The Robe
Page 53
But on this occasion the Emperor, having renewed his youth—or at least having attained his second childhood—had sat about with Diana in the dampness of the new villa, wet to the skin, after which he had sauntered back to the Jovis pretending to have enjoyed the rain and refusing to permit anyone to aid him, though it was clear enough that he was having a hard chill: he had sneezed sloppily in the Chamberlain’s face while hoarsely protesting that he was sound as a nut.
That the young daughter of Gallus had been innocently but unmistakably responsible for this dangerous imprudence—and many another hazardous folly on the part of the aging Emperor—was now the unanimous opinion of the household staff.
The beauteous Diana was getting to be a problem. For the first few weeks after her arrival, more than a year ago, the entire population of Capri—with the exception of the Empress Julia, whose jealousy of her was deep and desperate—had rejoiced in the girl’s invigorating influence on Tiberius. His infatuation for Diana had done wonders for him. Boyishly eager to please her, he was living more temperately, not only in what he ate and drank, but in what he said and did. Not often now was the Emperor noticeably intoxicated. His notorious tantrums were staged less frequently and with less violence. When annoyed, he still threw things at his ministers, but it had been a long time since he had barked at or bitten anyone. And whereas he had frequently humiliated them all by slogging about the grounds looking like the veriest ragamuffin, now he insisted on being shaved almost every morning and was keenly interested in his costumes.
This had met the enthusiastic approval of everybody whose tenure of office was in any way related to his own—and that included almost everyone on Capri, ministers, minstrels, physicians, dancers, gardeners, vintners, tailors, astrologers, historians, poets, cooks, guards, carpenters, stonemasons, sculptors, priests, and at least three hundred servants, bond and free. The longer they could keep the Emperor alive, the better for their own careers; and the more contented he was, the less arduous their task of caring for him.
It was quite natural, therefore, that Diana should be popular. The poets in residence composed extravagant odes appropriately extolling her beauty, and—with somewhat less warrant—her sweet and gentle disposition, for she was of uncertain temper and not at all reticent about expressing her feelings when displeased.
But, as time went on, it began to be whispered about that the infirm Emperor, in trying to show off for Diana, was wearing himself out. He was at her nimble heels from sunrise to sunset, in all weathers, fiercely gouging the graveled paths with his cane as they toured the island, and wheezing up and down stairs in her lavish new villa which seemed almost as far from completion as it had been six months previously, though a hundred skilled workmen had been hard at it every day. Nothing was ever quite fine enough. Mantels had to be taken down and rebuilt, again and again. Mosaic floors and walls were ripped out and done over. One day the old man had testily remarked that he didn’t believe the villa would ever be completed, an impromptu forecast which, albeit spoken lightly, turned out to be a sound prediction.
For some time considerable sympathy was felt for Diana. Though no one knew certainly—for she was far too wise to confide fully in anyone connected with this university of gossip, intrigue, and treachery—it was generally believed that the brilliant and beautiful girl was being detained at Capri against her personal wishes. This seemed to be confirmed by the fact that on the occasions of her mother’s visits, every few weeks, Diana would weep piteously when the time came for Paula’s departure. There might be certain advantages in being the sole object of the Emperor’s devotion; but, considered as a permanent occupation, it left a good deal to be desired.
A legend had gradually taken form and size concerning Diana’s prospects. The Chamberlain, in his cups, had confided to the Captain of the Guard that the comely daughter of Legate Gallus was in love with the son of Senator Gallio, a probably hopeless attachment, seeing that the young Tribune was sick in the head and had been spirited out of the country. This information was soon common knowledge.
No one was more interested in Diana’s aspirations than old Julia, who contrived to inspect every letter she sent and received. And it was believed that Julia relayed copies of all such correspondence to Gaius; for, on each occasion of having spied upon Diana’s letters, she had dispatched a scroll to the Prince by special messenger.
During the winter, Gaius had not visited Capri; but, advised of the Emperor’s indisposition, he had come in latter April, attended by a foppish retinue, and had spent a week, pretending to be much concerned over the old man’s ill-health, but fully enjoying the nightly banquets which Tiberius had ordered.
On these occasions the Emperor—barely able to hold his weary head up—drowsed and roused and grinned like a skull and drowsed again, a ludicrous caricature of imperial power. On his right, but paying no attention to him, reclined old Julia, wigged, painted, ablaze with jewels and shockingly cadaverous, smirking and fawning over Gaius who lounged beside her.
None of the fifty dissolute sycophants, who sprawled about the overloaded tables, dared risk exchanging a wink or a smile, but it was an amusing pantomime, with the Emperor half-asleep and the Empress disgustingly pawing at the gold-embroidered sleeve of the Prince while he, disdainfully indifferent to her caresses, leaned far forward to make amorous grimaces at Diana, on the other side of Tiberius, stripping her with his experienced, froglike eyes, while she regarded him with the cool detachment of one reading an epitaph on an ancient monument.
This had been privately enjoyed by almost everybody but Celia, the beautiful but feather-headed wife of Quintus and niece of Sejanus, longtime friend and adviser of Tiberius. Celia was beside herself with an anxiety she could not disguise. She would have been ready to kill Diana had the girl shown Gaius the slightest encouragement, but she was also much annoyed over Diana’s frosty disinterest in the Prince’s attentions. Who indeed did this young Gallus think she was—to be so haughty? She had better mend her manners! The crazy old man she was leading about—like a dog on a leash—would be dying one of these fine days; and then where would she be?
It had been a depressing week for Celia. Ever since Quintus had been sent abroad on some state mission of high importance, she had been the center of interest at the Prince’s social functions, serving as hostess and enjoying his candid and clumsy preferment. At first it had been believed that Gaius was showing her special favors to ingratiate himself with old Sejanus, who held a strong hand on the imperial purse-strings. But as time went on, and the Prince’s visits at Celia’s villa were of daily occurrence, this flattery had gone to her head and she had made the mistake of snubbing many friends who, though they had endured her snobberies for diplomacy’s sake, were carefully preparing to avenge themselves when an opportune moment arrived. It had been Celia’s hope that the Prince would find further business for her husband in foreign parts, but now it had been announced that Quintus was returning presently. As if that were not dismaying enough, Gaius was giving his full attention to Diana.
On the last day of this visit to the Emperor, Celia had arranged what she thought was a private moment with the Prince—though there were few conversations on Capri which the whole island didn’t know by nightfall—and tearfully took him to task for his recent indifference.
‘I thought you liked me,’ she whimpered.
‘Not when your nose is red,’ he grumbled. You’d better stop making yourself ridiculous.’
‘Can’t you send Quintus away again?’ she wheedled.
‘That braying ass?’ retorted Gaius. ‘We trust him with an ambassadorial errand, and he gets himself slapped all over the campus of a Greek inn by an unarmed slave!’
‘I don’t believe it!’ shrilled Celia. ‘It’s a story someone invented to discredit him! I thought you were Quintus’ friend.’
‘Bah! Quintus’ only friend is his minor! Had I cared for your husband, would I have made a cuckold of him?’
Celia had wept hysterically.
> ‘You liked me well enough,” she cried, ‘until you came here and noticed this Gallus girl’s curves! And it’s plain to see she despises you! What an impudent creature she is!’
‘Mind you don’t plan to do her some injury!’ growled Gaius, clutching her arm roughly. ‘You would better forget all about her now, and be contented with your husband when he comes.’ He chuckled infuriatingly. You and Quintus are admirably suited to each other.’
‘You can’t do this to me!’ she shouted, reckless with rage. ‘Where will you stand with Sejanus when I tell him you have treated me like an ordinary trollop?’
Gaius shrugged.
‘Where will you stand—when you tell him that?’ he sneered.
Whereupon Celia had sought comfort in a call on the Empress, suddenly remembering a social duty which most of the rest forgot in the confusion of departure.
Julia had been surprisingly effusive; and Celia, red-eyed and outraged, was a ready victim to the Empress’ sympathetic queries.
‘Poor Gaius!’ sighed old Julia. ‘So impressionable! So lonesome! And so beset with cares! You must make allowances for him, my dear. And he really is in love, I think, with the daughter of Gallus. It would not be a bad alliance. Gallus is a great favorite with the army, at home and abroad. Indeed—Gallus is the army! And if my son is to succeed to the throne, he needs the good will of our legions. Furthermore—as you have seen for yourself, the Emperor is so foolishly fond of Diana that her marriage with Gaius would practically insure my son’s future.’
‘But Diana hates him!’ cried Celia. ‘Anyone can see that!’
‘Well—that is because she thinks she is in love with the half-crazy son of Gallio.’ Julia’s thin lips puckered in an omniscient smile. ‘She will get over that. Perhaps—if you would like to square accounts with the luscious Diana, you might give yourself no bother to deny the reports that Marcellus is insane.’ And with that, the Empress had kissed Celia and waved her out.
Wiping her bps vigorously, Celia returned to the Jovis where the party was assembling for conveyance down the mountain to the imperial barge. She was still hopeful that Gaius, on the return trip, would repent of his discourtesies and restore her to his favor.
‘Where is the Prince?’ she inquired, with forced brightness, of her cousin Lavilla Sejanus, as the slave-borne chairs were being filled.
‘He isn’t going back to the city with us,’ Lavilla had had malicious pleasure in replying. ‘I daresay he wants to have a quiet visit with Diana.’
‘Well—he can have her!’ retorted Celia, hotly.
‘Don’t be too sure of that!’ shrilled Minia, Laville’s younger sister, who was thought to have been wholly occupied with the conversation she was having with Olivia Varus, in the chair beside her.
‘Diana is waiting for Marcellus Gallio to come back,’ put in Olivia.
‘Much good that will do her,’ sniffed Celia. ‘Marcellus has lost his mind. That’s why they sent him away.’
‘Nonsense!’ scoffed Lavilla. ‘The Emperor sent him away to make some sort of investigation—in Athens—or somewhere. Think he would have sent a crazy man?’
‘Why not?’ giggled Minia.
‘Who told you that, Celia?’ demanded Olivia.
‘The Empress!’ declared Celia, impressively. ‘I don’t think it’s a secret.’
‘Neither do I,’ drawled Lavilla. ‘It may have been—but it isn’t now.’
‘Why should you care?’ inquired Minia, languidly.
‘Well—I rather like Marcellus,’ said Lavilla, ‘and Diana, too. It’s unfortunate to have such a story strewn about. Besides—I don’t believe it!’
‘But the Empress told me!’ snapped Celia, indignantly.
Lavilla arched her brows, pursed her lips, and shrugged.
‘I wonder why,’ she said.
***
It was mid-afternoon when The Cleo sighted the island and another hour had passed before she tied up at the wharf. It had been a perfect day. Marcellus had never seen the Bay of Neapolis so blue. Demetrius was left at the docks to oversee the conveyance of their luggage to the Villa Jovis.
Engaging a waiting chair, Marcellus was borne up the long flight of marble steps, and the sinuous path, and more steps, and another path, luxuriating in the ruinously expensive beauty with which the Emperor had surrounded himself. The old man might be crazy, but he was an artist.
Now that they had come up to the plateau, Tiberius’ wonder city—dominated by the massive Jovis—gleamed white in the June sunshine. Lean old philosophers and fat old priests lounged in the arbors, and on the graveled paths that bounded the pools other wise men strolled with their heads bent and their hands clasped behind them. Were all of the Emperor’s counselors old men? Naturally they would be. It aged Marcellus to face the prospect of joining forces with these doddering ancients.
It surprised and gratified him that he had so little explaining to do in accounting for his presence. He spoke his name to the patrol and they passed him without examination. He told the porter who he was and the porter sent another with a message to the Captain of the Guard, who came without delay and led him through the vasty peristyle into the cool, high-ceilinged atrium where, presently, the Chamberlain entered to greet him with much deference.
The Emperor, who was resting, would be made aware of Tribune Marcellus’ arrival. Meantime—would the Tribune be pleased to go to the apartment which had been prepared for him?
‘I was expected, then?’ asked Marcellus.
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ replied Nevius. ‘His Majesty had learned of Tribune Marcellus’ arrival in Rome.’
It was a sumptuous suite that they showed him, with a small, exquisitely appointed peristyle of its own, looking out upon a colorful garden. A halfdozen Nubians were preparing his bath. A tall Macedonian slave came with a flagon of wine, followed by another bearing a silver salver filled with choice fruits.
Marcellus stepped out into the peristyle, frowning thoughtfully. It was an unexpectedly lavish reception he was having at the hands of the Emperor. His rank entitled him to certain courtesies, but the attention he was receiving needed a better explanation. It was flattering enough, but perplexing. Demetrius had arrived now, and the porters had brought the luggage. The Chamberlain came out to announce that the Tribune’s bath was ready.
‘And at your convenience, sir,’ added Nevius, ‘the daughter of Gallus will receive you—in the garden—at her villa.’
***
They had offered to conduct him, but Marcellus preferred to go alone after receiving general directions. Diana’s villa! And what did Diana want with a villa—at Capri? Or did she want a villa? Or was it the old man’s idea?
He was approaching it now, involuntarily slowing his steps as he marveled at its grace and symmetry. It was a large house, but conveyed no impression of massiveness. The Doric columns of the portico were not ponderous; the carving on the lintel was light and lacy. It was an immense doll’s house, suggestive of something an ingenious confectioner might have made of white sugar.
A guard met him on the tessellated pavement and led the way in and through the unfurnished atrium, ceiled with blue in which gold stars were set; and on to the peristyle where many workmen glanced down from the scaffoldings with casual interest in the guest. Beyond lay the intentions of a terraced garden. Pointing to the pergola that was on the southern rim of the plateau, the guard retraced his steps and Marcellus proceeded with lengthened stride, full of happy anticipation.
Diana was leaning against the marble balustrade, looking out upon the sea. Sensitive to his coming, perhaps hearing his footsteps, she slowly turned about; and, resting her elbows on the broad stone railing, waited his approach with a sober, wide-eyed stare which Marcellus easily interpreted. She was wondering—and with deep apprehension—whether he had fully recovered from his mental sickness; whether there would be constraint in their meeting. Her eyes were a little frightened, and she involuntarily pressed the back of her hand against her lips.
Slowly she advanced to meet him, tall and regal in the caressing lines of the white stola, her full lips parting in a tentative smile that was gaining confidence with every step. She extended her hands, as he neared her, still studying him with a yearning hope.
‘Diana!’ he exclaimed hopefully. ‘Dearest Diana!’ Grasping her hands, he smiled ecstatically into her uplifted eyes.
‘Have you really come back to me, Marcellus?” she murmured.
He drew her closer and she came confidently into his arms, reached up her hand and laid her palm gently on his cheek. Her long lashes slowly closed and Marcellus tenderly kissed her eyes. Her hand moved softly around his neck, suddenly tightening, almost fiercely, as his lips touched hers. She drew a quick, involuntary breath, and raced his heart with her unrestrained answer to his kiss. For a long moment they clung to each other, deeply stirred.
‘You are adorable!’ whispered Marcellus, fervently.
With a contented sigh, Diana childishly snuggled her face against his breast while he held her tightly to him. She was trembling. Then, slowly disengaging herself from his arms, she looked up into his face with misty, smiling eyes.
‘Come—let us sit down,’ she said softly. ‘We have much to talk about.’ The timbre of her voice had altered too. It had deepened and matured.
Marcellus followed her graceful figure to the marble lectus that gave an entrancing view of the sea, and they sat, Diana facing him with a brooding concern.