Domitia

“She is sleeping. Run with her,” called the Magus.

In vain did she weep, entreat, threaten, naught availed, she was forced to advance; now to take a few steps, to rest on her feet, to walk in actuality. The very anger she felt at not being allowed to cast herself down, fold her hands under her head, and drop off into unconsciousness, tended to rouse her.

After about half an hour, her entreaties to be allowed to rest became less frequent, and alternated with inquiries as to where she was, whither she was going, why she was forced to walk, and that at night. Then she ceased altogether to complain of drowsiness, and finding she met with no response to her inquiries as to her destination, she became silent; she was now conscious, but her brain was clouded, perplexed. She could remember nothing that would account for her present position. Whether she were in a dream, laboring under nightmare, she could not tell, and purposely she struck her foot against one of the paving blocks of lava, and by the pain assured herself that she was actually awake.

But where was she?

She looked up. The sky was besprent with stars, a sky limpid, tender, vaporless and vast, out of which the stars throbbed with iridescent light in all the changeful flicker of topaz, emerald and ruby. And the air was full of flying stars, in tens of thousands, they settled on rushes by the roadside in chains of fire, they flashed across the eyes, they settled down on the dress; and out of the cool grass shone the steady lustre of innumerable glow-worms.

The milky way, like an illumined veil, crossed the vault, vaporous, transparent with stars shining through it.

From the black monuments on each side hooted the owls, bats swept by, diving out of night to brush by the passers along the road and plunge back into night, like old forgotten fancies of the dreaming mind, that recur and vanish again, in waking hours. Out of the grass the crickets shrilled, and frogs called with flutelike tones at intervals, whilst others maintained an incessant chatter.

Where was she? What were these great fantastic edifices on each side of the road? They were no houses, for out of none glimmered a light. No occupants stood in the doors, or sang and piped on the threshold. These were no taverns, for no host invited to rest within, and praised his fare. The road was forsaken, still as death, and these mansions were the dwellings of the dead. She knew this now – that she was on one of the roads that led from the gates of Rome, lined with tombs. How she had got there she knew not. Least of all did she know for what reason she was being dragged along it. She had thus trudged for a considerable time; she had ceased to speak. She was occupied with her thoughts. Weary she was, but in too great anguish of mind to be aware how weary she was, till tripping on a stone she fell.

Then a voice said: —

“She is full awake now. There is naught to fear. Let her again mount the litter.”

“Elymas!” exclaimed the girl, “I know you, I know your voice. What means this? Whither am I being taken?”

“Madam,” said the sorcerer in reply, after a pause, “your own eyes shall answer the question better than my lips, to-morrow.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

ALBANUM

Sleep-drunk, with clouded brain, eyes that saw as in a dream, feet that moved involuntarily, Domitia descended from the litter and tottered in at a doorway when informed that she had reached her destination.

Where that was she did not care, whose house this was mattered nothing to her in her then condition of weariness.

Female slaves bearing lights received her and directed her steps to a chamber where they would have divested her of her garments and put her to bed, had she not refused their assistance, thrown herself on the couch and in a moment fallen fast asleep.

The slaves looked at each other, whispered, and resolved not to torment by rousing her; they accordingly drew the heavy curtains of the doorway and left her to her slumbers.

But weary though Domitia was, her sleep was not dreamless, the song of a thousand nightingales that made the night musical reached her ears and penetrated the doorways of her troubled brain and wove fantasies; the ever-present sense of fear, not dissipated by slumber, weighed on her and gave sombre color to her dreams; the motion of the palanquin had communicated itself in her fancy, to the bed, and that tossed and swayed under her. Her weary feet seemed stung and burnt as though they had been held too close to the fire. Now she saw Lamia’s face, and then it was withdrawn; now her mother seemed to be calling to her from an ever-increasing distance.

Yet troubled though her sleep was, it afforded her brain some rest, and she woke in the morning at a later hour than usual, when by the strip of warm light below the curtains she was made aware that the sun had risen.

She started from sleep, passed her hand across her face, pressed her brows, stepped to the doorway, pushed the curtains aside and looked out into a little atrium, in which plashed a fountain, and where stood boxes of myrtles in full flower, steeping the atmosphere with fragrance.

At once two female servants came to her, bowed low and desired permission to assist in dressing her.

With some hesitation she consented.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“By the lake of Alba,” answered a dark-faced servant with hard lustrous eyes, and in a foreign dialect.

“In whose house?”

The slaves looked at each other, and made no reply.

Again she put the question.

“Lady, we are forbidden to say,” answered one of the slaves.

“At Alba?” muttered Domitia.

Then, as the woman divested her of her tunic, something fell from her bosom on the mosaic floor. The maid stooped, picked it up and handed it to Domitia, who turned it in her palm and looked at it, at first without comprehension. Then she recollected what this was – the amulet given her by Glyceria. It was a red cornelian fish pierced at one end and a fine gold ring inserted in the hole, so that the stone might be suspended.

Domitia was not in a condition of mind to pay attention to the ornament, but she bade one of the servants thread a piece of silk through the ring that she might wear the amulet about her neck, and then she allowed herself to be conducted to the bath.

With suspicious eyes the girl observed everything. She was obviously in a country villa belonging to some Roman noble, and that villa beside the Alban Lake.

The Ælii Lamiæ had no country-house at this place, of that she was aware. She had heard some of the friends of her mother speak of the beauties of the Alban Lake, and then her mother had lamented that the family estate lay by the Gabian puddle. But she could not recall that any one of them had a villa there.

When she left the bath she walked out of the doorway through the vestibule and stood on the terrace.

Below was the sombre lake, almost circular, with the rolling woods of oak and beech flowing down the slopes to the very water’s edge, here and there the green covering interrupted by precipitous crags of tuffa. Yonder was the great ridge on which gleamed white the Temple of Jupiter Latiaris, the central shrine of the Latin races, the great pilgrimage place to which the country people turned in every distress.

She had not previously seen the Alban Lake, although Gabii had been her residence for some months, and that was seated on a low spur of the mountains, in the crater of one of which slept this tranquil and lovely sheet of water. But she knew enough about it by hearsay to be sure that she was not misinformed by the slaves as to where she now was. She certainly was beside that lake, near which once stretched Alba Longa, the cradle of the Roman race – a race of shepherds driven from its first seat by volcanic fires, to settle beside the Tiber on the Palatine Hill.

That road along which she had been conveyed during the night was the great Appian Way. It could have been none other, and that led, as she was aware, along the spurs of the Alban mountains.

She walked the terrace, her brow moist with anxious thought.

Why had she been carried off?

By whom had she been swept as by a hurricane from her husband’s side?

A sense of numbness was on her brain still, caused by the shock. To Lucius Lamia her heart had turned with the reverence she had borne to her father, with the sweetness and glow of girlish love for one who would be linked with her by a still nearer tie. She could not realize that she was parted from Lamia finally, irrevocably. She was in a waking dream: a dream of great horror, but yet a dream that would roll away and reality would return. She would wake from it in the arms of her dear husband, looking into his eyes, clinging to his heart, hearing his words soothing her mind, allaying her terrors.

If at this time she could have conceived that to be possible which nevertheless was to take place, she would have run to the lake and plunged into its blue waters.

Singularly enough no thought of the vision in the temple of Isis recurred to her. Possibly she was in too stunned a condition of mind; possibly the effects of the narcotic still hung about her, like the vapors that trail along the landscape after a storm of rain at the break of the weather. No thought of hers connected this outrage with Domitian. This was due to the impression produced in her by conversation with her mother, who, she believed, was designing to secure Domitian for herself.

Moreover, the young prince had never shown her any favor. He had studiously neglected her, that he might address himself to Duilia. He had taunted her, sneered at her, but never spoken to her words that might be construed as a declaration of love. She recalled how she had urged her mother to expel him from the house when he sought refuge there; how she had sought to thrust him forth to certain death, to deny him the rights of hospitality. Such was enough to provoke resentment, not to awaken love. Her mother, on the other hand, had bound him to her by the tie of gratitude, for she had saved him at that time of extreme peril.

Seeing the dark slave girl, Domitia signed to her to approach, and asked:

“Where are some of my family? Is not Euphrosyne here – or Eboracus?”

“Lady – none came with you save the servants of our master.”

“And he?”

“Madam, I may not say.”

“There is that Magus, Elymas; send him to me.”

After some delay the sorcerer appeared, and approached, bowed and stood silent with hands crossed on his breast.

“Elymas,” said Domitia, “I require you to enlighten me. What is the meaning of this? Why have I been carried away to Albanum? By whose orders has this been done?”

He bowed again – paused, and then, with obvious uneasiness in his manner replied: —

“Destiny will be fulfilled.”

“What mean you? Destiny! some drive it before them as a wheelbarrow, and such seem you to be. Why am I here and not in Lamia’s house in Rome?”

“Did you not, lady, behold in vision that which was to be?”

She started, lost color and shivered.

“What mean you?”

“The purple.”

“The purple! I desire no purple. You speak enigmatically. You have acted a treacherous part in forwarding this act of violence. I have been snatched from my dear husband’s side, the Gods who gave me to him have been outraged, I – I, a member of a noble house, a daughter of Domitius Corbulo, have been treated as though the prey of a party of slave-hunters. What next? Am I to be taken into the market-place, and sold by auction? Or am I carried off by freebooters – to be let go for a price? Name me the captain of this robber band, and the price at which I may be ransomed. I promise it shall be paid. But that condign chastisement be inflicted for this insult, that I will also guarantee. I thank the Gods, Rome is not on the confines of the world, that these deeds can be perpetrated with impunity. We are not at Nizibis or Edessa to be fallen upon by Parthians, or held to ransom by Armenians – ”

“Young lady,” said the Magian, “your words are high-sounding, but your threats are such as cannot be executed, nor is any price asked for your redemption. When you set your foot on the Clivus Scauri, it is a narrow way, between high walls – and there is no option, you must go on. You cannot turn aside to right or left.”

“I can turn back.”

“The way is broken up behind. You must go forward.”

“Whither?”

“Look!”

A number of male slaves came forth from the villa; they were in white.

“Do you know that livery?” asked the sorcerer.

Then Domitia uttered a cry of despair, and threw herself on the ground. Now she did know where she was, in whose power she was, and how hopeless it was for her to expect to escape.

The white was the Imperial livery.

CHAPTER XXV.

BY A RAZOR

Two days passed, and Domitia remained undisturbed. No tidings reached her from Rome, but to her great relief the Cæsar Domitian did not appear. That a meeting with him must take place, she was aware, but in what manner he would address her, that she could not guess; whether he would take occasion to exhibit ignoble revenge for her treatment of him on the night when he sought refuge in her house, or whether he would approach her as a lover. This the sequel could alone disclose. The second alternative was what she mainly dreaded.

On the third day, hearing a bustle in the hall, and conjecturing that some one had arrived, and that the critical moment had come, Domitia waited in her chamber with beating heart, and long-drawn sighs. When the curtains were sharply withdrawn, to her surprise and delight her mother entered, radiant in her best toilette, her face, as far as could be judged through the paint, wreathed with smiles.

“Well!” said she. – “But first a seat. You sly fox! who would have thought it? But there – I am content. I have sent out no invitations to a little supper, there is now no occasion for it, and one does not care to spend – without an expectation of it leading to results. To look at your face no one would have supposed that depth in you – and to play us all such a trick, poor Lamia and me. It would really make a widow of a week old laugh. Don’t smother me, my dear, and above all, don’t cry – that is to say, if you cry do not let your tears fall on my cheek, you know I am – well – well – it might spoil my complexion.”

“Mother,” gasped the unhappy girl – “O, how can you speak to me in this manner. You know, you must know, I have been carried away against my will. O mother, Lucius does not suppose that – ”

“My dear child, it does not concern me in the least, whether the kitten carried off the rat, or the rat the kitten. Here you are in the rat’s hole, and all you have to look to is to eat your rat and not let the rat eat you.”

“Oh, mother! mother! take me home with you.”

“Domitia, do not be a baby. Of course you cannot return. You have bidden farewell to the household Gods, and renounced the paternal threshold.”

“Mother – I have embraced the gate-posts of the Lamiæ.”

“But the Gods of that family have been unable or unwilling to retain you, they have resigned you to – I cannot say, in conscience, nobler hands, for the Flavian family – well, we know what we know, – but to more powerful hands, that will not let you go. Besides, my dear, I have no wish to have you home again. When a bird has flown, it has said farewell to the nest, to its cracked eggshells and worms, and must find another.”

“Do not be cruel!”

“I am not cruel – but what has happened must be accepted, that is the true philosophy of life, better than all that nonsense declaimed by philosophers.”

“Mother! I will not stay here.”

“Domitia, here you must stay till somebody comes to take you away. Why! as the Gods love me! I expect yet to hear you proclaimed Augusta, and to have to offer incense and to pour a libation on your altar. Think – what an honor to have your wax head among the ancestors, as a divinity to be worshipped – but no – I am wrong there, you would be in the lararium, or set up in the vestibule, a deified ancestress or member of the family is exalted from the atrium to the temple. I really will go out of my way and have a little supper to honor the occasion. I see it all – we shall before long have a college of Flavian priests, and all the whole bundle of mouldy old usurers, and tax-collectors, and their frowsy womankind will be gods, with temples and a cult, and you, my dear! It makes my mouth water.”

“But, mother, why am I carried away?”

“Why! O you jocose little creature, why? because some person I know of has taken a fancy to your monkey ways and baby face.”

“I belong to Lamia. I have been married to him.”

“Oh! that is easily settled. I thank the Immortals, divorce is easily obtained in Rome – with money, influence in Rome – to the end of time, my dear.”

“I do not desire to be divorced – I will not be divorced. I love Lucius and he loves me.”

“You are a child – just away from your dolls, and know nothing of life.”

“But, mother, there are laws. I will throw myself on the protection of the Senate.”

Longa Duilia laughed aloud. “Silly fool! laws bind the subjects and the weak, not princes and the strong. Make your mind up to accept what has happened. It is the work of destiny.”

“It is an infamous crime.”

“My child, do not use such words, what might be crime among common folk is pleasantry among princes. They all do it. It is their right. It is of no avail your attempting resistance. Domitian has taken a fancy to you – he is young, good-looking, Cæsar, all sorts of honors have been heaped on him, and he has but to put out a rake and comb together all the good in the world. And” – she drew nearer to her daughter, – “he may be Emperor some day. Titus has but one lumpy, ugly girl – no son.”

“I care not. I hate him! let me go back to Lamia!”

“That is impossible.”

“Not if I will!”

“You cannot. You would be stayed by the servants here.”

“But you – cannot you help me? O mother, if you have any love for me! For the sake of my dear, dear father!”

“Even if I would, I could not. Why, there is not a court in Rome, not the Senate even can afford you protection and release. The Flavians are up now.”

“I will appeal to Vespasian, to the Emperor!”

“He is in Egypt.”

The girl panted and beat her head with her hands.

“Lamia! he shall release me.”

“He needs some one to release him.”

“How so?”

“He insulted Domitian in the Senate House – all because of you, and is under arrest. For less matters, than what he has done, lives have been lost.”

“He will never – no, never!” she could not finish her sentence, her heart was boiling over, and she burst into a paroxysm of sobs.

“The Gods! the Gods help me!” she cried.

“My dear Domitia, you might as well call on the walls to assist you. The Gods! They are just as bad as mortals. You may cry, but they will look between their fingers, accept your prayers and offerings and laugh at you as a fool. Why, as the Gods love me! Does not the family derive from Lamius, and was not he the child of Hercules and Omphale? It was very naughty and shocking, and all that sort of thing – but they all do it, and are not in the least disposed to assist you. On the contrary, they will back up the ravisher.”

“Then I have no help – save in myself. I will never be his.”

“Be advised by me, you foolish child. When you come under a cherry tree you pluck all the ripe fruit; and what you cannot eat yourself you give to your friends. Do you not perceive that having been fortunate enough to catch the fancy of the young Cæsar, you can use this fancy and make large profit out of it? He is already very freely distributing offices to all his friends and such as most grossly flatter him. What may not you obtain for me! That is if I take a liking for any one and wish to marry him, you must positively obtain the proconsulship of Syria or Egypt for him. And as to Lamia, he can be choked off with a prætorship.”

The veil was plucked aside, and Domitian entered.

Longa Duilia rose; not so Domitia Longina.

He stood for a moment looking at the girl.

“Saucy still?” he said.

“Wrathful at this treatment,” she answered, with her eyes on the ground, and her hands clasped. “Because I would have denied to you a suppliant, the hospitality of our house, must I, unsoliciting it, be forced to accept yours?”

“Domitia, has your mother informed you what I have designed for you?”

“I should prefer that you concerned yourself with your prætorial duties.”

Domitian bit his lip. He had been invested with the office of prætor of the city, but in his overweening conceit deemed it unworthy of him to discharge the duties of the office.

“It is my intent, Domitia, to elevate you into the Flavian family.”

“O how gracious!” sneered the girl, – “taken up like Trygdeus.”

“Domitia!” exclaimed her mother, then at once perceiving that the allusion was lost on the uneducated prince, she said: —

“Quite so, on the wings of the Bird of Jove.”7

The young man became crimson. He was convinced that there was some bitter sneer in the words of Domitia, and he was ashamed at his inability to comprehend the allusion.

“What I intend for you,” said he, moving from the doorway to where he could observe her face, “what I intend for you is what there is not another woman in Rome who would not give her jewels to obtain.”

“Then I pray you address yourself to them. Pay your debts with their subscriptions, and leave me who am content to be disregarded, in the tranquillity I so love – with my husband, Ælius Lamia.”

“Lamia!” laughed Domitian. “You are to be divorced from him. Your mother is willing.”

“My mother has no more power over me. I am out of the paternal family.”

“You will consent yourself.”

“Who will make me?”

“That will I. It is easy to rend apart – ”

“Any fool can break, not all can bind.”

“Domitia, be advised and do not incense me.”

“I care not for myself. I have but one wish. Let me go. Take, if you will, what is my property, take that of Lamia, but let us retire together to some little farm and be quiet there, drive us, if you will, out of Italy – but do not separate us.”

“You talk at random. Follow me.”

He led the way, stood in the entrance, holding back the curtain, and Duilia drew her daughter from her seat.

“Come, – Lamia awaits you,” said Domitian.

Then the girl started to her feet.

“He is here! You will be generous, – like a prince!”

“Come with me.”

She now followed with beating heart. Her cheeks were flushed, a sparkle was in her eye, her breath came fast through her nostrils, her teeth were set.

Without were many lictors lining the way, filling the court.

He led into that portion of the villa where were the baths and entered the warm room. There Domitia saw at once Lamia, stripped almost to the skin, held by soldiers of the prince’s guard, his mouth gagged, and a surgeon standing by with a razor.

She would have sprung to him and thrown her arms around him, had she not been restrained.

“Domitia,” said the young Cæsar; “you will see how that to divorce you is in my power, unless you consent to it yourself, and give yourself to me.”

Domitia trembled in every limb. She looked with distended eyes at Lamia, who had no power to speak, save with his eyes, and they were fixed on her.

A large marble bath stood near, and both hot and cold water could be turned on into it.

She knew but too well what the threat was. Seneca had so perished under Nero, – by the cutting of the veins he had bled to death.

Petronius, master of the Revels to the same tyrant, had suffered in the same manner, and as his blood flowed he had mocked and hearkened to ribald verses till the power to listen and to flaunt his indifference were at an end.

And now the second Nero, not yet full blown, but giving earnest of what he would be, was threatening Lamia with the same death. It was not a gradual and painless extinction, but a death of great suffering, for it led to agonizing cramps, knotting the muscles, and contracting the limbs. Domitia knew this – she had heard the dying agonies of Seneca and Petronius described, – and she looked with quivering lips and bloodless cheeks on him whom she loved best – on the only one in the world she loved, threatened with the same awful death.