Acté E-Book

Dumas Alexandre

• Herausgeber: Classica Libris
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

A novel about Rome, Nero, and early Christianity...

Leseprobe

Alexandre Dumas

ACTÉ

Translated by Alfred Allinson

Copyright

First published in 1837

Copyright © 2019 Classica Libris

Introduction

It has been said of Dumas the son that to preserve his plays from oblivion he furnished them with imperishable prefaces. It was not in the father’s nature to fear oblivion for his dramas, but nevertheless he, too, frequently wrote a preface; sometimes expressive of thanks to the actors or to the public, but more commonly descriptive of his own exultation at the fall of the curtain on the first performance. Nothing is more characteristic of the man, or more curious, than the preface to his Caligula, produced at the Théâtre Français on the 26th December 1837. Dumas states that finding his study of the Latin classics insufficient for his purpose, he went to Rome. There he remained for two months, visiting, he says, the Vatican by day and the Coliseum by night, and rebuilding in imagination the city as it appeared to the Emperor. He thus re-peopled the empty houses from the patrician’s palace to the oil seller’s hut, with the result, he proceeds to narrate, that a great ladder like that of Jacob appeared to him in a dream filled with beings ascending and descending, beginning with the Emperor and ending with the slave. This was not enough: he went to them, opened their tunics, raised their cloaks, and found the men themselves, Caligula, although not a wholly satisfactory play, has in fact this indispensable merit, that it lives and moves and that all its characters and scenes besides being full of passion are perfectly realised and coloured. One of Dumas’ most useful gifts was his power of identifying himself with his subject and, as it were, abstracting himself into it. Without this faculty all his historical researches would have been of little avail; with it, when writing Caligula, he was a citizen of ancient Rome, and what of the inhabitants that peopled it he did not know he contrived to divine!

Dumas’ researches for Caligula led him on to study the strange career of Nero; and the character of the freedwoman Acté, Nero’s mistress, once found, he saw his way to a historical romance. He brought to it his fresh vivid imagination, his eye for colour, and what an ardour and vigour! Acté, written in 1838, was an immense advance on anything he had previously accomplished in the field of historical fiction. Indeed he had only produced some spirited “Chroniques,” inspired by de Barante’s History of the Dukes of Burgundy, and Gaule et France, intended as an introduction to them. The publication of Acté fulfilled expectations raised but not satisfied by his previous work.

Monsieur Hippolyte Parigot, whose recent monograph has filled the niche in the French Great Writers Series too long left unoccupied by the bust of Dumas, says of Acté, “Scott could not have written the first two hundred pages. Renan, who recounted the martyrdom of Blandina, would not have been ashamed of them. Tacitus, Suetonius, and St. Paul are authorities for his facts. Dumas does not advance a single step without a document on which to take his stand. Nero’s triumphal entry into the free cities through breaches made in the battlements by the citizens, his ‘Golden House,’ his colossal statue, the enormous porticos, the suppers at Baise, the games in the circus, the fight of Silas with the beasts, the estrade du prince, the letters from Gaul which interrupt the games — the whole story.

In short — including Nero’s flight and his death in the villa of Plancus — is drawn from the best sources. But with what grace — with what wealth of imagination does Dumas make this prodigious epoch live again before our eyes! As he unfolds the story with consummate art, all these pictures, brought together with such lavish expenditure of intellectual force, become one living whole of which we form a part. We glide with Sporus over the lake, bordered by vast stretches of turf where, in the midst of simulated ruins, wild beasts gambol as if in an African desert. We penetrate into the thick night of the forest of pines and sycamores, whose dense foliage deadens the plaintive cries of the Christians crowded together in the adjacent prison; we gaze on the Emperor-god, Lucius Nero the beautiful — the golden-bearded, as clad in white tunic and crowned with olive he languidly reposes on his couch — Singer and Master of the World, until we are compelled to bow before the grandeur of the imagination that can thus infuse life into dead documents and restore monuments that time had crumbled into dust.”

Unfortunately, while Dumas was still writing the story, his excellent mother, whom he had brought to Paris from his birthplace, died on 1st August 1838. It would appear that the conclusion of the romance was wanted by the newspaper in which it was running as a serial, and that in his trouble finding his raw material ready to his hand in Chateaubriand’s Martyrs, he plagiarized extensively from it, thus sacrificing the personal interest of his characters. Having so brought the book to a conclusion, Dumas, who deeply lamented his mother and was advised to travel, left for a tour in Germany with Gérard de Nerval.

Acté is usually considered not to have appeared in book form till 1839. A copy in our possession, however, published in Brussels by Adolphe Wahlen et Compagnie is dated 1838. The first Paris edition, issued by Dumont, appears to be dated 1839 as to some copies and 1840 as to others. The second volume is made up with Monseigneur Gaston de Phébus, a story derived from Froissart. Acted may be usefully compared with Dean Farrar’s Darkness and Dawn, or Scenes in the Life of Nero, and with Mr. Bernard W. Henderson’s brilliant study The Life and Principate of the Emperor Nero. In the latter will be found a full account of Claudia Acté. Two romances on the same subject are Sienkiewicz’s celebrated Quo Vadis and Mr. Hugh Westbury’s Acté.

R. S. G.

Dedication

TO

THE MEMORY OF MY VERY HONOURED MOTHER

WHO DIED WHILE I WAS FINISHING THIS WORK

Chapter 1

On the seventh of May (the month called Thargelion by the Greeks) in the year 57 A.D., and eight hundred and ten years after Rome was founded, a girl of fifteen or sixteen, tall, handsome, and fleet as the huntress Diana, passed through the west gate of Corinth and proceeded towards the sea-shore. On reaching a small meadow bordered on one side by a grove of olives, on the other by a stream shaded by orange-trees and oleanders, she stopped and began to look for wild flowers. She paused for a moment in indecision between the violets and gladioli which flourished beneath the shade of the olives, and the daffodils and water-lilies growing on the banks of the stream or floating on its surface; soon, however, she decided in favour of the latter, and, bounding like a young fawn, ran towards the water.

On reaching the bank of the stream she stopped; the speed with which she had run had loosened her long hair; she knelt down at the water’s edge, looked at herself in the stream, and smiled to see herself so beautiful. She was, indeed, one of the loveliest maidens of Achaia, with dark, voluptuous eyes, an Ionic nose, and lips of coral; her body, firm as marble, yet at the same time supple as the reed, resembled a statue of Phidias animated by Prometheus, though her feet, apparently too small to support the weight of her frame, seemed out of proportion, and might have constituted a defect, if you could have dreamed of reproaching a girl with such an imperfection. At any rate, the nymph Pyrené, who, true woman that she was, lent her the mirror of her tears, could not refrain from reproducing her image in all its grace and purity. After a moment of silent contemplation, the girl divided her hair into three tresses, made two plaits of those which fell over her temples, joined them together at the top of her head, fixed them with a garland of oleander and orange-blossoms which she wove then and there, and, letting the tress which fell down her back float like the mane on the helmet of Pallas, leaned over the water to quench the thirst which had drawn her to this side of the meadow, but which, urgent as it was, had nevertheless yielded to a need still more urgent, that of assuring herself that she was the most beautiful of the daughters of Corinth. The reality and the reflection now approached one another imperceptibly; you would have said that two sisters, a nymph and a naiad, were about to join in a sweet embrace; their lips met in a moist bath, the water quivered, and a light breeze, passing through the air like a voluptuous breath, rained down upon the stream a pink and scented snow which the current carried away to the sea.

As she rose from the ground, the girl directed her eyes to the gulf and remained for an instant motionless with curiosity; a galley with two banks of oars, with gilded hull and purple sails, was making for the shore, urged by the wind that blew from Delphi; although still a quarter of a mile distant, the sailors could be heard singing a chorus to Neptune. The girl recognised the Phrygian mode, which was consecrated to religious hymns; but, instead of the rough voices of the mariners of Calydon or Cephalonia, the notes which reached her ear, though scattered and weakened by the breeze, were skilfully modulated and sweet as those sung by the priestesses of Apollo. Attracted by this melody, the young Corinthian maiden got up, broke off some boughs of orange and oleander destined to form a second garland which she intended on her return to deposit in the temple of Flora, to whom the month of May was consecrated; then with slow steps, at once curious and timid, she advanced towards the shore, weaving the scented branches which she had broken off by the bank of the stream.

The bireme had now drawn nearer, and the girl could not only hear the voices, but even distinguish the faces of the musicians; the song consisted of an invocation to Neptune, chanted by a single leader and repeated in chorus, with a rhythm so sweet and well balanced that it imitated the regular movement of the sailors bending to their oars and the oars beating the water. The principal singer, who also appeared to be the master of the vessel, was standing at the prow, accompanying himself on a three-stringed lyre resembling the instrument which sculptors depict in the hands of Euterpé, the Muse of Harmony. At his feet, covered with a long Asiatic robe, reclined a slave whose dress belonged equally to either sex — so that the girl could not distinguish if it were a man or a woman; while the melodious rowers stood up beside their benches and clapped their hands in measured time, thanking Neptune for the favourable wind which was bringing them rest from their toil.

This spectacle, which two hundred years earlier would scarcely have attracted the notice of a child looking for shells among the sand, excited the girl’s astonishment to the highest pitch. Corinth was no longer at this period what she had been in the days of Sylla — the rival and the sister of Athens. Taken by assault in the year of Rome 608 (146 B.C.) by the Consul Mummius, she had seen her citizens put to the sword, her wives and children sold as slaves, her houses burnt, her walls demolished, her statues sent to Rome, and her pictures, for one of which Attaeus had offered a million sesterces, used as a carpet by those Roman soldiers whom Polybius found playing dice on the masterpiece of Aristides. Rebuilt eighty years later by Julius Caesar, who restored the walls and sent thither a Roman colony, Corinth had resumed her life, but was still far from having recovered her ancient splendour. However, the Roman Proconsul, with the view of restoring to her some importance, had announced for the 10th of May and following days, Nemean, Isthmian, and Floral games, in which the strongest athlete, the most skilful charioteer,, and the most expert singer would be crowned. Consequently, for some days past, a crowd of strangers of all nationalities had been travelling towards the capital of Achaia, attracted either by curiosity or the desire to carry off prizes. For the time being this event restored to the town, still feeble from loss of blood and treasure, the pomp and fame of her ancient days. Some had arrived in chariots, some on horseback; others, again, in vessels which they had hired or built; but none of these last had entered the harbour in so splendid a ship as the vessel which at this moment touched that shore for which, out of sheer love of it, Apollo and Neptune had contended in days of old.

Hardly had the bireme been drawn up on the sands, when the sailors set against her prow a ladder of citron-wood inlaid with brass and silver, and the singer, throwing his lyre over his shoulder, stepped ashore leaning on the slave whom we have seen reclining at his feet. The former was a handsome man of seven or eight and twenty, with fair hair, blue eyes, and golden beard; he was dressed in a purple tunic, a blue chlamys spangled with gold, and wore round his neck knotted in front, a scarf, the floating ends of which fell down to his girdle. The other appeared about ten years younger; he was a lad hardly entered on manhood, with slow gait and a look of sadness and suffering; the freshness of his cheeks, however, would have put a woman’s complexion to shame, his rosy and transparent skin might have contended for delicacy with that of the most voluptuous maidens of effeminate Athens, while his white, plump hand seemed by its shape and weakness much more designed to turn a spindle or ply a needle than to wield sword or javelin, emblems of the man and the warrior. He was dressed, as we have said, in a white robe embroidered with golden palms, which descended below the knee; his flowing locks fell over his bare shoulders, and a little mirror framed in pearls was suspended by a gold chain from his neck.

As he was about to set foot to the ground his companion checked him sharply; the youth started.

“What is the matter, master?” said he, in a soft and timid voice.

“The matter is that you were about to touch the shore with your left foot, and by this imprudence to expose us to the loss of the whole fruit of my calculations, thanks to which we have arrived on the day of the Nones, which is a good omen.”

“You are right, master,” said the youth; and he placed his right foot on the shore, his companion doing the same.

“Stranger,” said the girl, who had heard these words pronounced in the Ionic dialect, addressing the elder of the two travellers, “the land of Greece, with whatever foot you touch it, is propitious to anyone who lands thereon with friendly intent; it is the land of love, of poetry, and of combat; it has crowns for lovers, for poets, and for warriors. Whoever you may be, stranger, accept this wreath while waiting for the one you have, doubtless, come to seek.”

The young man eagerly took the garland offered him by the Corinthian maiden and placed it on his head.

“The gods smile upon us,” cried he. “See, Sporus, the orange, that apple of the Hesperides whose golden fruit gave victory to Hippomenes by delaying the course of Atalanta, and the oleander, tree beloved of Apollo. What is your name, prophetess of good fortune?”

“I am called Acté,” answered the girl with a blush.

“Acté!” cried the elder of the two travellers. “Do you hear, Sporus? A fresh augury: Acte — that is to say, the shore. You see the land of Corinth was awaiting me to crown me.”

“What is there astonishing in that? are you not predestined, Lucius?” answered the youth.

“If I mistake not,” inquired the girl timidly, “you come to contest for one of the prizes offered to the victors by the Roman Proconsul?”

“You have received the talent of divination as well as the gift of beauty,” said Lucius.

“And you, no doubt, have some relation in the town?”

“All my family is at Rome.”

“Some friend, perhaps?”

“My only friend is the one you see here, and he, like myself, is a stranger to Corinth.”

“Some acquaintance, then?”

“Not one.”

“Our house is large, and my father hospitable,” continued the girl. “Will Lucius deign to give us the preference? We will pray Castor and Pollux to be favourable to him.”

“Might you not be their sister Helen?” interrupted Lucius with a smile. “It is said that she loved to bathe in a fountain which cannot be far from here; and doubtless this fountain had the gift of prolonging life and preserving beauty. Venus must have confided the secret to Paris, and Paris to you. If it be so, conduct me, fair Acté, to this fountain; for, now that I have seen you, I would live for ever, in order to see you always.”

“Alas! I am no goddess,” answered Acté, “nor does Helen’s fount possess this wonderful privilege. However, you are not wrong as regards its situation; there it is, a few yards from us, throwing its waters into the sea from the top of yonder cliff.”

“Then the temple that rises near it is Neptune’s?”

“Yes, and that path bordered by pines leads to the running-ground. It is said that in former days a statue stood in front of every tree; but Mummius carried them off, and they have left my country for yours, never to return. Will you take this path, Lucius,” continued the girl, smiling, “it leads to my father’s house.”

“What do you think of this offer, Sporus?” said the young man, changing his dialect and speaking in Latin.

“That Fortune has not given you the right to doubt her constancy.”

“Well! then let us trust her this time again, for never has she presented herself in a more alluring and enchanting guise.” Then, returning to the Ionic dialect, which he spoke with the greatest purity, “Guide us, maiden,” said Lucius, “for we are ready to follow you; and do you, Sporus, bid Libycus keep guard over Phœbé?”

Acté led the way, while the youth climbed to the deck of the vessel to carry out his master’s order. On reaching the running-ground she paused: “See,” she observed to Lucius, “here is the course. It is all sanded in readiness, for the games begin the day after to-morrow and they commence with the wrestling. On the right, beyond the stream, at the end of this avenue of pines, you see the hippodrome; the second day, as you know, will be devoted to the chariot-races. Then lastly half-way from the hill in the direction of the citadel is the theatre, where the contest for the singing-prize will take place. For which of the three crowns does Lucius intend to compete?”

“For all three, Acté.”

“You are ambitious, sir.”

“The number three is pleasing to the gods,” said Sporus, who had just rejoined his companion, and the travellers, guided by their fair hostess, continued their road.

When they arrived near the town, Lucius stopped. “What is this fountain,” said he, “and these broken bas-reliefs? they seem to me to belong to the best period of Greek art.”

“This is Pyrené’s fountain,” said Acté, “her daughter was slain by Diana at this very spot, and the goddess, seeing the mother’s grief, changed her into a fountain over the very body of the child whom she was lamenting. As for the bas-reliefs, they are the work of Lysippus, a pupil of Phidias.”

“Just look, Sporus,” cried the young man with the lyre enthusiastically, “look, what modelling! what expression! It is the combat of Ulysses with Penelopé’s suitors, is it not? See how forcibly the death of that wounded man is depicted, how he writhes in his agony; the arrow has struck him below the heart. A shade higher, and there would have been no pain; the sculptor was a clever man, who understood his art. I will have this marble transported to Rome or Naples, I should like to have it in my hall. I have never seen a man die with a more agonised expression.”

“It is one of the relics of our ancient splendour,” said Acté. “The town is jealous and proud of them, and, like a mother who has lost her handsomest children, she clings to those that are left to her. I question, Lucius, whether you are wealthy enough to buy this fragment.”

“Buy it!” answered Lucius with an indescribable expression of disdain, “what is the good of buying it, when I can take it? If I desire this marble, I will have it, though the whole city of Corinth say me nay.” Sporus pressed his master’s hand — “Unless, however,” he continued, “the fair Acté should say that she wishes the marble to remain in her country.”

“I understand your power as little as I do my own, Lucius, but I thank you none the less. Leave us our poor relics, Roman, and do not complete the work of your fathers. They came as conquerors; you come as a friend. What was barbarism on their part, would be sacrilege on yours.”

“Make your mind easy, maiden,” said Lucius, “for I begin to realise that there are in Corinth things to be carried off more precious than the bas-relief of Lysippus, which, after all, is but marble. When Paris came to Lacedaemon, it was not the statue of Minerva or Diana that he took away, but Helen, the fairest of the Spartans.”

Acté lowered her eyes beneath the ardent gaze of Lucius, and, continuing her road, entered the town, followed by the two Romans.

Corinth had resumed the activity of her ancient days. The announcement of the games to be celebrated there had brought together competitors, not only from all parts of Greece, but likewise from Sicily, from Egypt, and from Asia. Each house had its guest, and the new arrivals would have had great difficulty in finding a lodging, had not Mercury, the patron deity of travellers, brought this hospitable maiden across their path. Still under her guidance, they crossed the marketplace, where were displayed, in haphazard confusion, papyrus and flax from Egypt, ivory from Libya, skins from Cyrené, frankincense and myrrh from Syria, carpets from Carthage, dates from Phoenicia, purple-dye from Tyre, slaves from Phrygia, horses from Selinus, swords from Spain, coral and carbuncle from Gaul. Then, continuing their road, they crossed the square, where formerly stood a statue of Minerva, a masterpiece of Phidias, which, out of veneration for the old master, had never been replaced; they took one of the streets leading from it, and, a few yards farther on, stopped in front of an old man who was standing at the threshold of his house.

“Father,” said Acté, “here is a guest sent to us by Jupiter; I met him at the moment of his landing on our shores and offered him hospitality.”

“You are welcome, young man with the golden beard,” answered Amycles; and, pushing open with one hand the door of the house, he extended the other to Lucius.

Chapter 2

The day following that on which the door of Amycles had been opened to admit Lucius, the young Roman, Acté, and her father, having assembled in the triclinium round a table made ready for the meal, were preparing to throw dice to determine who should preside over the banquet. Amycles and his daughter had wished to award this dignity to the stranger; but their guest, either from superstition or respect, had declined the garland; consequently the dice were brought, and the box was handed to Amycles, who threw the “Hercules.” It was now the turn of Acté to throw, and the combination produced the “Chariot”; she then passed the box to the young Roman, who took it with visible anxiety, shook it for a long time, turned it tremblingly upon the table, and uttered a cry of joy as he looked at the result; he had thrown the “Venus,” which is superior to all the other combinations.

“Look, Sporus,” he cried in Latin. “The gods are certainly on our side, and Jupiter does not forget that he is the head of my race; the throw of ‘Hercules,’ the ‘Chariot,’ and the ‘Venus,’ could there be a more lucky combination for a man who comes to contest the prizes for wrestling, driving, and singing, and does not the last clearly promise me a double triumph?”

“You were born under a lucky star,” answered the youth, “and the sun touched you before you touched the earth; on this occasion, as always, you will triumph over all competitors.”

“Alas! there was a time,” answered the old man with a sigh, adopting the tongue which the stranger spoke, “when Greece would have afforded adversaries worthy to contend with you for victory; but we are no longer in the days when Milo of Crotona was crowned six times at the Pythian games, or when Alcibiades the Athenian sent seven chariots to the Olympian games and bore away four prizes. Greece has lost, together with her freedom, her arts and her strength, and Rome, according to Cicero, has sent us her children to carry away all our palms. May Jupiter, from whom you boast to be descended, protect you then, young man; for, next to the honour of seeing victory gained by one of my fellow-citizens, the greatest pleasure that I could experience would be to see fortune favour my guest. Go then, my daughter, and bring us garlands of flowers, to serve until we receive our crowns of laurel.”

Acté went out and returned almost immediately with a wreath of myrtle and saffron for Lucius, one of parsley and ivy for her father, and one of lilies and roses for herself; in addition to these a young slave brought in several larger wreaths, which the guests placed round their necks. Acté then reclined on the right-hand couch, Lucius occupied the consular seat, and the old man, standing between his daughter and his guest, poured a libation of wine and offered a prayer to the gods, after which he, too, reclined, saying to the young Roman: “You see, my son, we fulfil the prescribed conditions, since the number of those who feast, if we are to believe one of our poets, should not be less than the number of the Graces, and should not exceed that of the Muses. Slaves, serve the first course.”

A well-furnished tray was brought in, the servants held themselves in readiness to obey the first sign.

Sporus reclined at his master’s feet, offering him his long hair on which to wipe his hands, and the carver began his duties.

At the beginning of the second course, and when the appetite of the banqueters began to be appeased, the old man fixed his gaze upon his guest, and after looking for some time, with the benevolent expression of age, at the handsome face of Lucius, whose fair hair and golden beard gave him an unusual and striking appearance, he asked:

“You come from Rome?”

“Yes, father,” answered the young man. “Have you come direct?”

“I embarked at the port of Ostia.”

“The gods continue to protect the divine Emperor and his mother?”

“Yes.”

“And was Caesar preparing for any military expedition?”

“No tribe is in revolt at this moment. Caesar, master of the world, has given it the peace and repose during which the arts may flourish. He has closed the temple of Janus and has now taken up his lyre to render thanks to the gods.”

“And has he no fear that, while he sings, others perchance should reign?”

“Ah!” said Lucius with a frown, “then in Greece also they say that Caesar is a child?”

“No; but they fear that he delays too long in becoming a man.”

“I thought that he had assumed the toga virilis at the funeral of Britannicus?”

“Britannicus had been long ago condemned to die by Agrippina.”

“Yes, but it was Caesar who killed him, you may take my word for it; was it not, Sporus?”

The youth raised his head and smiled.

“He murdered his brother!” cried Acté.

“He put the son to the death that the mother desired to inflict on himself. If you do not know, maiden, then ask your father, who appears to be well informed on questions of this sort, and he will tell you that Messalina sent a soldier to kill Nero in his cradle, and that the soldier was about to strike, when two serpents issued from the child’s bed and put the centurion to flight? No, no, father, be assured that Nero is not an imbecile like Claudius, a fool like Caligula, a coward like Tiberius, nor an actor like Augustus.”

“My son,” said the old man in alarm, “you should remember that you axe insulting deities.”

“Fine deities, by Hercules !” cried Lucius, “a fine god was Octavius, who was afraid of cold, of heat, of thunder; who came from Apollonia and presented himself before Caesar’s old legions limping like Vulcan; a fine god, whose hand was so feeble that sometimes it could not support the weight of his pen; who lived without once daring to be Emperor and died asking if he had played his part well! A fine god was Tiberius, with his Olympus at Capreœ, from which he durst not stir, where he lived like a pirate on a ship at anchor, with Thrasyllus at his right hand governing his mind, and at his left Charicles ruling his body; who, though he owned the world, over which he might stretch his wings like an eagle, withdrew into the hollow of a rock like an owl! A fine god, too, Caligula, whose head had been turned by drink, and who thought himself as great as Xerxes because he had thrown a bridge from Puteoli to Baiae, and as powerful as Jove because he imitated the noise of thunder by rolling an iron chariot over a bridge of brass; who styled himself the lover of the moon, and whom Chaerea and Sabinus despatched with twenty sword-thrusts to consummate his marriage in the sky! A fine god Claudius, who was found skulking behind a curtain when they sought him on the throne, the slave and puppet of his four wives! who signed the contract of marriage between his wife Messalina and his freedman Silius! A fine god he, whose knees gave way at every step, whose mouth slobbered at every word, who stammered and rolled his head idiotically from side to side; who lived despised without knowing how to make himself feared, and who died of eating mushrooms cooked by Halotus, cleaned by Agrippina, and seasoned by Locusta! Ah! a fine set of gods, I repeat, and what a noble figure they must cut in Olympus beside Hercules, the club-bearer, beside Castor, the chariot-driver, and Apollo, the prince of the lyre!”

Some moments of silence succeeded this startling and sacrilegious outburst. Amycles and Acté looked at their guest with amazement, and the interrupted conversation had not yet resumed its course when a slave entered, announcing a messenger from Cnaeus Lentulus, the Proconsul. The old man inquired if the messenger came to speak to himself or to his guest. The slave answered that he did not know; the lictor was brought in. His business was with the stranger; the Proconsul had been informed of the arrival of a vessel in the harbour, he knew that the owner of this vessel intended to compete for the prizes, and he ordered him to come and enter his name at the Prefectorial Palace and declare to which of the three crowns he aspired. The old man and Acté rose to receive the commands of the Proconsul; Lucius listened to them still reclining.

When the lictor had finished, Lucius drew from his breast a set of ivory tablets coated with wax, wrote some lines with a stilus on one of the leaves, impressed the signet of his ring below them, and handed the answer to the lictor, bidding him carry it to Lentulus. The lictor hesitated in astonishment; Lucius made an imperative gesture; the soldier bowed and retired. Then Lucius snapped his fingers to call his slave, held out his goblet, which the cup-bearer filled with wine, drank off part of it to the health of his host and his daughter, and gave the remainder to Sporus.

“Young man,” said Amycles, breaking the silence, “you say you are a Roman, and yet I can hardly believe it. If you had lived in the Imperial City, you would have learned to pay better obedience to the orders of Caesar’s representatives; the Proconsul is absolute master here and reverenced as much as Claudius Nero is at Rome.”

“Have you forgotten that at the commencement of the meal the gods made me for the time being the Emperor’s equal by choosing me King of the feast? and when did you see a King leave his throne to obey the orders of a Proconsul?”

“You have refused to obey them?” said Acté in alarm.

“No, but I have written to Lentulus that, if he is anxious to learn my name and my object in coming to Corinth, he has only to come and ask me himself.”

“And you think he will come?” cried the old man.

“I am sure of it,” answered Lucius.

“Here, to my house?”

“Listen,” said Lucius.

“What is it?”

“He is knocking at the door; I recognise the sound of the lictors’ rods. Tell them to open the door, my father, and leave us alone together.”

The old man and his daughter rose in astonishment and went themselves to the door; Lucius remained in a reclining posture.

He had not been mistaken; it was Lentuius himself. His brow was wet with perspiration, indicating with what promptitude he had complied with the stranger’s invitation. He asked in quick and eager tones where the noble Lucius was; and, when the room was pointed out to him, he put on his toga and entered the dining-hall, the door of which closed behind him and was promptly guarded by the lictors.