Loe raamatut: «Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome», lehekülg 5

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.

It was to this prominent object the knight bent his way across the park-like gardens in the raw morning air. With many backward glances in search of the yet invisible Cestus, he finally reached the mysterious, moss-grown pile of stones, and after pacing up and down the grass for some time, with fitful and angry mutterings on the laggard’s account, he began to think of returning. Stray passengers came and went, with a solitary, melancholy air, across the bleak, empty track, but still no form answering to the powerful frame of the Suburan made its appearance.

‘The drunken fool has either not slept off his debauch or else not ended it,’ said Afer angrily to himself, turning his eyes for the twentieth time toward the Esquiline Gate. ‘A fine thing if I am to wait in the damp grass for a vagabond; I’ll go back: maybe I shall meet him on the way.’

The expectation was realised. He had only gone a very short distance when his eyes were gladdened by the expected figure of the Suburan, who came up breathing hurriedly. Afer surveyed his bloodshot eyes and disordered dress, his uncombed locks, and general hang-dog, not to say ferocious, aspect, with which a night of revelry, succeeded by very brief slumbers, had endowed him.

‘Good-morrow!’ said the knight, in reply to salutations and apologies. ‘I perceive you have succeeded in appeasing your ravenous appetite, my Cestus – I see it in your face. You have also drunk wine to aid digestion, which has probably interfered with your sleep.’

‘It is the danger of the ravenous stomach that it overloads itself when it gets the opportunity,’ replied Cestus, with a grin and a hiccough.

‘You are drunk yet, my good fellow!’ proceeded the knight calmly.

‘Nay, patron, I am sober enough to walk steadily and keep a secret. Besides, I found that the aediles, or the gods, have caused the fountain of Orpheus to play again this morning; so that, when I passed it just now, I dipped my head into his clear basin, which makes me as fresh as a young girl meeting sunrise.’

‘You have that appearance. Did you accept the renewed flow of the fountain this morning as a favourable omen, reversing that of yesterday?’

‘I never thought of it in one way or another, patron. I was in too great haste and concern lest I should keep your worship waiting.’

‘You are very considerate! Taking the circumstances of your case into account, I am of the opinion that you have carried out this appointment with remarkable credit. Do you know why I have brought you here?’

‘Something which needs only two pairs of ears,’ said Cestus, with a swift glance around at the deserted fields.

‘Shrewd as ever, Cestus! I mean to unfold a plan by which we may both make our fortunes. Am I to rely on your perfect faith, secrecy, and promptness as before?’

‘Patron, you are the cleverest man in Rome, and I would not quit you to serve the greatest. Whenever you call upon me to help you I come instanter, knowing that the business will be something clever and instructive. The pleasure of serving you, therefore, has as much weight with me as the pay – it has indeed.’

‘The fluency and readiness of your language will never leave you; it is the admirable fruit of your residence with a poet. It has already been of immense service to you; but for the present it will be sufficient for you to be brief and to the point. I wish to know if you are prepared to carry out my wishes, even though they may incur some desperate action, which, if discovered, would end most certainly in the executioner’s axe?’

‘I should like to hear more particulars, patron – I would be pleased to do anything with a fair show of safety; but, at the same time, I have no desire to be a bull-headed fool.’

‘I think, with ordinary precautions, there will be not much danger. The streets of the city are, at night-time, as a rule, dark and secret enough for a thrust or two, and an easy departure before the watch decides to interfere.’

‘Oh, if that is all, I make no doubt but that we shall soon come to terms,’ said Cestus, with a sinister smile on his bristly lips. ‘Is it desired of me to meet by chance, or to escort some friend of my noble patron home – ?’

‘To Hades!’

‘Exactly,’ rejoined the Suburan, grinning.

‘Concerning your reward, I shall require you to name a lump sum, and to promise, thereafter, to trouble me no more.’

‘That means dismissing me from your worship’s employ.’

‘I shall never lose sight of you, believe me,’ said the knight, with a cold smile.

‘I know your goodness has always been most anxious for my welfare,’ returned Cestus ironically.

‘What figure would you consider sufficient to reward you for the pangs of conscience, and the risks incurred, by ending the life of a respectable member of society?’

‘The pay would vary according to the possible amount of hue and cry raised by those belonging to the deceased,’ said Cestus cunningly. ‘For an ordinary citizen I would not demand so much as for a person of rank and importance.’

Afer smiled.

‘To what degree of boldness would five hundred sestertia inspire you?’ he asked calmly.

‘What!’ almost yelled the ruffian. His eyes stared as if to start from his head, and his breath came in gasps, as though he had been plunged into ice-cold water. ‘Five hu – five hundred sestertia! Patron – why – for that you might bid me tap a senator, a consul – Sejanus – Caesar himself.’

‘Enough!’ replied Afer. ‘I am glad you consider the terms liberal; I myself am sure of it. You will not have the desperate office of harming any one of those you have mentioned.’

‘So much the better! Patron, you are the easiest of masters.’

‘It is a bargain then – you will be prompt, faithful, and secret?’

‘Have I ever failed?’

‘I cannot remember that you have; it is to your interest, as to mine, to remain so trustworthy. I have told you that before, and your common-sense cannot but perceive it. Five hundred sestertia are not to be picked up every day for the light labour of a few hours, together with the simple task of keeping one’s mouth shut concerning the matter. You are not such a fool, I think, as to destroy a profitable business connection, Cestus.’

‘You speak truly indeed, noble Afer – have no fear therefore. I am ready to receive your commands and instructions for the business.’

‘The first is this,’ said the knight emphatically, ‘that from the first moment, until the affair is satisfactorily settled, you abstain from the wine-pot.’

‘I will swear by the aqueducts, patron.’

‘Good! You will require, say, three stout fellows to help you. You will select them and pay them a certain sum, and tell them no more than that they are to help in a highway theft. You can, no doubt, find individuals who are accustomed to such work.’

‘Leave that to me. But their pay, patron?’

‘It shall be exclusive of your own, and shall be discharged by me, my careful Cestus. They need not cost much.’

‘Certainly not! I have a job in hand – I want them to help me, and I pay them so much. I need not say another word, and they will not ask a question.’

‘Exactly! You comprehend me perfectly. It is a positive pleasure to arrange details with an intelligent person like yourself, Cestus.’

‘You are flattering, patron. Who is this individual who is so unfortunate as to stand in your displeasure?’

‘I repeat it is a pleasure to do business with you, Cestus,’ resumed Afer calmly. ‘Previous to the actual execution of your task, I shall require you to act a little part. I shall require you, in fact, to clean and adorn yourself in order to make a visit.’

‘Oh, oh!’ murmured Cestus doubtfully.

‘You are to be a decoy duck of the very best plumage, for a short time. You will make an excellent one. Your poetical training will stand in excellent stead. Indeed, there is no telling, but what the part will give a new turn to your genius. We shall be seeing you treading the stage some day.’

‘You are pleased to jest, noble patron, instead of allowing me to reflect whether this part of the business is within my power or not to carry out.’

‘I have no anxiety on that point, Cestus. Listen! You will have to improve your outward appearance, in order to represent an honest mechanic in his holiday clothes – that is, as nearly as possible. That done, you will have to go as far as the Janiculum and ask an audience of a certain patrician who dwells there. He had once a granddaughter who was lost when a child.’

‘Ah, now I smell a rat! You are going to outdo yourself,’ cried Cestus eagerly.

‘You understand, I perceive. You are merely to go to this gentleman with a story, told in your best language and style, that you are a messenger from a repentant man on his deathbed, who confesses that he formerly stole the child. The dying man is most anxious for an interview with the gentleman he has wronged, for the purpose of imploring his pardon and revealing the whereabouts and position of the girl, who, he says, is yet living. When you have succeeded in arousing the gentleman’s interest and eagerness, as you doubtless will, he will almost surely send you to me. I shall not be in Rome, and shall be careful to let him know beforehand. He will, therefore, recollect himself, and, as we may hope, decide to accompany you to this dying man. All this must be timed to fall tolerably late at night, which will also give the affair all the more appearance of genuineness. On the way to that dying man my worthy uncle must be left by the roadside, for ever oblivious of missing child and present grief.’

‘By Pluto!’ cried the Suburan, smiting his thigh in delight and admiration, ‘the very thing I advised you only yesterday. I marvel you have not done this before; but then your worship is so merciful. However, better late than never, and it was bound to come at some time. Bacchus, what a cunning plan! Fate cut you out for a great man, and a thousand Fabricii could not stay you.’

‘No names – walls have ears!’ said the knight sternly.

‘True,’ replied Cestus. ‘It was my delight which let it slip. Euge, Cestus! Five hundred sestertia for simply helping an old man on the road to the Elysian fields – why, patron, the pay is so princely, and the task so light, that I feel somewhat ashamed of accepting the terms.’

‘You are perfectly at liberty to return whatever your conscience considers to be superfluous,’ remarked Afer.

‘Well, we will see how matters turn out,’ answered Cestus, with a grin. ‘No doubt when the sad news is brought to your wondering ears, you will be in a dreadful state of mind, and will lay the bloodhounds on the track of the villains all over the city?’

‘It may, very probably, be necessary to act in some such way,’ responded the knight, with a shadowy smile. ‘Let me see,’ he murmured, as he passed his hand over his brow, and remained in deep thought for a few moments; ‘come to-night, and we will arrange everything.’

‘To-night!’

‘And, Cestus, be secret; and beware of the wine-pot.’

‘Never fear; it is only when Cestus is idle that he amuses himself in that way. Give him work, and work to some purpose, like this, and his head remains clear as water – and when your honour lays the plan there is no more to be added.’

‘Engage your comrades to-day. To-morrow I shall go to Tibur – the day after to-morrow meet me at the Sublician Bridge at nightfall.’

‘But I shall see you to-night, as you said?’

‘Yes; and on the evening of the day after to-morrow I will be at the Sublician Bridge. It will involve much riding, but I can be nigh you and yet return to Tivoli before morning breaks.’

Cestus held up his hands in affected admiration.

‘You are inspired, patron! But hold; how if the old man will not come forth with me? What then comes of all this fine scheme?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Afer calmly. ‘We shall have to wait and devise again.’

‘I care not for this complicated notion. I prefer to have not so many cooks to the broth. There is nothing so sure, and so easy, as a little dust of a certain kind in his wine or meat.’

The knight shook his head.

‘It is too effective, my Cestus, and too common. It would not fail to be talked about. No; our rough footpads leave the least suspicion.’

‘Well, you are perhaps right; for when the watchmen find the old man in the gutter next morning, it will be said that he met his end at the hands of thieves, who gave him a knock a little too heavy – not the first since this good city was built.’

Afer nodded and said,

‘Come to-night, as I bade you.’

‘I will. Am I not to have the honour of following you toward the city?’

‘No,’ replied the knight, turning away; ‘I go to the camp. Be discreet – this will make us or mar us.’

Cestus bowed and loitered away leisurely in the direction of the Esquiline Gate, whilst Afer walked quickly toward the Viminal Plain, on the border of which lay the ramparts of the Pretorian camp.

CHAPTER VI

Whilst this conversation, which we have related, was passing between Afer and his client, a small coasting vessel was ascending the river Tiber, making slow headway against the current. In the little poop-house, along with the captain of the craft, was standing Masthlion, an interested observer of all that passed within view, as they wound up the famous stream.

To go back a little. We left the potter retiring to rest full of a determination to proceed to Rome. He arose next morning with a mind unchanged, and soon after dawn took his way to the cliffs. As he was about to set his foot to descend the steps which led down to the Marina, the head of an ascending individual showed up above the level. He was a short, thick-set man, with a mahogany complexion, shaggy beard and moustache. Each made an exclamation and then shook hands.

‘I was coming with no other reason than to seek tidings of you, Silo.’

‘Good! – here I am myself, Masthlion.’

‘I thought it about your time. Are you for the Tiber?’

‘Direct.’

‘When?’

‘At noon, or before. I don’t want to lose this wind,’ said the sailor, casting his eye to the eastward.

‘I have business in Rome – give me a passage.’

‘In Rome! You? What has bitten you? Come, and welcome.’

‘I will come about noon then.’

‘An hour before, Masthlion; and if I want thee before that I will send.’

The potter went home, and after gathering a few articles of clothing and food together in a wallet, he quietly resumed work until the time came for departure. During this period Neæra glided into the workshop. A new and radiant expression beamed on her face and sparkled in her beautiful gray eyes. The delicate colour of her cheek was deeper. An unconscious smile seemed to play on her lips, as though responding to the springs of joy and hope within. The loosely-girded tunic of coarse, poor fabric could not hide the graceful curves of her lithe figure, which promised a splendid maturity. Her household work had caused her to tuck up her sleeves, and her revealed arms and wrists gleamed white and round. Her loveliness seemed to the potter literally to bloom afresh as he glanced at her.

‘Father,’ said she, ‘you are going to Rome?’

‘I am, child, and Silo’s felucca sails by noon at the latest,’ he answered, without raising his head.

‘You are going because of me, father?’ she continued, drawing nearer.

He did not answer.

‘It is I who am sending you to Rome, father?’

‘You have said it, child. But I shall, at the same time, satisfy a lifelong desire to see the great city; and I may be able, likewise, to pick up a hint or two from the Roman shops.’

‘As far as I am concerned, father, you need not give yourself the trouble.’

‘Wherefore?’ asked the potter, in doubt as to her meaning.

‘Because I can save you the journey.’

Masthlion smiled.

‘You go to seek to know whether Lucius be a true man or false,’ she continued, with animation and a heightened colour; ‘you may stay at home, for I can tell you.’

‘And whence did you gain the knowledge I am truly in want of, child?’ he said.

‘Here!’ she answered proudly, as she laid her hand over her heart.

A smile of admiration, and yet compassionate, rested on her father’s lips, as he gazed into her kindling eyes, and watched the glowing hues spread over her exquisite face. New graces, fresh nobility and dignity, unknown before, seemed to blossom forth upon the maiden beneath his wondering eyes. His acute brain comprehended the change; it was no longer the child, but the woman.

‘The foolish heart is so often mistaken, Neæra,’ he said, touched by her simple faith; ‘it would not be wise to trust entirely thereto.’

But she only shook her head.

‘Facts are against you,’ he continued; ‘how many have acted from their impulse and have lived to use their eyes and minds soberly afterwards? But no, – no more of that! I had rather try and bale the bed of the sea dry than attempt to cure a lovesick girl of her folly. Meanwhile, I shall go to Rome, as I intended, and try to satisfy my own mind, after the fashion of cold, heartless men.’

‘You expect to come back with bad news of Lucius, and thus forbid me to think of him again.’

‘That I never said.’

‘No, but you think it. I warn you that you will be disappointed, and that your journey will go for nothing.’

As she said this, she wound her arms caressingly round his neck, and then slipped from the room.

Masthlion’s eyes dulled, as though a reflected gleam had vanished, and, heaving a sigh, he meditatively pursued his work. It was about an hour before noon when a young urchin made his appearance with a message from Silo, to hasten him on board, without delay. He went, accompanied by his wife and Neæra; and as soon as he set foot on board the coaster, his impatient friend cast off and hoisted sail.

The fair wind blew, and Silo, the sturdy skipper, was thoroughly amiable. A fair wind and a good cargo, homeward bound, would render even a nautical Caliban gracious.

Next morning they passed round the long mole, or breakwater, of the port of Ostia, which lay at the mouth of the Tiber, and, thereon, Masthlion’s eyes noticed a tall soldierly figure, standing and evidently watching them keenly. Beneath the closely wrapped cloak the surprised potter recognised the proportions and carriage of his daughter’s lover, and was even close enough to make out, or fancy he did, the young man’s features, beneath his polished crested helmet. Assuring himself on this point, the potter shrank farther within the cover of the poop-house, until all danger of recognition had passed.

Toward evening they arrived at their destination, which was the emporium of Rome, situated under the shadow of the Aventine Mount. Thus the Surrentine found himself, at once, in the midst of one of the busiest localities of the imperial city. Wharves lined the river, and warehouses extended along the banks. Here were the corn, the timber, the marble, the stone, the thousand species of merchandise from the ends of the earth landed and stored. And hither, to the markets, assembled the buyers and sellers thereof. The air was full of the noise and bustle on shore and ship. Waggons rumbled and clattered to and fro, and weather-beaten seamen abounded. Through the maze Silo guided Masthlion, whose provincial senses were oppressed and weighted by the unaccustomed roar and bustle into which he had been suddenly plunged, and the shipmaster, with amused glances at his wondering companion, hurried him along the river-side, nearly as far as the Trigeminan Gate. Here, not far from the spot where stood the altar of Evander, the oldest legendary monument of Rome, the sailor entered a tavern. It was an old building, with the unmistakable evidences of a substantial reputation; for it was well filled with customers, and was alive with all the bustle of a flourishing business. To the hard-faced, keen-eyed proprietor of this establishment, who greeted Silo with familiarity, the shipmaster presented his friend, in need of comfortable lodgings for a time, and having seen him comfortably bestowed, returned to the business of his coaster and cargo.

After Masthlion was satisfied with a good meal, a young lad, the son of the landlord, was commissioned to guide him, on a stroll through the adjacent parts of the city, as far as the decreasing light of day would allow. On returning, he found his friend Silo released from his engagements, and together they passed the evening.

‘Know you anything of the Pretorians?’ asked Masthlion of the innkeeper, ere he retired to his bed.

‘I know they are camped on the far side of the city, beyond the Viminal,’ replied the lusty-tongued publican, ‘I know that Caesar brought them there some years ago, and that Sejanus is their Prefect – who is, between ourselves, you know, a greater man in Rome than Caesar himself. All this I know, and what is left is, that they are a set of overpaid, underworked, overdressed, conceited, stuck-up, strutting puppies. That’s about as much as I can tell you of them.’

‘Ah!’ said Masthlion, somewhat disheartened by these bluff, energetic words, which were delivered with a readiness and confidence, as if expressing a generally received opinion; ‘then have you in Rome a poet by name Balbus?’

‘A poet named Balbus!’ repeated the host, with a comical look; ‘faith, but poetry is a trade I never meddled with, and I am on the wrong side of the Aventine, where sailors and traders swarm, and not poets. I doubt not, worthy Masthlion, that poets abound in Rome, for Rome is a very large place, I warrant you. But you must go and seek them elsewhere. What, gentlemen! does any one know of a poet named Balbus in Rome?’ cried he abruptly, putting his head inside of a room tolerably well filled with drinkers.

A laugh arose at the question. ‘North, south, east, or west?’ cried one.

‘Scarce as gladiators,’ shouted another; ‘the times have starved them.’

‘Nothing can starve them – the poets, I mean,’ answered a thin dry voice, which seemed to quell the merriment for a space, ‘they are as thick as bees in the porticoes and baths of Agrippa. Your Balbus, not being there, landlord, enter the bookshops and you will find as many more, reading their own books, since nobody else will. You will find plenty of Balbi, be assured, but no poets – Horace was the last – ’

Laughter drowned the remainder of his speech, and the landlord withdrew his head into the passage, where Masthlion was awaiting.

‘Balbus the poet does not seem to be very well known,’ he said to the potter. ‘But what do these rough swinkers know of these things any more than myself? Nevertheless, he says true, and you might do worse than inquire at the bookshops, the baths and porticoes, where the men of the calamus and inkpot love to air the wit they have scraped together by lamplight in their garrets at home.’

The potter, thereupon, retired with an uneasy feeling of helplessness and hopelessness filling his mind, at least as far as regarded Balbus.

Next morning he sallied forth soon after dawn, determined to make the utmost use of his time. He made an arrangement, by which he was again to have the services of his young guide of the previous evening, feeling that he would thus save himself much time and labour. In about three hours’ time he had walked a long distance. He had passed along the principal streets in the centre of the city. He had gazed at the shops and buildings. He had mounted the Palatine and Capitoline Hills; had viewed many temples, porticoes and mansions, and from a lofty point had surveyed the city, spread below, with delight and admiration. Then, deeming it time to be about his business, he gave the order to proceed to the Pretorian camp.