Chapter VII

ONCE the highest heads in Rome inclined before Acte, the former favorite
of Nero. But even at that period she showed no desire to interfere in
public questions, and if on any occasion she used her influence over the
young ruler, it was only to implore mercy for some one. Quiet and
unassuming, she won the gratitude of many, and made no one her enemy.
Even Octavia was unable to hate her. To those who envied her she seemed
exceedingly harmless. It was known that she continued to love Nero with
a sad and pained love, which lived not in hope, but only in memories of
the time in which that Nero was not only younger and loving, but better.
It was known that she could not tear her thoughts and soul from those
memories, but expected nothing; since there was no real fear that Nero
would return to her, she was looked upon as a person wholly inoffensive,
and hence was left in peace. Poppæa considered her merely as a quiet
servant, so harmless that she did not even try to drive her from the
palace.

But since Cæsar had loved her once and dropped her without offence in a
quiet and to some extent friendly manner, a certain respect was retained
for her. Nero, when he had freed her, let her live in the palace, and
gave her special apartments with a few servants. And as in their time
Pallas and Narcissus, though freedmen of Claudius, not only sat at
feasts with Claudius, but also held places of honor as powerful
ministers, so she too was invited at times to Cæsar's table. This was
done perhaps because her beautiful form was a real ornament to a feast.
Cæsar for that matter had long since ceased to count with any
appearances in his choice of company. At his table the most varied
medley of people of every position and calling found places. Among them
were senators, but mainly those who were content to be jesters as well.
There were patricians, old and young, eager for luxury, excess, and
enjoyment. There were women with great names, who did not hesitate to
put on a yellow wig of an evening and seek adventures on dark streets
for amusement's sake. There were also high officials, and priests who
at full goblets were willing to jeer at their own gods. At the side of
these was a rabble of every sort: singers, mimes, musicians, dancers of
both sexes; poets who, while declaiming, were thinking of the sesterces
which might fall to them for praise of Cæsar's verses; hungry
philosophers following the dishes with eager eyes; finally, noted
charioteers, tricksters, miracle-wrights, tale-tellers, jesters, and the
most varied adventurers brought through fashion or folly to a few days'
notoriety. Among these were not lacking even men who covered with long
hair their ears pierced in sign of slavery.

The most noted sat directly at the tables; the lesser served to amuse in
time of eating, and waited for the moment in which the servants would
permit them to rush at the remnants of food and drink. Guests of this
sort were furnished by Tigellinus, Vatinius, and Vitelius; for these
guests they were forced more than once to find clothing befitting the
chambers of Cæsar, who, however, liked their society, through feeling
most free in it. The luxury of the court gilded everything, and covered
all things with glitter. High and low, the descendants of great
families, and the needy from the pavements of the city, great artists,
and vile scrapings of talent, thronged to the palace to sate their
dazzled eyes with a splendor almost surpassing human estimate, and to
approach the giver of every favor, wealth, and property,--whose single
glance might abase, it is true, but might also exalt beyond measure.

That day Lygia too had to take part in such a feast. Fear, uncertainty,
and a dazed feeling, not to be wondered at after the sudden change, were
struggling in her with a wish to resist. She feared Nero; she feared
the people and the palace whose uproar deprived her of presence of mind;
she feared the feasts of whose shamelessness she had heard from Aulus,
Pomponia Græcina, and their friends. Though young, she was not without
knowledge, for knowledge of evil in those times reached even children's
ears early. She knew, therefore, that ruin was threatening her in the
palace. Pomponia, moreover, had warned her of this at the moment of
parting. But having a youthful spirit, unacquainted with corruption,
and confessing a lofty faith, implanted in her by her foster mother, she
had promised to defend herself against that ruin; she had promised her
mother, herself and also that Divine Teacher in whom she not only
believed, but whom she had come to love with her half-childlike heart
for the sweetness of his doctrine, the bitterness of his death, and the
glory of his resurrection.

She was confident too that now neither Aulus nor Pomponia would be
answerable for her actions; she was thinking therefore whether it would
not be better to resist and not go to the feast. On the one hand fear
and alarm spoke audibly in her soul; on the other the wish rose in her
to show courage in suffering, in exposure to torture and death. The
Divine Teacher had commanded to act thus. He had given the example
himself. Pomponia had told her that the most earnest among the
adherents desire with all their souls such a test, and pray for it. And
Lygia, when still in the house of Aulus, had been mastered at moments by
a similar desire. She had seen herself as a martyr, with wounds on her
feet and hands, white as snow, beautiful with a beauty not of earth, and
borne by equally white angels into the azure sky; and her imagination
admired such a vision. There was in it much childish brooding, but
there was in it also something of delight in herself, which Pomponia had
reprimanded. But now, when opposition to Cæsar's will might draw after
it some terrible punishment, and the martyrdom scene of imagination
become a reality, there was added to the beautiful visions and to the
delight a kind of curiosity mingled with dread, as to how they would
punish her, and what kind of torments they would provide. And her soul,
half childish yet, was hesitating on two sides. But Acte, hearing of
these hesitations, looked at her with astonishment as if the maiden were
talking in a fever. To oppose Cæsar's will, expose oneself from the
first moment to his anger? To act thus one would need to be a child
that knows not what it says. From Lygia's own words it appears that she
is, properly speaking, not really a hostage, but a maiden forgotten by
her own people. No law of nations protects her; and even if it did,
Cæsar is powerful enough to trample on it in a moment of anger. It has
pleased Cæsar to take her, and he will dispose of her. Thenceforth she
is at his will, above which there is not another on earth.

"So it is," continued Acte. "I too have read the letters of Paul of
Tarsus, and I know that above the earth is God, and the Son of God, who
rose from the dead; but on the earth there is only Cæsar. Think of this,
Lygia. I know too that thy doctrine does not permit thee to be what I
was, and that to you as to the Stoics,--of whom Epictetus has told me,--
when it comes to a choice between shame and death, it is permitted to
choose only death. But canst thou say that death awaits thee and not
shame too? Hast thou heard of the daughter of Sejanus, a young maiden,
who at command of Tiberius had to pass through shame before her death,
so as to respect a law which prohibits the punishment of virgins with
death? Lygia, Lygia, do not irritate Cæsar. If the decisive moment
comes when thou must choose between disgrace and death, thou wilt act as
thy faith commands; but seek not destruction thyself, and do not
irritate for a trivial cause an earthly and at the same time a cruel
divinity."

Acte spoke with great compassion, and even with enthusiasm; and being a
little short-sighted, she pushed her sweet face up to Lygia's as if
wishing to see surely the effect of her words.

But Lygia threw her arms around Acte's neck with childish trustfulness
and said,--"Thou art kind, Acte."

Acte, pleased by the praise and confidence, pressed her to her heart;
and then disengaging herself from the arms of the maiden, answered,--"My
happiness has passed and my joy is gone, but I am not wicked." Then she
began to walk with quick steps through the room and to speak to herself,
as if in despair.

"No! And he was not wicked. He thought himself good at that time, and
he wished to be good. I know that best. All his change came later,
when he ceased to love. Others made him what he is--yes, others--and
Poppæa."

Here her eyelids filled with tears. Lygia followed her for some time
with her blue eyes, and asked at last,--"Art thou sorry for him, Acre?"

"I am sorry for him!" answered the Grecian, with a low voice. And again
she began to walk, her hands clinched as if in pain, and her face
without hope.

"Dost thou love him yet, Acte?" asked Lygia, timidly.

"I love him."

And after a while she added,--"No one loves him but me."

Silence followed, during which Acte strove to recover her calmness,
disturbed by memories; and when at length her face resumed its usual
look of calm sorrow, she said,--

"Let us speak of thee, Lygia. Do not even think of opposing Cæsar; that
would be madness. And be calm. I know this house well, and I judge
that on Cæsar's part nothing threatens thee. If Nero had given command
to take thee away for himself, he would not have brought thee to the
Palatine. Here Poppæa rules; and Nero, since she bore him a daughter,
is more than ever under her influence. No, Nero gave command, it is
true, that thou shouldst be at the feast, but he has not seen thee yet;
he has not inquired about thee, hence he does not care about thee.
Maybe he took thee from Aulus and Pomponia only through anger at them.
Petronius wrote me to have care of thee; and since Pomponia too wrote,
as thou knowest, maybe they had an understanding. Maybe he did that at
her request. If this be true, if he at the request of Pomponia will
occupy himself with thee, nothing threatens thee; and who knows if Nero
may not send thee back to Aulus at his persuasion? I know not whether
Nero loves him over much, but I know that rarely has he the courage to
be of an opinion opposite to his."

"Ah, Acte!" answered Lygia; "Petronius was with us before they took me,
and my mother was convinced that Nero demanded my surrender at his
instigation."

"That would be bad," said Acte. But she stopped for a while, and then
said,--"Perhaps Petronius only said, in Nero's presence at some supper,
that he saw a hostage of the Lygians at Aulus's, and Nero, who is
jealous of his own power, demanded thee only because hostages belong to
Cæsar. But he does not like Aulus and Pomponia. No! it does not seem
to me that if Petronius wished to take thee from Aulus he would use such
a method. I do not know whether Petronius is better than others of
Cæsar's court, but he is different. Maybe too thou wilt find some one
else who would be willing to intercede for thee. Hast thou not seen at
Aulus's some one who is near Cæsar?"

"I have seen Vespasian and Titus."

"Cæsar does not like them."

"And Seneca."

"If Seneca advised something, that would be enough to make Nero act
otherwise."

The bright face of Lygia was covered with a blush. "And Vinicius-"

"I do not know him."

"He is a relative of Petronius, and returned not long since from
Armenia."

"Dost thou think that Nero likes him?"

"All like Vinicius."

"And would he intercede for thee?"

"He would."

Acte smiled tenderly, and said, "Then thou wilt see him surely at the
feast. Thou must be there, first, because thou must,--only such a child
as thou could think otherwise. Second, if thou wish to return to the
house of Aulus, thou wilt find means of beseeching Petronius and
Vinicius to gain for thee by their influence the right to return. If
they were here, both would tell thee as I do, that it would be madness
and ruin to try resistance. Cæsar might not notice thy absence, it is
true; but if he noticed it and thought that thou hadst the daring to
oppose his will, here would be no salvation for thee. Go, Lygia! Dost
thou hear the noise in the palace? The sun is near setting; guests will
begin to arrive soon."

"Thou art right," answered Lygia, "and I will follow thy advice."

How much desire to see Vinicius and Petronius there was in this resolve,
how much of woman's curiosity there was to see such a feast once in
life, and to see at it Cæsar, the court, the renowned Poppæa and other
beauties, and all that unheard-of splendor, of which wonders were
narrated in Rome, Lygia could not give account to herself of a
certainty. But Acte was right, and Lygia felt this distinctly. There
was need to go; therefore, when necessity and simple reason supported
the hidden temptation, she ceased to hesitate.

Acre conducted her to her own unctorium to anoint and dress her; and
though there was no lack of slave women in Cæsar's house, and Acte had
enough of them for her personal service, still, through sympathy for the
maiden whose beauty and innocence had caught her heart, she resolved to
dress her herself. It became clear at once that in the young Grecian,
in spite of her sadness and her perusal of the letters of Paul of
Tarsus, there was yet much of the ancient Hellenic spirit, to which
physical beauty spoke with more eloquence than aught else on earth.
When she had undressed Lygia, she could not restrain an exclamation of
wonder at sight of her form, at once slender and full, created, as it
were, from pearl and roses; and stepping back a few paces, she looked
with delight on that matchless, spring-like form.

"Lygia," exclaimed she at last, "thou art a hundred times more beautiful
than Poppæa!"

But, reared in the strict house of Pomponia, where modesty was observed,
even when women were by themselves, the maiden, wonderful as a wonderful
dream, harmonious as a work of Praxiteles or as a song, stood alarmed,
blushing from modesty, with knees pressed together, with her hands on
her bosom, and downcast eyes. At last, raising her arms with sudden
movement, she removed the pins which held her hair, and in one moment,
with one shake of her head, she covered herself with it as with a
mantle.

Acte, approaching her and touching her dark tresses, said,--

"Oh, what hair thou hast! I will not sprinkle golden powder on it; it
gleams of itself in one place and another with gold, where it waves. I
will add, perhaps, barely a sprinkle here and there; but lightly,
lightly, as if a sun ray had freshened it. Wonderful must thy Lygian
country be where such maidens are born!

"I do not remember it," answered Lygia; "but Ursus has told me that with
us it is forests, forests, and forests."

"But flowers bloom in those forests," said Acte, dipping her hand in a
vase filled with verbena, and moistening Lygia's hair with it. When she
had finished this work, Acre anointed her body lightly with odoriferous
oils from Arabia, and then dressed her in a soft gold-colored tunic
without sleeves, over which was to be put a snow-white peplus. But
since she had to dress Lygia's hair first, she put on her meanwhile a
kind of roomy dress called synthesis, and, seating her in an armchair,
gave her for a time into the hands of slave women, so as to stand at a
distance herself and follow the hairdressing. Two other slave women put
on Lygia's feet white sandals, embroidered with purple, fastening them
to her alabaster ankles with golden lacings drawn crosswise. When at
last the hair-dressing was finished, they put a peplus on her in very
beautiful, light folds; then Acte fastened pearls to her neck, and
touching her hair at the folds with gold dust, gave command to the women
to dress her, following Lygia with delighted eyes meanwhile.

But she was ready soon; and when the first litters began to appear
before the main gate, both entered the side portico from which were
visible the chief entrance, the interior galleries, and the courtyard
surrounded by a colonnade of Numidian marble.

Gradually people passed in greater and greater numbers under the lofty
arch of the entrance, over which the splendid quadrigæ of Lysias seemed
to bear Apollo and Diana into space. Lygia's eyes were struck by that
magnificence, of which the modest house of Aulus could not have given
her the slightest idea. It was sunset; the last rays were falling on
the yellow Numidian marble of the columns, which shone like gold in
those gleams and changed into rose color also. Among the columns, at
the side of white statues of the Danaides and others, representing gods
or heroes, crowds of people flowed past,--men and women; resembling
statues also, for they were draped in togas, pepluses, and robes,
falling with grace and beauty toward the earth in soft folds, on which
the rays of the setting sun were expiring. A gigantic Hercules, with
head in the light yet, from the breast down sunk in shadow cast by the
columns, looked from above on that throng. Acte showed Lygia senators
in wide-bordered togas, in colored tunics, in sandals with crescents on
them, and knights, and famed artists; she showed her Roman ladies, in
Roman, in Grecian, in fantastic Oriental costume, with hair dressed in
towers or pyramids, or dressed like that of the statues of goddesses,
low on the head, and adorned with flowers. Many men and women did Acte
call by name, adding to their names histories, brief and sometimes
terrible, which pierced Lygia with fear, amazement, and wonder. For her
this was a strange world, whose beauty intoxicated her eyes, but whose
contrasts her girlish understanding could not grasp. In those twilights
of the sky, in those rows of motionless columns vanishing in the
distance, and in those statuesque people, there was a certain lofty
repose. It seemed that in the midst of those marbles of simple lines
demigods might live free of care, at peace and in happiness. Meanwhile
the low voice of Acte disclosed, time after time, a new and dreadful
secret of that palace and those people. See, there at a distance is the
covered portico on whose columns and floor are still visible red stains
from the blood with which Caligula sprinkled the white marble when he
fell beneath the knife of Cassius Chærea; there his wife was slain;
there his child was dashed against a stone; under that wing is the
dungeon in which the younger Drusus gnawed his hands from hunger; there
the elder Drusus was poisoned; there Gemellus quivered in terror, and
Claudius in convulsions; there Germanicus suffered,--everywhere those
walls had heard the groans and death-rattle of the dying; and those
people hurrying now to the feast in togas, in colored tunics, in
flowers, and in jewels, may be the condemned of to-morrow; on more than
one face, perhaps, a smile conceals terror, alarm, the uncertainty of
the next day; perhaps feverishness, greed, envy are gnawing at this
moment into the hearts of those crowned demigods, who in appearance are
free of care. Lygia's frightened thoughts could not keep pace with
Acte's words; and when that wonderful world attracted her eyes with
increasing force, her heart contracted within her from fear, and in her
soul she struggled with an immense, inexpressible yearning for the
beloved Pomponia Græcina, and the calm house of Aulus, in which love,
and not crime, was the ruling power.

Meanwhile new waves of guests were flowing in from the Vicus Apollinis.
From beyond the gates came the uproar and shouts of clients, escorting
their patrons. The courtyard and the colonnades were swarming with the
multitude of Cæsar's slaves, of both sexes, small boys, and pretorian
soldiers, who kept guard in the palace. Here and there among dark or
swarthy visages was the black face of a Numidian, in a feathered helmet,
and with large gold rings in his ears. Some were bearing lutes and
citharas, hand lamps of gold, silver, and bronze, and bunches of
flowers, reared artificially despite the late autumn season. Louder and
louder the sound of conversation was mingled with the plashing of the
fountain, the rosy streams of which fell from above on the marble and
were broken, as if in sobs.

Acte had stopped her narration; but Lygia gazed at the throng, as if
searching for some one. All at once her face was covered with a blush,
and from among the columns came forth Vinicius with Petronius. They
went to the great triclinium, beautiful, calm, like white gods, in their
togas. It seemed to Lygia, when she saw those two known and friendly
faces among strange people, and especially when she saw Vinicius, that a
great weight had fallen from her heart. She felt less alone. That
measureless yearning for Pomponia and the house of Aulus, which had
broken out in her a little while before, ceased at once to be painful.
The desire to see Vinicius and to talk with him drowned in her other
voices. In vain did she remember all the evil which she had heard of
the house of Cæsar, the words of Acte, the warnings of Pomponia; in
spite of those words and warnings, she felt all at once that not only
must she be at that feast, but that she wished to be there. At the
thought that soon she would hear that dear and pleasant voice, which had
spoken of love to her and of happiness worthy of the gods, and which was
sounding like a song in her ears yet, delight seized her straightway.

But the next moment she feared that delight. It seemed to her that she
would be false to the pure teaching in which she had been reared, false
to Pomponia, and false to herself. It is one thing to go by constraint,
and another to delight in such a necessity. She felt guilty, unworthy,
and ruined.

Despair swept her away, and she wanted to weep. Had she been alone, she
would have knelt down and beaten her breast, saying, "Mea culpa! mea
culpa!" Acte, taking her hand at that moment, led her through the
interior apartments to the grand triclinium, where the feast was to be.
Darkness was in her eyes, and a roaring in her ears from internal
emotion; the beating of her heart stopped her breath. As in a dream,
she saw thousands of lamps gleaming on the tables and on the walls; as
in a dream, she heard the shout with which the guests greeted Cæsar; as
through a mist, she saw Cæsar himself. The shout deafened her, the
glitter dazzled, the odors intoxicated; and, losing the remnant of her
consciousness, she was barely able to recognize Acte, who seated her at
the table and took a place at her side.

But after a while a low and known voice was heard at the other side,--"A
greeting, most beautiful of maidens on earth and of stars in heaven. A
greeting to thee, divine Callina!"

Lygia, having recovered somewhat, looked up; at her side was Vinicius.
He was without a toga, for convenience and custom had enjoined to cast
aside the toga at feasts. His body was covered with only a sleeveless
scarlet tunic embroidered in silver palms. His bare arms were
ornamented in Eastern fashion with two broad golden bands fastened above
the elbow; below they were carefully stripped of hair. They were
smooth, but too muscular,--real arms of a soldier, they were made for
the sword and the shield. On his head was a garland of roses. With
brows joining above the nose, with splendid eyes and a dark complexion,
he was the impersonation of youth and strength, as it were. To Lygia he
seemed so beautiful that though her first amazement had passed, she was
barely able to answer,--"A greeting, Marcus."

"Happy," said he, "are my eyes, which see thee; happy my ears, which
hear thy voice, dearer to me than the sound of lutes or citharas. Were
it commanded me to choose who was to rest here by my side at this feast,
thou, Lygia, or Venus, I would choose thee, divine one!"

And he looked at the maiden as if he wished to sate himself with the
sight of her, to burn her eyes with his eyes. His glance slipped from
her face to her neck and bare arms, fondled her shapely outlines,
admired her, embraced her, devoured her; but besides desire, there was
gleaming in him happiness, admiration, and ecstasy beyond limit.

"I knew that I should see thee in Cæsar's house," continued he; "but
still, when I saw thee, such delight shook my whole soul, as if a
happiness entirely unexpected had met me."

Lygia, having recovered herself and feeling that in that throng and in
that house he was the only being who was near to her, began to converse
with him, and ask about everything which she did not understand and
which filled her with fear. Whence did he know that he would find her
in Cæsar's house? Why is she there? Why did Ciesar take her from
Pomponia? She is full of fear where she is, and wishes to return to
Pomponia. She would die from alarm and grief were it not for the hope
that Petronius and he will intercede for her before Cæsar.

Vinicius explained that he learned from Aulus himself that she had been
taken. Why she is there, he knows not. Cæsar gives account to no one
of his orders and commands. But let her not fear. He, Vinicius, is
near her and will stay near her. He would rather lose his eyes than not
see her; he would rather lose his life than desert her. She is his
soul, and hence he will guard her as his soul. In his house he will
build to her, as to a divinity, an altar on which he will offer myrrh
and aloes, and in spring saffron and apple-blossoms; and since she has a
dread of Cæsar's house, he promises that she shall not stay in it.

And though he spoke evasively and at times invented, truth was to be
felt in his voice, because his feelings were real. Genuine pity
possessed him, too, and her words went to his soul so thoroughly that
when she began to thank him and assure him that Pomponia would love him
for his goodness, and that she herself would be grateful to him all her
life, he could not master his emotion, and it seemed to him that he
would never be able in life to resist her prayer. The heart began to
melt in him. Her beauty intoxicated his senses, and he desired her; but
at the same time he felt that she was very dear to him, and that in
truth he might do homage to her, as to a divinity; he felt also
irresistible need of speaking of her beauty and of his own homage. As
the noise at the feast increased, he drew nearer to her, whispered kind,
sweet words flowing from the depth of his soul, words as resonant as
music and intoxicating as wine.

And he intoxicated her. Amid those strange people he seemed to her ever
nearer, ever dearer, altogether true, and devoted with his whole soul.
He pacified her; he promised to rescue her from the house of Cæsar; he
promised not to desert her, and said that he would serve her. Besides,
he had spoken before at Aulus's only in general about love and the
happiness which it can give; but now he said directly that he loved her,
and that she was dear and most precious to him. Lygia heard such words
from a man's lips for the first time; and as she heard them it seemed to
her that something was wakening in her as from a sleep, that some
species of happiness was embracing her in which immense delight was
mingled with immense alarm. Her cheeks began to burn, her heart to
beat, her mouth opened as in wonder. She was seized with fear because
she was listening to such things, still she did not wish for any cause
on earth to lose one word. At moments she dropped her eyes; then again
she raised her clear glance to Vinicius, timid and also inquiring, as if
she wished to say to him, "Speak on!" The sound of the music, the odor
of flowers and of Arabian perfumes, began to daze her. In Rome it was
the custom to recline at banquets, but at home Lygia occupied a place
between Pomponia and little Aulus. Now Vinicius was reclining near her,
youthful, immense, in love, burning; and she, feeling the heat that
issued from him, felt both delight and shame. A kind of sweet weakness,
a kind of faintness and forgetfulness seized her; it was as if
drowsiness tortured her.

But her nearness to him began to act on Vinicius also. His nostrils
dilated, like those of an Eastern steed. The beating of his heart with
unusual throb was evident under his scarlet tunic; his breathing grew
short, and the expressions that fell from his lips were broken. For the
first time, too, he was so near her. His thoughts grew disturbed; he
felt a flame in his veins which he tried in vain to quench with wine.
Not wine, but her marvellous face, her bare arms, her maiden breast
heaving under the golden tunic, and her form hidden in the white folds
of the peplus, intoxicated him more and more. Finally, he seized her
arm above the wrist, as he had done once at Aulus's, and drawing her
toward him whispered, with trembling lips,--"I love thee, Callina,--
divine one."

"Let me go, Marcus," said Lygia.

But he continued, his eyes mist-covered, "Love me, my goddess!"

But at that moment was heard the voice of Acte, who was reclining on the
other side of Lygia.

"Cæsar is looking at you both."

Vinicius was carried away by sudden anger at Cæsar and at Acte. Her
words had broken the charm of his intoxication. To the young man even a
friendly voice would have seemed repulsive at such a moment, but he
judged that Acte wished purposely to interrupt his conversation with
Lygia. So, raising his head and looking over the shoulder of Lygia at
the young freedwoman, he said with malice:

"The hour has passed, Acte, when thou didst recline near Cæsar's side at
banquets, and they say that blindness is threatening thee; how then
canst thou see him?"

But she answered as if in sadness: "Still I see him. He, too, has short
sight, and is looking at thee through an emerald."

Everything that Nero did roused attention, even in those nearest him;
hence Vinicius was alarmed. He regained self-control, and began
imperceptibly to look toward Cæsar. Lygia, who, embarrassed at the
beginning of the banquet, had seen Nero as in a mist, and afterward,
occupied by the presence and conversation of Vinicius, had not looked at
him at all, turned to him eyes at once curious and terrified.

Acte spoke truly. Cæsar had bent over the table, half-closed one eye,
and holding before the other a round polished emerald, which he used,
was looking at them. For a moment his glance met Lygia's eyes, and the
heart of the maiden was straitened with terror. When still a child on
Aulus's Sicilian estate, an old Egyptian slave had told her of dragons
which occupied dens in the mountains, and it seemed to her now that all
at once the greenish eye of such a monster was gazing at her. She
caught at Vinicius's hand as a frightened child would, and disconnected,
quick impressions pressed into her head: Was not that he, the terrible,
the all-powerful? She had not seen him hitherto, and she thought that he
looked differently. She had imagined some kind of ghastly face, with
malignity petrified in its features; now she saw a great head, fixed on
a thick neck, terrible, it is true, but almost ridiculous, for from a
distance it resembled the head of a child. A tunic of amethyst color,
forbidden to ordinary mortals, cast a bluish tinge on his broad and
short face. He had dark hair, dressed, in the fashion introduced by
Otho, in four curls.

He had no beard, because he had sacrified it recently to Jove,--for
which all Rome gave him thanks, though people whispered to each other
that he had sacrificed it because his beard, like that of his whole
family, was red. In his forehead, projecting strongly above his brows,
there remained something Olympian. In his contracted brows the
consciousness of supreme power was evident; but under that forehead of a
demigod was the face of a monkey, a drunkard, and a comedian,--vain,
full of changing desires, swollen with fat, notwithstanding his youth;
besides, it was sickly and foul. To Lygia he seemed ominous, but above
all repulsive.

After a while he laid down the emerald and ceased to look at her. Then
she saw his prominent blue eyes, blinking before the excess of light,
glassy, without thought, resembling the eyes of the dead.

"Is that the hostage with whom Vinicius is in love?" asked he, turning
to Petronius.

"That is she," answered Petronius.

"What are her people called?"

"The Lygians."

"Does Vinicius think her beautiful?"

"Array a rotten olive trunk in the peplus of a woman, and Vinicius will
declare it beautiful. But on thy countenance, incomparable judge, I
read her sentence already. Thou hast no need to pronounce it! The
sentence is true: she is too dry, thin, a mere blossom on a slender
stalk; and thou, O divine æsthete, esteemest the stalk in a woman.
Thrice and four times art thou right! The face alone does not signify.
I have learned much in thy company, but even now I have not a perfect
cast of the eye. But I am ready to lay a wager with Tullius Senecio
concerning his mistress, that, although at a feast, when all are
reclining, it is difficult to judge the whole form, thou hast said in
thy mind already, 'Too narrow in the hips.'"

"Too narrow in the hips," answered Nero, blinking.

On Petronius's lips appeared a scarcely perceptible smile; but Tullius
Senecio, who till that moment was occupied in conversing with Vestinius,
or rather in reviling dreams, while Vestinius believed in them, turned
to Petronius, and though he had not the least idea touching that of
which they were talking, he said,--"Thou art mistaken! I hold with
Casar."

"Very well," answered Petronius. "I have just maintained that thou hast
a glimmer of understanding, but Cæsar insists that thou art an ass pure
and simple."

"Habet!" said Cæsar, laughing, and turning down the thumb, as was done
in the Circus, in sign that the gladiator had received a blow and was to
be finished.

But Vestinius, thinking that the question was of dreams, exclaimed,--
"But I believe in dreams, and Seneca told me on a time that he believes
too."

"Last night I dreamt that I had become a vestal virgin," said Calvia
Crispinilla, bending over the table.

At this Nero clapped his hands, other followed, and in a moment clapping
of hands was heard all around,--for Crispinilla had been divorced a
number of times, and was known throughout Rome for her fabulous
debauchery.

But she, not disconcerted in the least, said,--"Well! They are all old
and ugly. Rubria alone has a human semblance, and so there would be two
of us, though Rubria gets freckles in summer."

"But admit, purest Calvia," said Petronius, "that thou couldst become a
vestal only in dreams."

"But if Cæsar commanded?"

"I should believe that even the most impossible dreams might come true."

"But they do come true," said Vestinius. "I understand those who do not
believe in the gods, but how is it possible not to believe in dreams?"

"But predictions?" inquired Nero. "It was predicted once to me, that
Rome would cease to exist, and that I should rule the whole Orient."

"Predictions and dreams are connected," said Vestinius. "Once a certain
proconsul, a great disbeliever, sent a slave to the temple of Mopsus
with a sealed letter which he would not let any one open; he did this to
try if the god could answer the question contained in the letter. The
slave slept a night in the temple to have a prophetic dream; he returned
then and said: 'I saw a youth in my dreams; he was as bright as the sun,
and spoke only one word, "Black."' The proconsul, when he heard this,
grew pale, and turning to his guests, disbelievers like himself, said:
'Do ye know what was in the letter?'" Here Vestinius stopped, and,
raising his goblet with wine, began to drink.

"What was in the letter?" asked Senecio.

"In the letter was the question: 'What is the color of the bull which I
am to sacrifice: white or black?'"

But the interest roused by the narrative was interrupted by Vitelius,
who, drunk when he came to the feast, burst forth on a sudden and
without cause in senseless laughter.

"What is that keg of tallow laughing at?" asked Nero.

"Laughter distinguishes men from animals," said Petronius, "and he has
no other proof that he is not a wild boar."

Vitelius stopped half-way in his laughter, and smacking his lips,
shining from fat and sauces, looked at those present with as much
astonishment as if he had never seen them before; then he raised his two
hands, which were like cushions, and said in a hoarse voice,--"The ring
of a knight has fallen from my finger, and it was inherited from my
father."

"Who was a tailor," added Nero.

But Vitelius burst forth again in unexpected laughter, and began to
search for his ring in the peplus of Calvia Crispinilla.

Hereupon Vestinius fell to imitating the cries of a frightened woman.
Nigidia, a friend of Calvia,--a young widow with the face of a child and
the eyes of a wanton,--said aloud,--"He is seeking what he has not
lost."

"And which will be useless to him if he finds it," finished the poet
Lucan.

The feast grew more animated. Crowds of slaves bore around successive
courses; from great vases filled with snow and garlanded with ivy,
smaller vessels with various kinds of wine were brought forth
unceasingly. All drank freely. On the guests, roses fell from the
ceiling at intervals.

Petronius entreated Nero to dignify the feast with his song before the
guests drank too deeply. A chorus of voices supported his words, but
Nero refused at first. It was not a question of courage alone, he said,
though that failed him always. The gods knew what efforts every success
cost him. He did not avoid them, however, for it was needful to do
something for art; and besides, if Apollo had gifted him with a certain
voice, it was not proper to let divine gifts be wasted. He understood,
even, that it was his duty to the State not to let them be wasted. But
that day he was really hoarse. In the night he had placed leaden weights
on his chest, but that had not helped in any way. He was thinking even
to go to Antium, to breathe the sea air.

Lucan implored him in the name of art and humanity. All knew that the
divine poet and singer had composed a new hymn to Venus, compared with
which Lucretius's hymn was as the howl of a yearling wolf. Let that
feast be a genuine feast. So kind a ruler should not cause such
tortures to his subjects. "Be not cruel, O Cæsar!"

"Be not cruel!" repeated all who were sitting near.

Nero spread his hands in sign that he had to yield. All faces assumed
then an expression of gratitude, and all eyes were turned to him; but he
gave command first to announce to Poppæa that he would sing; he informed
those present that she had not come to the feast, because she did not
feel in good health; but since no medicine gave her such relief as his
singing, he would be sorry to deprive her of this opportunity.

In fact, Poppæa came soon. Hitherto she had ruled Nero as if he had
been her subject, but she knew that when his vanity as a singer, a
charioteer, or a poet was involved, there was danger in provoking it.
She came in therefore, beautiful as a divinity, arrayed, like Nero, in
robes of amethyst color, and wearing a necklace of immense pearls,
stolen on a time from Massinissa; she was golden-haired, sweet, and
though divorced from two husbands she had the face and the look of a
virgin.

She was greeted with shouts, and the appellation "Divine Augusta."
Lygia had never seen any one so beautiful, and she could not believe her
own eyes, for she knew that Poppæa Sabina was one of the vilest women on
earth. She knew from Pomponia that she had brought Cæsar to murder his
mother and his wife; she knew her from accounts given by Aulus's guests
and the servants; she had heard that statues to her had been thrown down
at night in the city; she had heard of inscriptions, the writers of
which had been condemned to severest punishment, but which still
appeared on the city walls every morning. Yet at sight of the notorious
Poppæa, considered by the confessors of Christ as crime and evil
incarnate, it seemed to her that angels or spirits of heaven might look
like her. She was unable simply to take her eyes from Poppæa; and from
her lips was wrested involuntarily the question,--"Ah, Marcus, can it
be possible?"

But he, roused by wine, and as it were impatient that so many things had
scattered her attention, and taken her from him and his words, said,--
"Yes, she is beautiful, but thou art a hundred times more beautiful.
Thou dost not know thyself, or thou wouldst be in love with thyself, as
Narcissus was; she bathes in asses' milk, but Venus bathed thee in her
own milk. Thou dost not know thyself, Ocelle mi! Look not at her.
Turn thy eyes to me, Ocelle mi! Touch this goblet of wine with thy
lips, and I will put mine on the same place."

And he pushed up nearer and nearer, and she began to withdraw toward
Acte. But at that moment silence was enjoined because Cæsar had risen.
The singer Diodorus had given him a lute of the kind called delta;
another singer named Terpnos, who had to accompany him in playing,
approached with an instrument called the nablium. Nero, resting the
delta on the table, raised his eyes; and for a moment silence reigned in
the triclinium, broken only by a rustle, as roses fell from the ceiling.

Then he began to chant, or rather to declaim, singingly and
rhythmically, to the accompaniment of the two lutes, his own hymn to
Venus. Neither the voice, though somewhat injured, nor the verses were
bad, so that reproaches of conscience took possession of Lygia again;
for the hymn, though glorifying the impure pagan Venus, seemed to her
more than beautiful, and Cæsar himself, with a laurel crown on his head
and uplifted eyes, nobler, much less terrible, and less repulsive than
at the beginning of the feast.

The guests answered with a thunder of applause. Cries of, "Oh, heavenly
voice!" were heard round about; some of the women raised their hands,
and held them thus, as a sign of delight, even after the end of the
hymn; others wiped their tearful eyes; the whole hall was seething as in
a beehive. Poppæa, bending her golden-haired head, raised Nero's hand
to her lips, and held it long in silence. Pythagoras, a young Greek of
marvellous beauty,--the same to whom later the half-insane Nero
commanded the flamens to marry him, with the observance of all rites,--
knelt now at his feet.

But Nero looked carefully at Petronius, whose praises were desired by
him always before every other, and who said,--"If it is a question of
music, Orpheus must at this moment be as yellow from envy as Lucan, who
is here present; and as to the verses, I am sorry that they are not
worse; if they were I might find proper words to praise them."

Lucan did not take the mention of envy evil of him; on the contrary, he
looked at Petronius with gratitude, and, affecting ill-humor, began to
murmur,--"Cursed fate, which commanded me to live contemporary with such
a poet. One might have a place in the memory of man, and on Parnassus;
but now one will quench, as a candle in sunlight."

Petronius, who had an amazing memory, began to repeat extracts from the
hymn and cite single verses, exalt, and analyze the more beautiful
expressions. Lucan, forgetting as it were his envy before the charm of
the poetry, joined his ecstasy to Petronius's words. On Nero's face
were reflected delight and fathomless vanity, not only nearing
stupidity, but reaching it perfectly. He indicated to them verses which
he considered the most beautiful; and finally he began to comfort Lucan,
and tell him not to lose heart, for though whatever a man is born that
he is, the honor which people give Jove does not exclude respect for
other divinities.

Then he rose to conduct Poppæa, who, being really in ill health, wished
to withdraw. But he commanded the guests who remained to occupy their
places anew, and promised to return, In fact, he returned a little
later, to stupefy himself with the smoke of incense, and gaze at further
spectacles which he himself, Petronius, or Tigellinus had prepared for
the feast.

Again verses were read or dialogues listened to in which extravagance
took the place of wit. After that Paris, the celebrated mime,
represented the adventures of Io, the daughter of Inachus. To the
guests, and especially to Lygia, unaccustomed to such scenes, it seemed
that they were gazing at miracles and enchantment. Paris, with motions
of his hands and body, was able to express things apparently impossible
in a dance. His hands dimmed the air, creating a cloud, bright, living,
quivering, voluptuous, surrounding the half-fainting form of a maiden
shaken by a spasm of delight. That was a picture, not a dance; an
expressive picture, disclosing the secrets of love, bewitching and
shameless; and when at the end of it Corybantes rushed in and began a
bacchic dance with girls of Syria to the sounds of cithara, lutes,
drums, and cymbals,--a dance filled with wild shouts and still wilder
license,--it seemed to Lygia that living fire was burning her, and that
a thunderbolt ought to strike that house, or the ceiling fall on the
heads of those feasting there.

But from the golden net fastened to the ceiling only roses fell, and the
now half-drunken Vinicius said to her,--"I saw thee in the house of
Aulus, at the fountain. It was daylight, and thou didst think that no
one saw thee; but I saw thee. And I see thee thus yet, though that
peplus hides thee. Cast aside the peplus, like Crispinilla. See, gods
and men seek love. There is nothing in the world but love. Lay thy
head on my breast and close thy eyes."

The pulse beat oppressively in Lygia's hands and temples. A feeling
seized her that she was flying into some abyss, and that Vinicius, who
before had seemed so near and so trustworthy, instead of saving was
drawing her toward it. And she felt sorry for him. She began again to
dread the feast and him and herself. Some voice, like that of Pomponia,
was calling yet in her soul, "O Lygia, save thyself!" But something
told her also that it was too late; that the one whom such a flame had
embraced as that which had embraced her, the one who had seen what was
done at that feast and whose heart had beaten as hers had on hearing the
words of Vinicius, the one through whom such a shiver had passed as had
passed through her when he approached, was lost beyond recovery. She
grew weak. It seemed at moments to her that she would faint, and then
something terrible would happen. She knew that, under penalty of
Cæsar's anger, it was not permitted any one to rise till Cæsar rose; but
even were that not the case, she had not strength now to rise.

Meanwhile it was far to the end of the feast yet. Slaves brought new
courses, and filled the goblets unceasingly with wine; before the table,
on a platform open at one side, appeared two athletes to give the guests
a spectacle of wrestling.

They began the struggle at once, and the powerful bodies, shining from
olive oil, formed one mass; bones cracked in their iron arms, and from
their set jaws came an ominous gritting of teeth. At moments was heard
the quick, dull thump of their feet on the platform strewn with saffron;
again they were motionless, silent, and it seemed to the spectators that
they had before them a group chiselled out of stone. Roman eyes
followed with delight the movement of tremendously exerted backs,
thighs, and arms. But the struggle was not too prolonged; for Croton, a
master, and the founder of a school of gladiators, did not pass in vain
for the strongest man in the empire. His opponent began to breathe more
and more quickly: next a rattle was heard in his throat; then his face
grew blue; finally he threw blood from his mouth and fell.

A thunder of applause greeted the end of the struggle, and Croton,
resting his foot on the breast of his opponent, crossed his gigantic
arms on his breast, and cast the eyes of a victor around the hall.

Next appeared men who mimicked beasts and their voices, ball-players and
buffoons. Only a few persons looked at them, however, since wine had
darkened the eyes of the audience. The feast passed by degrees into a
drunken revel and a dissolute orgy. The Syrian damsels, who appeared at
first in the bacchic dance, mingled now with the guests. The music
changed into a disordered and wild outburst of citharas, lutes, Armenian
cymbals, Egyptian sistra, trumpets, and horns. As some of the guests
wished to talk, they shouted at the musicians to disappear. The air,
filled with the odor of flowers and the perfume of oils with which
beautiful boys had sprinkled the feet of the guests during the feast,
permeated with saffron and the exhalations of people, became stifling;
lamps burned with a dim flame; the wreaths dropped side-wise on the
heads of guests; faces grew pale and were covered with sweat. Vitelius
rolled under the table. Nigidia, stripping herself to the waist,
dropped her drunken childlike head on the breast of Lucan, who, drunk in
like degree, fell to blowing the golden powder from her hair, and
raising his eyes with immense delight. Vestinius, with the stubbornness
of intoxication, repeated for the tenth time the answer of Mopsus to the
sealed letter of the proconsul. Tullius, who reviled the gods, said,
with a drawling voice broken by hiccoughs,--"If the spheros of
Xenophanes is round, then consider, such a god might be pushed along
before one with the foot, like a barrel."

But Domitius Afer, a hardened criminal and informer, was indignant at
the discourse, and through indignation spilled Falernian over his whole
tunic. He had always believed in the gods. People say that Rome will
perish, and there are some even who contend that it is perishing
already. And surely! But if that should come, it is because the youth
are without faith, and without faith there can be no virtue. People
have abandoned also the strict habits of former days, and it never
occurs to them that Epicureans will not stand against barbarians. As
for him, he--As for him, he was sorry that he had lived to such times,
and that he must seek in pleasures a refuge against griefs which, if not
met, would soon kill him.

When he had said this, he drew toward him a Syrian dancer, and kissed
her neck and shoulders with his toothless mouth. Seeing this, the
consul Memmius Regulus laughed, and, raising his bald head with wreath
awry, exclaimed,--"Who says that Rome is perishing? What folly! I, a
consul, know better. Videant consules! Thirty legions are guarding our
pax romana!"

Here he put his fists to his temples and shouted, in a voice heard
throughout the triclinium,--"Thirty legions! thirty legions! from
Britain to the Parthian boundaries!" But he stopped on a sudden, and,
putting a finger to his forehead, said,--"As I live, I think there are
thirty-two." He rolled under the table, and began soon to send forth
flamingo tongues, roast and chilled mushrooms, locusts in honey, fish,
meat, and everything which he had eaten or drunk.

But the number of the legions guarding Roman peace did not pacify
Domitius.

No, no! Rome must perish; for faith in the gods was lost, and so were
strict habits! Rome must perish; and it was a pity, for still life was
pleasant there. Cæsar was gracious, wine was good! Oh, what a pity!

And hiding his head on the arm of a Syrian bacchanal, he burst into
tears. "What is a future life! Achilles was right,--better be a slave
in the world beneath the sun than a king in Cimmerian regions. And
still the question whether there are any gods--since it is unbelief--is
destroying the youth."

Lucan meanwhile had blown all the gold powder from Nigidia's hair, and
she being drunk had fallen asleep. Next he took wreaths of ivy from the
vase before him, put them on the sleeping woman, and when he had
finished looked at those present with a delighted and inquiring glance.
He arrayed himself in ivy too, repeating, in a voice of deep conviction,
"I am not a man at all, but a faun."

Petronius was not drunk; but Nero, who drank little at first, out of
regard for his "heavenly" voice, emptied goblet after goblet toward the
end, and was drunk. He wanted even to sing more of his verses,--this
time in Greek,--but he had forgotten them, and by mistake sang an ode of
Anacreon. Pythagoras, Diodorus, and Terpnos accompanied him; but
failing to keep time, they stopped. Nero as a judge and an æsthete was
enchanted with the beauty of Pythagoras, and fell to kissing his hands
in ecstasy. "Such beautiful hands I have seen only once, and whose were
they?" Then placing his palm on his moist forehead, he tried to
remember. After a while terror was reflected on his face.

Ah! His mother's--Agrippina's!

And a gloomy vision seized him forthwith.

"They say," said he, "that she wanders by moonlight on the sea around
Baiæ and Bauli. She merely walks,--walks as if seeking for something.
When she comes near a boat, she looks at it and goes away; but the
fisherman on whom she has fixed her eye dies."

"Not a bad theme," said Petronius.

But Vestinius, stretching his neck like a stork, whispered
mysteriously,--"I do not believe in the gods; but I believe in spirits
--Oi!"

Nero paid no attention to their words, and continued,--"I celebrated the
Lemuria, and have no wish to see her. This is the fifth year--I had to
condemn her, for she sent assassins against me; and, had I not been
quicker than she, ye would not be listening to-night to my song."

"Thanks be to Cæsar, in the name of the city and the world!" cried
Domitius Afer.

"Wine! and let them strike the tympans!"

The uproar began anew. Lucan, all in ivy, wishing to outshout him, rose
and cried,--"I am not a man, but a faun; and I dwell in the forest.
Eho-o-o-oo!" Cæsar drank himself drunk at last; men were drunk, and
women were drunk. Vinicius was not less drunk than others; and in
addition there was roused in him, besides desire, a wish to quarrel,
which happened always when he passed the measure. His dark face became
paler, and his tongue stuttered when he spoke, in a voice now loud and
commanding,--"Give me thy lips! To-day, to-morrow, it is all one!
Enough of this!

"Cæsar took thee from Aulus to give thee to me, dost understand?
To-morrow, about dusk, I will send for thee, dost understand? Cæsar
promised thee to me before he took thee. Thou must be mine! Give me
thy lips! I will not wait for to-morrow,--give thy lips quickly."

And he moved to embrace her; but Acte began to defend her, and she
defended herself with the remnant of her strength, for she felt that she
was perishing. But in vain did she struggle with both hands to remove
his hairless arm; in vain, with a voice in which terror and grief were
quivering, did she implore him not to be what he was, and to have pity
on her. Sated with wine, his breath blew around her nearer and nearer,
and his face was there near her face. He was no longer the former kind
Vinicius, almost dear to her soul; he was a drunken, wicked satyr, who
filled her with repulsion and terror. But her strength deserted her
more and more. In vain did she bend and turn away her face to escape
his kisses. He rose to his feet, caught her in both arms, and drawing
her head to his breast, began, panting, to press her pale lips with his.

But at this instant a tremendous power removed his arms from her neck
with as much ease as if they had been the arms of a child, and pushed
him aside, like a dried limb or a withered leaf. What had happened?
Vinicius rubbed his astonished eyes, and saw before him the gigantic
figure of the Lygian, called Ursus, whom he had seen at the house of
Aulus.

Ursus stood calmly, but looked at Vinicius so strangely with his blue
eyes that the blood stiffened in the veins of the young man; then the
giant took his queen on his arm, and walked out of the triclinium with
an even, quiet step.

Acte in that moment went after him.

Vinicius sat for the twinkle of an eye as if petrified; then he sprang
up and ran toward the entrance crying,--"Lygia! Lygia!"

But desire, astonishment, rage, and wine cut the legs from under him.
He staggered once and a second time, seized the naked arm of one of the
bacchanals, and began to inquire, with blinking eyes, what had happened.
She, taking a goblet of wine, gave it to him with a smile in her mist-
covered eyes.

"Drink!" said she.

Vinicius drank, and fell to the floor.

The greater number of the guests were lying under the table; others were
walking with tottering tread through the triclinium, while others were
sleeping on couches at the table, snoring, or giving forth the excess of
wine. Meanwhile, from the golden network, roses were dropping and
dropping on those drunken consuls and senators, on those drunken
knights, philosophers, and poets, on those drunken dancing damsels and
patrician ladies, on that society all dominant as yet but with the soul
gone from it, on that society garlanded and ungirdled but perishing.

Dawn had begun out of doors.