Читать книгу Neæra. A Tale of Ancient Rome - Graham John William - Страница 2

On the following day, in Rome, about the seventh hour, or noon, a small party descended the slope of the Janiculan Hill toward the Tiber.

Though not included in the more famous cluster of the seven hills across the river, which formed the heart of Rome, the Janiculum, with its long straight ridge running nearly north and south, was the greatest in altitude, and commanded the noblest and most extensive view of the city itself, as well as the loveliness of the surrounding plain, as far as the circling Apennines beyond.

With the straight line of the hill as a base, a sharp curve of the river forms the other two sides of a triangle, enclosing a level tract of ground. This was the Transtibertine district, which formed the fourteenth, and largest, region of the city, as arranged by Augustus. In interest and importance it was perhaps the least, being populated by the lowest classes, particularly fishermen, tanners, and the like. It was also the original Ghetto, or quarter of the Jews, which now occupies the bank of the river immediately opposite.

The obvious advantages of dwelling above the crammed and stifling valleys naturally brought the hills, in time, from the princely and fashionable Palatine, almost wholly in the hands of the powerful and wealthy classes. The Janiculum, as a suburban mount, was greatly lacking in the noble buildings and ancient traditions which clothed the urban seven. Neither was it fashionable, for it lay too far from the public places of the city, most frequented by society. Nevertheless, there were some who preferred its fresher and purer air, its nobler prospect and its greater seclusion, to the advantages and attractions of a more central residence.

One of these was a wealthy man who had long retired from a busy, public life, to devote himself to the quiet pursuits of study, in a house he had built, and gardens he had laid out, on a commanding eminence of the hill.

The name of Quintus Fabricius had once been celebrated in the city as that of a senator distinguished for uprightness, firmness, and liberality, but his public fame had almost passed away with a new generation. He was now, at the time we speak of, far better known throughout Rome in connection with a domestic matter, which will unfold itself in the following pages.

He was of an old family; and if wealth, taste, and an easy conscience could make a man happy, surely he might be said to be truly so. We will follow him, for it is he, and his five slaves, who form the small party previously mentioned.

They walked in three divisions. Two powerful slaves led the van, whose especial care was to clear a way for their master through the crowded, tortuous lanes. When their cry of ‘Place, place,’ was unheeded, they enforced a passage, after the usual custom, by a rough and ready use of their brawny arms and shoulders. The remaining three slaves walked in the rear, each bearing some trifling burden of personal attire or convenience belonging to their master. In the centre walked Fabricius himself.

He was tall and spare, but with a slight stoop. His features were regular and handsome. His hair, though closely cropped, was yet thick and luxuriant, but white as snow. He could not have been less than seventy-five years of age; but the vigorous, free motions of his limbs, and the healthy hue of his aged, wrinkled face, denoted a still sound constitution, preserved by a temperate mode of life. His dark eyes, though somewhat sunken, were yet bright and quick. As he now passed along, engaged with no train of thought in particular, their expression was one of settled melancholy abstraction. His mouth was closely knit and firm, but, occasionally, as some poor neighbour saluted him, his lips curved into a kindly smile. His vigorous old age, and the natural nobility of his appearance, were calculated to inspire respect; but there were also distinctions in his dress which marked his rank. His toga was made of wool, in its natural colour of greenish white, a fashion of garment which was preserved by men of distinguished rank long after the toga itself had fallen into disuse. On the right breast of his short-sleeved tunic, where it peeped from beneath the graceful folds of the toga, might be seen a glimpse of the ‘Angustus Clavus,’1 or narrow purple stripe, which was woven into the garment, and ran down perpendicularly from each shoulder. The high buskins on his feet were each fastened in front by four black thongs, ornamented by a small crescent, the exclusive, sartorial badge of senatorial rank. Such little particulars were trifling enough in extent, and unnoticeable to a stranger, but to a Roman eye they denoted at once the rank and importance of the wearer. They were, however, unnecessary in the poor and crowded suburb through which he and his slaves passed leisurely towards the river. He was well known to the humble inhabitants, in consequence of the proximity of his mansion, which stood on the height overlooking them; and, also, by acts of liberality and good-nature, which ever met with full appreciation. Hence, as he wound his way through the crowded and not altogether sweet-flavoured district, his vanguard of slaves before mentioned had only occasion now and again to use their voices to open a free passage. The people gave way readily, with gestures of respect.

The main street of the district which they traversed brought them, in a few minutes, nigh to the river, just where it curved round the point of land. In a right line before them stretched the Aemilian Bridge, leading direct to the Palatine Mount and the city; to the left hand forked another road over the island of the Tiber. At this junction the leading slaves halted and turned to learn their master’s pleasure as to his intended route. The old man hesitated as if undecided, and, as he did so, a slim personage presented himself before the stationary group. Two or three rings on his fingers proclaimed his gentility as a Roman knight, and every fold of his toga was disposed with the most scrupulous exactness. He might be about forty years of age, with straight black hair, a long nose, curved very much downwards, and small black eyes, rather too prominent and close set to be called handsome. As he halted, his lips parted in a smile, which displayed a row of brilliant white teeth. The slaves of Fabricius, on perceiving him, made him marked obeisance.

‘Titus Afer!’ murmured one of them in his master’s ear.

Fabricius looked up from his momentary deliberation or abstraction.

‘Ha, nephew, is it you?’ said he.

‘Even so, dear uncle. You seem to be on the horns of a dilemma,’ returned the new-comer; ‘have you started out to dine, uncle, not having settled where to turn in for your dinner?’

‘Why, no; I am going to dine with my old friend Florus on the Quirinal – but you, nephew?’

‘Oh, I! – it is of no consequence – I was coming just to spend an hour with you. It is three days since I have seen you. With your permission I will turn and go along with you, for a space, on your way, whichever it is!’

‘By the Circus Flaminius; it is less crowded, though a little longer in distance,’ said Fabricius.

He gave a slight motion of his hand, indicating the left turn, and they took their way over the Cestian Bridge unto the island of the Tiber, sacred to Aesculapius. Thence by the bridge of Fabricius they were quickly on the opposite bank, and passing round by the outer side of the Capitoline.

So far they walked in silence. The elder seemed absorbed in abstraction, and the younger to be waiting, as if in deference to his relative’s cogitations. At length the old man turned his head toward the slaves who followed and waved his hand. They fell back farther in rear.

‘Were you coming to tell me aught of your mission, Titus?’ he began.

‘I went as you desired,’ returned his nephew, nodding.

‘It was good of you, as ever, nephew; but to no purpose, I suppose – as ever,’ said the old man, adding the last words with a weary, half-suppressed sigh.

‘None at all!’ rejoined Afer, with another and deeper sigh. ‘The woman was six-and-twenty years old if she was a day; and, as for her appearance, she was as likely to have grown from your Aurelia, as a barn-door fowl from an eaglet. These tales and rumours are detailed by knavish people simply to work upon your weakness, uncle, and to squeeze your purse – why listen to them?’

‘Ah, nephew – how can I shut my ears?’

‘You are an unfailing, bottomless gold-mine to these people.’

‘Oh!’ cried the old man fervidly, throwing up his open palm to the blue heavens, and looking up with a burning glance of his sunken, sorrow-laden eyes, ‘if the good gods would only give me back my lost darling, the joy of my old age, – my gold, and all that I have, to the last farthing, might be flung, if need be, broadcast over the streets of Rome.’

The black brows of the nephew knitted at the vehement words.

‘And, truly, if what you have spent already, uncle, on this vain quest were sown broadcast, there would scarce be a gutter vagabond in the city that would not be the richer. You have done all you can do, and I have helped to the best of my ability.’

‘You have, nephew, right nobly. Think not that I have forgotten it.’

‘Then why cast good after bad? Will you not be assured after all these silent years of the hopelessness of all efforts?’

‘If I lived to a hundred years, nephew, I could never sever hope from me – it is part of me.’

‘And I have none left, though I grieve to say it, and, moreover, my reason is less governed by feeling than yours – poor Aurelia!’

‘The gods overlook us,’ said Fabricius, with a quiver in his voice, while the lips of the other curled in scorn.

‘The impudent scoundrel, whom you sent to pilot me to his supposed discovery, demanded two thousand sesterces ere he would budge. It is horrible, but I was forced to pay the extortioner. I would not mention it, uncle, but for my misfortune of being not too well provided with property.’

‘It shall cost thee no more than it ever has,’ returned Fabricius; ‘thou shalt have it back and another two thousand, as well, for thy kindness.’

‘Nay – I should seem to make a trade of robbing you like the rest of them.’

‘Say no more, nephew, I insist upon it.’

The other shrugged his shoulders and was silent, and so they reached the foot of the Quirinal Hill, upon which the house was situated where Fabricius was to dine. Here Afer halted.

‘You are for the bath then?’ said Fabricius.

‘Even so; and then to dine with Apicius.’

‘Ah! we old-fashioned men dine at an old-fashioned hour. This Apicius gives feasts such as we could never dream of.’

‘The finest in Rome.’

‘Well, every one to their own tastes. Florus and myself will, no doubt, enjoy our modest entertainment as much as Apicius his profusion, though it cost nothing in proportion. It is a foolish, empty way of spending one’s money, Titus.’

‘From necessity I am not likely to copy it, uncle. Nevertheless, if he choose to throw a portion of his away on me, I will not refuse it.’

‘Yet there is a subtle danger in it, for – ’

‘Nay, nay, uncle,’ said his nephew, laughing; ‘if you begin to moralise your dinner will grow cold. So I will go and tell you later how mine was served.’

‘Come then to see me soon, nephew – a good appetite. Farewell!’

Fabricius and his slaves turned to ascend the hill, and Afer watched them going. ‘Nothing will cure him of this delusive hope, it is clear,’ he muttered. ‘Assuming, therefore, that all this profitless expense is unavoidable, it is only just and prudent that it should flow mainly into the purse of his heir, and not into the swindling hands of scamps and aliens, in order to feed wine-shops and brothels. Hermes himself will give me witness that I spoke truth when I said that yon vagabond demanded two thousand sesterces ere he would budge. So he did, but he only got two hundred in the end. What a brilliant idea – what a stroke of genius it was, on my part, to obtain the monopoly of this infatuation! Formerly, every one of sufficient impudence could work upon his credulity, and extort their own terms from the foolish old man; but since my appointment as superintendent of inquiries, I regulate all to suit my own ideas. It pleases him and it benefits me. Who could do better? Not the deities themselves.’

‘But if your terms were more liberal your custom would increase, as well as your profits, noble Afer,’ said a deep voice in his ear.

The knight wheeled round with the swiftness of light, and the severity of the sudden surprise was seen in the rush of blood which suffused his otherwise pale face. His brows knitted so as almost to hide the furious glance of his eyes.

Before him stood a man whose superior bulk, lighter complexion, broader and less marked physiognomy, betrayed other than the Latin blood. He was dressed in the rough woollen tunic of the common citizen, girded with a belt of untanned leather, whilst his feet were shod with a kind of sandal, having strong leather soles. The short sleeves of his tunic displayed his hairy, muscular arms. His chin was bristly and needed the razor, and his hair unkempt and disordered. He might be anything in the lowest strata of the city community, but there was that in his loafing, cunning appearance, which seemed not to belong to an honest, industrious mechanic. His attitude, as he stood regarding his superior, whom he had so familiarly accosted, was cool and careless, and his smile as full of impertinence as assurance.

If a glance could have laid him dead upon the pavement, he would have fallen, straightway, before the rage, hate, and contempt which flashed upon him from the glowing eyes of Afer. But, unabashed, he altered not a jot of his bearing.

‘Is it thou?’ uttered Afer, in a voice thick with passion; ‘how darest thou lurk at my elbow and play the eavesdropper?’

‘It needed no extra sharp ear to catch what you said, patron. But for the noise of the streets you might have been heard somewhere between this and the Palatine. It is dangerous to think in such a loud, public voice, and I recommend you to shake off the habit, for your own good, patron.’

The familiar style of this speech in no way allayed the storm in the mind of the knight, and he shook like an aspen leaf, with a passion impossible wholly to hide.

‘You are not in the humour to see me, patron – you are angry with me,’ added the man coolly; ‘it is as plain as anything can be.’

‘Take heed, or your presumption, which is growing beyond all bounds, will run you into a certain amount of danger – impudent vagabond, is it for such as you to accost me thus? More respect, I bid thee, or beware!’

The menacing tone of the knight, and the dangerous, evil expression on his face, might have been judged sufficient warning in an ordinary case, but the man’s hardihood was in no way daunted.

‘Presumption, patron,’ he echoed; ‘there, with your honour’s leave, I must differ with you. I consider myself – in regard to the intimate relations between us – a most modest, respectful, and untroublesome client. Why, it is full three months since I presented myself to your honourable presence. I have seen you at chance times – for I am compelled now and again to encourage wearisome existence by the grateful sight of your person – but these have only been glimpses at a distance. Nor would I intrude myself upon you now, only that hard necessity compels me. In fact, patron, my treasure is drained to the last sesterce, which went this very morning to inspire my failing strength with a draught of vinegar, which they called wine.’

‘I have nothing to give you – you are importunate beyond reason. You have, already, had much more than was stipulated. That you know as well as I. I will give you no more, so be off!’

‘What, patron, and without as much as the cost of a mouthful of dinner? cast me off to starve?’ – this with a burlesque of righteous horror in his looks and gestures – ‘I, too, who have had the blessed fortune to do you such service! Some reptile has bitten my noble patron and changed his nature. Poor Cestus, then, may go and hang himself, or throw himself to fatten the pike in the Tiber; but no – you cannot, surely, refuse poor Cestus, thus empty and naked before you.’

‘Silence!’ cried he of the toga, as fiercely as he could, without attracting the attention of the passers-by. ‘Good-for-nothing spendthrift, you have had enough to have made you wantless for the remainder of your life, with an ordinary amount of care in its use!’

‘I only follow the fashion of many of my betters, patron. To be free with one’s treasure is an excellent way of becoming popular and powerful – none better – in Rome at least.’

‘Enough, I have said! If you are wise you will leave your insolence behind you, among your pot companions, when you seek to come before me.’

‘Surely, patron, when you consider the matter calmly, you can hardly refuse me a small present,’ said Cestus, assuming instantly a mock respect, which was only too palpably impudent.

The knight bit his lip, and the heaving of his breast stirred the folds of his toga with rapid pulsations.

‘You fool!’ he said bitterly; ‘do you imagine I would beggar myself to enrich you? No – I can afford no more!’

‘May I be cursed if I should ever think of bringing you to the same sad state as mine,’ was the satirical answer. ‘Far from that, I know, so well, that the fountain of your purse is fed from a stream which flows unfailing out of Latium, even as the grateful spray of Orpheus, on the Esquiline yonder, is fed by the aqueduct from the waters of heaven. You will excuse the style for once, patron: you know I was once in the household of a poet.’

These words drew upon him another viperous look, but being in a position which rendered him careless of such exhibitions of his superior’s feelings, he continued his simile. ‘It is wonderful to me, patron, that you are content to see such scanty driblets filtered through a worn old fountain, when you might, so easily, direct the full glorious flood straight to your own coffers. My devotion to your welfare is my only excuse for my tongue. But, patron – you are a most patient, enduring man.’

‘I am – of your insolence, you dog,’ was the rapid and burning answer. ‘A less enduring man would have had your ribs tickled, or your tavern cup flavoured long ere this, most noble Cestus.’

The man palpably changed colour and winced; but if the words of his patron had not the effect of quelling him, they instantly changed his easy impertinence and effrontery into a sullen, dogged front.

‘Come,’ growled he, with a dark, lowering visage, ‘if we get to threatenings, you shall find that two can play at that game. Give me some money and let me go – I must have it, and no more trifling!’

‘Good! If you must have it you must, and I cannot refuse,’ answered the knight, whose humour seemed as suddenly to change, as if in triumph, for he actually allowed a smile to part his lips. ‘I grieve that words of mine should have ruffled you. As I am not in the habit of carrying about with me such an amount of money as you will doubtless consider proper to ask, perhaps you will do me the favour to walk with me as far as my house, dear Cestus?’

Cestus hesitated, and looked doubtingly on the unexpected spectacle of his patron’s politeness. His cunning nature was suspicious.

‘What a changeable man!’ was the bland remark of the other; ‘a minute ago he was demanding his wants, like a robber tearing spoil from a victim. Now when he is asked to walk a short way to receive it, he hangs back.’

‘No tricks, master – or else!’ said Cestus, eyeing him keenly.

‘Tricks! Certainly not. You are very coarse. Come!’

Afer then led the way with the man at his heels, so close indeed that he turned and motioned him to keep at a greater distance. Their course lay through the middle of the Subura, a district which lay in the valley, between the Eastern hills and the Fora. It was one of the most ancient districts of the city, as well as the most densely peopled, and noted for its crowded thoroughfares, its low society, its noise and dirt. Occasionally the traffic would come to a dead-lock, amid much shouting and forcible language, caused, perhaps, by the stoppage of some heavy wain, laden with blocks of building material, hauled along with ropes. Or, again, some great man, in his litter, surrounded by his servants, thought fit to halt, for some purpose, in the narrow ways. His suite would, thereupon, become the nucleus of a squeezing crush of pedestrians, who cast frowning glances at the litter and its occupant. At another place, his greatness, moving along, would meet with a like obstruction, and there would be seen the spectacle of rival slaves battling a passage through. Nor were the customs of the tradesmen calculated to increase the public convenience, for they intruded their business into the already too limited space. Their stalls jutted out, and even then failed altogether to confine their occupations. A cobbler hesitated not to ply his awl in public, nor a barber to shave his customer outside his door. The gutters were frequented by noisy hucksters plying their trade, and selling all kinds of articles, from sulphur matches to boiled peas and beans. Importunate beggars were rife with every sorrow, complaint, and ailment; from the lame, sick, and blind, to the shipwrecked sailor, carrying a fragment of his ill-starred ship over his shoulder, as a proof of his sad lot. Down the narrower alleys were noisome, reeking dens crammed with the scum of the city. Thieves, murderers, blackguards, bullies loafed about; fallen women also loitered and aired themselves till the evening approached, when all this daylight idlesse of human filth betook itself to its frightful occupations of crime and wickedness, either in its own refuges, or flooded abroad upon the city. Yet this district, from its central position, was necessarily frequented, and even inhabited, in a few cases, by the higher orders of society. To imagine an unsealed Whitefriars, or a tract of the east end of modern London, cramped and narrowed, after the style of the old Roman city, and placed between two fashionable quarters, would give the best idea of the character of the Subura of Rome. It was the peculiar situation of the city which led to this intermixing of classes. In a city of a plain, where no part of the ground offers any advantage over another, the wealthy naturally form a district select from the poor. In Rome, the great and wealthy sought the elevated and pleasanter faces of the hills, while the poorer people remained beneath. Thus the intermediate valleys, however populated, unavoidably became thoroughfares, and no doubt, to a certain extent, the haunts of all classes.

Through the teeming Subura, then, we will follow our two characters. They each threaded their way after their own manner. The knight, slim, supple, and quick, slipped along like an eel, avoiding all contact and gliding through every opening with the accustomed ease of a person city bred. On the other hand the Subura was the home of Cestus, to whom every nook and corner was familiar. This fact, combined with his superior weight and bulk, rendered his movements more careless and independent of passers-by, some of whom came into collision with him, to their own sorrow. He was, moreover, recognised by more than one fellow inhabitant as he passed along. Two or three fellows, as idle and rough looking as himself, leered knowingly at him from the open front of a wine-shop where they were lounging. Another one nodded and winked to him from out of a reeking, steaming cook-shop where he was munching a light meal of the simplest character. Among the many street idlers, one greasy vagabond, with an evil, bloated face, went so far as to catch his arm and whisper, with a coarse laugh, ‘What, Cestus, boy, hast hooked thy patron? Thou wilt come back like a prince!’ But Cestus shook him off, and having cleared the Subura, he and his patron entered on a less crowded path, and the short, steep ascent of the Esquiline Hill.

At the summit they passed a statue of Orpheus. He was represented playing on the lyre to a group of wild animals, exquisitely modelled in the attitudes of rapt attention to the inspired music. The group was placed in the centre of a large circular basin for the reception of the spray, which usually danced and sparkled from the head of the immortal musician. On this day, however, for some reason, the fountain was dry.

As he passed, the knight turned round, and, pointing with his finger to draw his follower’s attention to the fact, said, with a cold smile, ‘My Cestus, when you likened the supply of my funds to the feeding of that fountain, you made a bad comparison – it is a bad omen, good and faithful man. Do you accept it? – I do.’

Cestus was in no way behind the age in superstition.

‘Humph!’ muttered he, bestowing a parting glance at the dry figures and empty basin; ‘plague on the aediles for falling short of water just at this time! No matter – water, or no water! omen, or no omen! I shall still remain a faithful client to my patron.’ And he followed on with a grin. After proceeding another hundred yards Afer stopped before the porch of a dwelling, small and modest, but pleasantly situated, overlooking no small portion of the city.

‘Step in, man, and drink a cup of wine while we arrange terms,’ said he, with ironical politeness.

But some suspicion was awakened in the breast of the other and he did not stir. ‘Bring it to me – I will wait here,’ said Cestus, with a shake of his head.

‘But you have not told me what you want.’

‘Six thousand will serve me.’

‘You are growing modest, Cestus – come and I will give it you.’

But Cestus still refused to proceed inside the house.

‘Why – what do you fear?’ demanded Afer.

‘You said something over there, where we met, that I liked not, patron,’ returned Cestus doggedly; ‘there is something about you now that bodes no good. I will, therefore, put no wall between me and the open street.’

‘What I said over there was true enough,’ said the knight, drawing near and fastening upon him a peculiar look; ‘there are scores in Rome who would have said “dead men tell no tales,” and, acting on that, would have made you a breathless carcase long ago, if they had suffered the behaviour which you have favoured me with. Fool, do you think I would hurt you any more than you would harm me. No; you are as necessary to me as I to you – I have more work for you to do – come!’

He went inside, and proceeded to one of the doorways which opened off the spacious hall, or atrium, as it was called, which had a tesselated floor and a small fountain in the midst. At the sound of his foot appeared two or three slaves to wait upon him. Cestus followed more slowly, with a keen, wary glance at the various doors and passages around, as though they might, at any moment, belch forth vassals to fasten on him. The knight lifted the curtain of an apartment and beckoned him to follow. He did so, and found himself, with no small amount of misgiving, in a small room, lighted by a narrow window of glass. There were a couple of couches, for furniture, and a small carved table, and, for ornament, three or four bronze statues of exquisite workmanship. In addition to these the walls were adorned with frescoes of mythological subjects, done by no unskilful hand. Afer, standing with the curtain still uplifted in one hand, pointed with the other to a couch, and, bidding his follower wait, disappeared. Cestus remained motionless, watching the screen of the doorway, with all his senses strained like a beast of prey, to catch the least sound. But nothing reached his ear, till, at the end of a quarter of an hour, his patron returned. He came to the table and threw a bag thereon. It jingled as it fell, and the eyes of Cestus flashed and fastened on the precious object.

‘There, my worthy Cestus, are six thousand sesterces; take them and use them economically.’

The broad hand of the man fell upon the bag and thrust it away in the breast of his tunic.

‘What – are you not going to tell it over to see that I cheat you not?’ said Afer mockingly.

‘No – I can trust your counting, noble patron,’ answered Cestus hurriedly; ‘and now I will go, for I am craving with hunger.’

‘And thirst!’ added Afer, clapping his hands loudly.

The echo had hardly died away when a young Greek slave entered, bearing a cup and a larger vessel of variegated glass. At a nod from his master he filled the cup with wine from the flagon and handed it to Cestus. But that individual hesitated and declined with some amount of confusion. Nothing but the direst need could have compelled him to make such a sacrifice.

‘I dare not drink with an empty stomach – I dare not indeed; ’tis rare wine, but allow me to go, or I shall drop from sheer want of food, most noble patron – indeed I shall!’

‘Then I will drink it for you, O man of tender stomach – you grow delicate,’ said Afer, with a derisive laugh; ‘fortune to us both!’

He drained it off, and the slave disappeared with the emptied cup.

‘If I want thee soon I can hear of thee at the same place, Cestus?’

‘As usual!’

‘I will keep you no longer. Go and feed on the best sausages you can find.’

‘Thanks, noble patron – you will find me ever ready and devoted.’

‘As I found thee this morning. Expect to hear of me very soon.’

With these words they emerged into the hall, and Cestus, drawing a long breath as he saw the way clear, went off at a pace which utterly belied his fainting state.