CHAPTER VII

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_ ONCE the highest heads in Rome inclined before Acre, 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. Poppaea considered her
merely as a quiet servant, so harmless that she did not even try to
drive her from the palace.

But since Caesar 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 Caesar's table. This was done perhaps because her
beautiful form was a real ornament to a feast. Caesar 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 Caesar'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 Caesar, 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 Graecina, 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 cormmanded 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 Caesar'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 Caesar'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, Caesar is powerful enough to trample on it
in a moment of anger. It has pleased Caesar 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 Caesar.
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 Sej anus, 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 Caesar. 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 Poppae."

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
Caesar; that would be madness. And be calm. I know this house
well, and I judge that on Caesar'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 Poppaea 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 Caesar. 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 Caesar'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 Caesar?"

"I have seen Vespasian and Titus."

"Caesar 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. Caesar 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 Caesar, the court, the renowned
Poppaea 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 Caesar'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 Poppaea!"

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 quadrig~ 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 Chaerea; 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
Graecina, 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 Caesar'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
Caesar, the words of Acte, the warnings of Pornponia; 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 Caesar; as through a mist, she saw Caesar
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 Caesar'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 Caesar'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 Caesar.

Vinicius explained that he learned from Aulus himself that she had
been taken. Why she is there, he knows not. Caesar 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 Caesar'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 Caesar; 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.

"Caesar is looking at you both."

Vinicius was carried away by sudden anger at Caesar and at Acre.
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 freed-woman, he said with malice:

"The hour has passed, Acte, when thou didst recline near Caesar'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 Caesar. 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. Caesar 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, f orbidden 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 aesthete, 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 Caesar insists that thou art an
ass pure and simple."

"Habet!" said Caesar, 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 Caesar 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 sonlething 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
Caesar!"

"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 Poppan 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, Poppae 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 Popp~ra Sabina
was one of the vilest women on earth. She knew from Pomponia
that she had brought Caesar 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
Poppxa, 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
Poppae; 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
Caesar 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
Caesar 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. Poppae, 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 Poppae, 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, nor 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 Caesar's anger, it was not permitted any one to rise till
Caesar 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 hail.

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 stilling; 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 Meminius 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. Caesar 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 aesthete 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 Baiae 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 Caesar, 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!" Caesar 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!

Caesar took thee from Auius to give thee to me, dost understand?
To-morrow, about dusk, I will send for thee, dost understand?
Caesar 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.

Thegreater 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. _

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