Читать книгу Quintus Claudius (Historical Novel) - Eckstein Ernst - Страница 13

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The morning was already grey over the distant Sabine hills[190] when Quintus, followed by his clients and slaves,[191] left the scene of festivity. With him came Clodianus and the poet Martial; the former accompanied, like himself, by a number of dependents and satellites, the latter by a single slave, whose smoky little lamp looked absurd enough by the side of the handsome lanterns and torches of the rest of the escort.

“A mad night!” sighed Martial, looking up. “The stars are already twinkling like eyes dim at leave-taking. Illustrious Clodianus, you will make my excuses to my patron, the chamberlain Parthenius, if I should fail to offer my morning greeting. Getting up early is my greatest torment,[192] even when I have crept between the coverlets at betimes, and to-day, after this unpardonable dissipation. …”

Clodianus laughed.

“I will explain it to him,” he roared out in the fresh morning air. “However—I shall hardly see him before noon. I am as tired myself, as if I had been sawing stone all night.”

“Yes, it is frightful to be so tired! I would give ten years of my life, if I might only sleep half the day. But on the contrary, before cock-crow, I must be out of bed, fling my toga over my shoulders, and be bowing to noblemen! By Castor! if I were not an ass, I should long since have fled to the peace and quietness of my native town!”

“Well, sleep to-day till sundown! Just now Parthenius will be most willing to excuse you, for his head is so full of business, and Caesar makes such incessant claims upon his time, that he is glad when his best friends leave him in peace.”

“I heard the same thing from my father,” added Quintus. “Some great stroke seems to be in hand. Is nothing known of the facts?”

“Pah! it is the talk of the town. Plots dangerous to the state, treason to religion and society, conspiracies against Caesar. …”

“But the facts—the details … ?”

“You know,” said Clodianus laughing, “that in affairs of state, silence is as important, as valor is in battle!”

“Well said!” cried the poet.[193] “With a little suitable embellishment, that may be turned into a brilliant epigram. Now, noble friends, I will bid you farewell. Our roads are no longer the same. I must climb up here to the temple on the Quirinal, while you go down into the valley. In life it is just the reverse. Apollo preserve you!” He hastily turned up the street, while Clodianus and Quintus went on along the ‘Long Way.’

“Aye!” said the crafty Clodianus. “I have constantly to remind myself of the duty of silence; more than once has my rash tongue run away with me. I come of an easy-tempered race, which are apt to talk without stopping to think. It is wrong, by Hercules!—it is wrong!”

They had now reached the Subura.[194] The height of the five, six, or more-storied houses,[195] and the narrowness of the way here, only allowed the day to dawn slowly and late, and deep gloom still prevailed in the numerous taverns[196] and entries. At the same time busy life was already stirring on all sides; itinerant bakers[197] were wandering from door to door crying their fresh bread. Pedagogues,[198] with their writing implements and clay lamps, were leading files of boys to school. Here and there, from a side alley, might be heard the croaking chant of a teacher, and the babble of spelling children.[199] Groups of worshippers, on their way to perform their morning devotions in the neighboring temple of Isis, hurried across the loudly-echoing pavement.

“Day is coming upon us apace,” said Quintus, as he stopped in front of the entrance to the "Cyprius street"[200] and held out his hand to the adjutant.

“Our roads part here, and we must make haste if we mean to reach home before sunrise.”

“Will you be at the Baths at about noon?”

“Possibly.—If I get up in time.”

“Well then—let us hope that the wine-cup of Lycoris may leave you free of headache.”

“The same to you! Farewell.” And with these words Quintus went on his way, while Clodianus turned off to the right.

“Cyprius street” grew at every step more select and consequently more deserted; to the left the Baths of Titus stood up, a sharply-defined mass, against the rose-tinted sky. Each time that Quintus Claudius walked up the street, this vast pile seemed to have a fresh spell for him. The contrast between the ponderous mass, and the tender flush of Autumn dawn behind him, filled him with pleasurable admiration, and his eye followed a flock of pigeons, which for some few minutes soared to and fro above the great building and then, with sudden swiftness, flew across the road.

“They came from the left,” said he to one of his companions. “Now, if I believed in augury from the flight of birds, I should be forced to suppose that some evil was hanging over me.”

He was still speaking, when from the same side, where a narrow path came down from the great Baths, a muffled figure rushed upon him and hit him a blow with a bare poniard. Happily the ruffian at the same instant slipped on the sloping pavement—which was rendered even more slippery by the early morning dew—so that the dagger missed its aim, and instead of piercing the young man’s throat, passed across his left shoulder and through the folds of his toga, which it cut through as sharply as a razor. And before Quintus quite understood what had happened, the assassin had glided away between the slaves with the suppleness of a panther, and vanished in the direction of the Subura. The young man gazed at his arm, where the toga and under-garment hung in long strips; the wound was but skin-deep, a spot of blood had here and there oozed out.

“Let it be!” said Quintus to the slaves, who had crowded round him when their first stupified astonishment was over. “I know very well where that blade was sharpened, and for the future I will be more cautious. But one thing I must say to you; my good people, each and all, be silent as to this attack. You too, my excellent friends and clients—you know how easily my noble father is alarmed. If he knew that there was in all Rome a villain, who had threatened my life, he would never know another moment’s peace.”

“My lord, you know us!” exclaimed the slaves and freedmen, and the clients too professed their devotion.

“His revenge is prompt!” thought Quintus, as he went onwards. “I always knew him to be an example of audacity and ruthlessness—still, such impatience as this is somewhat a surprise to me.”

Then suddenly he stood still, as a new and almost impossible idea flashed across his mind.—“If it were … supposing. … Could Domitia … ?”

He pressed his hands over his eyes, and that which had at first seemed so plain, intelligible and obvious, now sank back into the mists of doubt and conjecture.

The slaves had by this time extinguished their torches and lanterns.—Broad daylight shone in cloudless beauty over the widely-spread city of the Seven Hills. The great temple of Isis lay flooded with gold; a procession of priests,[201] bearing the image of the goddess, came marching down the street.

“Get on!” cried Quintus. “I am tired to death. It was a folly, Blepyrus, to dismiss the litters.”

“It was wisdom, my lord!” said the slave. “If I still am honored with your confidence, I would again repeat. …”

“Ah well!” Quintus interrupted. “Very likely you are right—you leeches are always right.[202] If only you attain a proportionate result! But if exercise were everything, I should be the lightest-hearted man in Europe. Nay, my good Blepyrus, this dissatisfaction, this intolerable sense of ill lies deeper. …”

In a few minutes they had reached home. The ostiarius[203] was standing at the door, as if the master of the house were impatiently expected. Quintus was about to cross the threshold, when he heard himself loudly called by name.

“What do I see? Euterpe! All hail to you—so soon returned to Rome?”

“Yes, my lord, since yesterday,” answered the flute-player hastily. “And ever since I came, I have been incessantly trying to find you. Do you still remember,” she went on in a low voice, “what you promised me at Baiae?”

“Certainly, my pretty one. Quintus Claudius sticks to his bargain … besides. … But who is the grey-headed old man with you there? Your husband or your father?”

“My husband is young, and my father is dead.—This is Thrax Barbatus, Glauce’s father.”

“And who is Glauce?”

“What—did I never tell you about Glauce—out there, on the hills by Baiae? I must have forgotten in the midst of all my trouble. Glauce is to be married to our Eurymachus. …”

“Ah! the heroic sufferer, that Stephanus had flogged?”

“The very same, my lord! And you promised me to remember. …”

“True, true—come to me in the course of the afternoon. …”

“Ah! my lord, but that will be too late. Eurymachus is in danger of his life. …”

“What, again!”

“Oh! be merciful, most noble Quintus! Give us only five minutes audience! You alone can save him.”

“Come in, then!”

He led the way through the atrium into his private room.

“My lord,” the flute-player began again, “I will tell my story shortly. Eurymachus rebelled against the Empress’ steward, who wanted to persuade him to all sorts of disgraceful conduct. Stephanus flogged him first, and then obtained permission to crucify him at the next festival. This I heard from the gate-keeper. But there was no festival fixed for yesterday, so there is still some hope, and we entreat you. …”

“Be calm—for the present your friend is in safety.”

“Impossible—he is lying in chains. …”

“He was lying in chains. His execution was fixed for yesterday, but at the last moment he was snatched from the jaws of peril.”

“What?” cried Thrax Barbatus, speaking for the first time. “Did I hear you rightly, snatched from his fetters! Then Glauce was able to carry out what she proposed.”

“Free?” said Euterpe, looking up at Quintus in bewilderment.

“As I tell you.”

“Oh, now I see it all!” cried Thrax Barbatus. “This pretended journey to Ostia—what had your husband to do in Ostia? And Philippus, my son, who has hardly been in Rome a week—why should he want to accompany Diphilus. …” Then, seized with terror, he sank on the ground before Quintus and threw his arms round his knees.

“Oh, my lord! do not take advantage of the rash words of a miserable father!” he exclaimed vehemently. “Do not betray, what my tongue let slip in my fear and anxiety.”

“Be easy, old man!” said Quintus benevolently. “I am not one of the spies of the city-guard. Your friend is a hero, and courage always commands my sympathy.”

“Thanks, thanks!” sobbed the old man, covering the young noble’s hands with kisses. “But tell me, pray, how it all happened; how is it possible that, in the midst of such a crowd of servants. …”

“All is possible to those who dare all. What I heard—and the merest accident prevented my being an eye witness—aroused as much astonishment in me, as in you. All the bystanders seemed to have been paralyzed. It was like an eagle in the Hyrcanian mountains,[204] swooping down on a lamb. One man particularly, a stalwart, broad-shouldered fellow, did wonders of valor. …”

Thrax Barbatus drew himself up with the elasticity of youth. Happy pride sparkled in his eyes, and an expression—a radiance, as it were, of beatific affection illuminated his rugged and strongly-wrinkled features.

“That was Philippus, my son!” he said with a trembling voice. “Oh! it was not for nothing, that he fought for years against the Dacians, not in vain that he endured frost and heat. There is not a man in all the legion that is his match in skill and strength; not one that can beat him in running or in lance-throwing. But speak, my lord; you look so grave, so sad! What is it? Oh, for God’s sake, in Christ’s name—it is impossible! My son, my Philippus!—but he could stand against twenty—speak, my lord, or you will kill me. …”

“Poor old man,” said Quintus much moved, “what good will it do to conceal the truth from you? Your son is dead. Scorning to fly, he exposed himself too long to his foes. He died like a hero.”

Thrax Barbatus uttered a soul-piercing cry, and fell backwards to the ground; Euterpe flung herself upon him and clasped his head to her heart, weeping bitterly.

“Thrax—dear, good friend,” she sobbed out: “Control yourself, collect yourself! Show yourself strong in this terrible trouble! Consider, you will have Glauce, and Eurymachus, who loves you like a son.”

The old man slowly pulled himself up; he pushed Euterpe violently aside, and then sinking on to his knees, raised his hands in passionate appeal to Heaven. His lips moved in prayer, but no sound was heard. Quintus, lost in astonishment, stood leaning against a pillar, while Euterpe wept silently, her face buried in her arm. A terrible storm seemed to be raging in the old man’s soul; his breast rose and fell like a wind-tossed sea, and a wild fire glowed in his eyes. But by degrees he grew calmer, and his features assumed an expression of sorrowing and silent resignation. It was as though a tender and beatific ray of forgiveness lighted them up, growing clearer each moment. After a time he rose.

“Pardon me, my lord,” he said slowly. “I was stricken down by the vastness of my grief. He fell like a hero, you said? And Eurymachus is safe?”

“He escaped,” replied Quintus, “which, alas! is not quite the same thing. Every effort will be made to recover possession of the fugitive. Well, we must see what can be done. Accident has enlisted me on your side, and I will play the part out to the end. For the present leave me; I am tired out, and a tired man is of no use as an adviser; but this evening, about the second vigil,[205] I will find my way to your dwelling, unaccompanied.”

“Father in Heaven, I thank Thee!” cried Thrax Barbatus vehemently. “Blessings, oh! blessings on the head of this noble and generous youth! Farewell, my lord! Never, never will I forget your gracious kindness to us helpless wretches.”

With these words he left the room, and Euterpe followed him. Quintus went at once to his curtained cubiculum,[206] undressed with the help of the faithful Blepyrus and soon fell asleep.