***
Rising before dawn, Marcellus slipped quietly out of the villa, meeting no one—except Metella, who startled him by stepping out of the shrubbery near the gate to say farewell in a tremulous little voice. Then she had started to scamper away. He spoke her name softly. Taking her toil-roughened hands, he said tenderly, ‘Metella, you are indeed a faithful friend. I shall always remember you.’
‘Please’—she sobbed—‘take good care of yourself—Marcellus! And then, abruptly tearing loose from him, she had disappeared in the dark.
It was with a strange sense of elation that he strode along the foothill road in the shadow of the mountain as a pink sunrise lighted the sky. Last night, after taking leave of the Kaeso family—who had made an earnest effort to dissuade him—he had gone to bed with misgivings. He was happy in Arpino. He knew he had been sent there on a mission. Lately, something kept telling him his work was done; telling him he must go to Rome. All night, with the entreaties of young Antony still sounding in his ears, he kept asking himself, ‘Why am I going to Rome?’
This morning, his anxieties had been put aside. He did not know why he was headed toward Rome, but the reason would appear in due time. He had never been able to explain to himself why, when he had been washed up by the tide on the Capua beach, he had turned his face toward Arpino; or why, tarrying at Kaeso’s melon field, he had accepted employment. It was almost as if he were being led about by an invisible hand.
By mid-afternoon, the winding road had angled away from the mountain range and was being joined and widened by many tributaries. It was becoming a busy highway now, drawing in all manner of laden carts and wagons from the gates and lanes of the fertile valley. The day was hot and the air was heavy with dust. Scowling drivers lashed their donkeys cruelly and yelled obscenities as they contended for the right of way. Every added mile increased the confusion and sharpened the ostentatious brutality of the men who pressed toward Rome.
It was as if the Imperial City had reached out her malevolent arms in all directions to clutch and pollute her victims as they moved into the orbit of her fetid breath; and they, ashamed of their rustic simplicities, had sought to appear urbane by cursing one another. Marcellus, making his way past this ill-tempered cavalcade, wondered whether many people could be found in Rome who would care to hear about the man of Galilee.
Arriving in the good-sized town of Alatri at sundown, Marcellus found the only tavern buzzing with excitement. An agitated crowd milled about in the stableyard. Inside, there was barely standing room. He made his way in and asked the tall man wedged beside him what was going on. The news had just come from Rome that Prince Gaius was dead.
At this juncture, the tavern-keeper stood up on a chair and announced importantly that all who did not wish to be served should get out and make way for his guests. Most of the shabby ones sullenly withdrew. In the center of the room, three flashily dressed wool-buyers from Rome sat at a table, laving the day’s dust with a flagon of wine. Crowded about them was an attentive audience, eager for further details concerning the tragedy. Marcellus pressed close and listened.
Last night there had been a banquet at the palatial home of Tribune Quintus and his wife Celia, the niece of Sejanus, in honor of young Caligula, the son of Germanicus, who had just arrived from Gaul. Prince Gaius had been taken suddenly ill at dinner and had died within an hour.
The wool-merchants, conscious of their attentive auditors, and growing less discreet as they replenished their cups from the second flagon, continued to discuss the event with a knowledgeable air, almost as if they had been present at the fateful banquet. It was evident that they were well informed on court gossip, as indeed anyone in Rome could be if he made friends with servants.
There was little doubt, declared the wool-men, that the Prince had been poisoned. He had been in the best of health. The sickness had been swift and savage. Suspicion had not centered definitely on anyone. Tribune Tullus, who in the afternoon had married the young daughter of Senator Gallio—sister of Tribune Marcellus, the one who drowned himself in the sea, a few weeks ago—had spoken some hot words to the Prince, earlier in the evening; but they had both been so drunk that little importance had been attached to the argument.
Old Sejanus had sat opposite the Prince at dinner, and everybody knew that Sejanus had no use for Gaius. But it was agreed that if the crafty old man had wanted to assassinate the Prince he had too much sense to risk it in such circumstances.
‘How does it happen that Quintus can live in a palace anu give expensive dinners?’ inquired the tavern-keeper, anxious to show that he knew a thing or two about the great ones. 'Old Tuscus, his father, is not rich. What did Quintus ever do to make a fortune? He has led no expeditions.’
The wool-merchants exchanged knowing glances and shrugged superiorly.
‘Quintus and the Prince are great friends,' said the fat one who presided over the flagon.
‘You mean the Prince and Quintus’ wife are great friends,' recklessly chuckled the one with the silver trinkets on his bandeau.
‘Oh, ho!’ divined the tavern-keeper. ‘Maybe that’s how it happened!’
‘Not so fast, wise man,' admonished the eldest of the three, thickly. 'Quintus was not present at the banquet. He had been sent, at the last minute, to Capri.’
‘Who did it, then?’ persisted the tavern-keeper.
‘Well—that’s what everybody wants to know,' said the fat one, holding up the empty flagon. ‘Here! Fill that up—and don’t ask so many questions.’ He glanced about over the silent group, his eyes tarrying for a moment as they passed Marcellus. ‘We’re all talking too freely,’ he muttered.
Marcellus turned away, followed by the tavern-keeper, and inquired for a bath and a room for the night. A servant showed him to his cramped and cheerless quarters, and he began tossing off his clothes. So—Diana need not be worried about Gaius’ attentions any more. That was a great relief. Who would rule Rome now? Perhaps the Emperor would appoint tight-pursed old Sejanus to the regency for the present.
So—Gaius had been poisoned; eh? Perhaps Celia had done it. Maybe Gaius had mistreated her. He couldn’t be loyal to anyone; not for very long. But, no—Celia wouldn’t have done it. More likely that Quintus had left instructions with a servant, and had contrived some urgent business at Capri to provide an alibi. Quintus could dispose of the servant easily enough. Marcellus wondered if Quintus had encountered Demetrius at Capri. Well—if he had, Demetrius could take care of himself very nicely.
So—Lucia was married. That was good. She had always been in love with Tullus. Marcellus fell to speculating on the possibility that Lucia might have confided to her husband the story of Gaius’ crude attempts to make love to her when she was little more than a child. If she had—and if Tullus were drunk enough to be foolhardy—but no, no—Tullus wouldn’t get drunk enough to do a thing like that. Tullus would have used a dagger.
Marcellus reverted to Celia, trying to remember everything he could about her; the restless, sultry eyes; the sly, preoccupied smile that always made her manner seem older than her slim, girlish body. Yes—Celia might have done it. She was a deep one, like her Uncle Sejanus.
Well—whatever had caused the Prince’s indigestion, the dangerous reptile was dead. That was a comfort. Perhaps Rome might now hope for a little better government. It was inconceivable that the Empire could acquire a worse ruler than Gaius Drusus Agrippa.
Chapter XXIII
WHEN the hard-riding couriers brought the report to Capri that Gaius was dead, the Emperor—in the firm opinion of old Julia—was much too ill to be confronted with such shocking news. That, of course, was nonsense, as the Empress well knew; for her son had long been Tiberius’ favorite aversion, and these tidings, far from doing the sick old man any damage, might have temporarily revived him.
But, assuming that the tragic death of a Prince Regent should be viewed as an event too calamitous to be announced at the bedside of a seriously ailing Emperor, everybody conceded that Ju
lia was within her rights in commanding that no mention be made of it to her enfeebled husband, though it was something of an innovation for the Empress to display so much solicitude in his behalf.
With less mercy, Julia had immediately thrust a letter into the hands of the exhausted Centurion who had brought the bad news, bidding him return to Rome at top speed. The Centurion, resentful at being pushed off the island without so much as an hour’s respite and a flagon of wine, had no compunctions about showing the address of the Empress’ urgent message to his long-time friend the Chamberlain who had accompanied him and his aides to the wharf. The letter was going to Caligula.
‘Little Boots,’ growled the Centurion, contemptuously.
‘Little brat!’ muttered the Chamberlain, who had seen something of Germanicus’ son when he was ten.
Old Julia, for whom Fate seemed always contriving fortuitous events, was feverish to see her grandson at this critical juncture. She had not felt so urgent a need of him, the day before yesterday, when Quintus had suddenly appeared with the suggestion—phrased as diplomatically as possible—that the Empress immediately invite the youngster to Capri. Julia had laughed almost merrily.
‘He’s a handful for Gaius; eh?’ she snapped. ‘Well—let Gaius bear his burden the best he can, for a month or two.’
‘The Prince thought Your Majesty would be impatient to see Little Boots,’ wheedled Quintus, ‘and wanted me to say that he would not detain him in Rome if Your Majesty—’
‘We can wait,’ chuckled Julia.
But today the situation had changed. Julia wanted very much to see Little Boots. How lucky for him that he should have happened to be available at this important hour!
Bearing her bereavement with fortitude, as became a Roman and an Empress, Julia nervously counted the dragging hours; watched and waited at her northern windows; grew almost frantic at the sight of a large deputation of Senators being borne up the hill to the Villa Jovis; and strained her old eyes for a certain black-hulled ferry—her own ferry—plying across the bay from Puteoli.
Nobody on Capri thought, when young Caligula arrived, that his ambitious grandmother had anything larger in mind for the puny youth than a brief interim regency, probably under the guidance of Sejanus—as a little child might hold the dangling ends of the reins and pretend he was driving. Perhaps Julia herself had not ventured to dream of the amazing thing that came to pass.
Caligula, at sixteen, was wizened and frail. He jerked when he walked. His pasty-white, foxish face was perpetually in motion with involuntary grimaces and his restless fingers were always busily picking and scratching like a monkey. He was no fool, though. Back of the darting, close-set eyes a malicious imagination tirelessly invented ingenious pursuits to compensate for his infirmities.
Because of his child’s defects, Germanicus had insisted on having him under his eye, even in the heat of military campaigns. The officers had petted and flattered him until he was abominably impudent and outrageously cruel. His bestial pranks were supposed to be amusing. Someone had made a pair of little boots for him, like those worn by the staff officers, and the legend spread that Germanicus’ sick boy frequently waddled out in front of a legion on review and barked shrill orders. The whimsical nickname ‘Caligula’ (‘Little Boots’) stuck to him until nobody remembered that he had been named for his Uncle Gaius. As a lad, everything Caligula did was cute, including the most shocking vandalisms and brutalities. By the time he was sixteen, it wasn’t thought so clever when ‘Little Boots’ would jerkily propel himself up to a Centurion and slap him in the face; and even Germanicus, noting that his heir was becoming an intolerable pest, thought it time he was given another change of scenery. So—he was sent back to Rome again to visit his Uncle Gaius, who, it was hoped, would make something of him. What manner of miracle the Prince might have wrought was to remain forever a matter of conjecture. It was rumored that Germanicus’ staff officers, upon learning of the death of Gaius, agreed that he could hardly have timed his departure more opportunely.
Caligula arrived on Capri in the late afternoon and old Julia took him at once—duly instructed as to his behavior—into the deeply shadowed bedchamber of the Emperor, where a dozen or more Senators stood about in the gloom, obviously waiting for Tiberius to take notice of them.
The old man dazedly roused to find a weeping youth kneeling beside his pillow. In a grieving voice the Empress explained that poor Gaius was dead, and Caligula was inconsolable.
Tiberius pulled his scattered wits together, and feebly patted Caligula on the head.
‘Germanicus’ boy?’ he mumbled, thickly.
Caligula nodded, wept noisily, and gently stroked the emaciated hand.
‘Is there anything I can do for you, sire?’ he asked, brokenly.
‘Yes—my son.’ Tiberius’ tired old voice was barely audible.
‘You mean—the Empire?’ demanded Julia, in much agitation.
The attentive Senators moved in closer about the bed.
‘Yes—the Empire,’ breathed Tiberius, weakly.
‘Have you heard that?’ Julia’s tone was shrill and challenging as she threw back her head to face the stunned group at the bedside. ‘Caligula is to be the Emperor! Is it not so, Your Majesty?’
‘Yes,’ whispered Tiberius.
***
It was late in the night. The Emperor lay dying. He had been close to it on several occasions. There was no doubt about it this time.
The learned physicians, having made all their motions, took turns holding the thin wrist. The priests, who had spent the day cooling their heels in the atrium, were admitted to do their solemn exercises. The Senators, who had been invited to withdraw after the incredible announcement had been made at sunset, were permitted to enter, now that it was reasonably sure the old man would have nothing more to say. They were still dazed by the blow he had delivered and were wondering how they would tell the Senate that Germanicus’ deficient son was to rule the Empire. Of course the Senate, if it courageously took the bit in its teeth, could annul Tiberius’ action; but it was unlikely that the solons would risk offending Germanicus and the army. No—their new Emperor—for good or ill—would be Little Boots.
Diana Gallus had not seen Tiberius for a fortnight. Old Julia had given orders that she was not to be admitted. Every morning and evening Diana had appeared at the door of the imperial bedchamber to inquire, and had been advised that the Emperor was too ill to be disturbed.
Shortly after Demetrius’ arrival on Capri, he had been assigned to serve as Diana’s bodyguard. Strangely enough, this had been done at the suggestion of Tiberius, who, perhaps with some premonition that he might not long be able to insist upon her adequate security, had felt that Marcellus’ intrepid slave would protect her.
As the Emperor grew more frail, and the Empress’ influence became more pressing throughout the island, Demetrius’ anxiety about Diana’s welfare increased; though he was careful not to let her know the full extent of his worry. He began making private plans for her rescue, in case her insecurity should become serious.
At the enforced departure of Marcellus, Diana had become restless, moody, and secluded. There was no one on the island in whom she could confide. Most of her daylight hours were spent in her pergola, reading without interest and indifferently toying with trifles of needlework. Sometimes she would bring one of her maids along for company. As often she came alone, with Demetrius trailing her at a respectful distance and always within call. Her admiration for the Greek had always been deep and sincere. Now she began to lean on him as a close and understanding friend.
When the rumor had drifted back to Capri that Marcellus had been drowned, Demetrius knew it wasn’t true, and conforted Diana with his reasons. Marcellus had no cause to commit suicide. He had become aware of a new and serious obligation. The story that Marcellus had drowned himself as The Augusta was rounding the promontory off Capua, only a mile off shore, amused Demetrius, so confident was he that his master had taken that favorable
occasion to disappear. Diana believed this, too, but Demetrius had to reassure her again and again when her loneliness was oppressive.
Their conversation became less formal as the days passed. Demetrius would sit on the side steps of the pergola answering Diana’s persistent questions about their life in Athens, the House of Eupolis, Theodosia, and the escape after the affair with Quintus, for whom she had a bitter contempt.
‘Why don’t you go back to Theodosia when you are free?’ she asked one day. ‘Maybe she is waiting for you. Have you ever heard from her?’
Yes—Demetrius had written and he had heard from her, though not for a long time. One could never tell what might happen. Yes—if he were free, and Marcellus had no need of him, yes—he would go back to Athens.
The afternoons would pass quickly, Diana insatiable with her queries, Demetrius telling his interminable stories of old Benyosef’s shop, and Stephanos, and the Galileans who came to talk in low voices about the mysterious carpenter who had come alive to live evermore.
Diana would listen attentively as she bent over her small tapestries and lace medallions. Demetrius’ hands would be busy, too, twisting and braiding short lengths of hemp that he had picked up on the wharves, and splicing them expertly into long, thick cords. Under the sea side of the pergola floor he had secreted his supplies, much to Diana’s amusement.
‘You are like a squirrel, Demetrius,’ she had remarked, teasingly. ‘Why do you hide your things, if they’re worth nothing, as you say?’ One day she bent over his shoulder and watched him deftly working the twisted hempen cords with his wooden awl. ‘Why—you’re making a rope!’ she exclaimed. ‘Whatever are you doing that for?’ Following it around to the corner of the pergola, she was amazed to find a huge coil secreted, I think this is more than play!’ she declared, soberly.
The Robe Page 60