Читать книгу No. XIII; or, The Story of the Lost Vestal - Marshall Emma - Страница 7

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There was a good deal of consternation in the household of the noble Severus when Ebba’s flight was discovered.

An ominous frown upon Severus’s brow, as he entered his wife’s chamber, showed that a storm was brewing.

His lady had just had her morning bath, and was crying in a very undignified way for Ebba, declaring that the attendant, who was doing her best to supply her place, scorched her head with the crimping iron; that no one could plait her hair as Ebba did; that no one could twist into it the gold threads, or place the plait in the right position, but Ebba.

“Silence!” exclaimed Severus; “what mean you, to chide and wail like a weakling infant? Begone, all of you,” he said, clapping his hands; “begone, slaves, nor return till I bid you.”

The attendants, frightened by their master’s threatening air, took flight like a flock of pigeons, and only Hyacintha remained.

“Didst hear my order, child?”

But Hyacintha, whose eyes were swollen with weeping, said—

“Father, do not send me hence, I pray you.”

Severus seldom said a harsh word to his little daughter, and it was not often that she witnessed his outbursts of passion.

He offered no opposition when Hyacintha nestled closer to her mother on the couch, merely saying—

“Then hold your peace if you stay, nor make a single objection to what I have to say. This slave, Ebba, has, it seems, been in league with the poor reptiles whom, by order of the Emperor, we are to do our best to crush out of this land. By the gods! it is no pleasant thing for me to have cold and scornful looks turned on me in the Governor’s hall to-day; to be suspected as the master of a household of these creatures. ‘Forsooth,’ one said in my ear, ‘the runaway slave is not the only tainted one in thy house.’ I swear by the gods, that if he referred to my own son, I will not spare him, no, I will deliver him up.”

Hyacintha, who buried her face in her mother’s mantle, gave a low cry of terror.

“Peace, child,” said her father; “I do not know if Casca is infected, but I will take care to stop the infection if it be so. I have set a price on Ebba’s head, and do not doubt I shall scent her out; but it is of this daughter of ours I wish to speak. I propose to send her to Rome without delay, to begin her training under our kinswoman, Terentia Rufilla. It is time—high time—and I shall proceed at once.”

Cæcilia was not a mother to be too much concerned about her child’s future. The loss of Ebba, which entailed personal inconvenience, really distressed her more than this proposed separation from her only daughter. Hyacintha had for some time heard a rumour that this office in the temple of the goddess Vesta was to be her appointed lot. As, in later times, the daughters of noble families were consigned to the convent, and given no choice in the matter by their parents, but compelled to take the veil, so, in the era of which I write, there was no question as to the propriety of devoting them to the service of Vesta, which was considered the most honourable of all services connected with the temples of the gods.

There were often difficulties in the way, as many requirements had to be satisfied before a candidate for the office was accepted, but Hyacintha could fulfil these. She was of noble birth, and fair to look upon; her disposition was gentle, and her temper sweet. She had never rebelled against her parents’ wishes in her short life, and she was not likely to do so now. Indeed, of late she had been herself looking forward to the temple service; child as she was, she hungered for service, to do some great and noble deed, and know some higher life than that which the ladies about her led, of feasting and song, of excessive ornaments and luxurious plenty on the board of food and wine.

“Yes,” Severus continued, “I can obtain an excellent convoy for Hyacintha in the course of a few days, and Casca shall accompany her. The family of Burrhus are returning thither by way of Gaul with a maniple. The Emperor has ordered their return, as Burrhus’s services are needed about Diocletian. His wife will care for our little one, and she will be safe. What sayest thou, Hyacintha, my fair blossom?”

The stern brow relaxed now, and the child saw it. She stepped down from her mother’s couch, and going to her father said—

“I say, I will go to be trained to serve in the temple, though I grieve to leave thee and my mother.”

“Ah! Hyacintha,” exclaimed her mother, “thou wert always strange in thy tastes. Even thy foster-mother said thou never didst care for toys, and such things as infants love. It will run through thy life, methinks.”

“If I had but Ebba. If I had——”

“Peace! no more of thy hankering for the slave. I will let thee see her head when it is brought in. A meek-faced hypocrite! I know her well,” said her father.

“She was ever a helpful maiden to me, and I shall want her sorely,” complained Cæcilia. “I pray she may escape thy wrath. And be patient with Casca. The boy has——”

“The boy has no strength of mind or body,” was the answer, as Severus left the room.

Hyacintha summoned back the attendants at her mother’s order, and listened for some time to a succession of complaints and regrets for Ebba, which apparently took as little effect on the other maidens as the dropping of the water on the marble of the atrium had upon the smooth polished surface.

At length the toilette was completed, and the lady, richly dressed, repaired to the public bath, which was as much frequented in Verulam as in Rome. The baths of these times answered to the fashionable clubs and resorts of to-day. Acquaintances and friends met there, discussed the news, expressed surprise at the slow arrival of the post from Rome, one of the chief stations for news being placed at Verulam, talked gossip and scandal, as is the custom with unoccupied women of every rank and every nation, in that time, as in our own.

Cæcilia was accounted beautiful, and a person of distinction. She was one of the leaders of fashion, and her cosmetics and perfumes were the admiration of her friends, and the envy of her enemies.

Perhaps the word “enemy” is too strong a word to use. Cæcilia had scarcely enough character to provoke an enemy. Her colourless nature knew no strong shadows and no bright lights. She lived for herself and the passing hour, and the maternal instinct was dead within her—dead, so far as any trouble about her children was concerned. She could love them till they needed anything at her hands, but if that point were reached, her love could not show itself in taking any trouble on their behalf. From all we can gather in contemporary records, the atmosphere in which the fashionable Roman lady of these times lived and moved was a deadening one. A few sprang out of it, who read and studied their own Latin authors and the Greek tongue, and with a wonderful persistency of purpose mastered many abstruse questions, and hungered after higher and better things, and nobler aims.

But Cæcilia, the wife of Severus, was content to be ignorant; she thought this Christianity, which had cost her the services of her slave, low and vulgar, too low and vulgar for her to give it a thought, if she had one to give. And when she had settled herself on a couch in the public baths with her three attendants, she was not well pleased to find Junia, the sister of Claudius, next her, and intent on asking questions and getting them answered.

Junia was the daughter of a British chief, or noble, as the Romans preferred that title, who had married an Italian girl, previously attached to the person of one of the ladies brought by a former governor from Rome.

The stern and rough old Briton had become enslaved by the beauty and fascination of the young Cornelia, and had laid himself and all he possessed at her feet.

She had withered under the cold breath of the north country, and the rude luxury of the Briton’s home had been little in harmony with the early life Cornelia had spent in Italy. She had died and left her husband disconsolate, with two children on his hands, whom he found it hard to manage. They united the bold daring of the Briton with the quick, hot passions of the Italian, and before Junia was fifteen she had thrust a stiletto, in a fit of rage, into the breast of a slave, and killed her!

To our notions this dreadful act would have brought upon the girl a lifelong misery, and she would have been for ever withdrawn from the society of her friends and relations. But it was widely different then. The sharp and highly-polished stiletto was always at hand, and a prick from it, which drew blood, was frequently administered to a careless or idle slave.

If the wound had by chance been deeper than was intended—well, it was only the loss of a piece of property, and the master would bear it!

One slave, more or less, was not of very great moment to a wealthy proprietor. And the slave herself, unless, as in the case of Ebba, who had suited the whims of her mistress, was scarcely missed.

Junia was a bold, dark-eyed girl, with the free and confident manner which was sufficiently dangerous in a society like that in which she moved. She was conscious that her British extraction on one side placed her on a lower level than the proud Roman ladies of Verulam, but if conscious of it, she never showed it, and was perfectly unabashed and self confident.

Junia now threw herself down by Cæcilia’s side, and tossing back the broad red ribbon which confined her hair, she exclaimed, “So the faithful Ebba, the paragon of perfection, is gone. What will you do without her services, fair Cæcilia?”

“I have other maidens at hand,” said Cæcilia, coldly. “They are skilful.”

“Yes, doubtless,” Junia said, laughing, and showing a row of white teeth. “Yes, let her go, I say; but I know the noble Severus will have her head. I only hope it will not come in alone, but have company.” And again there was a ringing laugh.

“And tell me, beautiful Cæcilia, is it true that Hyacintha is to be sent to Rome?”

“Yes, Hyacintha is to go to Rome without delay,” Cæcilia answered.

“To be trained for a priestess to the goddess Vesta?”

“I think it may be so.”

“Alas! What a doleful life for the lovely maiden—a priestess—no marriage for her, no love, no freedom. I would rather be buried at once in one of the subterranean places they tell us so much of.”

“My daughter is of tender years,” said Cæcilia. “She will at present only be educated under the care of her father’s aunt—the noble Terentia Rufilla. The hall of the Vestals is no mean home. They have everything that is meet for the children of noble Romans. And,” continued Cæcilia, with a languid air of pride, “be it remembered that Vestals can only be chosen from the noblest houses of pure, unmixed descent.”

Junia laughed.

“I see,” she exclaimed, “no poor maiden whose father is a son of the conquered race could hope for the honour. Ah! well, she courts it not. Here comes my warlike brother. Well, Claudius, how fares it to-day in the wrestling? Hast thou thrown down Casca?”

“Casca!” he exclaimed. “Casca was not in the course at all.”

“What, noble Cæcilia,” the boy said, “is it really true that you part with Casca and Hyacintha? The arena and the schools are full of rumours to-day. Some say one thing, some another, but all agree that Christian superstition has laid an egg in the house of the noble Severus, and that a brood has been hatched.”

“I am sick of questions,” exclaimed Cæcilia, shrinking, as we all do, from the knowledge that our private affairs are made food for hungry gossips. So many of us are like the ostrich, and, hiding our heads in the sand, persuade ourselves that we are unseen and unnoticed. It was really very troublesome and fatiguing to be cross-examined by this boy and girl about private matters, Cæcilia thought! She clapped her hands, and the maidens in attendance, who had retired to a quarter of the hall where they and other slaves and attendants were congregated, signified her desire that her chariot should be ordered for an airing on the wide, smooth road known as Watling Street.

Claudius conducted her to the chariot with an easy grace which he inherited from his mother.

He had been quick to notice the cloud which he had called up on the lady’s face, and Junia’s laugh reached his ear, as, turning to some young associates with whom she was popular, he heard her repeating the news of the day to them.

“I crave pardon if I have seemed to fail in respect, lady,” he said. “I must ask leave to visit Casca before sunset.”

Cæcilia bowed, and smiled graciously.

“We shall see you at supper-time,” she said. “My husband has bidden the Greek dancing-girls to perform before us, and one of them plays the lute with uncommon skill. This will afford amusement for you and Casca.”

Claudius thought truly that Casca was in no mood for dancing-girls and music, but scarcely expected to find him in the state of melancholy prostration in his chamber, which at first seemed almost like despair.

Claudius had a warm heart, and was sincerely attached to his friend.

He took his accustomed place opposite him, and rallied him on his sad looks.

“Have you heard my fate?” Casca asked.

“Fate! I hear you are to depart to Rome with Burrhus: a very pleasant fate, by Apollo! I would I were to accompany you. But, for the sake of all that is holy, try to wear a brighter face. Half the young Romans in Verulam will envy you, to say nothing of a hybrid like me, your humble servant. Nay, now, Casca, be not a woman,” Claudius exclaimed, with some contempt in his tone; “it is womanish to give in and moan.”

Casca had hidden his face in his long, thin hands, and tears trickled through his fingers.

“If you had a father like mine,” Casca murmured, “you would not wonder at my condition. He came up hither this morning, raving like a beast in the arena. He seized me by the robe, and poured forth a string of epithets I will not repeat. He accused me of conniving at the poor slave’s flight, of contaminating my sister, of being the laughing-stock of all Verulam, a poltroon, a fool, and I know not what beside. He swore by all the gods that I should be placed under Burrhus to fight as a true Roman should if the Emperor sends out a legion to one of the insubordinate provinces. And I, oh! Claudius, I loathe fighting. I hate bloodshed. I crave for peace.”

“I would I could take your place,” said Claudius, “but my old father would not hear of it if your father agreed thereto. He looks upon me as the guardian of Junia, though, forsooth, I am but a poor guardian. She springs like a tigress if I attempt to check her in any wild course,” Claudius sighed. “Now, you have a sister who is like a daughter of the gods. You may well be ready to lay down your life for her. How can her parents send her hence?”

“It is all from the same cause, the dread of the Christian superstition,” Casca said. “They dread her being infected by poor Ebba’s teachers. The poor wretch seldom spoke of her new religion; until the day of Alban’s execution she kept silence. I trust we shall be spared the sickening spectacle of her head brought back. I can never forget the horror when the ghastly head of the runaway Syra was brought into the atrium,” and Casca shuddered.

“Nay, Casca, thou wert surely not designed by the gods for a Roman. Thou shouldst have been born in one of those far-off islands in the south, where the effete Greeks lie in flower-wreathed bowers, and, chewing the leaves of the lotus, pass away life in alternate slumber and song. Especially, good Casca, wert thou never designed by the gods to live in our own rude country and associate with us poor Britons.”

“Nay,” Casca said, “you misjudge me, Claudius. I would that thou were to accompany me to Rome, and then I could take heart, but as it is——”

“As it is, you must be like a man, and determine to win good opinions and make a name; fight for Rome if so it be ordered, and end at last in continuing the noble race to which you belong, and then——”

“Ah!” said Casca, “and then die, and be remembered no more. Claudius, I think often of all the great dead, the old Greeks, their brave soldiers, their wise philosophers, Socrates and Plato, Aristides and Themistocles. Their poets and their heroes, all alike gone—gone as the man yesterday went on the hill-top—gone, and whither? If it be true that there is another life, what is that life? I torture myself with questions, and I know that if I were led out to die as Alban was, I should shiver and tremble, aye, and pray for mercy. While he—there was light in his eye, there was a ring of victory in his voice, and no wonder that the executioner refused to perform his office, and died with Alban rather than see him die by his hand. I say, there must be something grand and noble in the faith which can give a man courage not only to meet death, but to welcome it, to court it, and to see beyond it, instead of darkness, light.”

“Yes,” said Claudius, “but remember, my good Casca, that thousands of Romans, tens of thousands of Greeks, aye, and of our own poor Britons also, have met death as bravely as this man Alban did. There is a difference in our bodies—thine and mine, to wit”—and Claudius stretched out his young, muscular arm, bronzed and bare, from under the loose sleeve of his toga virilis, which was indeed a contrast to the white, slender arm of his companion. “There is a difference, my good Casca, in the make and build of men, aye, and of women too, and it is the same with their natures. Some are brave as lions, others as timid as sheep. Christian or Roman, Greek or Briton, it is the same.”

“No,” said Casca, starting up, “but it is not all the same. Poor Ebba was as timid and shy as any sheep, and yet she has gone to meet death, for I feel sure they will track her out. May I be gone hence ere that time comes! But I say it is something more than what we call nature, which is at work with those who meet death as Alban did.”

“Hist! good Casca, be not too free with thy tongue, or it may bring trouble. Keep thy thoughts to thyself; even now I fancy I see the curtain moving. But I must away; I have to practise in the course, and I have to attend my father to a trial of strength in the circus, where he is to bestow a prize on the swiftest runner and strongest arm in throwing the quoit. Vale! good Casca, and pluck up thy courage.” Claudius sprang lightly from the couch, swept the curtain aside, and disappeared.

In the gallery, which I have before described, at the top of the villa, he found Hyacintha. She was looking out over the country, as she had looked with Ebba two days before. When Claudius stood by her side she raised her pure, sweet eyes to his, and said, “I have been here whilst thou hast been talking to Casca. I wanted to speak to you, so I waited here. I am only a child, and I scarcely know which way I should turn to find the good and forsake the evil, but this I know, Ebba was good—faithful and good—and I dread lest she should be cruelly killed. Claudius,” the child continued, pleading with her eyes as with her voice, “Claudius, will you try to save her if by any means she falls in your way? If the Christians are found out she will be found with them. Do your utmost to save her life, my noble, good Ebba.”

“Beautiful Hyacintha,” Claudius said, “I would serve you to my last breath. Yes, I swear if I can find any trace of Ebba, I will strive to save her life and put her in a place of safety till the storm has passed over.”

“They have been talking of getting her head, and that of Amphibalus, the man Alban hid in his house, and they have missed another woman, who was aunt or mother to the soldier who would not kill Alban. There is a boy who dresses the flowers and shrubs in the atrium, and he has told me that it is said in Verulam that the Christians have hidden themselves not far off, and a watch is set on the hills to hinder their escape to Wales. That is what is said. I know not if it be true.”

“True or false, I will obey thy bidding. Say, Hyacintha, what shall we do without thee.”

“Without me!” the child repeated. “Ah! I do not think any one wants me here. My mother will have the little Livia from the nurse. She is the child of my uncle Fabius, and the adopted daughter of my father. She is very beautiful, and my mother can pet her, and toy with her, and will love to hear the praises which her loveliness will win. And when my father’s service is over in Britain they will all return to Rome, and I shall greet them there, when I am a priestess, and I shall greet thee also, Claudius.”

“Nay,” said the boy, “thou wilt forget the poor half-Briton, half-Roman, when thou art a grand priestess, wearing the white stole.”

“Forget! nay, I shall never forget—how can I forget? And when I have to tend the fire in the great temple at night, and the stars look down at me, and the wind whispers low, I shall pray that the goddess may bless thee, Claudius, and keep ever in thy heart a pure bright flame of love to the city of Verulam first, and of Rome after, and that thou wilt remember little Hyacintha.”

“I will remember thee through life till death,” the young man said. “I will worship thee from afar, and, perchance, I may come to Rome only to behold thee, as I behold a star in the heavens, who blesses me with its beams, though I can never attain to it.”

He took one of the child’s hands in his, bent his face over it for a moment, and when Hyacintha withdrew it, it was wetted by the tear which had fallen from Claudius’s eyes.