Domitia

CHAPTER III.
IN THE “INSULA.”

“Now, for a while I am as one who has cast off a nightmare,” said Domitia to herself. “He is away – why he has attended Titus to the Sabine land I know not, unless the Emperor could not trust him in Rome – or may be, in his goodness he has done it to relieve me of his presence. I will go see my mother.”

Domitia ordered her litter and bearers. She had no trinkets to put on, save the fish of cornelian. Her mother liked to see her tricked out, and usually when Domitia paid her a visit she adorned herself to please the old lady, – now she could not assume jewelry as she had lost all her articles of precious stones and metal. So she hung the cornelian amulet about her neck.

When a Roman lady went forth in palanquin, it was in some state. Before her went two heralds in livery, to clear the way and announce her coming at the houses where she purposed calling, then she had six bearers, and attendants of her own sex, carrying her scent bottles, kerchiefs, fans, and whatever she might think it possible she would require.

Domitia was impatient of display, but it had been imposed on her by the Emperor. “The Flavians,” said he smiling, “must make a show in public.”

A Roman lady was at this period expected to wear yellow hair, if she would be in the fashion. Under the Flavians, it was a compliment to the reigning princes to affect this color. It was true that the word flavus meant anything in color, from mud upwards to what might be termed yellow by courtesy. It was employed as descriptive of the Tiber, that was of the dingiest of drabs, and of the Campagna when every particle of vegetation was burnt up on it, and the tone was that of the dust-heaps. But now that the parsnip-haired Flavians were divine and all-powerful, the adjective was employed to describe the harvest field and gold. Ladies talked of their hair as “flavan” when it had been dyed with saffron and dusted with gold. Not to have yellow hair was expressive of disaffection to the dynasty – so every lady who would be in the fashion, and every husband who wanted office, first bleached and then dyed their hair, and as hair was occasionally thin, they employed vast masses of padding and borrowed coils from German “fraus” to make the utmost show of their loyalty to the august house of the divine Flavii.

Domitia dared not be out of fashion, and she was constrained to submit to having her chestnut hair dredged with gold-dust before she went forth on her visit. For her, conspicuously to wear her hair in its natural color would at once have provoked animadversion, and been interpreted as a publication, in most defiant manner, of the domestic discord that was a topic of gossip in the saloons of Rome.

When she had entered her palanquin, she gave her orders and was carried lightly down the sloping road into the Forum. This was crossed, and then, drawing back the curtains of her litter, she said: —

“Eboracus, tell the fellows not to go at once to the Carinæ. I have a fancy to see the wife of Paris the actor, in the Insula of Castor and Pollux.”

She was playing with the fish suspended on her bosom, as she was being conveyed down the hill, and the thought had come to her that she had not seen Glyceria for a long time, and that now was a good occasion as her husband – whom these visits annoyed, and who had in fact forbidden them – was absent from Rome.

The porters at once entered the narrow, tortuous lanes, where the lofty blocks of buildings cut off all sun and made twilight in midday.

As Domitia stepped out of her litter, she saw coming down the street, a man much in the company of Domitian, for whom she entertained a particular dislike. He was a very dark man, and blind; his face was pointed, and his nose long; he ran with projecting head, turning his sharp nose from side to side, like a dog after game. His name was Valerius Messalinus.

One of his slaves whispered something into his ear, and he twisted about his head, and then came trotting in the direction of the litter of Domitia.

“Quick,” said she, “I must go in; I will not speak with that man. If he asks for me, say I am out – out of the litter.”

She at once entered the block of lodgings, and impatiently waved back her heralds, who would have ascended the stairs before her and pompously announced her arrival.

Taking Euphrosyne along with her, Domitia made her way towards the apartments of the crippled woman. But already the news had spread that men in the imperial livery had entered the building, and there was a rush to the balustrade to see them.

When Domitia reached the first landing, she saw that the women and children, and such men as were there, had ranged themselves on either side, to give her passage, every face was smiling, and lit with pleasure, the men raised their forefingers and thumbs to their mouths, and the women and children strove to catch her hand, or kneeling to touch, raise and kiss the hem of her dress.

If, at one time it had caused surprise that she a rich lady, should enter a common haunt of the poor, it was now a matter of more than surprise, of admiration and delight – to welcome the sister-in-law of the Emperor, one who it was whispered would some day be herself Empress, Augusta, and an object of religious worship.

This sort of welcome always went to the heart of Domitia, and gave her a choke in the throat.

The great people never regarded the poor, save as nuisances. An emperor had said of the populace that it was a wolf he held by the ears. And it was wolf-like because brutally treated, pampered as to food given without pay, supplied with scenes of bloodshed, also without cost, in the arena, every encouragement to work taken from it, every demoralizing, barbarizing influence employed to degrade it.

The great people were supremely indifferent to the sufferings of the small, provided no hospitals for the poor who were sick, no orphanages for the homeless children – let them die – and the faster the better, – that was one wish of the great; – then shall we be alone on the earth with our slaves.

Had these poor people hopes, ambitions, cares, sorrows? Did they love their wives, and hold to their hearts their cubs of children? Did they have any desire that their children should grow up to be good men and virtuous women? Oh, no! such rabble were not of one blood with the rich. They had no fine feelings, they were like the beasts; they were without human souls; and so, when the poor died their bodies were rammed down wells contrived to contain a thousand corpses at a time, and then heaped over with a little earth.

But Domitia had learned that it was not as supposed. Amidst the falsity, barbarity of heart, and coarseness of mind of such as were of the noble Roman order, – the cultured, the rich, the philosophic – there was no sincerity, no truth. She felt happier and better after one of these visits to the Insula in the Suburra as though her lungs had inhaled a purer atmosphere. To the smiles and kisses and blessings lavished on her, she answered with kindly courtesy – and then stepped into the room of the paralyzed woman. Glyceria was as much a cripple as when first visited. She was more wasted – some time had passed – but she hardly seemed older, only more beautiful in her purity, a diaphanous lamp of mother-of-pearl through which shone a supernatural light.

Domitia drew a deep sigh.

“Glyceria,” she said, “when I come here, it is to me like seeing a glimpse of blue sky after a day of rain, or – like the scent of violets that came on me the first time I visited you.”

“And when you, lady, come to me, it is as though a sunbeam shone into my dark chamber.”

“Nay, nay – no flattery from thee, or I shall hate thee. I get that till it cloys. But tell me now, times have been better, and why has not Paris moved into superior quarters? Surely he is in better employ and pay than of old.”

“It is so, but only to a small degree,” answered the actor’s wife. “Paris performs in the grand old dramas in Greek only; in those of Æschylus and Eurypides and Sophocles, he is a tragic actor, – and – ” the poor woman smiled, “perhaps home troubles have taken the laughter out of him. He is a sad bungler in comedy. Now the taste of Rome is not for the masterpieces of the ancients. The people clamor to see an elephant dance on a tight-rope, and a man crucified who pours forth blood enough to swamp the stage – the Laureolus! that is the piece to bring down the house. Or some bit of buffoonery and indecency. To that the people crowd. However, we live; I hang as a log about my Paris’s neck, but thank God, he loves his log and would not be rid of it, so I am content.”

“But if you will suffer me to assist you,” said Domitia.

Glyceria shook her head. “No, dear lady, do not take it ill if I refuse your kind offer, made, not for the first time. I am very happy here, very – with these dear kind people about me, running in and out all the day, offering their gracious good wishes, lending their ready help. On my word, lady! I do believe that they would all be in tears and feel it as a slight if I were to go; and for myself, I could never be happy away from them.”

Domitia stood up and went to the door. Her heart swelled in her bosom.

“None but the poor know,” said the cripple, “how kind, how tender the poor are to one another. Poverty is a brotherhood – we are all of one blood, and one heart.”

“And I – ” said the great lady, looking out on the balcony with its swarm of people, some busy, some idle, most merry – “And I – ” said she, dreamily – “I love the poor.”

“Then,” said a low firm voice, “thou art not far from the Kingdom of Heaven.”

She turned and started.

She recollected him, that stately man with deep, soft eyes. Luke, the Physician.

“I am not surprised,” he added, “if you be His disciple,” and he touched the cornelian fish.

It was not strange that in this splendid lady with golden hair he did not recognize the timid, crushed girl with auburn locks, he had seen on the Artemis.

But the recollection of that night came back with a rush like a tidal wave, over Domitia, and she threw forth the question, “Why did you cut the thong?”

He did not comprehend her. She saw it, and added, “You do not recollect me. Do you not recall when we nearly ran down the galley of that monster Nero? On that night, we would have sent him to the bottom of the sea, but for you, – you spoiled it all; you cut the thong of the rudder. Why did you prevent us from doing it?”

“Because,” answered the physician, “It is written, Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord. It was not for you to do it. You were not called to be the minister of His sentence.”

“I understand you not.”

“My daughter – ”

“Hold!” said Domitia, rearing herself up. “Dost thou know to whom thou addressest thyself? I – I thy daughter? I am Domitia Longina, daughter of the great Corbulo, and – ” but she would not add, “wife of the Cæsar Domitian.”

“Well, lady,” said Luke, “forgive me. I thought, seeing that sign on thy breast, and hearing thee say that thou didst love the poor, that thou wast one whom, whatever thy rank and wealth and position I might so address, not indeed as one of the Brethren, but as a hearer and a seeker – enough – I was mistaken.”

“What means this fish?” asked Domitia, her wounded pride oozing away at once. “I pray you forgive me. I spoke hastily.”

“The fish,” said he —

But before he could offer any explanation, Paris appeared, his face expressive of alarm; he had seen the servants in the imperial white below, and knew therefore whom to find in his wife’s lodgings.

He hastily saluted her and said: —

“Lady! I beseech thee to go at once. Something has occurred most grave. Return immediately to the palace.”

“What is it? Tell me.”

“Madam, I dare not name it, lest it be untrue. To speak of it if untrue were to be guilty of High Treason.”

“High Treason!” gasped Domitia. She knew what such a charge entailed.

“The Cæsar Domitian has passed at full gallop through the streets, his attendants behind him.”

“Whither has he gone?”

“To the Prætorian barracks.”

“Ye Gods!” spoke Domitia, she could not raise her voice above a whisper. “Then the worst has happened. My light is out once more.”

CHAPTER IV.
ANOTHER APPEAL

On reaching the street, Domitia saw at once that the aspect of the populace was changed. Instead of the busy hum of trade, the calls of hucksters, the laugh of the mirthful, a stillness had come on every one; no face smiled, no voice was raised, scarcely any person moved.

Those who had been bustling here and there stood motionless, trade had ceased. A sudden frost had arrested the flow of life and reduced all its manifestations to the lowest term. Such as had been running about collected in clusters, and conversed in whispers. Blank faces looked at Domitia as she entered her litter, with awed respect.

“Eboracus! What is the meaning of this?” asked the lady.

“Madam, I know not. None will confide what they seem to know or to suspect.”

“Go forward,” said she, “I will visit my mother in the Carinæ. She will know everything.”

In another moment her train was in movement, and as she passed along, all bowed and saluted with their hands; they had done as much previously, but without the earnestness that was now observable. In the heart of Domitia was as it were a blade of ice transpiercing it. She was in deadly alarm lest her surmise should prove true.

She would not draw the curtains of her litter, but looked at everything in the streets, and saw that all were in the same condition of stupefaction.

On reaching the entrance to the palace occupied by her mother, Domitia noticed another palanquin and attendants.

“The Vestal Abbess, Cornelia, is with the Lady Duilia,” said Eboracus.

“I will go in! – I know her well, and esteem her,” said Domitia.

She passed the vestibule, traversed the Atrium and entered the Tablinum. But Longa Duilia was not there. A slave coming up, said that she had entered with the Great Mother into a private apartment, where she might not be disturbed.

“Well! I am no stranger. Lead the way.”

In another instant she was ushered into her mother’s presence, and at once Duilia bowed to her with profound respect.

“Mother – what does this mean?”

“Here is the Lady Abbess, Cornelia, let me present her to your Highness.”

“Mother – I salute the Lady Cornelia – what is this that has cast a shadow over Rome and frightened the people as with an eclipse?”

“My dear, of course you have heard. It may be only rumor and yet, – he was suffering when he left Rome.”

“Ye Gods! do not say so! Mother, withdraw your words of bad omen. Naught has befallen him! It was but a slight fever.”

“So we esteemed it, but – ”

“But, mother – ” Domitia panted.

“The news are weighty, and concern you vastly, my daughter.”

“It is too horrible for me to think. Surely, surely, mother, it is false.”

“Hearken, my dear, – Lady Cornelia, come also to the top of the house. It is a fine situation for seeing and hearing, and out of all reach of eavesdroppers. I hear shouts, I hear horns blowing. Come – speedily! let us to the house-top.”

Laying hold of Domitia and the Vestal Superior by the wrists, she drew them with her to the roof.

The silence that had fallen on Rome had passed away, the town was now resonant with horns and trumpets pealing from the Prætorian camp, with the shouting of many voices from the same quarter. In the streets, messengers were running, armed with knotted sticks, and were hammering at the doors of Senators to summon them to an extraordinary meeting. The clash of arms resounded, so also the tramp of feet, as the city police marched in the direction of the Palatine. Here and there rose loud cries, but what they signified could not be judged.

In another moment Eboracus came out on the housetop, and hastening to his mistress, said: —

“Madam, the Augustus – Titus, has been. The Cæsar Domitian is proclaimed Emperor by the troops. The vigiles are hastening in cohorts to swear allegiance.”

“I congratulate you – I congratulate you with all my heart!” exclaimed Longa Duilia, throwing her arms round her daughter. “I have reached the summit of my ambition. I vow a kid to Febronia for her opportune – ahem! – but who would have thought the Roman fever would have been so speedy in bringing us luck. Run, Eboracus, summon the housekeeper; order the ancestral masks to be exposed, all the boxes opened, dust the noses with the feather brush; let the lares be garlanded. Tell Paulina to bring out the best incense, not the cheapest this time, and I vow I will throw a double pinch on the altar of the household gods. Who would have thought it! I – I, mother to an empress. I would dance on the house-top, but that my wig is not properly pinned, and might come off. I must, I positively must embrace you again, Domitia; and you too, Cornelia, I am so happy! – As the Gods love me! Wig pinned or not, I must dance.”

“Let us go down,” said Domitia in a hard tone.

“Come down, by all means,” acquiesced her mother. “I must see that the Gods be properly thanked. I stepped this morning out of bed left leg foremost.⁹ I knew some happiness would come to me to-day. As the Gods love me! I’ll give a little supper. Domitia! whom shall I invite? None of your second-class men now. There! – I thought as much; my wig has come off. Never mind! no men can see me, and women don’t count.”

On reaching the private apartment of the lady, Domitia said: —

“Mother – a word.”

She was white, save that a flame was kindled on each cheek-bone and her eyes scintillated like burning coals.

“Well, my dear, I am all ears – even to my toes.”

“Mother, he murdered him. I know it – I feared there was mischief meant, when Domitian attended him to Cutiliæ and took Elymas with him. It was not fever that – ”

“My dear, don’t bother your head about these matters. They all do it. We women, I thank the Gods, are outside of politics. But – well – well, you must not say such things, not even think them. It is all for the best in the best of worlds. I never had the smallest wish to see behind the scenes. Always eat your meat cooked and spiced, and don’t ask to see it as it comes from the shambles. If you are quite positive, then I won’t throw away the kid on Febronia. It is of no use wasting money on a goddess who really has not helped.”

“Mother,” said Domitia, her whole frame quivering with excitement; “I am sure of it. Did not the Augustus give his daughter Julia to Flavius Sabinus? I know that Domitian was alarmed at that. I saw it in his looks, I heard it in his voice; his movements of hand and foot proclaimed it. He feared a rival. He feared what the will of Titus might be – whom he might name as his successor. Mark me, my mother; the first to fall will be Flavius Sabinus.”

“Hist! the word is of bad omen.”

“It was of bad omen to Sabinus and to Titus alike when Julia was given to her cousin.”

“Well, my dear,” said Longa Duilia, “I do not see that we need concern ourselves about politics. You see, – every night, stars drop out of the heavens; the firmament is overcrowded, and those stars that are firmest planted elbow out the weakest. It is their way in heaven, and what other can you expect on earth? Of course, it were much to be desired – and all that sort of thing; but we did not make the world, neither do we rule it. All eggs in a nest do not hatch out, some addle.”

“Mother, I will not go back to him.”

“Folly! you cannot do other.”

“I will not. My condition was bad enough before, it will be worse now.”

“Domitia, set your mind at rest. I have no doubt that there have been little unpleasantnesses. Man and wife do not always agree. Your poor father would not be ruled by me. If he had – ah me! – Things would have been very different in Rome. But he suffered for his obstinacy. You must be content to take things as you find them. Most certainly it would be better in every way if peacocks had eyes on both sides of their tails, but as they have not, only very silly peacocks turn about and expose the eyeless side. Make the best of matrimony. It is not many marriages are like young walnuts, that you can peel off the bitter and eat only the sweet. In most, the skin adheres so tightly that you have to take the sweet with the gall, and be content that there is any sweet at all.”

“I shall go away. I will not return to the palace.”

“Go whither? the world belongs to Domitian. There is not a corner where you can hide. There are officials, and when not officials – spies. I have no doubt that the fish in that tank put up their heads and wish they were butterflies to soar above the roof and get away and sport among the flowers, instead of going interminably about the impluvium. But, my dear, they can’t do it, so they acquiesce in tank existence. Yours is the finest and best lot in the world, – and you would surrender it! From being a lioness you would decline to be a house cat!”

Domitia turned abruptly away, tears of anger and disappointment were in her eyes.

She said in a muffled voice: —

“Lady Cornelia, will you come with me?”

“I am at your service,” answered the Vestal.

The ladies departed together, and at the portal each entered her own litter.

“To the Atrium Vestæ,” said Domitia.

Her retinue started, and a moment after followed that of the Vestal Cornelia.

The streets were full of excited multitudes, currents running up one side, down another, meeting, coming to a standstill, clotting, and choking the thoroughfares, then breaking up and flowing again.

If it had not been for the liveries of the two heralds, the palanquin of Domitia could not have got through, but when it was observed whose litter and servants were endeavoring to make way, the crowd readily divided, and every obstacle gave way immediately. But the Vestal Superior needed not that the Cæsar’s wife should open the road for her. As much respect was accorded to her as to Domitia.

Both trains, the one following immediately after the other, entered and traversed the Forum, passed the Temple of Julius, and at the south extremity reached the Atrium of the Vestal Virgins, a long building without a window, communicating with the outer world by a single door.

At this door Domitia descended from her litter, and awaited the Abbess.

Cornelia also stepped from her litter. She was a tall and stately lady of forty years, who had once been beautiful, but whose charms were faded. She smiled —

“You will pay me a visit, as you go your way? that is a gracious favor.”

“A lengthy visit,” said Domitia.

“Time will never seem long in your sweet society,” answered the Vestal and taking Domitia’s hand led her up the steps to the platform.

No sooner was Domitia there, than she ran to the altar of the Goddess on which burned the perpetual fire, within a domed Temple, and clasped it. Cornelia had followed her, and looked at her with surprise.

“I claim the protection of the Goddess,” said Domitia. “I will not return to the palace! I will be free from him.”

Cornelia became grave.

“If your Goddess has any might, any grace, she will protect me. Do you fear? Have you lost your rights? I claim them.”

“Be it so,” said the Abbess. “None have appealed to the Goddess in vain, none taken sanctuary with her, who have been rejected. She will maintain your cause.”