diphilus hung in rapt reverence on the lips of the old man, who, to them, seemed to stand in the light of a radiance from heaven.
Quintus was unutterably impressed by the individuality of this strong, resolute and triumphantly happy believer. His aversion to this new doctrine of the universe began to melt like snow on Soracte in a spring breeze. Vigorously as self-love rebelled, conviction proved the stronger. In his hours of solitude the same reflections had often occurred to him, and commended themselves to his feelings, but the denunciation of the existing state of things had never before been so boldly presented to him. It must be a stout heart and a powerful mind, that could deny the intrinsic justification of a social order so complete as that of the Roman empire, and cry to a nation of nobles and slaves: “All men are brothers!” It would be worth while to see and hear more of this Nazarene Gracchus,280 and to sound the depths of the mysterious power, which gave such staunch vitality to the new doctrine, even after the fearful persecutions of Nero.
All these reflections rushed in a tumultuous torrent through the young patrician’s soul. He could no longer bear the confinement of the low, hot room. He rose, trying to conceal under a smile of careless politeness how deeply he had been interested and absorbed; he paced up and down the little room once or twice, and then said with a certain condescension:
“I should be grateful to you if, at an early opportunity, you would tell me more concerning your doctrine; I am always glad to gain information at the fountainhead. For the present I bid you farewell. Early to-morrow morning I shall do my utmost for Eurymachus; pray to your God, that He may crown our efforts with success.”
Euterpe conducted the visitor down stairs again, and then flew back to the little room where Glauce and Diphilus had already moved the table and arranged a little altar for an offering for the dead, on behalf of the luckless Philippus.
While these good souls were kneeling in silent sorrow before the cross, Quintus walked homewards through the darkness with a throbbing heart; his head ached and a mighty struggle, such as he had never before experienced, seemed to rend his heart. At the top of the Esquiline he came to a stand-still, and as he leaned against the basin of a fountain graced with spouting tritons, he gazed westwards over the night-wrapped city, which lay spread abroad at his feet, like a colossus prone in rest. He could scarcely distinguish the huge buildings – the Flavian Amphitheatre, the palaces and the capitol. Mons Janiculus281 stood out like a darker storm-cloud against the blue-black sky, and a dull moan and murmur rose upon the air like the breathing of the sleeping giant. A sense of infinite desertedness, of unspeakable longing and inexplicable dread fell upon him. “Yes, ye noble souls!” he groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I will return – I will soon rejoin your peaceful and blissful circle! By all the anguish I ever suffered, by all the torment that gnaws at my heart, I swear I will return!”
And with a sigh of relief like that of a man, who finds himself well again after long sickness, he went down into the valley.
CHAPTER XIV
On a purple couch, her right hand supporting her handsome head, while her left played mechanically with the folds of her robe, lay the Empress Domitia; Polycharma, her favorite slave, sat in silence on the floor, holding in her lap a red and blue bird, which now and then flapped its wings and gave a loud, strange cry. All else was silent, oppressed by sultry gloom and the steamy stillness of the air. In spite of its nearness, the noise of the Forum was dulled to a murmur like that of wind-rocked trees. The marble statue of Venus282 by the door-way looked sleepily down under her drooping lids; even the little Eros with his lightly-tilted jar, seemed touched with melancholy. Outside, in the corridors and antechambers, there was scarcely a sound. The slaves glided cautiously about on tiptoe, and spoke in whispers or expressed themselves by signs. Their imperial mistress’s melancholy mood seemed to fill the very atmosphere with a subtle malaise and anxious forebodings.
A few hours since, the first meeting had taken place between the reconciled couple. They had met with dignity and a calm semblance of friendly regard on both sides; but between them lay the unspoken but bitter certainty that, after all that had passed, no real reconciliation could ever be possible. Caesar’s suspicious nature recoiled from Domitia’s superiority of intellect and vehement temper – which flashed ominously in her eyes in spite of conventional smiles and smoothness – and from the scathing irony of her proud and revengeful spirit. She, on the other hand, knew the Emperor’s hatred and implacable malice; she knew that, once aggrieved, Domitian had the tenacity of a tiger in ambush, never weary of watching for an opportunity for the fatal spring. Added to this there was the remembrance of her own humiliations – her banishment from the palace, the execution of Paris, and the emperor’s passion for his niece Julia. And now, to be forgiven by him whom she so thoroughly despised – to accept the clemency of Domitian – this was the worst and deepest humiliation of all…
So, listless and silent, she lay on her pillows, reviewing in imagination the events of the last few hours in pictures that seemed to mock her as they passed. The Apollo-like figure of the young patrician, who had fired her fancy at Baiae, seemed to smile at her contemptuously; she sighed and closed her eyes, as though to escape the vision. Till a few hours ago, she had believed that she had conquered that madness. Her spirit had found strength in resolving on revenge, and she had felt like a goddess bent on punishing the presumption of a mortal. But now – in this new mood – she was conscious of a subtle change, the desire for revenge remained, but now there was nothing lofty, no sense of superiority in the feeling – the goddess had given place to a vain, lovesick woman, full of annoyance and petty spite. This change was a result of her altered circumstances; the sight of her husband had reminded her of the fact which she had striven to the utmost to ignore; that one word from that adored youth would have sufficed to make this reconciliation an impossibility. Shame and hatred, rage and passion, seethed in her soul, and her self-tormenting fancy painted alternately the most enchanting and the most horrible pictures. As in some hideous dream, the form and features of Quintus were mixed up with those of her former lover, the executed actor. She saw herself in tears, kneeling wildly at his feet – he raised her, kissed her, her senses reeled. Then he scornfully flung her from him – she shuddered from head to foot, and stabbed him desperately with her poniard…
Then again she recalled the occasion, when Polycharma had returned to her with the little tablet that Quintus had given to the slave-girl in the park, the answer to her last passionate letter – that tablet had been her death-warrant – but no, not hers – his! "He must die!" – she seemed to see the words traced between those fatal lines.
Then everything faded from her vision like a landscape shrouded in mist. Instead of the slave-girl, it was the flute-player, who stood before her with a triumphant sparkle in her eyes, as her cheek flushed under the traitor’s touch – as she had seen her stand, the bold hussy, on the hill at Cumae – happy, no doubt, in the love that she, the Empress, pined for.
The thought was intolerable; the miserable woman writhed under the clutch of the demon of jealousy. She groaned and struggled for breath. Polycharma started to her feet.
“Lady, mistress – what is the matter?” she asked, gazing helplessly at Domitia’s distorted features. But the sound of a voice broke the spell; Domitia controlled herself. Not a soul on earth, not even this trusted slave, should ever know how low she could be brought. She would hold herself proudly and defiantly – aye, though she should suffocate in the effort. Polycharma should suppose that the adventure in the gardens of Lycoris was a mere whim, a comedy; never would she betray the anguish of her unrequited passion and deep humiliation.
She raised herself on the pillows and sighed deeply again, as if to prove that the groan which had escaped her had not been involuntary.
“I am afraid,” she said in a low voice, “that I am too much accustomed to liberty, ever to make myself happy again within the bars of this golden cage. I have too long been a free and unfettered woman, to have retained any talent for being Empress. The marble walls of a palace weigh upon me like lead. Ah! Polycharma! I am longing already for my quiet retreat on the Quirinal, or for Baiae and its delicious wilderness.”
“Oh! I understand that,” exclaimed the girl. “Particularly for Baiae – is there a more heavenly spot on earth? The bench under the hedge of bay, with that lovely view over the blue sea! And when the full moon rises over the hill – it is beyond words. And do you remember the young knight from Mediolanum,283 who recited to us the woes of Queen Dido,284 and whom you permitted to kiss this white hand as his reward? He trembled like an aspen in the evening breeze. Ah! and Xanthios, the beautiful young Greek from Cumae! How desperately the boy was in love with me!”
Domitia tried to smile.
“Poor child,” she said sadly. “And you too will find out what it is to live at Caesar’s court.”
“Ah well!” said Polycharma airily, “by the grace of the gods, we will be able to retain some fragment of our lost freedom. Your steward is a very shrewd and clever man, and he will see what can be managed. And for your sake, Sovereign Mistress, he would be ready to burn down Rome.”
“Indeed? What makes you think so?”
“Well – of course we all have our own ideas. – Stephanus lives and toils for nothing but your Highness, and for the glory of your name. It was he, who conquered Caesar’s obstinacy and made your return possible. And confess, gracious mistress – Baiae may be lovely, and the evening hours in the park there were indeed delightful, but to share the throne of Caesar, the ruler of the world – that is yet more lovely and delightful!”
“Who can tell…” said Domitia.
“Stephanus, at any rate, thought so.”
“I do not understand you.”
“Well, I mean that he has always done his best…”
“But it seems to me, that it is no more than his duty.”
“Certainly. Still, there is a way of doing one’s duty – a devotedness…”
“What are you aiming at?” asked the Empress. “First you speak as if you wanted to keep silence, and then you break off as if you wished to speak…”
“I only thought…”
“Speak out boldly, Polycharma, and have done with this mysterious behavior, which is like the incoherence of a sibyl."285
“By the gods! but I dare not. Besides I only guess at it; he could never be so bold…”
“You are talking in riddles. Speak out; I command you!”
“Oh!” cried the girl contritely. “How am I to say it? Stephanus is consumed by a hopeless passion. He is dying of silent love for the charms of his imperial mistress.”
Domitia’s features did not show a shade of feeling, and Polycharma glanced in terror at the expressionless face, for not the twinkle of an eyelash, not a twitch of the lips, betrayed what emotion might have been roused by this explanation.
“You are mistaken,” replied the Empress after a long pause. “My steward is a faithful servant, and his zeal and devotion are seen by your youthful fancy in a too poetical light. – Go, have done with your foolish imaginings; take your lute, and sing me one of your gayest songs.”
The girl retired a little distance, and an arch smile lighted up her shrewd little face. She fetched the cithara out of its carved case and returned, lightly tuning the strings.
“Some one is knocking,” she said pausing, and she went to the door. “What is it? You know, Strato, that our mistress does not choose to be disturbed.”
A short whispered colloquy was carried on outside the curtain, that hung before the entrance; then Polycharma came to announce that Stephanus begged an audience on a matter of great importance.
Domitia did not at once reply. Then she suddenly looked up, as if struck by some new idea.
“Desire him to come in,” she said eagerly. “Polycharma, leave us together.”
The same meaning smile again parted the girl’s lips. She quietly leaned the lute against the wall and hastened to the door, where she lifted the curtain with mock exaggeration of respect and let the steward pass in front of her. Then she slipped out, shut and fastened the door and joined two other slave-girls, who were sitting in the anteroom on red leather cushions, and carrying on a laughing flirtation with a flaxen-haired Sicambrian belonging to the praetorian guard.
Stephanus stood just within the door and bowed low. It was difficult to recognize in him the cool and unblenching man, never at a loss in his perfect knowledge of court manners and gossip, and accomplished in the arts of intrigue. In Domitia’s presence the freedman was a slave again; all his presence of mind, all the easy demeanor he had acquired in the school of life, he had left outside that door. The man, who went forward in obedience to a nod from the Empress, was a servile, creeping slave, a pitiable wretch, who tried in vain to find utterance.
“What ails you?” asked the Empress with a fascinating smile. “You look as pale as if you had lain awake all night. I fear your zeal prompts you to work too hard.”
“Gracious mistress,” replied Stephanus, “I am distressed indeed if I intrude…”
“I am always ready to listen to the faithful servant, who toils for me so devotedly. What brings you here, Stephanus?”
The freedman was startled; if he had read aright Polycharma’s cunning glance, this reception promised him such happiness, that the mere thought of it turned him giddy.
“You hesitate,” the Empress went on. “I understand – you fear lest there should be listeners in the anteroom. Your errand is serious and important.”
She rose and led the way to a side chamber. Stephanus followed. The fairy-like fittings of the beautiful room had exercised an intoxicating charm over the senses even of a spoilt courtier like Stephanus. The whole boudoir was like a luxurious bouquet – walls, floor, ceiling were all hung and covered with diaphanous rose-colored stuff, on which sparkling stones were sprinkled like dew-drops. A tender twilight and the heady scent of roses completed the irresistible witchery of the scene.
The beautiful creature, who stood in the midst of all this dazzling splendor, with her white arms faintly tinged with the rosy reflection, and her flowing drapery clinging closely to the grand forms of her limbs, might, without any great effort of fancy, have been taken for Aphrodite, the goddess of love, incarnate in this adorable person.
Stephanus breathed hard; the empress sank on to a rose-colored couch, and beckoned him to approach.
“Now,” she said graciously, “we are alone, proceed.”
“Sovereign lady,” said Stephanus, hardly possessed of all his senses, “my duty… An hour ago your humble servant was with Lycoris. She … I know not how … but lately we have met with some obstacle … it was only with the greatest difficulty that I succeeded… The chamberlain is this evening to be her guest… She promised me … but she made conditions…”
“It matters not,” said Domitia. “You will strain every nerve to engage Parthenius on our side, I know, and that is enough for me. The details I trust to your acumen. If you do not succeed the first time, you will try again. A failure, even a blunder, needs no excuses. You have my unlimited confidence.”
“I am overwhelmed by the greatness of your favors.”
He bowed to the ground and humbly kissed the hem of her robe, which fell in ample folds, leaving a small part of her sandal and snowy foot bare. A strange mixture of pain and triumph lurked in her eyes, as the thought flashed through her mind: Ah, why, hapless, adoring wretch, are you not Quintus? But then a terrible satisfaction gained the upperhand; her lips moved as she swore to herself an unspoken vow – she clenched her fist as though she held a dagger – a dagger for hatred and revenge. Stephanus could not know, that at that moment she had formed a sinister resolve.
“Nay – not that!” she whispered insinuatingly, as Stephanus rose again. “That is service to the gods. Among friends a frank and honest hand-shake…”
As she spoke she offered the astonished steward the tips of her fingers. He looked into her eyes like one dazed. What a change! This unapproachable woman, this divinity – till this hour so cold and repellent, was now all melting softness, dreamy and tender graciousness.
“Adored lady!” he groaned, pressing her hand to his pale lips. “Kill me, but I can no longer conceal it! Death would be bliss as compared with the torment of silence. Glorious Domitia – more beautiful than Cypria herself – I love you!”
He fell at the feet of the haughty sovereign, as though stunned by his own audacity, and leaned his forehead on her footstool. His brow by chance touched her foot, which she hastily withdrew with an involuntary gesture of aversion. But again a gleam of triumphant delight passed over her features.
“Stand up,” she said, dissimulating her excitement. “Your confession has taken away my breath. I hardly know whether I should be angry, or whether this heart – too tender, alas! – should forgive your boldness. You love me! It sounds sweetly simple, like the greeting of a friend – but think out the whole meaning of that short and simple word, and tell me then, if you do not tremble like a pine tree before the gale. Love craves for a return – answer me, Stephanus, do you esteem yourself so favored by the gods, as to dare to hope for Domitia’s favors?”
The freedman had slowly risen to his feet. His thin hair, artificially darkened, hung loosely over his throbbing temples; his eyes were fixed and glazed.
“I know,” he said in hollow tones, “that I am unworthy of your grace. But the gods themselves choose blindly, without any regard for merit and worth. Their mercies are dispensed blindfold – not only Ares the slayer, but the humble Anchises286…”
“Enough!” said Domitia, who fancied she could still feel the hot, bald forehead against her foot. “If the gods have chosen, you need entreat no more. Listen to me, Stephanus. I too will be gracious – Call it a whim or sympathetic tenderness, as you please; – it is all the same. – You shall clasp the Empress in your arms and be happy, Stephanus – on one single condition you shall realize your dream. But it will require the utmost exertion of your talents…”
Stephanus heard no more; overpowered by this dazzling vision of happiness, he had fallen back on one of the rose-colored seats. His head thrown back, his eyes closed, he lay a pitiable image of human passion and weakness. The haze of unconsciousness veiled the strange and erratic brain, that was so unceasingly tossed and torn by cruelty, ambition, avarice, and sensual greed. The corpse-like figure, in its long Tarentine toga, was an object of unutterable horror in the beauty-loving eyes of Domitia – the sharp chin, the eagle nose, the hard, fleshless brow, now no longer vivified by the sparkle of the fiery eyes, all filled her excited senses with the horror, that blooming and joyous youth feels for the bony hand of a skeleton. She almost repented of her decision. Still, the recollection of Quintus, gave her strength to deny herself the craving of her inmost nature, and to persist in the road she had set out on. Perhaps, too, she had a lurking hope that she might cheat the tool of her vengeance, of the promised reward.
The steward did not remain unconscious more than a minute; when he opened his eyes, Domitia was mistress of herself and the situation. With her right hand she commanded silence.
“You need rest,” she said kindly. “And what I have to say can be said in a very few words. Quintus Claudius, the son of the Flamen, has insulted me mortally. How, where, and when, must remain my secret. Help me to triumph over this hated and unpardonable foe, and Domitia shall be yours. Throw your toils round him, watch him wherever he goes, miss no opportunity of ruining him. – How you will be able to accomplish this I cannot even guess, but you, I know, can do anything. Will you fulfil this commission?”