Because she was only
fifteen and busy with her growing up, Lucia's periods of reflection
were brief and infrequent; but this morning she felt weighted with
responsibility.
Last night her mother, who rarely
talked to her about anything more perplexing than the advantages of
clean hands and a pure heart, had privately discussed the possible
outcome of Father's reckless remarks yesterday in the Senate; and
Lucia, flattered by this confidence, had declared maturely that
Prince Gaius wasn't in a position to do anything about it.
But after she had gone to bed,
Lucia began to fret. Gaius might indeed overlook her father's
heated comments about the extravagances and mismanagement of his
government, if he had had no previous occasion for grievance
against the Gallio family. There was, however, another grievance
that no one knew about except herself—and Diana. They would all
have to be careful now or they might get into serious
trouble.
The birds had awakened her early.
She was not yet used to their flutterings and twitterings, for they
had returned much sooner than usual, Spring having arrived and
unpacked before February's lease was up. Lucia roused to a
consciousness of the fret that she had taken to bed with her. It
was still there, like a toothache.
Dressing quietly so as not to
disturb Tertia, who was soundly sleeping in the alcove—and would be
alarmed when she roused to find her mistress's couch vacant—Lucia
slipped her sandals softly over the exquisitely wrought mosaics
that led from her bedchamber and through her parlor into the long
corridor and down the wide stairway to the spacious hall and out
into the vast peristyle where she paused, shielding her eyes
against the sun.
For the past year or more, Lucia
had been acutely conscious of her increasing height and rapid
development into womanhood; but here on this expanse of tessellated
tiling she always felt very insignificant. Everything in this
immense peristyle dwarfed her; the tall marble columns that
supported the vaulted roofs, the stately statues standing in their
silent dignity on the close-clipped lawn, the high silver spray of
the fountain. No matter how old she became, she would be ever a
child here.
Nor did it make her feel any more
mature when, proceeding along the patterned pavement, she passed
Servius whose face had been as bronzed and deep-lined when Lucia
was a mere toddler. Acknowledging with twinkling fingers and a
smile the old slave's grave salute, as he brought the shaft of his
spear to his wrinkled forehead, she moved on to the vine-covered
pergola at the far end of the rectangle.
There, with her folded arms
resting on the marble balustrade that overlooked the terraced
gardens, the arbors, the tiled pool, and commanded a breath-taking
view of the city and the river, Lucia tried to decide whether to
tell Marcellus. He would be terrifically angry, of course, and if
he did anything about it at all he might make matters worse;
but—somebody in the family must be informed where we stood in the
opinion of Gaius before any more risks were taken. It was unlikely,
thought Lucia, that she would have an opportunity to talk alone
with her brother until later in the day; for Marcellus had been
out—probably all night—at the Military Tribunes' Banquet, and
wouldn't be up before noon; but she must resolve at once upon a
course of action. She wished now that she had told Marcellus last
summer, when it had happened.
The soft whisper of sandal-straps
made her turn about. Decimus the butler was approaching, followed
by the Macedonian twins bearing silver trays aloft on their
outspread palms. Would his mistress, inquired Decimus with a deep
bow, desire her breakfast served here?
'Why not?' said Lucia,
absently.
Decimus barked at the twins and
they made haste to prepare the table while Lucia watched their
graceful movements with amused curiosity, as if observing the
antics of a pair of playful terriers. Pretty things, they were; a
little older than she, though not so tall; agile and shapely, and
as nearly alike as two peas. It was the first time that Lucia had
seen them in action, for they had been purchased only a week ago.
Apparently Decimus, who had been training them, thought they were
ready now for active duty. It would be interesting to see how they
performed, for Father said they had been brought up in a home of
refinement and were probably having their first experience of
serving a table. Without risking an inquiring glance at the young
woman who stood watching them, they proceeded swiftly but quietly
with their task. They were both very white, observed Lucia,
doubtless from confinement in some prisonship.
One of Father's hobbies, and his
chief extravagance, was the possession of valuable slaves. The
Gallio family did not own very many, for Father considered it a
vulgar, dangerous, and ruinously expensive vanity to have swarms of
them about with little to do but eat, sulk, and conspire. He
selected his slaves with the same discriminating care that he
exercised when purchasing beautiful statuary and other art objects.
He had no interest in public sales. Upon the return of a military
expedition from some civilized country, the commanding officers
would notify a few of their well-to-do acquaintances that a limited
number of high-grade captives were available; and Father would go
down, the day before the sale, and look them over, learn their
history, sound them out, and if he found anything he wanted to add
to his household staff he would bid. He never told anyone in the
family how much he had paid for their slaves, but it was generally
felt that he had never practiced economy in acquiring such
merchandise.
Most of the people they knew were
in a constant dither about their slaves; buying and selling and
exchanging. It wasn't often that Father disposed of one; and when,
rarely, he had done so, it was because the slave had mistreated
another over whom he had some small authority. They had lost an
excellent cook that way, about a year ago. Minna had grown crusty
and cruel toward the kitchen crew, scolding them loudly and
knocking them about. She had been warned a few times. Then, one
day, Minna had slapped Tertia. Lucia wondered, briefly, where Minna
was now. She certainly did know how to bake honey cakes.
You had to say this for Father:
he was a good judge of people. Of course, slaves weren't people,
exactly; but some of them were almost people. There was Demetrius,
for example, who was at this moment marching through the colonnade
with long, measured strides. Father had bought Demetrius six years
ago and presented him to Marcellus on his seventeenth birthday.
What a wonderful day that was, with all their good friends
assembled in the Forum to see Marcellus—clean-shaven for the first
time in his life—step forward to receive his white toga. Cornelius
Capito and Father had made speeches, and then they had put the
white toga on Marcellus. Lucia had been so proud and happy that her
heart had pounded and her throat had hurt, though she was only nine
then, and couldn't know much about the ceremony except that
Marcellus was expected to act like a man now—though sometimes he
forgot to, when Demetrius wasn't about.
Lucia pursed her full lips and
grinned as she thought of their relationship; Demetrius, two years
older than Marcellus, always so seriously respectful, never
relaxing for an instant from his position as a slave; Marcellus,
stern and dignified, but occasionally forgetting to be the master
and slipping absurdly into the role of intimate friend. Very funny,
it was sometimes. Lucia loved to watch them together at such
moments. Of course she had about the same relation to Tertia; but
that seemed different.
Demetrius had come from Corinth,
where his father—a wealthy shipowner—had taken a too conspicuous
part in defensive politics. Everything had happened at once in
Demetrius' family. His father had been executed, his two elder
brothers had been given to the new Legate of Achaea, his patrician
mother had committed suicide; and Demetrius—tall, handsome,
athletic—had been brought to Rome under heavy guard, for he was not
only valuable but violent.
Lucia remembered when, a week
before Marcellus' coming of age, she had heard Father telling
Mother about his purchase of the Corinthian slave, only an hour
earlier. She had been much impressed—and a little frightened,
too.
'He will require careful handling
for a while,' Father was saying. 'He has seen some rough treatment.
His keeper told me I had better sleep with a dagger under my pillow
until the Corinthian cooled down. It seems he had badly beaten up
one of his guards. Ordinarily, of course, they would have dealt
with him briefly and decisively; but they were under orders to
deliver him uninjured. They were quite relieved to get him off
their hands.'
'But is this not dangerous?'
Mother had inquired anxiously. 'What might he not do to our
son?'
'That,' Father had replied, 'will
be up to Marcellus. He will have to win the fellow's loyalty. And
he can do it, I think. All that Demetrius needs is an assurance of
fair play. He will not expect to be petted. He is a slave, and he
knows it—and hates it; but he will respond to decent discipline.'
And then Father had gone on to say that after he had paid the money
and signed the documents, he had himself led Demetrius out of the
narrow cell; and, when they were in the open plaza, had unlocked
his chains; very carefully, too, for his wrists were raw and
bleeding. 'Then I walked on ahead of him,' Father had continued,
'without turning to see whether he was following me. Aulus had
driven me down and was waiting in the chariot at the Appian Gate, a
few yards away. I had planned to bring the Corinthian back with me.
But, as we neared the chariot, I decided to give him instructions
about how to reach our villa on foot.'
'Alone?' Mother had exclaimed.
'Was that not very risky?'
'Yes,' Father had agreed, 'but
not quite so risky as to have brought him here as a shackled
prisoner. He was free to run away. I wanted him to be in a position
to decide whether he would rather take a chance with us than gamble
on some other fate. I could see that my gestures of confidence had
surprised and mellowed him a little. He said—in beautiful Greek,
for he had been well educated, "What shall I do, sir, when I arrive
at your villa?" I told him to inquire for Marcipor, who would
advise him. He nodded, and stood fumbling with the rusty chains
that I had loosed from his hands. "Throw them away," I said. Then I
mounted the chariot, and drove home.'
'I wonder if you will ever see
him again,' Mother had said; and, in answer to her question,
Marcipor appeared in the doorway.
'A young Corinthian has arrived,
Master,' said Marcipor, a Corinthian himself. 'He says he belongs
to us.'
'That is true,' Father said,
pleased with the news. 'I bought him this morning. He will attend
my son, though Marcellus is to know nothing of this for the
present. Feed him well. And provide him with a bath and clean
clothing. He has been imprisoned for a long time.'
'The Greek has already bathed,
Master,' replied Marcipor.
'Quite right,' approved Father.
'That was thoughtful of you.'
'I had not yet thought of it,'
admitted Marcipor. 'I was in the sunken garden, supervising the
building of the new rose arbor, when this Greek appeared. Having
told me his name, and that he belonged here, he caught sight of the
pool—'
'You mean'—expostulated
Mother—'that he dared to use our pool?'
'I am sorry,' Marcipor replied.
'It happened so quickly I was unable to thwart it. The Greek ran
swiftly, tossing aside his garments, and dived in. I regret the
incident. The pool will be drained immediately, and thoroughly
cleansed.'
'Very good, Marcipor,' said
Father. 'And do not rebuke him; though he should be advised not to
do that again.' And Father had laughed, after Marcipor had left the
room. Mother said, 'The fellow should have known better than that.'
'Doubtless he did,' Father had replied. 'But I cannot blame him. He
must have been immensely dirty. The sight of that much water
probably drove him temporarily insane.'
One could be sure, reflected
Lucia, that Marcipor hadn't been too hard on poor Demetrius; for,
from that day, he had treated him as if he were his own son.
Indeed, the attachment was so close that slaves more recently
acquired often asked if Marcipor and Demetrius were not somehow
related.
* * * * *
Demetrius had reappeared from the
house now, and was advancing over the tiled pavement on his way to
the pergola. Lucia wondered what errand was bringing him. Presently
he was standing before her, waiting for a signal to speak.
'Yes, Demetrius?' she
drawled.
'The Tribune,' he announced, with
dignity, 'presents his good wishes for his sister's health and
happiness, and requests that he be permitted to join her at
breakfast.'
Lucia brightened momentarily;
then sobered, and replied, 'Inform your master that his sister will
be much pleased—and tell him,' she added, in a tone somewhat less
formal, 'that breakfast will be served here in the pergola.'
After Demetrius had bowed deeply
and was turning to go, Lucia sauntered past him and proceeded along
the pavement for several yards. He followed her at a discreet
distance. When they were out of earshot, she paused and confronted
him.
'How does he happen to be up so
early?' she asked, in a tone that was neither perpendicular nor
oblique, but frankly horizontal. 'Didn't he go to the
banquet?'
'The Tribune attended the
banquet,' replied Demetrius, respectfully. 'It is of that, perhaps,
that he is impatient to speak.'
'Now don't tell me that he got
into some sort of mess, Demetrius.' She tried to invade his eyes,
but the bridge was up.
'If so,' he replied, prudently,
'the Tribune may wish to report it without the assistance of his
slave. Shall I go now?'
'You were there, of course,
attending my brother,' pursued Lucia. And when Demetrius bowed an
affirmative, she asked, 'Was Prince Gaius there?' Demetrius bowed
again, and she went on, uncertainly, 'Did you—was he—had you an
opportunity to notice whether the Prince was in good humor?'
'Very,' replied Demetrius—'until
he went to sleep.'
'Drunk?' Lucia wrinkled her
nose.
'It is possible,' deliberated
Demetrius, 'but it is not for me to say.'
'Did the Prince seem
friendly—toward my brother?' persisted Lucia.
'No more than usual.' Demetrius
shifted his weight and glanced toward the house.
Lucia sighed significantly, shook
her black curls, and pouted.
'You can be very trying
sometimes, Demetrius.'
'I know,' he admitted ruefully.
'May I go now? My master—'
'By all means!' snapped Lucia.
'And swiftly!' She turned and marched back with clipped steps to
the pergola. Something had gone wrong last night, or Demetrius
wouldn't have taken that frozen attitude.
Decimus, whose instinct advised
him that his young mistress was displeased, retreated to a safe
distance. The twins, who had now finished laying the table, were
standing side by side awaiting orders. Lucia advanced on
them.
'What are you called?' she
demanded, her tone still laced with annoyance.
'I am Helen,' squeaked one of
them, nervously. 'My sister is Nesta.'
'Can't she talk?'
'Please—she is frightened.'
Their long-lashed eyes widened
with apprehension as Lucia drew closer, but they did not flinch.
Cupping her hands softly under their round chins, she drew up their
faces, smiled a little, and said, 'Don't be afraid. I won't bite
you.' Then—as if caressing a doll—she toyed with the tight little
curls that had escaped from Helen's cap. Turning to Nesta, she
untied and painstakingly retied her broad sash. Both girls' eyes
were swimming. Nesta stopped a big tear with the back of her
hand.
'Now, now,' soothed Lucia, 'don't
cry. No one is going to hurt you here.' She impulsively abandoned
the lullaby, drew herself erect, and declared proudly: 'You belong
to Senator Marcus Lucan Gallio! He paid a great price for
you—because you are valuable; and—because you are valuable—you will
not be mistreated.... Decimus'—she called, over her shoulder—'see
that these pretty children have new tunics; white ones—with coral
trimmings.' She picked up their hands, one by one, and examined
them critically. 'Clean,' she remarked, half aloud—'and beautiful,
too. That is good.' Facing Decimus, she said: 'You may go now. Take
the twins. Have them bring the food. My brother will have breakfast
with me here. You need not come back.'
Lucia had never liked Decimus
very well; not that there was any particular ground for complaint,
for he was a perfect servant; almost too deferential, a chilling
deference that lacked only a little of being sulkiness. It had been
Lucia's observation that imported slaves were more comfortable to
live with than the natives. Decimus had been born in Rome and had
been in their family for almost as long as Lucia could remember. He
had a responsible position: attended to all the purchasing of
supplies for their tables, personally interviewed the merchants,
visited the markets, met the foreign caravans that brought spices
and other exotics from afar; a very competent person indeed, who
minded his own business, kept his own counsel, and carried himself
with dignity. But he was a stranger.
One never could feel toward
Decimus as one did toward good old Marcipor who was always so
gentle—and trustworthy too. Marcipor had managed the business
affairs of the family for so long that he probably knew more about
their estate than Father did.
Decimus bowed gravely now, as
Lucia dismissed him, and started toward the house, his stiff back
registering disapproval of this episode that had flouted the
discipline he believed in and firmly exercised. The Macedonians,
their small even teeth flashing an ecstatic smile, scampered away,
hand in hand, without waiting for formal permission. Lucia stopped
them in their tracks with a stern command.
'Come back here!' she called
severely. They obeyed with spiritless feet and stood dejectedly
before her. 'Take it easy,' drawled Lucia. 'You shouldn't romp when
you're on duty. Decimus does not like it.'
They looked up shyly from under
their long lashes, and Lucia's lips curled into a sympathetic grin
that relighted their eyes.
'You may go now,' she said,
abruptly resuming a tone of command. Lounging onto the long marble
seat beside the table, she watched the twins as they marched a few
paces behind Decimus, their spines straight and stiff as arrows,
accenting each determined step with jerks of their heads from side
to side, in quite too faithful imitation of the crusty butler.
Lucia chuckled. 'The little rascals,' she muttered. 'They deserve
to be spanked for that.' Then she suddenly sobered and sat
studiously frowning at the rhythmic flexion of her sandaled toes.
Marcellus would be here in a moment. How much—if anything—should
she tell her adored brother about her unpleasant experience with
Gaius? But first, of course, she must discover what dreadful thing
had happened last night at the Tribunes' Banquet.
* * * * *
'Good morning, sweet child!'
Marcellus tipped back his sister's head, noisily kissed her between
the eyes, and tousled her hair, while Bambo, his big black
sheep-dog, snuggled his grinning muzzle under her arm and wagged
amiably.
'Down! Both of you!' commanded
Lucia. 'You're uncommonly bright this morning, Tribune Marcellus
Lucan Gallio. I thought you were going to a party at the
Club.'
'Ah—my infant sister—but what a
party!' Marcellus gingerly touched his finely moulded,
close-cropped, curly head in several ailing areas, and winced. 'You
may well be glad that you are not—and can never be—a Tribune. It
was indeed a long, stormy night.'
'A wet one, at any rate, to judge
from your puffy eyes. Tell me about it—or as much as you can
remember.' Lucia scooped Bambo off the marble lectus with her foot,
and her brother eased himself onto the seat beside her. He laughed,
reminiscently, painfully.
'I fear I disgraced the family.
Only the dear gods know what may come of it. His Highness was too
far gone to understand, but someone will be sure to tell him before
the day is over.'
Lucia leaned forward anxiously,
laid a hand on his knee, and searched his cloudy eyes.
'Gaius?' she asked, in a
frightened whisper. 'What happened, Marcellus?'
'A poem,' he muttered, 'an ode; a
long, tiresome, incredibly stupid ode, wrought for the occasion by
old Senator Tuscus, who, having reached that ripeness of senescence
where Time and Eternity are mistaken for each other—'
'Sounds as if you'd arrived
there, too,' broke in Lucia. 'Can't you speed it up a
little?'
'Don't hurry me, impatient
youth,' sighed Marcellus. 'I am very frail. As I was saying, this
interminable ode, conceived by the ancient Tuscus to improve his
rating, was read by his son Antonius, also in need of royal favor;
a grandiloquent eulogy to our glorious Prince.'
'He must have loved the
flattery,' observed Lucia, 'and of course you all applauded it. You
and Tullus, especially.'
'I was just coming to that,' said
Marcellus, thickly. 'For hours there had been a succession of rich
foods and many beverages; also a plentitude of metal music
interspersed with Greek choruses—pretty good—and an exhibition of
magic—pretty bad; and some perfunctory speeches, of great length
and thickness. A wrestling-match, too, I believe. The night was far
advanced. Long before Antonius rose, my sister, if any man among us
had been free to consult his own desire, we would all have
stretched out on our comfortable couches and slept. The gallant
Tullus, of whose good health you are ever unaccountably solicitous,
sat across from me, frankly asleep like a little child.'
'And then you had the ode,'
encouraged Lucia, crisply.
'Yes—we then had the ode. And as
Antonius droned on—and on—he seemed to recede farther and farther;
his features became dimmer and dimmer; and the measured noise he
was making sounded fainter and fainter, as my tortured eyes grew
hotter and heavier—'
'Marcellus!' shouted Lucia. 'In
the name of every immortal god! Get on with it!'
'Be calm, impetuous child. I do
not think rapidly today. Never again shall I be anything but
tiresome. That ode did something to me, I fear. Well—after it had
been inching along for leagues and decades, I suddenly roused,
pulled myself together, and gazed about upon the distinguished
company. Almost everyone had peacefully passed away, except a few
at the high table whose frozen smiles were held with clenched
teeth; and Antonius' insufferable young brother, Quintus, who was
purple with anger. I can't stomach that arrogant pup and he knows I
despise him.'
'Gaius!' barked Lucia, in her
brother's face, so savagely that Bambo growled. 'I want to know
what you did to offend Gaius!'
Marcellus laughed whimperingly,
for it hurt; then burst into hysterical guffaws.
'If the Glorious One had been
merely asleep, quietly, decently, with his fat chins on his
bosom—as were his devoted subjects—your unfortunate brother might
have borne it. But our Prince had allowed his head to tip far back.
His mouth—by no means a thing of beauty, at best—was open. The
tongue protruded unprettily and the bulbous nose twitched at each
resounding inhalation. Our banquet-hall was deathly quiet, but for
Antonius and Gaius, who shared the floor.'
'Revolting!' muttered
Lucia.
'A feeble word, my sister. You
should give more heed to your diction. Well—at that fateful moment
Antonius had reached the climax of his father's ode with an
apostrophe to our Prince that must have caused a storm on Mount
Parnassus. Gaius was a Fountain of Knowledge! The eyes of Gaius
glowed with Divine Light! When the lips of Gaius moved, Wisdom
flowed and Justice smiled!... Precious child,' went on Marcellus,
taking her hand, 'I felt my tragic mishap coming on, not unlike an
unbeatable sneeze. I suddenly burst out laughing! No—I do not mean
that I chuckled furtively into my hands: I threw back my head and
roared! Howled! Long, lusty yells of insane laughter!' Reliving the
experience, Marcellus went off again into an abandon of
undisciplined mirth. 'Believe me—I woke everybody up—but
Gaius.'
'Marcellus!'
Suddenly sobered by the tone of
alarm in his sister's voice, he looked into her pale, unsmiling
face.
'What is it, Lucia?' he demanded.
'Are you ill?'
'I'm—afraid!' she whispered,
weakly.
He put his arm about her and she
pressed her forehead against his shoulder.
'There, there!' he murmured.
'We've nothing to fear, Lucia. I was foolish to have upset you. I
thought you would be amused. Gaius will be angry, of course, when
he learns of it; but he will not venture to punish the son of
Marcus Lucan Gallio.'
'But—you see—' stammered Lucia,
'it was only yesterday that Father openly criticized him in the
Senate. Had you not heard?'
'Of course; but the Pater's
strong enough to take care of himself,' declared Marcellus, almost
too confidently to be convincing. There was a considerable pause
before his sister spoke. He felt her body trembling.
'If it were just that one thing,'
she said, slowly, 'perhaps it might be overlooked. But—now you have
offended him. And he was already angry at me.'
'You!' Marcellus took her by the
shoulders and stared into her worried eyes. 'And why should Gaius
be angry at you?'
'Do you remember, last summer,
when Diana and her mother and I were guests at the Palace on
Capri—and Gaius came to visit the Emperor?'
'Well? Go on!' demanded
Marcellus. 'What of it? What did he say? What did he do?'
'He tried to make love to
me.'
'That loathsome beast!' roared
Marcellus, leaping to his feet. 'I'll tear his dirty tongue out!
I'll gouge his eyes out with my thumbs! Why haven't you told me
this before?'
'You have given the reason,' said
Lucia, dejectedly. 'I was afraid of the tongue-tearing—and
eye-gouging. Had my brother been a puny, timid man, I might have
told him at once. But my brother is strong and brave—and reckless.
Now that I have told him, he will kill Gaius; and my brother, whom
I so dearly love, will be put to death, and my father, too, I
suppose. And my mother will be banished or imprisoned, and—'
'What did Mother think about
this?' broke in Marcellus.
'I did not tell her.'
'Why not? You should have done
so—instantly!'
'Then she would have told Father.
That would have been as dangerous as telling my brother.'
'You should have told the
Emperor!' spluttered Marcellus. 'Tiberius is no monument to virtue,
but he would have done something about that! He's not so very fond
of Gaius.'
'Don't be foolish! That
half-crazy old man? He would probably have gone into one of his
towering tantrums, and scolded Gaius in the presence of everybody;
and then he would have cooled off and forgotten all about it. But
Gaius wouldn't have forgotten! No—I decided to ignore it. Nobody
knows—but Diana.'
'Diana! If you thought you had
such a dangerous secret, why should you tell that romping infant
Diana?'
'Because she was afraid of him,
too, and understood my reasons for not wanting to be left alone
with him. But Diana is not a baby, Marcellus. She is nearly
sixteen. And—if you pardon my saying so—I think you should stop
mussing her hair, and tickling her under the chin, when she comes
here to visit me—as if she were five, and you a hundred.'
'Sorry! It hadn't occurred to me
that she would resent my playful caresses. I never thought of her
except as a child—like yourself.'
'Well—it's time you realized that
Diana is a young woman. If she resents your playful caresses, it is
not because they are caresses but because they are playful.' Lucia
hesitated; then continued softly, her eyes intent on her brother's
gloomy face. 'She might even like your caresses—if they meant
anything. I think it hurts her, Marcellus, when you call her
"Sweetheart."'
'I had not realized that Diana
was so sensitive,' mumbled Marcellus. 'She is certainly stormy
enough when anything displeases her. She was audacious enough to
demand that her name be changed.'
'She hated to be called Asinia,
Marcellus,' said Lucia, loyally. 'Diana is prettier, don't you
think?'
'Perhaps,' shrugged Marcellus.
'Name of a silly goddess. The name of the Asinius stock is noble;
means something!'
'Don't be tiresome, Marcellus!'
snapped Lucia. 'What I am saying is: Diana would probably enjoy
having you call her "Sweetheart"—if—'
Marcellus, who had been
restlessly panthering about, drew up to inspect his sister with
sudden interest.
'Are you trying to imply that
this youngster thinks she is fond of me?'
'Of course! And I think you're
pretty dumb, not to have noticed it! Come and sit down—and compose
yourself. Our breakfast is on the way.'
Marcellus glanced casually in the
direction of the house; then stared frowningly; then rubbed his
eyes with his fists, and stared again. Lucia's lips puckered into a
reluctant grin.
'In truth, my sister,' he
groaned, 'I am in much worse condition than I had supposed.'
'You're all right, Tribune,' she
drawled. 'There really are two of them.'
'Thanks! I am relieved. Are they
as bright as they are beautiful?' he asked, as the twins
neared.
'It is too early to tell. This is
their first day on duty. Don't frighten them, Marcellus. They're
already scared half out of their wits. They have never worked
before... No, no, Bambo! Come here!'
Rosy with embarrassment, the
Macedonians began unburdening their silver trays, fussily
pretending they were not under observation.
'Cute little things; aren't
they?' chirped Marcellus. 'Where did Father pick them up?'
'Don't!' whispered Lucia. She
rose and walked to the balustrade, her brother sauntering after
her. They turned their faces toward the city. 'What did Tullus
think of what you did?' she asked, irrelevantly.
'Tell me'—Marcellus ignored her
query—'is there anything peculiar about these slaves that makes you
so extraordinarily considerate?'
Lucia shook her head, without
looking up—and sighed.
'I was just thinking,' she said,
at length, 'how I might feel if I were in their place.' Her
troubled eyes lifted to meet his look of inquiry. 'It is not
impossible, Marcellus, that I may soon find myself in some such
predicament.... You wouldn't like that. Would you?'
'Nonsense!' he growled, out of
the corner of his mouth. 'You're making too great a disaster of
this! Nothing's going to happen. I'll see to that.'
'How?' demanded Lucia. 'How are
you going to see to it?'
'Well'—temporized Marcellus—'what
do you think I should do—short of going to that ugly reptile with
an apology?'
Lucia brightened a little and
laid her hand on his arm.
'Do that!' she pleaded. 'Today!
Make peace with him, Marcellus! Tell him you were drunk. You were;
weren't you?'
'I'd rather be flogged—in the
market-place!'
'Yes—I know. And perhaps you will
be. Gaius is dangerous!'
'Ah—what could he do? Tiberius
would not permit his half-witted stepson to punish a member of the
Gallio family. It's common knowledge that the old man despises
him.'
'Yes—but Tiberius consented to
his regency because Julia demanded it. And Julia still has to be
reckoned with. If it came to a decision whether that worn-out old
man should stand up for the Gallio family—against Gaius—with his
shrewish wife screaming in his ears, I doubt that he would trouble
himself. Julia would stop at nothing!'
'The vindictive old—' Marcellus
paused on the edge of a kennel word.
'Think it over.' Lucia's tone was
brighter, as if she felt herself gaining ground. 'Come—let us eat
our breakfast. Then you will go to Gaius, and take your medicine.
Praise him! Flatter him! He can stand any amount of it. Tell him he
is beautiful! Tell him there's nobody in the whole Empire as wise
as he is. Tell him he is divine! But—be sure you keep your face
straight. Gaius already knows you have a keen sense of
humor.'
* * * * *
Having decided to accept his
sister's counsel, Marcellus was anxious to perform his unpleasant
duty and be done with it. Prudence suggested that he seek an
interview through the formal channels and await the convenience of
the Prince; but, increasingly impressed by the gravity of his
position, he resolved to ignore the customary court procedure and
take a chance of seeing Gaius without an appointment. By appearing
at the Palace shortly before noon, he might even be lucky enough to
have a few minutes alone with the Prince before anyone had informed
him about last night's mishap.
At ten, rejuvenated by a hot
bath, a vigorous massage by Demetrius, and a plunge in the pool,
the Tribune returned to his rooms, dressed with care, and sauntered
downstairs. Observing that the library door was ajar, he paused to
greet his father, whom he had not seen since yesterday. The
handsome, white-haired Senator was seated at his desk, writing. He
glanced up, nodded, smiled briefly, and invited Marcellus to come
in.
'If you are at liberty today, my
son, I should be pleased to have you go with me to inspect a span
of matched Hispanian mares.'
'I should like to, sir; but might
tomorrow serve as well? I have an important errand to do; something
that cannot be put off.' There was a note of anxiety in the
Tribune's voice that narrowed the wise old eyes.
'Nothing serious, I trust.'
Gallio pointed to a vacant seat.
'I hope not, sir.' Marcellus sat
tentatively on the broad arm of the chair as a fair compromise
between candid reticence and complete explanation.
'Your manner,' observed his
father, pointedly, 'suggests that you are worried. I have no wish
to intrude upon your private perplexities, but is there anything I
might do for you?'
'I'm afraid not, sir; thank you.'
After a moment of indecision, Marcellus slowly slid into the chair
and regarded his distinguished parent with a sober face. 'If you
have the time, I will tell you.'
Gallio nodded, put down his
stylus, and leaned forward on his folded arms encouragingly. It was
quite a long narrative. Marcellus did not spare himself. He told it
all. At one juncture, he was half-disposed to introduce Lucia's
dilemma as relevant to his own; but decided against it, feeling
that their pater was getting about all he could take for one
session. He concluded, at length, with the declaration that he was
going at once to apologize. Gallio, who had listened attentively
but without comment, now shook his leonine head and shouted 'No!'
He straightened and shook his head again. 'No!—No, no!'
Amazed by his father's outburst,
for he had anticipated his full approval, Marcellus asked, 'Why
not, sir?'
'The most dangerous implement a
man can use for the repair of a damaged relationship is an abject
apology.' Gallio pushed back his huge chair and rose to his full
height as if preparing to deliver an address. 'Even in the most
favorable circumstances, as when placating an injured friend, a
self-abasing apology may do much harm. If the friend is contented
with nothing less, he should not be served with it at all; for his
friendship is not worth its upkeep. In the case of Gaius, an
apology would be a fatality; for you are not dealing here with a
gentleman, but with a congenital scoundrel. Your apology will imply
that you expect Gaius to be generous. Generosity, in his opinion,
is a sign of weakness. By imputing it to him, you will have given
him further offense. Gaius has reasons to be sensitive about his
power. Never put yourself on the defensive with a man who is
fretting about his own insecurity. Here, he says, is at least one
opportunity to demonstrate my strength.'
'Perhaps you are right, sir,'
conceded Marcellus.
'Perhaps? Of course, I am right!'
The Senator walked to the door, closed it softly, and resumed his
seat. 'And that is not all,' he went on. 'Let me refresh your mind
about the peculiar relations in the imperial family which explain
why Gaius is a man to be watched and feared. There is old Tiberius,
alternately raging and rotting in his fifty-room villa on Capri; a
pathetic and disgusting figure, mooning over his necromancies and
chattering to his gods—My son,' Gallio interrupted himself, 'there
is always something fundamentally wrong with a rich man or a king
who pretends to be religious. Let the poor and helpless invoke the
gods. That is what the gods are for—to distract the attention of
the weak from their otherwise intolerable miseries. When an emperor
makes much ado about religion, he is either cracked or crooked.
Tiberius is not crooked. If he is cracked, the cause is not far to
seek. For a score of years he has nursed a bitter grudge against
his mother for demanding that he divorce Vipsania—the only creature
he ever loved—'
'I think he is fond of Diana,'
interjected Marcellus.
'Right! And why? He is fond of
the child because she is Vipsania's granddaughter. Let us remember
that he was not a bad ruler in his earlier days. Rome had never
known such prosperity; not even under Julius. As you know, when
Vipsania passed out of his life, Tiberius went to pieces; lost all
interest in the Empire; surrounded himself with soothsayers,
mountebanks, priests, and astrologers. Presently his mind was so
deranged by all this nonsense that he consented to marry Julia,
whom he had despised from childhood.' The Senator chuckled, not
very pleasantly, and remarked: 'Perhaps that was why he wished to
be relieved of all his administrative duties. He found that to hate
Julia as adequately as she deserved to be hated, he had to make it
a full-time occupation. So—there was the vixenish Julia, together
with the obnoxious offspring she had whelped before he married her.
And he has not only hated Julia: he has been deathly afraid of
her—and with good reason—for she has the morbid mind of an
assassin—and the courage, too.'
'Lucia says the old gentleman
never touches his wine, at table, until the Empress has tasted it,'
put in Marcellus, 'but she thought that was just a little family
joke.'
'We will not disturb your young
sister with any other interpretation,' advised the Senator, 'but it
is no joke; nor is Tiberius merely trying to be playful when he
stations a dozen Numidian gladiators at the doors and windows of
his bedchamber.... Now, these facts are, I suspect, never absent
very long from Gaius' mind. He knows that the Emperor is
half-insane; that his mother lives precariously; and that if
anything should happen to her his regency would last no longer than
it takes a galley to clear for Crete with a deposed prince on
board.'
'Were that to happen,' broke in
Marcellus, 'who would succeed Gaius?'
'Well—' Gallio slighted the query
with a shrug. 'It will not happen. If anyone dies, down there, it
won't be Julia. You can depend on that.'
'But—just supposing—' persisted
Marcellus. 'If, for any reason—accident, illness, or forthright
murder—Julia should be eliminated—and Gaius, too, in consequence—do
you think Tiberius might put Asinius Gallus on the throne?'
'It is possible,' said Gallio.
'The Emperor might feel that he was making tardy amends to Vipsania
by honoring her son. And Gallus would be no mean choice. No Roman
has ever commanded more respect than Pollio, his learned sire.
Gallus would have the full support of our legions—both at home and
abroad. However'—he added, half to himself—'a brave soldier does
not inevitably make a wise monarch. Your military commander has
only a foreign foe to fight. All that he requires is tactics and
bravery. An emperor is forever at war with a jealous court, an
obstreperous Senate, and a swarm of avaricious landholders. What he
needs is a keen scent for conspiracy, a mind crafty enough to
outmaneuver treachery, a natural talent for duplicity—and the hide
of an alligator.'
'Thick enough to turn the point
of a stiletto,' assisted Marcellus.
'It is a hazardous occupation,'
nodded Gallio, 'but I do not think our excellent friend Gallus will
ever be exposed to its dangers.'
'I wonder how Diana would like
being a princess,' remarked Marcellus, absently. He glanced up to
find his father's eyes alight with curiosity.
'We are quite far afield, aren't
we; discussing Diana?' observed Gallio, slyly. 'Are you interested
in her?'
'Not any more than Lucia is,'
replied Marcellus, elaborately casual. 'They are, as you know,
inseparable. Naturally, I see Diana almost every day.'
'A beautiful and amazingly
vivacious child,' commented the Senator.
'Beautiful and vivacious,' agreed
Marcellus—'but not a child. Diana is nearly sixteen, you
know.'
'Old enough to be married: is
that what you are trying to say? You could hardly do better—if she
can be tamed. Diana has fine blood. Sixteen, eh? It is a wonder
Gaius has not noticed. He might do himself much good in the esteem
of the Emperor—and he certainly is in need of it—if he should win
Diana's favor.'
'She loathes him!'
'Indeed? Then she has talked with
you about it?'
'No, sir. Lucia told me.'
There was a considerable interval
of silence before Gallio spoke again, slowly measuring his
words.
'In your present strained
relation to Gaius, my son, you would show discretion, I think, if
you made your attentions to Diana as inconspicuous as
possible.'
'I never see her anywhere else
than here, sir.'
'Even so: treat her casually.
Gaius has spies everywhere.'
'Here—in our house?' Marcellus
frowned incredulously.
'Why not? Do you think that
Gaius, the son of Agrippa, who never had an honest thought in his
life, and of Julia, who was born with both ears shaped like
keyholes, would be too honorable for that?' Gallio deftly rolled up
the scroll that lay at his elbow, indicating that he was ready to
put aside his work for the day. 'We have discussed this fully
enough, I think. As for what occurred last night, the Prince's
friends may advise him to let the matter drop. Your best course is
to do nothing, say nothing—and wait developments.' He rose and
straightened the lines of his toga. 'Come! Let us ride to Ismael's
camp and look at the Hispanians. You will like them; milk-white,
high-spirited, intelligent—and undoubtedly expensive. Ismael, the
old rascal, knows I am interested in them, unfortunately for my
purse.'
Marcellus responded eagerly to
his father's elevated mood. It was almost as if the shrewd Marcus
Lucan Gallio had firmly settled the unhappy affair with Gaius. He
opened the door for the Senator to precede him. In the atrium,
leaning against a column, lounged Demetrius. Coming smartly to
attention he saluted with his spear and followed a few paces behind
the two men as they strolled through the vasty rooms and out to the
spacious western portico.
'Rather unusual for Demetrius to
be loitering in the atrium,' remarked Marcellus in a guarded
undertone.
'Perhaps he was standing there,'
surmised Gallio, 'to discourage anyone else from loitering by the
door.'
'Do you think he may have had a
special reason for taking that precaution?'
'Possibly. He was with you at the
banquet; knows that you gave offense to Gaius; concludes that you
are in disfavor; and, by adding it all up, thinks it is time to be
vigilant.'
'Shall I ask him if he suspects
that there are spies in the house?' suggested Marcellus.
Gallio shook his head.
'If he observes anything
irregular, he will tell you, my son.'
'I wonder who this is coming.'
Marcellus nodded toward a uniformed Equestrian Knight who had just
turned in from the Via Aurelia. 'We're to be honored,' he growled.
'It is Quintus, the younger Tuscus. The Prince has been seeing much
of him lately, I hear.'
The youthful Tribune, followed by
a well-mounted aide, rode briskly toward them; and, neglecting to
salute, drew a gilded scroll from the belt of his tunic.
'I am ordered by His Highness,
Prince Gaius, to deliver this message into the hands of Tribune
Marcellus Lucan Gallio,' he barked, haughtily. The aide, who had
dismounted, carried the scroll up the steps and handed it
over.
'His Highness might do well to
employ messengers with better manners,' drawled Marcellus. 'Are you
to await an answer?'
'Imperial commands require
obedience; not replies!' shouted Quintus. He pulled his horse about
savagely, dug in his spurs, and made off, pursued by his obsequious
aide.
'Gaius is prompt,' commented the
Senator. There was satisfaction on his face as he watched his son's
steady hands, and the cool deliberateness with which he drew his
dagger and thrust the point of it through the wax. Unrolling the
ostentatious document, Marcellus held it at an angle where his
father might share its contents. Gallio read it aloud, in a rasping
undertone.
Prince Gaius Drusus Agrippa to
Trib. Marcellus Lucan Gallio:
Greeting:
The courage of a Military Tribune
should not be squandered in banquet-halls. It should be serving the
Empire in positions where reckless audacity is honorable and
valorous. Tribune Marcellus Lucan Gallio is commanded to report,
before sunset, at the Praetorium of Chief Legate M. Cornelius
Capito, and receive his commission.
Marcellus rolled up the scroll,
tossed it negligently to Demetrius, who thrust it into the breast
of his tunic; and, turning to his father, remarked, 'We have plenty
of time to go out and see Ismael's horses.'
The Senator proudly drew himself
erect, gave his son a respectful bow, strutted down the marble
steps; and, taking the bridle reins, mounted his mettlesome black
gelding. Marcellus beckoned to Demetrius.
'You heard that message?' he
queried, abruptly.
'Not if it was private, sir,'
countered Demetrius.
'Sounds a bit malicious,'
observed Marcellus. 'The Prince evidently wishes to dispose of
me.'
'Yes, sir,' agreed
Demetrius.
'Well—I brought this upon
myself,' said Marcellus. 'I shall not order you to risk your life.
You are at liberty to decide whether—'
'I shall go with you, sir.'
'Very good. Inspect my
equipment—and look over your own tackle, too.' Marcellus started
down the steps, and turned to say, soberly, 'You're going to your
death, you know.'
'Yes, sir,' said Demetrius. 'You
will need some heavier sandals, sir. Shall I get them?'
'Yes—and several pairs for
yourself. Ask Marcipor for the money.'
After a lively tussle with the
bay, who was impatient to overtake her stable-mate, Marcellus drew
up beside the Senator, and they slowed their horses to a
trot.
'I tarried for a word with
Demetrius. I shall take him with me.'
'Of course.'
'I told him he might
decide.'
'That was quite proper.'
'I told him he might never come
back alive.'
'Probably not,' said the Senator,
grimly, 'but you can be assured that he will never come back
alone.'
'Demetrius is a very sound
fellow—for a slave,' observed Marcellus.
The Senator made no immediate
rejoinder, but his stern face and flexed jaw indicated that his
reflections were weighty.
'My son,' he said at length,
staring moodily down the road, 'we could use a few men in the Roman
Senate with the brains and bravery of your slave, Demetrius.' He
pulled his horse down to a walk. '"Demetrius is a sound fellow—for
a slave"; eh? Well—his being a slave does not mean that what he
thinks, what he says, and what he does are unimportant. One of
these days the slaves are going to take over this rotted
Government! They could do it tomorrow if they were organized. You
might say that their common desire for liberty should unite them,
but that is not enough. All men want more liberty than they have.
What the Roman slaves lack is leadership. In time, that will come.
You shall see!' The Senator paused so long, after this amazing
declaration, that Marcellus felt some response was in order.
'I never heard you express that
opinion before, sir. Do you think there will be an uprising—among
the slaves?'
'It lacks form,' replied Gallio.
'It lacks cohesion. But some day it will take shape; it will be
integrated; it will develop a leader, a cause, a slogan, a banner.
Three-fourths of this city's inhabitants either have been or are
slaves. Daily our expeditionary forces arrive with new shiploads of
them. It would require a very shrewd and powerful Government to
keep in subjugation a force three times its size and strength.
But—look at our Government! A mere hollow shell! It has no moral
fiber! Content with its luxury, indolence, and profligacy, its
extravagant pageants in honor of its silly gods; ruled by an insane
dotard and a drunken nonentity! So, my son, Rome is doomed! I do
not venture to predict when or how Nemesis will arrive—but it is on
its way. The Roman Empire is too weak and wicked to survive!'